So many things would be involved in failure—having to swallow my pride and return to a job I hated, having to pay back money on a dream that had gone up in flames.
Having a dream go up in flames, period.
And then there was the humiliation of having to close the doors and put up a For Sale sign, at which point all the world would be privy to the fact that I had failed.
Nope, failure was not an option. I was going to this, and it was going to be madly successful.
I was going to have the best store in Pensacola, and women would flock from miles away to come to my store.
My store. It had a nice ring to it.
I took the day off to find it.
I knew it might take a little while, since I hadn’t exactly paid much attention to where I was going or what was around me when I’d stumbled upon the little building. But I was determined to find it. I had plans for that place, but I wouldn’t even be able to begin implementing those plans if I couldn’t find it again.
I started my wandering, heading off in the same direction I remembered going when I’d left the office in my blind rage. I made a few false starts, but finally, miraculously, I turned down a street and saw it.
My store.
Well, not my store. Not yet, but it would be soon, with any luck.
I walked toward it, inspecting the outer façade for any major structural damage that would make this entire exercise a moot point or even just greatly complicate things. So far, so good. To my untrained eyes, it appeared that the only thing the small building really needed was a good scrub down to get the graffiti off. Granted, I had no idea what kind of shape the roof was in, much less all the innards beyond what I could see through the windows, but I was hopeful.
I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the grimy picture windows, trying to get a better look inside. Had I not been concentrating so hard, I might have heard the footsteps approaching behind me.
“Help you?” a gruff voice said, startling me so much I squealed.
I whirled around to face the voice, hoping I wasn’t going to find myself nose to nose with a gun or a knife or some other instrument that might possibly remove bodily parts. That particular surprise wasn’t one I ever wanted to have to endure.
“Um,” I started, trying to register every detail of the person that stood in front of me—including any weapons he might be holding.
“Um,” I stammered again.
No weapons, no menacing body language. Just a weathered, wizened man who looked like he knew his way around a toolbox.
He raised thick salt and pepper eyebrows in mild amusement, a gleam of interest showing in his grey eyes. “Yes?” he prompted.
“I was just checking out the building. I’m opening a store and looking for a space, and I was thinking this one might be perfect.”
Thankfully, I’d remembered how to speak like an intelligent person instead of a blithering idiot. Hopefully anything that came out of my mouth now would serve to erase the poor first impression I’d probably given him.
“Really?” The man’s curiosity now seemed truly piqued, and he looked past me at the storefront. “You want to open a store in there?” he asked, pointing at the vacant little building behind me as though to make sure we were talking about the same place.
I nodded, wondering why he seemed so shocked by my interest.
“Yes,” I said surely. “The sign does say For Sale, so I’m assuming that it is, indeed, for sale.” I posed it as a statement, rather than a question in an attempt to lend authority to my voice, since the man was more than slightly intimidating. Especially in light of the fact that we were alone on this relatively empty street.
“Yes. You would be correct on that,” he said matter-of-factly, with the smallest hint of a smile. “This place hasn’t exactly generated much interest is all, and I been trying to unload it for about two years now.”
“Really?” I was surprised.
True, it wasn’t in the most high traffic area, but it was still in a good spot. Just a hop over a few streets, and you were right smack in the middle of all the more mainstream activity, which made it a jewel box locale. Perfect for a boutique. And while the neighboring buildings weren’t screaming for attention, they were still strong enough presences that I was hopeful. After all, who didn’t love a good cup of tea from an elegant little tea room or a Swedish massage from an actual Swede? I wondered fleetingly what had previously been in residence in this now vacant space.
“I’m Glenn, by the way,” the man said finally, extending a thick, calloused hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Zoë,” I replied. I smiled my most winning smile at him, since he was, after all, the man who held all the cards at this point. Couldn’t hurt my chances any to be friendly with him, now could it?
“Zoë. I like that,” Glenn said, nodding slowly as though he was digesting it.
I brightened my smile a little more.
“Thanks. I do, too. And I really like this space,” I replied, sweeping the building with my hand. “Any chance I could take a look inside?”
“Sure thing.” Glenn stepped around me, reaching into the pocket of his well-worn jeans to extract a set of keys. “It doesn’t really look like much, but it’s a good place. Well-built, good light. Doesn’t hardly need any repairs, either. Plumbing and electrical were all recently updated, roof’s perfect. All it really needs is a good scrubbing and a few coats of paint slapped on it.”
I looked around as he spoke, stepping past him through the doorway. “So, if you don’t mind me asking—why do you want to sell? And why hasn’t anyone already snatched it up?”
He shrugged, making his own visual sweep of the interior. “Don’t really have the time or the want to run a store, since my wife died. As for the second question—haven’t really found the right buyer. Had a few people looking, but none of them were quite right.” Glenn shrugged again and stuffed the key ring back into his pocket.
I nodded, as though I completely understood. Well, whatever. All that really mattered was whether this building was really in as great a shape as Glenn was saying it was, and how much he wanted for it. Both of which were easily discovered.
I took a turn around the large main room, making my way to the back of the space, where a short hallway led off to a bathroom and an office area. So far, so good, I thought, seeing nothing that set off little red flags. Nice floor plan, well-constructed walls. Even the bathroom met with my approval.
“You can always have a contractor come in and look at everything, if you want a second opinion, but if it makes you feel any better…” Glenn paused and took a card from his back pocket, holding it out to me. “I’m a contractor.” He smiled.
I looked down at the rumpled business card I held in my hand. Glenn Thompson, General Contractor. The card had all sorts of official numbers and license references, phone and fax numbers, physical and e-mail addresses. I looked back up at Glenn.
“So why don’t you want to use this as your office?” I knew I was probably sounding overly suspicious, but it all seemed too good to be true. And then I remembered that I had yet to discover his asking price.
He shrugged again. The man seemed very fond of shrugging.
“I’ve already got an office, and I really didn’t want to move,” he replied simply.
“Okay. Well.” I looked at the room around me, memorizing the space I would surely never be able to be afford. “How much are you looking to clear?” I asked finally.
Again with the shrugging.
“What’ve ya got?” he asked, completely serious.
I felt like I was trading for marbles on the playground.
“What have I got?” I repeated.
“Yuh. What’ve ya got?” Glenn was smiling by now, his grey eyes crinkled into tiny slits. He was enjoying this way too much.
“Not enough,” I said, my shoulders slumping in disappointment. “Not nearly enough,” I said, looking into his eyes sadly. “I’m sorry I wasted your t
ime.” I started toward the door, wanting to leave before I started sniffling and looking all pitiful in front of this man I’d only just met. I did enough of that, I was determined not to do it now.
“Two fifty,” Glenn called after me, his voice echoing in the empty space. I stopped cold and turned around to face him.
I felt my eyes narrow. “Thousand?”
He shook his head.
“A month? Two fifty a month?” I was seriously confused. The sign said For Sale, not For Rent. Why would he be looking for a monthly payment?
The head shaking continued.
I stood there, racking my brain. What did he mean?
“Two fifty flat. That’s it—one time, one check, place is yours.” He was grinning so widely I thought his face might split.
“Are you insane? All you want for this wonderful place is two hundred and fifty dollars?” I realized once the words were out of my mouth that I might not be doing myself any favors, casting aspersions on the man’s mental state in the face of his unbelievably generous offer. But again, it all seemed too good to be true. No one in their right mind would sell a place like this for so little.
Not if they were legit.
My eyes widened to the size of saucers. Or, at least, they felt like they were as wide as saucers.
“Are you…mob?” I asked, my voice becoming hushed at the word mob. Again, I realized the foolishness of posing such a question—especially if it turned out to be true—once the words had already escaped my lips.
Glenn threw back his head and laughed, his whole body shaking under the force of it. “No, no,” he said finally, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Not at all.”
“Then what?” I asked incredulously.
Glenn let out one more little hoot of laughter and then turned serious.
“I just have a good feeling about you, Zoë. And heck, it’s not like I really need the money,” he said, as though his simple explanation was the most logical thing in the world. “I understand, though, if you want to check it out before you commit. The offer will still be good and waiting for you. You just make sure you don’t lose that.” He smiled and nodded in the direction of the business card I was still holding.
I smiled. “I will.”
I turned and walked out of the store into the sunlight, feeling a surge of confidence and optimism and promise. The air smelled sweet and full; and as I made my way down the streets back to my car, I started to skip.
I couldn’t help it.
Chapter 16
A week later, Sam sat across the table from me, nervously tracing the circle of sweat that had been left on the tabletop by his glass of iced tea. He was hard to watch, his struggle to sit still so barely controlled that he seemed ready to shoot out of his chair. I wasn’t sure if this was the way he was now, or if this was just the way he was with me.
I hadn’t seen him in so long that he was like a stranger, and lines I didn’t remember were etched across his face like rivers on a map. He looked older and tired, even with all the nervous energy that was running just under the surface. He stopped tracing circles and ran a hand through his dark hair in a vain attempt to get it out of his eyes. He was sorely in need of a haircut, and I wondered idly as I watched him when he’d last had one. It was a surprise to see that he’d let it grow so long.
“Sam,” I began, feeling slightly annoyed that he seemed to have nothing to say to me, despite the fact that he had been the one to insist so strongly on this meeting. It was like answering the phone and then being told that you’re going to be put on hold.
He looked up quickly at the sound of his name and pursed his lips.
“Sam,” I said again. “I need to know what you want from me. Why am I here?” I asked, leaning forward and keeping my voice low and even.
It was a struggle, because my urge was to reach across the table and slap him.
I wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him and scream at him until my throat was raw.
I wanted to tell him how much I hated him for leaving me alone when I had needed him the most.
It was there only a split second, but a look of fear flashed across his face, and I wondered if he could sense all the venom I was holding back.
Sam opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again. His eyes searched my face and then jumped around the room as though he was looking for somewhere else to focus, find something that might give him confidence.
One more minute of this nonsense, and I’m leaving, I thought angrily.
“You’re here because I needed to see for myself that you’re okay,” he said finally, his voice sounding weary. “And you need to know—I need you to know—how sorry I am for leaving you alone to deal with all of this.” He looked down at his hand, and I noticed for the first time that his fingernails were ragged and bitten to the quick, his fingertips yellowed from nicotine.
Since when did Sam smoke?
I sat back in my chair and glowered at him.
“You waited an awfully long time, don’t you think, Sam? It’s been a year. What makes this need so strong now?” I didn’t even bother to hide the edge in my voice.
“It’s part of the program, Zoë. To make amends, to right the wrongs and ask forgiveness.” Sam spoke quietly, his brown eyes meeting my gaze in a silent plea for understanding.
It was an answer I hadn’t expected, and I felt for a moment like I’d had the wind knocked out of me.
Sam was in AA?
The waiter sidled up to our table, reaching into his apron to retrieve his order pad and pen.
“Well, are you two ready to order, or should I give you a few more minutes to look over the menu?”
A hopeful smile was plastered across his face, and he looked from Sam to me and then back again, waiting for someone to give him an answer.
I hadn’t even picked up my menu yet, much less decided what I wanted to eat.
If I wanted to eat.
At this point, food was the furthest thing from my mind. Sam glanced at me before looking up at the waiter, smiling apologetically.
“I think we’re still going to need a few minutes, if that’s alright,” Sam said, picking up his menu.
“Of course. Just let me know when you’re ready,” the waiter replied, the smile never wavering from his lips as he closed his book and replaced it in his apron. He backed away from our table and wandered his way through the dining room to check on his other customers.
Sam seemed engrossed in his menu, but I knew he was probably just as distracted as I was.
“Sam,” I said, determined to continue our conversation. “Are you telling me you’re in AA? When did that happen?” I asked, hoping that I sounded less condemning to him than I did to myself.
He closed his menu with a sigh and placed it gently on the table in front of him.
“A lot has happened in this past year, Zoë.” He folded his hands and rested them on the menu, leaning forward on his forearms. His eyebrows were tightly knitted together, his thin-lipped mouth set in a grave line. “I hit rock-bottom after Paul died. That’s one reason I stayed away for so long. I didn’t want you to see me like that.” Sam looked down at his hands. “I know it’s no excuse, but it’s the truth.”
I watched him move, seeming so lost and depleted; and I felt the anger that had been boiling inside of me dissipate like steam. I felt sorry for him, sorry that he had closed himself off and damaged his life so badly. And I felt sorry, somehow, that I hadn’t been there for him.
“But how…? Why?” I was stammering like an idiot, but I really didn’t know how to ask for what I needed and wanted to know. I closed my mouth, hoping a coherent question would formulate.
Sam closed his eyes and sank back into his chair, the cane-backed frame creaking in protest.
“Paul was my sponsor, Zoë,” he said, sounding almost resigned. “That’s how we met. I know we always told you we were friends in college, but that was only half of the story. We met in college at an AA meeting.” He raked a h
and through his hair and pulled nervously at his earlobe. “We got to be tight. Really tight, like brothers. I started to rely on him more than I think I should have.”
When Sam looked up at me, I saw the sheen of tears on his eyes.
“And then he met you.” A sad smile crossed his lips, and he looked quickly away. He seemed almost desperate for something else to look at, and I wondered what he might be about to say that was so hard. Especially in light of everything else he’d already confided so far.
I almost wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“Sam,” I said quietly, ready to give him reprieve if he needed it.
He shook his head and fixed his gaze determinedly on my face, the tears that had begun to form now gone without a trace. “I loved you, Zoë.”
My eyes widened. I felt as though I’d been sucker-punched in the gut. The room was getting dark and little pin-pricks of grayness were clouding my vision. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my head, my eyes…everything.
“You what?”
“I loved you,” he said again, this time with less hesitation.
“Whoa,” I said, shaking my head rapidly. “No. No, no, no you don’t. Didn’t. No.”
“Yes.”
It was like being in some alternate reality. I stared at Sam, all the pieces falling into place.
“So why—?”
“Why did I just pick up and leave you alone to deal with the memorial and everything? Everyone?” he volunteered.
I nodded mutely.
“Because I felt guilty. Because he was with me when he died. Because he knew that I was in love with you. Because we were having an argument when it happened.” He shrugged. “Take your pick.” The tears had returned to his eyes. “I couldn’t face you after all that,” he whispered, bowing his head.
I saw the waiter begin to make his way across the dining room toward us, his eyes sweeping the room as he walked. I caught his eye and shook my head, and he turned sharply on his heel, a look of discouragement on his face. I had a feeling we were going to be his least favorite table of the afternoon.
Coming Home to You Page 13