He went into the kitchen and popped another coffee pod into the machine. The fragrant brew with its satisfying gurgle streamed into his cup. He thought of the girl in the coffee shop, the one who’d given him such a hard time. He wondered about people. That was just something he’d done all his life. He’d see people on the beach or in line at the food store and assess their existences, pose scenarios. The girl in the shop was a perfect case to ponder with her pissy attitude contradicting the sudden cloud of sadness that came into her green-green eyes.
He lifted the cup off its stand and brought it to his lips. The coffee was too hot, and he blew over the surface. If he was going to spend any more time on the internet tonight, he needed the caffeine at his fingertips.
Back in the living room, he took a minute to just drink the coffee and indulge in a Devil Dog he’d fished out of the freezer. He liked it when the filling was solid and the cake was cold. With a half-hearted eye, he perused the paper he’d grabbed earlier in the day. Until he’d come up to the article about Pharma-Sentra, a megadrug company, transferred to town from Texas. He sat up straighter and splayed the open paper onto the coffee table. The move had negatively affected the old timers in downtown Sycamore River, the story went on to say. The mom-and-pop shops around the green were taking a beating with newer, shinier storefronts popping up on the landscape. Where there used to be the eclectic array of businesses, there was a steady, more like relentless, gentrification. Banks, condo buildings, and trendy upscale offerings like Jabberwocky’s, the place on the green with the best burgers. Darius snorted. He’d had his head up his own ass. All this time looking for the ideal business for his show’s finale, and here it was in his own hometown.
He went onto the internet and did some digging. Sycamore River was suffering growing pains, for sure. Many of the townies didn’t want the change thrust at them like a fist in their faces. Based on stuff he’d read in the articles from the Ledger and the Record, folks had been kicking and screaming at the new trend of their beloved town. Townies, it seemed, were a staunch brood. They wanted their eclectic downtown to remain the same.
They had had one bank on the green and that had been enough, thank you very much. But now three banks stood where charming old brick buildings had once been. The idea, Darius knew from complaints on the op-ed pages of all the local rags, was to turn the mid-Morris County town into a kind of Hoboken, very upscale with hordes of urban professionals with thick wallets descending upon the place, all too eager to spend their loot. Progress was inevitable, but somehow pushing out all the little stores pissed him off. Maybe it was because his father loved the place, his mother had loved her involvement in the town, and even though he’d moved on right after college, Sycamore River was where his roots grew. He’d all but forgotten, but now in the predawn hour, his eyes bleary from staring at the computer screen all damn night, he was sure he had to help one of the places in his hometown.
He consulted his list of town shops that appeared to be weathering the storm but not thriving as they’d been. Interestingly, Jo-Jo’s Java House, the very place where he’d had the encounter with the spitfire of a woman, could be in trouble if that national coffee chain was really coming to town. The news article said it was a matter of debate at the town board meetings. Jo-Jo’s wasn’t really a prospect, though, because it was run by two brothers and Parker Paper wanted female influence.
Henson’s was a nickel-and-dime sort of store run by mother, father, and son and had been there forever. The married couple was kind of a comical duo with their harmless bickering, and the son, Ean, had been Darius’s schoolmate. There were no dollar stores in the downtown area of Sycamore River, so Henson’s was hanging on, especially with Ean on board to grow business. Darius needed to find out just how much Mrs. Henson was still involved in the business. If she was there all the time, maybe he could spin it as a female friendly store to appease the show’s main sponsor.
Then he came upon an article about a bridal salon on the corner of Hampshire Boulevard and Main, a stand-alone brick structure, small and quaint, two stories. Rosie’s Bridals. The story was an interesting one, for sure. The owner had just died. One Rose Elena Mandanello had opened the store in the sixties, and she’d served the wedding preparatory needs of generations of women in the town. Everyone, according to the local news hub, had loved the woman. The store was closed now, and if it stayed that way, he was shit out of luck. But he’d check it out, see for himself. He had a hunch about it. He was good at hunches. Tomorrow, after meeting with Parker Paper where he’d spin the save-my-hometown theme, work his magic, he would head to Sycamore River where he had work to do.
Chapter Nine
The rap at the front door startled her. Rylee was alone, and it was late. Vulnerability pricked at her skin. The front of the store was all windows, and she could make out the shadow of someone: someone tall and thin, wearing a dark jacket, peering in around hands cupped to his or her face.
She picked up a broom and with both hands held it in front of her. Not that she knew what she’d do with it if she needed to defend herself, but the grip of it felt good. She made her way slowly toward the door, straw ready.
Close up, she saw who it was and her insides unclenched, freeing her lungs to pull in air. She opened the heavy oak door and swung it wide. Kit peeked over the folds of a thick scarf and lifted a woolen hand to give a shy little wave.
“Kit! You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?” Kit gave an exaggerated shiver. “It’s an icebox out here. And put down that broom.”
Rylee let the broom go with one hand, and the straw bottom tapped to the floor. She stepped aside for Kit to enter.
“You’re wearing Rosie’s sweater. I smell her.”
Rylee smiled. She snuggled into the sweater, tucking her head to her shoulder, and drew in the scent of her grandmother. She closed her eyes and willed the garment to never lose Rosie from its fibers. “Yeah, me too.”
Kit unwound the scarf from around her neck and shrugged out of her down jacket. “So whatever you’re doing couldn’t wait till morning?”
“How’d you find me?”
“You didn’t answer my texts, so I called the house and talked to your mom. She said you had gone for a walk and that you didn’t say where. When she said you had a notebook with you, I knew you’d be here.” She walked over to a wooden chair and placed her coat and paraphernalia on it. Looking around, she made her way to the desk. She flipped open the notebook with one finger and eyeballed the words Rylee had just scrawled on line one. “What’s this?”
“My list. I think I need to be a list person. Rosie was a list person. That’s the beginning of a list, anyway.”
“Um, Rylee, pal, lists can be a great tool, but it says here ‘Pay the Pirate.’ ” Kit laughed and lifted her gaze. “Did you mean ‘Pay the Piper’?”
“Nope. The pirate’s the guy who paid for my coffee at what I’ve come to call the ‘Jo-Jo’s Incident.’ ”
“Yeah, you never elaborated on how that went. All you said was that you nearly caused a scene, which seemed a bit extreme, but under the circumstances I figured you were just high strung from, you know, the funeral and stuff. Besides, how come the clerk at Jo-Jo’s didn’t just trust you to come back and pay up? You’re there all the time.”
“Noooo.” She shook her head. “There’s a new barista in town, and he wasn’t about to let me get off easy.”
“So this random guy offered to pay for it. How’s that nearly causing a scene? It’s nice.” Kit flashed a grin. “Sir Galahad lives and breathes.”
Rylee snorted. “Um, no. He was a pirate.”
“Pirates go to Jo-Jo’s? Did he park his ship out front?”
“Not a pirate pirate. He was one of those yuppies in off the train who happened to look like a pirate. All he needed was an eye patch.”
Kit just stared at her.
“I’m serious.”
“What’s a pirate look like these days, anyw
ay?”
Rylee leaned the broom against a wall and put her hands on her hips. She sighed. “Tall, but not real tall, black hair so black it looked blue, pissy look on his carved-granite face, cheekbones like a cliff side, his mouth a slash. You know—Black Beard. But no beard.” She swept her hand toward the row of dresses on the rack. “So, anyway, I’m here to decide what to do.”
“You’ve got quite the eye, Rylee. A police sketch artist would love someone like you.”
“Well, I’ve got to pay him so I can tick that off my list.” She clutched the notebook into her hands. “I’m going to list pro and con. Sell or…” She ran a hand through her hair. “Or what, Kit? Who am I kidding? Could I really do this?”
“My guess is that if you came here tonight with such determination that it couldn’t wait until a decent time of day that you kind of know the answer is right there.” Kit pointed to the center of Rylee’s chest. “Right where you tick.”
Rylee couldn’t help but smile. This woman who had made a name for herself here at Rosie’s Bridals, who could now be a much-sought-after seamstress at any high-end department store or with a New York design firm, had become a dear friend. Her eyes stung with suppressed tears. “Come with me upstairs to the apartment.”
She couldn’t go there alone. Her mother was the only one who had been to the apartment since Rosie’s death. She’d gone to retrieve the dress Rosie had specified she’d wanted to be buried in, the ecru-toned lace sheath with the bolero jacket.
“Come on, pal. Let’s go.” Kit hooked her arm with Rylee’s.
****
The apartment was small, and when Rylee snapped on the tableside lamp, the warm yellow light gave the smart living room a storybook hue. An image popped into her head of Rosie sipping her nightly glass of cabernet, feet up on the needlepoint step stool, head back on the tapestry of her wing chair. Her heart ached for the woman.
She turned to her friend, feeling her eyes sting again. “I miss her.”
“Me too,” Kit said in a low reverent tone. “I feel her here. You?”
Rylee nodded, unable to speak the word. But, yes, she felt the presence of Rosie Mandanello. It was like standing in the rain naked, no part of her unaffected. She placed a hand on the wing of the chair and gave it a squeeze, sinking her fingers into its cushion. The upset of this day, the funeral, the whispers of townsfolk at Mom’s house during the repast, her own insecurity about the shop—all of it lifted, released its clasp on her insides. She could almost feel the fog of indecision burn off in the warm memories of this space.
She swallowed against the ache in her throat. Her eyes found the thick photo album Rosie had kept like a coffee-table book. The cover was a print she’d copied from an anniversary edition of The Saturday Evening Post. This cover appeared June 1931, the year Rosie was born, and it was a photo of a bride and groom on their wedding day. The text along the bottom of the photo indicated that inside the edition was a short story by Sinclair Lewis, “Ring Around a Rosy.” This had been Rosie’s absolute favorite thing in the room, this binder full of bride’s stories, thank-you notes, and photographs of beaming brides in their beautiful gowns on their special days. This tome was Rylee’s favorite item as well. It occurred to her now that this print on the cover was like a prophet’s snapshot into what the young Rose Elena, born that year, would be when she was grown up. An owner of a bridal store that worked the magic that was a wedding.
Rylee sat on the sofa and opened the binder. Kit took a seat beside her. In silence she turned the pages, the suction of the plastic that covered the pages the only sound in the room. They slowly scanned the memorabilia of all the brides from over all the years. Rylee turned to Kit and touched fingers to her arm. “It’s a lot to ask, Kit,” she said thickly.
“Rosie wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t think you could carry on her legacy.”
Rylee’s lips trembled as they curved into a smile. “That’s not what I meant.” She took a shivery breath. “I know you could probably write your own ticket anywhere that needs a brilliant seamstress, and I know you could probably make a ton more money…”
Kit sucked in her breath and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Yes!”
“Yes?” Now Rylee did not care that the tears in her eyes were so plentiful they tumbled down her face. They were a relief. “You’ll help me do this?”
The two friends embraced in the small living room that would now become Rylee’s home. She was doing this. Holy mackerel. Holy freakin’ mackerel.
Chapter Ten
Parker Paper was totally on board with Darius’s idea of choosing a business in his hometown. Pleasing the suits with the wallets made Jake a happy producer, even though they still hadn’t signed with a needy business for the last episode. But Parker Paper loved the idea of the bridal shop. Checking out Rosie’s Bridals in person was on Darius’s agenda, but first he was heading to Sycamore River to meet with Toni from The Memory Center to discuss options for Pop. Jake went with him to the station while he waited for his train.
“You did good, Darius.” Jake cuffed him on the shoulder. “Now you’ve got to seal the deal.”
“Since I’ll be in Sycamore River for the day, I’ll make the time to check out the bridal shop and see what I can learn about its future. With any luck, they’ll be reopening and we can cut a deal.”
“Use that Wirth More persuasion of yours,” Jake said. “Hey, speaking of your hometown, I hear you had an altercation at a coffee shop there.”
“What?” How did Jake get his news? He didn’t miss a frickin’ beat, ever. “What are you talking about altercation?”
A laugh shot from him like a cannonball. “Some college kid sent a video to our website. It was you and some kind of odd woman having an issue with her inability to pay for coffee. The kid’s commentary was a riot. You should see it.”
“Well, it wasn’t an altercation. The woman forgot her wallet and held up the line for a while until she agreed to let me pay for her coffee.”
“Seemed kind of psycho.”
“I don’t know how psycho she was, but, yeah, she was adamant.”
The train whooshed into the station, and the two men shook hands. “Keep me posted, Darius,” Jake said. “Good luck with your meeting about your father.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
“And stay away from crazy women in coffee shops.”
Darius saluted him. Yes, he’d steer clear of that type of distraction.
****
“Well, look at you this morning,” Zen Angie said as she slid scrambled eggs onto Sonny’s plate from a tilted fry pan. “Want some eggs, Rylee?”
“No, thanks,” she said, impressed her mother noticed she’d taken some time with herself this morning. Her shower had been long and hot, and she had taken her time blowing out her hair. She sported a decent outfit, although her jeans were a bit snug thanks to her newfound penchant for apple pie.
“You look nice,” Sonny said, then slid his gaze back to the woman who’d made his breakfast. “Thanks for breakfast, babe.” That was another thing about this newfangled mother of hers. This one cooked. There was no end to Zen Angie’s talents.
“I didn’t have time to talk with you guys last night when I got home. It was late.”
“Yes.” Her mom took a seat beside Sonny at the island. “By the way, Kit called last night after you’d left.”
“Yeah, she found me. I was at the shop.”
Zen Angie looked up from her eggs, a triangle of toast held aloft. “What on earth made you have to go to the shop at that late hour?”
“To decide on what to do.” Her body stiffened, her muscles bracing against what Angie and Sonny would say. But it was now or never. “Not selling the place after all. I’m going to take over.”
Two wide-eyed gazes locked on her for a long moment before the egg-eating duo shared a glance. Sonny’s Adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow. Angie put down her fork and placed her elbows on the countertop.
“Honey bun, you might want
to take some more time to, you know, think that through. It’s not easy running a business.”
“I know.” Her chest beat with a warning signal. Don’t listen to her, her heart thumped. Yet the old doubt fluttered into her gut. The embedded doubt that she could actually succeed, the doubt that she could choose well. It wasn’t just theory either. History had a way of slamming home that she’d given doubt every reason to take residence inside her. Zen Angie’s eyes were bugged out, and she’d forgotten how to blink.
“Mom, Sonny,” Rylee said. “I realize that this is taking on a lot, but I’m ready. I’ve worked in Rosie’s Bridals for most of my life. Off and on, granted, but still. And Kit’s going to stay on board as the seamstress. I’m planning to contact the sales consultants today to see if they want to work for me.” Just saying “work for me” almost made her charge to the fridge for some leftover pie, but she held her ground. “Be glad for me.”
“Of course we’re glad for you.” Sonny’s gaze was locked on his wife as he recited his statement with a coaxing intonation, an obvious invitation for his wife to chime in with positive support.
But Zen Angie did not chime. She picked up a piece of her whole-wheat toast and bit off the end. She chewed silently, the loudest silence Rylee had ever heard.
“Let us know if we can help.” Sonny slipped an arm around Angie’s shoulders. “Right, honey?”
Finally, Angie met her daughter’s eyes. “Baby girl, I just don’t want you to set yourself up for disappointment. You’ve had enough of that.”
Rylee stifled the urge to remind her mother that, yes, she had suffered an inordinate amount of disappointment in her life, and lots and lots of it stemmed from Angie’s brand of parenting throughout the years. There was no sense in getting into that, though. What good would it do to cut her mother with sharp words? An accusation like that would linger in her head all day, sour like a pile of compost, clouding the important things she had to accomplish.
Saying Yes to the Mess Page 6