Sidetracked

by Lola Karns

  “Not if you want me to stay open after you get out of work, Walter!”

  He cringed at the volume and again when roar came up from the corner.

  She had nice lips too. Uh-oh. She caught him staring. She met his gaze in the screen. She turned her head to look him in the eyes. Something unreadable flashed in her green eyes and her lips turned to a smirk.

  “Sorry for this. I’ll be out of your way in a minute, I swear. If I get any closer to the Old Men Club, I’ll be trapped and frankly I’m desperate for a nap.”

  He was about to ask her where she came from, what she did for fun and her name, but she turned away before he had a chance to open his mouth. She rummaged in her pockets. He tried to read the paper, but her movement distracted him. He caught a glimpse of hot pink undies peeking out from the back of her pants. Nice. He liked pink on a woman. The illicit peek reminded him of what else he was missing in Belkin. His cousin got to stay close to home, enjoying his normal pursuits, but he hadn’t met a single eligible woman who wasn’t his employee, other than Jo. She was friendly enough, but all too often, her crossed arms read back-off. He didn’t need the distraction of a relationship, and Jo’s worry lines looked like someone who avoided a good time. He didn’t need drama, but he could use a little stress relief. This stranger gave him hope. She seemed...fun.

  Her hair bounced as she sat up, producing an item in each hand. From the shelter of his propped-up tablet, he watched as she put two items on the counter, both in colorful packaging.

  “While I’m waiting, and before I fall asleep for the next day and a half, I brought something for Kevin.” She yawned her words.

  Who’s Kevin?

  “How long have you been up?”

  “Let’s see. I had to pack up and be out of the rental at noon, so, about twenty-three hours. I hate when projects run over time.”

  “Me too. What is that?” A small, crumpled bag appeared on the counter.

  “I told you, it’s for Kevin.”

  “Why don’t you save it for when you see him?”

  “Nah, you’re his mom. I wanted you to approve it first. Besides, I’m not sure if I’ll see him before I head back out.”

  So, Jo had a son. She probably had a husband or boyfriend somewhere too. No wonder she seemed exhausted and a little reserved behind her smile.

  He couldn’t see what was in the small bag, but as the blonde slid her arm back, she bumped him. “Sorry, again. I promise I’ll be out of your way soon.”

  “No pr—” He turned toward her, hoping to get a good look at her face, but she’d already turned. Enough of her hair had worked loose that a wave of pale blue shielded her eyes.

  “He’ll love the model. His dexterity’s improved since” Jo jerked her head toward him in a movement so small he wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t trying so hard to see what was going on. “Well, you know.”

  No, he didn’t. In the city, he could have asked near strangers conversing over him what they were talking about since they had acknowledged him and it wouldn’t be rude. But here? Midwesterners were so uptight about being interrupted.

  “I wasn’t sure about the candy, especially with that trial he’s in—that’s why I wanted you to look first.”

  “It looks fine. He doesn’t have dietary restrictions, unlike that last one.”

  He glanced up and caught a sight of Jo’s smile.

  “Let me top that off.” His coffee cup was three-quarters empty and likely had cooled to room temperature, which did nothing to enhance the quality. He’d forgotten all about it once the newcomer arrived.

  “You are going to love the new therapist. He’s so good with Kevin—”

  “Cute?”

  The coffee burned his throat. If she wanted that info, she must be single, maybe looking.

  “Josephine Hirshorn,” The voice came from beside him, “I dare say you’re blushing.”

  He glanced up to see his waitress’s reddened face and neck. The beautiful stranger beside him laughed with abandon. He might not understand the joke, but her laughter brightened his day while simultaneously punching him in the gut. He adapted to the relative lack of traffic noise, but nothing in this two-bit town replaced the hubbub generated by thousands and thousands of people laughing, talking and shouting. She possessed a joyful laugh, the kind that made him wish he had a reason to join in. But he didn’t. Few moments in life merited more than a scoff, anyway.

  “I said you will love him. Anyway, I’m way too busy.”

  “Excuses, excuses. I’ve got ’em too, but sometimes, you need a little distraction.” Her hand brushed against his arm, a feather light touch that would have gone unnoticed in urban jostling, but here was a moment of vitality, a confirmation of existence. “Sorry. Again. That’s three times now. We should be done.”

  “It’s all right.” He mumbled. Midwesterners and their apologies. “Why three?”

  She tucked her stray hair behind her ear and turned to him. Green. Her eyes were green, mostly. He wasn’t sure because they shifted each time she blinked. “Something my grandma always said. Bad things happen in threes, broken dishes, apologies, speeding tickets.”

  “Number four’s up.” The disembodied voice came from the cook in the back.

  “Your breakfast, madam.” Jo said as she set the to-go container on the counter.

  “Thanks. I’m starving. If I can’t get over to your house tomorrow, then it probably won’t be until the weekend. I’ll bring Kevin’s big present and something for you.”

  “You didn’t have to”—

  “I did.” She yawned.

  “Get some sleep, Claire. Drive safe through town – the police got a new speed gun toy—and call me later—but only when the sun is shining. Some of us sleep when it’s dark.”

  “Will do.” She saluted. In the reflection of his tablet, he saw her smile. Her gaze dipped to his screen. One side of her mouth ticked a little higher. Definitely fun.

  She slipped out, brushing him once again on her way out.

  “I’m not apologizing for that one or else I’ll start my three’s all over again and we’ll be stuck here all day.”

  “Can’t have that.” He smirked, but she’d already turned her focus elsewhere. She waved to the men in the corner, pausing as she got to the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. You guys better get your applications for seasonal employment in order. If those layoff rumors are true, and if you wait too long, I’ll have plenty of young muscle to choose from.”

  The old guys guffawed, but he couldn’t help but wonder who was this Claire woman, why did she know about the layoffs, and why did she want young muscle?

  Chapter 2

  The comfortable daybed had welcomed Claire Evans into an immediate embrace. The incessant honking of a car horn mere feet from her head did not. Dust danced in the sunbeam falling onto the clock. Six twenty-two p.m. She closed her eyes, rolled to a seated position and took in a deep gulp of air. The honking continued. Jo would have called. She swung her feet to the floor and opened the side door to her office-slash-garage-slash-apartment. An old man with a cigar leaned out of the open car window of an econobox on wheels, scowling and honking the horn.

  “Walter.” Of course.

  “Hey, kid.” As long as she could remember, Walter sounded like he’d eaten a bowl of broken glass and gravel. “Sandy’s fixing dinner in the kitchen. It’ll be ready any minute. Why are you sleeping out here?”

  “I missed my little carriage house studio. Do I have time to get ready?”

  “No. Food will be on the table in,” he looked at his watch, “four minutes.”

  Claire didn’t want to go in the big house. Not yet. She glanced around the back yard. The picnic table sat in dappled sunlight.

  “Think she’d let us eat outside? The air is so pleasant tonight. Please?”

  Walter stubbed out the cigar. “I’ll ask. You change out of that grubby shirt. Is that mayo? Tuna? Whatever it is, Sandy won’t like it. I’d tell you to showe
r up but there’s no time for that.”

  Claire suppressed a smile as she reentered her space. She pulled a few t-shirts from her suitcase until she found one that passed the sniff test and used a facial cleaning wipe to freshen up. Laundry would have to be on tonight’s agenda. She hustled out the door in time to see Sandy carrying a casserole dish down the steps.

  “Let me get that.”

  “You don’t have oven mitts. Sit. Relax—well, until time to do the dishes. I cooked, so you can take care of those.”

  Soon a plate piled high with noodles, tomatoes, beef, and cheese appeared before her. The unappealing mess was not Instagram worthy, but eating a meal where no one photographed the food was refreshing.

  “What’s your plan, Claire-bear?”

  “Finish work for the Dayton job because it’s a quickie, open the store a few days a week so people can pick up orders, get the house decorated and then undecorated for Halloween, and naturally the train display.”

  “I think he means after that.”

  She looked at Sandy, who stared back at her with the same curious expression and tilted head Claire remembered from her kindergarten days.

  “I have a few short-term contracts in February, March and May. Actually – I have to double check March. And then?” She shrugged. “We didn’t set up other contracts before... He handled all the business, kept my calendar and schedule organized.” She didn’t want to think about the future. Anything beyond the Christmas display was hard to contemplate.

  Across from her, Walter and Sandy joined hands and shared the sort of non-verbal communication that came with fifty-some years of marriage.

  “Clem is gone and he’s not coming back. You need to think about what you’ll do. Maybe the Smithsonian is still looking. You could have a regular schedule. Or maybe you can get a business manager or a full-time agent to set your contracts and schedule.”

  “But don’t stay here and limit yourself out of some obligation.” Sandy shook her silver streaked bob.

  “But the holiday trains. I promised.”

  Sandy stretched a hand across the picnic table. Walter rubbed his free hand over his wild eyebrows. They were pulling the parent routine. And Clem wasn’t here to save her from their concerned meddling.

  “Look, Kiddo, some New York yahoos are mucking with Adena. I’m meeting with the guy tomorrow for a departmental review.” The way Walter intoned those last words let her know exactly how little he thought of the idea.

  “So?”

  “The company hasn’t been doing well.” His voice grew quieter. “For the last five years, rumors have been flying about the company being sold off for parts or closed. We did some restructuring a while back and bought some time, but this new management crew actually owns a stake.”

  “I thought Adena was public. Lots of people own stakes.”

  “But most are individual people who own a handful of shares. Not private equity firms. Some people have already been fired. I’m not sure there will be an Adena come December.”

  “Walter, if you need a job—”

  “Pshaw. I’m a year from retirement. I’ll be offered a buy out.”

  “Then you can take over the store.”

  His harrumph turned into a phlegmy cough. “I can retire happy. Sandy and I can take that cruise and escape the worst of winter. I was thinking about you. We both know running a store isn’t the best use of your skills. I can’t imagine they’ll cancel the train display contract, but if there’s not a company....” Walter shrugged. “I hope you weren’t banking on the salary.”

  “They can’t cut the trains. It’s tradition.” The words squeezed past the lump in her throat.

  These interlopers couldn’t do this. Not to her, not to her grandfather’s legacy, not to good people like Walter and Jo and Beverly and the O’Meara’s and other shop owners, and especially not to the kids.

  “Who knows, Claire-bear, who knows.”

  Sandy gave her hand a squeeze. “No matter what happens, you will always have a place with Walter and me. Cousin Norah and I were closer than sisters.”

  “And Clem’s—was—my best friend.” The hitch in his voice made Claire look up. His eyes were as damp as his face was pinched.

  “Aw, damn it, Walter, you’re making me cry. Come hell or high water, we will honor Clem and make this the best display ever.”

  The crying stopped, at least on one side of the table. “Okay, Kiddo, but watch the swearing. Your Grandma Norah would have pulled out the soap.”

  “I had half a mind to run inside and find some.” Sandy was not the type to kid.

  “Sorry. That’s the problem with hanging out with old sailors like you. You learn to swear like one.”

  “Touché.” Walter graveled.

  “That’s no excuse.”

  Walter pressed his palm on the picnic table. “Of course not, my dear, it’s French.”

  Sandy put her hands on her hips and glared at husband, but the smile dancing on her lips belied her real feelings. She had sported that same look in one of the photographs setting on the occasional table in the upstairs hall. The one with Sandy and Walter and Norah and Clem dressed up in costume as 1920s Flappers and Gangsters. They all looked so young, happy, and carefree in that photo. She’d even recast the photo as a scene for a California train installation of Hollywood’s golden era. That photo had been taken when their children were still young enough that Claire’s mother had not yet sucked all the joy out of her grandma’s life.

  “We know how often my mom ate soap growing up and we all know what happened to her.” Walter and Sandy glanced at the grass. She understood. Bringing up her mother was a surefire way to end a pleasant conversation. She shouldn’t have done it.

  A peek at the weeds under the table gave her a much-needed transition. “I better ask that O’Meara boy to mow under the table next time he’s out. Oh, and before I forget, would you maybe look in Clem’s room and see if any Halloween or Christmas boxes or plans are there and put them in the hall? Please, please, pretty please?”

  Walter’s face scrunched into dismay.

  “I know I need to do it at some point, but I can’t go in there. Not yet. I’m still so disoriented from my trip, and you helped him pack stuff away after last year’s Halloween display because I was on the road. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  “Fine. Sandy and I can look while you do the dishes, but only today.”

  Sandy patted the back of her hand. “Claire, sweetie, you’re going to have to go through their belongings sometime, and don’t feel you have to do it alone.”

  But that was the problem. There were a handful of distant cousins, but she was the only Evans left.

  CLAIRE MADE ONE STOP before delivering two dozen figurines to Dayton. It was mom’s birthday, after all. The cemetery gate was open which meant either it was broken, or she wasn’t the only one with a pulse here. She took the first left and then a sharp right, stopping her car in front of row four, plots five, six, and seven.

  “Happy Birthday, Mom.” She poured most of a fifth of cheap vodka onto the ground about a foot away from stone marker etched with the words “Christina Evans, Daughter, Mother.” She had to guess where Mom’s mouth was.

  “No alcohol in the cemetery, young lady.”

  The voice alone let her know who was coming over the rise, but the visuals confirmed the stooped silhouette of old Miss Jones.

  “It’s mom’s birthday.”

  “You should have brought flowers.”

  “She wouldn’t have wanted flowers. Be glad it’s only vodka and not the cocaine she preferred because that would be downright illegal rather than merely offensive.”

  Miss Jones’ facial features contracted a ball almost as tight as the bun she wore.

  “Your grandfather wouldn’t have liked this.”

  “You’re right. He never liked visiting Mom on her birthday. But he did because that’s what you do for family, you remember them; you care for them. I’m only following in th
e footsteps he left for me, except I brought flowers for Clem, too.”

  “Hrumph.”

  Claire poured the remaining vodka into two vases on the monument to her grandparents. Maybe her talk of family obligation sounded too harsh or judgmental to the elderly woman who never married nor had children, but Miss Jones wielded her moral high ground with all the grace and precision of an atomic bomb.

  “Vodka’s supposed to make the flowers last longer according to the internet. Since I’ll be in Dayton a few days, I’m hoping to keep the flowers fresh while I’m gone, brighten Grandpa’s week a bit, because this week always brought up some tough memories for him.”

  Miss Jones turned her head toward the hill and cocked her ear. “Good suggestion.” Her voice sounded almost kind, far from her usual tone.

  “Claire!” The harshness returned. “If you promise to put a carnation on my Everet’s memorial down at Wright-Pat, I won’t report your open container of alcohol to the police.”

  Claire sucked at the back of her teeth. This was blackmail, but she had no reason to say no. Her work was in the same museum where the uniform and some letters from Miss Jones’ long deceased fiancé were on display.

  “I don’t want to get in trouble or set a bad example for others by marring the display.”

  Miss Jones gave her the stink-eye. A gust of wind picked up and plastered a heart-shaped leaf from the redbud tree to her grandmother’s headstone.

  “Do you have the carnation with you? I need to get on road.”

  “Wait one minute.”

  Miss Jones took off at a brisk pace.

  “Of course, I was going to do it, Grandma.” Claire spoke in a soft voice. Most people would think she was crazy talking to the headstones as if they were the actual person rather than an inanimate object. But at least her conversations were one sided. Miss Jones acted as if her cemetery conversational partners answered back. When the dead started answering, that was cause for concern. “Clem made me promise to be nice to your cousin and you were the one who taught me all about keeping promises, especially when they’re not easy.”