She halted in the doorway of Sharene’s bedroom. Sharene was laid out on the made bed, her arms at her sides, her face peaceful. Shelby sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, rocking from side to side, her shoulders heaving.
“I’m here,” Camellia called out. Shelby jerked around and peered at Camellia with red, swollen eyes, and then scrambled into her arms. They stood in the doorway for what felt like hours, Camellia holding the girl tight as Shelby sobbed into her shoulder. Henry appeared quietly, surveyed the scene, and touched Camellia on the small of her back. “I’ll call the funeral home,” he whispered, and then disappeared downstairs.
When the funeral director arrived, Camellia and Shelby were seated in the living room, Camellia feeding a steady stream of tissues into Shelby’s hands. Henry was waiting outside, and held the door open for two solemn-looking men, who expressed their condolences to Shelby in hushed tones before following Henry upstairs. Within minutes they were carefully making their way back down, reverently managing the weight of the body bag they carried between them.
At the sight of the body bag, Shelby hid her face in the crook of Camellia’s neck, wailing uncontrollably. Tears slid down Camellia’s cheeks, which she whisked away with the back of her free hand. She was more crushed by Sharene’s death than she had expected, but this wasn’t the time for her to break down. Her job was to be strong for Shelby.
While Henry sorted out details with the funeral director, Camellia took Shelby up to her room to help her pack a bag. She refused to let Shelby stay in the house alone that night.
“Tomorrow you can decide what you’d like to do, but for tonight, you’re coming with us,” Camellia instructed gently, pulling a couple of outfits from Shelby’s closet and folding them into a pile on the bed.
Shelby nodded weakly. “I wish she had fought harder,” she mumbled, the first words she had uttered since calling Camellia.
Camellia clicked her tongue, dropped the dress she was holding, and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t ever let me hear you speak of your mother that way again. She fought her whole life. She raised you single-handedly and ran a successful diner to provide a good life for you. She even fought against severe treatment so she could enjoy every last minute with you. Your mother was a fighter, Shelby. And one day, you’ll realize that you are, too.”
A chilly northern wind greeted Camellia and Shelby as they stood in front of the diner early Thursday morning. Beech Street was as quiet as Camellia had ever seen it, with every business closed and the Escalade the only vehicle parked along the street. Camellia turned the lock and pushed open the diner’s front door, the tinny bell ringing like a gong against the reticence town.
Hesitantly, Shelby followed her inside, gripping onto a small sign they had come to adhere to the front door, announcing the diner would be closed that day for a funeral and private luncheon. Camellia flicked on the lights, looked around, and gasped.
The perimeter of the diner was lined with photographs, three and four rows high. Camellia and Shelby looked at each other with wide eyes and pushed slowly forward, taking in the scene. While Camellia didn’t recognize many of the people, she knew what she was looking at: it was the story of the Beech Street Diner, staring Sharene and Shelby.
Sliding into one of the booths, Shelby scanned a grouping of photos taped to the wall, giggling lightly.
“What is it?” Camellia asked, moving closer for a better look.
She pointed to a photo in the bottom row. “I remember this day,” she murmured.
The picture was of a young girl, about five, standing on the diner counter wearing an apron that stopped below her feet. She was holding two ladles high over her head, her expression fierce.
Camellia grinned. “I take it that’s you.”
“I told my mama I was quitting kindergarten and working at the diner instead.” Shelby threw her head back and laughed. “I thought the diner was way more fun than sitting in a circle reciting the alphabet.”
Camellia’s eyes locked on a faded photo of a beautiful young couple locked in an embrace, smiling widely for the camera. “That must be Sharene. She looks just like you.”
“And my dad,” Shelby added, lightly running a finger across their faces.
“You had no choice but to be gorgeous with such stunning parents,” Camellia noted, which Shelby didn’t seem to hear. She looked lost in thought as her eyes moved from one old photo to the next. “I’m going to put on some coffee,” Camellia murmured mostly to herself. As she reached the counter, she noticed an envelope lying there with Shelby’s name on it.
“I wonder who did all this?” Shelby’s wistful voice floated across the diner.
Camellia waved the envelope in the air. “Perhaps this will shed some light on it.”
Shelby cocked her head and padded across the checkerboard floor, gingerly taking the envelope from Camellia. She tore it open and removed a sympathy card that had been signed by all the employees. She read aloud, slowly and deliberately.
“Shelby, it’s been an honor working for Sharene for the last twenty years and it would be an honor to work for you twenty more. We love you and stand beside you: the Beech Street Diner staff.”
Shelby hugged the card, her expression an unmistakable look of pride.
The tinny bell announced Henry, Lisa, Deb, and Justin, all of them crammed in the doorway. “It’s time,” Henry said.
Shelby’s doleful sigh reset the somber mood. With downcast eyes, she shuffled to the door where Justin put an arm around her and escorted her to the car.
“Where you able to get the closing moved?” Camellia asked Henry quietly, locking the diner behind them.
“Rescheduled to three o’clock. The luncheon will be over by then, and Lisa and Deb said they’ll stay with Shelby until we’re done.”
As Henry pulled out into Beech Street, following behind Lisa’s truck en route to the chapel at the cemetery a mile and a half north of town, Camellia looked back at the diner. So many good memories were wrapped up in one little space. Some started years before Camellia had ever heard of a sleepy little town called Markleeville, back when she was still fighting to flee small-town life for something bigger. And some happened just this year, like the day she set eyes on a fresh-faced Shelby Jenkins.
And it was meeting Shelby and realizing that a trusting young girl filled with potential could become so much more than a power play – could, in fact, fill a childless void Camellia hadn’t even know existed – that she had found something bigger than all of New York City. And when she added Henry and Lisa and Deb and Sharene and all the characters, both good and bad, who made up Markleeville, what Camellia had found was a home.
EPILOGUE
“Shelby, look at this!”
Camellia held out an arm, adorned with green and yellow bangles.
Shelby cut through the thick crowd of shoppers to inspect the find. “Pretty,” she said, brightly, examining the smooth, colorful resin. “Are they good pieces?”
Looking around them first to ensure no one was listening in, Camellia nodded, keeping her voice low. “They’re Bakelite.
Very collectable.”
Noticing a similar bangle in red mixed in with a pile of beaded necklaces, Shelby plucked it up and slid it onto her arm. “This
one, too?”
Camellia ran her fingers repeatedly over the bangle Shelby was wearing and sniffed the scent. “Yes.”
“You can tell by smelling it?” Shelby’s look suggested she was questioning Camellia’s sanity.
“Yes, it’s one of a few ways to tell. Come on, we’re taking them all. Don’t let on that we think they’re anything more than cheap costume jewelry. Most vendors at flea markets have no idea what they’re selling and we want the lowest possible price.”
Bending down to gather the bags at her feet, Camellia felt a dull pain in her low back and groaned lightly.
“Are you crazy?” Shelby asked, clicking her tongue. “Get out of the way and let me get them.” Her long ha
ir whipped across her face as she scooped up the hodgepodge of accessories they had purchased from a handful of vendors at the other end of the mammoth tent.
“Please, I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”
“Three months from now, you can lift your car, if you want. But until that baby comes out, consider me your personal bellhop.”
As Shelby pulled a bag onto the crook of her arm, the tiny diamond on her left hand glistened in the light. Camellia was relieved when Shelby explained it was a promise ring and not an engagement ring. While Justin would surely make a fine husband one day, Camellia didn’t want Shelby to rush into marriage. It was easy to understand wanting to hold tight to something good after experiencing a substantial loss. That’s precisely why she and Henry insisted that Shelby come live with them at the lake. They didn’t want her to endure the loneliness she was feeling in her childhood home, or have financial worries for both the diner and maintaining a house on her own. They were the types of emotional fragilities that could make a person do something she wasn’t ready for or didn’t fully want. Especially at Shelby’s age.
Once Shelby had taken the time to grieve Sharene’s death and determine what she truly wanted to do with her life, Camellia knew she would step back and let the young girl fly. But until then, she and Henry would be there to support and guide her.
Shelby’s text alert beeped, and with her free hand, she maneuvered the phone from the front pocket of her jeans and scanned the message. “Good news,” she said, turning sideways to escape a flock of teenage girls shrieking over a stack of one-dollar DVDs. “The realtor got me a renter for the summer. They’ll be in the week after school lets out.”
Camellia let out a whoop. “Shelby, that’s fantastic! Now give me a moment to do my thing, and we can head home to celebrate.”
After a fervent round of negotiating with the vendor, Camellia emerged from the stall victorious, waving her bag of bangles in the air.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, shuffling toward the parking lot, which looked busier than Times Square. “I want to get all the new stuff priced, photographed, and uploaded to the website by the end of the week. It’s supposed to be summer-like this weekend, and I want my parents’ first trip to Markleeville to be primarily spent on the patio, with virgin piña coladas and juicy grilled steaks – my
latest cravings.”
Shelby huffed, loading the packages into the back of the Escalade. “Save some for me. I scheduled myself at the diner all day Saturday so Irene can go to her son’s wedding in Detroit.”
“You’re a good boss,” Camellia said, hiking her extra weight into the driver’s seat. “I’m glad you decided to keep the diner. I can’t imagine anyone else owning it.”
“Neither could I.” Shelby flipped open the visor mirror and checked her lip gloss. “When is your story due for Vanity Fair?”
“Not for another week. It’s only three hundred words; I could write that in my sleep. Especially when the topic is vintage.”
“It’s a start.” Shelby took over the radio, landing on a guitar-heavy anthem she immediately turned up, and Camellia swiftly turned back down. God, I’m getting old, Camellia thought, laughing to herself.
Camellia looked over at Shelby, who was singing along to the song, her head and long legs bouncing up and down to the driving beat. Feeling a kick of her own, her hand went instinctively to her swelling belly, her bracelet from Henry jingling with a new baby carriage charm.
Pressing her foot harder on the gas pedal, Camellia navigated her way along the winding road – brilliantly lined with the yellow-green hues of late spring – leading back to Markleeville. The next chapter of her life was waiting.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen Buscemi has been writing professionally for 16 years, with articles published in Women’s Health, Self, The Huffington Post, Figure, Successful Living, The Detroit News, plus a number of metro Detroit magazines. She is the editor of StyleLine magazine, a style magazine based in Michigan.
Karen is also the author of Split In Two: Keeping It Together When Your Parents Live Apart (Orange Avenue Publishing/Zest Books, March 2009), a self-help book for teens shuffling between houses; and I Do, Part 2: How to Survive Divorce, Co-Parent Your Kids, and Blend Your Families Without Losing Your Mind (Norlights Press, February 2011).
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Gobs of gratitude to:
Jim Benton, Susan Shapiro, Nicole Bokat, Camille Noe Pagán, Matt and Allison Malmstrom, Theresa and Mark French, Kelly Johnson, Emilia Delena, and Raffaella Naurato.
And, of course, my crazy-amazing family:
Frank Buscemi, Noah Correll, Jesse Buscemi, and Margaret Shulzitski
Table of Contents
Copyright
DEDICATIONS
ONE
TWO
THREE
four
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
acknowledgments
The Makeover Page 17