“How many beers did you chug, Mr. Bishop?” Cindy asked, hands placed firmly on her hips.
Jenna took the handles behind the chair and wheeled him into the living room. “Steve Connolly bragged to his date that he could do fifty push-ups without stopping. Jerry here spotted the beauty across the crowded bar and puffed out his chest and said, ‘I can do seventy-five push-ups.”
Tina chimed in. “Not to be one-upped, Connolly said—”
“I can do one hundred push-ups,” Cindy finished.
Jenna bit back her laugh as Jerry scowled at them. “This is my story to tell.”
The women were quiet and let him finish his tale of how he wooed Brigitte with his push-ups, and then she’d rushed to him with a glass of water, which he gratefully drank.
Connolly, becoming jealous at his girlfriend’s attention toward another man, had challenged him to a beer chugging contest. To which Jerry ignored while staring into Brigitte’s eyes and responded, “Not in the presence of such a beautiful lady.”
The nurses waited for the dramatic pause at the end of his story before saying their goodbyes. One thing Jerry was, was a creature of habit. He liked to have certain blankets for certain occasions—red and blue plaid for outside walks, the green and burgundy quilt his wife made on his lap while watching television, and their wedding quilt on his bed. The same food each Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Thursdays he liked surprises, and then back to a weekly menu for the rest of the nights.
Bing Crosby during Christmas time, Frank Sinatra in the summer, and jazz in the spring.
“Are you too worn out for your show, Jerry?” Jenna teased.
“Don’t be silly. I still have three shows to watch from when I was in the torture chamber.”
Had she not known better, she’d think he was treated poorly in the hospital. But Jerry didn’t act scared of the place or the doctors. No, all he wanted was to be home where his memories of his wife were.
His dying wish, he’d said too many times in the past year, was to live out his final days surrounded by all things Brigitte.
It was the least she could do for him. Jenna’s love life may have been anti-climactic, but that didn’t mean she needed to spoil a ninety-year-old’s.
Instead of retreating to the kitchen or to her room, she curled up in the chair again and half-watched the show with Jerry.
To be so in love with someone that all you wanted to do was breathe their air. It was a beautiful romance.
She thought she had that with Tristan. They could have had it, but it was lost. Gone forever.
Now she had Carter. He may not have been her one true love, the one whose air she wanted to share for eternity, but he made her smile, made her laugh, and helped her forget about what had made her sad for so many years. What still made her heart twist and brought unexpected waves of depression.
Running into Tristan at Lily’s wedding last week hadn’t hurt as badly as she thought it would have. Instead, it made her sad.
Sad for what, she wasn’t sure. Longing for what they lost? For him? For love?
There was a flash of recognition in Tristan’s eyes as well as if he longed for the same thing. Although it was quickly replaced when Carter’s arm tugged her closer to him. It wasn’t a she’s mine territorial hold. Carter’s arm around her waist was a casual, friendly gesture.
He was ignorant to how much Tristan meant to her.
Meant.
Past tense.
Not present tense.
No, Tristan didn’t mean anything to her now. So why did she picture hazel eyes every time she kissed Carter instead of blue?
CHAPTER TWELVE
If Tristan were a better man, he would have found a way to contact Jenna to let her know he’d been asked to cater her class reunion. With the unexpected passing of the class president six months before their tenth reunion, they’d rescheduled and decided on a fifteen year reunion instead.
Being two years older, Tristan hadn’t known too many in the class other than Jenna and a couple of her girlfriends. None he kept in touch with. The reunion committee had contacted him earlier in the year about catering.
Maybe they caught him at a weak moment, or maybe he really wanted to see Jenna again; either way, he’d agreed. At least it wouldn’t be his first time running into his ex-wife. Their few encounters in Crystal Cove had been cordial.
Better than hostile and bitter.
Tristan turned his music down as a call came through the Bluetooth in his catering van. Mom read across the screen. Clicking the button on his steering wheel, he answered the call.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Jan Cocker said you’re catering the class reunion tonight.”
Mrs. Cocker had been the town tattle since Tristan was old enough to eat with a fork. “I’m on my way now.”
“I suppose you didn’t make time in your schedule to visit your mother. Not that it matters. No one stops by to see me anymore. I hope you never have to experience what I live through every day.”
And here we go with the guilt. “Ma.”
“I know you’re busy with your work. I just thought as the only child you’d visit your mother more often.”
Twice a month had all he’d been able to fit in lately, which was more than when he lived in Portland and worked at the restaurant seven days a week.
“I left early so I’d have time to stop by.” Which was the truth. He gave himself forty-five minutes to visit with his mom and run her to Target if she needed to pick up a few things.
“It would be awfully nice to go out to a nice dinner every now and then.”
“I’m working tonight, Ma.” Which she already knew. Still Arlene Ketch wrote the manual in How to Make Your Only Child Feel Guilty.
“Lunch is nice too.”
“I needed to prep the food.” Which she knew as well. He’d explained the process to her a few dozen times during his many visits. “I’ll be back on Tuesday to take you to lunch. You have that on your calendar still, right?”
Frustrated at the same old song and dance, he flicked on his blinker and veered onto the highway.
“It’s not like my calendar is filled with social calls. I wouldn’t forget something as important as time with my son.”
“I’ll take you out. A new Italian place opened near you that I’d like to try.” He’d rather cook, even in her miniscule kitchen, but she spent too many hours of the day cooped up at home and looked forward to going out.
“You know, just because you’re coming on Tuesday doesn’t mean you can’t come today.”
“Ma, I said I was stopping by. My visit will be short, though.”
“Will she be at the party tonight?”
And there it was. Tristan puffed out his cheeks and contemplated lying to her. Mrs. Crocker would find out somehow, so the truth was better heard first.
“I don’t know,” he sort of lied. “It’s her class reunion, so I assume so.” Even though he happened to know so.
“She won’t cause a scene, will she? I don’t need my son caught in the middle of another scandal.”
Another wasn’t exactly an accurate word to use. The car accident had been a horrific, traumatic event in their lives, but it hadn’t exactly made the news. Their local small paper, yes.
When a husband and wife are in a car accident with each other and they lose their baby, it’s bound to garner some media attention. The scandal was all in his mother’s head. For eight years she’d blamed Jenna for ruining her life, which was why he had to keep them as far apart from each other as possible.
Yes, his mother had to go on disability, the pins in her legs and knees preventing her from holding a solid full-time job. She hated that he took responsibility for the accident and reminded him of it at every chance she could get.
Even before the accident, she’d been a martyr. But she was his mom, and he was the only child. There came a set of rules and expectations with one child in a single parent household.
She was to be his sole pri
ority. The end all be all. And when Jenna came into his life his senior year of high school and his priorities shifted, his mother turned into the ever present victim.
The jealousy rang rampant in her. At first Tristan thought it was cute. She’d been sitting high up on a pedestal for so long, and he’d promised her she would always be his number one.
When he started spending more time with Jenna, he’d noticed the sadness in his mother’s eyes. So instead of going out to the movies or hanging out at her parents’ place—where Carolyn and Frank would retreat into the bedroom giving Tristan and Jenna privacy in the living room—they’d hang out on the couch with his mom.
The three of them. All. The. Time. Jenna had been so sweet to his mom and never complained about her hanging around.
“Tristan?” His mother’s voice cut through the speakers in his van. “You didn’t hang up on me, did you?”
“I’m turning on to Willow Street. I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
They disconnected, and Tristan braced himself for the guilt treatment his mother was sure to lay on him. It wasn’t that she begrudged him his career, only when it took time away from her.
For some reason she never showed any jealousy toward Beth. The few times they visited—which were few and far between—his mother treated her with kindness. Not over the top mother-in-law love, but they were civil to each other with no animosity that he could find.
It was as if his mother didn’t see Beth as a threat.
Interesting. Something he somehow hadn’t noticed when they were married.
Pulling into his mother’s driveway, he turned down the radio and ran a mental list of the last minute preparations he’d have to do on site. The school had rented a tent, a parquet dance floor, and tables and chairs.
There wouldn’t be a kitchen area on site, so he had all the food cooked ahead of time. The salad and the fresh herbs for the soup he could cut up right before they served the food.
Dave would be arriving in an hour with the smoker. It was a portable unit that had been a hefty investment this summer, and already it was paying off. Pulled pork and chicken cooked in the smoker and would be ready just in time for dinner.
It was the easiest way to serve a meal when there was no kitchen on site. Putting the van in park, he turned off the ignition and opened his door.
“There’s my boy.” His mother hobbled down the three front steps and maneuvered her way into his arms.
“Hey, Ma. You look good.” Her thin-bare oversized dingy white T-shirt had a grease stain in the middle of her stomach, and she wore her favorite zebra striped leggings. They’d stretched over the years to accommodate her ever-increasing weight.
While she had never been a fit and active woman, being on disability hadn’t helped her condition any. She’d gone from overweight to morbidly obese.
“This old thing? Maybe if my favorite son came around more often, he’d bring me shopping so I could wear something other than the same clothes I’ve been wearing since he was in diapers.”
This was new. For years he’d begged his mother to go shopping. He even bought her clothes regularly in the styles and eclectic patterns she liked. But she stuck to the same two or three shirts and leggings.
It was her way of being the victim.
“How about Tuesday?” He draped his arm across her shoulders and guided her up the stairs. “I’ll pick you up around nine, and we can hit the mall.”
“The mall?” She squeezed in through the doorway, gasping for breath.
It saddened him that the little walk down the front path and back caused her to break out into a sweat. Walking around the mall would give her some much needed exercise.
“I can order all I need from online.”
And this was the crux of it all. She said she wanted Tristan to come visit and bring her places, but when he did, she didn’t want to go out in public.
It wasn’t always this way. Ten years ago she may have been overweight, but she was active, had friends, and worked.
Now she was oh-for-three.
“I’d like to take you out somewhere. The weather is supposed to be gorgeous. We can go to the park, or if you’re up for the drive, I can bring you back to my town and we can bundle up and sit at the beach.”
“I wouldn’t mind going for a drive.”
Tristan didn’t push her to respond to the beach part. Leaving the house was victory enough. In due time he’d get her out and about.
He stayed for another twenty minutes telling her about the wine pairing sessions at Coastal Vines, and about his flourishing catering business.
“Maybe next month you can come to the winery for a tasting. The owners are really nice. I think you’d like it there.”
Tristan toyed with the keys in his pocket trying to subtly hint he needed to leave.
“I don’t think a classy winery is the place for me.” She shifted in her Lazy-Boy and reclined so her feet were propped.
“It’s a casual place, Ma.” He bent to kiss her sweaty forehead. While his visit was short, he kept her pacing about the house knowing she’d follow him from the living room to the kitchen, out onto the deck, and then back to the living room.
“Checking out the place,” he’d told her when she asked why he was so antsy. He could get her one of those step trackers so she could record how many steps she took in a day.
No. He shook off the idea. It would only make her more depressed. When she was ready to get up and be more mobile, he’d get her one. In the meantime, he’d support her emotionally and financially until she could get through her depression.
“You young folk have a different idea of fun than us old people.”
“I’m catching up there in age too.” He squeezed her shoulder. “So what exactly do you old folk call fun?” He’d do just about anything at this point.
“It’s been so long I think fun has gone out of style for my type.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’ll find your fun again, Ma.”
And he would. But first, he had a class reunion to cater.
And his own demons to battle.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Are you sure I don’t look ... trampy?” Jenna cocked her head so she could see her butt in the mirror.
“You said it was a country themed dance, right?” Grace tapped a manicured finger to her front teeth.
Perfect white teeth, long nails, gorgeous blonde hair, sexy body. Yeah, all things she never had and never would have. Yet Grace didn’t make her feel like a fish out of water, which she totally was.
Grace’s boutique My Sister’s Closet may have been a second-hand lending shop, but it was still out of her league. Filled with designer labels she couldn’t pronounce; some she’d heard of, others she hadn’t but knew if they were in this store they were high-end pieces of clothing.
Really, Jenna didn’t think Grace’s idea for a fancy second-hand boutique with designer clothing would fit into the small town of Crystal Cove. But with no good places to shop nearby—in Maine, really, so they say—My Sister’s Closet had become an overnight success. And the lending library twist put her on the map.
Women could donate their clothes or sell them on consignment. And shoppers could purchase or borrow clothing and accessories for a small lending fee.
Carter had helped launch the website and the marketing, and only a few months into opening Grace’s store had landed write ups in newspapers all over New England. It was a unique concept and was not only a local favorite, but it was becoming a tourist stop as well.
Not wanting to buy new clothes for the reunion and knowing she’d never wear them again, renting them—so to speak—from My Sister’s Closet seemed like the perfect idea.
“Your ass looks amazing,” Grace said as she tugged one of the sleeves down, baring Jenna’s left shoulder. “The top is supposed to be like this. Stop pulling it up. You’ll need a strapless bra, though.”
Jenna scrunched her nose and checked herself in the mirror, not something
she liked to do regularly. A braid, a bun, loose clothes. She normally dressed for comfort, not for show.
Although she had put a few more minutes into her wardrobe decisions when going out with Carter.
Tonight, though, would be her reunion. She’d see people she hadn’t seen since high school. Or her wedding. Or her divorce. She didn’t care what others thought of her or what the local gossip said about her and Tristan.
As if. They were old news. High school news. No one cared about the ending of their love story, how sad it was.
Staring at her reflection again, she noticed how the red top hugged her chest and arms while flaring a little at the waist. That was good. It hid the bit of a muffin-top that hung over the top of her jeans.
Hiking the dark blue skinny jeans higher, she managed to tug some of the overhang in.
Better.
“I have a pair of red cowboy boots in my closet. Don’t move.” Grace rushed out the front door. How she could move so fast in those spiky high heels, Jenna hadn’t a clue. It didn’t take long for Grace to run up the stairs to her apartment and return with the boots.
“Don’t you think they’re a bit ... over the top?”
“Honey.” Grace waved her finger through the air directing Jenna to the chaise lounge by the front window. “Over the top doesn’t exist when it comes to shoes. You said it was a country western theme, right?”
“Yeah.” Jenna dropped to the fancy couch with a sigh. She took the boots from Grace and slid them on.
“I want to see you walk in them. One thing I can’t stand is when women force themselves into a pair of shoes because they look good, but they can’t walk worth shit.”
Maybe if she stumbled Grace would let her off the hook and agree her black Converse shoes were suitable for the event.
The heel wasn’t very high and was thick enough to give her support. Walking across the room wasn’t challenging at all, and she kind of liked the clickity-click noise of the heels on the hardwood floor. She felt glamorous without risking the comfort of her feet.
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