by Kay Shostak
“Hey, Ruby. This for me?” I pull my phone out of my front jean pocket and sit it on the counter. These shorts from last year are a little tight. Probably shrunk in storage.
“Who else? Coffee black and a bran muffin. You look like you need to lay off the chocolate ones for a bit.” Okay, in MoonShots, they may all look down their skinny noses at you in judgement, but they usually don’t say it to your face.
“Ruby!” Libby says. “Be nice.”
Ruby shrugs her bony, pointy shoulders in her droopy tank top, but you don’t hear me saying anything, do you? “Sorry, Carolina. At least you don’t yo-yo up and down like that make-believe beauty queen Laney Troutman. You seen her lately? Wow.” Ruby jumps when Libby sits the pot of coffee down hard on the counter burner behind her. “Oh, okay. Everyone looks amazing. Everyone in Chancey is ravishing and thin. And sweet, everyone is sweet as sugar, right? Come to think of it, the thinnest one around is that snotty Yankee girl. Guess you can’t have looks and manners.”
Libby rolls her eyes and then pokes Ruby in the back with her elbow as she passes. “Didn’t you want to talk to Carolina about something other than how unattractive her friends are?”
“Yeah,” Ruby looks over her bare shoulder at her employee. “That’s why I asked you if you’d seen her.”
Libby rolls her eyes again and walks out from behind the counter. “Well, there she is.”
Ruby watches Libby start the rounds of refilling coffee cups. “Sometimes I think I need to hire some young person who would appreciate this job more.”
“Right.” I take a sip of coffee. “You’ve obviously not hung out with any young people lately. What did you want to ask me?”
“Did you tell that Jordan I’d help her out?”
“Yes. That very same day.” Hmm. The bran muffin is not bad after all.
“She hasn’t said anything to me. And you’re sure you told her?”
“Like I just sat here and lied to you?”
“No, I guess not. But I’m kind of excited about trying to make those new things she was talking about. Been looking up recipes for biscotti and scones and even strudel. Good to try new things every so often.” She turns to the door at the sound of its bells jingling. “Here comes your friend. Wonder if she knows her sister is turning into Shamu?”
“Ruby! Behave,” I instruct in my best librarian voice before turning around to greet Susan.
“Savannah said you were here. I called the house looking for you.” She reaches out and picks up my phone. “Yep, ringer turned off.”
“Oh, forgot I did that. What do you need?”
Her eyes are shining as she sits down. “Have you talked to Missus?”
“Not since Sunday night, why?”
“We’re going to do it. We’re going to hold the reception for the weddings at the Lake Park. And I’m in charge.”
“What? Isn’t it at the conference place in Canton? Thought Missus had that all wrapped up.”
“I convinced her to unwrap it. It’ll be my first major event. The weather is going to be perfect, and so I talked her into it.”
Ruby makes a harrumphing sound. We both look at her, and her eyes are definitely not shining. “Never known Shermania Cogdill Bedwell to be talked into anything.”
And there goes the shining of Susan’s eyes. “But…”
“Not saying it’s not a good thing, just don’t fool yourself that it wasn’t what she wanted all along. Want a muffin?”
Susan turns to me. “You think it’s a good thing, right?”
“I guess. I didn’t know the park was set up for private events like this.”
“Well, we’re closing early. I’m going to put up all kinds of those little white lights, like I did for Leslie’s graduation party. The caterers said it was no problem. I do have to go order the chairs and tables and stuff, but that’s not a problem, right?”
I shrug.
Ruby shrugs.
Susan stands up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait, is that all you wanted with me?”
“Mostly, but also to say congratulations on the bookstore. Heard you’re back in charge. Talk to you later,” Susan says as she backs away from the counter. Then turns and scurries out the door.
Ruby takes a couple steps back, into the baking area, then comes forward to lean on the counter in front of me. She holds a chocolate muffin. “You didn’t even know you were back in charge over at the bookstore until she told you, did you?”
“No.”
“Here, you might as well have some chocolate. You are now in charge of Andy and Patty, and Gertie is your boss, so a few extra pounds are the least of your worries.”
Chapter 46
Not only can’t I find anyone to sit at Ruby’s with me, what could be a fun road trip to check out the Italian Bistro for the rehearsal dinner is just me. Alone. All week I’ve tried to get someone to go with me, but they all have these so-called jobs—which are really cutting into my social life. Etta won’t get here until tonight, and tomorrow being Friday, and the date of the rehearsal dinner, it’s now or never. So, alone it is.
Apparently, I also have a job now. I got out of Ruby’s yesterday without seeing anyone from the bookstore, and I avoided seeing Gertie this morning before I left. So, no bookstore updates yet. However, I have to risk talking to Gertie and stay at home at some point to deal with the mess in the B&B’s office. All of the upcoming guests at Crossings are associated with the wedding, so the disorganization doesn’t really matter, does it? I bet Laney has Charming House running smooth as fresh peanut butter. She’s really good at organization and keeping everything straight. I always thought she was just dropping in and messing around, but apparently she was actually doing stuff, real stuff for Crossings. I miss her messing around now.
So, a road trip seems perfectly logical. Funny how those swooping curves out of Chancey make me so happy. Sunglasses on and window open with the radio up loud on a classic rock station doesn’t hurt either. We’re supposed to have a beautiful stretch of weather after all that rain we got. Once I get to the interstate, or four-lane as everyone in Chancey calls it, I roll up my window and turn the radio down a bit.
Near Canton, my exit, the new shopping centers and restaurants surprise me. It looks more and more like Marietta every time I come here. Construction took a break during the recession, but the pace has picked up again. And it’s all so pretty. Mature landscaping accents parking lots and signs that are only a few months old. Old brick, which probably isn’t brick at all, makes the buildings appear substantial. Signs are tasteful and substantial, well, they would be if the stones making up the signs were something other than styrofoam. At the first red light off the interstate, I get a glimpse of a hillside of apartment buildings. Lots of customers to keep all these shops and restaurants open. Instant customers. Instant buildings. Instant happiness. Hmmm, I don’t remember being this cynical before we, um, before we moved to Chancey. Could being surrounded by bricks that were in place before the Civil War have jaded me for my beloved suburban beauty?
Shaking off my doubts at the first traffic light (hanging from a brass and black pole with acorn-sculpted finials and baskets of purple colored petunias), I take a deep breath and a quick look at Google Maps on my phone.
Missus mentioned the Italian Bistro to me Sunday night in the midst of my panic about a last-minute rehearsal dinner. She said since it’s a favorite of Peter’s, she’d checked it out for the reception, but decided it wasn’t big enough. She said it would be perfect for the rehearsal, and that it wasn’t too far from Chancey.
The farther I drive, though, the less things look new. Just as things begin to look not only not new, but a bit shabby, my Google Maps guide says to turn. Then the shabby turns into old, but not bad old, just real. Like real wood and brick and stone and actually matured, in-place, landscaping. Not drawn out on paper last month and planted, full-grown, this month. At least that’s how it is on one side of the road. The other is undeveloped and for sale, according to the st
ring of large signs I pass.
My final turn is into a parking lot fronting a string of businesses, and the one on the end nearest me is my destination. Cars fill the parking lot as its right at lunch time. I didn’t think about calling first to get a tour. They offered one when I made the reservation, but I didn’t set anything up. At least I can get lunch and maybe things will clear out.
It’s pretty non-descript on the outside, but even from the sidewalk I can smell garlic and roasting meat. It’s hard to believe we used to live surrounded by restaurants like this. I completely took that for granted. Now my knees practically weaken at the idea of a new place. I have to admit, the idea of no one knowing me adds to the knee-weakening. (Another thing I took for granted.) When the door opens, I’m in a small, busy area. It looks more like a store than a restaurant. There are a couple metal tables, a refrigerator case with salads, meats, and cheeses. There are shelves around the other walls and tasteful displays set all around. Then I realize it is a market. The Italian Shoppe says a big sign, and then I notice the sign for the restaurant over another door. I go to it and pull.
The smells intensify, and the light dims. A sign says to seat myself, so I step into the room to locate a small, empty table. I survey everything around me and smile at the swooping staircase up to an open area. That’s our room. The one at the top of the stairs, the lady had said. Missus was right; it is perfect. After lunch, I’ll ask to go up and look around. A row of small tables near the stairs is my destination, and I’m passing occupied tables when suddenly Peter is sitting right in front of me. Next to Jordan. They look very cozy, except for that startled look on their faces. Startled? Guilty? Either works.
Peter is dressed up again, hair pulled back neatly, white dress shirt with a tie loosened around his neck. Jordan is back in black, wearing a sleeveless dress with a high neckline. Her hair is loose and brushes the tops of her toned shoulders. Peter’s arm lies on the back of her chair, and their plates are pushed together, as well as their glasses.
“Carolina,” they both say, but they look around behind me. They even make me look.
“Who are you looking for? To see if I’m alone? Well, I am. Jordan, you’re married. Peter, she’s married and has kids.”
“Yes, I know,” Peter says as he stands up next to me and then puts his arm around me. “Let me explain.”
“Get your arm off me.” My face is hot, and I’m confused at him standing so close and trying to put his arm around my back. As I push away, he stays right with me, and when I bump into a lady at the next table, she complains. I try to turn around, but Peter bustles me back toward Jordan. What in the world?
Jordan has her head bowed and her hand across her forehead. Good, she looks embarrassed. To free myself of Peter, I step toward Jordan. “You need to remember stunts like this are why you are in this ‘godforsaken place’ as you call it. You have two little girls that miss you. And Diego misses you, too.” Now, I turn on my one-time friend. “Peter, I’m ashamed of you. I’m leaving now, and I won’t say anything because, well, there’s the wedding and the baby. And I already have too much on my mind. Peter, you need to come home, and Jordan, you need to go back to New York.” This time I’m able to leave Peter at the table and dash back out the door to the shop and then outside.
Savannah was right. Peter and Jordan.
What are they thinking? In the van, I sit and wait to calm down. Maybe I overreacted. But no, they were sitting together. And had been sitting together while they ate. They looked very nervous to see me. Why did Peter keep trying to hold onto me? Guess he didn’t want me to leave until I promised not to say anything. And I thought he liked me. That’s laughable now. And embarrassing.
As I pull out of the parking lot, my stomach grumbles. Darn, that food smelled delicious.
Chapter 47
It’s my favorite time of day in what is quickly becoming my favorite place to spend it. There isn’t even the smallest ripple on the water. Unlike at our house, the water here forms a lake to the side of the river. The constant movement of the water at the house, even when it’s slow and sluggish, changes things. Also, along the river, the water’s edges are mostly inaccessible banks of red clay and tree roots. Here at the lake park, the smooth expanse of grass and pine needles slides right into the water. In the swimming area, it’s met with a beach of sand, but here, off to the side, the tall pines are reflecting in the still water at their feet.
Luckily, the drive home from the restaurant provided time for my anger to subside, helped along by a hamburger and fries from McDonalds. (Like a good credit card, they fix most anything.) I arrived back at Crossings just minutes after Etta’s arrival. My mother-in-law is a happy sort, and even more happy since she’s moved to the beach. Bryan apparently carried her bags to her room all the while expounding on the new Lake Park. I got home just in time to put my stamp of approval on the plan to pick up a pizza and eat dinner there.
Now that we’ve eaten, Etta is watching all of Bryan’s tricks on the diving board from a lawn chair at the edge of the beach. Jackson and Savannah are also swimming, and I have wandered off to watch the lavender sky reflect on the still water. Being around the end point, the splashing of my family isn’t disturbing the mirror-like water here.
The air is as still as the water, and while substantial, it’s not heavy with heat like it will be soon. There’s a softness to the air and light. Just on the edge of darkness, my eyes see more clearly than in the light of day, farther and deeper. And my breath slows and deepens. Today sure didn’t go as planned, but I do think the rehearsal dinner will be great at the Italian Bistro, so that was accomplished. Thinking of Jordan’s girls brings a sigh, but that’s her decision. And maybe, well, maybe it wasn’t what it looked like?
Squeezing my eyes shut, my headache digs deeper. I can’t let this ruin this weekend. Peter and Jordan are adults, and I don’t want him. I’m happy with Jackson—it was just so abrupt seeing them there. Wait. Stop thinking about them.
Rolling my shoulders, I breathe deep and smile at Etta’s laugh. My kids have such great grandparents. My eyes pop open. Wait, I’m going to be a grandparent. Like, really soon. And then the park looks different. I see myself in the water teaching a little one to hold its breath before easing him or her under. Or me, sitting in the lawn chair blowing up water wings, while a bouncy tot urges me to hurry.
Guess I knew this would all happen, but I don’t remember ever thinking about it. I never had time to wish for a grandchild or plan a child’s wedding. I’ve always found it hard to live in the moment. I seem to have no problem spending time regretting passed moments or worrying over future moments. But this moment? Very hard to focus on, don’t you think?
And now the moments are flying. I keep finding myself blinking my eyes and shaking my head, but my vision doesn’t clear. And while I’m doing that—another moment passes. And another.
Turning around, I tune in. Jackson meets me to walk back as I rejoin my family and the others enjoying the summer evening at our new park. He rubs his wet arm against my shirt sleeve. At first I push him away, then I laugh, lift his arm, and lay it around me, on my shoulders.
“I’ll get you wet,” he says. But I hold onto his hand and snuggle into him.
“So? How perfect is this?” I say. “I’m glad your mom is here.”
“Me too. Hope the weather is this nice for the reception on Saturday.”
“Yep, but all that matters is right now, this very moment. How about ice cream on the way home?”
Jackson kisses me and laughs. “I don’t know. Think we can talk Bryan into it?”
“It’s so cool, Meemaw! It’s an old gas station, but they sell ice cream. Good ice cream. The ladies are like you.”
Savannah swats at her brother. “Shut up. They’re not like Meemaw.”
Bryan shoves a stiff arm at his sister from his place in the back seat of the minivan. Etta and Savannah have the two middle-row chairs. “They are too like Meemaw, nice and funny.”
&nbs
p; My daughter and I make eye contact as I look over my shoulder. The ladies at the gas station are known for a lot of things. Nice and funny are the gentlest, and least used, descriptors.
Miss K and Miss G man the cash register at the gas station across from the high school. Right beside the cash register is an ice cream cooler that holds six tubs of ice cream. And it’s good ice cream. The two tubs closet to the register are always vanilla and chocolate. The other four rotate depending on the ladies’ whims. You never know what will be there, and they never apologize for an errant choice. Often the adults are left ordering what we don’t want, because a new flavor can only be bought when that tub is empty.
A string of old picnic tables lines the blacktop on one side. Behind them is a grassy patch of weeds. Parking is on the other side of the gas station lot. It’s not exactly laid out for safety, with everyone moving across the area for pumping gas, but everyone knows what the deal is and just tries to be careful. It took me some getting used to, since in the suburbs everyone is preoccupied with safety and signs. To allow people, especially children, to figure something out on their own is considered neglect, if not full-out abuse.
We park, and everyone goes inside because, unless you want chocolate or vanilla, that’s the only way to know what’s available. Bryan gets to the cooler first and asks for a cone of pink bubblegum, then turns to the newspaper stand. Now this is a feature you don’t find everywhere. Newspapers that list out the recent area arrests, with mugshots and everything. Miss G and Miss K read each one cover to cover as soon as it comes in and are conversant on every single legal indiscretion, but most especially on the more colorful ones. So Bryan, knowing the drill, places his order, then, while he waits, bends to look at the front of the most recent arrest paper.
“D’ya see the one about that boy that tried to rob the Krystal through the drive-up window? Stuck his hand in to grab a wad of cash, but the girl at the window was a-thinkin’ and she just pulled that window lever. Got holdt of him good and tight!” The Misses look and sound alike, big and country. Miss K has long white hair she always wears in a scrappy braid that trails down to a wisp. Miss G has red hair, but not a natural red. More like mercurochrome red. Think fake fire. Miss G is the one telling the burglary story, and she moves onto other local crime stories of note as she rings up our total.