by Mia March
Isabel came in with a tray of popcorn in bowls. “Everyone’s here, right?”
It was just the four of them tonight. Pearl’s husband had a cold, so she’d stayed home to see to him, and since Lolly wasn’t feeling so hot, she’d wanted to have Movie Night in her room with just family.
Kat lay on the hospital bed with her mother, a cashmere throw she’d received as an engagement gift covering most of her. Looking sad, Isabel handed Kat a big bowl of popcorn for her and Lolly to share, then shut the lights off and sat down next to June on a padded wooden folding chair. She put her legs up on the ottoman next to June’s.
“Still haven’t heard from Griffin?” she whispered, taking a handful of popcorn from the bowl on Isabel’s lap.
Isabel shook her head. “I guess I won’t. I called him twice last night and once this morning.”
“I’m sure he’ll call,” June said. “He’s just freaked. It has nothing to do with you.”
“The whole thing wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t left the girls alone. Even for two minutes.”
“Alexa is fourteen, Isabel,” Kat said. “Not that I’m eavesdropping. Okay, I am. Anyone would have done what you did—asked a fourteen-year-old to watch her little sister for a couple of minutes while you grabbed lemonade fixings inside. Including Griffin. This wasn’t your fault.”
“Then why do I feel like absolute hell over it? Why hasn’t Griffin called me back?”
June did understand, but she’d give Griffin only one more day to get over it. To make Isabel feel this way—and it was clear how upset she was yesterday—bothered June.
Lolly sat up a bit. “As June said, Emmy going missing like that scared him to death. But the person he’s likely maddest at is himself, Isabel. When that settles inside him, he’ll call.”
Isabel took a handful of popcorn, another good sign. “I hope so.”
Lolly pressed PLAY on the remote control. “I think June picked a very good movie for tonight.”
“Look how young Meryl is,” June said as Meryl Streep told Dustin Hoffman that she was leaving him and their son. “What year was this made? Seventysomething?”
Lolly switched on the lamp on her bedside table and scanned the DVD box. “Nineteen seventy-nine, actually.”
“She won an Oscar for this, right?” June asked.
Lolly nodded. “For this and Sophie’s Choice and The Iron Lady.”
“Wow, I totally get why Meryl was so fed up,” June said. “But to just walk out on her own child? I’m not sure I get that at all.”
Kat reached for a handful of popcorn from the bowl between her and Lolly. “It’s amazing how Meryl Streep actually makes you sympathetic towards her, though. She’s crazy talented to be able to pull that off.”
“She really is,” Lolly said. “It’s why I can watch her movies over and over. And she was so young when she made this film.”
They all settled down with their treats and drinks, quiet as Dustin Hoffman both slowly and quickly transformed from selfish workaholic to actually seeing his son as a little person who needs him, truly needs him.
“Dustin Hoffman is an amazing actor too,” June said. “You really see how he changed, how he discovered his child was more important than any work project could ever be.”
Lolly took some popcorn too. “And how cutthroat the advertising world is—or was, then, anyway. That his boss fired him actually goes to show him how no one cares about anybody in that world.”
“Whoa—Meryl Streep comes back fifteen months later?” Isabel said, her eyes wide. “Fifteen months and she suddenly wants her son back?”
June shook her head. “I can’t imagine a day going by without seeing Charlie, hugging him, making sure he knows I love him.”
“I can’t believe this custody battle,” Kat said. “The way it’s presented, because the lawyers, the judges, weren’t there, they can’t know what happened, how it happened. Like the son’s accident on the playground.”
“But Meryl does,” Isabel said. “Because she knows Dustin Hoffman, knows her son.”
June nodded. “Oh, God, I knew this was coming, but I still can’t believe custody is awarded to Meryl. He loves his son so much. He just found him, really found him, became a father in the truest sense of the word, and now he’s being taken away.”
There was not a dry eye in the room.
Lolly dabbed under her eyes with a tissue. “I love that. Meryl comes to get her son, then says she knows Billy is already home.”
“At least I’m crying happy tears now,” Isabel said, wiping under her eyes. “Omigod, that was emotional.”
“Call Griffin again,” Kat said. “Just talk into voice mail. Just tell him you understand why he’s not returning your calls and you just want him to know you understand.”
Isabel shook her head. “I’ve called three times. He hasn’t called back at all. For the past week, we’ve spoken on the phone every night.”
“I think he’s being unfair by not returning your calls,” June said. “I get why he’s upset, but to make you feel so rotten is wrong. He could at least call you back to say he just needs some time or something.”
“You could shoot him an e-mail,” Kat said. “Tell him we watched Kramer vs. Kramer for Movie Night, and how it affected you, that you got a very emotional glimpse into the life of a single dad, that how terrified Dustin Hoffman was when his son got hurt on the playground, for example, helped you understand how terrified he must have felt yesterday.”
“What if he thinks I’m an idiot for comparing real life to a movie?” Isabel asked.
“The movie got inside you and made you see things from a single father’s perspective,” Lolly said. “I think you can mention it. In any case, you’ll get to say your piece.” Lolly started to say something else, but yawned, her eyes beginning to close.
“We’d better let you get to sleep,” Kat said, kissing Lolly on the hand.
Isabel and June did the same. Then Isabel went upstairs to e-mail Griffin, and Kat went to Oliver’s. June was suddenly alone downstairs in the quiet inn until the Bluebird Room guests came in and asked for coffee, if June didn’t mind, which she didn’t. In the kitchen she brewed them a pot of coffee and put leftover chocolate chip cookies on a plate. Her phone rang and she lunged for it. Maybe it was the Smiths.
It was Henry.
“Hey, June. There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s important. Can you come over?”
Was he firing her? No, that was silly. Of course he wasn’t firing her. He wanted to talk to her about what had happened on the houseboat on Labor Day. June was sure of it. He wanted to let her know he understood that she needed to do this, see it through no matter what, and that things didn’t have to be awkward between them, as they’d been. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were June’s days off, so she hadn’t seen him right after Labor Day, when he’d told her he’d always loved her. He’d made himself scarce all week, then he’d taken off for the weekend, on his motorcycle. The one time she’d had to talk to him about an order that had gotten messed up, she’d knocked on his office door but had gotten no answer. When she peered out the back window, she saw him working on the boat, but he stopped and just looked out at the water, then down at the dock. He doesn’t know what to do, she’d thought. About this, about her. About them.
She had something to tell him too. After he confessed his feelings for her, she hadn’t wanted to share the news about finding John’s parents—their telephone number and address, anyway. But maybe she’d better tell him so he’d know she was close, that she wasn’t just grasping at air anymore.
Unless, of course, she never did hear back. But she would; she just needed to word the letter she was working on in such a way so that she wouldn’t sound like a stalking “girl he briefly dated.” She couldn’t just come out and tell them why she wanted t
o track down their son. She needed to tell John first, let him tell them. She’d work on the letter tonight, and then if she didn’t hear from them by noon tomorrow, she’d send it.
“I can come now,” she told Henry, pouring the coffee into two mugs and putting the cream and sugar next to the cookies on a silver tray. “Let me just ask Isabel to keep an ear out for Charlie. Be there in twentyish minutes.”
“I’ll wait for you on my dock,” he said, and she could swear she heard his heart beating in the seconds before he hung up.
When June opened the door to head out to Henry’s, Marley and Kip stood on the porch, about to ring the bell. Kip was the same as June remembered—good-looking and tall, in his coach-wear of gray basketball pants and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt. God, they would have a gorgeous baby.
Marley looked like a different woman. Her big blue eyes were bright and shining. And a smile was on her face. “June, I hope it’s all right that we just dropped by,” Marley said. “Are we catching you at a bad time? Were you going out?”
We, June thought, looking from Marley to Kip. Had he come around? Kip stood there, looking so serious that June wasn’t sure.
“I’m on my way to the bookstore to meet Henry,” she said, noticing Marley and Kip hadn’t come by car. “Want to walk down to the harbor with me?”
Kip put his arm around Marley as they started walking. Eyes widening, June glanced at Marley. Marley was beaming. Glowing.
“I wanted to thank you for being there for Marls, June,” Kip said. “She told me you were like a rock for her, something I couldn’t be when I first found out. So I appreciate that. I’m still getting used to everything. But I know I love Marley, and that’s all I need to know.”
June smiled. She liked when love wasn’t complicated.
“I was shocked when he knocked on my door last night,” Marley said. “We talked for hours. We even came up with a list of boy and girl names.” Kip and Marley shot each other giddy smiles. “I can’t thank you enough, June. I keep thinking how you were on your own at twenty-one. I hope you had someone there for you the way you were there for me.”
“I did,” she said, the image of Henry coming fast into her mind, refusing to let her lift a shipment of books. Bringing her five boxes of saltines when she’d been so nauseated from morning sickness that she’d been stuck in the tiny Books Brothers bathroom for two hours. He’d been the first to know she’d gone into labor, since she’d been at work. He’d been the one who’d called Lolly. He’d been the one who’d waited outside her delivery room, pacing like a nervous father. He’d been the first to tell her, “Charlie is absolutely perfect, just like you, June.”
Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked them away. He’d told her he loved her, and here she was, chasing a dream she couldn’t let go of.
Because proof was standing in front of her. The happy couple.
John’s parents will get back to me with John’s contact info, and I’ll get my chance too, she told herself, watching Marley and Kip make googly eyes at each other.
Down in the harbor, June hugged Marley and Kip good-bye, reminded Marley that they had plans to test out baby strollers next week, and watched them walk away hand in hand. Possibility was June’s favorite word, and there it was in tangible form. A happy calm built inside her as she approached Books Brothers and headed down the side alley to the pier. If Marley and Kip had found their way back to each other, so could she and John.
It was one of those beautiful September nights when Maine was in its glory, when the warm air wrapped around you with the scent of flowers and the hint of fall, and it was just cool enough to make you glad you’d grabbed a light, airy cardigan to put on over your tank top. Henry was standing on the dock as he said he’d be, near his houseboat, his hands in his jean’s pockets, looking out at the water.
“Hi,” she said as she approached. “I’m glad you called. I have something to tell you too.”
He turned and looked at her for a long moment, and something was different in his expression, something that she couldn’t remember ever seeing before.
Was he firing her? He couldn’t bear to work with her?
“Henry?”
“Let’s go inside and sit down.” He extended his hand to help her onto the boat. “So you said you had something to tell me too. You first.”
She headed down the three steps into the living area and turned to face him. “I found him.”
He stared at her, then finally said, “Found Charlie’s father?”
She sat down on the tall director’s chair. “I found an old college photo of him in a band and tracked down one of the guys—thank heavens he had a very unusual name. Turns out his middle name was the same as the street John grew up on, so the guy remembered that. I was able to find his parents, well, their address and telephone number.”
Again he stared at her, as if he were waiting for her to say something he expected.
“I called and left a message, just saying I was a friend of their son’s and met him in New York City seven years ago while he was traveling and would love to get in touch with him. They haven’t called back, but I’m working on a letter. I can’t just come out and—”
“June.”
She stopped and looked at Henry. He held her gaze for a second, then closed his eyes for another second and sucked in a breath.
She stood up. “Henry, what’s wrong?”
He turned and reached for a folded piece of paper on his desk. He held it, but didn’t look at it or hand it to her. “The thought occurred to me to check, just check, just to see, and, oh, God, June, I’m so sorry to have to show you this.”
He unfolded the piece of paper and handed it to her. It was a printout of an obituary from the Bangor Daily News. Dated November, seven years ago. The day she and John were supposed to meet at the Angel of the Waters statue of the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.
John Smith, 21, of Bangor, Maine, died of leukemia on November 10th in New York City. Very ill, John chose to live out his remaining months fulfilling his dream to travel the country, from the biggest cities to the smallest towns. He leaves behind his parents, Eleanor and Steven Smith of Bangor, Maine, his maternal grandparents…
There was a photo. There he was, the face of the beautiful guy she’d had imprinted in her memory for seven years, the features she saw in her son’s face every day.
The unmistakable image of John Smith smiling. June gasped and staggered backward, letting herself find the edge of the chair before her legs gave out. “While I was calling him a user and stalking New York City for him, he was lying dead in a hospital a mile away.” She burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry, June. He didn’t leave you,” Henry whispered. “He was taken from you.”
June cried, wrenching sobs that came from somewhere deep inside her, and when Henry knelt in front of her chair and took her hand, she pulled away from him.
“Why would you even look in the obituaries?” she screamed at him. “This is what you wanted? For him to be dead?” It wasn’t fair of her; she knew it the moment she said it, but all thought went out of her head again. John Smith was dead. He’d been gone all this time.
“No, June,” Henry said, his voice gentle, almost broken. “I looked because there was only one explanation that made sense for why a man would leave you.”
Her heart broke and she ran.
When she got back to the inn and raced upstairs, tears streaming down her face, Isabel was tiptoeing out of Charlie’s room.
“Fast aslee—” Isabel started to say, then stared at June. “What happened? June, what’s wrong?”
She couldn’t speak, could only cry, so Isabel gently shut Charlie’s door, then led her by the hand into their bedroom. The moment the door closed behind them, June slid down against the back of it, sobbing.
Isabel dropped down on
her knees in front of her, pushing away the curls sticking to June’s wet face. “What happened?”
June was still clutching the obituary. She hadn’t even realized it was still in her hand. She thrust it at Isabel, who scanned it and gasped.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Isabel said, then started to cry too and pulled June into a hug.
June grabbed on to her sister, crying so loud she was afraid Charlie would wake up.
CHAPTER 15
Kat
The Italian Bakery looked and smelled magical, as if you’d been transported to Rome and stepped inside a pasticceria. The shop specialized in Italian pastries—cannoli with ricotta cheese, yellow and chocolate cream, dotted with chocolate chips, small pies sprinkled with powdered sugar, cream puffs, lobster tails, and napoleons. Parmesan soda breads, focaccia, long loaves of Italian bread, flatbreads, ciabatta, and jars of homemade olive oils. Kat could stand in the doorway and just breathe in the delicious aromas all day.
The sight of Matteo, in a dark green T-shirt and jeans, sitting at one of the round café tables with a cup of espresso and a small plate of cookies, made her too happy. As she opened the door, the little bell above jangled, and Matteo smiled at her and stood. His father, Alonzo, was behind the counter. He was tall like his son, but heavier set, his dark, thinning hair peppered with gray. “So this is my lovely competition,” Alonzo said as he came around the counter and grasped both of her hands with a smile on his warm face. “It’s my pleasure to meet you and learn from you.”
How kind he was. “I’m honored you think my muffins are good, Mr. Viola. My whole family loves your cannoli. They usually don’t buy baked goods from anyone but me, but for your cannoli and tiramisú, they make exceptions. My young cousin thought he was betraying me by bringing in his dog-walking money to buy one of your cannoli. He raved about it for days.”