by Drea Stein
Colleen sat up. The secret to surviving late nights and early mornings was regular Pilates and plenty of water the night before. She didn’t believe in sampling the wares while she was working, so at least she was only tired, not hungover. Tiredness could be cured by a strong cup of coffee. And sleep. Someday she would sleep again, on a regular schedule.
“I think he needs to go see the doctor. You know, the special doctor, the whatchamacallit, the wet,” Adele said.
It took a moment for Colleen to process what her daughter had said. “The wet? Oh you mean the vet. It’s short for veterinarian. The kind of doctor who takes care of animals,” Colleen said, but didn’t bother to mention that the vet was only for real animals. Adele was four going on forty, and Colleen treasured the moments when she still sounded like a little girl.
Adele’s forehead pinched together in concentration, then she nodded in comprehension as she processed the new word. Her daughter knew both French and English, but since they had moved back to Queensbay, Colleen had used English more and more with her daughter. Still, some words, like “veterinarian,” were tricky. She knew that focusing on English wasn’t very sophisticated, but she didn’t care. A new town meant a new language. Adele could learn French again if she wanted.
“So Bunny should go see the vet,” Adele said, enunciating the word clearly and emphatically.
Colleen pushed herself up. There was no going back to sleep, at least not until later tonight. She was off from the pub tonight, thank goodness, which meant that she could, if she wanted, go to bed when Adele did.
She held out her arms, and Adele crawled into them. Colleen hugged her little girl and felt the warm sun on their faces. Adele curled into her, a warm, cuddly ball of love. This, she thought, this was why she had done what she did, why she was doing what she was doing now. These sweet, unsullied, uninterrupted moments with her daughter as just the two of them made a life for themselves, without waiting for anyone else.
“The vet is only for real animals. I think we can take care of Bunny just fine by ourselves.”
Adele squirmed around, and Colleen leaned down and touched her nose against her daughter’s, slightly snubbed, freckled one. Adele smelled like strawberry jam.
“Did you already have breakfast?”
Adele nodded. “Grammy made it. Now she’s gone to bed.”
Colleen’s mother often worked the night shift as a nurse in the hospital and was a natural night owl, and even when she wasn’t at work, still kept to a graveyard shift schedule, rattling around the house, drinking herbal tea and watching cop shows on TV, then sleeping during the first part of the day.
“Bunny is real,” Adele insisted, not to be deterred. Colleen admired her daughter’s determination, while she hugged her closer and thought for a moment about how best to answer.
“He’s real to you and to me, of course, but I don’t think he would be real to the vet,” she said. “I am sure if we give Bunny lots of hugs and kisses, he’ll be just fine.”
“If we had a real dog we could bring him to the vet.”
So this was where Adele’s thoughts were heading, Colleen realized. Adele had wanted a dog for a long time, stopping ones on the street to give hugs and pet them. Olivier had said something about getting a dog once, something Adele had not forgotten. To her, he was just an uncle, a friend of her mother’s, but sometimes Colleen wondered if Adele knew the truth. Colleen sighed. The last thing they needed in their life was a dog. Adele had been through so many disappointments that this was one promise Colleen intended to keep, but not today.
“And I told you, someday, not too far from now, we can get a dog.”
Adele gave her a look that was both imploring and reproachful. The real question, and Adele knew it, was when. Colleen sighed. How did she tell a five year old that she couldn’t put a date on getting her crap together, that these things, even though Colleen had a plan, took time? More time than seemed reasonable to a little girl; that much was obvious. It would all work out in the end. Colleen would make sure of it. All that crap about the journey being the most important part was just that, crap. Right now, she would have been happy to snap her fingers and get to the destination.
“Soon, honey, soon,” was all she could answer, and for the moment Adele seemed assured by it, or maybe it was Colleen’s rhythmic stroking of her hair that reassured her. She asked no more questions, just burrowed more closely into Colleen.
Colleen let the moment linger, loving the warmth of her daughter sinking into her, ignoring the cracked plaster in the corner of the small room that had been her childhood bedroom, ignoring the fact that it hadn’t changed in years, ignoring the fact that it needed new paint and that the window pane had a hairline fracture in it, shutting everything out but the small, warm little body that was curled up against her.
Soon, a small voice told her. Soon things would get better, more stable. She had a plan, a big one, but she was convinced that it could work. She would make a life here. Adele would grow up in a small town, safe, loved, and stable. She would be able to give Adele everything she’d never had. Their life before, in Paris, would fade, even as Olivier and the pain of his not being around would fade. She couldn’t afford and had no time for pity, and she couldn’t let Adele see her as anything less than strong and assured that the future was going to be better. Colleen wanted to pretend, to imagine for herself what their life would look like, and because she wanted to force herself to keep a promise, she asked, “What would you name this dog of yours?”
Chapter 5
“What are you up to?” her mother asked when she wandered into the kitchen, a bathrobe tucked tight around her, her eyes red rimmed, and her hair messy from her mid-morning nap. The tone in her voice reminded Colleen of her teenage years.
Colleen shut down the cover of her laptop out of habit. She’d been looking at paint colors, trying to decide between cloud white, snow white, and something called vanilla bean. Vanilla bean was slightly creamy, slightly warmer, and she was pretty sure that would be her choice. Of course what she had really been doing was trying not to think about Jake Owen. Either way, she was antsy and distracted.
“Just some email,” Colleen said.
Her mother shot her a look as she made a beeline for the coffee machine. “What are you really doing?” Her mother’s voice was gravelly, a holdover from the years she had smoked. She had quit, along with the drinking, quite a while back, but Maura McShane had a roughhewn edge that clean living wouldn’t ever quite undo. Her mother poured a cup of lukewarm coffee, took a sip black, and frowned in disgust.
“I’ll make you a new pot,” Colleen offered and pushed up to get started. She didn’t want to discuss her plans with her mother.
Her mother waved her away. “Not if it means you’re going to grind the beans, then get out that fancy schmancy pot of yours. I’ll just stick it in the microwave.”
It was Colleen’s turn to make a face. Her mother was talking about the French press and coffee grinder she had brought with her from Paris. Every morning Maura watched Colleen make a pot of freshly brewed coffee with barely disguised irritation. It was all too fussy for her.
“Nothing wrong with coffee from a machine,” her mother answered.
“But the way I make it is so much better,” Colleen protested.
“To you, maybe,” her mother said, putting the coffee in the microwave.
“I hardly think I’m the only one.”
“Nope, I’m sure you’re not.”
Maura jabbed the panel on the microwave, which was old like everything else in the house and on its last legs. She had to apply an inappropriate amount of force to the start button before anything resembling reheating would begin.
“So,” her mom said and looked around while the microwave gave off a hum as loud as a jet engine behind her, “were you running another one of your cost models? Working on a blog post?”
“What?” Colleen couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
“Paint�
��s cheap enough, I suppose,” Maura grunted and turned as the microwave beeped, surveying the rest of the kitchen.
“And, I suppose we can—what do you call it—repurpose the cabinets. I don’t have any money for anything new.”
“Sure. We can repurpose the cabinets,” Colleen agreed, surprised that her mother knew the meaning of the word.
“Maybe,” her mother said, taking another sip of her coffee and rolling it around in her mouth before she swallowed it, “we can get a tax break.”
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t we write off the supplies if you put it on your blog? It’s your business, right?”
“What?” Colleen asked; the conversation was obviously moving too fast, and she reached for the coffee. She definitely needed some more caffeine.
“You know,” Maura said, “your blog and that book. I thought it was all part of your career back in Paris, part of running that shop there. Isn’t the bartending supposed to be a temporary gig? The hours suck, but I suppose the tips are good. I heard Joan at the Garden Cottage is looking for some part-time help. Maybe you should walk on over and give her your resume.” Her mother paused, then said, “I also sent for some catalogs from the community college. They have a good nursing program. I should know. The hours suck at first, but they get better. And benefits,” she said and shrugged. “Pretty sure Quent doesn’t give you those. Of course, if you just sold the building, then I don’t think you’d have to worry about any of it.”
Colleen sighed. They’d been over most of this before. Her mother was just trying to help, she knew, and she didn’t want Colleen to take on any more risk than she had to. Her mother had been dropping hints about nursing school or network administrator courses since she moved back to Queensbay. Her mother had her best interests at heart, but Colleen had a plan that went in an entirely different direction. And her mother thought she was crazy.
It was a big step forward, something she had dreamed of doing, but now she had finally been forced into the reality of it. Maura wasn’t a fan of taking risks, sticking her neck out. She would probably quote the statistics that four out of five businesses failed within five years. Colleen didn’t need any more self-doubt. She had plenty of that to spread around.
“Some,” Colleen admitted. The blog had started out in college as a way to document her hobby of taking second hand furniture and refinishing it. Before she’d known, though, it had grown from a hobby into a business selling furniture and taking on design clients. Finally she’d garnered a big enough fan base that a publisher had offered her a chance to write a book, a nice, glossy hardcover book. She’d poured her blood, sweat, and tears into the book. It was good, but it hadn’t quite made her into a household name. Still, it was a start, a foundation, and Colleen was determined to build on it.
“Well then, there you go,” her mother said. “See if you can expense the paint, and then we can go shopping.” Her mother laughed, and a spark of humor danced in her eyes. Colleen knew her mother was trying to distract her, figuring if they started on a project like the kitchen, then maybe Colleen wouldn’t go forward with what she had in mind.
Colleen had to give her credit. Caffeine worked just as expected on her mother, turning her into something resembling a pleasant human being. To her credit, Maura knew this and did her best to stay away from the public until she’d had at least two cups.
“I didn’t know you knew so much about the business of blogs.”
“Or that you had one?” Maura said pointedly, eyebrows raised and looking at Colleen steadily. “Don’t you think I’ve been paying attention all these years?”
Colleen shrugged, not knowing what to say. The messy, complicated truth was that she had hoped her mother was paying attention but also had wanted to be as far away from her mother and all Maura McShane represented as possible.
“I read your blog. How else would I find out how to make lavender lemonade?”
Colleen narrowed her eyes. “You never made lemonade unless it came out of a plastic barrel.”
Her mother snorted and said, “True. I still like looking at the pictures.”
Colleen frowned. “I think that’s the only thing people like to do.”
“You always have quite a few comments and lots of likes on social media,” Maura said, and Colleen knew that her mother meant these things encouragingly. “Apparently that’s how you know you’re an influencer, right? And you’re a good writer, too.”
“I didn’t know you read the book.”
“What kind of mother do you think I am?” Maura asked in a voice laced with testiness.
“I mean of course you did,” Colleen backpedaled hastily.
“I did get it from the library.”
There was a silence while Maura looked out serenely over the rim of her coffee cup. Then she laughed. “I’m just kidding, you know. I bought a copy and one for the library too.”
It was Colleen’s turn to laugh. “Well, I guess that accounts for fifty percent of my sales.” She had gotten the book deal after her blog had been successful. She had worked for months on the book, assembling her best recipes, tips, and photographs for living a La Belle Vie, A Good Life, the French way. Olivier had been proud enough of her, insisting on displaying the book in the store, where it helped to promote the design side of his business, not her own.
“Just remember, I was here, right where I’ve been all these years,” Maura said as she drained her cup. “I never wanted anything but the best for you, all mothers do. At least all the decent ones do. I know that maybe you didn’t think I did right by you, but I did my best. The best I could at the time.” Her mother smiled softly.
Colleen nodded. Her mother had done her best, but Colleen hadn’t thought it was good enough. Now as a mother herself, she could recognize that her mother had done more than she credited to her. There had been a roof over her head, food on the table, and if the lemonade had come from a plastic barrel with nary a hint of lavender in it, then so be it. So what if her mother hadn’t asked if she was doing extra credit or taken her on college tours or hired an advisor on how to fill out financial aid requests? Colleen had learned to figure all of that on her own.
Her mother had done what she could to the best of her abilities and had said nothing when Colleen had asked to come home, except to say, “It’s your house too, Grandma left it to the both of us.”
And so now Colleen took a deep breath, and said, with wisdom from life experience and now being a mother herself. “I know you did, Mom.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes, now I do,” Colleen said and held her mother’s gaze, and Maura nodded. Colleen couldn’t quite help but notice the slight glittering in her mother’s eye as she gave a snort and tightened the belt of her robe.
“No, you don’t, not really. Not even close, but you will someday, now that you’re a mother. Of course, Adele will probably have to break your heart by going to live in Timbuktu or something like that before you’ll learn, but that’s the way it is.”
“You have to get knocked down before you can get back up again,” Colleen said. It had been one of her mother’s sayings, long ago, when life seemed to be knocking them about every damn day.
“Something like that. I never could tell you anything. Always wanted to find out for yourself, certain you could do it on your own.”
“And look where I am now.”
“There are worse places. You have a roof over your head, you have got a sound mind and able body. You’re not afraid of hard work, I’ll give you that. And, you’ve got Adele, who’s the sweetest thing ever.”
“Must come from a different side of the family,” Colleen said and smiled.
“Oh that’s for sure,” Maura agreed, then her voice softened, and she said, “It’s just a rough patch, Colleen, just make sure you don’t let it get you down. You won’t, because you’re stronger than I ever was. Always knew it, even when it broke my heart to know it. Just be careful. Don’t try to run before you’re ready to walk
.”
“Thanks, Mama,” Colleen said, and she knew that her mother was really thinking of her. Her mother would think she was just being realistic, by telling her not to dream.
“Well, enough of that,” her mother said briskly as she pulled herself up from her chair. “See if you can do something about the linoleum floor while you’re at it.”
“What’s my budget?”
“A night’s worth of tips. See, that would be a good blog challenge, kitchen redo on bar tab budget.”
Colleen laughed as her mother left the room.
“I’m serious, you know,” Maura called from the other room. “Bet it would be way more popular than lavender lemonade.”
Colleen let her laughter die and looked around the room. The house was from Queensbay’s Victorian era. It had been in her mother’s family forever, built by one of her ancestors who’d been a carpenter in the shipyards. The workmanship showed, even though everything was tired and a little rundown. Nothing a few simple repairs and paint couldn’t fix. Maybe, just maybe, her mother was onto something, Colleen thought as she pulled her computer toward her.
Chapter 6
“You are about to experience some upheaval.”
Jake almost did a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn when he saw what was going on in the break room, but he reacted too late. Madame Robireux, Queensbay’s only psychic, had already seen him.
“And you, Mr. Jake, you must come in, come in. I am reading tea leaves. I will read yours.” Her voice was heavy with an accent of some indeterminate Eastern European nation.
Madame, as she insisted on being called, looked the part of the psychic. She channeled her supposed Gypsy origins into a modern-day interpretation that ran to long flowing skirts, peasant-necked blouses, and a scarf wrapped in her wild, brown-gray curls. She was draped in beaded necklaces. Jake was pretty sure she had rings on her fingers and toes.