by Sally John
Sam waited until last, pulled her aside, and spoke in a low voice. “Sorry about the airport surprise.”
“You owe me for that one. Not even a text warning?”
“He can be really persuasive.”
“Tell me about it.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you want to tell me about it?”
Jasmyn smiled.
“You have the Cheshire cat bit down good. We’ll talk later. So, welcome to Liv’s annual madhouse. I’m not staying, by the way.”
“Why not?”
“Randy and his family invited me for dinner.” She tilted her head, right and left. “The homeless crowd makes me nervous. And Beau will be here.”
Sam had not spoken to Beau since she returned. He was back from Hollywood, but she had so far managed to avoid him.
“Sam, you have to talk to him at some point.”
“I will.”
“What are you waiting for?”
Her mouth set in a straight line. The hurt in her eyes was unmistakable. She still had a crush on him.
“Oh, Sammi. I’m sorry.”
“I feel like such an idiot. But…” She smiled. “Other than that, I’m all about being social. Come on. Number Eleven awaits.”
They walked toward the cottage. Liv had texted almost daily about its condition. Many borrowed items were still in place. The hand-me-down couch from Inez. The hand-me-down end tables, lamps, and kitchen table from Chad’s parents’ garage. Inez insisted the rollaway bed stay. Liv insisted her kitchen items stay. Sam donated her television and rocker again for however long Jasmyn might need them.
Jasmyn eyed the grape-purple door with its matching Adirondack chairs and breathed a thanks. She thought of the jasmine plant in the back and offered another thanks. She thought of the furnishings inside, the cream that was probably in the fridge, the calendar she had left on the wall, the Casa friends—those who were the family of her heart—and gave thanks.
She stepped on a thick mat in front of the door.
A thick mat? What happened to the thin rug—
Her name was on it. Small, purple lettering in the upper left-hand corner. The center image was a large bouquet of colorful flowers.
It was the same mat that all the women had in front of their doors. The men’s mats had trees instead of flowers.
“Ohh.”
Sam said, “You’re official now.”
She grinned and pushed open the door, already ajar because Liv had gone ahead with Keagan and the luggage. Jasmyn and Sam walked inside. The sign caught her attention first and she stopped dead in her tracks.
It hung across the arched doorway that separated the living room and kitchen. Welcome Home, Jasmyn! The letters were big and fat and solid purple, surrounded by rainbows and flowers. It looked like Tasha’s handiwork.
The trio caught her eye next. Keagan, Liv, and Chad stood shoulder to shoulder, along the side living room wall, a vacant space that was not vacant now.
As if on cue, they parted and then she saw it. The desk? The desk! The rolltop with all the cubby holes just like her grandmother’s. The one she had cried over in the secondhand shop.
She gasped and started crying again.
Chad said, “Do you like it?”
Sam explained that the day they saw it, Chad had bought it and had it delivered to his parents’ home, where he stored it with their other castoffs. Yesterday he, Keagan, and Beau had moved it into the cottage.
“It was such a steal,” Chad said. “And we all hoped that you would use it someday.”
Jasmyn thought she just might melt into a puddle on the floor.
Eighty-Three
Although Liv told Jasmyn she should rest and not help with the Thanksgiving dinner, Jasmyn jumped in with both feet and both hands.
True, she was exhausted, and yet she was home, in Seaside Village, at the Casa, surrounded by people who cared for her. She even had her first piece of furniture, a desk. How could she rest? She wanted to dance and serve dinner and clean up and hug everyone.
Except maybe for Burt. He stood across from her at the serving table in the courtyard, a small, weathered man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years old. He wore a black stocking cap, grimy blue jeans, and a stained gray sweatshirt several sizes too large, and he loved to tell jokes.
“What time is it when you have to go to the dentist?” He leaned over until she was forced to meet his wide, clear blue eyes. “Think about it. What time is it when you have to go to the dentist?”
She pressed a plate, laden with turkey and all the traditional fixings, into his hand, but he didn’t budge. Apparently he’d rather tell her jokes than eat because this was his fourth one. “I don’t know,” she said and turned her attention to the table.
Large foil pans and four slow-cookers covered the pretty white lace tablecloth. The food was dwindling, but Liv was out on the sidewalk, eager to pull in anyone, homeless or not, who had nowhere else to eat Thanksgiving dinner. Despite overcast skies and a thick mist, Liv’s courtyard dining room remained open with plenty of hot cider, coffee, and pie.
Some of the street people lived regularly in the area, sometimes on park benches, sometimes in a shabby motel. Liv knew them by name because she talked to them often. She knew they would rather stay close than trek out to the centers serving Thanksgiving dinner.
Ignoring Burt didn’t work.
He chuckled. “You’re sure you don’t know? You don’t know what time it is when you have to go to the dentist?”
She gave him her best fake waitress smile, the one she had to pull out now and then for the offbeat customer who got the better of her. Not that she’d ever run across one quite as offbeat as Burt.
Keagan appeared beside the man and put an arm around his shoulders, looking at her. “Really, Jasmyn? You don’t have a clue?”
“No.”
He exchanged a glance with Burt, their jaws dropped in disbelief. Keagan said, “We’d better tell her, Burt.”
They looked at her and in unison said, “Tooth hurty. Get it? Two thirty.”
They laughed and laughed as Keagan steered the man away from the table. “Burt, what do you call it when a martial arts guy gets sick?”
“That’s an easy one, dude. Kung flu!”
They laughed some more and walked across the courtyard to one of the long tables where others sat, obviously enjoying the meal and the company.
Jasmyn organized the remaining food, still amazed at Liv’s ability to put on such an event. She used several of the ovens in the complex to cook dinner for up to forty. Jasmyn had counted thirty-one, not including herself and the few Casa folks.
Many of the residents had helped set up, but, like Sam, had gone to eat dinner elsewhere, except for Piper, who went to work because the mall was open. After seeing Chad in an elegant suit and silver tie—the holiday was a formal affair at his parents’—Jasmyn wondered how Piper could have turned down his invitation to join him.
Beau, Riley, and little Tasha were serving pie now. Coco was eating it along with the other guests.
“Knock, knock.”
Jasmyn jumped at Keagan’s voice from across the table.
“Sorry.” He took a piece of foil out of her hand and wrapped it neatly around the pan of yams. “Work with me here. Knock, knock.”
She rolled her eyes. “Who’s there?”
“Apple.”
“Apple who?”
“Knock, knock.”
She stopped tucking foil around the sliced turkey. “Keagan.”
“Just say, who’s there.”
“No.”
He said, “Okay, I’ll fill in for you. Who’s there? Now I say, apple.”
She ignored him.
“Trust me. It’s a good one. Now you say, apple who?”
“Apple who?”
“Knock, knock.”
“Seriously?”
“Come on. What’s next? You can do it.”
“Will you go away if I an
swer?”
He winked. “You don’t really want me to, do you?”
“I thought you were the strong, silent type.”
“I have my chatty moments.”
She dipped her head to hide a smile. Flirting with Sean Keagan was going to add to the Casa’s attraction. As if she needed anything more.
“I repeat,” he said. “Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Orange.”
“Not apple?”
“No, orange. And you’re changing the script.”
“Okay, okay. Orange who?”
He smiled. “Orange you glad I didn’t say apple?” He took a clean plate from the stack. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No.”
He handed her the plate and took another. “Me neither.” He lifted the foil off the yams.
“We just covered everything.”
“Life is difficult.”
They filled their plates, recovering the food as they went, and sat at an unoccupied patio table nearest the serving table.
“Since the day I met Liv, I thought she was amazing. But this is something else.”
“Reaching out to the needy is her passion, for sure. She grew up wealthy and married a rich man. Somehow, though, she connects to everyone who crosses her path. Burt doesn’t stress her out.” He smiled. “He was pulling your leg, you know.”
“Was he? I’ve waited tables for twenty years, and thought I knew how to handle anyone’s leg-pulling.”
“You probably never served a crowd like this. Did you even have people living on the streets?”
“No. There is poverty and mental illness in Valley Oaks, but nothing like this. The local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars serves holiday meals for people who live alone or can’t afford a turkey.” She picked apart a roll. “It’s a little unnerving to think about this group sleeping outdoors tonight.”
“A few of the men I know actually prefer that.”
“How can they?”
“Unimaginable baggage.” He glanced around. “But our group here…see those two women?” He tilted his head toward a far table. “Liv will ask me to drive them to a shelter. The other two with them are living at the motel until probably next week when their money runs out. They have jobs but don’t make enough to make ends meet. Most of the men, like Burt, sleep at the gym.”
“Your gym?”
“We don’t make a big deal of it. There’s only space for ten and only during inclement weather. It costs us. Upkeep, third-shift employees. Enforcing rules like sobriety is a hassle sometimes. Overall, though, it’s working.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“We do what we can with what we have. Jasmyn, you don’t need to worry about our group here. They’ll be looked after.”
“All right. I guess.”
“Trust me?”
“Probably too much.” The words popped out and she saw his brows go up. “Oops.”
He grinned. “You’re running on fumes and Central Time.”
“I’m discombobulated too.”
He leaned across the table and spoke softly. “And fragile and vulnerable. But you’re in a safe place. You can stop serving everyone else for a while.”
Said the angel-slash-knight.
Despite the unanswerable questions of what was next, despite her exhaustion and discombobulated state, Jasmyn sank into the safety net known as Sean Keagan. He wouldn’t press. Their friendship would grow. She would get through her first post-tornado year before taking on any more major changes.
Falling in love would be easy, but she would take the scenic route this time.
Eighty-Four
Late Thanksgiving night, Sam entered the Casa’s back gate and smelled roast turkey. The heavy air must have trapped the aroma, a leftover from Liv’s afternoon gala in the courtyard.
Guilt tweaked her conscience. Selfless Liv would have set aside leftovers for Sam, despite Sam’s annual avoidance of the annual courtyard turkey dinner. Joining in Liv’s love me, love my homeless friends attitude had never quite taken hold of her.
Sam wondered how Jasmyn had fared with it all. No doubt, just fine. She was cut from the same cloth.
For the first time, Sam had accepted her boss’s invitation to his home for a holiday gathering. The image of him, his wife, their kids, and a host of relatives around the Halls’ Thanksgiving table came to mind. They were all certifiable, in a positive way. Open, honest, giving, teasing, opinionated chatterboxes, real and refreshing.
Sam had—surprise, surprise—enjoyed herself tremendously and even forgave Randy’s wife for the obvious attempt to match her up with a cousin. She might be feeling freer in a lot of ways, but Sam was not about to let herself be attracted romantically. She still smarted from the emotional ambush Beau had created when she wasn’t paying attention.
Nope. No more of that.
She turned the corner at her cottage.
“Psst!”
The sound came from behind her.
“Mildred! Are you there?” Chad called out too loudly. It was not the recommended nighttime courtyard voice, nor was it without a slur or two.
Sam followed the sound of his chuckle and the faint odor of cigar smoke. She found him at the trickling fountain, his feet propped on its side, his body poured into a patio chair.
Beside him, in another patio chair, sat Beau. “I’m sorry, Sam. I told him to hush and let you be.”
She took in the scene. Chad was obviously zoned out. Family holiday gatherings were triggers for him. She saw no telltale glass or glowing cigar stub, though. Beau must have already cleared away the evidence.
“Ah, Mildred. How are you, darling?”
“Better than you, Robert.” She pulled a chair next to his and sat. “Our landlady would not be happy with you right now.”
“Oh, tsk, tsk yourself.” He loosened his tie. “You know, if you weren’t such a nag, I’d love you instead of Piper.”
And if you weren’t so pathetic, she might love you back. Sam bit her lip.
Beau said, “If y’all don’t mind, I’ll go make my granny’s soup. It’s a surefire cure. That is, if either of you have some beef broth and noodles?”
She stared at him. “I don’t cook. Chad cooks even less. Coffee will be fine because that’s probably all we have. Will you help me get him inside?”
Before she could move, Beau had Chad on his feet, his arm around his waist. Chad walked steadily enough. Perhaps he was not as far gone as she feared. She followed them through the shadows, hoping Liv could not hear them.
“Sammi, he called me an embarrassment.”
From Chad’s past confidences, Sam figured he now referred to his father.
“Not merely a ‘disappointment.’ ” He shook his head vigorously. “Not merely a ‘loser.’ You know, those make complete sense. I am obviously a loser and a disappointment. No argument from me. But an embarrassment? He said it with force, Mildred. With force in front of aunts, uncles, and cousins. That’s low, don’t you think?”
Sam ignored the question. Chad could talk the paint off a wall when he was sober. He was worse inebriated and performed monologues with no need of a responsive audience. The good news was he never turned into an ogre.
“Right,” he said. “Don’t talk to the drunk guy. Sammi, I’m not that far gone. I’m just so tired of being the only idiot in the room.”
“I’m an engineer, Chad, not a counselor. Get professional help.” Get a job. Get a life. Maybe she should speak her mind to him. Again.
Beau opened Chad’s cottage door. “She is a wise woman, your Mildred.”
“That she is.” Chad dropped onto the couch. “You ought to hang out with her more.”
Sam hurried into the kitchen to make coffee.
Beau soon joined her. “Does this happen often?”
“He’s been good the past six months or so. He hunkered down, got serious about school, surfed more with some new friends. He even went to summer school.” She filled
the carafe with water. “Family dinners. I don’t know why he goes.”
“Family is family.”
“I beg to disagree.” She poured the water into the coffeemaker and turned it on.
“Separating yourself from them doesn’t heal the wound.”
She faced him, leaned against the counter, and crossed her arms. Facing him was not a good idea. How could she be crazy about the guy and never have noticed how she felt? She looked at the floor. “So what does heal it?”
“Granny Mibs would say prayer.”
“Can you put some feet on that?” She risked a peek and saw him smile crookedly. His face was the kindest she had ever seen. It could be a stand-in for all the old Jesus paintings. Jesus with green eyes and reddish hair.
“Miss Samantha, you are a tough cookie.”
“Yes, I am. But it’s an honest question.”
“Agreed. No, I can’t put feet on prayer or faith or the unseen world. They just are. The key to hitching a ride even on their coattails is to forgive. Forgive ourselves and others. Let it go. Nobody’s perfect.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. His down-filled brown vest rustled. “But if my daddy called me an embarrassment, I’d avoid family dinners.”
Her mother came to mind. “My mom basically does the same thing. I avoid even calling her.”
“What do you think about forgiving her?”
Sam began to say not in this lifetime, but stopped. Her smart comeback tasted sour. What had she discovered in the Midwest? That ancestors’ choices and the situations imposed on them by governments were the warp and woof of her life. She didn’t have a say in the past. Only in what lay before her.
“I’m working on it.”
He grinned and creases all but hid his twinkly eyes. “How was your trip?”
“Great. How was yours?”
“Great.” Now he looked down at the floor.
The coffeemaker chugged along.
Sam gave up. It was too late after a long day to figure out how to forgive Beau for just being himself. He was strong, talented, loveable, a gentleman to everyone, and he paid attention to her. News of his girlfriend aside, what was not to like about him?