Perfect Piece

by Rebeca Seitz

  She took his hand. “And go in debt for the next two years? No way, buddy. Every time I sat down in the thing, all I’d see on the backs of my eyelids would be the bill and the interest rate.”

  “It wasn’t that expensive. We’d have it paid off in a year, possibly less.”

  “Still don’t want it. All I need is a fix every now and then and I’m fine.”

  Unsure whether to mentally add the chair to his Christmas list, he allowed her to pull him down the walkway. They didn’t stop again until they’d returned to the turnoff for Dillard’s.

  “How about some coffee and a quick bite before we go see what’s playing at the movies?”

  “Okay, the Food Court is—”

  She patted his arm and smiled up at him. “You’re such a man.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means of course you haven’t memorized every square inch of this mall to determine the most appropriate place to park to get to your desired location the quickest.”

  “And you have?” More that he didn’t know about her.

  “Of course. That’s how I know The Coffee Beanery is on the left right before we get to Dillard’s.” They turned off the main hallway and she pointed. “See?”

  He looked up and, sure enough, there sat The Coffee Beanery. How had he not seen it when they first left Dillard’s? Probably because he’d had his eyes fixed on her all afternoon.

  “You know, you’re pretty amazing, Mrs. Fawcett.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Fawcett. Ready for some good coffee?”

  “I’m with you.”

  * * *

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER the moon rose high in the sky like a bright, round beacon and Jamison steered the van back to the interstate. He didn’t know which part of the day he’d enjoyed most, only that he wanted to close his eyes and relive every second of it. Too long he’d lived without the Meg he married; having her back felt better than finding gold or oil in their backyard—oil would be very messy to sleep with and he doubted the cuddle factor of gold would rank much higher.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  He drew in a breath. “Oh, I was just sitting here thinking about how wonderful it feels to have you back.” As soon as he said it, he knew he’d messed up. Stupid, stupid man. Didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

  “Have me back? What do you mean?”

  Backtrack, Jamison. Find a way out. “Oh, I don’t know what I meant. I’m too tired to be trusted with words.” He turned on the radio. Meg loved music, so there were pretty good odds it would serve as a distraction.

  He got three songs before she turned it down. “No, really. What did you mean?”

  The choices were to brush her off again, ignore her, or face the music.

  He really, really didn’t want to face it. Yet it was easier to brush cat fur off a cashmere sweater than to brush Meg off a topic she wanted to address. And ignoring her—well, he’d never in his life been able to do that.

  A sigh escaped his lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “It’s okay. What did you mean, though? I know I haven’t been exactly like I was before the surgery, but have I been so odd that I haven’t been myself?”

  A land mine lurked in that question. Shoot, twenty landmines! He proceeded with caution. “You’ve been … different.”

  “Right, but different how?”

  Nope, not going there. “I don’t know. Just different.”

  “Well, different as in spacey? Different disorganized? Different moody? Different what?”

  “Moody, I’d say.”

  “I’ve been moody?” Her voice had lost some of the joy of the day.

  He could hear the joy seeping out of her voice. His chest tightened, making him realize it had loosened throughout the hours they’d spent together. “No, not moody. I don’t know the word.” Couldn’t they talk about something else? Anything else?

  “Can’t think of it or don’t want to say it?” Her crossed arms warned he was headed into a hazard zone.

  “I don’t want to say anything that will hurt your feelings.”

  “So you’ve been thinking bad thoughts about me and you think you’re doing me a favor by not sharing them with me? What happened to being honest with each other?”

  Why, oh why hadn’t he read the paperwork from the hospital? If he had, he might have known this was coming. Fine one minute, hostile the next. And how could she not know she’d been moody? Was forgetfulness yet another fun side effect? Darkness spread along his heart like oil from a busted can, and he sighed.

  “Jamison? Come on.”

  He almost flinched at the accusing tone that slipped into her voice. She was accusing him? He’d done nothing but be patient and wait on her to get better, and there she sat throwing words at him like weapons. Thing was, he wanted to still be patient, to give her space and room and time, but it’d been two months and all he wanted was some semblance of his wife back. That wasn’t asking a whole lot. And for her to react this way …

  “You’re angry a lot.” He all but spat the words, happy to get them out of his mouth where they couldn’t fester in his mind any longer. “And bitter and moody and difficult and hard to please.”

  He shot a glance at her and the shock and anger on her face made him instantly regret his outburst. Somehow she hadn’t known. Or had thought no one else knew. Whatever, now he’d hurt her and ruined their day together.

  He tried to reach out to her, but she turned her body to the window so that her voice bounced off the glass and back to him, picking up a hollow sound in the process.

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be the perfect wife while I recovered from brain surgery.”

  That voice—full of meanness and self-pity and completely lacking any of the warmth and love he’d heard from her before the tumor nightmare—sliced so hard he looked down to see if she’d drawn blood.

  Only a shirt there. The scars she caused would stay inside.

  For the first time he wondered whether she had scars inside as well. Too late to ask her now. Anything else he said would only cause her more pain.

  So, swallowing back his regret and disappointment, he shut his mouth and drove home in silence.

  Fourteen

  Jamison jammed his seat belt buckle into its latch. Why did she have to be so difficult? One second they’re having a great night and the next she has to act like a banshee. Could the surgery have made her bipolar? How could someone go from happy to angry that quickly? He’d slept fitfully, fighting dreams of a ranting Meg.

  He turned the key in the ignition and jerked the gear shift into Reverse. Refraining from squealing his tires— which would only let her know of his own anger—he backed out of the garage and threw it into drive.

  The house disappeared in his rearview mirror and he blew out a breath of frustration that sounded like air whooshing out of a balloon. He might as well be that deflated. Meg took all the wind out of his sails, acting so out of character. It would be different if he had any idea what to do, but he didn’t.

  And helplessness fit him as well as a tutu on a momma sow.

  He pointed the car toward Lindell, prepared to go directly to Tandy and Clay’s and pick up the kids. But something in him just couldn’t do it. The kids had enough difficulty in their lives already. They needed him to be unchanging in the midst of this chaotic time.

  Well, if he went home right now, all they’d see was a dad who was angry, unprepared, and a little scared. They needed that like they needed a pound of sugar before bed. He swung the car onto University and punched the gas. He had no idea where he’d end up, but it was enough that he’d arrive there alone. University ran into Elm and he briefly considered grabbing a sausage and biscuit at the gas station. Unable to come up with a better plan, he clicked the left hand blinker and waited through the red light.

  But when he came to the lighted sign, his foot refused to tap the brake. Instead, it pressed harder on the gas. He knew he should pull over an
d think instead of wasting gas that cost entirely too much, but he’d done enough of trying to choose the right path for a while. Every second of every hour of every day, he struggled to be a good husband, to choose the right response. Now, though … he’d had enough. So he shook off that mind-set like a snake shedding its skin, happy to be free of constraints that didn’t fit on his best day. He tossed a wave to the gas station and continued down the road.

  Soon, as he’d known it would, the two lanes divided into four. Not long after, the lights of the city were just a memory in his mirror. And soon after that, he saw the welcome sign to Greenfield.

  Had he ever stopped there before? Maybe once or twice. Having lived in Stars Hill all his life, he should know more about their neighboring town. The extent of his knowledge could be summed up in a short list:

  1. It ranked smaller than Stars Hill.

  2. The police force loved to give out speeding tickets.

  3. There was no bypass.

  4. A diner downtown served burgers that rivaled Clay’s.

  Would the diner be open for breakfast? Probably not, but why not try it out anyway? One turn off the main street and he pulled the car into a space in front of Wimpy’s Diner. Did the owner take pride in an old high school nickname? Or was he trying to have the last laugh on a nickname given him by the cool kids?

  Jamison cut the engine and stepped out of the car into crisp morning air that smelled cleaner than Joy’s counter-tops. He loved that about small towns—clear air. It was why he couldn’t imagine ever moving into a big city. Battling traffic, staring at neighbors an arm’s length away, breathing in smog and pollution—definitely not a life he cared to live. An hour’s drive left him close enough to go into the city when he wanted to take advantage of its amenities, but far enough away to leave the mess behind and go home to peaceful, clean Stars Hill.

  He ambled up onto a sidewalk lined with old timers in plaid shirts, overalls, and hats bearing tractor logos. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he tried not to look like a businessman, which was akin to a city slicker wandering into Heartland. “Mornin’.” He nodded. A few tipped their hats in response. Why had he stopped here?

  The door creaked on its hinge when he opened it wide to step inside the eatery. Every stool at the bar served as the resting stop for men who could be clones of those on the porch. Well, nearly every seat. He noted an empty spot of red vinyl at the end and wandered on down.

  “What’ll it be?” The waitress’s thick, blonde ponytail swung when she walked and her smile pushed dimples in on each side of her heart-shaped face.

  “Uh, coffee, please. Black.” Doctoring the brew would clearly label him an outsider.

  She dimpled again. “Sure thing.”

  He looked for a name tag, but none existed. No matter. He wouldn’t remember five minutes after he left here anyway. He glanced down the bar, saw a line of men intent on plates piled with steaming eggs, biscuits, gravy, grits, and bacon.

  The waitress set a white mug in front of him, a slight chip in its handle. Again the door creaked, sending a slight breeze down the countertop. The smell of all that breakfast food wafted his way.

  “You know, maybe some eggs would be good.”

  She nodded.

  “And, uh, bacon?”

  “You asking or telling?”

  “Telling. Bacon.”

  She spun on an efficient heel, took one step before he called out, “Toast or biscuits?”

  She waved over her head, and he noted her fingers were long, like Meg’s. She most likely knew enough about her customers to give them the right kind of breakfast.

  Sipping the coffee—which tasted fresh and good—he turned a little on the stool and took in the place. Framed pictures told the story of the past three decades. High school kids in letterman sweaters, football jerseys, homecoming crowns, and prom dresses lined the walls. He thought about getting closer to see the details, but worried his red-vinyl island might become occupied in his absence, so he squinted instead.

  The style had changed—long skirts became short on the girls, long hair became cropped on the boys—but the poses generally stayed the same. And, from what he could tell, the backgrounds did, too.

  She set down a white plate whose sturdy porcelain matched his cup. Steam curled from a pile of eggs, two biscuits smothered in gravy bearing bits of sausage, a mess of bacon, and a serving of grits.

  “I didn’t order—”

  “Trust me.” She walked away with more assurance than a Banty rooster.

  Since it wouldn’t be worth the trouble to argue with a local—much less one who worked at the most popular business in town—he picked up a fork and dug in. The eggs tasted like heaven in his mouth, slick with butter and dotted with salt. He cut a biscuit and tried not to moan when the gravy made his taste buds sing. The old timers might wonder about a guy in business clothes moaning over gravy.

  But had they tasted this gravy? Nashville diners better watch out if whoever owned this place decided to take his recipes to the city.

  He let the lull of conversation surround him, enjoying too much the ability to sit in silence while others hobnobbed. No one here knew him. Right now, he loved it. No one knew he had a wife at home recovering from brain surgery and three kids whose lives were stuck on a roller coaster. They didn’t expect him to come up with answers or hold their hands or tell them everything would be okay— or not, if that’s what he thought they wanted to hear.

  For all they cared, he could walk out of here and drop dead in the parking lot, so long as he wasn’t on Wimpy’s property and didn’t die from food poisoning. Great satisfaction suffused him.

  “Now you look like a man ready to face the day.”

  Her husky voice reminded him of the actress who played opposite Bruce Willis on Moonlighting back in the day. What was her name?

  “Feeling better?”

  He looked at his plate, startled to realize he’d consumed everything on it. “Much better. Thanks.”

  “Just doing my job.” She took the plate and dumped it onto a stack of others waiting for the dishwasher. Wiping those long, slender fingers on a towel, she leaned one hip against the counter. “You new in town or passing through?”

  “Passing through.” The words slipped free without hesitation, coming easier than the truth.

  She nodded. “On the way to?”

  He wondered at her curiosity. Then again, small towns weren’t anywhere to hide if you meant to hide long. “Oh, I don’t know yet. Guess I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

  Her blue eyes settled on his. Did she know him? Had they run into each other in Stars Hill. Shoot, she might know one of the sisters. “Hmm, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a drifter,” she finally said.

  “Guess looks can be deceiving.”

  “If you don’t look deep enough, they’ll deceive you every time.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been burned.”

  “Got the scars to prove it.”

  He sipped his coffee. Weeks of stillness and quiet in his house had left his conversational skills rusty.

  “I’m Karen.” She held a hand out to him.

  He took it. Felt her cool skin. “Jamison.”

  “A business name to go with the business clothes.” She took her hand back.

  He smiled. “Something like that.”

  “Think you’ll be back this way anytime soon?”

  “I don’t know. You have a recommendation if I am?”

  “Just wondering if you’ll answer to Jay. A body’s got to watch all that effort in syllables, you know. Caffeine will only get you so far.” She winked. It went nicely with the dimples.

  He found himself returning her smile. “If I’m ever back this way, I’ll remember to answer to the right name.”

  “Glad we’ve got that settled.” She placed a ticket in front of him. “Nice meeting you, Jay.”

  “You too, Karen.” He placed a bill on the table, enough to cover the meal and a healthy tip. He’d have left
the money for the conversation alone.

  She gave him a small wave good-bye and moved on down the counter to refill a coffee cup. He watched her for a second, noting the admiration in each man’s eyes when she stopped and served coffee or a helping of words.

  Feeling more ready to face the day with a bellyful of good food and better coffee, he rose and went for the door.

  * * *

  THE ENTIRE WAY back to Stars Hill, Jamison wondered at such a strange occurrence. What had driven him to Greenfield? Obviously, he had driven him, but what controlled his mind to do such a thing? God? Did God know he’d been about to lose it and point him in that direction?

  It had to have been. Not that Jamison had ever subscribed to the whole God literally pushing a person down a path, but he considered now that the idea might have some merit. Meg always said God had shoved him into her path that day at school. He hadn’t meant to go that way. Her locker was nowhere near his chemistry class. But that day, that hour, he’d walked down that hallway. Seeing her leaning up against a bank of lockers had made him notice a girl who’d been there all along.

  So, nearly two decades later, perhaps God decided he needed another push. Did Karen believe in God? If she did, she’d get a kick out of his believing God sent him to that diner.

  Not that he had any intention of going back there. But in case God pointed the car that direction again, he’d have a conversation starter ready.

  He turned right at the light onto University then left at the next onto Lindell. A block later he parked the car and killed the engine.

  Eager to see his kids’ smiling faces now that he possessed a smile to return, he opened the door and stepped onto the street. The business day had begun without him. Cars and trucks moseyed up and down Lindell, pulling into spaces and emptying out errand-runners intent on finishing the To Do list before lunchtime. Jamison would bet the thirty dollars in his pocket that many of them ended up at Clay’s for lunch before heading home.

  He climbed the steps to the apartment over the diner that Clay and Tandy shared. The door popped open before he could knock.

  “Daddy!” Savannah threw her arms around his leg. “You came back for us!”