Sweetheart (The Busy Bean)

by Sarah Mayberry

  “I lost the job. I was so sure I was going to get it, but they chose another girl, and I came home to tell Jonny, and he just didn’t give a shit, Mom. He said I needed to grow up and not get upset about every little rejection, and we had a huge fight and—and he told me I was more trouble than it was worth—” Jess started crying in earnest, the sound heartbreaking.

  My parents exchanged looks and I knew exactly what they were thinking: it was going to be a long night. When Jess got worked up like this, it took hours to dig down and work out what had really happened and help find ways to resolve it.

  “Okay, deep breaths, honey,” Mom said. “Dad’s here, and Haley. We’re all here for you. We can work this out. What’s happening now? Where’s Jonny?”

  “I don’t know. I’m at Sabi’s place. She said I can sleep on the couch if I need to.” Jess sniffed a couple of times.

  “That’s sounds perfect. Tell me about the job you missed out on,” Mom said.

  “The people at Vogue were interested in me. That’s what my agent said. He told me they wanted me for the April issue. He said they loved my look.”

  I shifted guiltily, remembering the conversation I’d had with Charlotte at the art store. I’d been intending to warn my parents about the Vogue shoot she’d mentioned, but that was the afternoon that had started it all with Beck, and I’d forgotten.

  “That’s exciting,” Mom said, her tone calm and everyday as she did her best to normalize the situation.

  I’d seen her do this a lot over the years. She was a pro at it, as was my father. Me, too, I suppose. We’d all done more than our fair share of talking Jess down.

  “I didn’t want to tell you guys about it until it was booked,” Jess hiccuped.

  For the next half hour, I sat at the kitchen table with my parents, chipping in when needed to offer a positive observation or bolstering point of view. A fuller picture of what had gone down emerged when Jess revealed that Jonny had been involved in an important work Zoom when she’d come home and demanded his attention. When he’d told her he’d be finished in ten minutes, Jess had pulled the router out of the wall and demanded he be more supportive.

  In other words, my sister had gone into full hurricane mode and Jonny had had some grounds for his reaction. I knew from living with Jess that it was disastrously easy to get sucked into the turmoil of her heightened emotional blowups. When she went over the top, it was all too easy to follow her, especially if she’d done something unfair or cruel or outrageous.

  By eight, my mother’s phone battery started to fade so she went into the study so she could keep talking to my sister while she plugged into a charger.

  After she was gone, my father let out a sigh and massaged the skin between his eyebrows.

  “So much for things going well with Jonny.”

  I patted his hand, because there wasn’t much to say about the state of my sister’s love life. As with all her boyfriends, Jess had idealized Jonny when she first met him. No one was smarter, kinder, sexier, more generous than him. But her relationships always got fractious when the honeymoon phase was over.

  What goes up must come down, right?

  Inevitably, the new, perfect man showed that he had feet of clay, and went from being the sun, moon, and stars in my sister’s eyes, to being a suspect person until eventually the relationship became untenable, and either my sister detached and walked away, or the poor guy trying to navigate the storms of my sister’s personality decided he’d had enough.

  That was when things could sometimes get really hairy, because my sister did not handle rejection well.

  “I was really hoping she was going to grow out of all of this,” my father said, his tone weary. “Once she started doing well with her modeling, and finding her feet in New York, I thought she’d finally found her place in the world.”

  I didn’t know what to say to him. Jess had always been high-strung and changeable. The idea that she might simply grow out of her own personality had never occurred to me.

  With the help of a good therapist, maybe, but that subject had been off limits with my sister—and my parents—for years, ever since my sister had quit her mandated therapy after her suicide attempt.

  “I’ll help you clear the table,” I said.

  Together we tidied up, scraping plates and putting them into the dishwasher. I was putting away the placemats when my father made a dismayed sound.

  “We didn’t do your cake,” he said. “Haley, I’m so sorry.”

  I shrugged. “I’m twenty-six. I’ll live.”

  “We can do it now. I’ll get the candles.” My father went to the pantry to rummage.

  The idea of the two of us going through the blow-out-the-candle routine while my mother counseled Jess in the study felt weird and wrong.

  “Dad, it’s fine. We don’t need to do the candle thing.”

  He stopped looking and turned back to me. “Alright. Do you want ice cream or cream with your cake?”

  Before I could reply, Mom appeared in the doorway. “Chris, she’s talking herself into a self-hate spiral. Help!”

  Getting caught up in a vortex of self-loathing was almost always the outcome of any major crisis in my sister’s life.

  “Okay. I’m on it,” Dad said, hustling toward the study.

  My mom sighed, harried. “I might be on a train to New York tomorrow the way things are going.”

  “She’ll settle once she's cried herself out,” I said, even though I was far from confident that was the case. When Jess got herself worked up, she could stay that way for a long time.

  “I hope you’re right.” She rested a hand on my shoulder. “You go home. You don’t need to hang around while we put out the fire.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course. And don’t worry about Daniel. I’ll think of some way to sell it to her when I’m visiting next month, if it’s still an issue.”

  It took a moment for me to understand that she meant if Beck and I were still together. No doubt she’d be hoping that wasn’t the case by then, based on tonight’s response.

  “Lois.” My father’s voice echoed up the hall from the study.

  “Duty calls. Speak later.” She pressed a kiss to my temple and rushed off.

  I stood in the kitchen for a beat, listening to the low murmur of my parents’ voices as they talked my sister down. On the counter was my birthday cake, along with the wrapping paper and ribbon from my present.

  Not quite the way I’d envisioned this evening ending. And yet not entirely unfamiliar, either.

  We’d been through scenarios like tonight before, so many times. All of us dropping everything to rally around and make sure Jess felt supported. Putting aside our own burdens to take up hers.

  I gathered my birthday card and the pretty box my necklace had come in and tucked them into my bag, then I let myself out of the house. The streets of Colebury seemed very dark as I drove home, the moon and stars covered by low-lying clouds. I let myself into my apartment and wandered through the darkened rooms, not quite sure where to put myself.

  The problem with these crises of Jess’s was that we never knew which ones would blow over and which ones were serious. Not at first, anyway. As my mother had said, she might be on a train to New York tomorrow if Jess showed signs of truly melting down. On the other hand, Jess might reconcile with Jonny in a tearful reunion and all would be fine again, tonight’s big drama quickly forgotten.

  By Jess, anyway.

  The ping of my phone distracted me from my thoughts, and I pulled it out to find a text from Beck:

  Know you’re with your folks, so don’t worry about this till later, but you okay with seafood? Planning my next gastronomic seduction.

  I tapped back that I was fine with seafood, and he responded right away:

  Didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner, sorry.

  I texted back that he hadn’t and that I was home, and the next thing I knew my phone lit up with his call.

  “Hey,” he sai
d, his voice deep and smooth and lovely. “You’re home early.”

  “Something came up with my parents.”

  He was the last person I wanted to discuss Jess’s crisis with, for obvious reasons.

  “Shame to waste a perfectly good evening when it’s only eight thirty,” Beck said, his tone loaded with dirty intent.

  I couldn’t help smiling, but I wasn’t about to inflict my flat mood on him.

  “I’d invite you over, but I’m not great company right now,” I admitted.

  There was a short pause.

  “Does that mean you don’t want company? Because I’ll take you any way I can get you,” he said. “We can chillax, watch a movie or something. No planning necessary.”

  I could hear the warmth and concern in his voice and the thought of having him here, a big, sunny presence, was very tempting.

  “You don’t want to put up with me being mopey,” I said.

  “Can I seal the deal with the offer of a pint of ice cream?” Beck joked.

  He was being so sweet, and talking to him had already made me feel better. I stared at my shoes, trying to work out if it was fair to invite him over or not.

  “I can be there in twenty,” he said, clearly sensing my weakness.

  “All right. That sounds nice,” I said.

  “Be there soon.”

  He ended the call and my gaze fell on the pile of clean laundry I still hadn’t folded and put away. If this thing between us had a future, Beck would soon learn I was not the tidiest person in the world.

  Still, there was no reason for him to find that out just yet.

  Moving quickly, I began the challenging task of making my place look presentable in just twenty minutes.

  26

  Beck

  “Hey,” Haley said when she answered my knock, opening the door wide for me to enter.

  She looked so good to me that my first impulse was to press her against the wall and reacquaint myself with her amazing mouth. Only the sadness shadowing her pretty eyes stopped me. She’d said she wasn’t good company before I’d more or less forced myself on her. The least I could do was show a little self-restraint and do what I’d come to do, which was offer a comforting shoulder if I could. Along with ice cream.

  And, if she wanted it, crazy-sexy times.

  But only if she wanted it, and only after the comfort and ice cream. I wasn’t a complete caveman.

  “You look great,” I said, because she did.

  She was wearing a pair of gold shoes with tiny heels, and her dress was black with little birds in gold cages printed on it. The fabric hugged her waist and breasts before flaring out over her hips. There was probably a fancy name for the style, all I knew was that it suited her curvy figure to perfection.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling, but I could see she was making an effort to be bright and pretend nothing was wrong.

  “Let’s eat ice cream and dish,” I said, and this time I was rewarded with a genuine laugh.

  “Follow me to the kitchen,” she said, leading the way up the hall.

  Last time I’d been here I’d been too busy thinking about getting her naked to pay much attention to my surroundings, but this time I had a good look around as we entered her living room.

  Her sofa was a soft blue color and looked as though it would be good to touch. There were lots of cushions, and the walls were covered with art. Sketches, framed postcards, an old cuckoo clock someone had painted in crazy colors, antique photographs, a couple of collages.

  I stopped to examine one and recognized the style of a fluffy dog sketch fixed in the corner of the frame.

  “Did you do this?” I asked.

  “It’s mostly just fooling around,” she said with typical modesty. “I threw a few ideas together and slapped a frame on it.”

  She shrugged.

  I examined the collage with new eyes. There was a small scrap of fabric with a face embroidered on it—just a few stitches, but more than enough to convey character and emotion—as well as tiny landscapes painted on used teabags, the sepia tone lending the images an antique feel. There were old coins, some paper that had been folded many times and then smoothed flat, some found objects. It was an eclectic collection of tiny moments in art and incredibly charming.

  “I like it,” I said.

  “We should eat that ice cream before it melts,” she said, taking the bag from my hand.

  I followed her into the kitchen and watched as she collected bowls and spoons before prying the lid off the ice cream.

  “How many scoops?” she asked, glancing across at me as she reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

  There was something about the small nervous gesture and the careful way she was carrying herself and the shadows behind her eyes that made me want to cross the room and haul her into my arms.

  “Whatever a normal serving looks like, then double it,” I said, shamelessly trawling for laughs.

  “Maybe I should just take out what I want and you can eat yours right out of the carton?” she suggested.

  “Genius plan. Let’s do that,” I said.

  She smiled and shook her head, concentrating on scooping ice cream into the two bowls. While she was working, I walked to the sink to wash my hands and glanced out into the closed-in porch outside the window.

  “Hey, there’s a workshop out there,” I said, surprised. “It that yours?”

  “That’s where I do my leatherwork.”

  I frowned, because this was the first I’d heard about this.

  “What sort of things do you make?”

  “Bags, belts, shoes, and boots.” She put the lid back on the ice cream and then stashed it in the freezer.

  “Boots?” I asked, a little stunned by the continuing revelations. “As in objects people put on their feet and walk around in?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you mind if I...?” I gestured toward the doorway to the porch.

  “Sure. If you’re interested. But you don’t have to look just to be polite.”

  “Are you kidding me? I just found out I’m dating a cobbler. This is awesome.”

  I walked out onto the porch and surveyed the space. A large workbench ran the length of the rear wall, its surface bearing the scars of many years of hard labor. An industrial sewing machine was placed at one end, and a rack of tools marched neatly along the wall, the wooden handles stained with the patina of age. To the right was a tall shelving unit filled with large cardboard tubes, each filled with rolls of brightly colored leather.

  “Technically, a cobbler repairs shoes. I’m more of a cordwainer. But people don’t even know what that means anymore.”

  I glanced back to where Haley stood in the doorway, two bowls of ice cream in hand.

  “This isn’t a hobby.”

  “I have a shop on Etsy,” she said.

  “Can I see some of your work?”

  “I’m in between commissions at the moment, but I keep photos of all my pieces.”

  She approached the workbench and set down the ice cream before pulling a beat-up, old laptop from the shelf underneath. She flipped the screen up and clicked on a folder, and I stared in awe as she flicked through images of boots, satchels, belts, backpacks, saddle bags, vests... You name it, if it could be made out of leather, Haley had made it exquisitely. It was hard to take in all the little details as the images clicked past, but I saw enough to know she was a master of her craft.

  “How did you get so damn good at this?” I asked, blown away.

  “When I was growing up, the old man next door was a cordwainer. I was fascinated by what he did, and I used to hang around his workshop like a bad smell, asking too many questions. Eventually he started giving me jobs to do, to make myself useful. Honestly? I think he probably thought it would send me packing, but I loved it. This bench is his, and a lot of my tools. He gave them to me when he retired.”

  “Haley, these are amazing,” I said, staring at a pair of burnished oxblood-colored boots o
n the screen. “What do you call this detail with the little holes?”

  “Brogueing. The theory is that originally the holes were to help drain your shoes after you’d been walking in mud. Now it’s just decorative.”

  The work that must go into something like that, all the careful, well-thought-out details…

  "The ice cream is melting,” she said, picking up our bowls and taking a step toward the door. “It’s nicer in the living room.”

  I understood then that she was uncomfortable having me in her workspace, and intuited that she must spend a lot of time here alone, making beautiful, clever things with her hands.

  This was her inner sanctum, her bat cave.

  “No wonder you have such a firm grip,” I said as I followed her through the kitchen.

  She threw a startled look over her shoulder. “Do I?”

  “Not too strong, don’t worry. Just right,” I said.

  She blushed and laughed. “Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”

  We sat on the couch, and I tried not to get distracted by the way her skirt rode up when she crossed her legs. She passed my bowl over, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of our spoons clinking against our bowls.

  “I’m happy to listen, if you want to talk about whatever it is,” I said.

  Haley offered me a small smile. “Thanks, but it’s okay.”

  I tried to work out if this was one of those situations where I should push or not. It was hard to know, given the newness of our connection. She could be so open and vulnerable sometimes, but she was also self-contained and, it turned out, very private about certain things.

  Then I caught her frowning down into her bowl and suddenly it hit me why she’d rejected my offer.

  “If it’s about Jess, I can handle it,” I said.

  She stared at me. “How did you know?”

  “Family’s the one thing that can really fuck a person up. Plus, you were at your folks’ place tonight.”

  “Right.” She darted a look at me, and I could tell she was deciding whether to take me at my word or not.

  “Hit me with it. You know you want to,” I said.