A Measure of Happiness

by Lorrie Thomson

  Clearly, Katherine had missed the extra set of experienced hands. That didn’t explain why Celeste’s boss, usually wary of strangers, had turned around and on the spot hired Zach Fitzgerald. The guy was seriously cute, no doubt about that. Probably too cute for his own good, judging by the way he’d first attempted to flirt with Celeste and then succeeded in charming Katherine.

  Katherine didn’t hire strangers without bakery experience and she didn’t charm easily. No doubt about that either. Six years ago, when Katherine was looking to hire, only Celeste’s daily hounding and a two-week nonpaid trial run—Celeste’s suggestion—had beaten out half a dozen other high school students who were hungry for work.

  Three pumpkins climbed the steps to the New Englander’s porch. Small, medium, and large, with the smallest gourd on the top step. Shiny orange bows fastened cornstalks to either post. Red and gold mums overflowed from a half whiskey barrel and completed the façade of domestic bliss.

  Abby was a wiz at staging.

  No one could’ve guessed the innkeeper and owner was a twenty-two-year-old single mom. No one could’ve imagined that Abby had lived through first a pregnancy at eighteen and then having her douche bag boyfriend freak out and take off. No one could’ve been prouder of her than Celeste for surviving.

  Survive first and then figure out how to live. That philosophy had bound Celeste and Abby together since Mrs. Nelson’s first-grade class, where, at recess, they’d caught balls, climbed jungle gyms, and run from the advances of one-sided little-boy crushes.

  Celeste was thrilled her best friend’s business was thriving. Really she was. But that didn’t keep Celeste from wanting Abby all to herself. Celeste would’ve liked nothing better than to kick out Abby’s guests and tell them not to come back until either the storm blew over or Celeste figured out what had happened back in New York.

  She hoisted her duffel onto her shoulder and dragged herself up the steps. The new slate sign next to the front door boosted her resolve: Enter as strangers, leave as friends. That sounded like her Abby.

  Sunshine to Celeste’s snark and cynicism, Abby shared Celeste’s worries, lightened her load. Abby meant popcorn and hot cocoa. The warmth of hand-knit winterberry throws around Celeste’s shoulders. The comfort of home. With Abby, Celeste could tell all or tell nothing. No pressure. Just the comfort of being understood.

  Sure enough, once Celeste was inside the entryway, the warmth hit her full on. The aromas of wood fire and apples filled the air. And something else. Cinnamon sticks simmering in a pot on the stove. That trick Celeste had taught Abby when they were twelve and Saturday nights meant sleepovers at either Celeste’s parents’ loud boy-filled house or Abby’s mother’s quiet only-child girly seaside cottage. Celeste’s lips twitched into a grin.

  Abby, cinnamon sticks, Celeste.

  Celeste shook her head. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to start blubbering in the middle of the bed-and-breakfast and lose the last shreds of her dignity and control.

  Celeste peeked into the den, where a dark-haired mother nursed a pink-swaddled infant and a toddler played quietly on the floor amidst piles of sherbet-colored wooden blocks. Inside the dining room, a few chocolate chip cookies remained for an afternoon snack, and empty sugar packets littered the tea service tray. Two thirtyish-looking women bent over a puzzle. The cinnamon aroma peaked in the kitchen, where Celeste, sure enough, found sticks simmering on the back burner, but no Abby.

  Celeste slipped back into the entryway and jingled Abby’s engraved Ring for service dinner bell. Then, heart thrumming at her throat, she faced the closed pocket door leading to Abby’s private quarters. Like magic, footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Celeste counted backward.

  Ten, nine, eight—

  The door slid open, casters rattling in the metal track, and Abby appeared. Her blond curls were loose around her shoulders, the way she’d worn her hair in high school.

  Abby’s expression went from business-ready to happy-to-see-you to what-the-hell. “Celeste!”

  Just hearing Abby speak her name lifted the edge off Celeste’s troubles, and she allowed herself a full breath. “Got my old job back at Lamontagne’s. Think I could maybe sleep on your couch till I find a place?”

  “Of course.” Abby shook her head. “What are you doing back?” she asked, her tone a mixture of rejoicing and confusion. “What’s going on? What happened?”

  Heat masked Celeste’s face, as if she were standing over a pot of water and boiling bagels. Her temples tingled. “I—I’m not sure.”

  Abby lifted Celeste’s duffel from her shoulder. She ushered Celeste into her apartment and slid the pocket door from the wall.

  Raffi’s “This Little Light of Mine” filtered through Luke’s bedroom door. Celeste might’ve enjoyed the selection if Charlie hadn’t given Luke the CD on one of his few and far between school vacation visits. No sooner would little Luke warm up to his away daddy than Charlie would go away again. Luke’s toys cluttered the living room. A miniature wooden tool bench in one corner and a toy kitchen beneath the window reflected Abby’s ability to play both mother and father for her son. Bright multicolored Lego towers lined the coffee table and spilled onto the equally bright and multicolored braided wool rug. “I missed you and Luke.”

  Abby dropped Celeste’s bag on the couch. “And we missed you.”

  “Sorry I haven’t phoned much.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Abby said, making excuses for the inexcusable. Much meant Celeste hadn’t phoned since August. “Luke and I have been busy, too.”

  Celeste nodded. Of course, running a B&B and raising a son on your own would be a lot for anyone to handle, even Abby. Even with her mother Lily Beth’s help. As far as Celeste was concerned, Lily Beth was a goddess and a godsend. She’d let Abby and Luke live with her until Luke turned three. Then she’d helped Abby figure out her next move. If the roles had been reversed and Celeste had gotten pregnant, her parents would’ve still taken off. Three rowdy sons and one daughter, who was a little unwell, had maxed out her mother’s ability to care. “I should’ve moved in with you to help you take care of Luke.” The hell with guys. Except for little Luke, who needed them? What had they ever done for Celeste?

  Abby barked a laugh. “Instead of following your dream and becoming an even better kick-ass baker?” Abby looked at Celeste sideways and then up and down. “Have you lost weight?” Abby said, but she might as well have asked, Have you lost your mind?

  “Holding steady,” Celeste said, an assertion Abby might’ve bought if Celeste’s voice hadn’t wavered.

  Abby clasped Celeste’s shoulders, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to the center of her forehead. Celeste closed her eyes, inhaled cinnamon and another scent at the tip of her tongue. Something green and fresh and masculine. Another memory just out of her reach. “Ninety-nine,” Abby said. “You’re running a low-grade fever. Sit. I’ll go get you Tylenol.”

  “No!” Celeste said, louder than she’d intended. “I’m not sick. I’m just so, so tired.” Saying the word exhausted her, drained away the smidgen of energy that she’d summoned to drive from Lamontagne’s to Briar Rose. She wanted to sleep, hide inside a blanket, turn off the lights and her jumbled thoughts, and forget that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember having sex with Matt.

  According to Matt, Celeste had been more than memorable.

  Celeste’s stomach convulsed with unshed tears, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle them.

  Abby took Celeste’s hand from her mouth. “Tell me. I’m listening,” Abby said, as if Celeste were the most important person in the world. As if all the lies that had been told about her in high school, years later, hadn’t come true.

  Brittle leaves clung to the branches and rustled in the sea breeze. Celeste zoned to the sound of the waves and her eyelids fluttered. For a split second, she forgot who she was.

  As if she’d ever known.

  “Celeste.” Abby peered into her face. �
��What happened?”

  Celeste focused on Abby. Her anchor. Her port in the storm. Her best friend forever. “I did something really stupid.”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect. Nobody’s perfect,” Abby said, a throwback from when Abby had misunderstood Celeste’s less than ideal coping mechanism.

  Thing was, to Celeste, Abby was perfect.

  “C’mon. What did you do? Burn a cake?”

  “Nobody burns cakes.”

  Abby pantomimed rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “Excuse me. Uh, did you murder someone?”

  Celeste cracked a smile. More like murdered her reputation. “I went to a party with someone Monday night.”

  “With a date?”

  “No, just a guy from school.” Celeste almost added, just a friend, because that’s what Matt had been. Whenever she tried to summon what she’d lost, she resurrected benign memories. She’d helped Matt convert recipes from measurements to weights, and he’d given her tips on photographing her finished products. Angling a croissant so the curves caught the light. Before and after photos—from raw materials to plated pastry—to document your work and detail the process. The all-important backdrop cleanup and arranging the money shot.

  Matt the Rat. A decent photographer, a so-so baker, and a false friend.

  Celeste wiped her eyes with either hand. Time to get real. “I—”

  Luke’s bedroom door burst open, releasing a louder Raffi, now singing “The More We Get Together.” A small but speedy Spider-Man dashed across the room and jumped into Celeste’s arms. “Hey, buddy! I didn’t know it was Halloween.”

  “It’s not!”

  “Then why are you wearing a costume?”

  “I’m not wearing a costume! I am Spider-Man!” Luke beat his fists against his chest, then nestled his nose into Celeste’s neck.

  A sharp tickle sensation hunched Celeste’s shoulder, and she giggled. Luke nestled again, and Celeste rewarded him with a second twitch.

  “Luke, stop,” Abby said.

  Luke lifted his head, growled, and went back in for a tickle.

  “Luke,” Abby repeated, and unlatched him from Celeste’s neck.

  Luke clamped on to Abby’s hip and laid his head on her shoulder. “He’s such a flirt.” Abby sniffed Luke’s head and dropped a kiss into his curls, as if to prove she’d succumbed to said flirting.

  “Like son, like father,” Celeste said.

  Abby’s face did a grin and a cringe, the expression that meant she had something—or someone—to hide. And someone usually meant—

  “Oh, hey, Celeste.” Charlie Connors, aka Luke’s father, aka the douche bag, walked into the living room, wearing worn jeans, threadbare socks, and looking way too comfortable for a scheduled kid visit at his ex-girlfriend’s place.

  Polo. The fresh, green, masculine scent Celeste had been unable to identify. Charlie’s cologne was all over Luke, all over Abby’s living room, and likely all over Abby.

  Nailing the lid on Celeste’s connection, Charlie kissed Abby on the cheek and took Luke from her arms.

  As far as Celeste had heard, neither Hidden Harbor nor hell had frozen over. That could only mean her best friend had lost both her mind and her memory. How many times was she going to give in to her Charlie obsession? How many times was she going to sign up for more disappointment? How many times was she going to let Charlie hurt her? “Oh, holy hell.”

  Luke bounced in Charlie’s arms, all smiles. “You said a bad word!” Luke said.

  “Sorry,” Celeste told Luke, although the apology was meant for Abby.

  “You can put your eyeballs back in your head, Celeste,” Charlie told Celeste.

  “You can return to the rock you cr—”

  Abby shot Celeste a look, jutted her head toward Luke.

  Luke laughed. He held Charlie’s face between his hands and gazed into the eyes that had turned girls into goofballs in high school and probably in college. Despite what Charlie had claimed when he and Abby were going out, he could’ve controlled the girls chasing after him, if he’d wanted to. “Silly Daddy,” Luke said. “Celeste’s eyeballs didn’t fall out.”

  Charlie’s loafers peeked out from under the couch skirt, as though he’d kicked them off as soon as he’d come through the door. An open Sam Adams sat on the coffee table, even though Abby would never crack a beer until Luke was in bed for the night. And, for all his faults, Charlie would never drink and drive. That could only mean he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

  All the evidence had been right in front of Celeste’s face, if she’d cared to take off her blinders and notice.

  “Aren’t you going back to school?” Celeste asked.

  Charlie shot her a triumphant grin. “Yup. First bell’s at seven-twenty.”

  “He graduated UMaine in May,” Abby said, “and he got a job teaching freshman biology at Hidden Harbor High.”

  That made sense, in a weird way, since Charlie was about as mature as the average high school freshman. No offense to high school freshmen. “Tell me he doesn’t live here,” Celeste told Abby.

  Abby smirked and then smoothed her features for deadpan delivery. “He doesn’t live here.”

  “I mean, it’s one thing to screw—”

  Luke’s big blue eyes blinked at Celeste. Abby’s identical blue eyes widened at Celeste. “Luke, honey, do me a favor and go back to your room with Daddy.”

  “I don’t want to go. I want to play with Celeste. She’s pretty and she smells like frosting!”

  “You’ll have plenty of chances to play with Celeste. She’s going to stay with us for a while.”

  Abby ignored Charlie’s eyes popping out of his head.

  For once, Celeste agreed with the douche bag.

  If Celeste woke up on the couch every morning to find Charlie sauntering out of Abby’s bedroom and scratching his crotch, she’d be able to hold neither the contents of her stomach nor her tongue.

  That wouldn’t be a problem, if it weren’t for one beautiful little boy who looked an awful lot like the daddy he adored.

  “Put your eyes back in your head, Charlie. I’m not staying,” Celeste said.

  “Yes, you are,” Abby said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Leave her alone, Abby,” Charlie said. “You heard Celeste. She doesn’t want to stay here.”

  Abby and Celeste glared at Charlie.

  “What?” Charlie looked from Celeste to Abby, his facial expression the equivalent of throwing his arms up in defeat.

  Only Abby cracked a smile. She brushed Charlie’s hair from his eyes and touched Luke’s face. “Can you take Luke—?”

  “Spider-Man!” Luke said.

  “Right. Take Spider-Man,” she said—and Luke nodded—“to his room for a few minutes. I need to talk to Celeste alone.”

  “Sure, babe,” Charlie told Abby. “Good to see you, Celeste,” he said to Celeste, but she was sure he was thinking, Good riddance.

  “Be good to them,” Celeste said. She hoped he heard, Don’t you dare hurt them again.

  “Always,” Charlie said, his voice lowered and serious. Celeste could’ve sworn she saw Good Time Charlie tear up. Then he snapped up his Sam Adams from the coffee table and took Luke to his room. The door clicked shut, muffling Raffi.

  “He’s changed,” Abby said.

  “Because he says so?” Celeste lifted her duffel bag from the couch to her shoulder.

  “What do I have to say to make you stay?” Abby asked, her voice as full of resolve as when she’d said those words to Charlie a little over four years ago, and just as sad.

  It proved Celeste’s point. Staying here would only succeed in bringing Abby down.

  “I gotta go,” Celeste said, pretty much Charlie’s response from years ago. Even though she heard it secondhand, Celeste would never forget the last conversation Abby and Charlie had before he left her the first time. Celeste didn’t care to hear his second-time leaving firsthand.

>   In high school, Abby had never listened to Celeste’s advice about Charlie. Oh, sure, Abby would nod and smile and agree to the Charlie facts. Then, one look from Charlie, and she was gone.

  “Wait!” Abby said. “Let me make some phone calls for you. I’ll see if another B&B has an opening. Something.”

  “Not really in my budget. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Abby said, reminiscent of Celeste’s words to Abby. The first time, when the sight of two bright pink lines had knocked Abby down. The second time, when Charlie’s leaving for college had dragged her under. “Please. Let me help. Stay.”

  Abby had two boys to take care of. She didn’t need to worry about Celeste again. She didn’t need to stress over cutting up Luke’s food, counting Charlie’s empties, and hovering over Celeste’s meals.

  No way in hell Celeste was going back to those days.

  Celeste pulled Abby into a bear hug. Celeste’s heart beat hard and fast, the opposite of the slowed heart rate that earmarked starvation. This time, sleep, not food, was what Celeste’s body craved.

  “Miss you,” Celeste said.

  “I’m right here.”

  “You’re miles away, in Charlie Land.” Celeste slid open the pocket door.

  The young mother from the den stood in the entryway, baby on her shoulder, toddler at her feet, Abby’s Ring for service bell in her hand. The woman flashed Abby a smile. “Great timing! I was wondering whether—”

  “Excuse me,” Celeste whispered, her voice a thread of sound. Abby’s hand on Celeste’s arm, a last attempt to get her to stay. Celeste slipped from Abby, skirted past the mom and kids to the front door. One last backward glance at Abby’s face, torn between Celeste and the rest of the world. Celeste gave Abby a nod and a smile. Then she was gone.

  Celeste wasn’t a gypsy. Yet, two months ago, she’d given up her apartment in Phippsburg, sold most of her possessions, driven to New York, and acted the part. She didn’t recognize her own life, so in an inside-out, backward, this sucks big-time way, renting a furnished apartment in Hidden Harbor made perfect sense.

  A black pleather couch and chair flanked a table made of metal and glass, all the better to peer through the center and view the tribal rug’s black-and-burgundy geometric patterns that reminded her of her dentist’s office. The side table held a cordless phone, one of those jobbies that never worked properly, with a humongous answering machine. And in the bedroom there was a black captain’s bed, too short for her average frame, as though whoever had furnished the apartment couldn’t decide whether the rental demographic was men defending their masculinity or Munchkins.