Saying Yes to the Mess

by M. Kate Quinn

  “What do you say we reward ourselves with a turkey club at Jabberwocky’s?”

  Kit waved her hands in the air. “Hell, yeah.”

  ****

  Rylee looked at her friend across the table. How had all this happened to her in a matter of days? Despite the whirlwind of activity, she was enjoying a glimmer of lightheartedness for the first time since Rosie’s death. She didn’t know how she was going to pull this off, but for today, with this big sandwich that was just awesome, she was happy.

  Then her gaze, as she casually scanned the midday crowd at Jabberwocky’s, landed on the pirate. Something stirred inside her, a kind of spark. And she knew without a doubt she had learned nothing whatsoever about men. Because that little niggle low in her belly right now was bad, very bad. That champagne she’d just indulged in because Kit had insisted they order it over a diet Coke apparently had control of her eyeballs, which were now happily fixated on Darius Wirth and that shock of black hair that fell over his forehead à la Superman. God help her.

  “That’s him again,” Kit said sotto voce.

  “Don’t look, though.”

  “Why not? You are.”

  He was at the bar. His legs, taut looking and strong in his indigo jeans, straddled the stool.

  “That’s one delicious-looking son of a bitch.”

  “I’d pretend I hadn’t noticed, but I have eyes that work.” They both shared a chuckle. “But he’s probably married, and he thinks I’m insane, I’m sure, and I suck at men, so, yeah, I’m pretending he’s an inferno and if I go near him, I’ll spontaneously combust.”

  Now Kit laughed, a good hearty sound that made Rylee laugh as well. She instantly felt the lightness again, the luckiness of having a purpose, having a place of her own that didn’t include Zen Angie, and having Kit as her friend. Her gaze flitted over to the pirate again. The way he straddled that seat made her wish she had been born a stool. She never had those thoughts about Freddie, not even when she first saw him that night at the coffeehouse where he was playing acoustic guitar and singing pleasant renditions of folk songs. Freddie never made her wish she’d been born a stool so he could straddle her.

  Rylee pushed her plate away, leaving the french fries that came with the sandwich untouched. She had to stop eating so much. Rosie’s funeral food had done her in. That and her nerves. Her nerves craved carbs and sugar and fat. Hence, the pie overload and the bag of peanuts M&M’s that somehow had found its way into her shopping basket when she’d gone to the food store for basic supplies.

  She looked up to see Mr. Darius Wirth headed to their booth. He had a slanty smile on his face, his black eyes meeting her gaze. The tinge of heat flickering in her veins unnerved her. A warm sensation climbed up her face. Yes. He was a bonfire, and she must not get too close.

  “Hi again, ladies,” he said.

  “Hi,” they said in unison and shared a look. God, this hunk of man needed to get out of her line of vision soon. An urge to bite something taunted her. She plucked a fry from her dish and bit off the end with her front teeth.

  “Enjoy the rest of your day,” he said with that slanty mouth of his.

  After he strode by, leaving a waft of pine forest scent in his wake, Rylee pulled her gaze over to Kit, who stared back with round eyes. “What?”

  “You should see what you look like right now, pal.”

  Rylee reached up to touch her own cheek, which was hot from the flame of him.

  “I’ve never seen you react to a guy like that.”

  Now that he was gone, she swallowed hard and breathed in the leftover spiciness in the air. Yeah, that guy had to stay gone.

  ****

  Rylee sat at the counter in her parents’ kitchen, her head scrambled with ideas of what she had to do. Packing up her stuff, moving, tackling getting the shop ready for reopening.

  The stack of unpaid bills was a disconcerting find, considering Rosie had never once seemed worried about any debt. If it weren’t so daunting, it would be funny, a riot even, to think she’d been put in charge of the debits and credits of business. Putting up some of the sample dresses on eBay would bring in some money, but not nearly enough to cover everything. Uncertainty waved at her from a proximity, a mocker just waiting for her to fall face down. She breathed deep and squared her shoulders. Bite me, doubt.

  So much had changed in a few days. She couldn’t explain it, but despite the sorrow of losing Rosie and being thrust into capitalism with the readiness of a kindergartener being placed in AP Trig, she hadn’t felt so right in a long time, if ever. But for the moment, her mother burst into the room carrying a basket filled with laundry. Rylee knew from experience what that meant, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with freshly dried clothing that needed folding. This was not about matching socks. Angie wanted to talk.

  “Help me fold.” Angie plopped the basket onto the island’s surface.

  The back door burst open, and Sonny came clamoring in, his arms laden with books thick as bricks, volumes on pottery. He’d been throwing clay back in his workshop, the telltale gray specs of the stuff on his face, in his hair, and over his black sweatshirt. He smiled when he saw them. “Hi, you two.”

  Angie’s mouth curved into an easy smile, and she all but batted her eyes at the man. Sonny wasn’t exactly a heartthrob of a guy with the bald spot on the crown of his head and the unruly tuft of brown hair in front of it, the straggly ponytail that trailed down his back. Overly long scrawny neck, crazy-huge Adam’s apple, but he might as well have been George Clooney the way Angie behaved around him. Rylee folded a pair of his white tube socks into a ball and silently thanked God for Sonny.

  “You two look like you’re in cahoots about something.” He reached into the fridge and withdrew a bottle of water. “Anybody care for one?”

  “Sure,” Angie said. “Rylee?”

  “No, thanks.” She let out a breath. A question hung in the air above them, like clothes on a line drying in the breeze.

  “Sonny, come here, babe,” Angie said. “I was just about to ask Rylee about her plans for the store.”

  “Ah.” He came up to the counter.

  Angie twisted off the cap of her water and took a swig. Her gaze flitted over to Rylee, oh so nonchalant. “I think you should reconsider, not to stomp all over your hopes or anything, but I just think you might be getting in over your head. You know how you are, honey bun.”

  Now this was like the good old days before Angie discovered meditation and yoga. Her jaw was set, her mouth pulled into a seam. Ire bubbled in Rylee’s veins, hot as a pot of water on a high flame. The familiar fire was the reminder of how she’d spent many times in her life trying to figure out why Angie had always seemed to be standing there ready with an extinguisher.

  “Mom,” she said in an anchoring kind of way, the tone for both her mother and herself. “I’m confused here. Haven’t you guys told me time and again whenever I’d get down about another dead end, that when the right thing came along I’d know it? Well, this is it. I know it. I can’t figure out why you’re giving me a hard time.”

  “I’m trying to protect you, Rylee. I’m your mother. That’s what mothers do.” She yanked her water bottle from the counter and swigged long. She swallowed, and with her neck craned upward, she uttered to the ceiling on an exasperated breath. “Why can’t she see that?”

  Rylee shook her head. Once again, this conversation had pivoted to Angie and her feelings. Her mother needed a yoga session, stat.

  “Rylee, who besides me is going to be honest enough with you about this? What happens when you decide you’re in over your head?” Angie waved a pair of tighty-whities at her. “Or when you decide you don’t feel like being a bridal store owner anymore and would rather go scuba diving or rock climbing or something. I’m being realistic because somebody has to be.”

  She hadn’t let her mother hurt her like this in years. She’d done such a good job in guarding herself from the lack of support. But she’d had her grandmother through all that tim
e, and it had been Rosie who’d worked to lift her from Angie’s barbs. Without Rosie at her side, the awfulness that had been their mother-daughter relationship over the years came flooding back like a torrent of angry rain. Zen had not shown up in this morning’s Angie. And all Rylee could do was look over to Sonny and will him to do something quick to bring Zen Angie back.

  He held her gaze for a long moment, his mouth pulled into a thoughtful bunch. He let out a long breath, scratched his bald spot. “Ang, honey…”

  With that, Angie began to cry. She pulled a clean white T-shirt out of the laundry basket and held it up to her face. Her sobs were loud and deep, and they scared the hell out of Rylee. Sonny went to his wife and wrapped her in his big safe arms. She continued to cry against his shoulder, the T-shirt wedged between her face and his shirt. She mumbled words, and damned if Rylee could decipher what she was saying, but Sonny did understand because he was nodding and saying “I know, baby. I know.”

  “Look.” Rylee swallowed her dejection like a whole bagel she’d forgotten to chew. “I need to go.”

  Angie lifted her head from Sonny’s shoulder and stepped away from him. She wiped her face with the now-wrinkled, soggy T-shirt. “Wait.”

  Rylee did as she was told. She waited. The clock on the white enamel vintage stove clicked like a bomb, and her own heart thumped in time.

  “Honey bun,” Angie said. Sniffing loudly, she squeezed her eyes closed. She held up a hand that said “give-me-a-minute.” She breathed in deeply and blew air out of pursed lips. “Wow. I don’t even know where that came from.”

  If Angie was looking for Rylee to give her a bye on this, she was out of luck. It was no longer her job to help Angie over one of her outbursts, even if it had been years since Rylee had seen one. Now she was mad.

  “Maybe I should let you two talk.” Sonny stepped toward the doorway to the hall.

  “No,” Rylee said. “It’s fine, Sonny. I’m leaving.”

  “Honey bun, please wait.” Desperation coated Angie’s words, thick and drippy like too much paint on a brush. “There’s something I want to say.”

  But Rylee turned to go.

  “You can’t leave like this,” Zen-Free Angie moaned.

  This was not new. Angie was good at slinging guilt, but mostly she was stellar at being the wounded. It was tiring, but after all, this was her mother’s house, so she kept her trap shut. She met Angie’s eyes and saw the repentance in them. That was the good old Angie. Outburst, then apology. She was instantly sad. Sad that not even the love of the good Sonny Dalton nor the habit of sitting cross-legged in front of a burning candle while chanting “om” could permanently erase Angie’s dysfunction. Rylee’s heart softened.

  “Mom, look, I’m not moving to Europe. I’ll just be downtown. We’ll have plenty of time to talk. Okay?”

  “Maybe all three of us should talk.” Angie’s words were watery. “We’re a family the three of us.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  That was another thing. Even though Sonny had been her stepfather for almost eleven years, an all-time record as far as stepfathers were concerned around here, Mom always sought justification for his existence in their lives. She had done that with the others, but now that Sonny was permanent—dear God, he had to be—Angie was still doing it. It didn’t make sense, but that was Mom. The woman knew the brand of hell she’d put her daughter through while she was growing up, parading new father candidates in like new sofas, but that was behind them. Her mother was about to turn sixty. Who needed to dredge that stuff up anymore?

  “Maybe you could let me help you?” Angie’s mouth curved into a kind of pathetic smile.

  Rylee wanted her mother’s influence in the shop about as much as she wanted to roll around in poison ivy. A sad smile cut up one side of her mouth. “I really have to go, Mom.”

  Chapter Twelve

  After taking the time to visit with his father, which was a misnomer considering Pop slept for the entire time he was there, Darius sat with Toni in the finance department to discuss state-run facilities. She took her time to bring up websites, and he was amazed at how good the places tended to look. But after seeing that place in Madison, he knew better. Their website had shown a beautiful country estate with a smiley, happy person everywhere, which was nothing, nada, zip, like the sorry-assed place he had visited.

  Time had gotten away from him, and he hoped he hadn’t missed his chance to check out some of the stores in Sycamore River’s downtown, Rosie’s Bridals in particular, where he hoped he could glean some contact information. So far, he’d left several messages on the store’s phone as well as on their website with no response. This place couldn’t be a dead end.

  Darkness had already descended, and the traffic around the town square was heavy. The congestion reminded him of the roadway rerouting he’d read about in the local rag. He could help one of these stores. He knew it. A new kind of fire burned in him today. Yes, this was about keeping his job, but, too, his mission could help the place where his roots grew. For the first time in a while, he remembered why he’d gotten into this business in the first place.

  Although the bridal shop seemed the ideal candidate, securing the business for his show was a long shot, considering the owner just died. As he walked through the center of town, he spotted the florist that had been there forever, closed now that it was past five o’clock. The window was chock-full with Valentine’s Day flower arrangements, balloons, and cupid cutouts on the window. Wirth More was not needed here. He walked on.

  He strode beyond the theatre building and the library, places he’d frequented all during his growing up. He thought of matinees when he was a kid and pouring through the shelves of books with his mom in tow. The sandwich shop on a corner looked ordinary in a ham-and-cheese-on-hard-roll kind of way. He peered in the window. Closed up for the night, it appeared to be in decent shape, clean enough, with plenty of seating and a varietal menu up on the wall above the counter. Darius took out his cell phone and snapped a picture of the storefront of Mack’s Midtown Deli. It could be a contender if someone else besides Mack ran the place.

  A tuxedo store came into view. Not female friendly unless it was owned and operated by a woman or two or three. He snapped a photo of it just in case.

  ****

  Rylee stood under the streetlight in front of Rosie’s Bridals. She eyed the homemade sign she’d affixed to the front window. She couldn’t decide if the poster board was crooked or if the slant was in her printing that stated the store would reopen soon. Soon! Was she crazy? How soon was soon? She had a sudden urge for chocolate, the kind that didn’t melt in your hand. Just looking at the place, knowing it was hers, knowing the key in her pocket belonged to her caused a hitch in her chest. Exciting and intimidating at the same time.

  “Hi,” someone said from somewhere behind her.

  She startled at the sound in the darkness. It was him. The pirate in the leather jacket. How could this keep happening unless God was just moving those chess pieces of his willy-nilly? Did he have a new game partner in Rosie Mandanello?

  “Hi.” It popped from her mouth like a question. What was he doing here?

  “I keep running into you.” He shook his head as if he himself couldn’t figure out how it kept happening.

  “Yeah,” she said. So lame. She was capable of responding with more than one syllable, but she was still too enrapt in the way the street lamp illuminated his shiny black Superman hair.

  “I, uh, was just down the block checking out that tuxedo place, Tuxedo Express.”

  Rylee’s mouth went dry. Envisioning this man in a tuxedo was tough and unrelenting. A perfect fit to his frame, a white shirt crisp, the black satin tie undone. Jeez.

  “Oh.” Maybe he was getting married. Why should that bother her? Only a crazy person would lament a stranger’s being off the market.

  “Know anything about the place, like who runs it or anything?”

  An odd question but she needed to answer if only to pr
ove she could say an entire sentence. “They’ve been around a while, at least a decade I’d say, and the only thing I know is that some of our brides have used them, but beyond that I have no details.”

  “Your brides?” His forehead scrunched as he asked the question.

  “Oh.” She chuckled. “Yeah.” She pointed to the storefront behind him. “My bridal shop.” It felt funny, almost like a lie to tell someone, a stranger, that this was her bridal shop. A little jiggle of delight coursed through her veins that felt pretty good as well.

  He studied the awning. “You own Rosie’s Bridals.” He snapped his head around and stared, wide-eyed. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Excuse me?” What an odd comment. Why would he be damned at the idea of her being the proprietor of Rosie’s Bridals? Did she look as much of an imposter as she suddenly felt? The jiggle of delight she’d felt a moment ago evaporated like fog over a cooling pond.

  “Uh, I read somewhere that the owner, an older woman, recently passed away.”

  “My grandmother.”

  “Oh. My condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Don’t be nice. Just don’t.

  “So you’re going to be running the place?”

  Defiance resurged with the same zapping of her breath she’d experienced at her mother’s incredulity. “I am.”

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  A cough of a laugh came to her lips. “Again? Because it went so well the first time?”

  He laughed. Darius Wirth had a nice laugh, genuine sounding and odd coming from the pirate that he appeared to be. But, no, she should not have coffee with him. The part of her that was impulsive, the part that had gotten her into lots of trouble, wanted to have coffee with the pirate and share a croissant too, maybe. Feed him, even. Stop!