Waiting for You

by Elle Spencer

  Ren rolled her eyes. “Really? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Well, I just need to make sure because I know your taste in women. You like the hot ones.”

  Ren put an arm around Deb’s shoulder and urged her to the door of her cute little shop with the awful, awful name. “And you always liked the hot, sweaty, jockstrap wearing—”

  “Gross!” Deb pulled away and put her hand on the door. “I refuse to let you say the word jockstrap right before you enter my masterpiece.”

  Ren laughed under her breath. “That’s what she said.”

  Deb slapped her forehead. “Oh God.”

  Ren cleared her throat and made a show of trying not to laugh. “I promise to never say the word jockstrap before entering your…” She covered her mouth and laughed. “I can’t even say it.”

  “The shop, Ren. Not my—”

  “Masterpiece?” She burst out laughing and stomped her feet a few times. “I can’t with this. You realize what you’ve done, right? It cannot be undone. This is like Newton’s fifth law of vagina naming.”

  Deb rolled her eyes. “Yes, I realize my vagina has a new nickname. Now, do you want to see my—”

  Ren put up a hand. “No!” She doubled over from laughter. “Let me use my imagination.”

  “Well, I have a feeling your imagination has you picturing checked tablecloths and fake flowers.”

  Ren stood up straight and cleared her throat again. “Is that what straight chicks are into these days? You make tiny little tablecloths for your…”

  “Oh my God! My shop. Not my master…fuck!” Deb shook her head and giggled.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I pictured.” She barely got the words out before she doubled over again.

  Deb opened the door for a customer. “Hey, Monty. You’re just in time to nab the last cinnamon roll.”

  “Thought I’d mix things up and try one of your sticky buns.” He looked at Ren, who was once again shaking with semi-silent laughter. “Did I say something funny?”

  Ren shook her head. “No. In fact, I can’t wait to get my hands on Deb’s buns even though I particularly enjoy a good muffin.”

  Monty turned to Deb. “Does she know about your famous muffin?” He turned his attention back to Ren. “My wife considers it her special Saturday morning treat. You should try it. It’s called the cherry bomb.”

  Deb urged Monty through the door. “Go get your sticky bun before we run out, Monty. And say hi to Renee for me.” She turned back to find Ren with her hand over her mouth, shaking uncontrollably. “Get a hold of yourself.”

  “Oh, come on. He just said his wife likes your famous muffin. How am I supposed to pretend that didn’t happen?”

  Deb put her hand on her hip. “How do you manage to function in the real world when everything people say has a sexual undertone to you?”

  “Cherry bomb, Deb?”

  “Yes. Like that. You have such a dirty mind, Soda Pop.”

  Ren shrugged. “I keep my laughter on the inside most of the time. But I don’t have to do that with you, do I?”

  “Of course not. Now promise me you’ll keep yourself together for the next five minutes. This is a place of business, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “Okay, okay. I promise.” Ren gathered herself and took a deep breath. She held up two fingers and said, “Scout’s honor.”

  Deb shook her head. “That’s a peace sign, Soda. Now, come on.” She put her hand on the door again. “Prepare to be amazed.”

  Ren walked in, took off her sunglasses, and gasped. Deb had turned her parents’ drugstore into a modern, inviting space with not a single fluorescent light to be found. Instead, a zebrawood bar flanked by wooden stools wrapped around a large serving area. Soft globe lights hung from metal rods in the twelve-foot ceiling. A large industrial espresso machine stood out in the otherwise natural space. The pristine kitchen was visible through a large glass window opposite the bar. Three huge mixing bowls sat on a stainless steel countertop. All manner of utensils clung to a long magnetic bar running across the wall. Racks of baked goods waited to dismantle the willpower of any unsuspecting dieter.

  “It’s stunning, Deb. Absolutely stunning.”

  Deb let out a deep breath. “You have no idea how good that is to hear.”

  “I knew it would be amazing, but this…” She waved at the space, then squealed. “Oh my God. What do your parents think?”

  “They haven’t seen it yet. They’re still on the never-ending RV trip. All they said was to do something I love with the building and make sure I pay the property taxes.”

  Ren laughed. “Good Lord. I thought I was overly practical.”

  “At least you’re finally self-aware.”

  “Oh, you’re hilarious, aren’t you? So what does Colby think? Does he love it?”

  “Oh, you mean the sweaty jockstrap I married?”

  “I told you, you have a type.”

  “Yeah, maybe I do. Anyway, his hands are full with his real estate business, but he thinks it’s great.” She clapped her hands in excitement. “You really like it? Yours is the only opinion I care about.”

  “Ha!” Ren scoffed. “You always said my opinions were too high-minded, whatever that means.”

  “What I said was highfalutin, and I may also have said something about you being a pretentious fuck.” Deb shrugged. “But I just wanted to keep you grounded. I guess that’s a lost cause now that you have a fancy new job in Paris.”

  “Don’t romanticize it too much. It’s going to be grueling. Besides, I had a fancy job in New York too.”

  “Paris? Grueling? Cry me a River Seine, why don’t you?”

  “It’s true.” Ren flashed a smile and put her arm around Deb. “Which is why I’m here. To see my favorite friend in the world and find two weeks of peace and quiet. No drama. No demanding clients. No conference calls. Did I already say no drama?”

  “Did you forget I have three kids? They live for drama. And forget peace and quiet. Also, they’re demanding as hell. Especially number two.”

  “Colby Junior?”

  “No, the third one,” Deb said. “His name escapes me, but he shits his pants a lot. Hence the nickname.”

  “You’re talking about your two-year-old who still wears a diaper?”

  “Caleb. That’s his name.” Deb chewed on her thumbnail for a second. “Or is it Corey?”

  Ren rolled her eyes. “I think Corey wouldn’t speak to you for a week if she knew you were implying she still wears a diaper. How is she? Has she decided on a college yet?”

  “She’s great, actually. She has her moments, but I think I’ll keep her. School’s another story. She and Brooke have this plan to go to the same school and room together. They’ve narrowed it down to about three hundred fine schools. But hey, they have a whole two months to ger their applications in.” Deb leaned against the coffee bar. “Can you believe I’m that old? Seems like just yesterday we brought her home from the hospital.”

  “Seems like yesterday you and I were roasting marshmallows over that crappy little hot plate in our dorm room.” Ren sighed. “Ah, the good old days.”

  Deb grabbed her by the shoulders. “Hey! Colby built a firepit in our backyard last summer. It’s perfect for roasting marshmallows and getting drunk on questionable wine.”

  “Cutoffs and hoodies?”

  “iPod and singing at the top of our lungs?”

  “You still own an iPod? I’m so there,” Ren said. “How about a cup of this famous coffee I’ve heard so much about.”

  Deb went behind the counter. “You have? From who?”

  “The statie who pulled me over this morning. He couldn’t stop talking about your famous muffin.”

  “That’s Ben Hall, and he did not.”

  “Fine. He said your baked goods are out of this world, and your coffee is almost as good as Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  “I hate you. And please tell me he let you off easy.”

  “He was afraid you’d spike hi
s coffee with something horrible if he didn’t.”

  “Nah,” Deb said with a shrug. “I just wouldn’t sell him any of my pastries. That’d be payback enough.” She pointed to an empty table. “Have a seat. I’ll be right there.”

  Ren sat at a table by the window. She hadn’t had much chance to laugh until her eyes watered. Especially lately. But that was what Salt Creek and Deb did to her. This place always made her feel at ease, a far cry from her normal state of being.

  After her last visit, she’d considered buying a home here so she could visit more often without intruding on Deb and her family. There were some smaller postwar homes just west of Main Street that would suit her perfectly. She could pay someone to take care of the yard when she wasn’t here. That dream flew out the window with the Paris job on the table. When Samantha King called to tell her about the position, she’d jumped at the opportunity.

  The job was perfect. Most of her career had been in estates. She’d moved up over the years and developed an impressive list of contacts. The work itself was what drove her, though. Something about the family stories and the complex dynamics made it all so interesting. She loved digging into the provenance of a piece of art. Finding out how a family came to possess certain treasures often uncovered far more than most families were willing to let on in their early meetings. More than once, she’d been involved in returning a piece to its rightful owner. She knew she’d be exposed to a whole new world of possibilities in Paris.

  Still, being back in Salt Creek made her pause. Just for a moment. Was she doing the right thing with this huge change? Ren wasn’t sure. But her reasons for going outweighed any reason to stay.

  Sure, there was Deb and a town she loved but didn’t grow up in. There was her Manhattan co-op, but that pretty much rented itself. Lord knew Kerry the Drama Queen wasn’t a selling point.

  Ren sighed. Had she been so caught up in work that she actually didn’t see just how self-centered and fake Kerry had been? Actually, yes. The irony wasn’t lost on her either. The idea that she’d be so caught up she didn’t notice the glaring character flaws was pretty self-centered on its own. She didn’t love that about herself. All the better that she’d resolved to avoid all relationships and all drama in Paris.

  Deb set a cup and saucer on the table and sat across from her. She pointed at the heart she’d made in the foam. “I made a heart for two reasons. One, my heart is happy you’re here. And two, so you’ll never forget that I was hands down a better barista than you back in the day.”

  “Which is why I got fired and they made you shit supervisor.”

  “That’s shift supervisor to you, ex-barista.”

  “Right. Well, I haven’t, nor will I ever, forget that you were the queen of the campus Peet’s.” Ren lifted the cup to her nose. “Mmm. Smells delicious.” She took a sip. Then another. “And I bow to your greatness, queen of You Mocha Shop with a Messed-Up Name.”

  Deb rolled her eyes. “See? You give me a huge compliment, and then you mock the name of my shop. You realize I can go home for this kind of abuse, right?”

  Ren lifted the cup to hide her grin. “Happens a lot, huh?”

  Deb folded her arms and huffed. “The name fits. You all Mocha Me Crazy. Every last one of you.”

  “Ah. Well, you could always run away to Paris like I’m doing.”

  Deb leaned forward. “Not that you don’t look as fabulous as ever, but is everything all right?”

  “Crap. That ridiculous breakup is written all over my face, isn’t it? I thought I’d managed to hide it with a cover stick.”

  “Then you laughed about my hoo-ha until you cried, and now I can see those dark circles under your eyes. Serves you right, vagina mocker. I trust this is about Krazy Kerry?”

  “Krazy with a K. Yes.” A giggle bubbled up inside Ren, but it didn’t take long for her demeanor to turn serious again. “It’s been kinda rough lately. I know I joke about Kerry, but she’s had a tough time letting go of the whopping six months we dated.” Deb took her hand. Ren returned the reassuring squeeze. “It’s fine. I’m just glad to be away. It’s definitely time for a break.”

  Deb stood, still holding her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “No way.” She picked up her mug with her free hand. “Not without a to-go cup.”

  Chapter Three

  Lindsay covered her mouth and yawned. “Sorry. Late night.” She waited while Patty filled out the consignment form. Patty’s art gallery was contemporary and minimalist, designed to showcase the art, not the gallery, while accommodating a wide range of rotating exhibitions. Straight lines and wide-open spaces allowed the work to be easily accessed and showcased by strategically placed spotlights.

  Patty slid the contract across her desk. “Is the portrait business slow, Linds?”

  Lindsay picked up a pen and signed it. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about how even when I beg you to class up this place with some of your work, you refuse. I can only sell so many of old Mrs. Stokely’s pastoral scenes and still keep the lights on, you know.”

  Lindsay walked to a bronze sculpture of a woman flanked by two old men reaching inside her abdomen to take hold of her uterus. “This doesn’t seem like a Stokely. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, this is Kleber.” Lindsay turned the price tag over. “Twelve five? Yeah, I’m pretty sure the lights will stay on.”

  “I got lucky with the Kleber. Her regular gallery thought the piece was too political.”

  “Idiots. Last I checked, it’s art,” Lindsay said. “If it doesn’t sell, I might make an offer.”

  Patty pointed to a rural landscape on the far-right wall. “Could you make an offer on a Stokely instead? I love the old woman, but damn, she can be cranky when a piece sits unsold for too long.”

  “I’ll have you know that Mrs. Stokely is the only reason I’m an artist at all.” Lindsay walked to one of the smaller paintings and examined it closely. It was clear by the signature that Mrs. Stokely’s hands weren’t as steady as they’d once been. “She convinced me I had a God-given talent that I shouldn’t let go to waste.”

  “And I wholeheartedly agree with her. Lucky for me, the tourists who come through here don’t know she’s been painting from the same vantage point on her back porch for years. As long as I only keep one on the wall at a time, they think they’re getting something unique.”

  Lindsay turned back. “It’s sweet of you, Pattycakes. I know us artist types aren’t the easiest people in the world to deal with.”

  “Flighty, temperamental, self-absorbed, grandiose—”

  Lindsay put up a hand. “Okay. You don’t have to go all stereotypical. Unless you’re looking for me to throw a fit and grab my painting and haul it back out of here as I inform you—at the top of my lungs—just how far beneath me this gallery is.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be the first.” Patty plopped into her chair and piled her curly hair on top of her head and secured it with a hair claw. Secured might have been too strong a word since several strands broke free. Lindsay would’ve pointed it out, but the strands were actually framing her face quite nicely.

  Lindsay put up her index finger and made a circling motion. “This whole art gallery thing…you’re killing it, Cakes. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  Patty grinned. “You think my dad would be proud?”

  “So proud, hon. So proud.”

  When Patty’s father had died, he’d left the southwest side of Main Street to her on the condition that she keep all of the lessees at their current rate for another five years. After that, it was hers to do with as she pleased. His reason behind that decision was simple. He wanted to give his longtime leaseholders time to find other options. That and he wanted to make sure any changes were slow to be adopted, the way small-town life was meant to be.

  Since she had to wait out the five years, Patty had decided it would be fun to turn what had been her grandfather’s old camera store into an art gallery. It was meant to
be more of a hobby, but she put her art history degree to work and turned out to be a fantastic curator, discovering new talent and bringing in work other gallerists only dreamed of acquiring.

  Her complaints about being able to keep the lights on were just a ploy to get Lindsay to bring in more work. She was doing just fine even without the aforementioned southwest side of Main Street. Lindsay couldn’t imagine how Patty would walk away from what she’d built. She couldn’t imagine losing her best friend, either. But she understood that Salt Creek wasn’t the best place in the world for a single lesbian. The gay population was small. It pretty much consisted of Patty; Mrs. Stokely and her late, longtime companion Mildred; the two guys who opened a bowling alley, of all places; and of course, that one gal’s husband. With the exception of Patty and the bowling alley guys, all of this was pure speculation on Lindsay’s part.

  Salt Creek had little to offer in that respect. Boston or Northampton maybe, but not Salt Creek. Lindsay would miss her terribly if she decided to move on, but Patty had spent most of her adult life alone. Lindsay wanted more for her.

  Patty leaned forward and rested her elbows on her desk. “Why bring a painting in now, Linds? Should I be worried about you?”

  “What? No. Business is good. Better than ever, actually. I have a waiting list.”

  “Should I pretend to be surprised? Because I’m not.” Patty got up and pulled her into a hug. “Seriously. That’s amazing.”

  “It would be if I could focus on my clients’ faces instead of—” She looked at the portrait of the boy again. She needed to leave before she changed her mind. “Just get what you can for him, okay? And don’t worry about framing it. They’ll either like it enough to pay for framing themselves, or they won’t.”

  “Oh yeah,” Patty said. “I’ll just hang it on a flimsy nail and hope for the best, just like I do with every artist. Hope and pray it doesn’t fall when someone slams the front door.”

  Lindsay sighed. “Okay, fine. I trust you to do whatever you think is best. Just get rid of it, okay?”

  Patty went back to her desk and picked up the painting. She set it on an empty easel and stepped back. “Honestly, I can’t believe you’re selling one.”