Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  Meg was getting the twins ready for church, which meant she had only minutes to talk. Instead of savoring my news, drop by delicious drop, I had to spill it all in a rush.

  “What’s up? Are you all right?” my sister asked.

  “I’m fine. I’m great.” I shivered a little with happiness and hormones. My chef’s coat, designed to shield me from burns and spills in the kitchen, was lousy protection against the winter wind. “I’m seeing someone.”

  “You what?” said Meg, sounding distracted. “Sweetie, where is your bow? We need to do your hair.”

  “I brushed it,” I said.

  “Very funny,” Meg said. “Wait. What? You met someone?”

  “Not exactly. Not recently. Someone from work.”

  “You’re dating a waiter?”

  My huff of laughter hung like a cloud in the air. “No. God, no. You sound like Aunt Phee.” I moved away from the kitchen door, so I wouldn’t be overheard. “It’s Eric.”

  Crickets.

  I held the phone tighter. “Eric Bhaer?” I talked about him. All the time. Although maybe not by name. “Chef.”

  “Your boss?” Meg asked.

  “Um. Technically. Yeah.”

  Another pause. I heard Daisy piping, “DJ has a stinky bottom.”

  “DJ, honey, did you poop?”

  “He poop, Mommy.”

  “That’s okay. Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetie,” Meg said. She was such a good mom. If I ever had children of my own, I hoped I had her patience.

  Not that I was looking to have kids anytime soon. But the thought of some future baby, my baby, with hazel eyes and dark curly hair, momentarily stole my breath away.

  A rumble in the background.

  “No, it’s all right. It’s my sister,” Meg said. “John says hi.”

  I smiled. “Hi, John.”

  The thing about having babies was, you needed a father. Or at least a baby daddy. Trey and I used to joke that if I were still single and childless at forty-two, he would make the perfect sperm donor.

  “Can you . . . ? Thanks.” A door closed. Meg took a deep breath. “All right. So, when did this start? The dating.”

  Eric and I weren’t exactly dating. We were . . . We didn’t need labels, I reminded myself. “Not long. I met him when I was out running on Friday, and then he asked me to cook the family meal, and . . .”

  “Is it serious?”

  Serious? I caught myself grinning at the Dumpster. “He hasn’t given me his letter jacket yet. But it’s pretty wonderful. He’s pretty wonderful.”

  “It sounds . . . wonderful.”

  That was it? “I thought you’d be happy. You’re always telling me I should be more open to finding . . .” Love. I cleared my throat. “Somebody.”

  “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Meg said staunchly.

  She didn’t sound happy.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Everything’s fine. Did you hear about Beth?”

  “I got a text. Good show last night?”

  “She sang a duet. With Colt Henderson. That song she wrote, candle something.”

  So the photo of the two of them together hadn’t been the trick of some camera angle. “That’s . . . amazing. She called you?”

  “Amy messaged me. It was on Twitter. So, that’s one thing going right,” Meg said.

  I frowned. “How was the farmers’ market yesterday?”

  “Well, I sold a lot of cheese. I’m making a deposit at the bank tomorrow.”

  “Great. So everything will be back to normal.”

  “Not everything,” Meg said.

  I kicked myself. “I just meant you’ll be able to hire some help at the farm.”

  “Yes.” Something banged. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay,” I said, smothering my disappointment. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too,” Meg said. “Take care.”

  Deflated, I ended the call. My sister was already dealing with Mom and the farm, I reminded myself. Not to mention getting my adorable, wiggly niece and nephew ready for church. I couldn’t expect her to drop everything to share in my feelings. Especially when I wasn’t prepared to give those feelings a name.

  If Ashmeeta were here . . . No. My former roomie routinely rejected her loving parents’ attempts to fix her up with well-educated, professional Indian men. “Forget love,” she would say. “Work will give you everything a man can. And it doesn’t expect you to cook dinner.” I could call Rachel. But along with enthusiasm, Rachel would bubble over with recommendations for lube and butt plugs.

  Meg knew me better than anyone. If anyone could help me make sense of these new, big, confusing emotions, it would be Meg.

  Or Beth. I called, but it went straight to voice mail.

  “Yo, Jo. Break’s over.”

  On Sundays, Gusto opened for brunch from ten until three o’clock. The dining room was full of churchgoers and Christmas shoppers, families coming early, friends lingering over drinks, tourists in town to see the ice-skaters at Rockefeller Center or the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. We squeezed two and a half turns into five hours, every table demanding refills on pastries and coffee. Under Ray’s critical eye, I broke and beat hundreds of eggs; peeled and chopped garlic, potatoes, and apples; segmented oranges and grapefruit until my fingers stung. I was dead on my feet, making it through on adrenaline and coffee, determined not to fail. Too tired to focus on more than one task at a time. Too busy to think about Eric at all.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Finally, the brutal pace slowed. I scrubbed my station, staggered out with the trash, swept and mopped the floor. Untied my apron. “I’m out of here,” I announced.

  Lucas winked. “Have fun.”

  Ray gave me a funny look. “See you Tuesday.”

  Right. Tomorrow was my day off. Good thing. I wanted to fall in bed and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. Catch up on my blog. Check up on my mom. Enjoy a long, cozy phone call with Beth. Read the new Kristan Higgins novel I’d downloaded on my Kindle.

  Except . . .

  Eric was there. In the office, at his desk, surrounded by menus.

  My heart bounded and wriggled like a happy puppy. My brain scrambled, struggling to make sense of his presence. “You said you were leaving Ray alone today.”

  “I am. I’m in here, yeah? Not out there, looking over his shoulder.” He smiled at me ruefully. “I seem to have more trouble staying away from you.”

  I gaped.

  “I thought we could get something to eat,” he said.

  “Now?”

  One eyebrow raised. “Unless you are busy.”

  “I have to go home,” I blurted.

  His face blanked. “I see.”

  “No. I mean . . . I can’t go out like this.” I was desperately tired. And dirty. I needed a shower. “Maybe later. I could meet you somewhere.”

  “Of course,” he said politely.

  Damn. I was missing something. Getting this wrong, getting him wrong somehow. If only I weren’t so tired.

  “Or . . . Or you could come home with me.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  I folded my arms. “Why do you always do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Say that. As you wish,” I mimicked. “Whatever you want. Like whatever happens next is up to me.”

  “Jo. Whatever happens is up to you. You work for me.”

  “So?”

  “I am your boss. I do not want to . . .” He stopped. For a man so confident, so decisive, he seemed oddly at a loss for words.

  “Harass me?” I suggested, grinning.

  He did not smile. “Take advantage.”

  “You could try,” I said. “I’m not powerless, you know. I can always
say no.”

  He gave me a searching look. “Would you?”

  Oh God. A memory surfaced of Trey’s white face during our last, horrible fight, the hard glitter of tears in his eyes. “Don’t say it,” he’d begged me in a choked voice. “Say you’ll think about it. Say you need time. Just don’t say no.”

  I’d hurt him so much. I’d broken his heart. That’s what he said. Heartless, he’d called me. Because I wouldn’t give in to friendship and our families’ expectations. Because I didn’t give him what he wanted. Because I couldn’t be who he needed.

  I’d always been selfish, Amy said. Willful, according to Aunt Phee.

  “Yeah,” I said slowly. “It’s kind of my thing. Saying no.”

  Eric nodded. “Good.”

  Like I could tell him no, like I could be myself, and it would be okay.

  “Er. So. Are you coming home with me or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should warn you, I’ll probably fall straight into bed.”

  “Fine.” He smiled his full, knee-weakening smile. “I’ll catch you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Meg

  The Explorer had that mom-car smell, a compound of smooshed Cheerios, apple juice, and diapers. John had offered to take my vehicle to the dealership to be detailed. That’s what marriage was all about. Doing things for each other because you could. Because you wanted to make the other person happy.

  But I couldn’t give up my car, even for one day. I reckoned I had just enough time to run my errands and drive an hour to the rehab center before I needed to turn around and pick up the twins from preschool.

  I drove to the center of town, where Christmas lights shaped like holly and snowflakes hung from all the lampposts. Parked in the lot for the Cape Fear Bank and Trust, a few blocks from the waterfront.

  “Meg!” Anita Jackson, behind the counter, waved me forward. “You coming back to work today?”

  A joke. She asked the same question every time I came in.

  “Not today,” I said, smiling the way I always did.

  “Too bad. We miss you around here,” Anita said. “How’s that handsome coach of yours?”

  Three years since John left Caswell High, and he was still “Coach” in town. The time would come when folks wouldn’t see him that way anymore. I would miss it, I realized.

  So would he.

  “He’s fine.” I swallowed. “We’re all fine.”

  “So, what can I do for you today?”

  I plopped my mom bag down on the divider. “I need to make a deposit to my mother’s account. For the farm. Can you look up the number for me?”

  “Sure thing. How’s Abby doing?”

  “Oh, you know. She has her good days and bad days.” Yesterday she didn’t want to get out of bed. Or even sit up in bed. Too much pain, the nurses said. Because of the fall? Or something else? “I’m going to go see her today.”

  Anita nodded. “It’s a process. When my mother had her hip replacement . . .”

  I half listened, making vague, sympathetic noises while I checked my phone. Nothing from Jo.

  She’d sounded so happy when she called yesterday. I should have been more understanding. I should have asked more questions. At least I could have called her back.

  Well. Something else to put on the list.

  Anita peered at me over the top of her glasses, waiting for a reply.

  I flushed. “Excuse me?”

  “Did you want this to go to the equity line of credit?” Anita asked.

  “No.” What line of credit? “Regular checking. The farm account.” I couldn’t pay Hannah in cash, as if she were babysitting.

  “I’m only asking because the payment on the equity loan was due three weeks ago,” Anita said. “This would just about cover it.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Your mother’s loan payment. It’s overdue.”

  I stared at her.

  “We sent a notice,” Anita said.

  I thought of the mail, piling up at the house. “She’s been sick.”

  “Honey, I know,” Anita said. “There’s a grace period, of course. Fifteen days. But she’s a week past that now.”

  My mind stumbled. There must be some mistake. I had set up lines of credit for a lot of farmers to buy equipment or see them through unexpected expenses, a lean season or a bad year. But if my mother had ever applied for a bank loan, I would know.

  Unless . . . Unease wriggled inside me, like the fuzzy worm at the core of an apple. Unless she’d done it since I left the bank.

  Three years ago.

  I took a calming breath. Obviously, my parents had to make adjustments when my father left active duty. Whatever salary he drew from his nonprofit could not equal his military pay. Three years ago, he had moved his ministry out of the church basement and into its current storefront location. The rent couldn’t be that much. But . . .

  “The deposit will cover the loan payment, you said?” I asked.

  Anita nodded. “For November, that’s right. The December payment is due on the twentieth.”

  Next Tuesday. Eight days away. My thoughts blurred. “Fine. Let’s do that. Thanks.”

  I left the bank, my heart thumping.

  Our father came from old money. Our mother came from none at all. My parents never talked much about finances. We girls were supposed to fix our thoughts on higher things. But I’d never once questioned if they had enough to live on.

  My stomach cramped.

  We were going to have to talk about it now.

  * * *

  At the rehab center, I signed in, dropping off a tin of sprinkle-covered cookies with the ladies at the front desk.

  “Bribing the staff?” an aide asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  “I noticed some of the patients don’t get a lot of visitors. I thought maybe . . .” I flushed. They’d want overdecorated Christmas cookies from my twins’ sticky fingers?

  “Aren’t you sweet,” she said. “I’ll put these in the common room.”

  “Thanks.” I scanned the schedule for my mother’s name. “I’m looking for Abby March.”

  She glanced down at the visitors’ log. “You’re Meg Brooke?”

  “Her daughter. Yes.” Only identified “patient caregivers” were allowed to visit the rehab center during the day. No children under twelve. No ordinary visitors.

  “She’s in her room. She didn’t go to therapy this morning.”

  “Is she all right?”

  A brief, sympathetic smile. “I’m sure she’ll fill you in.”

  The hallway was decorated like the twins’ classroom with cutout snowflakes. Maybe the result of some school’s adopt-a-veteran project. Or scissors therapy for the residents.

  The rehab center treated veterans with spinal cord and brain injuries, seniors with joint replacements, stroke survivors, and amputees. I wished an old woman pushing a walker a Merry Christmas. Smiled at a young man in a wheelchair, who nodded and looked away.

  My mother at least would get better. Not every patient, not every family, was so lucky.

  As I approached her door, I heard a man’s voice coming from inside the room. I tapped and poked my head in. “Dad!” He was sitting beside Mom’s bed, his handsome head bowed over their joined hands, clasped in prayer. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  He looked at me in mild reproof. Obviously, I’d interrupted. “We had a meeting with your mother’s case manager this morning.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Hello, sweetheart,” my mother said before my father could answer. “This is a surprise.”

  “A nice one, I hope.” I bent to kiss her, dodging the bright blooming poinsettia on her bedside table. She looked better, I thought. There were spots of color in her thin cheeks, and she’d raised her bed so she
was almost sitting. She must have made an effort for the caseworker’s visit. Or Dad’s.

  “Last week of preschool,” I said. “We made you cookies. Well, I made cookies. DJ mostly ate dough.”

  Momma smiled. “And Daisy?”

  “Daisy liked the sprinkles.” I opened the tin to show her. “Lots and lots of sprinkles. On the cookies, on the counter, on the floor . . .”

  That won a chuckle. “They do look very . . .”

  “Colorful?” I suggested.

  “Christmassy,” she declared, offering the tin to my father.

  He took one absently as I set her laundry on the narrow dresser. Five loose T-shirts, three bras, seven panties, five pairs of sweatpants.

  “You didn’t have to wash my things,” she protested.

  “You needed clean clothes.” I smiled. “Anyway, it’s not like I had to beat them on rocks and spread them on bushes to dry.”

  “No point in using the dryer when the sun works just as well,” my mother said.

  She’d always sun-dried our sheets, bringing them in stiff and fresh-smelling off the line.

  “Mm.” I started putting the clothes away. “I went to the bank this morning. To make the deposit from the farmers’ market?”

  “Sales should be good this close to Christmas,” my mother said.

  “Yes, ma’am. The thing is . . .” I cleared my throat. “I talked to Anita. At the bank? There was a little problem with the account. She thought the deposit should go into your equity line of credit.”

  My mother’s brow creased. “That’s not right. We pay all our bills out of the checking account.”

  “That’s what I figured.” I took a deep breath. There was no reason for me to feel apologetic. Money was my thing. Numbers. You could always make numbers add up. All you needed to solve any problem was the right variables. “There wasn’t enough money in the account to cover the loan payment.”

  “That’s all right. It’s not due until next week.” My mother shifted, her face twitching in pain. “I’d have to look to be sure.”