I Never Stopped

by Elizabeth Mitchell

  Alma and Mama looked at each other. Both were a little dewy but smiling. "I'm glad we're on the right track," Alma said. "How about we go to The Floral Palace next?"

  "Sure. That's a darling name. Let me guess; it's by a florist?"

  They both nodded.

  "Yes. It used to be called Pilla's Florist, but at some point she decided she didn't want a nickname any longer or maybe she didn't like it? She's fickle. So she went with what the tourists would flock to the most." Alma had her head tilted down as she shook it and laughed. "She has had more business since. She knows her audience. The home next to her shop is for sale. Pilla–I mean Patrizia–bought it to expand, but ended up wanting a second location instead. Now she wants to sell her place and focus her attention on that. It's a great price. Not that you should concern yourself with that, Francesca. We want you to be happy, of course!"

  Alma drove them a few miles down the road to a small alcove of stores. A fruit stand sat beside a grocery shop. Two clothing stores were on either side of The Floral Palace's duplex. Small homes were peppered in between and on top of them.

  "Would I have someone living above me?" Francesca asked. She didn't want to have an apartment-like home.

  Searching for a parking spot seemed to take all of Alma's mental energy. Francesca wasn't sure she'd even heard the question.

  "No. You'll have both floors, but hold your horses," Mama said, using one of Francesca's favorite phrases from when she was a little girl.

  "You got it, Mama."

  Parking would undoubtedly be a nightmare when Francesca's car arrived. "Are there no spots for tenants?"

  "Sadly, no."

  They may as well turn around and go. Unless the place was perfect, Francesca couldn't imagine herself fighting with shoppers to get into her own home.

  She'd take a look because they were already there.

  Almost five minutes of roaming two parking lots finally yielded a skinny spot that took five attempts to fit in without breaking a mirror. Getting out of the car was a joke.

  Good thing they were all small. Mama could fit almost anywhere.

  "Finally," Alma said once they were on the sidewalk. "This way."

  Francesca wanted to be a petulant child, and beg the question, 'Why would you bring me here? This is horrible.' Then, the familiar Italian scents hit her nose, and she knew.

  Fresh bread sat in the window of the grocery store, and The Floral Palace's shop doors were open, sharing fresh cut flowers with the passersby. Sloane's thoughts popped into her head again. She'd smell the pesticides and be turned off. The parking would have been a deal-breaker, as they said if they ever moved, they'd have to have a parking spot. Street parking had been more than a little irritating.

  "You have a face," Mama announced. "I see your brain working. You've already decided against this place, haven't you?"

  Francesca scrunched her mouth to the side.

  "Ah," Alma said. "Should we head back now?"

  "No, no! Let's see it. Can't hurt, right?" Francesca felt awful. She used to be a good poker player. "It's the parking. But I adjusted in San Francisco. So maybe it wouldn't be that bad if the place is great."

  "That's the spirit!" Alma's sweaty face brightened. They had a decent walk from the car to the duplex.

  Mama knew Francesca was full of it. The likelihood she'd change her mind had always been slim. Sloane would have known that too. Stomach and heart doing a flip, Francesca's brain couldn't get Sloane's face out of her mind. She shouldn't be house shopping without her. No tears. Francesca would not let herself cry–not then. Sloane would be as present as she could be in her new place, and that's all Francesca could do.

  "Maybe we should head to the next place," Alma suggested after they did the quickest tour possible.

  The Miami retirement home vibe stunted even Mama's imagination. The walls were pastel green and had a palm tree wallpaper, the furniture, all white wicker; Francesca couldn't have seen beyond that, even if the parking had been perfect.

  ”Giorgia owns a used bookstore and the floor above it which she converted into a loft. The stairs have become a problem, so she's selling the loft. It needs some work, but more cosmetic than anything." A sly smile slid onto Francesca's face as mixed emotions rolled over her. "I know,” Mama said. “We should have shown it to you first. I wanted to make sure you saw something else before you went with the familiar."

  "I wasn't going to say anything." Just think it. "I'm just excited to see it."

  "It's the closest to me too," Mama added quietly, and her eyes sparkled.

  "That's a bonus then, isn't it?"

  Alma sighed. "She's going to go with that one no matter what, isn't she? You were right all along." Her voice held amusement despite how harried she seemed.

  "I loved the first place too. Already picked out paint colors. This place will have to impress the hell out of me to top it."

  A silent tear trickled down her face as the smell of old books overwhelmed her. Flowers, fresh bread, leather, and charred paper vanished.

  "Well, that's it then. She's sold, and we haven't even been inside." Alma studied Francesca.

  Embarrassed, Francesca wished her emotions away.

  Mama didn't whisper when she told Alma, "It was a year less than two weeks ago."

  Alma paused as if formulating the perfect sentence. "From what I've heard, she was a beautiful soul." Her voice made each word somewhere between a sigh and a cry.

  Francesca–too choked up to reply–stepped into Alma's open arms.

  Mama held Francesca's hand as they stepped on creaky, knotted wooden floors through the rows and rows of books in mahogany bookshelves. When they reached the back of the store, there was a small door. 'Not Yours,' it read. Too perfect.

  Of course Mama had been worried she wouldn't want to see anything else.

  One of the steps wobbled as they walked up to Giorgia's home. "That will have to be fixed," Francesca said aloud.

  "As I said, a project. Oh, I nearly forgot to hand you the key. I thought you might want to do the unlocking."

  A real skeleton key appeared from Mama's purse.

  "Are you serious? It's kind of heavy; is it real?" A giddiness built up in her; she'd nearly forgotten how it felt. Legs bouncing in anticipation, Francesca couldn't unlock the door quick enough.

  The key slid in the iron lock and clicked twice as she turned it. When Francesca pushed the heavy door, the familiar smell of old, dust, and perfume escaped into the hallway. Her cheeks hurt as she coughed and smiled.

  "It's bigger than it seems," Mama offered.

  A purple and cream fleur de leis wallpaper covered every wall, and the floors seemed to be original hardwood. The living room alone was larger than Francesca and Sloane's apartment in San Francisco; the bedroom was about the same size. A clawfoot tub sat in a decent sized bathroom that screamed for new flooring and a new sink. The cabinets, flooring, and appliances in the kitchen would have to be removed too, but it was a nice size and had a lot of light. The building not being attached to another made for great visibility.

  Windows flooded the house with light, and none were alike. Some were small circles as though they'd been stolen from a submarine. Others were large squares able to open so wide Francesca worried her arms weren't long enough to close them again; she found a pulley before a real panic set in. Two windows looked as if they'd been plucked from a Catholic church; colored sunlight bounced onto the floors. She opened all of them–just to see.

  Fresh air wafted in, as if she were in the country, while the vents let the book scent trickle up. Noise from people milling below was muffled despite the eleven open windows. She only heard the occasional angry or impatient driver honking and slamming on their brakes. That boded well for sleep,

  Spinning around in the living room, Francesca saw her belongings there. Sloane's library would go along the walls. Her bedroom would have a bookshelf or two, as well. Paint colors were coming to her, but she'd have to strip the walls to see the light on b
are walls before she decided. The place was perfect. Sloane would love it here.

  Francesca's hand clutched the key so hard it left an imprint inside of her hand pressed against her heart. She wandered to the front door where Alma and Mama stood. They were quietly chatting about how much it would cost and how long it would take to fix the place up.

  "And what have you come up with?" Francesca pushed back her slowly frizzing dark hair. Maybe she should cut it; to the middle of her back seemed too long.

  "What?" Mama asked.

  "How much would it cost? Is it too expensive?"

  Alma's eyes twinkled almost as much as Mama's. "Of course not."

  "Our children's happiness is worth everything to us, Essie. And the way you're all curled up, the way you are when something is like magic to you, says this is the one. Am I wrong?"

  "You're not. It's exactly what I need. Sloane breathes here with me, but I don't think I'll cry every day. Does that make sense?"

  Alma answered while Mama's eyes welled. She must have been thinking about her George. "Yes, yes, it does. I, too, lost someone. It was so long ago, but he'll live with me always. If ever I stop feeling his presence…" She broke off. Vulnerability painted Alma's face. Of course, when she thought about it, she knew everyone had depths and pain they held close.

  Francesca grabbed both her mother and Alma and squeezed them tight. The three had shared a moment. It would take them all a moment to shake out of it. By the time they made it to the front door of the shop, they were all back to being the women who stomped down the streets with their head held high, no insecurities in sight.

  "I'll call Lisa while we grab lunch. When we get home, we can start designing your dream home."

  Mama was in such a good mood, she practically skipped.

  Francesca was going to live in Italy, only ten minutes away from her. Francesca would be okay. At some point.

  26

  Sloane

  Out of the open arched bedroom window, Francesca whispered, ”I haven't talked to you in a while. But I wanted to tell you that I love you. I think of you every day and miss you more than words. If you can hear me, then you've probably seen what a mess I am. I know it may look like I'm moving on, but I'm just moving. If I stop, I may be the person I was right after the accident. I can't be her again."

  She pushed at her lower eyelids, and Sloane reached for her.

  "I'm almost out of your perfume. I thought maybe it had been you who'd opened it before. I'm thinking about ordering a new one to sit in with your books. Is that weird?"

  Sloane shook her head. "No, that's why I sprayed it for you," she replied despite it going unheard by Francesca.

  Only Molly could have heard her then.

  Shaking the wistfulness away, Francesca slammed the old window closed. Fluffing her hair as she often did before entering a new room seemed to give her the confidence needed to walk back into the living room. Mama Nuccio and Cecelia's mother were talking about money. A few words were foreign to Sloane; that annoyed her.

  "And what have you come up with?" Francesca put her hand on her hip.

  Sloane roamed the house more thoroughly as the women discussed. Francesca was going to buy the house, what else did she need to know?

  27

  Francesca

  Time moved so quickly over the week. In the two days it took for her furniture and car to make their way to her, Francesca worked on her new home, became acquainted with the nearby shops, and befriended Giorgia Orbel–her new neighbor/seller of her home. Often, Francesca had to stop and remind herself she wasn't dreaming. Italian may be her new permanent language as Italy may be her new permanent home. Too surreal.

  A demolition and renovation would have been a project Sloane wanted to do. Without her, Francesca had no real desire to dig deep, get dirty and sweaty. Help would be lacking, after all. She pictured her mother ripping down wallpaper. On a ladder, Mama would pick at one small spot with a spackling tool and mumble about how it would have been easier to hire someone. God only knew what would happen if she hurt herself. No, Francesca couldn't see anyone but contractors doing the job.

  Most of her work involved pointing and saying, "That one." Or shaking her head and telling them, "Absolutely not." She felt so lazy. Francesca had always imagined herself being more active in designing her first home–with Sloane.

  On one of the hottest days of the year, she got a call from the contractors. Her nearly renovated home was ready to be inhabited. A few to-dos still loomed, but she could move in and decorate.

  Mama insisted on being there when she walked in for the first time, of course. "Well?" She asked as they opened the door.

  "It smells horrible." Francesca thought to pull her hair out of its ponytail holder to cover her nose. Her tank top wouldn't be of any help.

  "That's paint, Essie. Your old book smell will come back in no time. The bookstore can't help itself." Mama chuckled. She was already walking to the largest window in the living room; Francesca could only imagine her smile.

  "When the smell is gone, I'll come back."

  "You can see some of it now!" Mama huffed so dramatically her curls bounced around her shoulders. "Why can't you just get past the smell and look around? It's exactly what you wanted. It's perfect."

  Francesca deflated. "I don't want the magic to be gone. Part of it was the smell, I'm sure of it."

  "I know, darling. But that will come back in time. It will also smell like you and what you do, or cook. Just come see it."

  "You're right. It's just been–"

  "A long week to say the least. Yes, I know."

  Mama pushed Francesca into the living room. The foyer still had a small strip of wallpaper; in the end, Francesca couldn't bear to see it all go. She'd put a cute chair there with a few boxes of shoes. Light grey paint covered the living room walls. Years of neglect had left the baseboard trim yellowed.

  After the painters came through, it had become a fresh, nearly too-bright white once again. Each window was cleaned and resealed. They had added a bench under the picture window in the living room, and a patio now bumped out from her bedroom.

  "It's… it's…"

  They'd painted her future sanctuary cream with a splash of peach towards the top of the walls. It looked hastily painted, just as she requested–a look Sloane had always wanted. Francesca could smile more and mourn less when Sloane's designs surrounded her.

  "Go step out onto the patio. I think you'll love the view."

  "It's huge!" Francesca exclaimed as she pushed the French doors outward.

  Wrought iron bars in a long s-shape framed the new patio. A table and two chairs sat on top of the floor made of rounded stone pieces. Francesca had asked for a personal French bistro in the middle of Italy; they'd delivered.

  Mama linked arms with Francesca. "So you like it?"

  "Like it? I love it! It's exactly what I wanted." Francesca inhaled her new homey scents, ignoring the paint stench behind them.

  "And the view…?"

  "Is that what I think it is?"

  "Yes! We almost put the patio from the kitchen, so you could have people wander onto it. But we figured it was better to have this view and keep it to yourself." Mama's eyes found her lilac ballet flats to be fascinating as she added, "I hope we did the right thing."

  "Mama, you got it right. You should put a large flag in your yard whenever you want me to come over. I bet I could see it."

  "You know, I hadn't thought of that. Except that I did; it's got a big rainbow on it. I thought you'd appreciate that."

  Suppressing a teenage-sound, Francesca reminded her mother, "I told you, everything doesn't have to have a rainbow on it." Mama's face fell a little. This project had her overly emotional. "But I'm glad it does because I'll know it was picked out just for me."

  "I could return it."

  "No, please don't. I mean it; I'm glad you picked it out for me. Thank you, Mama. Thank you for all of this! It's so perfect. I'll be indebted to you for forever. Wait, that'
s what this was, wasn't it? A way to make sure I'll live here forever?" Francesca laughed loudly.

  Mama's eyes welled. "I love you."

  "I love you too."

  "I'm so happy you're here and even happier that you're smiling."

  Tony and a man Francesca had not met carried Sloane's precious bookcases through the store and up the stairs. She felt the need to shout a warning to be careful.

  "Where's this one going, Frannie?" the new man asked, as they rested it on the floor, awaiting instructions.

  "Don't call me that," Francesca snapped. The words flew out of her mouth like a dove from a top hat. Part of her wanted to take them back, but she decided against it. "Just keep lining the living room walls with the tallest bookshelves. You'll see. When you're done put the two shorter ones in the back left corner of my room, please. If there are any left, I'll look at the space and let you know."

  "Why not Frannie?" Thick eyebrows shot up in what seemed like a genuine curiosity rather than irritation or amusement.

  "It sounds like a feminine product."

  Alma chuckled ruefully from the floor beside them. Francesca looked over her shoulder and saw with pleasure the rug Sloane had bought in Nevada was in the middle of her living room. Mama's laugh–loud, but quickly stifled–came from Francesca's bedroom.

  The man who still hadn't introduced himself seemed unfazed. "I had an Aunt Frannie."

  "Oh." Francesca's face warmed. "No offense."

  "Everyone has their own way." What an odd phrase for a mid-twenty-something to use. But he was right. "Fine, no Frannie. I'll think of something else as we bring up these wooden beasts." He winked. "When's lunch?"

  "It's 9 am, and you just got here twenty minutes ago," Tony replied quicker than Francesca. "Did you not have breakfast?"

  "I did, but I already worked it off. Alright you, we should get back to it." He slapped Tony on the shoulder. "We've got a lot of carrying ahead of us before lunch, whenever it is."