by Harper Bliss
Cynthia looks around the shop and, as though drawn there, her gaze lands on the painting—it’s quite the eye-catching piece. “Wow. Anna painted you.” The goofy smile from earlier has turned to a look of disbelief. “Is it getting serious?”
“It’s early days.” I can’t suppress a goofy smile of my own.
“Anna must be very serious about you if she painted you. It’s kind of her thing.” Cynthia leans over the counter. “After the first two she painted of me, I really didn’t know what to do with them any longer.”
Warmth blossoms in my chest. “I think I spotted a few paintings with your likeness on them when I was in her studio.”
“She doesn’t keep all of them. After a while, she just paints over them. It’s more of an outlet than an artistic expression for her, I think.” Cynthia arches up her eyebrows. “Have you asked her if it’s okay to hang that up here in the store, for everyone to see?”
“It’s a picture of me,” I blurt out. “And it was a gift to me. Surely I can do with it what I want?”
Cynthia gives a thoughtful nod. “I’d check with her regardless. She can be funny about these things.”
“I found what I was looking for.” John joins us at the counter. As if he overheard what we were talking about, his eye is drawn to the painting as well. “Anna’s very talented,” he says. “Much more than she will ever give herself credit for.”
“Do you know Anna?” I ring up the cookbook he has chosen.
“I’ve known Anna Gunn forever. We were all at high school together. We basically grew up together. She mainly drew back then. The painting came a bit later. Isn’t that right?” He turns to Cynthia. I wonder if he knows about her Autism. But if Anna hasn’t even told Sean, I can’t imagine John knowing, unless Cynthia has told him.
Cynthia nods. Then our conversation is interrupted by the door opening.
“My goodness,” the woman who just entered exclaims. “I love what you’ve done to the place.”
It takes me a minute to place her. Then I remember—she’s the previous owner of Bookends.
“Mrs. Fincher,” Cynthia says. “How was the cruise?”
“Delightful,” Mrs. Fincher says, while ostentatiously feasting her eyes on the decor of the store.
“We have to run,” John says. “We were supposed to meet my mother ten minutes ago.”
“You’re the one who wanted to quickly pop in here.” Cynthia waves goodbye and before I know it, they’re out the door.
“Goodness, it’s so strange to be back here. It’s the same, but also very different.”
“Look around as much you want, Mrs. Fincher.”
“I will, dear,” she says.
I watch her as she shuffles around the store.
“Are you living in the apartment above?” she asks, from the nonfiction section.
“Yes, it’s very convenient.”
“How’s business?”
“I haven’t been open that long, but Valentine’s Day was really good. It’s all looking quite promising.” I have to yell slightly for fear she won’t catch what I’m saying.
“Good to hear.” She turns to me. “If you ever need a hand.” A smile appears on her face. “I don’t have much going on now that I’m back from my cruise.”
“No other travel plans?”
“Not immediately.” She heads to the travel guide section regardless.
And then, it happens again. As with Cynthia and John, as though drawn by some irresistible force, Mrs. Fincher notices the painting.
“Oh dear,” she says. “That’s bold.” She squints and, without taking her eyes off it, approaches the painting. “Anna Gunn?” she asks.
For someone who keeps her paintings pretty much to herself, they do seem instantly recognizable to a lot of Donovan Grove residents.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I’ve known Anna since she was this high.” Mrs. Fincher holds up a flat hand at knee height. “I know what she’s capable of with a brush and some paint.” She narrows her eyes further and approaches me. “I like to think I know Anna better than most. She came to the store all the time. After my husband died, those first few months when I had no idea what to do with myself, it was like she instinctively knew to stay a little longer. She wouldn’t necessarily chat. Anna’s never been one for small talk. But she’d just linger and her quiet, calm presence, soothed me. And it’s as if she could somehow sense that, so she kept doing it.” A soft smile appears on her face. “When I sold the store, she gave me a painting of it, as a farewell gift. I gave it a prominent spot in my living room and looking at it fills me with joy every single day.”
Who knew that hanging up a painting of myself would allow me to find out so much more about Anna?
“That’s so nice of her.” My chest fills with warmth again.
“Anna’s special and, well, she was an excellent customer.” Mrs. Fincher folds her features into a more unsentimental expression. “I have to be honest, I never truly believed this place would sell. You’re brave to have taken it over in this day and age, Zoe.”
“Or insane,” I joke. “And foolishly clinging to some romantic ideal of the small-town book store.”
“It’s a lovely thing for the Donovan Grove community to have. We used to have readings here, mostly from authors of children’s books. The place would fill with children, and then I would always be convinced the world would turn out okay.” She chuckles softly. “How’s that for a foolish romantic notion?” Our conversation is interrupted by a deafening phone chime coming from her purse. “That’s probably my daughter wondering where I am.” She just looks at the screen but doesn’t pick up. “I have to go, dear. Good luck and give my best to Anna.” She sends me a quick, unexpected wink before she exits the store.
It’s another hour before Anna arrives. She and Hemingway are in the store for a full ten minutes, before she notices the painting. My pulse quickens as I remember Cynthia’s words from earlier. I fondle Hemingway’s ears, and watch Anna as she stares at the painting.
“That’s not for sale, I hope,” Anna says, after what must have been a minute of silence.
“Of course not.”
“Are you worried people won’t realize this is your store?”
“Are you making fun of me?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Good, because this is your art.”
“You could have chosen to just hang up a mirror if you missed the sight of your own face so much.”
“Are you calling me vain now?” I like Anna when she’s like this: playful and not overly self-conscious.
“I’m not calling you anything at all, Zoe. I’m just… observing.”
“You don’t mind that I put it up there without asking you first?”
“I’ve given it to you, so it’s yours to do with as you please. But, truth be told, I thought you’d be the type to hang it in your bedroom, just to catch one last glimpse of yourself before you go to bed.” She stands there grinning.
“Very funny.” I stop petting Hemingway and grab her hand. “What do you take me for, anyway?”
“An extremely good-looking lady,” Anna whispers in my ear. “I’ve even heard you described as ‘foxy’.”
“Is that so? By whom?”
“That’s a confidence I can’t betray.” Her body shakes against mine as she laughs.
“You’re in a good mood today.” I had somehow expected her to be all up in arms about tomorrow’s lunch.
“I’m about to make my mother very happy, so… wouldn’t you be?”
“Are you spending the afternoon with Sherry?”
“I’m on my way over to give her and Dad the news. About us, I mean. I can’t sit through a lunch pretending we’re not dating, even though it’s still so early.”
“Should I have declined her very kind invitation?”
“I know what my mom can be like. She’s hard to say no to. If she hadn’t invited you for lunch this Sunday, she would have done so for the Sunday aft
er. And as much as I’d like to keep this from her for a while, it’s very hard to do so, even more because she already knows. I need to tell her something, otherwise there will be too much tension between her and me, and I don’t want that.”
“Okay.” This reminds me that I should have a conversation of my own with my daughter before we go to lunch at the Gunns tomorrow. “Small towns can really speed things up.”
“You don’t mind that I’m telling my parents already?” Anna asks.
“It’s not like you’re bringing a U-Haul to our second date, Anna.”
“I don’t drive, so I would never do that.” She gives me a funny look.
“What?”
“I want to say something, even though, again, it’s way too soon to say anything of the kind.”
“Doing certain things too soon seems to be the trend between us.” Some things, at least, I add in my head.
“I’m not the U-Haul type. At all. I live alone because I need to. I don’t, um, cohabitate.”
“You and Cynthia never lived together?” The question’s out of my mouth before I can stop it—before I can reassure her that I and my fifteen-year-old daughter won’t be moving in with her and Hemingway any time soon.
“No. We always had our separate houses. I need a lot of time on my own, to recharge, to just be. I can’t be around other people all the time.”
“Noted.” An amused smile spreads across my lips.
“Are you mocking me now?” Anna asks.
I shake my head. “It’s just funny that I’m having a meal with your family and we’re discussing not moving in together before we’ve even… you know.”
Instantly, Anna’s cheeks turn bright red. “I—I know, but, we’ve only, um, been on one proper date. I mean, it feels like more and we see each other all the time—”
“Anna.” I bring my hands to her shoulders. “I was just kidding. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I really didn’t. I blurt things out sometimes. Come here.” I curl my arms around her and pull her close. “I wasn’t implying anything.”
“It’s fine.” Anna stands rather stiffly in my embrace despite her saying it’s all good. “I’d better go. Mom’s expecting me.”
“I’m about to close for lunch.” It strikes me that Anna’s the third person who has come into the store today mentioning a family member waiting for them. Family and community seem to be a big thing in Donovan Grove. “Do you want me to come with you?”
The expression on Anna’s face couldn’t be more surprised. “No. I’ll tell them on my own. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? How about tonight?” The disappointment in my voice is very deliberate.
“Um. Yeah. Saturday night is…” Anna doesn’t finish her sentence.
“It’s okay. I understand if you need to be alone tonight. Brooklyn’s in the city all day and I’m sure she’ll have a lot of tales to tell when she gets back.”
“No,” Anna says resolutely. “Come over if you want to. Call me if you do.” Her smile is genuine enough, I think.
“I’ll let you know.” I kiss her on the lips before I watch her go.
6
Anna
Hemingway seems to have many more lampposts he needs to sniff today, while all I want to do is walk fast from Bookends to my parents’ house to expel some nervous energy. Why did I have to say that about the U-Haul? Why did my mother have to invite Zoe to lunch in the first place? I’m aware that I’m mostly nervous about telling mom and dad about Zoe and me. Not about giving them the actual information, but what it implies about us—about our relationship, if you can even already call it that. This is all happening way too fast for me and my slow-processing brain.
Then Zoe threw in the comment about sex—that we have not slept together yet—and now my brain, while it’s still processing all of that, is about ready to combust. Because telling my parents and taking things a step further with Zoe are both an act of vulnerability. And in the end, showing vulnerability is my biggest weakness. The mental hurdles I need to overcome to put myself in a position of vulnerability are almost impossible to take—and there are many.
“Come on, Hem,” I half-shout, taking my frustration out on my poor dog. To make it up to him, I give him a thorough scratch once he catches up with me.
Too soon for my liking, I reach the house where I grew up—it really is a theme these days. I could do with another fast walk around the block, but Hemingway sprints onto the driveway, announcing our presence.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask Mom, once I’m inside.
“Workshop,” Mom says, knowing I don’t need any further explanation. “I think he really is turning an old door into a chair this time.”
“He probably is.”
“Last night was fun, wasn’t it?” Mom says.
“Yeah.”
“Pity there weren’t more new people to welcome, but Zoe was more than enough, wouldn’t you agree?”
Great. She’s fishing already. I wonder if I should get my dad so I can tell him in person. He won’t know what to say, anyway. Still, it feels important to tell them both at the same time. It’s not because my mother is much more outgoing and in the know that she has automatically earned the privilege to be told everything first.
“I’m just going to say hi to Dad.”
“Do you want to stay for lunch?” Mom asks as I head into the corridor that leads to the garage slash workshop.
“Yes, please.” Any meal I don’t have to prepare for myself is a win. This reminds me of the meal Zoe never cooked for me.
Dad is hunched over a bench in the workshop. He’s wearing a dust mask, as though he’s performing surgery on a piece of wood, and a pair of plastic protective glasses.
“Dad. Hi.”
He pulls down the mask, takes off the goggles and his eyes light up.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. Neither one of us is a naturally tactile greeter and we’ve learned long ago that a hug hello or goodbye is not required in our relationship.
“Can you come into the kitchen, please? I need to talk to you and Mom.”
Behind me, from the doorway, Hemingway gives a pitiful yelp. We taught him from the start that the workshop is not a safe place for him to freely wander.
“Sure. I’ll be there in a second.” As soon as he’s clocked Hemingway, my dad starts putting away his tools.
“What are you making?”
“A birdhouse,” he says.
I swallow the words ‘another one’. Both mine and Jamie’s back yards are full of these things already. They’re my father’s favorite object to make.
“Why don’t you let Anna paint them and I’ll sell them,” Jamie once offered.
Both Dad and I had many arguments against that plan, because even though we really like to create things, everything changes once you start producing them for money. It would take away an essential part of the joy we feel when engaged in our arts and crafts.
“I could do with another one,” I joke, and go back inside to wait for Dad. Hemingway remains seated in the doorway.
Mom looks at me with a very practiced look of patience on her face. But I have to give her some credit, because being my mother hasn’t always been a walk in the park—I suppose it still isn’t. Dad just sits there, waiting. With him, it’s not a matter of patience, I know. He’s just giving me the time I need to gather my thoughts, which I should have done on the way over, but I was too busy obsessing over my conversation with Zoe.
“Zoe and I are dating,” I blurt out, quickly, as though I’m telling them I’ve contracted an embarrassing infection or something.
“Oh, Anna.” Mom clasps her hands together.
“Who’s Zoe?” Dad asks, and I burst out laughing.
Mom shakes her head, but she does a good job of hiding any disdain she might feel.
“She’s the new owner of Bookends, Sam,” Mom says. “I told you about her.”
“You tell me about so many people. I can’t keep up
.”
From this exchange, I can only conclude that my mother hasn’t told my father anything about Zoe in relation to me, because I know he would remember that. I secretly applaud her for that.
“Good for you, darling,” Dad says, then turns to Mom. “Do we like Zoe?”
“We do. Very much,” Mom says.
“Good.” Dad nods. “I’m happy for you then.”
“She’s the one I invited to Sunday lunch. Zoe and her daughter, Brooklyn,” Mom says.
“You invited strangers to Sunday lunch? Again?” Dad says.
“They’re not strangers. Anna’s dating Zoe,” Mom tries to defend herself.
“But you didn’t know that, because Anna only just told us.”
“Don’t be so difficult, Sam. I’ve met Zoe quite a few times and we hit it off last night at Lenny’s. And, for your information, Brooklyn’s dating your grandson.”
“That’s right, I helped Jaden make a Valentine’s Day present for his girlfriend, actually.” Dad scratches the stubble on his chin. “Does this mean I need to dress up for Sunday lunch?”
“You can dress however you like,” Mom says, then she looks at me. “I had an inkling of this, you know, Anna,” she says. “I couldn’t be sure, but I was beginning to have my suspicions.”
I just nod. I don’t feel like challenging her on this, even though I’m pretty sure she had much more than an inkling.
“I’m happy for you too,” Mom says.
“The reason I’m telling you today is because I don’t want any fuss made over this tomorrow at lunch. We’ve only just started seeing each other and we don’t need any added pressure from my family.”
“Of course not, dear,” Mom says. “But I’m glad you told us.”
I find my father’s gaze. He gives me the slightest nod of the head.
“Neither one of them are vegan or vegetarian, are they?” Mom asks.
“I’ll need to check for any dietary restrictions.” Once again, it hits me that this is all happening too soon. But this is how it is. This is how the events were set in motion. I would be foolish to stop them now.