Small Town Girl

by Linda Cunningham

  “Our timing sucks,” he said. She thought she heard a tremor in his voice. Lauren could not make herself speak. Her breath caught in her throat, and she swayed a little in his grip. “I appreciate you telling me the truth,” he said. “I really do. And I meant everything I ever said to you, but I’m seeing someone now, and I’m trying to put my life on a solid path. I took two hits. I can’t afford another.”

  Lauren took a deep breath. All her emotion seemed to drain from her, and she felt desolate and hollow, like the empty casings of the fireworks that littered the ground. “It’s all right,” she whispered, looking up at him, gazing into those burning green-lit eyes. His eyes never left her face. She could feel his fingers trembling on her arm. So this was to be it. This was the situation she would have to live with. “It’s all right,” she spoke again. “I wish you the best of everything, Caleb. Goodbye now.” He let go of her gently. His fingers slipped down her arm, searing her skin with his touch. Lauren turned away from him and started to walk back toward the parking lot. She looked back once over her shoulder and saw him disappear into the night.

  Haltingly, she told Kelly and Brian what had transpired, and they rode the rest of the way home in silence. She dragged herself up to her room, undressed, and crawled into bed. The duvet settled around her like a soft, protective shield.

  Then she began to cry. She cried most of the night. She cried at her own foolishness. She cried for the abandonment and loneliness. She cried for lost love.

  In the morning, she rose and steeled herself for the future. If this was where she was, then she would accept it. She would not seek anything more, but she would go on with her life in one capacity or another. She would make a plan.

  Lauren went downstairs to the big kitchen where Brian was standing over the stove. The seductive smell of bacon whetted her appetite in spite of her mood. Kelly was standing beside the table, a mug of coffee in her hand.

  “Sit down, honey,” she said to Lauren. “I’ve poured your coffee.”

  “And I’ve made the most delectable breakfast you’ll ever have. Sit down, girls, and prepare yourselves for real food!”

  Kelly and Lauren sat down. Lauren sipped her coffee, letting the smooth warmth of it slide comfortingly down her throat. Brian set plates of food in front of them and then joined them at the table with his own plate.

  “Oh, Brian!” exclaimed Lauren. “This is too much!” The plates were piled high with sugar-dusted French toast, bacon, and fried eggs. A pitcher of cold orange juice was on the table, the condensing water droplets glistening in the sunshine flooding in the window and sliding in liquid rainbows down its side.

  “I was inspired by the fair food yesterday,” Brian said proudly. “I made a real country breakfast.”

  “And it is just magnificent!” said Lauren, holding a maple syrup soaked piece of French toast on the end of her fork.

  They ate in silence for a while. It was Kelly who spoke first. “Brian and I have been talking,” she said. “We think you should wrap things up here and come back to the city. You can get a job. You can’t just hide out.”

  Lauren chewed pensively on her French toast and then swallowed. “I don’t intend to hide out,” she said. “I think I have a plan.”

  “And that would be?” asked Kelly.

  “I think I’m going to stay here until I finish restoring the house or it sells. All the outside work is done, and at the most, it’ll only take the winter to finish the inside. I can do a lot of it by myself, and I enjoy doing it. It’s therapeutic, and about now, I need some therapy! In the meantime, I’ll send resumes out everywhere. I thought I might even go to San Francisco or Los Angeles. There are plenty of museums out there. I might even opt for a career change and try to get into academia or publishing.”

  “Okay,” Brian said, “you just have to make sure that you go where you really want to be. The geographic cure never works. I personally think you should come back to New York. You know New York. New York knows you. The whole Charles thing is already down the drain like yesterday’s bath water.”

  “Would you be able to stay here through the winter?” asked Kelly.

  “Why, of course. The house is heated. I’d be fine.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Kelly pointedly. “I meant would you be able to live here knowing you could run into Caleb and this new girl at any moment?”

  “That’s the way things are,” said Lauren with finality. “There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m not saying it wouldn’t bother me. I’m just saying I have to get on with things. And I have to follow a plan. It will keep me on course.”

  “We could come up and help on the weekends too, couldn’t we, Brian?” offered Kelly.

  “I’m a pragmatist and a realist,” said Brian. “I think your idea of a plan is healthy. And, for what it’s worth, you’ll be fine. You will extricate yourself from this heartbreak, heal, and move on. We’re here to help you.”

  “Brian is not a pragmatist or a realist,” remarked Kelly. “He’s a total romantic. However, he’s right. We’re here for you.”

  Kelly and Brian left a couple of hours later. Lauren stood on the porch and waved goodbye as they drove down the road. Then she turned and went back inside. On the kitchen table was the little blue rosette that she had won for her flowers. She picked it up carefully, almost tenderly, and stroked it thoughtfully.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE DAYS BEGAN TO blur together for Lauren. She had put in a call to her parents, explaining that the wedding was being postponed due to Charles’s business responsibilities. She did not want to get into the whole story just yet with her mother and father who would have more opinions about it than Lauren would want to listen to. She hardly reflected on it herself. Instead, she worked hard at her restoration project, finding comfort in the satisfaction of seeing the house blossom. Outside, September was unusually warm, even as it passed its midway point. Lauren cut back the gardens and gave the flower beds a last weeding. Joan came up once and helped her divide some of the perennials, helping herself to some of each variety along the way.

  Inside, the house was taking shape nicely. Brian and Kelly visited twice, helping wherever they could. The kitchen was painted a cool celadon green. The cabinets were white with the original porcelain knobs. The new gas stove and refrigerator were reproductions in the style of the thirties. The dishwasher was cleverly hidden behind a wooden panel. Lauren kept the old black wood-burning stove more for its beauty than anything, although she was eager to try to bake some beans in it. She had the old Formica removed and replaced it with solid cherry wooden countertops. She stubbornly refused to change her mind when warned by the contractor that “they would stain” and she would have to “oil and polish them” and “never forget to use cutting boards” or “they would scar.” For accent, she picked up the red of the painted cherries on the tabletop. She found a beautiful set of vintage canisters at a local antique shop, cream colored with red rooster decals and red lettering that indicated their contents: “Flour,” “Sugar,” “Coffee,” and “Salt.” She hung airy white curtains with a bright red border.

  The living room was next. Using the fireplace as the anchor piece, she built the room around it. She ripped up the old carpeting to reveal a beautiful wide spruce board floor. She rented equipment, sanding and polishing it herself until it shone with a deep blond glow. Then she found her good oriental rug rolled up in the garage and laid it across the floor. The rug was authentic, hand woven of wool. She had to get Lawn Mower Boy to help her drag it into the house; it weighed as much or more than a full grown sheep.

  She decided to splurge on the furniture and bought a good sofa upholstered in soft, flowery chintz with a matching upholstered club chair. For accent, the dark blue ticking-covered wing chair from her old apartment blended beautifully. Lauren left the large gold-framed mirror hanging over the mantel and hung some of her own art on the walls. Cream colored, floor length velvet drapes pulled it all together, lending the whole room an
air of comfort, grace, and country sophistication. It was such an inviting room, it became Lauren’s habit to curl up on the couch in the evenings and read there before going to bed.

  September flew by. Mornings were very cool now. When Lauren looked out the window every morning before she dressed, she could see the trees beginning to change. The deep greens were slowly replaced by the scarlet, yellows, and oranges of the approaching foliage season. Soon Lauren’s view would be awash with brilliant colors, a last hurrah before the world around her was hushed and cloaked under winter snows. Joan Halloran stopped in one afternoon just as October was settling in. Lauren was waving goodbye to Lawn Mower Boy, who had just delivered a load of winter firewood and stacked it neatly beside the garage. Joan struggled with three beautiful bright orange pumpkins.

  “Goodness, you’ve kept busy,” said Joan, who did not wait for an invitation but walked right through the garden gate, depositing the pumpkins on the porch steps. “Something for Halloween,” she explained, looking around. “The place looks wonderful, and a good thing, too, because I think that retired couple is really interested. They want a place in the country where their grandchildren can come and visit and the family can use it as a ski lodge. This place will accommodate a lot of people. I’m sure I can talk them into it. Are you willing to negotiate a price?”

  For the first time since she had the house up for sale, Lauren felt a pull, the gentlest pull at her heartstrings. Quickly, she repressed the feeling before it could mature into a fully blown thought. “Oh, well,” she said, “that would depend. I’ve put a lot of effort into this place and people are just going to have to be willing to pay to get it. That’s just good business. Thanks for the pumpkins, Joan. You didn’t have to do that, but they’re very nice.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Joan cheerily. “I’ve got them all over the garden. Oh, and there’s another thing. My nephew is visiting. He’s just about your age. He’s not married — ”

  “Oh, Joan, I can’t go out with anyone.”

  “Hmm, really?” said Joan quietly. Then in her customary voice, she said, “Relax. I’m not trying to fix you up or anything. I just wanted to round out the table. And I thought Josh would appreciate the company of a woman his own age. My husband and I want to take him out to the pub tonight.”

  Lauren stared at the ground and blinked, thinking the matter over. She couldn’t shut people out. That wasn’t healthy. She couldn’t continue to hide out of fear of seeing Caleb again. Would she be able to stand a whole evening with Joan and her husband? What the hell! It might be downright comical. She looked up and met Joan’s gaze with a smile. “Sure, I’ll go. It’ll be fun. I’d like to meet your husband…and…and your nephew.”

  Joan stepped forward and gave her a little hug. “Oh, thank you,” she said earnestly to Lauren’s surprise. “We’ll have fun. I’m going back to the office now. I expect we might get that offer today, and I’ll ask for it in writing so there’s as little tomfoolery as necessary. Sometimes these deals can swing back and forth for weeks.” As she turned to leave, Joan looked at Lauren. “One more thing,” she said and this time her voice held none of the real estate agent glib. “One more thing,” Joan repeated, “there’s another reason I got Realtor of the Year. I notice things. Now, I don’t know your business, but I do know that your wedding has been postponed, that you have a post office box in town, and that you’re not wearing your engagement ring.”

  Reddening, Lauren started to protest. “I, well, that’s because — ”

  Joan held up her hand. “I don’t need you to talk about it. I don’t care, but I wanted you to know that I noticed.” She flashed Lauren her usual smile. “It will probably be easiest and least awkward to meet you at the pub about seven-thirty. See you tonight, dear.” She was out the door and heading back to her car before Lauren could speak.

  Lauren became agitated as the afternoon wore on. She had been starting on the dining room, peeling the old wallpaper, when Joan arrived. Now, when she tried to go back to her project, she found herself unable to concentrate. Random thoughts crowded her brain, swinging like a pendulum. One minute she would think it was the most foolish thing she had ever agreed to. Why on earth would she want to go to dinner with Joan and her probably boring husband and her most assuredly idiot nephew? The next minute she would say, out loud to herself, “You’ve got to get out and do something. Anything.”

  Later in the afternoon, Lauren put in a call to Kelly and told her the plan. “Your assessment is probably right,” Kelly replied. “The husband probably drives the snowplow for the town, and the kid is probably unemployed and got kicked out of his mother’s house, hence his staying with Joan. However, it’s Friday night, and you’re stuck up there in no-man’s-land, so you might as well put your heart on the shelf for this evening, go out, and meet the Hallorans. You should get at least a couple of funny stories to tell me tomorrow morning. Not too early, though. Brian and I are sleeping in. We don’t have anything to do, so we’re not doing anything. It’s kind of nice.”

  “You’re right,” Lauren said with a sigh. “And anyway, who am I to judge the Hallorans or anybody else up here? Everybody seems happy, that’s for sure. They have their husbands and wives, their children and jobs. They have friends. They have lives. It’s alive here. Me, I’m from the big city. I’m the only one without a life.”

  “Go get ’em, girl!” exclaimed Kelly. “Go get yourself a life.”

  Sad as she was, Lauren laughed. “I’m trying, Kell,” she said. “I’m trying.”

  The dilemma was what to wear. Lauren stood in front of the closet in the bedroom, wrapped in a towel. She stared into the chaos. It was not the closet she’d had at Charles’s penthouse, she observed ironically. All her clothes were crammed into the small space, some hanging, some folded on the single shelf. Her shoes were a veritable tower of disarray. It was hard to see what she had, let alone choose something. She did want to look nice, even pretty. She had that much self-respect. And, in a strange way, she was fond of Joan. The woman was a broker, and brokers after all did the jobs the rest of society deemed unsavory, but she did it to the best of her ability and was successful at it. And it did seem that she was honestly trying to be nice to Lauren, drawing her out. So, Lauren wanted to appear respectful of Joan’s thoughtfulness.

  While she tried to decide on the outfit, she dried her hair, this time putting hot rollers in it. While they worked, she put on her make-up, shadowing her eyes a little deeper, glossing her lips with a bit more shine. She took out the rollers, flipped her hair over her head, and fluffed the soft curls with her fingers. She threw her head back and looked in the mirror to observe the effect. A couple more pushes and prods with the brush and fingers, a little spray, and Lauren looked at herself with satisfaction. Not so bad for serving so much time out here in the nether regions of civilization, she thought with a grin.

  Finally, she chose her skinny leg jeans and slipped a red, black, and white plaid flannel top over her head. It was gathered under the bust and detailed with little vertical ruffles across the bodice. It was scooped just low enough to show an occasional glimpse of cleavage. Gold hoop earrings and a gold cuff for jewelry. She topped it off with a black velvet blazer. Heels gave it a fun evening look. She grabbed her black Tory Burch bag and was ready to go.

  It was dark when she got to the pub. The windows shone with a friendly glow, and she could hear the rise and fall of happy voices as she went up the steps and through the door. It was quite crowded. The little candles on the tables were all lit. Lauren peered through the throng of people and the dim light. There was Joan. Lauren caught her smile.

  “Over here,” Joan called, waving her arm. They were at a table close to the bar. As she approached, the two men stood up. Secretly chagrined, Lauren extended her hand.

  “My husband, Roger Halloran,” said Joan, doing the introductions. Roger took Lauren’s hand in a warm grasp. He was a tall, handsome man with thinning gray hair and invisible-rim glasses. He wore a white s
hirt, open at the collar, with a gray tweed sport coat and gray slacks.

  “Lauren Smith,” said Joan.

  “And this is my nephew, Joshua LaPlante. Josh, this is Lauren Smith.”

  The nephew smiled broadly and took her hand. He was also quite good-looking, with a long, amiable face, and high cheek bones. He had lots of brown hair that fell attractively over his forehead, and friendly dark blue eyes. He, too, was dressed in shirt and sport coat, although he wore jeans.

  “Please, join us,” said Roger, gesturing to the empty chair.

  Lauren thought ruefully to herself as she sat down, I seem to be wrong about just about everything lately.

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” she said.

  “Oh, no,” said Joan, “we just arrived. And not a minute too soon. All of a sudden, everybody decided to come to the pub.”

  “Well, we’re in no hurry,” said Roger. “We’ll have a drink and order. I know what I want already.”

  Joan sputtered good-naturedly. “Oh, Roger! You always have the burger and fries! Branch out, will you? Take chances.”

  “I’m an accountant,” he retorted, smiling at Lauren. “Accountants never branch out. And we never take chances. That’s why I married you, dear.”

  “Really, Roger! You’ve kissed the Blarney Stone tonight!”

  There must be something to Joan after all, Lauren thought as she laughed along with everyone else.

  The waitress came by and took their orders for drinks. Lauren ordered the Long Trail Ale and everyone followed suit.

  “It’s a good evening for beer,” offered Josh. “It’s chilly out there.”

  “It’s the middle of October,” Lauren pointed out, taking a sip of foam off the top of her glass. Then, to keep the conversation flowing, she said, “What do you do for a living, Josh?”