“He’ll be fine. You can’t shape your whole life around him.”
“Why not? He’s my family. And MacKenzie? Am I just supposed to leave her, too? I love you, Michael. You know I do. You’re fantastic and incredible, and you’re going to do everything you want in life, but Pine Creek…everyone here… That’s my home.”
“Not me, then.”
“You too. Here. Where we are now. We can wake up and fall asleep together here, too.”
“Where your home is.”
“Now you’re being unfair,” I said quietly.
Michael moved back and forth as though the walls were closing in on him. “We choose our family, Henny,” he said. “And you’re choosing them. That’s just how it is.”
“I can’t think,” I said. “Not now. Not suddenly, like this. You always make decisions so quickly. You know what you want. You’re so sure of everything in life. But I’m not like that. I…”
“It’s not exactly a difficult question. Either you love me or you don’t.”
“That’s not true! I love you. You know that.”
“Just not enough.”
Every time I looked into his eyes, I had to fight to remember who I was. I knew my life was on the line, but I couldn’t defend myself, not against him. I was powerless to resist him. The freshly painted walls aged before my eyes. I found myself missing the scent of wood, missing that summer when everything was still new between us. Everything had become stifling and suffocating. My cheeks flushed in the heat.
He ran a hand over the half of his face that wasn’t bruised. “Do you want something to drink?” he asked.
I nodded. Swallowed. There was an empty bottle of Coca-Cola on the counter, but he had another in the refrigerator. Eggs, milk, ketchup, and hot dogs, too. The surreal sense that we were playing adults in the cabin grew, but I knew I was the only one who felt it. Michael was an adult. He had his own refrigerator now. He had filled it himself with things he wanted, and if he got hungry, he just could just make himself something to eat.
The black eye was his decisive moment. I knew that. Everything was suddenly crystal clear to him. I could see it in the new sense of confidence he had. There was no longer any hesitation in his movements, not the slightest hint of doubt in his eyes. He was free. Nothing could hold him back.
Except for one thing. My hand trembled as I took the glass of cola.
He noticed, and his eyes softened. “We don’t need to decide right now,” he said.
I nodded again. Retreated slightly. Realized, in desperation, that I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
We had sex that evening, with an oddly calm intensity that I had never experienced before—and haven’t since. All of our energy was focused on the parts of our bodies that were touching; time came to a standstill, our thoughts stopped, and nothing else existed. Our brains might have been refusing to think about the future, but our bodies knew that they needed to concentrate two entire lives into one single night. All we wanted and desired was caught up in that moment.
Afterward, I lay naked against his body, completely open. I didn’t need any covers. I felt no shyness, no cold. I looked him straight in the eye, those absurdly long lashes of his, the greenish-yellow tinge of his skin, and I stroked his face with my fingers. My eyes said, You’re mine. I tried to convince us both. Whatever happened going forward, all of his future adventures, all of his future women, would pale in comparison with that moment. It would last forever, and he would never really leave me. The intensity in my gaze made his heart beat quicker. I felt it against my skin, much clearer than my own pulse.
Then I lay my head in the space between his shoulder and his neck, my space, and felt his arms loosen around me. When I glanced up at him, one eye was half closed with sleep, the other because of the bruise.
Then he said, possibly in his sleep, “I’ll stay if you ask me to.”
Chapter 51
What Henny Would Have Wanted
Dad seems to have gathered his…troops in the restaurant. He, Clarence, and Buddy are sitting at a table in the corner, their heads together, whispering away as the preparations for the party go on around them.
“No one from town is going to come,” Dad says. “Not as things stand. Camila’s posters won’t make a difference. People might be curious, but they also want to avoid any conflict.”
Clarence shrugs. Buddy looks anxious.
“So we need to do something about it,” Dad tells them.
“But the party’s tonight,” Buddy replies. “What can we really do in one day?”
“If this madness could flare up that quickly, we can put a stop to it just as quickly. We just need to talk to the right people. You two can take care of Stacey.”
Buddy grimaces nervously. “She’s, uh, a little scary.”
Dad finds a scrap of paper in his coat pocket and scrawls something down. “Here,” he says. “Just say this. And tell her I say hello. Tell her it’s a memorial for Henny. Get her to talk to her husband. Derek should definitely be able to get people over here. And I have something else for you to take, too.”
* * *
Buddy and Clarence find Stacey at Raymond’s Steak and Grill, the best restaurant in town. It’s right by the river, with huge windows looking out onto the water. Stacey and Derek are sitting by one of them, at a table with maybe ten others. The majority are middle-aged or older and radiate success and comfortable lives. All the usual signs of a long Sunday lunch are dotted around the table in front of them: wineglasses, empty plates, coffee cups, cognac glasses. The decor in the restaurant is dominated by dark brickwork, gleaming mirrors, and dazzling windows. A large fire is burning in the oversize fireplace, keeping the damp autumn weather at bay. The cream of Pine Creek’s citizens are scattered around the room.
Buddy and Clarence are lingering in the doorway, waving frantically at Stacey.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” the maître d’ asks. His voice is cooler than the ice bucket on the nearest table.
“No, no, don’t mind us,” Clarence cheerily replies. “Stacey!” he mimes, waving even more wildly.
“Do you have a reservation?” the maître d’ asks. “I’m afraid we’re fully booked today.”
“We’re just looking for a friend.” Clarence abandons his waving and pushes past the maître d’. “Excuse us,” he says, patting the man on the shoulder.
The maître d’ casts a single glance at Buddy, who looms up behind Clarence, and abandons any attempt to stop them.
Stacey sees them coming and quickly gets up. She smiles apologetically and practically drags Buddy and Clarence outside.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps once they are out of earshot.
“See what I mean? She’s scary,” Buddy mutters to Clarence. He turns to Stacey: “Robert wanted us to give you this.”
He holds out a plastic bag that he has taken great care to keep level.
Stacey peers inside. “An…apple pie,” she says.
“Don’t ask us what you’re meant to do with it,” Clarence tells her. “He just said it would mean something to you. But we were also supposed to say… Buddy, do you have that piece of paper? He wrote it down just to be on the safe side. I’m normally pretty reliable until my third cup, but…”
“Clarence,” Stacey interrupts. “What were you supposed to say?”
“Okay, okay.” He squints down at the paper. “He said that it’s boring living by other people’s rules and that you should have fun and swear more—no problem with that, huh? And…wear a bright-red coat? This makes no sense at all. He must’ve been even more wasted than me.” Clarence throws the piece of paper over his shoulder. “Look, here’s the deal. The motel needs help. They’re throwing a big party tonight, and Robert is worried no one will show up.”
“But what can I do?”
“Talk to Derek
. Get him to help. Tell him to focus on the shop owners and the football fans. Buddy and I are going to the bar. If no one shows up, we can always take a few of the regulars along.”
With those words of wisdom, they turn and leave Stacey alone outside the restaurant.
She is shivering in her black dress, but she doesn’t turn to head back inside. She is still clutching the bag containing the apple pie when Derek comes out to check on her.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “And what the hell’s that?”
“Apple pie.”
Derek mutters something to himself and drapes his jacket over her shoulders. She turns to him. “You know that I’ll support you in this whole becoming-a-politician thing,” she says. “But do you have to be a boring politician?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“You could be. These…shirts and jackets and a dress that goes down to my knees. It’s not us.”
“You’re right about the dress,” he says. “It’s definitely too long.”
“There’s a party at the motel tonight.”
“And you want to go?”
“That’s not all. I need your help before then.”
Derek’s eyes dart back and forth between Stacey and the restaurant. “Jack’s in there. Won’t it be a little weird if we just take off? What are we meant to say to them?”
“Forget Jack. I want to help out with the party. We have a couple of hours to get people over there. It’s going to take a miracle, and you’re the only one who can do it.”
That decides it. Derek tosses his car keys to her. “You bring the car around. I’ll get our coats.”
“Derek?”
He pauses. I’m sure she is about to thank him, but instead she says, “Get rid of that goddamn tie. And you should probably think about what you’re going to say to Michael.”
Derek shakes his head. “You’re lucky I like strong-minded women.”
“Lucky for you, too.” Stacey looks happier than she has in years.
* * *
Dad’s house feels even more depressing now that it has been empty for so long. It smells stuffy and abandoned, the rooms are dark and gloomy, and there is a fine layer of dust on everything. The whole house just seems so sad.
Dad seems to feel the same way. He shivers as he walks down the hallway, and when he sees the armchair in the living room, with Jesus and his bird’s nest dejectedly looking down at it, I think he starts to wonder how he could have lived alone here all these years.
I’m glad he’s at the motel now. I should have taken him over there a long time ago. It’s the right place for him, simple as that; he needs chaos and people and things to get annoyed about.
Dad turns on all the lights, opens the windows in every room, and then heads into the kitchen to unpack the bags he brought with him. Before long, the counter is full of flour, apples, nuts, chocolate, baking powder, sugar, and mountains of other ingredients. He pauses to throw away all of the withered flowers from the kitchen table.
After that, he really gets to work. Flour swirls through the air, pieces of nut fly in every direction as he starts chopping, and the stuffy smell is soon replaced by heat of the oven and the scent of freshly baked pies.
There are pie dishes covering every free surface in the kitchen, all different shapes and sizes. Pecan pie, toffee pie, several apple pies, two chocolate tarts, what I think looks like a lemon meringue pie, and a key lime pie. The sink is full of sticky spoons and ladles, messy stacks of pans and bowls.
Dad doesn’t even need to call Cheryl. She is drawn to the light behind the steamy kitchen window like a moth to a flame.
“You’re back!” she shouts.
“Come in, Cheryl, come in,” Dad sounds exuberant. He is still wearing his apron, and he holds out an oven-glove-clad hand and leads her into the kitchen. “You got here just in time,” he says.
“In time for what?”
“For pie!”
He sits her down at the kitchen table, quickly moving some of the pie dishes out of the way. He then cuts her a piece big enough to feed at least five hungry children and smothers it in whipped cream.
“Have a taste,” he says, giving her an expectant look.
“I don’t understand,” Cheryl says. “Are you back for good? Have you finally left the motel?”
But she obediently takes a bite of pie.
If Dad had been planning to convert her with the power of his apple pie alone, he’ll have to reconsider. He seems to realize this, because he sits down opposite her and says in a serious tone, “I know that you care about me.”
“Of course I do!”
“You’ve got a good heart, Cheryl. You were there for me when Henny died. I know you think the motel contributed to my problems, but…”
“Your drinking problem, Robert. There’s no shame in admitting it. In fact, admitting it is the first step to recovery. Everyone knows that.”
Dad looks her straight in the eye and does what he has to do: “When I had my drinking problem,” he lies, almost without making a face, “it was MacKenzie who helped me sober up.”
“Robert, is this one of your steps?”
“Uh, sure. Of course. I admit my faults and shortcomings and am trying to fix them and, uh, help others.” He’s improvising wildly, but I think he has done a good job.
Cheryl blinks away tears. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks. But what I’m trying to say is that it was the motel that helped me. MacKenzie has an incredibly motherly side.”
“Careful, Dad,” I warn him. “There are some things she won’t believe.”
Cheryl raises an eyebrow.
“Maybe not motherly,” Dad says with a faint smile. “But she’s a good friend. Have a little more pie.”
Cheryl struggles valiantly with her apple pie.
“This party they’re throwing at the motel,” Dad continues. “It’s also a memorial for Henny.”
“A memorial?”
“Yes. The more I’ve heard people talking about her, the more I’ve realized I want to get to know her as an adult.”
“I would have organized it for you if you’d asked.”
“I know, I know. But this is a way for me to try to right what went wrong. With the funeral. My steps, remember.”
“Maybe. Camila said it was a leaving party.”
“More pie?”
Cheryl forces down another enormous slice. She looks slightly ill during the last few mouthfuls, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the motel. I think it’s more that the thought of another spoonful of cream is making her feel queasy. Once she finishes, she breathes a sigh of relief and pushes her plate as far away as the other pies will allow. She gets up before Dad has time to suggest that she tries the cherry pie.
“Why don’t you swing by tonight and talk to her?” Dad says. “At six.”
Cheryl doesn’t ask who he means. I have no idea whether he has managed to convince her.
* * *
Over in town, Clarence and Buddy aren’t having much more luck. They are standing on Elm Street, handing out flyers for the party, and every time Clarence manages to push one into someone’s hands, he says, “…and a memorial for Henny Broek, the girl who died.”
Another passerby, another: “Here you go. Memorial for the girl who died.”
Oddly enough, I don’t think it makes people any more eager to go to Camila’s party. They stare at him in shock and then hurry away as though they think death might be infectious.
Buddy looks deeply uncomfortable, but Clarence refuses to give in. The next time someone passes, he tries a different sales pitch: “Free punch! Guaranteed to be spiked!”
The mother of the seven-year-old child glares at him.
I really hope Derek is having more success, but the more I think about it, the more I
wonder how much he can really be expected to achieve.
He only has half a day, after all.
* * *
I don’t know who looks more nervous, Camila or MacKenzie.
It’s five to six, and Camila is pacing around the restaurant, straightening paper tablecloths that are already straight, moving the piles of plates a fraction of an inch to the right and then back again, and inspecting the buffet and Dad’s dessert table.
MacKenzie follows her every movement.
“Stop worrying,” she says. “It looks fantastic.”
Camila has transformed the restaurant with the paper tablecloths. Pink, purple, baby blue, and bright yellow: the room is now bathed in color.
Buddy has strapped eight plastic boxes together in the corner by the windows, forming a stage of sorts. He has even added a microphone and a simple sound system. Dad has spent the last few hours working on a secret project with Alejandro: one wall of the restaurant is currently hidden behind MacKenzie’s banner. The words Welcome, Mrs. Davies are still visible.
I can barely see the counter beneath all the food. Huge bowls of potato salad, trays of cold cuts, chicken wings, and spare ribs, two baskets of corn bread, cobb salad, bean salad, and a simple tomato salad, plus a huge dish of mac and cheese and a pot of Dolores’s special chili. If Dolores had been around at the same time as Jesus, the world would have been one miracle poorer; she wouldn’t have had a problem feeding thousands of unexpected guests.
Dad’s pies are lined up at one end of the counter, and on the small side table where we usually keep plates, silverware, and menus, MacKenzie has set two enormous bowls of punch.
“Do you think we have enough chairs? Do you think we should’ve brought more down from the empty rooms?”
“We can always go get more if we need them,” MacKenzie replies. She keeps her voice light and friendly, but I can see the absolute conviction that we won’t need any more chairs in her eyes. She still doesn’t think anyone is going to come, and the more eager Camila seems, the more she fixes things and tries to make them perfect for the guests she thinks are coming, the more tense MacKenzie becomes.
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 42