I sat up in bed. “You okay, Rory?”
“Do you mind if I climb in the bed with you?” she said, still whispering. “I just can’t seem to fall asleep.”
Without a word, I scooted over to the edge of the bed and then patted the side I’d just vacated, telling her to come on in. “I don’t know how you’ll be able to sleep in here,” I said, barely moving my lips and adopting her way of speaking by lowering my voice. “I snore.”
“Couldn’t be any worse than my mother.” She climbed in the bed. I snuggled back into my covers and closed my eyes. “I just don’t want to be by myself,” she said after a long moment.
I don’t know why Rory said she was having trouble sleeping. Once she got in bed with me I heard soft, even breathing coming from her side of the bed, letting me know she went to sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.
* * *
EVERY MORNING I would walk to work, good weather or bad, and stop in to see my grandfather on the way to the shop. A habit I picked up from him—he walked everywhere. A ritual that served me well while living in New York City. There you walked, or you took the subway or an Uber.
This morning I had Rory with me, and I thought I’d skip going to PopPop’s. But before we could get on our way, my mother was calling and inviting us over for breakfast.
At five a.m.
I wasn’t even sure how my mother knew that Rory was at my house that early in the morning. Probably the gossip mill. Dell told Ms. Devereaux, who told somebody, who told my mother, or something like that.
My grandfather’s house was the in-law suite of my parents’ large home. The house had been the one that my grandparents had raised their children in, then passed down to my parents to raise us after the house got too big for my ailing grandmother. My grandfather had taken care of my Grandma Kay’s every need in that little apartment suite until the day she died.
PopPop had his own entrance. Most mornings I bypassed my parents’ front door to head around back to him.
It was closer to six thirty when we walked through the front door of my parents’ home. PopPop was sitting at the kitchen table with my mother, though he didn’t often venture over to the main house. My father was at the stove cooking.
“He’s a surgeon and a chef?” Rory whispered.
“And he’s really good at both,” I whispered back.
“Morning!” my mother said after we came down the front hallway and stood at the doorway to the kitchen. She hopped out of her chair. “I hope you brought your appetites with you.”
“Mom, no one eats this early.” I felt safe to speak for Rory as well as myself. She complained about getting up at six. I got up, but I usually didn’t eat anything until around nine.
“We do.” The three of them said it at nearly the same time.
“We always eat early,” my mother said.
“No one under fifty is what I should have said.”
“You’ll live long enough to get there,” my father said. “Then you’ll see.” He wiped his hand on the tea towel he had slung over his shoulder. “And this must be Rory.”
“Yes, it is.” I smiled to make the formal introduction. “Daddy—I mean, Graham Crewse—this is my friend from New York, Rory Hunter.”
“Glad to meet you,” he said and shook her hand. “New York City. I love that place. How long you staying?”
“I just got in yesterday,” she said, “but how long I stay is up to Win.”
“Win dictates my life, too, don’t you, Pumpkin,” my daddy said.
I smiled at my father. My daddy. Dr. James Graham Crewse, orthopedic surgeon at the world-renowned Lakeside Memorial Clinic. He was tall and fit, with perfect posture, was thoughtful and methodical, and had a dry wit. He had a calmness about him and never faltered even when there was a lot of craziness going on around him. That was probably how he stayed with my mother for nearly forty years because she was all about the craziness.
“Mr. Crewse,” Rory said, heartily shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, too. I’ve heard so many good things about you.”
“I give hugs,” my mother said and squeezed Rory.
“You met her yesterday,” I said.
“I can still hug her,” my mother said.
“Good morning,” PopPop said to her—he’d met her yesterday, too, and was acting accordingly. “You helping out at the ice cream shop this morning?”
“I don’t think I’ll be much help.” Rory shook her head. “How do you psyche yourself up to work this early in the morning?”
We laughed.
“Kaylene,” my grandfather said. “She’d have everyone up and ready to start the day before the sun could make its way overhead. It’s just part of our ritual now.”
“That’s my Grandma Kay,” I said, explaining to Rory who Kaylene was. She’d heard me speak of her enough, but not by that name. “And I don’t mind getting up, but I can’t eat.”
“We’re all eating this morning,” my mother said, her usual cheerful self when she was around my father. That was when she was her happiest. They were soul mates and it was easy to see their “honeymoon” stage kind of love had lasted throughout the years.
“Pass the orange juice,” my mother said. We had sat down at the table. My dad had whisked up eggs Benedict and a side of bacon (because I guess the Canadian bacon wasn’t enough) and fresh strawberries and blueberries.
My mother grabbed the handle of the pitcher, poured a glass full then grabbed my dad’s glass to fill his, too. “Did you hear that Veronica and Zeke had a fight at Rivkah’s restaurant and she left crying? Ran right through the kitchen out the back.”
“Who?” my father said. He crunched down on a piece of bacon. “Who are Veronica and Zeke? Are they some of those reality stars?”
I knew who she was talking about, but how that conversation seemed to go part and parcel with “pass the OJ” just went to show the hold the gossip mill had on my mother.
“Mommy!” I said. “Are we talking about that at breakfast?”
“I agree with Win. That is not appropriate breakfast conversation, Ailbhe,” my grandfather said. “Talking about the dead.”
“I didn’t know there was an appropriate time to discuss the dead,” my mother said, spreading margarine on the extra English muffin she had grabbed.
“Who are we talking about?” Rory asked.
“No one,” I said and gave a dismissive pass of my hand. “My mother likes to gossip.”
“It’s not gossip,” she said. “It’s the truth.” She took a bite of her muffin and pushed it into a corner of her jaw so she could keep talking. “I don’t mean a knock-down, drag-out fight. It was just an argument.”
“Who are Zeke and Veronica?” my father asked again.
“Zeke is the guy who was trying to buy up property to build a mall,” my mother said.
“His business was, not him personally,” I corrected.
“The guy you were telling me about, Dad?” my father asked.
“Yeah. The one who turned up dead in the alley yesterday.”
Rory went into a coughing fit with those words.
“Are you okay?” my mother asked, as she hopped out of her seat and went over to pat Rory on the back.
“I’m fine.” She choked out the words. “Just something got caught in my throat.”
“See, Mom, what happens when you talk about dead people at the breakfast table?”
Rory’s face went pale, and she let out another cough.
“Here, drink some juice,” my mother said.
“Are you okay?” my father asked. Always the doctor.
Rory, swallowing hard, nodded to let him know she was okay.
“Okay, then I need more food,” my father said and looked back at the stove.
“You only made enough eggs Benedict for the five of us, didn’t
you?” my mother said.
“I scrambled eggs for PopPop,” my dad said. “I knew he wasn’t going to eat any of the fancy stuff I wanted to impress Win’s friend with.”
“I appreciate that, son,” PopPop said. “Like I always say, I just need my morning coffee—” he started.
“A newspaper and a couple of eggs.” My parents and I finished his sentence for him. We’d heard it enough from him.
“You have coffee?” Rory sputtered out.
“I had mine before I came over here this morning. Those two”—he pointed at my parents—“don’t understand the importance of a good cup of joe first thing in the morning.”
“I understand it perfectly,” Rory said.
“You had a cup at my house,” I protested. “Before we left.”
“I could use another cup,” she said sheepishly and eyed PopPop.
“What’s wrong with her having another cup, Win?” my mother said. “You have to be accommodating to your guests.”
“I wasn’t saying she couldn’t have . . .” I shook my head. I could tell by my mother’s look, she wasn’t going to understand what I meant. “I’m sure PopPop will be happy to share some of his with you. Or,” I said, “we could stop by the Juniper Tree on the way to the ice cream shop.”
“Oh God, no!” Rory said. “I couldn’t drink a cup of that even if that was the last coffee shop for the next hundred miles.”
“You’ve never tasted their coffee,” I said.
“I met the owners,” she said. “That was enough.”
“The Darling Dixbys?” my mother said. “Did they say something to you?”
“No,” I said putting up my hand, wanting to put a halt to that conversation.
“Come on over to my place,” PopPop said, scooting his chair back and standing up. “I’ll brew you a cup.”
“Sounds good,” Rory said.
“We have to go to the ice cream shop,” I said.
“You go,” my mother said. “I’ll bring Rory when I come down.”
“Before we go, though,” PopPop said and handed his plate to my father, “I’ll take some more of those eggs if you have any left. Win works me down at the ice cream shop. I need all my strength.”
“PopPop.” I tilted my head. “All you do all day is sit at your bench. Taking up space for the paying customers.”
“You don’t do a thing,” my mother said.
“What are you talking about?” my grandfather said. “Who ran that shop yesterday when everyone took off? It was me and Jack.”
My mother waved a hand at him. “That is just not the truth. You may have helped out yesterday, but that’s a rare occurrence.”
PopPop laughed. “I do help, though.”
“Not all the time. Or often. Talking about me bringing up the fight at the Village Dragon, which really happened, but you can’t sit around and say things that are just made up.”
“There’s a difference in kidding around and gossiping,” my father said, coming back to the table with his and PopPop’s plates.
“I wasn’t gossiping,” my mother protested.
“Yes, we know, sweetie,” my father said and gave her one of his we’ll-just-let-you-think-what-you-want smiles.
“Why don’t you go and tell Liam Beverly your little tidbit of truth,” PopPop said. “Maybe he’d appreciate it.”
“I wouldn’t tell that man to move out the way if I saw a semi headed his way,” my mother said.
chapter
SIXTEEN
The sun had long made its appearance in the bright blue sky and birds were chirping somewhere up among the lush green trees that lined the curb and large yards as I walked down to the shop after breakfast with my parents. Streets were all hilly in Chagrin Falls, and if you grew up here, it was probably true that as a child you walked to school in the snow, uphill both ways.
I was worried I was going to start feeling sluggish after eating so early. It was a good thing I didn’t have to make ice cream. I had made enough the day before. My original plan had been to make ice cream at night, but I was so used to getting up early—and it was the way my Grandma Kay had done it—that I started making it in the mornings.
Rory had stayed with PopPop and his coffeemaker. She definitely wasn’t going to get a Java Joe’s kind of cup from his ancient coffeepot, but she didn’t seem to mind. I was happy she got along with my parents. Maybe we could all go to dinner or something . . .
Then I thought about how it would affect me. Rory hadn’t ever told me how long she was staying. If her only mission was to woo me back to Hawken Spencer, she could leave anytime that day. I wasn’t going back.
But I knew she wanted to go back to Black Market Paper and I definitely wanted to take her to the art festival at the visitors’ center.
Maybe immersing her in art would help whatever it was that seemed to be wrong with her. She was getting weirder by the hour.
I wondered if I could help her . . .
Then I wondered who was going to help me because as soon as I rounded the corner from Carriage Hill Lane where my parents lived onto North Main Street, taking into view the yellow-and-baby-blue-striped Crewse Creamery awning I’d had installed, I saw my aunt Jack. That big ole ancient car of hers was parked right in front of the ice cream store and she was sitting on my Grandma Kay’s bench.
My grandfather had put that bench out front of the ice cream shop when my grandmother first took sick. Family members took turns sitting there with her, keeping her company and keeping her from wandering off. I kept it even after I remodeled because it reminded me of her. I had spent so much time there with her that having it made me feel like she was close by.
“Geesh.” It gushed out in a huff, and as soon as it did, Aunt Jack looked my way. I knew she couldn’t hear me. I was too far away. Maybe it was just the bad vibes I was having about her being back that had bounced over to her like sound waves. She stood up, signaling to me that she’d been there waiting for me.
“Hi,” I said when I finally got to the store. “What are you doing out so early?”
“My key didn’t fit,” she said, pointing back at the door and not answering my question.
“It’s a new door,” I said, following her finger and letting my eyes land on the full plate glass door I had had installed during the remodel. “A new lock.”
“Well, I’m going to need a key,” she said.
“The lock on the side door didn’t change,” I said. “Your key will still fit that. That’s the way we go in anyway.”
“I don’t use that door,” she said. “I don’t like going down that alley in the dark.”
I looked up at the bright blue sky and then back at Aunt Jack.
“It seems like there are a lot of people getting murdered around here,” she said. “You can’t be too careful.”
“Two,” I said, unlocking the front door and letting her in. “Compared to Cleveland, that’s not a lot.”
“Any murder is too much. And that’s two more than there was the whole time I lived in Chagrin Falls. Which, by the way, was my whole life.”
She walked in the door behind me, out of breath from just the few steps and carrying a large cloth bag with her.
“What’s in the bag?” I said. I stopped and stroked Felice on the top of the head before going in the back. She let out a soft purr. The little pompous cat was up and ready to start her day, too.
She followed behind me. “Just some things I thought we might need for the store.”
We?
That was what I wanted to say to her, and I wanted to add that she wasn’t a part of any “we” if there was one. But I sucked in a breath and edged away from going down that road with her.
Okay. She was part of the “we” because we were a family business. Aunt Jack, no matter how edgy her return was making me, was part of the family.
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
She put her bag down on the stainless steel prep table with a thud. I was thinking maybe there were bricks in there to throw at my glass wall overlooking the falls that she didn’t like.
She pulled out a stack of catalogs.
“I called the lottery sales rep,” she said. “They said they could have us set up by next week.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Set up for what?”
“To sell lottery tickets. And my candy guy.” She tugged on her wig, straightening it out. “I’ve put in a call to him. We did really well when we sold candy. Especially licorice.” She patted her hair down in place. “They let me request different-flavored ones. I came up with flavors people loved.”
“People love my flavors of ice cream,” I said.
“No one’s ever heard of ice cream made from tea or buttermilk.” She clucked her tongue. “You need to make some changes,” she said. “I can help you.”
“Did you try them?” I asked. “The tea or buttermilk ice cream? Because they are really good. The customers love the flavors I come up with.” I looked at her. “Most of them are Grandma Kay’s recipes.”
I thought me telling her that they were her mother’s ideas might soften her some on the idea of the new flavors. It didn’t.
“They’ll like the candy better, Bronwyn.” I didn’t like when she called me by my full name, she made it sound like she was scolding me. “It’s tried and true. And the lottery tickets will bring people in here who don’t want to buy anything.”
Why would we want people in the store who aren’t buying anything?
I tried to shake off my confusion. “I don’t think we need candy,” I said, trying to sound respectful, but I was getting annoyed with her conversation.
“If you want to get any customers in here, you do! This place is as empty as a mausoleum.”
“We’re not opened yet, Aunt Jack.”
She slapped her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. “I don’t think you’d get anyone in here even if the door was flung wide open and you were giving that stuff away.”
A Game of Cones Page 10