by Alexa Davis
Now all I have to do is get Ellie to speak to me for five seconds. The way it’s going so far, though, I have a better shot convincing Jacque to give up his life as a playboy.
* * *
“I’m not talking to you,” Ellie says through the crack in her front door.
“I know I shouldn’t have gone off like Naomi like that, but something’s happened. I need to tell you a few things,” I say. “If you decide you’re done after you’ve heard what I have to say, that’s fine. There’s some stuff I need to get off my chest, and I don’t want to do it through the crack in your doorway.”
“What stuff?” she asks.
“I’ll tell you here if that’s what has to happen,” I tell her, “but I kind of had a whole thing planned out.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she asks.
“It’ll all make sense,” I tell her. “I have to leave for New York in the morning, and I might not come back as CEO. Before anything else happens, though, I need to do this.”
I can hear her sigh through the gap, the brass chain between the door and jamb pulled taut. “What did you have in mind?” she asks.
“We have the dinner we never had that first night I asked you out,” I tell her.
She waits for a beat before answering. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you apologize to Naomi,” she says.
I hope she can’t see me gritting my teeth when I say, “Of course. I think that’s only right.”
The door closes. After the sound of metal sliding on metal, it opens again, this time, all the way.
“She’s in her room,” Ellie says. “She locked herself in there when she looked through the peephole and saw it was you standing there.”
I force a smile. “I’ll knock on her door,” I tell her.
In about twenty minutes, she’ll know why this is so hard for me.
I knock on the door across the hall from Ellie’s.
“What do you want?” Naomi’s voice calls from inside the room.
“Naomi,” I say, “it’s Nick.”
“Go away!” she shouts, and I try to keep my eyes from rolling.
“I’m sorry for speaking to you the way I did,” I call through the door. “It was wrong of me, and I apologize.”
Naomi’s door swings open, and she’s standing there beaming. “You mean it?” she asks. “You’re not just saying that to get back in Ellie’s pants or anything?”
This is one of the many reasons it’s impossible for me to take Naomi seriously.
“I mean it,” I tell her. “I was upset, but that’s no excuse for acting the way I did.”
My upper lip twitches when she pulls me in for a hug, but I go with it.
“Maybe you could make it up to me somehow,” Naomi says, and I look at Ellie.
“Yeah,” Ellie says, “we’re done here. Let me grab my jacket.”
Ellie and I arrive at Carne Celeste and the way the hostess is eyeing me, I’m nervous about what’s going to come with our food. Still, she manages a smile and escorts us to an empty table near the back of the restaurant.
By the time Ellie and I sit, the hostess is halfway back to the front of the restaurant, and suddenly this is all too real.
“Okay,” she says, “we’re here. What did you want to tell me?”
“I’m sorry, would you mind if we just talk for a few minutes?” I ask. “I just need a few moments to build up to it.”
Ellie raises an eyebrow. She says, “Okay, but I hope you know you’re paying for dinner.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say quickly, my throat devoid of moisture. “Of course, I’ve got dinner.”
She cracks a smile. “What do you want to talk about before we can talk about what we’re here to talk about?” she asks.
I make decisions every day that affect a lot of people, but sitting here in this red booth with its splitting vinyl upholstery, I don’t think I can remember my name. I know it has something to do with Rome and the Second Punic War. Maybe we can talk about that.
“Did you know,” I start, “the Roman General Cornelius Scipio was the one who finally defeated Hannibal when it looked like Carthage was poised to conquer the empire?”
How I thought that was a good topic for conversation is beyond me.
“Yeah,” she says. “I took history in high school.”
“Everyone remembers the crossing of the Alps, but most people don’t remember that it was by using Hannibal’s strategy that Scipio was able to defeat the Carthaginian finally,” I continue. Why am I continuing?
Thankfully, the waiter comes over to the table before I have to explain why I’m going through ancient Roman history. Yeah, it’s my last name, but come on, Nick.
“Have you had an opportunity to look at the menus, or do you need a few minutes?” the young, pimpled man with the paper hat says.
“You know,” Ellie says, “I haven’t even had a chance to look at the menu.”
“I’ll have the veggie enchilada with the green sauce,” I tell the waiter. “Could I get that with sour cream on the side instead of on top? Also, a side of black beans instead of refried, if you don’t mind, and maybe some shredded lettuce in a bowl?”
I don’t look at Ellie. That was me testing the waters.
“I’ll have the same,” Ellie says slowly. The waiter walks away, writing, and Ellie leans over the table. “That is what I’ve ordered every time I’ve been in here since I was like five years old,” she says.
“I know,” I tell her.
“What do you mean you know?” she asks.
“This is what I wanted to talk to you about,” I start.
“What, that you’re having me followed? Did you hire a private investigator or did you just bribe someone in town to spill a few of my likes and dislikes?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “I know it the same way I know you never wanted to work at Rory’s Treasures. A long time ago, at least, you wanted to be a teacher, but the way Grant has a stranglehold over the hiring in this town like it’s sixteenth-century Puritan America and everyone wants to be a blacksmith, you always knew it wasn’t going to happen. Still, you’re never going to leave Mulholland because this is where your parents are and where your grandparents are. You like new experiences, maybe more than Naomi, but when it comes right down to it, you’re a sucker for tradition.”
“How do you know all this?” she asks.
“I know it the same way I know you always wanted to have dinner on some exotic beach, that you wanted to drink champagne as the sun set over the water before you’d ever tasted alcohol,” I tell her.
“Stop,” she says.
I continue, “I know it the same way I am aware that in eighth grade, you once—”
“I said stop!” Ellie shouts as her fist comes down hard on the table. Her hands go up to her face and then she’s getting out of her chair.
“Ellie, please,” I say, getting up from the booth to follow her. “Just let me explain.”
She’s out of here so fast I can’t tell her how when I was in eighth grade, I was sick of moving from town to town only to be picked on by a revolving cast of assholes. I can’t tell her that when I was at my lowest, that when I about to end it all before my life had even begun, that she’s who saved me even though we’d never had a conversation before that day
She’s out of here so fast I can’t tell her how she saved my life or how, if it weren’t for her, I never would have had the motivation to work as hard as I did to get as far as I’ve gotten.
I don’t get the chance to tell her that I am where I am, the good parts at least, because of those two weeks back in the eighth grade when she became the first friend I ever had. I wish I could have at least told her how gutting it was when my dad came home with new orders and why I had to leave before she could have known how completely she changed everything.
So I don’t wait for the morning. If she hasn’t figured out exactly who I am yet, she will soon enough. Maybe she’ll call, but probably she won’t. If I
’d told her at the start, it might have been different.
All I know is when I get on the plane, I’m not thinking about my company.
Chapter Fifteen
To Inflict
Ellie
I had to go out of town to find new inventory, but with the glass back over the front of the store, the place doesn’t look half bad. I’m down to $500, or I’d have the floors replaced. I suppose we all have our scars.
Nick had a good story, I’m sure, if only I’d let him tell it. The second he started going off about all this stuff he knew about me, though, I knew I’d been right at the outset. Whether he got all that out of Naomi or he hired someone to look into my past, it doesn’t matter.
I don’t blame him. I knew what I was getting myself into when I changed my no to a yes. I didn’t know he’d turn out to be creepy stalker guy, but I figured a guy like him has to have some secrets.
The funny thing is, there’s still that part of me that kind of wanted to hear him out. I can’t imagine what he could have told me that would have set my mind at ease for longer than two seconds, but it seemed like he’d put a lot of work into whatever line he was going to sell me.
Call it respect for fiction. Maybe it was almost a comfortable life, but bad things follow Nick, and I don’t do secrets.
I’m winning the battle against asking myself what Nick would have to gain by outing himself like that when the door to the shop blows open again. I get up and walk around the counter to close it up once more.
Since the fine citizenry took it upon themselves to destroy my store, the door never quite latches without the deadbolt. With the deadbolt in place, what’s the point of having a store?
Something strange happens, though. I’m about halfway from the counter to the door when I see a hand and then and arm and then the whole body of Mrs. Taber. She smiles when she sees me.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hello,” I reflect, monotone.
“Are you all right, dear?” she asks. “You look a little peaked.”
“I’m all right,” I answer, snapping myself out of it. I don’t know how to explain to her I didn’t expect anyone to come back into the shop in at least another week. Honestly, I was content enough to stop getting angry letters in the mail. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Go ahead and have a look around. Let me know if you have any questions or you need help with anything.”
“Actually,” she says, “I was wondering if you had any more of those King Louis armoires come in. I went to Wal-Mart, and you were right, yours was different.”
Having gone searching for hidden (and reasonably priced) treasures for the first time, I asked a few questions, and when I did, I learned quite a bit. For instance, I found out that the Louis XV-style double-mirrored armoire we had in the shop, while pretty, was a reproduction that was made and then almost immediately discontinued eight years ago.
The thing wasn’t an antique. Whoever owned it first just beat the hell out of it.
Going through the files on Troy’s computer, I also learned just how much his out-of-town buys—which were always our most expensive pieces—actually cost. He got his crap just as cheap as I bought my crap on the rare occasion someone in town wanted to get rid of something.
It was sad, because nobody ever bought the most expensive pieces anyway. Mostly what happened is someone would bring in a dresser and someone else in town would come and pick it up. The limited business we did have came from a few fifty dollar pieces a week, and a whole lot of ten dollar sales exchanged between neighbors. I never sold anything over a hundred dollars until that day the town decided to swallow my life.
“Ellie?” Mrs. Taber says.
“Yeah,” I say. “We do have a Louis XV armoire. It’s a reproduction, but I think you’ll find it much more to your liking.”
“Do you price match?” the old woman asks, reaching into her purse and pulling out an ad from the local paper.
“If the price isn’t already lower than what’s advertised, of course, I’ll match the price for you,” I answer.
She seems surprised. Part of it is that I feel guilty knowing how much people paid for all those castoffs. I didn’t know any better, but I never tried too hard to find out, either.
The way they made me the focus of their every emotion makes it so I don’t feel guilty enough to try to pay them back the difference over time, but the least I can do is come to terms with what and who I am. I am Eleanor (Ellie) Shaye Michaels. I am the queen of the town’s junk store, and I’m going to start selling things for what they’re worth, damn it.
To the locals, that is. People from out of town can pay a bit higher markup. Maybe it sounds underhanded, but it’s the only way I can ease my conscience with locals and still afford to feed and house my sister.
Mrs. Taber heads off to look at what I’ve managed to put together, and I sit back behind the counter. The old woman doesn’t buy anything, but as she’s on her way out of the shop, she stops in front of me, saying, “I’m glad to see everything’s much more affordable now. I know what people have been saying about you, but I want you to know I never believed it.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Out of curiosity, what have people been saying about me?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, dear,” she says.
“No, it’s fine,” I smile. “If nothing else, it’ll be good to know the specifics about why everyone hates me as much as they do.”
She purses her lips. “Please don’t be mad,” she says. “This isn’t how I feel. It’s just what I heard.”
“I won’t be mad at you,” I tell her. “I’m just curious to know what they’ve been saying about me.”
Ten bucks say none of it’s true.
“Well,” Mrs. Taber starts, “I suppose there have been a lot of things said. The most common things I’ve heard, though, have been about how when that wealthy gentleman came to town, he was planning on hiring the townspeople for the new building, but you convinced him not to do it.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I figured,” I say. “By the way, it’s not true. I never gave Nick business advice, and even if I did, it wouldn’t have been against Mulholland.”
If I had that kind of opportunity now, though, I’d probably do what they’ve been saying for spite.
“Oh, it can’t be right, dear,” she says. “Even when I heard it from your sister’s mouth, I knew it wasn’t true.”
“What?” I ask.
“Like I said, I wouldn’t worry about it, dear,” she says.
“You say my sister told you all this?” I ask.
Mrs. Taber shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I heard most of the rumors from my neighbor, Joyce. She and I trade gardening secrets. I did hear your sister telling a few people about it when I was out for my afternoon at Bert’s Café.”
I take a slow breath. “Well, thank you for coming in, Mrs. Taber,” I say, my cheeks already hurting from my forced smile.
“Of course, dear,” she says and exits the store. I don’t wait for the old woman to get past the front of my store before I’m grabbing the keys and locking up shop.
From the beginning, I blamed Nick for the way the townspeople have been treating me, glaring at me, leaving me dead pigeons on my doorstep …
After I lock up the store, I start walking. Pulling out my phone, I send Naomi a text, telling her there’s something I want to talk to her about and I need to know where I can meet her.
She doesn’t respond.
Whether she knows what I want to talk about and she’s taking the cowardly route, or she’s nowhere near her phone, I bet I know where I can find her.
Walking up to Bert’s Café, I spot Naomi around the same stupid group of friends she had in high school. They only ever meet at Bert’s, and only ever for lunch, but week in and week out, this is where Naomi goes for her social hour when she should be working.
As soon as she glances up, noticing me, I can see her mouthing the words, “Uh-oh.”
�
�Stand up,” I tell her as I get to the table.
She looks up at me with those doe eyes, saying, “What’s the matter? You seem upset.”
“Have you been spreading lies about me around town?” I ask.
“No,” she says. She glances at her friends and then back at me.
I ask, “Oh, so you never said I’m the reason Nick hasn’t hired anybody in town?”
“I knew you’d just freak out about this like you freak out about everything else,” she says.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” I ask. “I blamed Nick for the way people around here act toward me since he and I first started dating.”
“I don’t know what he ever saw in you anyway,” Naomi answers in a deceptively cheerful voice. “I was the homecoming queen. I was the one voted ‘most likely to be a fashion model if she ever leaves Mulholland.’ Still, a billionaire businessman comes to town for the first time in, I don’t know, ever, and you’re the one he spots through the window.”
“So that’s what it is then?” I ask. “It’s jealousy?”
“Oh please,” Naomi says. “Should I be jealous of the fact you sit behind a counter all day and never sell anything or should I be jealous that when you won the dating lottery, you couldn’t keep it together?”
“Really?” I ask. “You’re doing this?”
“Doing what?” she smirks.
That superior look goes away rather quickly when my fist crashes into her cheekbone.
“Ow,” I say, clutching my hand as Naomi staggers to keep her balance. “Ow.”
I don’t know what kind of response I was expecting, but I’m hardly prepared when Naomi punches back. Half a second later, everything around me is blurry, and I’m just trying to land more blows than Naomi.
It’s funny, I always had her pegged as a slapper, but when the dumb beast wants to, she can pack a wallop.