Turning Point

by Deborah Busby

  The rhythm of the rain on the roof was pleasant and I stared out the darkened window. The clouds blocked my view of the stars, but I closed my eyes and conjured them in my mind. As I slowly drifted off to sleep, I wondered if the same stars I wished on as a child were still watching over me, and if so, where had they been all this time when I needed them?

  Chapter Two

  "What the hell is this?" Derek demanded, his hand gripping my wrist so tightly that I knew it would leave a mark.

  "Derek, I don't know. Please, you're hurting me," I pleaded with him. "I swear the ring was on my hand this morning. I don't know how this could have happened!"

  I began searching for my wedding ring in the general vicinity to no avail. I looked back up at my husband just as he was pulling his hand back, readying to strike.

  "You lying b—"

  I drew in a sharp breath as I prepared for the blow, but my alarm clock shrieked in my ear, yanking me out of the terrifying dream. I slammed my hand down on the clock and shot upright in bed. My breathing was ragged, and my heart pounded violently in my chest as I held onto every detail of the dream I could remember.

  I jumped out of bed, hurrying down the hallway in stocking feet looking around the house for Derek. All I found was the half-eaten bowl of cereal and empty coffee cup left on the table for me to clean up.

  "It was only a dream," I told myself. "He's not even here. He's gone to work. Get a grip!"

  I let out a sigh of relief, reached across the counter and picked up the phone, dialing a number I knew better than my own.

  After four rings, she picked up.

  "Hello," the sleepy voice spoke into the phone.

  Crap! What time was it?

  Even without the benefit of knowing the time, I knew that I’d messed up. It was too early. She was still asleep. I considered hanging up; maybe she would think it was all one of her dreamy hallucinations.

  "Hello?" She asked again, and I heard just a hint of irritation in her voice.

  "Hey, Hannah. Did I wake you?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  She yawned loudly into the phone, mostly for my benefit. "What time is it?"

  I looked up again at the microwave above the stove, finally locating a digital display.

  "A little after seven," I responded.

  "Holy shit, Belle. You know I don't get up before nine...ever. What's wrong?"

  "I had another dream," I stated simply, knowing that sleepy or not, this would get my sister's attention.

  Hannah made her living as a psychic and dream interpreter. I let her work out of the bookstore, reading palms, auras, or whatever, for the tourists that wandered in. She also did Tarot cards, Runes, and tea leaves on occasion. Hannah did whatever tickled her fancy.

  She set up a small card table in the front corner of the bookstore and put a sign out on the sidewalk that read, ‘The Psychic Is In’. The customers flocked to see her. It was unreal how people could be sucked in by something as unreliable and unpredictable as the mumbo jumbo my sister spouted. Regardless of my doubts about her craft, Hannah was fantastic at selling them on her ‘abilities’.

  Some of the locals, her regular customers, swore by her visions and interpretations, proclaiming them surprisingly accurate. I was skeptical, but I let her interpret my nightmares. Perhaps, if the dreams made sense to me, then they wouldn’t seem so terrifying anymore.

  Free dream interpretations and unsolicited psychic visions about my future aside, the benefits of having Hannah at the store weren't entirely one-sided. Her being there meant she was around to close up the store on nights that I needed to get home to get Derek's dinner ready, but that wasn’t my only motivation. Without the store, I had no idea when I might see my big sister.

  While I really didn't believe in Hannah's psychic ability, I had to admit that her dream interpretations were usually spot on. There was a science to them, and she didn’t have to rely on her ‘abilities’ to master memorization. For her sixteenth birthday, Mom had gotten Hannah a dream interpretation manual. Ever since then, her favorite pastime had been to discover the meaning behind a juicy dream.

  As I expected, I was greeted with the rustling of covers as Hannah sat up in bed. I had her undivided attention.

  "Tell me all about it," she said eagerly, wide-awake.

  "Okay," I began, "Well, it started out that I was in the kitchen making a cake for Derek."

  "Ugh."

  To say that my sister loathed my husband would have been an understatement, and the feeling was mutual.

  "If you tell me that you poured Drano into the cake and finished that dick off once and for all, I won't need to interpret your dream. I will, however, need to applaud that you finally came to your senses."

  "Will you listen, please?"

  "Sorry," Hannah relented. "Go on — what happened next?"

  "So, Derek walks in and grabs my hand and says, 'What the hell is this?’ I look down and realize that my ring is missing. I tried to explain to him that I didn't know how I lost it, but he didn't believe me. And I looked everywhere but I never found the ring."

  Hannah sighed on the other end of the line. "Sweetie, you really need to leave that man."

  "Not this again."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you sound like a broken record and it's getting old, Hannah."

  "Not old enough apparently, because you're still married to that bastard."

  "Are you going to tell what the dream means? Or do I just need to hang up now?"

  "Alright, fine." Hannah conceded. "Your dream really doesn’t need to be interpreted. Derek has an anger problem. I’ve known that since high school. You’re scared of him and of doing anything wrong, even if it’s an accident. Our dreams bring out our fears. This one’s simple. Your fear is Derek."

  I nodded. "Okay, that makes sense.”

  “Have you ever tried to get the boy into some therapy?”

  “No.”

  “Can I ask why not?”

  “Because he wouldn’t go even if I asked.”

  “All he ever does is yell at you, right? He hasn’t done anything else I need to know about?”

  “No!” I exclaimed, my heart racing as my sister just got a little too close to my secret.

  “Good. Because you know I’d have to kill him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  My sister’s protectiveness touched me. For a compete flake, sometimes Hannah was much too smart.

  "Good. That'll be forty dollars," she said and laughed softly.

  "Ha ha. Hey, don't forget that you’re covering the store this afternoon so I can get home early. Derek has bowling league tonight and he always wants to eat dinner early before he goes."

  "God. When are you going to leave that loser? A bowling league? Are you kidding me? And why can't he get his own damn dinner?"

  "Please, Hannah. It's too early in the morning for this conversation."

  "I actually think it's much too late for this conversation."

  When I didn't respond, "Fine, I'll be there by three."

  "Promise?"

  "I promise," she confirmed.

  "Thanks, sis."

    

  I pulled around to my parking spot in the back of Turning Point an hour later, completely consumed by thoughts of my dream and Hannah's interpretation. I was confused, lost in a silent argument with myself as I stepped out of my car. The sharp coastal wind stole my breath. That was one thing about making a life on the ocean — twenty degrees or eighty, it made no difference. The wind was a near constant.

  I ran and unlocked the front door, hurrying inside. The store wouldn't be open for another forty-five minutes, and I tried to relax in the one place that I always felt safe and welcomed. As was my ritual, I glanced up at the pictures of my parents hanging above the door and smiled.

  I took a quick look around the store, realizing how little there was to do to get ready to open this morning. Turning Point was small and wasn't too fancy. The store sat on the second bus
iest corner on Hemlock Street, sandwiched between a real estate agent's office and a kite shop.

  The exterior of our three businesses all looked the same, with wooden shingles that made the buildings blend with the other beach properties. Our front walk looked like a wooden dock, beckoning the visitors to come in, but not to forget the reason they came to Cannon Beach: the ocean.

  The bookstore had a large picture window at the front that held a display shelf where I strategically placed the latest popular mystery or romance novels — the kinds of books that would attract shoppers and get them into the store. Once inside, there were several sections, including Self-Help, New Age, Travel and Tourism, Diet and Exercise, and Fiction and Literature to keep the customers looking.

  The bookshelves themselves were my mom's pride and joy. Made from local redwood trees, they had cost my mom almost all of her savings to purchase, but the store wouldn't have had the character without them. The shelves were almost two inches thick, and once they were placed in Turning Point, my mother did not intend to move them ever again.

  The shelves had a deep varnish and lacquer that made them shine in the sunlight as though covered in glass. The big booksellers I visited in Portland all had the pressboard, uniform shelves that had no personality, but my mom didn't want to be like everyone else. Her store was different.

  Turning Point had life.

  The sales counter sat off to the left of the main room. It was actually an antique railroad ticket counter that Mom had found up in Astoria. The counter held one cash register and a very outdated computer. A credenza standing against the wall behind the counter held most of the store's supplies in its drawers and cabinets. Just above the credenza, hanging on the wall, was the letter that my father wrote to my mother before my birth.

  The store also had a small supply room in the back where we stored all of the extra books and kept new shipments until the books were inventoried and released.

  I had not changed one thing about this store in all the years since mom died. The more I kept it the same, the more I felt that she was here with me. Her dream was becoming my own.

  I was so distracted I didn’t register the bell above the door jingle. I was no longer alone.

  The silent intruder cleared his throat, and I whirled around with a strangled yell.

  "Holy crap!" I cried and held a hand to my chest, as if, by doing so, I could keep my heart from jumping out of my body.

  The young man held up his hands apologetically. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, miss."

  I paused and looked at him curiously.

  Miss? Did he just call me Miss? As in… under 30?

  He stood there, staring at me, waiting for me to speak.

  "We aren't open yet," I said breathlessly, still trying to get a handle on my racing heart.

  "I know. I was hoping to speak to the owner."

  "Well. That would be me."

  "You?" He asked, disbelief in his tone.

  "Yes." I was slightly annoyed now. Was he one of those male chauvinists that didn't believe women should run businesses? He looked a little young to have such outdated ideas. He looked like he was barely out of diapers.

  I was just about to open my mouth to tell him just that when he beat me to it.

  "I'm sorry, again," he said, obviously sensing my annoyance and trying to make a pre-emptive excuse. "I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that you don't look old enough to own a store." He waved his hand up and down my at my body as if, by doing so, I would look at myself and magically know what the hell he meant.

  Was this kid for real?

  "Well, I do. What can I do for you—?”

  "Landon," he responded before I could ask. "My name is Landon."

  "Landon?" I smirked. "What kind of name is that? Were your parents into Little House on the Prairie when you were born or something?"

  "It was my mom's maiden name," he said softly.

  “Oh.” It seemed logical enough, although it was still a strange name. Parents these days were naming their kids all kinds of things. Jason Lee, a well-known actor, named his kid Pilot Inspektor. Landon was relatively normal in comparison, so I let it drop.

  "So, Landon, what can I do for you?"

  He looked down at the floor, embarrassed. "I'm looking for work for the summer."

  I took one small step toward him; something about his look drew me closer. Where did I know this kid? He seemed familiar, but in a distant ‘you-look-like-someone-I-know’ kind of way.

  His baseball cap was on backwards and a thick mess of blonde curls stuck out the back. He was at least a foot taller than I was and he wore baggy jeans with flip-flops. His shirt was just a little too tight across the chest, but not at all unattractive. It was more of sexy, show-off way - typical of the guys I saw every day roaming the streets of Cannon Beach. But those guys usually didn't stick around for very long. They were simply surfers, looking to make a few bucks and then hit the road in search of the next great wave.

  “I don’t hire by the day. If I did hire someone, it would need to be for the entire summer.” I hoped a commitment would dissuade his interest.

  “That would be perfect.”

  No such luck.

  "Are you from around here?" I changed the subject to postpone saying no as long as I possibly could.

  "Yep. I live with my dad. Just moved back."

  "You look like a surfer."

  "I've been living in Southern California. Look, I could really use a job. If you’re hiring…" He looked up at me, found me watching him, and smiled. One side of his mouth turned up, and he blushed just slightly.

  Wow.

  It was one of those rehearsed smiles that I could tell he’d successfully used, on many occasions, to get what he wanted. He was good at being charming. I almost melted like butter on a hot July afternoon.

  Oh...this boy was trouble.

  "I'm sorry, but we aren’t hiring right now," I said abruptly.

  "Really?" His smile quickly vanished, replaced by a look of defeat. Did he honestly think that all he had to do was walk in here, smile, and look sexy and that he would walk out with a job?

  Look sexy?! Where did that come from?

  "Really," I confirmed.

  "Oh, that's too bad."

  I had to admit, he did look genuinely disappointed. I sensed it was something more than my turning him down for a job — he seemed to take it personally.

  "Why do you want to work here anyway?” I couldn’t afford to hire him, but I didn't exactly want him to go away yet either.

  "It's a long story," he said, just a bit forlorn. I couldn't figure out if this was part of his act or not. A sort of plan B. If the cute smile and charm didn't work, then he moved on to pity. He could have been genuine. I just couldn't tell.

  I leaned back on the counter, crossed my arms skeptically. "Reader's Digest version?"

  "What’s your name, miss? You never said."

  There he was with the "miss" stuff again. Didn't he know I was old enough to be his...I stopped myself, refusing to complete that thought.

  "I'm Belle. Have we met?"

  "I don't think so," he responded. "What's Reader's Digest, by the way?"

  Finally, he showed his age — but, unfortunately, mine as well.

  "It's the condensed version of a long story," I answered him, annoyed again.

  "Oh, sure," he said, seemingly embarrassed at not knowing what it meant. "Well, I just graduated from college, and I don't know what comes next, you know? So I'm taking the summer to figure it out."

  I wasn't convinced.

  "And I love books." He added quickly and smiled at me again. I couldn't believe how hard he was trying to charm me into a job. Dammit. Why was it almost working? He obviously threw that, "I love books," thing in as an afterthought.

  "What’s the last book you read?"

  "The Count of Monte Cristo."

  "Abridged or unabridged?"

  "The 600-page one," he responded without missing a beat.

>   "Abridged, then." I tried to sound as condescending as possible, although I’d never made it through the twelve-hundred plus pages of the unabridged version either. "So, why do you love books?"

  "Well," he began and looked down at the floor again. "My mom used to read to me a lot when I was little. It's the only thing I can actually remember her doing. The Count of Monte Cristo was the last book she read to me. I’ve read it every year since."

  "Since…?" I asked quietly, already dreading what was sure to come.

  "She died… when I was five."

  Well, shit.

  I couldn't even bring myself to respond to the idea that a mother was reading The Count of Monte Cristo to a five-year-old. And my stupid crack about his name...dammit, I felt even more awful.

  "I'm really sorry to hear that, Landon."

  "It’s okay," he replied, sheepishly.

  "Listen. The truth is… I'm not sure I can afford to hire someone else. There's barely enough work to keep me busy. Besides, my sister works here with me.”

  He glanced around the empty bookstore.

  “Well, she’s due in later. So, I really don’t need anyone right now, but the heavy tourist season is coming up in a few weeks and things may change then. As it stands right now, I just can't."

  I felt like a complete Cruella DeVille.

  "I understand." He gave me a crooked, disappointed smile that made my heart sink, dropping into a vat of mud…where I belonged...with the pigs.

  "I hear that the grocery store — Theresa’s — might be looking for someone,” I added as an afterthought. “It’s just right up the street. The owner dates my father-in-law. Ask for Theresa and tell her that I sent you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Come back and see us anytime." I sounded cheesy and fake. And I was.

  Landon turned and left the store with a wave over his shoulder. I sat at the counter and watched him shuffle up the street.

  Would I have really hired him? Sure, he was cute...okay he was hot, but having him around would have only spelled enormous amounts of trouble for my unused libido and me.

  Besides, that boy was way too young, and I certainly did not want to be the creepy old lady who flirted with all the young boys. I saw that movie — it never ends well for the old lady. Oh sure, she gets some great sex along the way...but...well...I couldn't find a suitable argument against great sex and gave up trying.