“You know what?” I stand and brush off the seat of my jeans. “I think Claire would really like to wake up to some blueberry muffins. I’m going to that bakery Mrs. Iams mentioned. Do you mind?”
Isaac gets to his feet. “I can run there.”
“Are you afraid to let me drive your truck? I promise not to change the radio station.” I elbow his ribs lightly.
He chuckles, places his hand on the small of my back, and guides me to the cabin. When we get inside, he reaches for the keys he left on the kitchen counter.
“Just wait. You’re going to be a cowgirl before you know it.” He drops the keys into my outstretched palm.
I smirk and turn my attention to jamming my feet in my shoes.
“Aubrey?”
“Hmm?” I straighten and look at him.
He’s suddenly right next to me, hands on either side of my face. He kisses me until there’s no air left in my lungs.
“What was that for?” I ask when he lets me go.
“No reason. I just wanted to kiss you.”
“But,” I cough, trying to regain my composure, “I don’t have time for an hour with you right now.” As though my stomach can understand me, it lets out a loud growl.
Isaac stares at me for a long moment. Finally, he says, “That wasn’t what I was after.”
“Oh. OK.” Embarrassed, I hurry through the front door and to the truck. It takes me a minute to figure out how to adjust the seat to fit me. Carefully, I back up. He’s probably watching me. While I retrace yesterday’s drive, my brain mulls over this morning with Isaac.
We didn’t actually talk about it, but the agreement seemed unspoken, the parameters set up by our behavior.
We had hours.
And outside of those hours, we were co-parents.
I rub my eyes. I can’t think about it anymore.
And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m here. I pull the truck into an open spot a couple businesses down from the bakery and climb out.
I really hope this place makes more than just blueberry muffins.
Folks. That’s what I would call the people in the bakery. I’ve never used that word in my life, but these people seem like people that should be referred to as folks.
The smells of the bakery assault me in the very best way. Sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, swarming into an aroma that makes my mouth moist and my stomach yell.
Two glass cases flank the cash register. Inside are muffins in every flavor, chocolate croissants, bagels, cookies, cupcakes, baklava, and more.
Are there enough people in this town to eat all this food? It would appear so, because every seat in this place is taken.
I’m the third person in line. The man in front of me talks to his wife about going somewhere to get a paper. She tells him they can’t spend all day at Hatcher’s, because she has gardening to do before the sun is beating down on her.
I try to tune them out, but it’s hard because they’re loud talkers.
“Jane here today?” The man asks the young girl at the register when it’s his turn to order.
I bristle automatically at the name. Like blueberry muffins, the name Jane sends up a flare in my brain.
“Of course,” the girls says, pulling their order from the case. “She’s finishing up the final batch of muffins in the back.”
They finish their transaction, and I step up to the counter.
“Hi. What can I get for you?” The girl asks, her voice chipper.
“Hello.” I smile. She has bad acne but a very warm smile. “I’d like four blueberry and two spice. Muffins, I mean.”
“Sure.” She grabs a white paper bag and moves to the case on the left. “I’ve never seen you before. Are you visiting?” She ducks down, pulls the muffins from the case, and places them in the bag.
“We’re renting a little cabin for the weekend.” I pull cash from my wallet and hand it to her.
“The Lost Place?” She asks, at the same time the swinging door leading to the back opens. Her eyes are on her hands as she pulls my change from her drawer.
I shouldn’t be surprised she knows it. I’m opening my mouth to respond when a woman comes through the doors, back-end first. She pivots, a tray at her chest. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest second, then she bends at the waist, sliding the tray into the case.
“The Lost Place is great.” Her voice comes up over the case. “I stayed there for a while when I first came to town. That was a long time ago, though.”
She’s adjusting the tray, so she doesn’t look at me when she speaks.
But I don’t need her to look at me.
Her face, her voice, it’s forever burned into my soul. She’s fire, and I’m her charred remains.
My mom.
What do I do?
What do I say?
The thoughts in my head, they smack against one another, but nothing comes together. I’m tangled, jumbled, and the woman is arranging the fucking muffins like her life depends on it.
My shaky fingers snatch the bag from the counter. I turn around and run. Behind me the girl yells out something about my change.
I don’t slow down until I’m at the truck. I climb in quickly, afraid she might be right behind me. My eyes squeeze tight until the strain hurts my nostrils. Any moment she’s going to tap on the window. In my head I count.
One…
Two…
Three…
All the way to thirty.
And then ten more because I’m sure she’s going to come after me.
Nothing happens, and I’m not counting anymore. Maybe she’s just standing there, right outside my window, waiting for me to open my eyes.
I dare a peek.
Nothing. Nobody.
My head tips back. Now my eyes are open wide, looking at but not seeing the car’s ceiling.
I push the start button, and the truck roars to life. In my left hand is the bag of muffins. I relax my grip and drop it onto my lap.
As I back out of the space, I give myself instructions.
Don’t look over there. You don’t need to know if she’s looking for you.
But I do.
I look. Because I’m weak. Because I want to see her face, twisted with distress, sick with guilt.
She’s there, in the window, but she’s not looking for me. She’s talking to someone seated at a table. She’s smiling. She’s still beautiful.
I’ve never hated blueberry muffins more.
Doctors are known for being egotistical, especially surgeons. I’ve always gone easy on the self-congratulations, fearing the accusation of having a God-complex. But today, on this Saturday morning filled with towering pine trees and chirping birds, I allow some inner praise.
Aubrey loves the cabin. I startled her this morning when she was staring at the stream. What was she was thinking? I’d give anything for a glimpse into her thoughts. I know they’re complicated, but I’m a fixer. If she would just let me, I’m sure I could make everything better.
Claire woke up a few minutes after Aubrey left. She went directly for the toy suitcase and chose a pediatrician Barbie. We’ve been playing ever since.
“It’s time for my check-up, Dr. Claire.” My voice is high-pitched, my best impersonation of a young girl’s voice. I shift my weight and unfold a leg. The ground isn’t exactly comfortable.
Claire manipulates Barbie’s hands, using an otoscope to look in the ears of the little doll I’m holding.
She pauses, looks at me, her right eye still closed from looking through the tiny instrument. “I’m Dr. Cordova. Like you.” She resumes her examination.
“Sounds good,” I say in my own voice.
I’ve thought about that. Making Claire mine in a legal capacity. I thought about it more when I first found out about her, when I wasn’t sure how much of a fight I was in for. But then Aubrey turned out to be agreeable, and now… I haven’t given it much thought. It’s an eventuality though. It has to be.
I hear my truck tires crunching
leaves and sticks. The engine cuts off.
Claire looks at the door at the same time that I say, “Mommy’s home and she has a surprise for you.”
“Muffins,” she whoops, running to the front door. Aubrey opens it just as Claire gets there.
I can’t describe the look on Aubrey’s face. Aghast? Overwhelmed? Stricken? Maybe she hit an animal and feels bad. Or a car and doesn’t want to have to tell me. In this tiny, quaint town, what else could it possibly be?
“Thanks, Mommy.” Claire’s already pulled one from the bag Aubrey’s still holding. Even as I’m staring at Aubrey, trying to read the hollowness in her eyes, the scent of the muffins registers in my brain. I swallow the pool of saliva in my mouth and ignore my growling stomach.
Mechanically Aubrey walks to the kitchen and drops her purse and the brown bag. It’s crinkled to hell on the bottom half.
Claire, not noticing her mother’s wooden demeanor, has taken her breakfast back to her dolls. My steps toward Aubrey are slow and cautious, evenly paced. She’s not looking at me. She’s turned away, her stomach leaning against the sink, her gaze fixed on something she sees through the small window over the sink. Maybe she’s looking at nothing. Maybe she sees something visible only to her.
I don’t know what to say, so I reach for the bag.
At the bottom are two, maybe even three, crumpled muffins. Crumbs fill the space, except for the big lumps where they have stuck together and formed a ball.
I want to help Aubrey. Hold her. Take away whatever the hell happened to make her react this way. I’d also like to know what this is all about.
“Aubrey,” I say softly, coming up behind her, but from the side, so she can see me in her peripheral vision. No need to scare her, if she really is that lost in her thoughts. “Are you hurt?”
She turns, her eyes on me. They grow wide in surprise, as though she’s only just now realized I’ve been in the room. “Physically?” She makes a weird sound in the back of her throat. My chest constricts as I think of the possibility that Aubrey is injured… Or worse.
“No.” She says, looking back down at the sink.
The relief I feel is overwhelming. “What is it then?” I take a step closer. I can see into the sink now, to her hands. If Aubrey’s posture is wooden, then her hands are leaves, shaking in the wind. Her fingers beat a soft cadence on the metal.
I need to make this right. Whatever it is. I need to put Aubrey back together.
I take her hands from the sink and hold them in mine. My thumbs rub the tops of her hands, as though maybe she’s shaking from cold and not shock.
Her eyes are dark, fathomless. I squint into them. “Sixty?”
She breaks. Her eyes flash. A rush of air escapes her mouth, like she’s been holding her breath for too long.
“Put on a movie for Claire and come to my room.” She pivots without warning. Her long hair snaps me on the chin. I watch her hurry away. No more wood. More like lightning.
I do as I’m told, and Claire is only too happy. Aubrey monitors her screen-time, so there’s no way Claire will question an unexpected movie.
Before I leave Claire, I lock the front door, double check the lock on the back door, and give her a cup of water.
“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to talk to Mommy.”
She doesn’t respond. The movie has already taken Claire to the land of make-believe.
Firmly rooted in reality, I walk to Aubrey’s room. Staying calm under pressure is a necessity for my career, but right now I’m struggling. Suddenly I think about the Titanic and the unshakeable Molly Brown. That would be Aubrey. Unshakeable. Until today, anyway.
I tap on her door with two knuckles.
“Come in.”
I push open the door and find Aubrey standing in front of her dresser. She’s wearing the same red bra and black leggings I peeled off her last night. What’s missing is the oversized sweatshirt she’d had on a few minutes ago.
She strides right up to me, reaching behind me to shut the door. Her breasts graze my chest, and in the back of my mind I register the sound of the lock turning.
“Don’t you want to talk about what upset you?” It takes a lot of willpower to ask this question. Aubrey’s rarely this brave. I like it. But then it reminds me that her bravery is clearly tied to whatever has upset her, and that changes it.
“Not right now I don’t.” Her lips are on my neck, tongue fluttering over the hollow at the base of my throat, and I’m having a hard time concentrating.
“You’ll feel better if you talk.” My voice is garbled. It won’t take long before I give up. I can only take so much.
She steps back, it’s only a foot, but instantly I miss her heat.
Her eyes flash like they did just a few minutes ago in the kitchen.
“Talking won’t make me feel better. What I need now is to not talk. I need you to push me up against the wall and make me forget my name.” She steps back toward me, her hands slipping under my shirt. She traces a design across my chest with her flattened palms. “Make me forget what’s inside my chest right now.”
She leans back so she can stare at me, pleading eyes on mine. I can feel the edge I’m teetering on. Shouldn’t I be a gentleman? Refuse her? But this is Aubrey. Aubrey knows what she wants. Aubrey doesn’t speak words she doesn’t mean.
“If you’re expecting me to be gallant and refuse you, this is your very last chance to tell me.” My willpower is worn down to a nub.
She shakes her head. “No white knights allowed in here right now.”
I do as she asks. With my hand over her mouth, I push her until the wall stops us, and I give her some time to live outside of whatever is inside her chest.
It worked. But then time was up, and it was over, and I’m right where I was before I asked him to take me out of my mind.
I’ve got to leave this bathroom, go out to the living room, and tell Isaac what happened. And that’s when it hits me.
She was here.
I’d been too busy feeling the splintering of my chest. I didn’t stop to think about her here.
My fingers trace my reflection in the mirror above the counter. Did she look in this same mirror? Did she stare at herself, wonder how she could have left? Did she almost change her mind, run back to us, envision how she would pull me into her arms and smell my hair? Or did she stand tall and congratulate herself on a job well done?
I walk out, and with every step, I wonder if I’m placing my foot in a spot her weight pressed upon. The cabin is new to me now. I’m looking through her eyes.
A lot of this has probably been updated at least once in the past eighteen years. But not that fireplace. And not the stream. Maybe that’s where she did her reflecting. She’s a mother who left her child behind. She had to have reflected on that. She’s not a monster.
I can see her in the bakery. Carefree smile. Not an ounce of regret in those eyes. She should have sad eyes.
Just the thought of Claire starting kindergarten in August sends me into full blown ugly cry. How could she not be upset by the idea of never seeing me again?
Isaac stands in the kitchen. He’s drinking from a bottle of water, but his eyes are on me.
Just a few minutes ago, he was everything I needed. He filled me in all the ways I needed. I think, if I let him, he’d do that every day. Not just the physical part, but in the other ways. He’d slip in, occupy my heart, try to fix what’s broken.
Claire’s movie is still on. There was no hour for us today. It was fast, visceral, and raw. Just what I asked for.
“Hi,” I say softly, approaching him. My stomach feels queasy. It’s the dread. I don’t want to say the words. To tell him what, who, I saw.
“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” He tosses the empty plastic bottle onto the counter, where it rolls until it bumps into the brown bag of muffins.
The muffins that started everything.
I glance at Claire. I want to be sure she can’t hear. When I’m certain sh
e’s engrossed in her movie, I turn back to Isaac.
“The owner of the bakery… Those glorious muffins everyone raves about.” I curl my lip at the bag. The mere sight of it is offensive. “The person who bakes those is my mother.” The last word is a whisper.
Isaac does all the things a person in shock should do. His eyes widen, his head snaps back in disbelief, and his mouth falls slack, causing his lips to part.
My stomach is sick. Just saying the words makes me feel like I’ve taken a fist to my gut.
Isaac finds his voice. “Are you…sure? It’s been a long time. Maybe you got it wrong?”
“No doubt.” My eyes close, and her image appears behind them. The slope of her shoulders as she came from the back, tray in hand. They were down, away from her ears. Not the scrunched shoulders of someone holding a dark secret. “All this time, I pictured her somewhere depressing. She was supposed to be atoning for her sin with a sad, hard life. Regretting every step she took away from me.” My cheeks are wet. “But she’s not.” I open my eyes. Isaac is closer now, his face inches from me. I see the pain in his eyes, as though he’s feeling this hurt with me. “She’s…happy.”
Isaac touches my shoulders, grips them, squeezing once. He loosens his grip, and his hands slide down my arms until he reaches the end. When my fingers weave through his, he leans his forehead on mine. I close my eyes, because the world seems nicer when I can’t see.
“She’s not happy. No matter what you saw.” His breath is warm on my face. He smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, and I want to cry in relief. He chose the spice muffin. “Nobody could ever be happy after knowing you and never seeing you again. I couldn’t. Now that I know you, I don’t want there to ever be a time when I don’t.”
I’m afraid to look at him. I don’t know how to hear these kind words. Like rubber, they bounce off me. I’m not porous. I don’t absorb love like this.
Is that what this even is? Love?
He didn’t say that word.
But I did.
It doesn’t matter, though. None of it does.
Her happiness, her ease, her content, they all form the confirmation I’ve been searching for my whole life.
Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1) Page 21