Donuts, muffins and scones all vied for my attention as I made a beeline in that direction.
“Excuse me,” a husky voice called from a few yards away. “Miss?”
If she’d called me ma’am, I probably would’ve kept going, but I was vain enough to appreciate the implied compliment and slowed to a stop, sparing one last, longing glance to the coffeecake that had been beckoning.
“Yes?”
I locked gazes with the woman standing behind a table of antiques and a chill ran through me. Her wide eyes were golf course green and her skin glowed with the vitality of youth, despite a plethora of wrinkles, but it was her fiery red hair that stood out most. It was an explosion of curls that might’ve been hard for most women her age to pull off, but seemed to fit her just right. I hadn’t seen her before—she had a face I’d remember—but something about her felt so familiar. I wasn’t big on hippy dippy stuff, but I could only describe it as a deep sense of déjà vu.
She studied me in silence for so long the chill I’d experienced was turning the corner and ramping up to a disturbing, icy dread. Like walking through a dark parking lot at night and hearing heavy footfalls moving closer. Just when I was about to wheel around and bolt away like a weirdo, she nodded and her pursed lips split into a warm smile.
“Were you in the market for any antiques today?” she asked, her bright tone and now friendly demeanor chasing the heebie-jeebies away. It was like the clouds had parted, and the sun had come shining in. I barely refrained from letting out a sigh of relief.
This wasn’t the first time I’d felt weird lately, seemingly for no reason. In fact, the past few months had been like my own little internal freak show. Some mornings, I woke up from a dead sleep, drenched and beet red from night sweats. Others, I felt so low and down I could barely get out of bed at all. And then there were the days that I tore out of bed like a ball of barely repressed fury, where any little thing might set me off.
Menopause was a witch and she’d taken my hormones hostage. But, none of that was this poor lady’s fault, so I forced a smile.
“Actually, I’m not really looking to buy much. I’m a vendor here, too. Just selling some crafts and whatnot,” I said, gesturing back toward Mee-maw’s table where Zoe’s mark was digging for his wallet as she bagged up the remaining stock of beer koozies for him.
I sent her a mental high five as I turned back to the red-haired woman.
“Maybe take a look anyway,” she said, waving a hand over her wares. “You never know what might strike your fancy.”
The only thing my fancy was interested in sat just yards away, smothered in a thick layer of gooey icing peppered with walnuts, but I leaned in obligingly and checked out the goods. Everything gave off that disconcerting smell I associated with antiques…like musty secrets. I preferred my stuff brand spanking new, straight out of an IKEA box, thank you very much.
I skimmed over some lamps, a clearly broken VCR, and an old phonograph before landing on a wickedly sharp-looking, gargoyle letter opener that had clearly been made for murder.
“Very nice,” I said, shooting her a sunny grin. “The craftsmanship is…just…yeah. Really good. Unfortunately, I’m living with my grandmother currently, and until I get my own place, I really can’t make any purchases.”
“Aw, I understand, dear. Who is your grandmother?” she asked, cocking her head. “I just moved back to Rocky Knoll last month, but lived here from the time I was born until my early thirties. Maybe I know her.”
“Dorothea Hawthorne?” I replied. “People call her Dot. She’s around here somewhere…” I said, glancing over my shoulder to see if she was nearby.
“That’s all right, dear. No need to bother her. My name is Connie Bagshaw,” she said as she handed me a business card. “I’ve just opened a shop called Connie’s Curiosities over on Exeter Street, so I’m sure we’ll meet one another at some point. Rocky Knoll might be more populated now, but it’s still a small town at heart.”
She leaned in and absently brushed away a dust bunny that had floated onto an old fashioned, black typewriter that sat in the corner of the table. She continued to chatter and I heard the words she was saying—something about some things changing but others staying the same—but they barely registered. I was too focused on the typewriter.
The chipping, black paint. The squat, frumpy casing. The total lack of ergonomics.
In a word?
It was glorious.
Was I a writer?
No. Not yet, at least. But suddenly my brain felt like it would burst with stories untold.
“How much?” I breathed, my palms going clammy with an almost frantic need to clack noisily away on those impractical keys.
“For you?” she asked, arching a fiery brow. “Forty bucks.”
It was then that I uttered the three little words that would change my life in ways not even Nostradamus could’ve predicted.
“I’ll take it.”
If I’d known that my decision would land me with a hangman's noose tightening around my neck as I contemplated my impending demise, just a few weeks later?
I’d have gone with the VCR.
Chapter Two
“You?” Mee-maw asked, head cocked in utter confusion. “A writer? Like, as in, books?”
I folded one half of the omelet over onto the other and nodded in satisfaction at the perfect, buttery-yellow exterior. Gordon Ramsay wouldn’t be calling this chick a useless cow anytime soon.
“Yeah,” I said, turning back toward my grandmother and cousin as they stared at me from their seats at the kitchen table. If I’d deluded myself into thinking they would support this new career path, the dubious expressions on their faces would’ve definitely cured me of that. Luckily, I had no such delusions. I knew they’d be armed and ready with the firehose to spray Hater-Ade all over my parade, and, frankly?
I didn’t give a rat’s crack.
I was doing this. I’d never felt so certain of anything in my life. I was going to be a writer and no one was going to stop me.
Still, if I could convince them that this made any kind of sense, given my complete and total lack of interest in writing over the previous forty-eight years of my life, they’d be much easier to deal with, so I put on my salesman cap for the second time that day.
“Well, eventually I’ll write whole books, I guess,” I conceded, cutting the nine egg monstrosity into three and sliding equal parts onto plates. “But I’m just going to write and see what comes out. Maybe short stories to start.”
“Oookay,” Zoe said, nodded slowly. “And you’re going to do what with them?”
“I’m going to sell them.”
“For money,” Mee-maw replied, deadpan.
“No. For clams and seashells,” I replied with a snort as I doled out the plates and took my seat between them. “Of course for money. Eventually.”
“And people are going to pay you for these stories because…” Mee-maw coaxed.
I forked up a bite of dinner omelet and plugged it into my mouth, despite the fact that its interior was about the temperature of molten lava, mainly to keep myself from snapping.
At the end of the day, I didn’t need her approval, but I was living in her house close to rent-free for the time being. Things could get even less comfy real fast if she didn’t feel like I was at least trying to get my crap together.
I chewed and then swallowed before replying. “Well, people are always telling me how funny I am and that I tell great stories.”
“Out loud,” Zoe confirmed. “You’re entertaining at parties because you feel like if you distract people with your humor and tall tales, they won’t ask you about anything real or personal.”
Ouch.
“But you were a C- student, and even that was only because you were good at math and science. I was the one who wrote all your term papers for you,” she reminded me before forking up some omelet.
I refrained from pointing out that, had she rolled up her sleeves and put in a
little more elbow grease, maybe I could’ve gotten some B’s, and tried to focus on the big picture.
“I’ve lived more life now. I have more to say…better stories to tell. And besides, I know how to type. What is writing other than coming up with good stories and then getting them down on paper?”
“I guess,” Mee-maw muttered, tucking into her eggs. “But a typewriter seems like the wrong tool for the job these days. You’ll have to re-type everything on a computer, won’t you?”
Strange. I hadn’t even considered that, but I wasn’t about to tell that to Mee-maw.
“The typewriter is just a first step to get my creativity brewing. It’s going to be great,” I assured her.
“Okay. You’re still going to work down at the bakery while you explore this new passion, yeah?”
“Of course,” I said with a nod. “I’m not going to go off half-cocked or anything. I’ll be doing it in my spare time. I just wanted to let you guys know I’m going to be busy, is all, so I won’t be around as much.”
“Okay, then. I think it sounds nice,” Zoe said. “Maybe it will be a nice distraction from…everything.”
The room went silent but for the scraping of forks on plates.
“Everything” was one of the code words for my divorce, along with “all of this”, “that whole mess”, and “your dealings with Greg”. Neither my cousin nor our grandmother much liked the “D” word. Zoe and her husband Phil had been together since we were teenagers, and despite the fact that they lived almost entirely separate lives and had for decades, she’d never even consider divorcing him. In her mind, a promise was a promise. She’d said ‘til death do they part, and she meant that shit.
Mee-maw and our grandfather, on the other hand, had a solid partnership. Strong. Practical. They took care of each other. There was no great passion there, but it had been easy and comfortable. He had her back, she had his, and nothing could come between them. If Granddad hadn’t passed away thirty-five years ago, there was no question they’d still be together now.
I might’ve been able to live with that kind of marriage. But Greg and I didn’t even have that. Because things had seemed fine from the outside looking in, though, neither Mee-maw or Zoe could really grasp why we—okay, mostly me—had called it quits. Sure, he’d been hard to count on, and when it came to the kids and the house stuff, I’d done all the heavy-lifting. But he didn’t hit me, hadn’t cheated, wasn’t a drug user, and drank only socially. There were no glass breaking, lung-busting fights. In our decades together, we’d managed to raise two decent humans together, Lizzie and Jack, both upstanding, self-sufficient citizens in their mid-twenties, but I’d realized pretty early on that something was missing. Something I’d spent my children’s whole, young lives convincing myself I didn’t need. That it wasn’t important.
Magic.
Probably seemed silly to some people, but not to me. I hadn’t fooled myself into thinking marriage would be a fairy tale full of heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, or rose petal-covered sheets. I had, however, witnessed true love. Deep love. Love as steady as a heartbeat. A partnership and a friendship as true as my grandparents’ had been, but with something…extra. A spark that I’d only witnessed in my first eight years of life but that had marked my soul indelibly, that I’d never forgotten.
A memory of my mom and dad flickered through my mind in bold, riotous color. Mom’s golden hair, a mass of waves down her back as she swayed in front of the stove, singing Carol King, off-key. The smell of cinnamon chip pancakes in the air. Dad’s chuckle as he slipped past her for plates, absently caressing her hip.
They were forever doing that. Touching each other. Not in flashy, overt displays of affection. Just constant, low-level, reflexive connection. Dad would drop a kiss on her shoulder, or pat her bottom when she walked by. Mom would ruffle his hair, or stroke his five o’clock shadow.
I hadn’t really considered it at all until well into couple’s counseling with Greg and my own therapy sessions. It had been then that I’d finally gotten to the root of my deep sense of melancholy that had spiraled into full-blown depression.
I was in my mid-forties and I’d never experienced a connection like that. My children had left the nest, my job there was—for practical purposes—done, and suddenly, the thing I thought I could live without, the thing I’d convinced myself wasn’t important, became the only thing that was. Not just for me, but as stupid and idealistic as it seemed, for Greg, too. He was a good man. He deserved to have someone look at him the way my mom had looked at my dad. And that someone would never be me.
Who knew if we’d ever find it even if we did break up? My therapist and I had gone over that part at length. What my parents had was a rare gem and I was trading in something of at least some value—something knowable and safe—for what might be nothing at all.
And I had to admit, so far, being divorced hadn’t been a party, either. It was lonely and humbling and scary. But under all that, there was this nugget of hope inside me. Now, at least I had a chance at that kind of love. And if I didn’t find it, that was okay, too. At least now I’d have time to find myself again. The person whose own needs had been buried somewhere under the needs of everyone else around them. If that was selfish, too bad. Life was short and I’d spent it taking care of others for more than half of mine.
This bit?
This bit was for me.
I popped the last morsel of omelet into my mouth and set the fork on the plate before meeting Zoe’s gaze.
“I really appreciate the support, and I think you’re right. It will be a good distraction, at the very least.” I stood and made a move to get the dishes, but she stopped me.
“You go ahead and get started on your story. I’ve got these. If I don’t see you before I go, see you in the AM, yeah?”
I could tell she was feeling a little guilty over her initial dismissal of my writerly dreams and I let her off the hook, because family.
“Yup. I’ll be there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
“Thanks for helping out at the flea market,” Mee-maw added as I pushed in my chair. “You done good, kiddo.”
I flipped her an easy thumbs up. “No problem. The least I could do.”
With that, I scuttled out of the room, the tension in me releasing as I hobbled down the stairs to the semi-finished basement suite, still stiff from sitting all day.
If I was going to be a writer for real, second order of business would be a good chair, followed by a treadmill desk.
First order of business, though?
Some actual writing.
The second I stepped into the living room slash bedroom, it called to me. My super excellent old, new typewriter. I’d half-expected for the excitement to wear off, but it was just as compelling now, hours later, as it had been the moment I’d laid eyes on it.
“Come to mama, you precious thing, you,” I murmured.
I’d tossed my hair into a knot on top of my head and changed into leggings and my favorite, oversized Hufflepuff hoodie when we’d gotten home, so all that was left to do was get down to brass tacks.
Nearly trembling with anticipation, I sat down on the couch and dragged the coffee table close enough to press against my knees. Then, I plucked a sheet of crisp, white paper from the pile I’d snagged from Mee-maw’s office and tucked it into the roller.
“What’s it going to be, Cricket?” I muttered to myself. “Murder and mayhem? Mischief and magic? Other things beginning with M?”
I rolled the paper down and pounded the carriage return button, setting off a satisfying ding.
“Nice.”
For the next hour, I sat there thinking. I thought so hard, it was a wonder my brain didn’t start giving off smoke. I had ideas over that hour, sure, but every single one of them belonged to someone else. I’d plotted half a story about a dystopian society where there’s a lottery to determine who would go into this melee-type battle with only one survivor before I realized I was just rehashing The Hunger Game
s.
“Why is this so hard?” I flopped back against the couch cushion with a groan. I was still practically pulling my hair out trying to come up with a plot when my pocket buzzed.
I sat up with a sigh, stuffing my hand into my hoodie to pull out my cell phone. Greg’s name lit up the screen and I swiped my thumb over it to open his text message.
I have some bad news. Give me a call when you can.
My heart stuttered and I was about to panic when a second message followed close on the heels of the first.
Kids are fine.
I swallowed hard and let out a shaky breath. Okay, so whatever the bad news was wasn’t that bad. Still, there were only a couple things my ex-husband would be contacting me about nearly a year after our divorce, and if it wasn’t the kids…
I thumbed through to his phone number and hit the connect button. He picked up a few seconds later.
“Hey, Cricket, sorry to bug you. I just…how’re things going?”
“Things are good, Greg,” I said, still slightly miffed that he’d scared the crap out of me with his text. “What’s up? Everything okay with the house and all?”
“Yeah, actually, that’s what I was calling about. The inspection didn’t go as planned. The…the um, buyers have retracted their offer.”
“What?” I gasped, reeling as his words settled over me like a dark cloud. “But why?”
There was a long pause before he cleared his throat and started babbling.
“Apparently, we didn’t disclose that there was an oil tank buried in the backyard. I said we’d pay to have it dug up, but they’re worried about soil contamination and the like. They’re paranoid and the realtor couldn’t talk them down. Look…It’s just not going to happen.”
I dropped my head into my open hand and let out a groan.
“Greg, I specifically told you to make sure to tell the realtor that when you signed the paperwork. There’s a whole disclosure form to fill out. You promised you—”
I broke off and swallowed past the knot in my throat.
This wasn’t on him. It was on me. I’d packed it all. Scrubbed the place clean of our twenty-six years there. Took down every painting, lovingly wrapped every family picture, washed and freshly painted every single wall in an easy-on-the-eyes neutral. I’d cleared out countless boxes in the attic and even emptied the tool shed full of crap he’d insisted we buy but never used. I’d thought he could do this one thing.
Finding Forgiveness: A Bluebird Bay Novel Page 18