Jar of Dreams

by Liz Flaherty

  Lights were on in the kitchen, and he went in to find Lucy working at the island, a row of pie crusts arranged in front of her. “Why are you still up?” He filled a glass with orange juice and lifted the carton in mute invitation. “You were exhausted at dinner, even before Kelly had her tantrum.”

  Lucy shook her head, pointing at her teacup. “I don’t always sleep well,” she said, “so sometimes I bake in the middle of the night.” She smiled as she poured hot lemon filling into two of the crusts. “My guilty conscience, remember?”

  He held up the hand that wasn’t holding his juice, palm out. “Mea culpa.”

  “You’re forgiven.” She placed plastic wrap across the surface of the pies and turned to put them in the huge refrigerator.

  “But, in all seriousness, why can’t you sleep? Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I was my father’s primary caregiver.” Her voice was devoid of emotion, but her eyes looked haunted and dark. “Long after he didn’t know who I was, he could still cook. We lived above the restaurant, and he would go down during the wee hours and start serving up meals to clientele who weren’t there. I’d have to come down and talk him back up to bed. It was nothing for it to happen three times a night.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “He died a little over a year ago, but he was gone way before that. Whoever first called Alzheimer’s ‘the long goodbye’ had it exactly right.” She went to the stove, stirring the pan of cherry pie filling that simmered there. “Even then, you’re not really prepared. My life had been on hold for five years before Dad died. Everything I did revolved around him. I had no idea what to do with myself when he was gone and all the legal stuff was over, and I still wanted him back.” Tears shone in her eyes, darkening them still further. “I still wanted my daddy, just like a little kid.”

  “I know.” Boone finished his juice. “Our parents were killed in a car wreck when I was twelve and Kelly was ten. Twenty-some years later, I still want them sometimes. I just want to be able to tell them things.” He went to refill the glass. “When Maggie and I got married, she set a picture of Mom and Dad on the altar with the candles, ‘so they could see the whole thing,’ she said.” He couldn’t help it—his voice grew thick with the memory. “My faith is iffy at the best of times, but I hope she’s with them now, that they’re taking care of each other. Maggie’s mother says she believes they’re together. It’s helped her to cope.”

  “I hope so, too.” Her gaze met his, and the tears spilled over, trailing starlike down her cheeks. “And I hope Dad’s cooking for them.”

  Boone supposed as romantic moments went, this particular one was a failure, but he felt closer to Lucy than he had to anyone since Maggie. Not only emotionally close, but something else, too. He just wasn’t ready to identify what it was, much less do anything about it.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to bed. Anything I can help you with?”

  She shook her head. “Goodnight.”

  He walked behind her to the back stairs, then stepped back to put a hand on her shoulder and massage lightly. “Don’t let Kelly bother you, okay? I’m not close to her anymore, so I can’t begin to explain what’s wrong with her, but—I don’t know—just give her a break, I guess. I’m not sure she deserves it, but I think she needs it.”

  “I’m all right.” She turned far enough to meet his gaze. “I don’t really think it’s me she’s mad at, just circumstances. We’ve all been there.”

  So they had. He grabbed his clean clothes from the table in the laundry room and went up to his room. He paused in the sitting area on the third floor landing. The door to Crockett’s room was closed. Maggie had been the “circumstances” that had driven a wedge between them, and even though they were at least polite these days, they’d never become close again.

  Boone missed his best friend.

  *

  “Come see what I found.” Crockett’s voice rang through the first floor, and Lucy came out of the kitchen, tossing a dish towel over her shoulder.

  “Gert!” She embraced the older woman who stood in the parlor casting a critical eye on the tables already set for tomorrow’s lunch. “You’ve lost weight. Come on in here and have something to eat while you tell me about Sims. I saved a piece of pie for Crockett, but you can have that, too. It’s a nice big one.”

  “Thanks a lot, friend,” Crockett said dryly. “I’m going down to take over for Boone at the station. One of us will take you back to Cincinnati in the morning, Aunt Gert,” he promised, kissing his aunt’s cheek.

  “Nonsense.” She batted his shoulder. “I can drive myself.”

  “Yeah, right. You taught Boone to drive. I can’t in good conscience turn you loose on the interstate, much less on the city of Cincinnati. Just think how many people that would endanger. Lucy, you got anything you need me to deliver?”

  “Four pies to Nancy Walker if you have time. She’s hosting a retired teachers’ meeting tonight. Ethan—you remember she’s married to Micah Walker’s father?—is going to work at the station, too, since he says he’ll be in the way if he stays home, so you’ll only have to be there a few hours, Crockett.”

  “Oh, good, I can see you all at once,” Gert said. “I’ll call Kelly and invite her over for dinner. I can let everyone in on what will happen when Sims comes home.” Her gaze was apologetic when she met Lucy’s eyes. “I plan on bringing him here. He’s healing well for an old buzzard, but he can’t handle the stairs at his house.”

  Lucy wanted to protest. Bringing Sims to Tea on Twilight to convalesce would necessitate closing at least one of the serving rooms—the only bedroom downstairs was Gert’s. Would the older woman want to close the tearoom while Sims healed? If she did, how would Lucy live during the down time? I’ll find a way. Jenny might hire me or maybe Sims would put me on the payroll. I’ve figured out what a dipstick is, at least. The thought made her grin despite her concern. “Come have some lunch,” she said. “It was that new quiche recipe. You can tell me what you think.”

  She emptied the dishwasher while her landlady ate and called Kelly at her office to issue an invitation to dinner. Lucy pondered the big room with its wide windows and open shelving. She could spend her whole life in this kitchen, with old and new so beautifully and comfortably mixed in its décor.

  “Seven o’clock.” Gert hung up the phone and rubbed her hands together. “Kelly works until six today. I’m cooking,” she added decisively, “so you, my dear, have the rest of the afternoon off.”

  Lucy scanned the older woman’s face, certain more lines had appeared over the past five days. “Don’t you want to rest, Gert? I don’t mind cooking.”

  “All I do at the hospital is rest. The nurses take wonderful care of Sims—I’m just there for him to complain at, which he’s got down to a fine science. Now, be off with you.”

  “Okay, okay.” Lucy put the last of the dishes away and took her apron into the laundry room. She loaded the day’s tablecloths into the washer while she was in there, and when she came out, Boone was hugging Gert.

  Lucy wished he was hugging her—that his hands were splayed over her ribs, his chin against her temple. Girl-type muscles she tried not to think about tightened in response to the idea of being in his arms, and she leaned against the counter. Weakness crept warmly down her legs, and she took a moment just to enjoy it.

  “You’ve got close to three hours free.” He met her eyes over his aunt’s head. “What do you say we drive down to Rising Sun and hit the gambling boat there? We can probably win enough to buy red velvet wallpaper for when you turn the place into a brothel.”

  Lucy widened her eyes in mock outrage. “You told him we were going ahead with the bordello this year? I thought it was a secret.”

  “He pried it out of me.” Gert flapped a hand at them. “Now, go on, you two, I’m going to make lasagna.”

  “Do I need to change?” Lucy took stock of her peach T-shirt and brown capris. At least she wasn’t wearing the ingre
dients to anything. One thing growing up in a restaurant did for you was teach you to wear an apron.

  “Nope. You’ll be fine. Come on.” Boone kissed the top of his aunt’s head and reached for Lucy’s hand.

  “Wait.” She pulled away and went over to her pickle jar, rummaging among the coins, bills and pieces of paper until she came up with two twenties. “This is it,” she said, waving the cash. “If I can’t win enough with this, we’re going to have to forget the wallpaper and make do with pasting up comics from the Sunday paper. We could make ‘Elmer and Myrtle’ a focal point and work from there.”

  In Boone’s Jeep, Lucy buckled her seatbelt and settled into relaxation mode to enjoy the twenty-minute drive. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she could ride with Boone without panicking. Not likely, but anything was possible. “This was a good idea,” she said, wondering if she had an allergy pill in her purse. Not that she was allergic to his driving—specifically—but one of the little pink caplets would help her relax. “I haven’t been outside the city limits in a week.” She closed her eyes—at least that way, she couldn’t see whatever was coming. Besides, riding along with her eyes shut and the sun shining warm through the windows felt good. She tucked her knees up into the seat and pillowed her cheek on a soft sweatshirt he’d reached into the back for and handed her.

  “The sign hasn’t changed. No one was born or died this week.” He said something else then, but she didn’t quite catch what it was.

  He woke her when he parked outside the casino. “Were you really that tired,” he asked, “or should I take all that snoring personally?”

  She grinned at him. “You forget that I’ve ridden with you before, so you can take it as personally as you like.”

  He laughed, reaching to tug at a curl that had sprung loose from her ponytail. “Come on. Let’s go win your wallpaper.”

  Lucy hadn’t been in a casino since a weekend restaurateur seminar in Atlantic City many years ago. She’d lost a week’s worth of tips in her first hour on the glittering premises and sworn never to gamble again. This one was as bright and noisy as she remembered. However, there had been something added since her last venture. “They have penny slot machines,” she said, pointing. “I want to play those.”

  He gestured. “Lead the way.”

  “Oh, look!” She charged ahead, assuming he would follow, and sat on the stool in front of the machine. “Star Wars. Jack and I have a running competition on who remembers the most from the movies and who should play Luke Skywalker in a remake. My bet’s on Whatshisname from that soap opera, but Jack thinks he should do it.”

  “He who?”

  “Jack.” She smirked. “And I get to be Princess Leia. He promised.”

  “Ah.” He sat at the machine beside her Star Wars one and stared with consternation at the Transformers. “Did he promise before or after you dumped the ice over his head?”

  She fed her first twenty into the machine. “After, but I’d just helped him with his history homework. Sort of.”

  “Wow, the kid has faith in you.”

  “Well, there was a little thing about me not baking any more of the cookies he likes and taking back the amount I pledged him for the football team fundraiser. Which I must admit I couldn’t afford anyway. They’re lifting weights, you know, and I had no idea Jack would be able to lift nearly as much as he can. We had to do a little bargaining or I’d be put in the clink for welching on my debts.”

  He’d lost his twenty dollars in half as many minutes. “I’m going over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “I can’t afford these damn pennies.”

  She stepped away from the machine fifteen minutes later and went to where Boone played blackjack. “Fifty-seven dollars!” she crowed, waving her receipt. “I’m quitting while I’m ahead.”

  Wearing a disgruntled expression, Boone cashed out too. “I’ll quit while I’m behind—after losing the mortgage payment and grocery money but prior to bankruptcy. Want to walk around downtown?”

  They parked in an angled parking spot on the little river town’s main drag and meandered around, visiting an art gallery, a music store and the historical society. They went into a cozy bar in the basement of a restaurant across a narrow street from the Ohio River where they were the only patrons. At every business they entered, Lucy picked up a business card and tucked it away with her fifty-seven dollars. From the bar, she took a napkin. When the bartender offered her a book of matches, she shook her head. “Thanks, anyway.”

  “Tell me about the pickle jar,” Boone requested as they walked along the river on the scenic path. “I’ve seen tip jars before—my wife even kept a big brandy snifter on top of her piano and I used to put money in it to tease her. But yours has more business cards and pieces of paper in it than it does money.” When their hands bumped between them, he took hers. She thought about pulling away, but only for a moment. The truth was, she liked it when Boone Brennan touched her and so did those girl muscles that were already tightening and loosening in reaction.

  This was, she decided, a truth she didn’t want to examine too closely. The question he asked, though, was one that was fun to respond to because the answer was fun to remember.

  “When I started waiting tables at Dolan’s—that was Dad’s restaurant—I wanted things, normal things like a car and cool clothes, but Dad said the only way I could get them was to help pay for them. Whatever I saved, he said, he’d match. While he was telling me this, standing there in the kitchen with the whole restaurant staff as witnesses, he rinsed out the pickle jar—the same one I still have back at the tearoom—and handed it to me. ‘Here you go, kid,’ he said, and I’ve been saving tips and wishes and dreams in it ever since.” It was one of her best memories of her father, and she smiled with the telling of it. “Only problem is, no one gives me matching funds anymore.”

  “Business cards?” He reminded her of his original question. “Slips of paper?” He sat on a park bench and drew her down beside him. “Is that where the wishes and dreams come in?”

  She left her hand in his. “A busboy named Andy started it. When I started scoping out cars when I was sixteen, he cut a picture of a used Camaro out of the paper and dropped it in the jar. Before the prom, I was waxing dramatic about what kind of dress I wanted and one of the waitresses put a magazine picture of this gorgeous black and white dress in there. My guidance counselor from high school, Mrs. Seaforth, came in one day and talked to Dad about me going to college and she left her business card.” Lucy’s smile faded. All these years later, the loss of that particular dream still hurt. “I put it in the jar.”

  “Did you go?” he asked. “To college, I mean.”

  “No. Every time it started to seem possible, something would happen to prove it wasn’t. A few times, I even signed up.” She brightened. “I’ve taken tons of classes, though. I almost have an associate’s degree in the most extremely general of general studies you’ve ever seen.”

  He laughed. “So, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “That’s the nice part.” She beamed at him. “Just what I am. I love restaurants, cooking, being with people. I want the education because I like knowing things. Some of the pieces of paper are about things like that. A lady came in one time and we got to talking about the dreams in the jar and she asked for an empty one of her own. I taught her to make foolproof piecrust and she taught me to decorate cakes. We each got to cross off one of our wishes, but the paper’s still in the jar so I don’t forget her.”

  As she warmed to what she was saying, heat from his arm sent tingles of awareness up the length of her. “A man from Italy who had immigrated here to be with his family taught me about pasta and I gave him English lessons,” she went on a little breathlessly. It’s hot out here—that’s all. And muggy. Sheesh, yeah, muggy. “I got to be in the courtroom with him the day he became an American citizen. I never want to forget that, so I still have his business card with all the details of that day written on the back.” She smiled with the sweetn
ess of the memory, then felt herself blush. “Like the napkin from the bar today. That was fun, and I don’t want to forget that, either.”

  He’d wanted to kiss her while they were sipping beer and talking. He hadn’t said so, but she’d known. Another memory for the cache she kept behind her heart. Another wish for the jar. That was something she hadn’t told him—or anyone else—that some dreams were both unspoken and unwritten. She just kept them close and didn’t forget.

  “I’ll remember it.” Although his smile was easy, like it always was, the message in his chocolate-brown eyes was not.

  “Living with someone with Alzheimer’s makes you paranoid about forgetting, I think,” she said. “For a long time, I’d write things down for Dad and it would help, but we couldn’t ever anticipate what would be the next thing.” She blinked impatiently at the tears pushing in where they weren’t wanted. Where they never did any good. “I was one of the lucky ones. Even though he eventually didn’t know who I was, he still liked me. Every day required an introduction, but then he’d set out to charm me just like I was a customer.” She sniffed. “It worked every time, too.”

  “How did that make you one of the lucky ones?”

  “I knew people whose parents or even spouses couldn’t stand them after they didn’t remember who they were. That’s extra hard.”

  He nodded. “I’ll bet it is.” He gazed across the river, and she wondered what was going on behind the unsmiling brown eyes.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I was trying to imagine how it would have been if Maggie had survived the bursting of the aneurysm but been damaged to the extent she wouldn’t have been herself anymore. I think maybe it would have been even worse than it’s been learning to live without her.” He chuckled, a dry and humorless sound. “I can say this—I know she would have said it was worse.” He squeezed Lucy’s fingers. “Strange, isn’t it? You had to say goodbye way too many times, and I’d give ten years of my life to be able to say goodbye just once.”