by Jayne Denker
Then he says, while still staring at his computer, "So my little girl's famous."
"For all the wrong reasons," I groan.
"Now, now. I hear any publicity is good publicity."
"Tell that to the residents of Abbott's Bay."
"True. It didn't play in Peoria."
"I have no idea what that means."
"It means," he says, finally swiveling his chair around to face me, "while most of the audience probably enjoyed your anecdotes as much as your interviewer did…who was that, again?"
"Trudy Helmet-Head."
"Stage name?"
"Something like that."
"Anyway, while the rest of America may have been entertained, your neighbors didn't take kindly to being outed on live TV."
"I helped all the people I talked about."
"Not Laura. Not yet."
"How do you hear all these things, old man?"
"I have my finger on the pulse of this town and you know it," he says with a wink. "I know things, my daughter. Many things."
I sit up and brush back my hair. "I've probably ruined your chances for re-election with all this…this…notoriety, haven't I?"
Dad joins me on the couch. "Oh, don't be silly." He puts his arm around me, and I rest my head on his shoulder. "You're not that important."
"Charles!" I swat at his chest, but he just holds me to him.
"As you're so quick to remind me, I'm running unopposed, I'm the incumbent, and people love me. I'm a shoo-in. Don't worry about me."
"Well, I do."
"Just…get yourself straight, all right?"
I think about Hannah hiding from me, the glares from my neighbors, and, worst of all, Conn's flinty eyes when he blasted me about my TV appearance. What if there's no coming back from this?
"How about you start with Laura?" Dad suggests, nodding toward the outer office. I follow his gaze, only to see the woman in question look up from her work, lock eyes with me, and…grab her things and rush out of the office.
I deserve this. "All right," I sigh. "One makeover, coming up. She'll be my biggest challenge and my greatest success."
"She doesn't want a makeover."
"She should." My father waits for me to locate my manners. "Sorry. I mean…she doesn't?"
"No. She needs someone to go with her to visit her grandmother, who's in a nursing home in Lowell. She's not doing so well, and Laura is finding it difficult to go by herself. Her grandmother raised her, and she's really emotional about this. She, well, needs a friend. For support."
"Oh."
I do believe I've made it to the final round of the Worst Person in the World contest.
* * *
After a restless night, I get up bright and early and head to work, solely to find Laura. She's not there—Maude tells me she's taken a day off—and isn't at home either. I try her cell, but she's not answering. She's always a ghost at the best of times. Now, when she wants to avoid me, she's patently invisible. I decide to check her favorite places around town…but I don't know what they are. The tea shop? She seems like a tea drinker. The yarn store? I assume she was the one who knitted that god-awful doggie hat, but I could be entirely wrong. What if she likes fencing, or paintball, and I just don't know it? Confounded, I stand in the middle of the street, hands on my hips, as I realize I don't know much about Laura at all.
I wonder if I should dare to enter Deep Brew C. Would Conn be there? Most likely. Would he throw me out? Not bodily, but his laser glare might cut me off at the knees. I have to chance it though.
The place is fairly busy for late morning. One of the local churches' prayer groups is taking up a pair of tables, exchanging pleasantries with a small but raucous knot of senior citizen ladies noshing on muffins, apparently fresh from their Zumba class, judging by their colorful workout gear. But no Laura. Then I notice a familiar face at a table in the back.
"Hey, Hannah." My voice is shaky.
She looks up, surprised, as does her companion—a pleasant-looking guy I recognize from the dozens of photos she's shown me over the past few months.
"You must be Marty."
He half rises from his chair and shakes the hand I hold out. "And you're Melanie. I've heard a lot about you."
"Likewise."
Average-looking, with a round face, overlong sideburns, and a shock of unruly brown hair, Marty Roberts would hardly stand out in a crowd. But Hannah looks at him like he's the most perfect man in the world, so I stop myself from writing him off as unremarkable. Superficial snap judgments have gotten me into a lot of trouble lately, after all.
"Hannah didn't tell me you were visiting. When did you get in?"
"Monday."
"May I sit?"
Hannah hesitates, but Marty gets up and brings over a chair from a nearby table. "Please join us. I'm really excited to finally be talking to the famous Melanie Abbott."
Marty realizes his poor choice of words but isn't sure how to recover.
"Famous, infamous," I demur with a smile. It's all awful, I want to add, but I don't.
"I got your message," Hannah says tentatively, turning to me with that deer-in-the-headlight look I haven't seen in a long time. "I was going to call you, but I've been a little—"
"Of course you've been busy, with Marty visiting. I understand. So, Marty," I venture gamely, feeling all-over awkward, "Are you going to take our Hannah back to Ohio with you now that the summer's over?"
"Well, that's the question. She really likes it here, and I can see why. It's a great town." He takes Hannah's hand again, rubbing his thumb along hers, gently. "But it's up to her." An entire conversation is exchanged in their looks, their smiles, and I start to understand what Hannah's been on about all summer.
"I'll go wherever Marty is," Hannah says.
Her bags are probably already packed, and it hurts my heart. People are always leaving. I thought I was used to it. I'm not.
Marty says to Hannah, "It doesn't have to be Ohio, you know. You can pick the place. There are jobs for me everywhere these days."
"What do you do?" I ask him, desperate to get out of my own head and make proper small talk.
"Organics. Right now I'm running a co-op, but I've done farm to table—"
"You're a farmer?"
"Distribution, mostly. I've got to admit, I'm really impressed with how many sustainable, zero-waste food places there are around here."
"This restaurant is one, did you know that?"
"This restaurant is what?"
I jump at the sound of Conn's voice behind me. It's not harsh, not cold—not like the last time I saw him, which is encouraging. I give him a wavering smile.
"Farm to table and sustainability," I tell him. "Marty here does…distribution of organic crops."
While Marty and Conn get acquainted, I look at Hannah and try to silently send her a message: I'm so sorry. I can't tell if she picks up on it or not. I interrupt the men's excited conversation about produce suppliers and co-ops and certified organic farms when I notice a duffel bag at Conn's feet.
"Going somewhere?"
"Yeah. I'm going back to Provincetown."
"More properties?"
"Taylor says a couple just came on the market I have to see. She's even got a meeting lined up with one seller's agent tomorrow. She's convinced this is the perfect place and I'm going to want to put in an offer right away."
God, our conversation sounds so stilted. It's excruciating. The only way out of this is through, but now is not the time to hash it out with him. So I say, "What about Harvey? Would you like me to check on him?"
"He's fine. I've got it covered." Belatedly, he adds, "Thanks anyway."
"Well then." I stand up, suddenly desperate for some air. "Drive safely." As I step away from the table, I kiss him on the cheek, and he lets me. So that's something. I even dare to make a joke. "Watch out for Taylor. She's got a thing for your ass." I wink at him, say goodbye to Marty and Hannah, and escape into the sunshine.
CH
APTER THIRTY-TWO
I don't know how to fix this. Any of this. My fight with Conn, yes, but also all the other relationships I've damaged. My heart is aching. I don't even call Taylor for one of her what-do-they-know pep talks. I don't deserve one. Something is fundamentally wrong with me, with what I've been doing—namely, coasting through life. So far nothing's touched me. Sure, there were some rough times when my mother left, but since then I've had a pretty good life, one that's lulled me into a certain complacency that's given rise to a dangerous cockiness. At other people's expense sometimes. Okay, often. I can ignore it most of the time…until it comes back to bite me in the butt, like now.
I mean literally—or, rather, journalistically. I'm the featured Bite on the Bottom in this week's edition of the Abbott's Bay Bugle.
"Oh, just what I need," I mutter aloud, even though I'm alone in my apartment. "Go ahead. Kick a girl when she's down." I shake out the paper and fold it back. "'Abbott's Bay's golden child has a tarnished crown…' Nice and subtle. 'Tainted by her brush with fame and fortune…' Good lord. 'And taking her friends down with her.' Blah, blah, and blah."
I don't usually throw things, but this time I take some satisfaction in launching the newspaper across the room. Its pages unfurl and flutter all over, shrouding my furniture in crappy journalism and subpar photography. I want to leave it there, but I'm tidy by nature, so I immediately pick up all the loose pages. Unable to resist, I read my blind item again with disgust. Then I read the next one. It starts with yet another reference to "lovebirds," but this time I don't think it's about me and Conn, as it goes on to talk about "a hot couple cooking up something good" but the "soufflé collapsed almost as quickly as it had been made." Though the wording is ham-handed, as usual, the Bite sends a chill through me. What if…
I'm on the phone immediately. "Beebs? Tell me it's not true. About you and Ornette."
There's a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "Melanie, it's kind of busy here—"
"Please. I have a vested interest in this. Are you and Ornette over already?"
Another sigh then silence. After a moment he says quietly, "It's no big deal. Sometimes things don't work out."
I groan. It is a big deal. I told Ornette he had nothing to worry about if he dated Beebs. I could have sworn they'd make the perfect couple. "It goes to show you…nobody should listen to me. Ever. Now or in the future. My advice is crap, my instinct blows—"
"Melanie."
"What?"
"It's not about you. Okay?"
Oh God, he's right. Beebs and Ornette are both probably hurting and embarrassed and they have to work together, and here I am, making it all about me.
"I'm sorry, Beebs. Really." At this point, I normally would have continued, "Let me fix it—trust me." But they shouldn't trust me. I sure don't. So I hang up and keep to myself.
By late afternoon I'm climbing the walls. I have nothing to do. I don't even have any New Best Friend clients to check in with, but I'm fine with that. The way I feel right now, I'm ready to let this thing die a quiet death, before I ruin anybody else's life.
As for people to talk to…I'm dry. Taylor and Conn are real estate shopping on the Cape. Hannah's with Marty. My father is in Boston for the day with the Garveys. I've got no one. Heart hollow, I bundle up against the new cooler weather and go for a walk. I can do one good thing without screwing it up: check on Harvey. No matter whom Conn employed to look in on the cat, it couldn't hurt to be a backup.
Trudging around the bend in the coastal road, I'm hit with a new sight that sends me reeling: an Abbott Realty "for sale" sign stuck in the strip of grass at the edge of the Garvey property. With Laura's name, photo, and contact information in the slot on top.
Serves me right.
When I let myself in with Conn's hidden key—now secreted on top of the doorframe instead of hidden in the ceramic frog—I can tell an agent has been here. The place is spruced up with new curtains, a slipcover hiding the sofa's worst sins, different artwork on the walls, new decorative items set out on the tables, family photos put away. The Picture Hook of Doom has been removed and the nail hole patched. It feels as though the house is already gone, no longer a part of the Garveys' history. And, by association, no longer a part of mine.
Well, there's still Harvey. I call for him, but he doesn't appear right away. When I tap on a can of cat food, however, he materializes behind me. I wonder where his hiding place is. If Laura's shown the house while Conn's been gone, strangers tromping through here may have upset him. They certainly would upset me. I dish out his food and pick the deposits out of his litter box. When he's done with his post-meal bathing, I scoop him up for a cuddle.
"Oh, Harvey, this is something, isn't it?" I sigh as I drop into Conn's recliner, putting the cat on my lap and scratching the spot he can't reach at the base of his tail. He sticks his butt up higher, encouraging me to continue. "We can't move you from this house. You're too set in your ways to get used to a new place now. You tell Conn this is unacceptable, all right?"
I'm so busy chatting with the cat, who's rewarding me with head butts to my chin, leaving a couple of fine gray hairs stuck to my lip gloss, that I don't hear the door open at first. I do, however, hear a surprised squeak in the kitchen.
"Laura?"
"H-hi, Melanie." She closes the door behind her, awkwardly, because she's carrying a couple of shopping bags, which she deposits on the counter. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on Harvey," I say. "You know—so he won't be lonely." It's at this moment, of course, that the cat abandons me as if to prove he doesn't actually need me around. "Congratulations on getting the listing. It's…really great."
She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "It's a nice house."
"It is." And I mean it. For all the grief I give Conn about how ugly it is, deep down I don't think it's so bad. "I like what you've done with the staging."
"Thanks."
Laura puts apples and oranges in the fridge, leaving some spices on the counter. I know what they're there for.
"When's the open house?"
She'll simmer them in a pot on the stove to make the place smell nice—homier and more inviting—to entice total strangers to imagine living here.
"Pretty soon. Conn says he wants to sell fast, even at a loss."
Well, that would be stupid. He could get top dollar. It's not up to me though. I gave up the right to express my opinion when I refused to take the listing. I cross the room and lean on the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. Toying with the ribbon tying the bundle of cinnamon sticks together, I mumble, "Hey, Laura?"
"Yep?"
"I want to say I'm sorry. About what I said on TV." I want to add that I didn't mean it, but the problem is…I did.
She turns to me, pushing her glasses up her nose and blowing her bangs out of the way. I force myself to look straight into her eyes. I've never really done that before. They're large and very dark brown. Pretty, really. Her hair is thick and shiny as well. She's nowhere near as hopeless, style wise, as I make her out to be. And if she wants to be…eccentric…who am I to decide she shouldn't be? At least she's unique. Unapologetically so.
She's also nice enough to say, "It's okay. I understand."
"Let me make it up to you. My dad told me what you need a friend for, and I'd be honored to visit your grandmother with you. If you still want me to."
"You don't have to."
"I wouldn't dream of making you go alone. I wish we'd known each other better before this, so you would have felt comfortable asking me to go as a real friend, instead of hiring me. When are you going next?"
"I…I don't know."
I realize I'm pushing a little too hard, so I table the discussion and offer to help her place the additional art prints, scented candles, and antique candy dishes she's brought around the living room. We talk shop a little bit, and by the time we're done I feel lighter, almost hopeful.
And then I run into Petey and his girlfriend at Henr
y's market. He spots me first, although I try to hide behind a display of tall, gorgeous bottles of gourmet infused oils. Petey makes sure I get a good look at his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, even if they are distorted by cut glass and truffle oil. Then he puts his arm around Bait Shop Girl defiantly. Hey, buddy, I think, you wouldn't have your Bait Shop Girl if you hadn't come to me in the first place.
I understand where he's coming from though. I helped him achieve his goal, but I had no right to make fun of him afterward. Gathering what's left of my confidence, I force myself to approach him.
"Petey, hey."
He starts to turn away, but Bait Shop Girl clutches at his shirt, keeping him there.
"Hi," I say to her. She seems more receptive than Petey. "I'm—"
"Melanie. I know. I'm Caroline."
I wonder if Petey told her I helped him woo her. I don't ask, just shake her hand, smile briefly, and say to Petey, "Um, look…what I said on TV the other day? It was…wrong. I want to apologize."
He shrugs. "It doesn't matter," he says blankly.
"It doesn't?" Finally, someone who understands me! And it's Petey Fagle, of all people! Relief washes over me.
Until he adds, "I'm used to it. You've been like this your whole life. You were like this back in school."
My eager smile fades in an instant. "Oh. Right." Conn can give me grief about my teenage reign of terror with Taylor, and I can refute it every time he brings it up, but Petey experienced it firsthand. I can't deny it in front of him. Which, of course, confirms that Conn was right. I'm starting to get used to his being right about pretty much everything. "Well, I still want to apologize. Although I don't expect you to forgive me or anything." He stares at me longer, and with an even blanker expression, if that's at all possible. I glance around the store and then desperately grab a bouquet of sunflowers and other colorful late-summer blossoms. "Anyway, I hope you'll accept these as part of my apology."
"What am I supposed to do with flowers?" he asks as I shove them at his chest.