by Jill Winters
"Well, come on, give me updates," Adrienne said now.
"Updates on what?"
"On your life. I've been gone for two whole weeks. Surely there must be something new," she insisted—quite erroneously.
"There's really not much to tell," Billy said.
"Well, have you found another job yet?"
"No."
"Have you even looked?"
"I've looked," Billy said, with the implied understanding that "looked" was a fairly broad term. She was going to look; she intended to look. "Things have just been really busy at the bakery, especially with the Dessert Jubilee coming up this weekend—"
"Not even any good leads?" Adrienne persisted. "How many resumes have you sent out this week?"
"Mom, I hope you didn't call to nag me," Billy said, cutting her off at the pass.
"Fine, I won't nag. Just tell me how many resumes you've sent out since you lost your job at Net Circle, and exactly when you plan to have a new job."
Did she have to make it sound like a police investigation? When had her mother become the career counselor from hell?
"Look, if something new breaks, I'll let you know," Billy said.
"Fine," Adrienne sighed, frustrated, "but you're a Phi Beta Kappa college graduate; you shouldn't be working in a bakery."
"Let's move on..." Billy warned, wondering exactly how many ways her mother could work "Phi Beta Kappa" into a conversation.
"Fine, fine. So has Corryn met anyone yet?"
"No, I don't think so," Billy replied nonchalantly, even as her mind was saying, For real? Their mother was truly in denial if she thought Corryn was open-minded in the romance department, or in any way over the anti-men sentiment that had been the bitter remainder of her divorce. In fact, the only date she'd been on since Kane had left her—compliments of her mother's astute matchmaking—was a disastrous setup with a plastic surgeon who turned out to be gay.
"Nobody? Not one date?" Adrienne asked, sounding pained.
"Mom, she'll date when she's ready."
"Well, these are some pretty awful updates. At least tell me something about Mark. How are things going with you two?"
"Good," Billy said, leaning her head on the T window, feeling the corners of her mouth angle up, happy to have a boyfriend-esque figure in her life to say was doing well.
"Why don't you bring him over to the house on Friday night? He never comes over here. Doesn't he like us?"
"He's working late on Friday, I think. I'm supposed to see him tomorrow night." Billy wished she could see Mark more often, but because of his recent promotion he had a lot more on-site visits to stores all over Massachusetts and parts of Rhode Island. That left him little time on the weeknights to plan dates with Billy—and Billy was very sorry, but she was not scheduling those dates around her mother.
"So has he talked about the future?" Adrienne asked.
"We've only been dating six weeks!" Billy said with an exasperated laugh. "If he talked about the future, I'd be suspicious." As it was, Mark Warner was almost too good to be true: He was tall, dark, and classically good-looking, not to mention exceptionally friendly and outgoing. In fact, the only thing that wasn't completely jelling was the passion factor, but Billy figured it would get better in time.
"Have you found out what he makes yet?"
Billy rolled her eyes. "Mom, why do you bother asking that? I keep telling you, I don't know what he makes, and I wouldn't ask him anyway, because then it looks like I care, and I don't."
"So tell him you're asking for me."
"Much better—listen, Mom, we're about to go underground," Billy said as the train jerked to a stop at St. Mary's Street. "I'm gonna lose you in a sec, but I'll call you later, okay?"
"Wait—maybe Mark has a friend for Corryn? An older brother?"
Right. Billy could just see Corryn being one of those brother-sister-duo couples. Although the friend thing was an inevitable possibility, because Mark had more friends and acquaintances than anyone Billy had ever met. Too many, actually, but that was neither here nor there in terms of Corryn, who refused to be set up anymore. "I don't think so," she said.
"A cousin?"
"Lay off Corryn. What's the rush in finding her someone?"
"I just don't want her to end up like Aunt Penelope," Adrienne said, descending into an all-too-familiar lament about her unmarried older sister. Luckily, the train was sloping toward the underground tunnel.
"Gotta go, Mom."
"Okay, we'll finish this conversation on Friday night."
What conversation? Billy felt like asking, but she didn't get the chance, because her phone blitzed out as soon as she hit the dark.
As she settled back in her seat, she noticed that the disheveled guy sitting in front of her had turned around and was staring. She kept her gaze fixed on the window, on blackness rushing past, hoping he would get bored and turn back around. Instead, he spoke to her: "What's your name?" She pretended not to hear. "What's your name?" he said again.
She flashed him a quick, closemouthed smile and ignored the question.
"What's your name?"
"Uh, Billy," she replied, still looking out the window, hoping that would pacify him. Hoping, but not truly believing.
"Billy, do you love me?" he asked loudly. When she didn't respond, he leaned closer, covered his ears with his hands, and burst into song: " La-la-la-laa!" Just then the train jerked to a stop at Copley, and Billy hopped off.
Once she hit the sidewalk, she shook her head, laughing to herself, as she pulled her hair into a ponytail and crossed the street at the same time. She could deal with crazy people on the T—she could also deal with drunk people—but she hated when they singled her out.
Chapter 3
Seth cringed as he drove down I-95 with Sally's sports car shaking and sputtering, and Sally looking oblivious in the passenger's seat. "Jesus, when's the last time you changed the oil in this thing?" he asked.
"Oil?" Sally repeated vacantly, and studied Seth's Palm Pilot. "I really need to get one of these. Then I'd be able to keep track of all my social obligations."
Seth doubted that was possible, but it definitely might help. The car jerked, and Seth gently applied pressure on the brakes until it steadied. "What is up with this car?"
"Oh, don't worry; it always does that," Sally said with a wave of her hand. Just then the car jittered, vaguely like a moth's body in a porch light. "See, it's just a little nothing."
Seth shot her a sideways look. "Then why are your glasses crooked?"
She brought a hand up to straighten them on her face, and moved from mundane topics like her sputtering car to more fascinating, worldly subjects like Tara Brent's upcoming wedding, the new eggless quiche at Marie's Cafe, and the recent acquiring of the Churchill Art Gallery by local eccentric Greg Dappaport. "And I suppose you heard about that new man in town, Ted Schneider?"
Seth said no.
"Oh, he's just terrible! He moved to Churchill a couple of months ago. Lives on his boat—some hideous old contraption he keeps docked in the marina. Nobody even knows why he moved to Churchill, or what he does for a living." Scoffing, she added, "If you ask me, the man is just crusty and ill-bred."
"Well, maybe he just likes to keep to himself," Seth said with a shrug.
"No, keeping to yourself is one thing. Hostility and evasiveness about your past is another."
"Well, maybe he had a tough childhood," Seth suggested absently as he looked for his exit off the Mass Pike.
"Tough childhood? He's sixty!" Sally exclaimed, and shook her head. "Now people are worried that he's going to do something to ruin the Dessert Jubilee this weekend. Oh, and I suppose you heard about what he did to Archie Winston?"
"No, I must've missed that," Seth replied, suppressing a laugh. Christ, how would he hear? Sally seemed to think the Churchill Gazette was a national paper.
"Well, first let me say that nobody respects a person's right to privacy more than I do"—Seth reserved comment, because he
was pretty sure laughing in Sally's face would be rude—"but really, when you come to a small town you have to expect that people will want to get to know you. From what I hear, this Ted Schneider flat-out ignores people who try to talk to him. And his rusty old boat is a complete eyesore, Seth—"
"About Archie?" Seth pressed, trying to get her back on task.
"Oh, well, one morning Archie went down to the water, innocently asked Mr. Schneider about his lineage, and the man practically took his head off."
"Wait, if you don't know his lineage, then how do you know he's 'ill-bred'?" Seth asked wryly, slanting his gaze to Sally's.
"Something in the eyes."
As Seth drove, the familiarity of Boston's Back Bay struck him.
It had really been too long since he'd been here. There was something innately welcoming about Boston—the old stone architecture, the vibrantly green parks, the clean openness, and the quaint historic charm of the city. He remembered how much Billy loved the little white lights that lit up the trees on Boylston Street all year round. But then, Billy had decorated her own apartment with strings of lights—both white and colored—always huffily refuting anyone who claimed they were solely for Christmastime. Seth smiled to himself now, recalling Billy's cute bursts of huffiness that always passed quickly. Seeing that photo earlier had obviously triggered this distant part of his memory.
Now he looked for a parking spot near Copley Square, doubting very much that he'd find one, while Sally moved on to an even less enthralling topic than local gossip. "So, Seth... how's your love life? Any special ladies I should know about?" He could feel her eyes on him now, studying him, waiting intently for his response. He supposed Sally had a surrogate mother-type of interest in seeing him "settle down."
"No, not really," he replied. "I haven't had much time for a personal life."
"What do you mean? Oh, don't tell me you've turned into one of those workaholic types? Seth, your mother wouldn't like that, not that she's not proud of you, of course she is, of course we all are, but still. Work isn't everything." Yeah, he'd begun to realize that over the last several months of work and little else. In fact, in the back of his mind he feared that if he didn't break the cycle, he might never find something more meaningful—something better.
But he kept it to himself.
"What about love?" Sally pressed. "What about a wife? What about a family, a special person who will make your life more complete?"
"I've only been back in town for two hours," he interrupted, because he didn't want to think about the things that were missing. "Maybe you could wait a few days, and then ease into reevaluating my whole life."
"Well, you're a very handsome boy, Seth. Tall, blond, handsome, smart, successful, sweet, responsible—"
"Okay, okay," he said, cutting her off gently, because he felt a little embarrassed by the over-the-top compliments.
"Well, I'm just saying you don't want to waste that. There are plenty of women who'd love to sink their hooks into you and latch on for dear life."
"Sounds appealing."
He spotted a parking space, and, cutting the wheel sharply, he slid backward into the spot. Meanwhile, Sally finally got to what she'd been dancing around. "Just thinking off the top of my head here," she said, "but have you ever met my niece, Pam?"
Oh, no. He did not want to be set up. He'd broken up with his last girlfriend, Laura, almost a year ago, and sure, he'd love to find someone he clicked with, but not someone who lived on the other side of the country. And not someone related to Sally; the idea alone seemed smothering and incestuous.
"Seth? I asked if you ever met my niece, Pam."
"Right—uh, let me think," he said, climbing out of the car and squinting his eyes against the afternoon sun. "Pam... Pam... we might've met once or twice." When they were kids, but that wasn't where Sally was going with this. Not down memory lane—down matchmaking lane. No, thank you.
"I really think you two should spend some time together while you're home," Sally said, taking his arm while they walked down the sidewalk. "I have a feeling you two would really hit it off. And it's perfect, because she's going to moving out west soon." He started to feel the claws tighten around his throat. How could he decline without insulting Sally?
Obviously, Sally mistook Seth's momentary silence for an invitation to discuss the topic in detail. "Pam's twenty-three," she continued, as Seth thought, Too young. "She's lovely, with long legs like a gazelle, but not lanky, I mean, graceful—like a supermodel—and she's a smart girl, like a genius almost, but not conceited about it, very humble, actually, and she's very liberated, as you young people might say, but not any sort of hussy, of course."
Quirking his mouth, Seth wondered if Pam would appreciate this bizarre testimonial.
"And like I said, she really wants to move out west." Christ, what was this, manifest destiny? And since when was "west" synonymous with Seattle? "I just thought if Pam had a friend out there already, that would be so wonderful," Sally finished, with a note of pleading to her voice.
"Of course," Seth said, quickly latching onto the "friend" part. "If she ever needs anything, she can give me a call—"
"And like you said, you're not dating anyone right now...."
"Honestly, Sally, I'm going to be so busy while I'm home. But why don't we all have lunch or something sometime? The three of us," he emphasized.
"Oh, wonderful! I'll make sure we do," she said, clapping her hands, as her emerald ring caught a flash of sunlight.
After agreeing to meet back at the car in a couple of hours, Sally turned and headed down the street. She moved quickly and merrily—occasionally looking back to wave. Seth shook his head and chuckled to himself. No, it didn't take long at all for him to feel at home.
* * *
Georgette ducked out from the kitchen to set a plate of apple fritters on the table Billy was using. "Help yourself, hon."
"Thanks, those smell awesome," Billy said, breathing in the sweet apple aroma and trying not to give in to the daily temptation of working in the back, which was more of a median between the front of the store and the kitchen. A clean, cozy space, with white walls, a pink tile floor, and stainless-steel shelves neatly stockpiled with cake boxes, rolls of wax paper, and stacks of paper cups, it was where Billy decorated the cakes. It was also the place where Georgette deposited remainders for the staff to eat—baked goods that didn't look right, but still smelled and tasted delicious, and still had roughly a zillion calories.
Pausing at the kitchen door, Georgette asked, "By the way, what the hell's a soy nut?"
If Billy recalled, it was pretty self-explanatory. "It's just a roasted soybean, I think." (Well, it might sound self-explanatory; she never said it sounded good.)
"Oh, for chrissake," Georgette scoffed irritably, plowing her hand into her fluffy white rooster 'do.
"Why, what's wrong?"
"Melissa says I gotta start offerin' 'soy-nut alternatives' for vegans, or some bull crap like that." Behind her clunky pink glasses, she squinted her eyes angrily. "And we all know, whatever the princess wants—"
She stopped short of saying "she gets," as the alleged princess walked through the door. Georgette turned on her heel to retreat back to the kitchen, when Melissa stopped her. "Wait a sec, Georgette! I have something for you."
"What is it now?" she barked, and snatched the yellow piece of paper out of Melissa's hand.
"Two new recipe ideas from the suggestion box," Melissa replied.
"But—"
"Donna already approved them."
With that, Georgette scowled and slapped hard on the kitchen door. Once she was gone, Melissa simply shrugged off her tantrum and filled a paper cup with coffee from the old-fashioned pot in the corner. She leaned against the table and blew on her cup. "Oh, is that for the jubilee?" she asked, eyeing the sheet cake Billy was working on.
"Yeah, what do you think?" Billy asked, stepping back.
"It looks fantastic so far."
Georg
ette slammed pans around in the kitchen while Melissa rolled her eyes, and Billy couldn't help but giggle.
"By the way, do Katie and Des need my help out front?" Billy asked, just realizing she'd been working in the back for over an hour.
"No, don't worry; the lunch crowd already cleared out. Of course, Des's sleep-inducing diatribe on 'constructional imperialism' doesn't exactly entice one to linger." Billy laughed, recognizing that as Des's platform on the Big Dig, only about a decade too late. "By the way, how's Mark?"
"He's fine," Billy replied with a smile.
"So, are you guys still hot and heavy or what?" Melissa asked.
"I guess," Billy said, though "hot and heavy" wasn't quite it. Mark was hot, Billy's fantasies were hot, but when the two worlds met... her expectations fizzled.
Somehow the idea of kissing Mark was always more exciting than the reality. Billy honestly didn't know why—she was physically attracted to him, and she wanted to love kissing him. She wanted to melt inside, to sweat all over, to throw him down on the hood of his car and tear his shirt open with her teeth. Instead, while she enjoyed being near him, kissing him was merely pleasant. There was just something about Mark's lukewarm, very moist lips pressed on hers that didn't stir immediate and electrifying passion.
Still, she wasn't ready to conclude that the chemistry was simply wrong. What seemed more realistic was that the passion between them would intensify as their relationship developed. Especially when they became more emotionally involved; so far they weren't even close to making love.
"Is he still working for that supply distribution company?" Melissa asked. "He's never here anymore."
"Oh, I know. With his promotion, he's been assigned to a different set of stores." If that sounded vague, she supposed it was, but Mark never went into a lot of detail about his job. "And he has longer hours now," Billy added, "which is why I don't get to see him as much as I'd like."