Reunion in October (The Calendar Girls Book 2)

by Gina Ardito

  He seemed to relax again, and a smile tugged up his lips. “I remember we had to rent two buses to bring everyone out to school for the ceremony, then back here for the party afterwards.”

  I’d supplemented my college scholarships to pay for tuition by waitressing here. Naturally, most of my regular customers felt they then had an emotional attachment to see me graduate. Those who couldn’t make the trek to SUNY Stony Brook waited here to surprise me with a party that had lasted until the next day. Doing business as a luncheonette, Mama’s was generally open at five a.m. and closed by three p.m., seven days a week. On that particular weekend, even the influx of tourists who showed up the following morning for their normal breakfast fare didn’t dampen the celebration. In fact, at midnight, surrounded by everyone we knew and loved, Michael had first proposed to me, and I had accepted. Six weeks later, he’d proposed again—this time when it was just the two of us, at sunset on the beach, on bended knee, with a perfect pear solitaire.

  Recalling that now, I squirmed and fired up my brain to quickly change the topic. I so did not want to travel that particular path of Memory Lane. I glanced down at the menu again. “I think I’ll get the heart-healthy oatmeal. What about you?”

  Michael reached across the table and squeezed my fingers in his grasp. “I think you just remembered what happened here that night and don’t want to face it.”

  I pulled out of his clasp and busied myself dunking the teabag to steep the hot beverage. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just because I don’t want to talk about our engagement doesn’t mean I can’t face it. I don’t have any reason to feel ashamed. I’m not the one who changed course a month before the wedding.”

  He gripped the table edge and shot forward so his face was inches from mine. The table’s unsteady legs wobbled, spilling weak tea all over the placemat. “Don’t you get it yet? I had to change course.”

  I grabbed a fistful of napkins from the steel dispenser and mopped up the mess. “Why? I mean, honestly, Michael, of all the issues I had with your sudden announcement, what bothered me most was that you had to be planning that change for months—sending out your résumé, interviewing, meeting with headhunters—and you never said a word to me. To this day, I have no idea why you felt the need to leave and why you didn’t share that need with me before you got that Oregon offer.”

  “I couldn’t take living here anymore: the same people, the same conversations, the same routine day in and day out. It got to the point where I couldn’t breathe. I needed room to grow.”

  I admit his comment worried me. What exactly did he mean he couldn’t breathe? That he needed room? Room away from me? Had I stifled him? I bit my lip, but the words erupted from me anyway. “And now? Could you truly be happy living here now?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. For now. But are you going to freak out a year from now and run off again?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused and ripped open two sugar packets, pouring the contents into his tea. “Maybe. I mean, come on. Be honest. Don’t you ever get claustrophobic in this place?”

  “No.” My senses sharpened while my heart sank. He hadn’t changed. Thank God I hadn’t fallen for his phony I-still-love-you routine. “Why would I?”

  He waved the empty sugar packets toward the different diners around us. “How could you not? There are…what? Four hundred residents in this town? And you know them all? Every scar, every freckle?”

  Anxiety raised hackles on my nape, but I feigned nonchalance and sipped my tea. “You’ve been gone a while. There are over eight hundred residents now. And I’ve only come in contact with a small percentage of them at the E.R.”

  “Whatever,” he grumbled.

  Just then, Ruby popped her head between us. “You two ready to order?”

  “What’s the rush, Ruby?” Michael snapped, then gestured to the empty tables around them. “It’s not like there’s a crowd clamoring to take our spot. Can you give us five minutes? Jesus, what is it with this place? Bunch of yahoos and morons. The minute we get back to Oregon, I—”

  “Michael!” I shot to my feet, my chair screeching against the floor loud enough to pierce eardrums. That was when I realized everyone in the restaurant had been listening to our conversation with keen interest. As I glared at the onlookers, they quickly swerved back to facing the counter. All except Liz Harvey, who stared openly, a feral grin on her face. Ignoring her and everyone else but the players at my table, I turned to Ruby. “I’m sorry.” My hands shook with my rage as I yanked my jacket off the back of my chair and grabbed my purse. I fumbled inside for a ten dollar bill. “Obviously, I won’t be staying for breakfast after all. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  After pushing the ten into a startled Ruby’s hand, I shrugged into my jacket, then whirled on Michael. “I don’t know when you became such a pompous ass, but I want nothing more to do with you. Don’t call me, don’t send me anything. If we happen to run into each other on a sidewalk somewhere, pretend you don’t know me. I don’t care if I’ve just been hit by a bus. Leave me in the street and step over my broken body.”

  I didn’t even say goodbye. I simply strode away while the other customers burst into hoots of laughter and applause behind me. Outside, a light mist fell, cooling the heated flush in my cheeks and leveling my temper. Imagine that scum trying to pull one over on me. He had no intention of staying in Snug Harbor. His plan was to swoop in, marry me under false pretenses, then drag me back to Oregon with him. Too bad for him, I hadn’t fallen in with his plans so willingly.

  Of course, this rain put me at a disadvantage since Michael had driven me here. So now what? I looked around me, trying to regain my bearings. I bet I could’ve walked back inside and anyone in the place would have offered to drive me home—anyone but Liz Harvey. But I couldn’t call up the nerve to go back inside, to see Michael sitting there, to relive our conversation. So what could I do?

  Simple. My friend, Nia Wainwright, owned a gift shop two blocks away. I could walk over there and beg for a ride home or call a cab. Either way, I wasn’t going anywhere near Michael ever again. And if he knew what was good for him, he’d hop the first flight back to Oregon. Flipping up my collar, I ducked my head and headed for Nature’s Bounty at a breakneck pace. I wouldn’t give Michael the opportunity to catch up to me.

  When I pushed open the shop door a few wet minutes later, sleigh bells on the interior knob jingled. The scents of candles and nutmeg warmed me. Among the collections of seashells, Christmas ornaments, postcards, and gaily-painted hermit crabs, I felt my equilibrium rouse its sleepy head.

  Nia, her back to me while she stocked a shelf with delicate hand-blown glass art, began her usual spiel as she turned around. “Welcome to Nature’s—” She stopped when she spotted me, and her brow etched with concern over her hazel eyes. “Francesca? What’s wrong?”

  Okay, so my turmoil obviously showed. I pushed down my collar and sighed. “I needed to see a friendly face.” Friends since junior high, Nia, her twin, Paige, and I didn’t get to spend as much time together as we used to, but we were still close.

  “You came to the right place.” Arms open, she strode toward me. Topping me by about five inches, Nia enfolded me in a maternal embrace, despite my wet jacket. “What’s up, babycakes? What happened?”

  “Michael’s back,” I said into her apron-clad chest. My throat closed up around whatever else I wanted to say.

  “I heard.” She eased her hold and led me toward the stool she stowed behind the counter. “Come sit down. Are you okay?”

  I took a deep, shaky breath and fumbled for the stool. “No. I just told him off big-time and left him at Mama’s to the raucous cheers of the crowd.”

  Beside me, Nia leaned her elbows on the counter, sucked in a sharp breath, and winced. “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah, it was a disaster.”

  “Well, it’s just us right now.” She waved a hand at the empty store. “No customers on rainy October days. Not great for business, but
good for you. So, spill your guts. What’d you do?”

  I perched one butt cheek on the stool in case Michael showed up and I had to make a quick getaway through the rear entrance. Then I realized this new Michael probably wouldn’t even remember Nia, much less her store. He seemed more fixated on some kind of bizarre recovery mission: Operation Marry Francesca. Relaxing my stance, I began to give her a brief rundown of everything that had happened since the night I came home from my date with Josh to find my former fiancé in my house.

  She stopped me within the first three sentences. “Wait. Back up. You went out with Josh Candolero?”

  Oh, yeah. I forgot how long it had been since we talked. Nia knew nothing about Josh and me. I sighed. “I know. Ridiculous, right?”

  She pulled her strawberry blond hair into a ponytail with her fist, then let it fall behind her back in a tumble of rich curls. “No. Actually, it makes perfect sense.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s six years younger than I am.”

  She snorted. “Oh, please. When you’re eighteen and he’s twelve, that’s a major league issue. By the time you hit thirty-four, that gap narrows to a minor blip, and when you’re eighty-four and he’s seventy-eight, you’ll wonder what worried you fifty years ago.”

  No ready argument came to me. As usual, she made an excellent point. “Maybe. But Josh? He’s like my kid brother.”

  “Ohmigod, he is nothing like Frankie. And forgive me for saying this, but he’s nothing like Michael, either—which is a good thing, in my book. Michael didn’t deserve you five years ago; he deserves you even less now. Josh, on the other hand, is sexy as sin, hardworking, responsible, and one of the nicest guys in this town. He’s everything the other two clowns aren’t.”

  “You know what I mean,” I retorted. “I used to babysit him, for God’s sake.”

  “You also used to slather yourself in baby oil before lying out in the sun.” She shrugged and flashed an indulgent smile. “Live and learn, right? You grow up, your priorities change. ‘Used to’ doesn’t mean squat. What matters is ‘now.’ Does Josh make you happy right now?”

  I thought about that for a long time. “Yeah,” I said at last. “He really does.”

  She wrapped me in a hug and squeezed me tight enough to cut off my oxygen. “Then go for it. Nothing matters as much in life as having someone who makes you happy. Believe me, I know.”

  ****

  The E.R. was quiet when I arrived Wednesday night. Too quiet. If I’d wanted a quiet night, I could’ve stayed home and mentally kicked my butt for giving Michael the benefit of the doubt. I still couldn’t believe I’d almost fallen for his lame prodigal lover routine. After spending hours growing angrier and angrier at my stupidity, I came to work to lose my self-loathing in lacerations and ear infections.

  Fifteen minutes into my shift, I strolled into Examination Room Three to treat my first patient of the night. A young man—Jonathan Harris, age twenty according to his admission summary—sat on the edge of the exam table in blue boxers and white athletic low-cut socks. A raw, blistery rash ravaged his skin from ankles and calves to upper thighs. I took one brief glance at the fluid-filled bumps and knew instantly what was wrong. “You didn’t happen to take a walk through a patch of poison ivy, did you?”

  “Maybe,” he replied with a shrug. “I was playing Frisbee with some friends the other night and the damn thing sailed into the woods. It was dark, I couldn’t see…”

  “And you woke up with this rash all over your legs, right?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I knew what it was and I started doing the whole oatmeal bath and calamine lotion routine, but…” He stopped, looked over my shoulder, his body tensing as his fingers white-knuckled the exam table’s edge. “Is there a male doctor I could speak to?”

  I understood immediately and leveled a steady gaze on him, keeping my tone all-business. “The rash spread up a little farther, huh?”

  “Umm…yeah. Into my…umm…”

  I held up a hand. “Got it.” I could make a big deal about the fact that I was just as professional as any man, and if this were a simple case of poison ivy on his legs or face, I probably would. But I also knew how both men and women tended to be more uncomfortable around doctors of the opposite sex when it came to their, well, for lack of a better word, nether regions. “Would it be okay if I call the physician’s assistant to take care of you then? He’s more than qualified to treat your condition.”

  My patient relaxed and eased back on the table, resting his head against the padded top. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  I offered him a smile. “No problem. You’re uncomfortable enough right now. I don’t want to add to your stress.” I left the exam room and gave a nod to my P.A., Gerald Riordan. “Poison ivy on his legs and groin areas. He wants a male doctor.”

  Gerald nodded. “I’m on it.” Calling to a nurse for prednisone, he headed toward poor Mr. Harris’s room.

  Meanwhile, I moved on to Examination Room Four where Mrs. Spinelli had been brought in, complaining of stomach pains.

  “I think it’s probably indigestion,” the four-foot-ten, white-haired lady said when I stepped inside and introduced myself.

  Mmmm. Maybe. “Okay, let’s take a look, shall we?” I began the exam by palpating her abdomen. “Any back pain?”

  “Kinda wraparound,” she replied on a wince. “It starts here.” She placed a palm flat against her right side, directly under her rib cage. “And then it moves around to my baaaack.” The last word came out on an enormous belch, and Mrs. Spinelli jerked her hand from her side to her lips. “Oh, excuse me.”

  I gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Have you been burping a lot lately? Or have any issues with gas?”

  “God, yes! I’ve tooted so much in the last few hours, you’d think I swallowed Louis Armstrong whole.”

  My chuckles escaped before I could stop them.

  “You’re laughing,” she pointed out. “That must mean it’s not serious. Thank gawd.”

  I hesitated. “I want to run a few tests, get some lab work and an x-ray or two before I know for sure. Be prepared to sit tight, okay?

  She sighed. “Can’t you just prescribe an antacid and send me home?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure it’s that easy. But don’t be afraid. We’ll know more in a little while, I promise.”

  “Oh, I’m not frightened,” she told me. “I just don’t want have to listen to Vinnie say, ‘I told you so.’”

  I wrote up orders for a series of blood tests, including liver function, lipase, and a CBC—complete blood count. “Vinnie’s your husband?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Forty-six years now.”

  “How wonderful,” I said.

  The old lady tilted her head to peer at me with sharp eyes. “Are you married, Doctor?”

  I kept my focus pinned to her medical chart, adding an abdominal x-ray to my orders. “No, I’m not.”

  “I figured. You’re too smart. A woman doctor and all. Most men like their women dumb. Don’t play that game. Be picky. Hold out for someone who loves everything about you. Even the bad things.”

  “I didn’t know being smart was a bad thing.”

  “It isn’t,” she replied. “At least, it shouldn’t be. But I played dumb to catch Vinnie’s attention sixty years ago, and I’ve had to play dumb ever since. That’s why I hate when he says I told you so. Don’t make my mistake. I told all my daughters the same thing. In my day, if you weren’t married by the time you turned twenty-eight, you were an old maid. I was twenty-seven when I met Vinnie, and I panicked. I let him think I couldn’t make a decision without a man’s advice. Sure enough, we got married before my next birthday. The ruse won him over, but he still thinks I’d be lost without him when, really, the opposite is true. Vinnie can’t find two matching socks without me.”

  As I anticipated, Mrs. Spinelli had suffered an acute gall bladder attack. By the time I got her tests completed and her diagnosis in order, I knew all about her husband, Vinnie; thei
r three daughters; and her favorite baby of all, Thor, their Maltese. In return, she inquired about where I went to medical school, my favorite holiday, and my address for her Christmas card list. Just before she was wheeled upstairs to a semi-private room where a GI specialist would take over her care, she pointed a spindly finger at me. “I know who’d be perfect for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Spinelli, but I’m really not interested in dating anyone right now.”

  “Nonsense. You’re young and pretty. You should have a nice beau to take care of you, someone who makes you smile.”

  My mind instantly flashed on Josh, and I nodded. “Actually, I do have someone like that.”

  “Oh, good for you, sweetheart.”

  Chapter 12

  Emily

  Roy finally brought the kids to visit me on Thursday night. The minute they entered the room, Gabriella and Luke scrambled up onto the bed with me. Melissa slumped into the chair near the window, eyes glued to her cell phone. She was probably texting with Amanda. Corey hung back, near the sink, arms folded over his chest. Roy kissed my forehead, muttered something about giving me a little time with the kids, and slipped out faster than Jell-O through a colander.

  With my youngest two snuggled, one under each arm, I patted the bed’s edge. “Corey, come here.”

  He shook his head. “I’m okay.”

  From the bed beside me, my new roommate, Margie Spinelli, sat up and offered, “He can take the chair from my side. I have no one coming to visit tonight.”

  Margie had arrived late last night via the E.R. This morning, she’d had a full house of visitors, but now, hours later, she was alone. She, her husband, and all their friends were well in their seventies and afraid to drive after dark. During afternoon visiting hours, our room was crammed with the senior citizen crowd: a friendly, gregarious group who included lonely ol’ me in their conversations and jokes. After about three hours of socializing, they’d said their goodbyes and headed off to early bird dinners, followed by mah-jongg or arts and crafts class at their retirement community, leaving Margie alone again for the rest of the day and night.