“That’s easy for you to say.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “You’re right. It took me a long time to be where I am. Years. And I’m just trying to help people like you, so it takes you less time than it did me.”
“People like me?”
“Those who see themselves as damaged.”
“But—”
He held up a hand and then let it fall, gracefully, to his side. “I know. I’ve worked with veterans for years. Some with PTSD and some without. Now maybe that’s not you—”
“It is.”
“Well then, all the better. And I always say, use this—what I’ve given you—but also use what you have. Your support system. This—what I do here—can help but so can your resources.”
“So, I should call my therapist?”
“I can’t tell you what to do, but if that’s what you want to do, then...maybe. By the way, do you want me to leave a note for Mrs. Martin?” He squatted near a bin full of yoga mats, rooted around inside, and pulled out a notepad and pen.
I wasn’t angry at her, just her son. Would the man give me her address? Wouldn’t that look odd?
“Nah, it’s okay. I can handle everything from here. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The man put the pen and paper back and then stood in front of me. Silently, he placed his hands together in front of him and bowed. “Namaste,” he said.
I’d heard the term but never had any opportunity to say it. Despite my discomfort, the word fell easily from my lips. “Namaste.” I rolled up the yoga mat, placed it in the man’s bin, and turned to leave. I glanced back once, when I’d neared the door, but the man had already disappeared.
Chapter 28: Sadie
“It’s bad. Seriously, it’s bad.”
Pickles and I sat in the library break room for a second time that week, after I’d put in a few more hours on my project and decided staring at the computer didn’t mean the work was getting completed. Mom had said to stay as long as I needed, and I planned on taking her up on her generous offer. She’d handle the kids easily, Lena was on backup alert, and I required deep reflection. A sea of uncertainty and unknowns threatened to drown me, and finally, I truly understood how Theo might view a future. This no longer involved only an uncomfortable lust and attraction for a man who wasn’t mine; Andrew and I possessed a spark that might be more, if we let it. On the other hand, Theo had almost admitted to not wanting to follow through on the divorce, something that involved both of us. The time had come for me to grow up, make mature decisions, and think about my future, my happiness, and what might be best for the kids. Sooner rather than later.
“What a pickle you’re in, huh?” Pickles said as she giggled.
“Really? Now?” But I laughed, and it felt so good to ease some of the anxiety, to let myself go and pretend that, while I was here, ensconced in the Crooked Tree Library, everything outside the library either didn’t concern me or could be easily ironed out.
Sometimes, the universe works in mysterious ways, and I sensed Pickles wasn’t there to judge what I had to say. Even if she didn’t understand or approve of my situation, she’d listen. For some reason, I trusted her, and while a week ago I might have called Jackie, now, in between sips of tea and bites of shortbread cookies, I shared most of what was going on in my life, including exactly how her son was involved.
“Oh no.” Pickles shook her head, a slight scowl marring her face when I revealed Grocery Store Man and Andrew MacKinnon were one and the same, that we’d seen each other off and on since our first meeting, and he and I, well, had more than just a passing interest in each other. Her tone of voice and the softness in her eyes told me the truth: my words had touched her. But had I been right to confide in her? What would she say? How would she react?
“Oh yes,” I continued. “The whole situation started out as the beginning of a tawdry romance novel and now, well, it’s gotten out of control. I’m stuck in the plot of a heartbreaking book-club book, and the ending is still murky. It sucks, pardon my French.”
“No offense taken.” Pickles stacked a few of the shortbread cookies into a sugar-infused tower that began to lean. How long would it be before it tumbled? What if I asked myself the same question?
“And one more thing. Theo left last night.”
Pickles cocked a thin eyebrow, much the way Jackie would have, as she extended her hand to my right forearm and patted it several times. “Oh Sadie, really?”
“Yes, really.” I leaned back in my chair, removing my arm from under Pickles’ fingers with care. Before I went on with my thoughts, I needed space, even from such a gem of a woman. “That’s what I get for being honest with him. I mean, I knew what the consequences might be if I unloaded the truth on him. I knew he might choose to leave, which oddly enough is what I’ve been trying to get him to do, right? I owed him the whole story, a no-holds-barred discussion, but I should have spoken to him sooner.”
“But did anything actually happen with Andrew?” Pickles pointed her index finger and shook it at me. “I raised him better than to prey on a woman!” The expression on her face cut the tension within the limited space of the break room, and a glimpse of the mother I wished I’d had peeked through. The type I might have had, if Mom had been more confident, more present.
“Oh, no, no. Nothing physical happened. In fact, once I told him I had feelings for him, at least what I thought were feelings...no they are...I need to keep being honest...they are.” I took a breath. “Anyway, no, Andrew didn’t do anything. At all. He’s been honorable for the most part, trying to fight his feelings. You did a great job.”
This time, I patted the old lady’s hand and marveled at her smooth skin. Despite the liver spots and veins lining the surface, the skin was as soft as a baby’s bottom. It reminded me of the hands of my grandmother, who used to visit for weeks at a time, keeping me company and providing comfort when I found none from Mom or Dad. A few tears welled up in my eyes.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to bring up anything that would hurt you.” Pickles placed her free hand on top of mine, young alternating with old, sandwiching our hands and simulating the weave of a basket. Even an amateur basket maker would tell you overlapping the materials added strength to the actual basket itself. Hoping to gain fortitude from my new friend, I clung to her hands and squeezed them.
Despite my tears, I managed a small smile. “You didn’t do anything to hurt me. You’re making me feel better by being here. And there’s nothing you can say to make any of it any better.” Unlike my mother, who in my shoes would be blaming Theo or Andrew or the people who built Bloom Market, the only person I should castigate was myself; I had to stay accountable. “I’m not confident about what to do. The kids will have a few weeks of school and then Christmas break. All that time, if Theo’s not back, they’ll be looking at me, condemning me, I’m sure of it. And we can’t stay here. As much as I’d love to stay, working remotely will only pass muster for so long. Plus, Charlie has his presentation day at school soon. I promised we’d go. I can’t break that promise. I’ve already done enough harm to my family.” I pulled my hands out of the configuration they’d been in and twisted them in my lap.
Pickles’ gray curls bobbed back and forth as she shook her head. “Don’t take this one on by yourself, Sadie. I don’t know you well, but it always takes two to tango. That cliché rings true almost every time. Your situation...it’s up in the air right now, but you know what you want, what you’ve wanted since you both agreed to divorce in the first place. This is a minor setback, but figure out what you want, even if this new information from Theo changes things, and then move forward. Remember, he’s as much a part of this dilemma as you are.”
Stray crumbs from my cookies had landed in my
lap, and I brushed them away. “I know. I’ve known this. I thought coming up here would be a way to fix things. That getting away from home might allow me to see clearly, to figure out what my future should look like. And I never thought Theo would be angry about me being interested in someone else. Uncomfortable? Sure. But his admission? It came out of nowhere.”
“It did, or it didn’t. Maybe he can’t deal with the hurt and is clinging to what he can, to make his life seem more normal.” Her sparkling blue eyes connected with mine as she straightened the tablecloth.
“True, but I’m stuck in a rut...not sure what to do or where to go and my mind spins the same damn thoughts all the time, and nothing gets fixed. I’m still broken. We’re still broken.”
When neither of us said a word, I listened for the call I hoped was out there. Was I just not hearing the answer? Was the solution in front of me all along, and I’d chosen to ignore it? The plink of a water droplet dripping from the faucet to the stainless-steel sink reverberated, and the constant hum of the heater filled the room. Everything else must have been on mute.
Pickles looked directly at me then, her face stoic and unmoving for a moment. Kindness filled and projected from her eyes, and I imagined what sort of mother she had been, and still was, to Andrew. He was a lucky man—that was for certain.
“I heard something recently, dear, and I’ve thought about it often since then. It went like this: ‘One day someone is going to hug you so tight all your broken pieces are going to stick back together.’ I’m not sure who said it, but in my opinion, it’s true for you.”
The opportunity to respond to her words never arose; her break time was up. She got caught up in helping one library patron after another, and I had to get back to the family.
As I cleaned up the break room table and packed up my things, my thoughts performed pirouettes. Who could hug me that tightly, to fix everything and put me back together? And while I willed my mind to imagine Theo, his face as I once knew it, not the tight indifferent one from the night before, the picture never appeared. Instead, the kind, soft face of Andrew bubbled up from the deep and floated to the surface. It stayed there.
. . . . .
We didn’t hear much from Theo that week, and Thanksgiving passed by without a word from him. I hoped his silence implied a start on his road to emotional healing. All the texts that eventually arrived were short and cordial, but cold, the words like little icicles piercing my heart each time I read them. The children visited the Inn at different times of the day, and I relished the quiet that ascended and allowed me time to ponder the situation when all the little feet were away.
My mind swam with questions. Did Theo think about us, about me, at all? Did he place all the blame on me? What was going to happen to everyone? Again, and again I returned to the question, What did I want to happen? As much as I longed to ride off into the sunset with Andrew, it was clear my circumstances required much thought. My life was one, hot, complicated mess.
A few days before we were scheduled to return to Ohio, I decided a quick jaunt to the village bakery would force me out of the cottage and provide a different set of walls for at least the day. I’d been wallowing in self-pity; I knew that, and apparently, so did my mother. She had been kind enough to point it out to me the night before, after dinner.
“Sadie, your behavior lately...it’s so...so crass,” she’d said when we were cleaning up for the night.
Her words stopped me in my tracks. “What are you talking about, Mom?”
“You have a good life and one you need to live. Stop the wallowing. Stop the blaming.”
My gut heaved as I grappled to find the appropriate words, those that would say what I intended without hurting her in return. “Why didn’t you leave the subject alone? Did you have to call attention to my ‘crass behavior’ as you call it? I realize I’m behaving this way and ashamed of it.” With anger inside me, I practically spat the words at my mother, but I turned my voice down so my voice didn’t carry to the kids. “And really, Mom. That’s like a case of the kettle calling out the pot.”
Why didn’t Mom let me do what I needed to do to heal, to find my way? It was a good question to ask, but the night before wasn’t the right time. However, that morning, after I’d thought about my rude behavior, it dawned on me Mom’s words held truth to them, and I’d been out of line. My mother and I might be entrenched in a quagmire of unresolved issues, but she still deserved my respect. A whispered apology accompanied my request for her to watch the kids for the morning. She accepted my apology, gave me a hug, and agreed to help, maybe to gain back my favor.
A promise to bring a box of fresh pastries upon my return brought a smile to the kids’ faces as I said goodbye. The wind skimming off the water along the street pebbled my skin, and I tucked a few stray hairs behind my ears, straining my eyes against the sun to see the lake before me. A delinquent seagull squawked and circled the marina, and a person on a motorcycle honked as I strolled by. The glare from the sun kept me from seeing who it was, but I waved back anyway.
In the distance, as the pathway rounded the curve toward the main thoroughfare, the facade of the bakery came into view. My mood lifted at the sight, and I drew in a large, fortifying breath. The aroma of fresh-baked goods and coffee trailed out the door and pulled me to the wide, boxy building. Once inside, I chose a cup of coffee and a mini-cinnamon bun and pulled the newspaper from a wire basket against the wall. Buying the box of pastries could wait until I was ready to go back to the cottage.
I opened the newspaper and held it up in front of me, a simple shield against the daily grind of my life. I didn’t mind engaging in conversation with anyone; but a few moments of isolation would be good for me, a kind of anonymity I sought in times of despair. Even though many of the folks here were familiar, if anonymity could be found anywhere, it would be at Walloon Lake, where the people respected you, your life, and your desires.
As I sipped the hot coffee, my thoughts drifted to life back in Ohio. I had no idea what was going on there or anywhere else in the world; keeping up on the news hadn’t been on my to-do list when connected to the internet at the library. It was my way of hiding in the sand. Or it was that damn pillow again. My laughter bubbled at the expense of my mother.
I tilted the newspaper to watch customers stream into and go out of the popular bakery. A few stopped to say a short hello while others moved on their way after a quick nod. Here, so many miles from home, my network still existed—friends, those I enjoyed spending time with, even if I was in a foul mood. A network of support. My mind leapt to my Mom, who didn’t have that same group of people. And while Dad was with her, he didn’t have that either. For a few moments on a sunny autumn day, these strangers helped me appreciate my life and what I had—not what I didn’t—and that was something my parents never had. I grabbed a tissue from my purse before the tears started to course down my face. The paper would blot away the traces of sadness, and I sat there for a moment or two, gathering my wits and blinking my eyelids.
A gentle hand grazed my back, and I looked up: Andrew. He silently took the seat across from me, sipped from his cup of coffee, and waited for me to speak. Pulling my gaze from his, I tried to come to terms with what I wanted to say, what I needed to say, to articulate what was wrong. This time, it wasn’t about him though.
“I seem to cry each time I’m in your company,” I said, my eyes still brimming with tears.
“What does that say about us?” Andrew teased and then continued. “I wanted to help, but...Perhaps I should go. I thought you might be here—it’s one of your favorite places, but I’m not trying to stalk you or—”
My personal alone-time moment had changed for me with Andrew’s presence. Instead of the craved isolation from minutes before, I didn’t want to be alone. The company of someone I kne
w more than the folks who wandered in and said hello sounded heavenly. Oh, who the hell was I kidding? I wanted the company of Andrew.
“No, please don’t.” I reached out to cover his hand with mine. The coffee mug had warmed his fingers, and while I didn’t want to let go of them, I did.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice held concern, and a realization hit me: I’d turned into someone needy. How was he attracted to a needy woman? What did he see in me?
“If you can believe it, this has nothing to do with you and me. Sort of. I came here for a bit of peace and time to be alone, and my always-churning mind began to work overtime. Looking at all these people I care about, even here, far from home, I began to think about them.”
“This place is like that, isn’t it?” Andrew glanced around the bustling bakery and beamed. “They care about you. About me. About people in general.”
“They do. And if I wanted to, I’d unburden myself to them. They’d take my troubles and help me walk in my shoes. I know that.” A rogue tear escaped down my cheek, and I swiped at it with my finger. “I have all these friends, the people I turn to, to help me make it, day by day. My parents didn’t have those people. They took care of me, and we had what we needed, but Mom and Dad never took care of themselves.” I thought about what else I wanted to say. “Well, I guess my dad did when he left. But my mom will say she tried to take care of herself and make friends, when in reality, she didn’t. She never stepped out of her comfort zone to meet people and cultivate friendships. And if she had friends, she didn’t try to keep them. You need to meet with people regularly, give of yourself and take in what they say. Listen to them and let them listen to you. Neither one of them did that.”
“That’s why you’re crying? For your parents and what they didn’t do?” Try as he might to hold it back, the confusion appeared in his furrowed brow.
“Women are complicated, aren’t we?”
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