Four Letter Word, page 5
She didn’t want to text Peyton because she just couldn’t face a renewal of that intervention—or worse, an effusive apology from her friend—but she didn’t want to face her mom either. The missing bagels might tip her anxiety into the red zone.
While she contemplated whether or not she could make it upstairs to her attic undetected, a circular saw buzzed to life in the garage workshop. Her dad was the brand of dreamy optimism she needed right now.
The latch on the side door to the garage had been broken for years, and when Izzy pushed it open, she found her dad hunched over a table saw, goggles securely fixed over his eyes as he expertly guided a piece of cedar through the rotating blade. Sawdust billowed outward, particles dancing in a shaft of light that had pierced the cloudy sky and beamed through an open window. They circled upward toward the garage door rails and disappeared into shadow.
Her dad lifted his foot from the pedal that controlled the circular saw, pushed his goggles to his forehead along with a thick, unkempt fringe of salt and pepper gray hair, then held the long piece of wood up to his nose to examine his handiwork.
“Cornice trim or wainscoting?” Izzy asked from the doorway. Her dad didn’t flinch at the sound of her voice, even though he couldn’t have heard her coming.
“Bargeboard,” he said, running a hand over the flat surface. “Or at least it will be once I’m done with it.”
“For the Pink Lady restoration?” Izzy asked. The owners of the Pink Lady, one of Eureka’s crown jewel Victorian properties turned upscale bed-and-breakfast, had been promising to hire her dad to restore and replace some of the rotting exterior woodwork. It was a huge job, both for the prestige and the paycheck, but after a year of stringing him along, a contract had yet to materialize.
Her dad shook his head. “Nah, just the Dickerson place.”
“Sorry.”
He turned to face her, a hearty smile wrinkling his tanned face. “Why sorry? The Dickersons are good clients, and their Stick-Eastlake Victorian is a rare bird. I’m honored that they trust her to me.”
A rare bird whose owners rarely paid their bills on time.
“What’s wrong, Izzy?” her dad said, tossing the soon-to-be bargeboard back onto the workbench. “You nervous about that Italian kid?”
“A little.” Tip of the iceberg.
He snorted. “You sound about as excited as a mourner at a funeral.”
“Depends whose funeral.”
“Good one.” He laughed. “Well, your mom’s excited enough for all of us. I haven’t seen her like this since she moved to California.”
Izzy cringed at her dad’s cluelessness. He worked a lot, both in his workshop and at various sites that sometimes kept him away until late at night, absences that seemed to have increased over the last few months. She should have been surprised that he had no idea about the true state of his wife’s mental health, but she wasn’t.
She also wasn’t surprised that her mom hadn’t been excited about much of anything since she moved from New England to sleepy little Eureka. She had been a twenty-two-year-old college graduate with a new baby, and she’d just had to let go of her own dreams. Instead of crossing the Arno River over the Ponte Vecchio or strolling through the Boboli Gardens, she was breastfeeding an infant in her in-laws’ guest room with a view of the fog, the fog, and some more fog. Sure, she’d grown up in a coastal town full of ships and fishing and sea air, but even Mystic, Connecticut, was a far cry from Florence, and it was nothing short of a miracle that Elizabeth Bell had lasted twenty-four years in this town.
“Speaking of your mom, I have a surprise.” Her dad’s dark blue eyes sparkled as he beckoned Izzy over to a table in the corner of his workshop where a stained tarp covered a small object. From its shape and size, Izzy knew what it was without even seeing it.
“Another clock?” She couldn’t hide her disappointment and was pretty sure her mom wouldn’t be able to either.
Her dad’s face fell. “How did you know?”
“Because it’s always a clock!”
He puffed up his chest as if she’d insulted his manhood. “And what’s wrong with that?”
Ugh. “I’m sure it’s a lovely clock, but—”
“But it’s not just any clock, Izzy.” Grinning broadly, he whipped the tarp off the table with a dramatic flourish, revealing a foot-tall rectangular desk clock with a key sticking out of one side. The box looked as if it had been used as a scratching post, and the hands were frozen at two and ten. “Behold! A genuine T. Boxell of Brighton library clock, circa 1860. Mahogany case with flame veneers, original bun feet, and beveled glass on the top and side panels. All the parts are in excellent condition. Just needs a little love.”
He paused, joy radiating from every pore as he gazed at his latest restoration project. “It’s super rare to find one of these in the States.”
“Is it worth anything?”
Her dad gasped, horrified. “I’m not selling it! It’s for your mom’s birthday.”
Izzy pictured the living room, littered with clocks. Every tick added to her mom’s despair in that house, and the idea of adding one more…Izzy could see her mom’s face as she opened the gift, the taut smile held in place by muscles long accustomed to displaying happiness where there was none, flared nostrils the only indication of her annoyance. Would her mom see it as a gift of love or just another example of her husband’s thoughtlessness? Izzy already knew the answer.
“Dad,” she said, closing the garage door behind her. “Don’t you think, maybe, it would be nice to get Mom something other than a clock for her birthday?”
Her dad pulled back his head, brows knitted in confusion. “Like what?”
Izzy shrugged. Something she might actually enjoy. “Maybe a nice piece of jewelry? Something to make her feel special.”
Her dad spun the clock around and opened the back, exposing the mechanical guts inside. “See that decorated pendulum rod? They don’t make ’em like that anymore. How could this not make her feel special?”
He so wasn’t getting it. She walked up to the clock, running appreciative fingers over the smooth, mahogany case while assiduously avoiding his eyes. “I…guess.”
“What is it, kiddo?” Her dad folded his arms over his chest and squared his hips, his most fatherly pose. “You know you can tell me anything.”
Izzy sighed. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she also wanted her mom to find a new spark in life. And stop trying to live vicariously through me. “I think Mom’s feeling a little underappreciated right now, and maybe an unexpected birthday gift from you might help.”
He chewed at the inside of his cheek as if the soft, gummy skin were his daughter’s words. “I guess I could save the clock for Christmas.”
It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. “Good idea.”
“Parson’s shop has pretty stuff.” The estate sale store had lovely old jewelry—Peyton’s mom shopped there a lot—though Izzy was surprised her dad knew about it. He probably hadn’t bought a woman jewelry since her mom’s wedding ring.
A gust of wind ripped through the garage, throwing the unlatched door wide as it traveled through the open window on the opposite wall. The door had been broken so long there was actually a divot in the wall from the handle, which violently smacked into the wood dozens of times a day.
“You should fix that,” Izzy said, even though she knew he wouldn’t.
“It’s on my list.” He slid the goggles back over his eyes. Izzy’s cue to leave.
“Thanks, Dad.” Izzy leaned forward and pecked her dad on the cheek. “A nice bracelet or something would make Mom so happy.”
He laughed again, all trace of disappointment over the clock vanished. “You’re going to make Mom so happy. You’re living her dream!” He recovered the clock and returned to his bargeboard without noticing that his daughter had gone rigid at his words.
Izzy slipped out of the garage somehow feeling worse than when she’d entered. So much for a cheerful pep talk from dear old Dad. She’d ended up parenting him more than he parented her.
But what else was new?
THE ARCATA-EUREKA AIRPORT—ALSO KNOWN AS THE California Redwood Coast–Humboldt County Airport—was, either way, appropriately named. Originally built by the US Navy during World War II, a few miles north of both Eureka and the college town of Arcata in the even sleepier hamlet of McKinleyville, the airport hugged the coastline in a narrow swath of grassy lowlands between the Pacific Ocean and the redwood forested mountains. Izzy was pretty sure the only thing that kept the tiny airport from being shut down completely was the presence of a major university in neighboring Arcata. Other than tourists and the forestry service, college students were the only people who bothered with Humboldt County.
Alberto was arriving on the last flight of the day, a late shuttle from San Francisco that was set to arrive just after nine o’clock. According to the itinerary furnished by the foreign exchange student agency, Alberto had gone to San Francisco for a few days to sightsee before heading up to Eureka. Which was smart. But San Francisco was a beautiful place, and she hoped Alberto wouldn’t request a transfer back down there after a few days in the Bell house.
Or maybe she hoped he would? If he hated Eureka and asked to leave, she’d be off the hook in terms of exposing her hideous language skills. Maybe the entire Italian Scheme would unravel organically from there.
Izzy glanced over at her mom, who was tapping the steering wheel with her thumbs and singing along to one of her favorite tracks. Something grungy from the nineties. Her mom was smiling as she added her slightly atonal soprano to the gravelly voice coming through the speakers in the family minivan, and she leaned forward in the driver’s seat as if in anticipation, her dark brown ponytail bobbing back and forth to the beat.
Izzy hadn’t seen her mom this happy in weeks, and despite her own anxiety, she joined in with the final chorus of “Even Flow.”
Izzy’s mom glanced at her as she pulled off the highway, nodding her head in approval. “I didn’t know you like Pearl Jam.”
“Yep!” Izzy didn’t really, but she’d been forced to listen to this album so many times in the car with her mom that she knew every single lyric.
“Aren’t you full of surprises.”
“Gotta keep you on your toes,” Izzy said, smiling.
Her mom snorted. “I think Riley wins that prize.”
They both laughed at the truth of her words, and then Izzy’s mom reached over and squeezed her daughter’s hand. Even though it trembled slightly, Izzy was comforted by the gesture. Her mom was in a good place tonight, and Izzy wanted to keep her there as long as possible.
The song ended, and her mom switched the input to Izzy’s phone. “Do you want to listen to one of your murdery podcast things? I know how much you love them.”
Izzy did, rather desperately, want to relisten to the latest Casanova Killer episode of Murder Will Speak, but she knew graphic descriptions of murder made her mom uncomfortable. “No, I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. We’re almost there anyway.”
Her mom shifted nervously in her seat as they drove up a dark road from the highway, the only lights coming from an illuminated Holiday Express sign mounted over what appeared to be a 1950s motor lodge and the occasional muted streetlamp piercing the evening fog. “I hope his plane’s not delayed.”
Izzy checked the flight tracker app on her phone. “According to this, he should be on the ground in five minutes.”
“Are you excited?”
“Yeah,” Izzy lied, mustering up as much enthusiasm as she could.
“This is going to be so good for you. When I was preparing for my Italian exams, my language skills really improved after I started watching old Un posto al sole episodes online. I wish I’d started doing that earlier so I could have applied for study abroad as a junior instead….”
Her voice trailed off, but Izzy knew how that sentence ended. Instead of waiting for senior year. Because Elizabeth and Harry, smart Gen Xers raised during the safest safe-sex era of the AIDS epidemic, had skipped a condom one night. She found out she was pregnant the same week her application for senior year study abroad was due. Not only did her mom never make it to Italy, she just barely graduated, navigating the last semester of college with a newborn.
Even though her face was shrouded in darkness, Izzy could sense that her mom’s emotional state was souring by the second. Without thinking, Izzy laid her hand on her mom’s arm. “Thanks, Mom.”
“For…for what?” she asked, confused.
“For everything.” Izzy squeezed her arm. “You’re an amazing person, and I appreciate everything you do for me.”
She felt her mom suppress a sob, shuddering in her chest as she fought to control her emotions. It wasn’t that her mom regretted her life as a whole—she’d talked openly with all her kids about choices and sacrifices and having no regret—but Izzy knew that regret had seeped in. That’s why her mom hated the idea of fate: if she’d been destined to end up in Eureka, rather than arriving there through choices made of her own free will, then fate was something to be loathed, not lauded. Fate is also a four-letter word.
By the time Riley had graduated from high school and headed off to San Diego last year, Izzy’s mom was in a noticeable funk. Well, noticeable to Izzy. Not so much to anyone else in the family. And now, as Izzy was about to start her last year at Eureka High School, her mom had heaped all her sadness, her regret, and her unfulfilled dreams onto her daughter’s shoulders like she was some kind of emotional pack mule.
The pressure was overwhelming, and Izzy couldn’t see any other way out except through. And “through” meant Alberto and Italian lessons and hopefully discovering a love for Renaissance art.
Her mom gripped the wheel tightly as she pulled into a mostly deserted parking lot. The main terminal looked more like a high school gym than the airports Izzy had seen in movie—no bustle, low security, just a large open space with domed two-story ceilings and a wicked echo effect. A few check-in desks at one end and a single baggage claim belt on the other, the airport looked particularly small and lonely at this hour, with just a couple of security staff and a janitorial crew on hand for the last flight of the day.
“I hope we’ll recognize him,” her mom said, striding quickly across the terminal to the security gate where deplaned passengers arrived.
Izzy glanced around, noting just six other people, all locals judging by the pale, sun-deprived skin and mix of practical outerwear. Their tanned Italian exchange student from Tuscany should stand out. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
Still, her mom shifted her weight nervously between her feet, the bobbing ponytail in constant motion, while she wrung her hands in front of her.
They’d only been at the terminal for a few minutes before a handful of weary travelers meandered down the corridor. Most of them were dressed in long pants and hoodies in anticipation of cool weather. Locals. She even recognized one guy, a fisherman friend of Hunter’s named Greg Loomis who had graduated from their high school three years ago. Tall and traditionally hot with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and square shoulders, he’d been Peyton’s obsession before Hunter. He had a reputation as having a bad temper and some unsavory habits, and thankfully wasn’t interested in a gawky freshman like Peyton. Now Greg, who couldn’t have been older than twenty-one, looked like a forty-five-year-old with weathered skin and yellowing teeth. He lit up a cigarette the instant he set foot outside and slowly sauntered off into the night.
See what Eureka did to people? Emotionally and physically.
“Oh!” Izzy’s mom said, gripping her daughter’s arm. “I think that’s him!”
Izzy turned back to the trickle of passengers. Even if he hadn’t been wearing cargo shorts and a sleeveless jacket, even if he hadn’t been a head taller than almost anyone else coming off that plane, Izzy would have known Alberto right away. The sun-bleached hair and tanned face were exactly what she remembered from the few Facebook photos she’d seen, and his bright, cheery smile stood out among his fellow travelers.
He locked his eyes with Izzy’s almost immediately, light blue and so alive with excitement that they mirrored her mother’s. Alberto hiked his backpack higher up on his shoulder and increased his pace, striding right up to her. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down for her hand, his thumb brushing gently across her skin as he lifted her fingers to his lips.
Izzy had never been kissed by a guy before: not on the lips, not on the cheek, and certainly not on her hand like she was a noblewoman being courted by a gallant knight. Before she realized what was happening, Alberto’s lips were pressed to her fingers, a gesture so quick and simple Izzy wasn’t sure whether she should be offended or turned on.
“You are Izz-ee, sì?” Alberto asked, placing emphasis on the last syllable of her name, which made it sound significantly more regal.
“Y-yes,” she stumbled. “Um, sì.”
Alberto took a step closer, his handsome smile deepening as his eyes bored into hers. “Ciao, Izz-ee,” he said softly. “I am Alberto.”
Deep inside, Izzy felt a seismic shift. “Ciao.”
ALBERTO BEAMED DOWN AT IZZY WITH THE KIND OF MILLION-watt smile that only A-list actors and con men seemed to possess. His light blue eyes, almost translucent in their paleness, glistened as he flipped his hair out of his tan face, a few errant strands arched coyly over one brow. He looked boyishly rogue, the epitome of George Emerson in A Room with a View, and despite Izzy’s usual reticence to look new people in the eyes for longer than a heartbeat, she felt unable to break from his gaze.
Izzy’s mom, oblivious to the fireworks moment happening between her daughter and the new Italian exchange student, stepped between them and threw an arm around Alberto’s neck, hauling his tall frame down to her level. When Alberto pulled his eyes away from Izzy, it felt like her soul went cold, deprived of his warmth.
“Buona serata, Alberto. Benvenuto!”
