Of Literature and Lattes, page 25
“Respect!” her mom yelled. “A lot more respect than that.”
Alyssa turned. Her mom stood in the center of the room, eyes blazing.
“I’ve had enough. You don’t get to come home like a spoiled child, dump all over me for almost two months, scream at me about my mental demise because you now understand the severity of what happened at XGC, apologize to my mother but not to me, then walk up those stairs with an ‘I’m taking my ball and going home’ attitude. Well, this is your home. And run away again if you want, but think long and hard about what you’re leaving behind.”
Janet stiff-arm pointed to the front door. “A friend of mine took the time to come over here to thank you for what you did for her and was thrilled to have done something she thought was nice for you. You need a job, and she thought that would be a perfect one for you. I didn’t put her up to it. I didn’t ask her to get involved. She did that all on her own because she cares. You tell me how many people in Palo Alto did that for you, did what Jasper did for you. I’m not saying it can’t happen, but I am saying your attitude and your behavior are unacceptable. Your life wasn’t so bad here, and it isn’t so bad right now. Yes, be sad about what went down at XGC and do your best to help clean it up, and while you’re doing that, grow up and be a little thankful. Respectful too. Never come in here and dump on me like that again.”
Alyssa’s focus drifted to the sofa’s side table. A cluster of family photos rested there. Happy times of Christmases, vacations, and birthdays. There was one of Lexi, her dad, and herself at the Fourth of July parade when she was about ten.
Alyssa stared at the picture. Lexi had always been at Alyssa’s house, with Alyssa’s family, even bullying Alyssa’s younger brother as much as she herself had—and she’d been there because Alyssa’s family was safe and her home was a good place to be. And even when Alyssa had felt a sliver of green over Lexi’s warm reception in her own home, she’d also held a little nugget of pride that this was her family and her home.
Alyssa closed her eyes, desperate to “come home” as her mom had just said, but she had no idea how to do that.
“Coming back was a mistake,” she whispered before she raced up the stairs.
“Alyssa,” her mom called after her.
“Janet,” her grandmother barked. “Let the girl alone. You’ve done enough.”
Yes, Mom, Alyssa thought as she reached the upstairs hallway, let the girl alone.
Chapter 38
Years ago Winsome’s town council voted to string lights in the trees lining Main Street during the holiday season. The twinkling trees created such a winter wonderland, town traffic increased a whopping 39 percent. Of course it wasn’t just the lights. It was December, and the year’s fourth quarter always brought more folks to town and more sales to the shops.
Then seven years ago the Chamber of Commerce’s executive director suggested turning the lights back on during the summer. Now every night from Memorial Weekend to Labor Day weekend, Winsome glowed like a storybook. Last summer an artist had made somewhat of a name for herself photographing the site—the image graced the cover of Midwest Living.
In the wake of the publicity and the magazine cover, shops began to stay open late and offer special sales and giveaways. Couples strolled through town holding hands; families rode their bikes in after dinner for ice cream; kids chased each other around the fountain. Friday evenings turned into the town’s own weekly meet and greet, and the boosted sales numbers sent every store owner home happy and tired at 10:00 p.m.
Worn by late afternoon events, Janet dreaded returning to the Printed Letter for the late shift.
Madeline’s pestering didn’t help. “You don’t look good. Where’s that thousand-watt smile I love? Did something happen? Come on, spill.”
Janet knew she meant well, and most of the time she loved Madeline’s direct and inquisitive manner. It mirrored her own. But tonight she felt bruised and tender and back at the very beginning. She wasn’t even sure what her “beginning” was anymore, other than it felt very low.
Her reprieve from Madeline’s barrage came when Seth walked in the door and invited her for a stroll.
“You look tired. Is everything okay?” He leaned against the customer service counter.
“That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear,” she snapped back.
“Take her away, please,” Madeline called with a laugh. “See what I’m dealing with in here?”
As they walked to an empty bench near the fountain, Seth asked, “What happened today?”
Janet pulled her hand from his and crossed the final two steps to an empty bench facing the fountain. She looked around to make sure no one stood too close. “Why does everyone think something happened?”
Seth raised both brows. “It feels obvious.”
Janet plopped onto the bench. “If you must know, I think we should call off the wedding.”
“What? We are four days away.” Seth dropped next to her.
“It’s not right, at least not right now, if that makes sense. We’re a mess. Our family is a mess, and we’re not coming back together. You want us to be perfect, and we’re not. We never will be, because I’m not perfect, and I can’t go back to what I was, but I . . . I don’t know how to do this anymore.” She bit her lip against the tears.
“How to do what?”
“Any of this. All of it.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “How to do us. I’m messing everything up. I thought I wouldn’t do that anymore,” she whispered.
“Janet, where is this coming from?” Seth twisted to fully face her.
“From me, because it’s right. It’s what we need to do.”
Seth narrowed his eyes and studied her. He was silent for so long and stared so hard she wiggled under his assessment. He finally spoke. His words were soft, but not gentle. They struck just above a whisper. “You have got to figure this out.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” Her voice arced high in defense.
“Then take it up with your daughter.” His pitch rose too. “Or if the problem isn’t her, go talk to your mom, because it’s one of them, and I’m tired of it.”
“What?” Janet sat straight.
“She dumps on you—pick either ‘she’ you want—and you dump on me. I get that you’re safe for them, so they launch on you, and I like that I’m safe for you. But I’m not your punching bag. How can you not see this? What was it this time? Her apartment? Or pick the other. Her stomach? Her job? Her FBI work?”
Janet stilled. She felt as if threads were unraveling before her eyes, straightening, untangling, clarifying. “Yes.”
“Well, she needs to figure it out. You both do. And no, she’s not moving in with me, so don’t ask again. I gave that mattress away last week and I’m not buying another. Neither are you.” He stood and faced her. “This has gone on long enough. Let me know when you either come to your senses or you’ve canceled our appointment with Pastor Zach. And you’d better let Lexi know. She’s put a lot of work into next Tuesday.”
With that, Seth walked away.
Janet sat and stared after him.
Ryan lifted a hand in greeting but, noticing Seth’s tight expression, lowered it as quickly. Seth was striding across the street, head down, aiming for his car. Ryan was sure he hadn’t seen him and felt grateful he hadn’t—just by raising his hand he suspected he had intruded on a private and unpleasant moment.
He glanced back to the bench where Seth had been sitting with his ex-wife, the blonde who worked at the bookshop. Her expression was nothing like his. He was thunder. She was thunderstruck.
And both reminded him of Jeremy. He had sported Janet’s amazed, slightly befuddled look for almost a week—until today, when he darkened into Seth’s.
Ryan looked back to the counter. Jeremy stood talking with a customer. He was saying all the right words, but his expression still looked grim. It had been that way since he’d come back from dropping Becca off at Krista’s with a piece of paper crumpled in his fist and the news that he wasn’t Becca’s dad.
“You are her dad.” Ryan had shoved the paper back into Jeremy’s hands. “No matter what that says, you’re the one around. What do you think makes a dad, anyway? Not that paper.”
“The court won’t see it that way.”
“Forget the court!” Ryan had yelled—not because he was angry, but because he was afraid. He knew what it felt like to lose everything, and his friend had come close too many times. “Forget Krista. They don’t matter here. Becca’s is the only opinion that matters, and to her, you are Dad.”
That had gotten a near smile from Jeremy, for only a second. Within the next beat, defeat draped over him again like a curtain. Krista’s constant calling didn’t help. At least ten times Ryan saw Jeremy click Decline when her ringtone sounded. The fact that Becca’s picture was the one that flashed when it rang probably made it all the more painful. Jeremy had finally turned the ringer off and thrown the phone into his desk drawer.
Ryan had also overheard him talking to Madeline this afternoon at the shop’s side counter. Although he didn’t hear the whole conversation, the body language conveyed enough—as did the few words he caught.
“I’m very sorry, Jeremy. If there’s anything I can do, let me know . . . Is there anything you want to do?”
“Nothing,” he’d said to her. “Nothing at all.”
“Are you open tonight?” An older man paused in front of Ryan.
Ryan realized he was blocking the door and stepped aside. “Yes. I was watching everyone in the square, sorry. Please come in.”
George Williams nodded to the young man and headed toward the counter. Color caught in his periphery. Something was different . . .
Ah . . . He stopped. He smiled. He savored the sight. The pillows.
He’d have to tell— George stalled. She wasn’t waiting at home. She wasn’t putzing in the kitchen or searching for her readers, which were invariably resting on top of her head. She wasn’t calling the kids and gently pestering them for a visit or the latest news. How long would sharing something with Margery be his first reaction? His first desire? He breathed deep and, for the first time in too long, felt true pleasure and peace in the action. Probably until my last breath, he thought.
It had been one week since Margery’s service, and this was his first time out and about. Everything felt new and raw—exposed to the air and too blistered to heal. It wasn’t as if Margery had been able to accompany him to the coffee shop for months before her death, but the fact that she never would again, and that she wasn’t home for him to tell her who he saw, who he talked to, and what was going on, felt foreign and wrong. He didn’t like this new world he woke up to every morning. He also wondered if he’d ever get used to its silence. But he did like remembering her. Small moments were beginning to come back to him through the pain, and he cherished each one.
Not that, with the kids around, he had many opportunities for those silent savorings. They chattered constantly. But the noise felt different now. As much as he loved them, their comments and musings never reached that corner of his heart he’d reserved over sixty-five years ago for Margery alone.
Three of the kids had gone home. They had work, and their kids had either jobs and babies or, if they were younger, sports camps and internships. Three still remained. Michael, Devon, and Bella hovered. He imagined them right now, sitting around his kitchen table checking their watches and discussing how long they should leave him alone, who was going to come look for him when darkness descended, and what kind, bolstering, and consoling words they’d say when they found him.
He couldn’t blame them. He even appreciated their efforts. After all, they were grieving too, and to fake such chipperness took energy. They loved him; they wanted to protect him. But protect me from what? he asked himself. Life?
Because that’s what this was. At eighty-one, this was life.
“George, it’s good to see you.” Jeremy nodded to him as he reached the front of the line.
George pointed out into the shop. He felt, then saw, his own hand shake. That was new too. Perhaps sleep will help, he consoled himself. He had gotten little in the last few weeks. That too was hard alone. “I like the pillows.”
Jeremy smiled, but it wasn’t the happy smile of victory or the smooth smile of peace George expected. Andante was busy tonight. The young man should be pleased. But there was something empty about his expression and his smile that, oddly, mirrored George’s own loss.
“Everyone else does too . . . What can I get for you?”
“Tea. Do you have a nice chamomile tea?” George infused a little spark into his voice.
“I do.” Jeremy turned to scoop the tiny yellow flowers into a small silk pouch, then twisted back to talk to George while he worked. “Your wife’s service was beautiful, by the way.”
George nodded. “She would have loved it, especially Devon getting up to talk. He’s the quietest of the bunch, believe it or not. I almost had a stroke when he walked up to that lectern. No one told me.” He patted his chest. “I did mention to them later that it was not the best time for surprises.”
“Oh . . .” Jeremy placed a white china mug on the counter between them.
George laughed. “It was a good surprise though, and yes, it was a beautiful service.”
Jeremy looked behind him with such a questioning glance George turned too. No one was there. He turned back to the young man.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
Jeremy leaned toward him. “What Devon said?” The question was so soft, almost a whisper, that George had to lean closer to hear him. “That you chose him and his siblings . . . Is it enough? To be chosen?”
George straightened. He knew nothing about Jeremy, his situation, or what was behind his question. But he knew exactly what to say. Margery had said it to him just about twenty years ago. “Sometimes that’s all a kid has, and yes, it is enough. It is more than enough, I promise you.”
Jeremy swallowed. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as if dropped hard.
George wasn’t sure if his comment was reassuring or upsetting.
“Thank you.” Jeremy slid the mug closer to George.
As George reached for his wallet, Jeremy waved it away. His eyes shone and his mouth worked to form words. “Tea is on the house tonight.”
George didn’t protest. Instead he quickly lifted the cup in thanks and turned away.
No man wanted another to see him cry.
Chapter 39
Jeremy wiped his hands on a pristine white towel. He’d gotten the idea from Liam, and even though coffee grounds turned his towels brown almost as quickly as he pulled them from the drawer, he found a battle cry in each fresh towel. He understood now why Liam used them. Sure, they looked good, but they also felt like a call to do his best.
Ryan joined him behind the counter.
He saw that call within Ryan too, and wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before. Without being asked, Ryan had not only picked up the slack left from Brendon’s departure, but had taken ownership for certain parts of the business and pushed them ahead too. He actively talked up the book club every chance he got and had signed up another twenty customers.
Jeremy shook his head. None of this within Ryan was new. Jeremy had simply discounted it. No, that wasn’t right. He’d been wary of it, even envious. To know what you want, to push for connection . . .
“Can you close tonight?” Jeremy tapped Ryan on the shoulder. “I’ve been in and out all day, but I need to go talk to Krista.”
“I’m fine here, but are you okay? It’s late. Don’t you want to take a breather? Let her bomb settle for a few days?”
“I thought I did. I’d like to never see her again.” Jeremy looked across the shop to where George sat with his cup of tea. “But time isn’t on my side. I’ve got too much to lose.”
“Sure. Go.”
Before he knew it, Jeremy pulled into Krista’s driveway. It stunned him how a dark and silent half-hour drive could fly by without one noticing a moment of it. He hadn’t turned on the radio, Spotify, or anything. Not because his thoughts were loud, but because he was beyond thought—too tired, too worn, and too overwhelmed. And he had no idea what he was going to say now that he’d arrived.
Krista answered the door. She said nothing. She simply stepped outside under the lantern mounted above the front door and shut the door behind her.
He turned and dropped onto the steps.
“I called you. Several times.” She lowered herself next to him.
He resisted the urge to scoot away to create more than a few inches of space between them. “Don’t you get I don’t want to talk to you? I don’t want to look at you, hear your voice. I—I can’t even process what you’ve done.” He gripped his hair and pulled at the ends.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Because this isn’t about you, or me. I don’t have the luxury of walking away.” He shook his head as if imagining another scenario, one in which he could walk away. “On some level, right now, I wish I could. God forgive me. But what you did, Krista? From the moment we met everything was a lie, and you doubled down, again and again.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No.” He leaned back, creating that space he wanted, and held a hand up to her. “I get to finish.” He bounced up, needing more distance and needing to move. The pressure built like the foaming wands on the espresso machines. It needed escape, even if only in paced circles. “What you did was inexcusable and we’ll deal with that later, but . . . I have an aunt. Somewhere. And after my parents died, she didn’t want me. She didn’t choose me, Krista. She walked away, and I carry that every day of my life. That’s what you’re doing to Becca. You lay this ‘truth’ of yours on me to push me away, to force me to make that same choice and walk away. And you? You get to play innocent victim or savior, whichever you want. You get to be the parent who stayed.” He stopped and thrust his pointer finger her direction. “It was rotten, wrong, and I . . . I almost hate you for it. And do you know what that feels like? Despite everything that’s gone down between us I have never hated you.” He curled the finger into his fist and smashed it into his chest. “I don’t want to feel this way.”
