by Jayne Denker
Amelia’s giggles turned to screaming squeals.
“Oops. That’s a bit much. Your mommies are still sleeping. How about some rice cereal? Some peaches?” George waggled the plastic spoon in front of her mouth. “Come on, kid—don’t make me do stupid airplane noises. Eat!”
Amelia squealed again, gave a mighty shove, and before George could react, the small plastic bowl of rice cereal was upside down on the linoleum.
“Gosh, you’re more like your bio-mother every day.” Impressed with herself, the little moppet squealed again. “Yeah, yeah. Good thing you’re cute.” George got up, grabbed a wad of paper towels and turned on the kitchen faucet. Nothing came out. Now she knew why Sera whacked it every time she used the sink. It wouldn’t pony up any water unless it was beaten awake. She gave the single handle a shove upward, this time with more success, and dampened the paper towels. “And good thing that pile of food on the floor isn’t making much of a difference in here. Do your mommies ever clean? I mean, like, ever?”
“You got a problem with our housekeeping skills?”
George glanced over her shoulder as she cleaned up the spill. Her sister leaned in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. George folded over the paper towels and wiped up the rest of the mess. “This place is filthy. Mom would have a heart attack.”
Sera stepped over George, avoiding the damp, newly clean spot on the floor revealing the linoleum to be cream with small blue flowers instead of tan, and kissed the top of her daughter’s head on her way to the coffee. “I don’t have time to keep this place pristine. It’s low on my list of priorities.”
“Tell it to the Health Department. They should be getting a whiff of this place and will probably show up any day now. Honestly, Sera, this is awful.”
George swept her hand around to indicate the gritty floor, cluttered countertops, spattered stove, and smudged front of the fridge. And the mess wasn’t confined to just the kitchen. She’d also found herself picking her way gingerly through the living room, hopscotching over clutter all over the floor; she was afraid of what might crawl out from behind the toilet if she sat there too long; and she could barely tolerate the state of her old bedroom, which looked like a good location for an upcoming episode of Storage Wars. There were so many cardboard boxes, plastic bags, and laundry baskets piled high with junk she’d thought she was at the bottom of a well when she’d first opened her eyes that morning.
“I’m pretty sure a sentient life form tried to communicate with me from the back of the microwave. God, to think of how clean Mom and Dad used to keep this place when we were little—”
“You mean how clean we used to keep this place.”
“Chores happen. So what is this, delayed rebellion? Are you getting back at Mom and Dad by refusing to ever clean the house again?”
“Of course not.” Sera sipped at her coffee, her eyes narrowing against the steam rising from the mug. “Have you forgotten I’m a potter?”
“How could I, when you remind me of it every five minutes? Doesn’t mean you have to bring your work home with you. Keep it in the garage. Hose yourself off in the driveway, if you have to.”
Sera grunted and turned away to make some toast. She pulled a couple of slices of bread out of the plastic sleeve, scattering crumbs on the counter. George knew they’d stay there unless she cleaned them up.
“You look awful,” Sera commented as she pushed down on the toaster handle.
“You didn’t tell me Amelia’s on European time.”
“What time did she wake up?”
“I couldn’t see the clock. It was dark.”
“Pre-dawn’s her favorite time of day.”
“And midnight. And two AM. And three-thirty . . .”
“Yeah, she’s not big on the whole ‘sleep’ thing. Didn’t I mention that?”
“You also didn’t tell me about the orange poop. Is that normal?”
“When she has sweet potatoes for dinner the night before, sure.”
“And how often does she eat those? I’m just trying to brace myself, here.”
“Pretty often; she needs the fiber.”
“Really? Because from what I saw this morning, I’d have to disagree with you.”
George picked up the box of rice cereal to make more, but Sera stopped her. “She’s kind of off rice cereal. Try some peanut butter toast—just cut it into strips she can pick up.”
“I’m surprised you’re not worried about peanut allergies.”
“Pfft. My kid can eat anything. Runs in the family, doesn’t it? After all, you and I used to eat mud.”
“And you still do.”
Sera actually smiled. Maybe, George thought, her sister’s behavior the previous day was just a rare mood. She hoped, anyway.
George stole one of the slices of toast when they popped up. “Well, I don’t care what you say. This place needs a cleaning—no, a scouring. No, a major disinfecting. Maybe with a flamethrower. I haven’t decided yet. Anyway, no arguing. Just go off to your studio and leave me and Amelia to it.”
“No bleach fumes around her.”
“How can you be so overprotective of your kid and yet let her live in squalor? It’s massively contradictory.”
Sera buttered the single slice of toast vigorously and tossed it onto a plate. “Stop judging, Georgiana.”
“I’m not judging, Serafina.” George always had an inkling their parents chose their multi-syllabic first names as if to compensate for the blandness of their last name. As much bang for the buck as possible, it seemed. In any case, they almost never used them unless they were in lecture mode, imitating their mother.
“Yes, you are.”
“Okay. I am. But only because you deserve it.”
Sera’s scowl reappeared. “Do you ever filter?”
“Not if I can help it.” George had spent too many years with Thom walking on eggshells, editing herself before speaking or acting; now delicacy was no longer in her repertoire—by choice.
“You’re going to make some lucky man really, really miserable someday.”
George put the toast strips in front of Amelia, then peeked in the broom closet. “How old is this mop? No, wait—don’t answer that. I think I recognize it from when I cleaned this kitchen when I was sixteen.”
“So go buy another one. Take Amelia. She loves to greet her public from her stroller.”
“You’d let me out of the house alone? With the baby? On my first day?”
“Hm. Good point. Let me take some breakfast up to Jaz and put some clothes on. I’ll go with you.”
“Morning, Casey.”
“Hi, Ray.”
“How’s things?”
Casey started to answer, but then realized Ray wasn’t really listening. Instead, his glance was darting between his customer and his lone print shop employee. Celia blushed, and Casey felt his face grow warm as well. God, he hated this. He was going to have to look into taking his business elsewhere, probably online, since Ray’s was the only copy and print place in town. For now, he attempted a smile that was friendly but not fraught with meaning, no matter how hard Ray was trying to find one.
“Things are fine, Ray. Morning, Celia.”
She mouthed “Morning” back, silently, then ducked her head, returning her attention to the computer in front of her, so all he could see of her was the straight part in her brown hair, a glint of light sparking off the hair clip at the back of her head.
Casey returned his attention to the man behind the counter. “So Ray, those brochures—”
“Holy moly, look at the time. I’ve got to . . . uh . . . Hey, you don’t mind if I turn you over to Celia, do you? She can help you out.”
Ray’s lack of acting talent was legendary. When he was in the Marsden Community Players’ off-season production of Death of a Salesman, he got pity ovations simply for persevering. But right now Casey wasn’t inclined to cut him any slack. “Come on, man, it’ll only take a minute—”
“Yep! Celia’s free. Me, I’ve
gotta go. Have a good one, Casey.”
Casey growled low in his throat and ran his fingers through his dark hair, making it more unruly and spiky than it had been already. Then he straightened up and put on a smile for Celia. It wouldn’t be very polite if he implied he didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t mind, really. It was just all the expectations from everyone else, who seemed to be watching them. All the time. Everywhere. Ever since Celia’s divorce, he’d found it easier to just avoid her and not give the neighbors something to whisper about behind their hands.
“Sorry about that,” she murmured, getting up from her desk and approaching the counter.
“Not your fault. How’ve you been?”
“Good.”
He nodded. “Sure?”
Her small smile broadened a little. “Yes, positive. I’m . . . you know. Getting used to things.”
Casey kept nodding. He was sure he looked like those bobble-headed dogs in the back window of an old car, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “Well, good, then. Good.”
“So. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if those brochures had come in yet.”
She shook her head. “Not yet. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I don’t really need them right now. I was just . . . in the neighborhood.”
Ray stuck his head out of the back room, where he’d obviously been eavesdropping. “Well, you know, Casey, you don’t need a reason to stop by. You’re welcome anytime.”
“I thought you were busy, Ray.”
“Right! Right. I am. Busy, busy. Carry on.” And he disappeared again.
Celia and Casey exchanged bug-eyed looks, and Celia started laughing.
“Stop that,” Casey said. “Ray will spread it all over town.”
“Oh my God, Casey and Celia were seen sharing a joke. Wedding’s next Tuesday!” Celia studied him. “I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Don’t be. I’ve committed the unforgivable crime of being thirty-something and still single. And now you are too. So of course—”
“Doesn’t help that we have a history. Ancient history, but still.” And she blushed again, a flush of pink creeping ever so daintily over her cheekbones.
“No pressure or anything, right?”
“None at all.” Then Celia took a breath and grew more serious. “I just . . . I just want you to know none of this is coming from me.”
“Of course not.”
“I mean, the ink isn’t even dry on the divorce papers. I’m not interested in finding a replacement for Matt. I just need to . . . take a breath, you know?”
“That’s way too sensible.”
“It doesn’t make for good drama, I’ll admit. But maybe I won’t be in the spotlight for much longer.” She smiled down at the counter and busied herself brushing off some nonexistent dust. “Not with George back in town.”
Again with the flippy stomach. And this time Casey couldn’t put it down to Nora’s dicey meatloaf. “I heard.”
“Maybe she’ll take the pressure off me. I mean, a freshly minted divorcée is nothing compared to a prodigal daughter returned.”
“You may be right. I hope so, for your sake.” And mine, he added silently. He was pretty tired of people trying to cram him and Celia back together after this many years. Nice as she was, he wasn’t remotely interested, and he was sure she wasn’t, either.
“Have you seen George yet?”
Casey’s entire insides scrambled. “Me? Why would I?” What was Celia talking about? What did she know? Had he talked in his sleep when they were together? Had she known all along?
Celia shrugged. “Just curious. She and Sera went by a little earlier this morning, taking Amelia for a walk.”
“Oh.” So Celia wasn’t insinuating anything or trying to drag information out of him. She was just making conversation. “No, I haven’t.”
“She looks really good.”
“Oh,” he said again, flatly. “Good.” Time to change the subject. “Hey, look, I’ve been meaning to say . . . if you ever need anything . . .”
“Thanks. I appreciate it, but I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. But you’re a good friend, Casey.”
“Always. Remember that, okay?”
“I will.”
“Weeeelll, look who’s here!”
George smiled gamely as she navigated Amelia’s monster stroller through the front door of the deli. Just as she had been doing all morning, Sera designated herself point person—marching into each establishment in town ahead of George, greeting each proprietor by name and leaving her sister to wrestle with the stubbornly misbehaving chariot carrying the short one. Just as Sera had predicted, Amelia acted like a member of royalty out greeting her subjects. Unruffled—mellow, even—she watched her auntie with interest from her comfy seat as George swore under her breath, propped the door open, and tried to force all six wheels—each with a mind of its own, inclined to go in a completely different direction from the others—to heel and make it over the threshold.
George was tired, irritated, frustrated, more than a little sweaty, and definitely ready to go home, but Sera had other ideas. On the walk to the commercial district, she’d announced she had “a few errands to run.” That meant schlepping into and out of shops, the bank, the post office, and the coffee place—to satisfy Sera’s sudden craving for a frozen mochaccino—until they’d racked up way more than “a few” visits to the local establishments. George quickly figured out Sera ginned up the errands as an excuse to show the neighbors her long-lost sister was indeed in town, which guaranteed the Down family would dominate the gossip cycle for a fair amount of time.
They’d been making the rounds for about an hour and a half, and no matter how frequently George grumbled that she wanted to get back to the house, Sera ignored her. She wasn’t finished, she said. And they hadn’t even bought the damned mop yet.
This latest stop, according to Sera, was to pick up some food for lunch. Why they couldn’t get food at the market while they bought the cleaning supplies, George had no idea. What she did know was it meant she had to endure another round of Twenty Questions, this time from the shiny-faced Lorenzo D’Annunzio behind the counter. George had always liked Mr. D’Annunzio, but she knew the same questions were coming up any minute now, and she dreaded it. Where ya been, George? How’s Boston treatin’ ya? (This was usually followed by a jolly recitation of “Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd” because, really, at what other time would anyone be able to trot that out?) No place like home, right? Quite often she’d get the dreaded Married? Kids? And when she answered in the negative, she had to endure a pitying look and the follow-up Ah well. You’re still young. The “-ish” was implied. Usually, though, the conversation would take a more pleasant turn with a question she didn’t mind: Your niece sure is a cutie, isn’t she? That one, at least, George could answer with enthusiasm and sincerity. Because yes, her niece certainly was.
But the rest of the chitchat? Getting tiresome. And yet it was inevitable.
“Good to see you, Georgiana.”
“Good to see you too, Mr. D’Annunzio.”
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Oh yeah—she’d forgotten that one.
“Sure has.”
“How’s Boston treating you?”
Ah, back on track.
“Good, thanks. Nice to be able to visit, though. Yes, sure is nice to see everybody again. And the town looks great. Yep, Sera and Jaz have been taking good care of me. Nope, not sure how long I’ll be staying—until Amelia gets tired of me, I guess. And yep, she sure is a cutie patootie.”
Mr. D’Annunzio stared at her and went a little pinker.
Sera gaped. “George! Could you be any more rude?”
“Just getting the preliminaries out of the way—thought I’d spare Mr. D’Annunzio having to ask all the usual questions. Right, Mr. D?”
Mr. D’Annunzio remained speechless. After a moment he recovered enou
gh to extend a hand over the deli case, with a slice of meat proffered like he was appeasing a wild animal. “Try some honey ham?”
“Good God, George! What is the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you?” George snapped as she wrestled the stroller back out of the deli and followed her sister down the sidewalk.
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh gee, I don’t know—maybe the fact that you’ve been dragging me all over town all morning, showing me off like some sort of trained poodle.”
“I prefer dancing show pony.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t say shut up in front of Amelia.”
George trotted double time to keep up with Sera, who could stride along at a faster clip, unencumbered by the monster stroller. “She isn’t even paying attention.” Suddenly uncertain, George took a peek at her niece through the clear-plastic peephole in the canopy over Amelia’s head; sure enough, she was looking around placidly, sucking on her bottle, not a care in the world.
“Babies absorb everything. They’re like little sponges.”
“Yeah, speaking of sponges—when are we going to get what we came here for?”
Sera let out a heavy, put-upon sigh. “I suppose. It’s almost time for her nap anyway—we should get her back home.”
“I assume she doesn’t take to napping well,” George said, taking another peek at the baby, who was still fresh as a daisy and alert as anything.
“She does need convincing, most days. But maybe the fresh air will help knock her out.”
Amelia twisted around and tipped her head up, smiling at George around the nipple of the bottle. “Doubt it,” George muttered, then groaned. Sera had stopped again, gazing into the window of a shop that most definitely was not Marsden Mercantile. “Come on, can’t we just—”
Then George looked at the window display as well. It was filled with samples of Sera’s pottery. She would have known it anywhere: earth tones livened up with unexpected splashes of brilliant color, mosaic-like bits of jeweled tiles, thick glazes, leaf and twig imprints, and winged creatures—Sera’s signature motif—dragonflies, butterflies, honeybees, hummingbirds.