Saying Yes to the Mess

by M. Kate Quinn

  He offered a smile but figured if he engaged these kids any longer, he’d never get out of Jo-Jo’s. He cast his gaze to give the feisty woman another glance, but she was gone.

  ****

  Rylee trudged from the coffee shop, the frigid air biting her face. She hoped it would help lower her blood pressure because she felt like a percolator ready to boil over. She was mad but not really sure where to direct the fierce feeling. That poor guy at the coffee shop, the young barista, Corey, with the scared-looking eyes, was probably traumatized for having had to deal with her.

  And Darius—who’s named Darius anyway?—with his pirate face and Superman hair, with that look in his black eyes. She’d felt a zoom when she was close to him, enough of a zap of heat in her veins to convince herself she wasn’t crazy that such chemistry existed. Her chemistry was still popping like kernels of corn over an open flame. Such a dichotomy of feelings, wishing she’d never laid eyes on the guy because of the utter embarrassment of the situation, yet wanting to be near him again just to feel the popcorn popping in her bloodstream.

  It was like that time when she’d ridden the biggest roller coaster at Six Flags, and the entire sixty seconds had been hell, and she’d chanted to herself during that too-long minute that she’d never ever get on that thing again. And when it was over she’d missed the rush so much, she got on the stupid ride again and screamed again and vowed again only to do it three more times. She was a glutton for her own punishment.

  When she got to her mother and stepfather’s house, she paused before going in. This was such a bad birthday. Thank God this night was over. She couldn’t take another minute of it. With a deep breath, the vapor wafting out into the cold night, she plodded up the front steps and entered the house.

  The lights were on in the living room, and her mother, Angie, sat on the sofa. Sonny, Rylee’s favorite stepfather, was seated beside her, pressed so close they were squeezed onto one cushion. Her mother’s eyes were glassy, foreign, staring. She fixed her gaze on Rylee.

  “Mom?” Rylee’s heart clicked in her chest. “What’s going on?”

  “Rosie’s dead.”

  Chapter Six

  On the train ride home, Darius was tempted not to answer the phone when he saw it was Jake calling, but with all that was going on with Wirth More, he had no choice.

  “Jake, hi.”

  “Everything okay with your father?” Jake asked.

  Darius didn’t miss the tapping sound of Jake’s fingers working his keyboard. The man’s attention was really there, not with Pop’s condition. He was a bullshit aficionado, but the guy was slick, and he was smart, and he was the boss.

  “Eh.” Darius leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “Might have to find a new facility. The one he’s in is too much money.”

  “But you said you like that place, right? They play games with him and stuff, right?”

  “Yeah, they do.” One day he’d walked into his father’s room to find two nursing assistants playing Uno with Pop, the two ladies perched at the end of his bed, the cards strewn across the bedclothes. They’d been doing their damnedest to get Pop to engage.

  “In order for him to stay at the Memory Center, I’m going to have to win the lottery.”

  Jake snorted into Darius’s ear. “Or find the ideal business for our show. Pronto.”

  “Yeah, or that.”

  ****

  Sipping from a water bottle, Darius gazed out his kitchen window. He was glad to be home. His was a corner unit, and being on the top floor, his terrace was the largest. This was one hell of a place, right at the water’s edge, the vista of city and watercraft zipping over the Hudson, the water inky-black tonight, there for the viewing. He couldn’t help but feel that satisfaction whenever the topic of this place came up with Jake. It burned his ass that Darius had bought it. But how was he supposed to know Jake was serious about the unit when it went up for sale? Even back to the days when the two friends had been roomies in college, Jake was always talking smack, offering up what his intentions were, and quite often it was all lip service. So Forty-Four Frank Sinatra Boulevard, the top floor, unit 6D, was the place Darius called home.

  He stood at the granite counter and thought about the woman in Jo-Jo’s Java House tonight. He tended to critique everything and everyone, categorizing his way through life. The woman at Jo-Jo’s definitely went into the curious category. He was curious about her, and damned if he knew why. She wasn’t all too remarkable looking except for her eyes, almond-shaped and fringed with long lashes. Cat eyes. She was medium height, and even in that shroud of a coat, he suspected she had some decent curves, not skinny by any means.

  He hated skinny women with stick legs in their skintight denim leggings. He liked women with a little meat on them, some female contours. He attributed his penchant to his Spanish blood. His Spanish side liked curves. The woman had been disheveled with her dark brown hair askew and trailing down her back in a zigzag, as though she’d just gotten out of bed. But somehow he recognized something in her that pricked at his insides.

  The large almond-shaped orbs the color of springtime were definitely feline. She was feline. What was it, though? Why, with all that he had to think about with the show and his father, did she occupy his mind tonight?

  Maybe it was the way she’d said “please.” Said it twice. As if she couldn’t take one more thing to not go her way. He had an instinct about people, which made him so good at what he did. He was able to tell when a business was worth rescuing, when the owners had their heart in their establishment, and when they didn’t. And, yeah, it was time to get to work.

  He moved away from the window, taking his water bottle with him as he padded into the living room and sat on the sofa. His gaze went to the painting above the fireplace, the oil of a woman seated at the end of a large white tufted settee. The woman was Spanish, with dark hair and eyes, tan skin. She wore a midnight-blue dress that draped in folds. Her eyes implored you to look at her, as though she were saying the words “Look at me.”

  She resembled his mother so distinctly that staring at the painting always caused a hitch in his chest. Uncannily, this Mabel Alvarez original was named Arabella in Repose. Mom’s name. Mom had been an art lover, and she’d been fascinated by Alvarez’s portraits, particularly after she’d learned that the artist’s favorite model had been a woman with her name.

  Tonight Darius was reminded again of his father’s story about the painting—a legacy, actually—and how the old guy had always attributed his good fortune of marrying the lovely Arabella Vega to his purchasing this painting. Cost him everything he had too. Now that original oil was worth a ton, according to a New York art collector who periodically touched base inquiring if he’d consider selling it. But, no. This piece of art was a piece of his heritage, his parents’ story. Yeah, hearing the tale so many times annoyed him, but the history mollified him enough to keep his trap shut about it.

  He pulled a thick file onto his lap and removed the elastic cinch. Lifting his laptop lid, he concentrated on the possibility of losing his job. He had no choice but to do what Parker Paper wanted and find some business that appealed more to women, some place where he could work his magic. He and the team weren’t miracle workers, and the show’s format was reality. But the ten-thousand dollars the show gave to a selected business to be used for refurbishment and marketing would certainly help somebody. The owners had to be willing to be bombarded in their day-to-day existences, tolerate a camera crew following them around like insects on a picnic blanket, capturing every move, every smile, and every tear. And the magic of the digital cutting room and the production people would turn a crazy amount of footage into one two-hour episode of Wirth More. All Darius had to do was find the right place.

  After he did, he and Jake would need to pitch their selection to Parker Paper. This was what he needed to concentrate on at the moment, although bits and pieces of his meeting at The Memory Center knocked on the walls of his brain. He couldn’t even wrap h
is head around what was going to happen to Pop.

  He’d do some research on state-run places, check with his financial advisor to see if he had some liquid assets he could use to pay for a little more time for his father to stay at The Center until they found a suitable new place.

  For now his job was his focus. A random thought appeared in his head, though. The girl in the coffee shop, her face coming to mind again. Her petulant lip, her daring gaze. That was it. She with no money, a coat ten sizes too big, and a chin jutting up at him—she wasn’t about to let her circumstance, whatever it was, swallow her. The same idea that occurred to him then came to mind now. That girl had not been wigged out about coffee. And whatever it was, he got the distinct feeling she was not going to let it get her. Tenacity. She had tenacity. And when it came to his need for a brilliant idea, so did he.

  He went through some of the prospects Jake provided, turning page after page of businesses everywhere from a bakery in Concord, Massachusetts, to an ice cream shop in Bethany Beach, Delaware. There was no way in hell he could take the time to be that far away from his father’s situation. No. He’d find something closer to home. He tabbed through images on his laptop, perusing establishments of downtown Sycamore River. Darius hoped to find gold.

  Chapter Seven

  The funeral was on Friday, and nearly the entire town of Sycamore River had shown up for Rosie Mandanello’s send-off. The past few days had been a flurry of activity, talking to the man with the creepy smile at the funeral home, making arrangements with the minister at Saint Cecilia’s Church.

  Rylee had taken it upon herself to inform the employees of Rosie’s Bridals, with Kit immediately stepping into action to help with contacting clients whose orders were pending. News travelled fast in their small town, and when word got out that Rosie had died, the frantic calls from brides-to-be came rushing in.

  Kit’s assistant seamstress, Freda, pitched in as well as the two sales consultants, Mary Ann and Linda. Their tutelage was testament to how much they loved Rosie. Rylee had been too busy for the truth to sink in, even when she’d stopped down at the store to check on things and post the Closed until Further Notice sign in the window. She’d been too occupied to mourn and suspected the same was true for her mother, but these days Mom wasn’t easy to read with her newfound yoga-slash-meditation lifestyle.

  They were back at Mom and Sonny’s house now, the repast food arrayed on the dining room table. Townspeople sat in folding chairs placed here and there. The more people who came through the front door, the more fresh-baked pies were lined up on the kitchen counter.

  Alone in the kitchen, Rylee stood at the island eating an apple pie right out of the tin. She was a bit of a pie snob because of her grandmother’s renowned ability with fruit blanketed by dough. The woman had even owned a serious-looking apple-peeling device that looked as if it belonged on somebody’s workbench.

  Rylee rolled the morsel around in her mouth and assessed. She speared another bite full onto her fork and gobbled it. How odd that when someone died, everybody felt the need to eat. Eat and bake. Well, whoever had made this offering had done a bang-up job. This was one hell of a pie. The raisins were a nice touch. Rosie would have approved.

  The visitors were all abuzz about Rosie, telling stories about her, laughing at anecdotes, pausing to reminisce. And the question of what would become of the shop was on everyone’s lips. How word had already gotten around that Rosie had bequeathed her store to Rylee was no surprise. That’s how Sycamore River worked. One person got hold of a juicy nugget, and it was all over. She couldn’t wrap her brain around the idea of running the shop, not right now anyway. Because right now all she was capable of was eating pie, the button on her black skirt be damned.

  The refuge in the kitchen was a tactical move to avoid the raised eyebrows and side-glances everybody seemed to be throwing her way. This was her grandmother’s fault, obviously, for her outlandish request, God rest her soul. What the hell had Rosie been thinking? Was she up there in heaven playing a chess game with the Big Guy, moving the pieces of Rylee’s life around? Rylee was about as prepared to run Rosie’s Bridals as she was to live the rest of her life without the old woman. Even she knew there was no game once the queen was gone.

  Despite her efforts to keep the images from her head, she tried to imagine Rosie as the massive stroke hit her, how she tumbled down the staircase from her apartment and snapped her hip at the socket, like an old twig. It hadn’t mattered that the woman had been eighty-five. Rosie was supposed to be invincible.

  Rylee pushed the swinging door that led to the dining room to see if the crowd was thinning. Around the perimeter of the room, neighbors jibber-jabbed in low voices while they balanced paper plates and disposable coffee cups in their hands. Scoffers, all of them, especially that lady who owned Snowball, the lost-then-found poodle, yet it was pretty nice of her to come, considering. She could almost tell by the looks on everyone’s faces, their lipless smiles, that they had the same thought careening around in her own head—Rosie’s Bridals is doomed.

  She caught sight of her mother pouring a bit of sambuca into her paper cup. In her long skirt and lace-up boots, her hand-crocheted sweater worn over a black turtleneck, the waist-long hair pulled back in a clip, she looked like a cross between a librarian and someone born in the wagon of a traveling show. But that was Angie, or rather this version of Angie. Oh-so Zen.

  Mom’s countenance was complacent with a kind of peaceful knowing, as if she had some kind of inside scoop that heaven was a cool place in which to take up residence. This Zen Angie morphed about a decade ago around the same time she met and then married her current husband, Sonny, an art teacher, potter, and avid gardener. The man could grow a mean batch of peppers. Sonny was the reason for her mother’s calmer, more even persona. Rylee liked Zen Angie, although it was a bit disconcerting to see her mother still cool and unruffled at a time like this. But maybe that sambuca in her coffee was a contributor.

  Other cordial bottles lined up on the sideboard like a makeshift bar along with petit glasses in varying shapes that Mom was proud to tell came from a rummage sale. Sonny manned the station, offering shots of deep brown, caramel-colored, and clear libations. He greeted each taker with an endearing smile and a “here you go,” as he handed them a drink.

  Sonny was her favorite stepfather of the three she’d had. Rylee liked him, loved him kind of, and at ten years in, this stepfather seemed to be hanging on for the long haul. She assessed the tall lanky man, a throwback to the Woodstock era with his shoulder-length hair, brown streaked with gray, and the black combat boots on his big feet in direct contrast to the pinstripe suit he wore. When Sonny retired from academia, he moved on to spending his days throwing pots on the potter’s wheel he kept in the shed out in their backyard, which was now called “the studio.” Clay pots and plates crammed every corner of the house. But who was Rylee to complain? It was their house, after all.

  Rylee’s eyes found her friend Kit, who accepted a small, stemmed glass filled with rich brown liquid from Sonny. Rylee’s heart warmed. Kit was such a good egg, a trooper. Sometimes she found it hard to believe that she and Kit were the same age. Kit was so together.

  Kit lifted her gaze to meet Rylee’s and raised her glass. She made her way around the maze of dining room grazers and came into the kitchen. “Are you hiding in here?”

  “Want some pie?” Rylee resumed her place at the island, picked up her fork, and speared a large piece. “Apple. Really good. It’s got raisins.” She poked the fork in Kit’s direction. “Want a taste?”

  Kit put her glass on the counter and slid onto a stool. “Are we going to talk about the guts of an apple pie, my friend, or should we discuss the real topic at hand?”

  Rylee put down the fork and pushed the pie tin away. “Okay. But I think I need a drink.” She went to the fridge and pulled out a beer. She twisted off the top and took a long cold satisfying pull. She swallowed and locked her gaze on Kit. “You think maybe my grandmother h
ad a loss of oxygen in her brain or something when she made the decision to put me in charge of the shop?”

  Kit shook her head. “You’d really opt to believe that Rosie was demented rather than think she had faith in your ability to run the place?”

  “You know me. Let’s be honest. Come on. Don’t you think it would behoove my grandmother’s memory to have the store stay closed, become a memory, a good one, just like Rosie herself?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. Rosie believed you could do it. That says something.”

  Rylee took another swig of her beer. “You should run for office.”

  “It’s not rhetoric, pal. Rosie Mandanello didn’t want her legacy in this town to come to an end. The baton is yours to grab.”

  “I got fired as a dog walker.” She shook her head. “And I nearly caused a scene in Jo-Jo’s because I didn’t bother to bring any cash with me when I ordered the most expensive coffee in the house. Not one of my finer moments. You should have seen me. I looked like a bag lady in that big-ass coat, and the little turd of a barista acted like I’d robbed a bank. I’m surprised nobody called the men in the white coats. I shouldn’t be left to my own devices. I’m dangerous.”

  Kit let out a whoosh of air. “Look. About that damn dog-walking gig. The dog wasn’t harmed, and you were meant for better things. And who cares about the coffee guy. I just wish you’d admit you know a lot about the bridal business. More than you think.” Kit took a sip of her cordial. “You just need to believe.”

  Angie swooped into the room carrying one of Sonny’s fired dishes that she’d used to display the brownies delivered by one of the guests. The dish was empty now. Mourners were a hungry lot.

  “What are you two doing holed up in here?” She went to the sink with the dish and turned on the water. She blew air out the side of her mouth, forcing an errant lock of hair to flip away from her face. “Everybody’s starting to leave.” She lowered her voice, her eyelids closing half-staff. “They mean well, but I can’t wait for them to go. I just want to kick off my shoes and put my feet up.”