Carlotta looks flustered. She lost control of her own idea as soon as it was out of her mouth. “I . . . Three might be too much with all the chopping . . . But maybe if one of you could act as sous chef . . .”
“Madeline will do it,” I offer.
“I can’t cook.” Her voice wavers.
“Can’t yet. You have a cookbook on your list from Maddie. Remember?” I smile sweetly as her eyes widen. I don’t think she remembers telling me that; I can tell she’s terrified I’ve seen her list. I don’t remind her of our dinner together. “And besides, you are the owner,” I add with a syrupy grin.
Carlotta jumps at the chance to disengage from us. “Perfect. If you email me the three recipes you choose from the book, I’ll work out any changes in proportions so you can get the right amounts and we’ll be set.”
“Wonderful. I’ll pull it together and we’ll see you next month.” I grin to Carlotta, then to Madeline. I’m so helpful today.
I wave, Carlotta flees, and Madeline glares at me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll show you where to find Maddie’s pressure cooker.” I wave my hand to the window. “Don’t you have some flowers to finish planting?”
She glares again and heads out front. Feeling buoyant and optimistic, I head the opposite direction. I tap a text to Alyssa.
I sent you chocolates for Valentine’s Day. They should arrive by the 14th.
My phone beeps immediately and my heart jumps. I love Valentine’s Day.
Arrived yesterday. Put them in the office kitchen. Gone in minutes.
I hate Valentine’s Day.
* * *
Claire
“We need to talk.” Claire twisted in her seat. She peered out the office door into the shop. Janet stood near the front chatting with David Drummond. He rarely bought a book, but came in at least twice a week for a long talk. They used to trade off who would talk with him, but since his wife died, Janet stepped up every time. Despite all her bravado, Janet understood loss.
Madeline pushed back from her desk. “About?”
“The accounts are too low. We’ve dipped into the store’s reserves or Maddie’s personal account every month for the past year, and they can’t cover this month. We’ve recovered a little, but not enough. Your deposit bolstered us to see us through the monthly bills, and that check last week took care of the ordering snafu, but . . . we’re in trouble.”
“And I thought this would be so easy.” Madeline slumped so her forehead met her desk.
“What do you want me to do?” Claire asked.
Madeline sat straight. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I already headed it off.” She reached into her bag and slid a check across Claire’s desk.
“Sid McKenna Interiors? What is this?”
“The mortgage, this month’s stock orders, salaries . . .”
“What’d you do? Rob a design shop?”
“Sold another piece of furniture.”
Claire waved the check. “Some piece of furniture.” The check was large enough to buy a car—not a new luxury one, but still a car.
Madeline blushed. “Sid has a policy that he’ll take anything back for a full refund within the first year of purchase. I’ve never taken him up on it before. From his surprise, I doubt anyone has.”
“What was it?”
“A breakfront bookcase. Eighteenth-century French. You should have seen it. It was gorgeous. I . . . I haven’t been a spendthrift and I thought it was an investment, and technically it was . . . I don’t know. I guess I always thought there was time and . . . It doesn’t matter now.”
“Is everything okay?” Claire asked.
Madeline shrugged and spun to face her desk again. “The store needs the money. Go ahead and deposit it.”
Claire photographed the check, deposited it online, checked the previous week’s sales numbers, then spun to face Madeline again, glancing once more toward the front of the shop. Mr. Drummond was gone, but a host of new customers kept Janet occupied. “Are you still planning to sell?”
“I can’t keep it going. You must see that? Anything unexpected happens and we’re done. A flu virus that keeps customers away or tons of snow that makes people shop online more . . . Anything, and any progress we’ve made is gone. And regardless, it’s still not enough to touch the debt Maddie accrued. Any—”
“Whoa . . .” Claire raised a hand. “I see how hard you’re working. No one can blame you. I’m not sure Maddie knew how bad things were.”
“You did.”
“But I also couldn’t make changes, not to Maddie’s shop, not at the end. I couldn’t do that to her, so . . .”
Madeline took a deep breath. “The Realtor said winter is tough, and the trend now is to drop the price every couple months to bolster interest. So there’s no point in listing during a dead time only to drop the price when things pick up in spring. I’ll list the store then. I’m sorry.” Madeline cast a glance out the office door. “Don’t tell Janet . . . Not yet.”
“You can’t keep it from her. She needs to find work. That can take time.”
“Not yet, please.”
Claire nodded and the conversation died. She remembered the summer before she married Brian. She and a few friends saved a business by creating their own weekend consulting group. The five of them revamped their favorite cafe’s business plan, marketing, accounting, ordering—everything in a month—so they could enjoy the best eggs Benedict in the world every Saturday morning after a Friday night out. Everything had felt so simple, clean, and possible then.
Madeline walked past her into the storage room and shut the door.
Alone in the office, Claire dug into the White Box from the Midwest Independent Booksellers Association. It arrived quarterly and was packed with ARCs soon to release. Janet usually got to it first, but today it was hers. She ripped it open, expecting the smell of new books to clear away the gloom. It didn’t. The box was filled with books the Printed Letter would never buy. Books set to release late summer and early fall, and by then the shop might be a Bluemercury or that “stripey one” as Janet called Sephora. She closed the box and placed it on Janet’s desk.
Hours later, Claire pulled into her driveway and watched her house with the same sinking feeling that had swamped her looking within the book box. She searched for lights, movement, life, and found none. She pulled into the garage, opened the back door, and determined to get a dog.
Brittany surprised her a few minutes later. “What are you doing?”
Claire slid her iPad across the counter. “I’m looking up dog breeds. I’m thinking a King Charles Cavalier. Not too big. Not too small. What do you think?”
“You need another hobby?” There was a bite to Brittany’s question.
“That’s not fair.” Claire pulled the iPad back. “And it’s rude.”
“You’ve already got the Printed Letter.”
“Which is a job.”
Brittany shrugged and walked away. Minutes later she was back. “By the way, I got called out today in practice for wearing the wrong uniform. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is? I had to sit out the entire first half of the match.”
“Did you forget it?”
“It wasn’t clean.” Brittany took a deep breath, and Claire felt the momentum build like water getting pulled back before the tidal wave hits. Any second she’d be under it.
“I told you we were wearing the yellow today and you said you’d have it ready. I grabbed the stack this morning and no yellow. It’s not in my room either.”
“It must still be in the basement.”
Brittany stared at her.
“You could learn to do your own laundry.”
“When you say you’re going to do it, I don’t need to. But if you’re too busy, with your store and your dogs, let me know and I’ll handle it.”
“It was a mistake, Brittany. I’m not sure why you think—”
“You don’t get it, do you, Mom?” Brittany’s lip quivered. She
caught it between her teeth.
Claire wondered if the flash of vulnerability was real or manufactured. Lately Brittany pushed at every button, with tears and temper tantrums, but quivering lips were new—and they washed Claire with guilt rather than anger.
When you’re new, you don’t want to stand out.
The words floated between them as if Brittany had just said them—again.
Claire sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ll go check the basement.” In six months Brittany would be off to college, and these were not the last emotions, the last season at home, she wanted her daughter to remember. This wasn’t a season Claire wanted to remember either.
Brittany’s eyes flashed confusion. Claire knew she’d been expecting a different response, aching for it. There was something so indulgent, freeing, about a good yelling match—and they’d had plenty of them. Claire’s acquiescence clearly disarmed and confused her.
“When’s dinner?”
“One hour. I’m making shrimp linguini in pesto.”
“That’s one of your best.” Brittany’s face lit with a smile and she looked six again. She walked away, but this time there was a bounce to her step. The kind of bounce only kids and dancers achieve without effort.
Claire was left wondering why life couldn’t always be so easy—to fix a wound, emotional or otherwise, one only needed pasta, shrimp, basil, pine nuts, and parmesan.
She pushed away from the counter and her iPad of puppies and headed to the basement. There were two basketfuls she’d left on the dryer the night before. She carried the laundry upstairs, and when a loud rap didn’t bring Brittany to the door, Claire entered her room.
Clothes, art supplies, notebooks, Spanish flash cards, and general clutter lay everywhere. She stepped through the mess as if trying to avoid land mines. She could hear the music and the shower. She paused and noted there was no new artwork on the bulletin board. For years, Brittany had created at least a few pieces each week. It was how she relaxed. Art had gotten her through three moves.
She walked over to Brittany’s desk, the massive oak desk Brian had used for years. He gave it to her when his own father died and he inherited that monstrous partner’s desk that took up their entire study. The desk was piled with textbooks, pens, paper clips, chapstick, lip gloss . . . She had four different containers, three mason jars, and a mug all full of different pens and randomness. Post-its were scattered about with chemical formulas and math equations. Brittany worked hard. It was easy to forget that.
Claire touched objects, letting a physical connection soothe the missing emotional one. She’d lost touch with her daughter’s internal life; it was always so rich. There was so much going on with art, math, science—she was a thinker, a ponderer, more likely to spend hours drawing and designing than on Snapchat. Yet the walls remained unchanged and a fine layer of dust marred an open palette of watercolors.
Claire heard her own whispered words before she recognized the prayer. She thought of the books she’d read from Maddie’s list. A common theme came to life as she scanned through her daughter’s world, worried at the stagnation she detected. It was not that putting others first wasn’t good and shouldn’t come before self, but Claire now saw that in each book, every character—real or fictional—had to learn the balance, that line not to cross. There was an order to love and to life, and the sacrifice of self needed to be coupled with the courage of conviction.
She looked across the room again. Was that what she lacked? The courage to reach her daughter? The courage to defy her when necessary? Yet she felt tired and worn, guilt eclipsing all else as Brittany struggled.
Claire opened the drawer and heard a roll, felt the shift in weight. She pushed the sweaters aside as her world turned red.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting away your laundry.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that. Don’t you knock?” Brittany stood in the open bathroom doorway wrapped in a towel. Her wet hair created a puddle on the wood floor.
“I did knock.” Claire held up a half-empty Smirnoff bottle. “Explain this.”
“It’s not mine.”
“Whose is it?” She shook the bottle. “Do you drink?”
They faced off, and the pause grew.
“It’s Tracy’s.” Brittany reached for the bottle. Claire pulled it back.
“Who’s Tracy?”
“You haven’t met her.”
“I haven’t met any of your friends. Why don’t they ever come here?”
Brittany dropped her hand. “They have their own routines, Mom. I can’t change where they hang out.”
“Well . . . wherever that is, you won’t be there. You’re grounded. For a month. And if Tracy wants her vodka back, her parents can talk to me. She’s a minor and this is illegal.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.” Claire walked out of the room and shut the door behind her. Brittany was yelling, screaming something at her, but she didn’t open the door. With a shaky breath, Claire walked down the stairs and let the distance dim the diatribe.
She poured the vodka down the sink and threw the bottle in the recycling bin, certain Tracy’s parents would never call.
Chapter 11
Janet
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I push open the alley door and call out nice and loud into the shop. It feels as if I’m setting the tone for the day, and I want it to be a good one—unlike the last few days, in which I’ve felt scattered and distant from Claire and Madeline.
We’ve come to know each other well, packed in here so tight, and we work with a certain energy. But I can sense it’s not right at the moment. We’re not right.
Madeline has been at Maddie’s house more, made more visits to the bank, and cleared out the small storage closet with an almost frightening amount of determination—then locked herself in it, repeatedly, with her cell phone. She’s also developed those worrying vertical lines between her brows. But she’s lucky—her muscles seem to pull into two smaller lines rather than my singular deep channel.
Claire’s distracted too. She sits staring at her computer, shelves books in the wrong sections, and looks horrible. Her normally neat, sleek bob is frizzy on top with little wisps of hair standing straight. And she’s not sleeping—that’s obvious, especially as she’s wearing less than her picture-perfect makeup. She’s basically forgotten about under-eye concealer. Looking at her makes me ashamed of myself because rather than console her, I console myself with the thought that even in my worst moments, I doubt I look so lonely. I feel it, but always work to hide it.
“You’re in a good mood. It must have been some date.” Madeline emerges from the storage room.
Date?
“Ah . . . Yes . . .” I busy myself with my coat, my bag, and my memory. “That was a few nights ago, but yes, it was good.”
Claire materializes as well. “It sounded great to me. Tell her . . . Don’t you want to relive it?”
We congregate behind the counter. There are plenty of places to sit in this store, chairs in the office, a little corner with three seats in the back near the classics, and tiny chairs in the kids’ section, but we stand behind the counter like the booksellers we are—and the Printed Letter is not open yet. Claire flicks her fingers at a paper coffee cup sitting in front of me. I nod my thanks and take a sip.
“We met at the Capstone Grill in Evanston. He lives and works downtown, so we met halfway. And—”
Madeline jumps in. “What does he do? It said insurance, but what type?”
“He’s a salesman.”
Madeline’s face pinches like lemon is on offer rather than a romantic story. I almost laugh.
“We met at seven and . . .” I go through the evening moment by moment, working hard to remember what I told Claire and how I told it.
“Tell about the kiss.” Claire pokes Madeline in anticipation.
“He already kissed you?” Again the lemon face.
“It’s not high s
chool,” I quip and continue. “Besides, it was a completely appropriate and romantic brush across my lips, right at my car. That perfect lean, pause, and linger.” I press my lips together in memory, and that really sells it.
“That’s fantastic. I knew it would work.” Madeline morphs from sour to smug.
“You did not.” Claire thwaps her this time. “It was my idea.”
“True, but I selected the guy . . . When are you seeing him again? Tonight?”
“No way.” I jump at the thought. “He asked, but it’s too soon. It’s Valentine’s Day. That’s too much pressure for a new relationship, and I told him I had plans.”
“Look at you.” Madeline arcs a brow. Clearly she’s been watching Claire. “So smart.”
“Do you have plans?” Claire asks.
“No.”
“Me neither,” they both say simultaneously.
“How can you not have plans? You’ve got a boyfriend, and you a husband.” I point to each.
Madeline shrugs. “He’s got a case to close and will work late. He said he’d drop by, but I wouldn’t expect him before eleven at the earliest, and that’s hardly Valentine’s Day anymore.”
“And Brian’s in San Diego. He left this morning. But I did get roses.”
“We’ll be each other’s dates,” I offer. “Dinner at Mirabella’s? One of Alyssa’s best friends, Lexi Pappas, is the hostess. I bet she can get us in.”
I suggest the connection so easily and without thought, as I’ve done a hundred times before. Only then I remember . . . along with losing friends in the divorce, I lost the kids and their friends too. For years our house was the gathering place. While I didn’t allow drinking, I always stocked the best snacks, and I listened—never advised, only listened—and kids responded to that. Beyond all that, they also understood that whatever went down, Mrs. Harrison would get them home safe, no questions asked. That crew felt like my own—and now they act like my own, politely nodding a stiff hello if we happen to pass on the street.
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