Читать книгу Learning to Hula - Lisa Childs, Lisa Childs, Livia Reasoner - Страница 11

I notice the sign as I pull out of the driveway. I’m not sure if I missed it the night before, or if they put it up when they headed out to the bus this morning. It’s a For Sale sign, Worst Offer, for our once happy home.

Despite the sentiment, or shall I say resentment, behind it, I find myself chuckling. Even though their grades, usually straight A’s, have been slipping since school started a few weeks ago, I’m reassured that they’re still smart. Asses. But smart.

They might not be doing their homework lately, as much from laziness as taking advantage of their teacher’s sympathy over their loss, but they worked last night. Between packing up their stuff and making this sign, they were very busy. Mother’s pride spreads warmth through my chest, dispelling some of the tightness their angry words had left me with last night.

I glance in the rearview mirror, at the box in the back of the Tahoe, and chuckle louder. As the tires bounce over the ruts in our private dirt road, I imagine the hula girl swaying madly inside the box.

Just inside town, I drive by the drop box for Goodwill. I should leave the lamp there, but for some reason, possibly the guilt trip the kids laid on me last night, I keep driving on through Stanville. With its canopied storefronts and brick sidewalks, it could grace any Christmas card, it’s that quaint.

I’m almost to work when I remember I don’t work there anymore. Brad asked me to stay on, but I refused, as I don’t believe they really want me there. He was just being sweet, and I wouldn’t feel right about it; the business is theirs now. I’ve taken them on as a client, though, for my accounting business. I’ll do their bookkeeping and payroll, just as I’ve been doing for my mom’s tearoom, from the office I’ll have in my house, in Rob’s old den. But for the day-to-day stuff, for the past six months I’ve been training Steve’s mom to answer the phones and set appointments.

It’s likely the training took so long because of that haze I was in, or maybe she doesn’t pick up on things as quickly as her son. Any of the guys could have learned to do those duties themselves, but they may have wanted to keep that maternal influence in the office. For years, I’d been the maternal element.

I miss it now—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t—but I won’t miss being there without Rob and feeling guilty because he’s not. I only worked there to spend time with him. He’s the one who loved the place. He started it so he could quit his IT job in the city, save the commute and avoid the travel he’d had to do, and spend more time with his family.

Being at the office since Rob’s death only served to remind me that he hadn’t been able to live that part of his dream, hadn’t been able to spend more time with us. So I actually feel relief that I sold it. I smile as I let the feeling wash over me like the light rain that’s falling, washing the dust off the Tahoe.

The kids might be mad now, but in time they’ll see it was the right decision, not just for me but for them, too. I’ll have more time to spend with them now, since I’ll be working from home. I’m not sure how they’ll feel about my converting Rob’s den, though. But if they’re going to heal, they have to accept that he’s gone, and they can’t do that if I leave everything the same, as if he’ll walk through the door any minute and break our tense silence with his big, booming laugh.

I pull into one of the diagonal spaces in front of The Tearoom. I’d been much older than my children, in my early thirties, when my dad died, but I’d resented some of the decisions my mom had made. Selling the farm. Buying this place.

I hadn’t understood the stages of grief then. I hadn’t accepted that Dad wasn’t coming back. I’d thought we should keep the farm for him because he’d loved it so much.

At that time, I hadn’t realized that my mom had to do what was right for her, so that she could move on. So that she could find her way past her grief and be there for us again. Hopefully, my kids will understand that someday, as well. Since they’re younger than I was when Dad died, I have to be patient, have to give them more time.

When I step through The Tearoom’s door, I catch a mad flurry of movement behind the counter. My mother is quickly draping napkins over the pastries in the display case.

Despite the crowd, driven in, no doubt, by the hunger for gossip as much as the rain, the room is dead silent, like Rob’s funeral had been when the DJ had played the first few notes of the Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Rob had loved The Big Chill so much he’d worn out two VHS tapes and a DVD of it.

My mother says to me, her small arms spread wide and protectively across the counter, “Please, don’t hurt them! They can’t defend themselves!”

The room erupts into raucous laughter, just as it had at Rob’s funeral. He was only her son by marriage, but they shared a lot of the same traits, such as knowing how to work a room.

I take an exaggerated bow, and everyone applauds.

I’m still laughing as I join her behind the counter, where she grabs me in a fierce hug. I see the concern darkening her blue eyes to navy, and know that what she did wasn’t a joke but damage control. For me.

“I’m okay,” I tell her.

She arches a golden brow in disbelief. She’s dainty and petite, and my dad, although not as big as Rob, had been really strong from all his hard work on the farm. But she was the one we feared as we were growing up. While Dad was easygoing, Mom never let us get away with anything. Then or now.

“I needed to do that,” I tell her. “I’m really okay. You know.”

Nobody knows like she does.

Less than a decade ago, she stood in my shoes. I’ve found comfort in that, in having her as my little hundred-pound guidebook to widowhood. I tried doing everything she did, moving on like she has, but I couldn’t do it just like she did. I needed to find my own way…in Smiley’s store.

“I know you’re okay now, sweetie,” she says with a smile, and wraps her hand tight around mine.

Not for the first time, I see how similar they are—blue veins running under thin white skin. Initially I noticed at Rob’s funeral, when she’d taken my hand in support. They’re good hands. Strong, capable hands.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, squeezing hers before releasing it so she can rush off to serve customers.

She needed this place when my dad died. She’d needed to be needed, to wait on people, to take care of them. With us grown and Dad gone, she’d had no one else to satisfy her desire to nurture.

Coffeepot in one hand, hot water in the other, she pauses on the other side of the counter and turns toward me again. “I have a carrot cake in the back that’s been giving me trouble. You want to take care of it?”

Would I ever! With a fork and knife instead of my fists and feet. I’m not a complete militant when it comes to sweets. I have my weaknesses, and my mother knows them. She winks before trotting off.

She’s sixty-seven now, but men’s heads still turn when she walks past. I don’t think it has as much to do with her youthful face and figure or her golden-blond hair and bright eyes as her spirit.

She’s indomitable.

I will be, too. I just need to figure out the rest of it. What happened in Smiley’s yesterday wasn’t planned. As I admitted to my sisters, I just snapped.

I’m sitting at the counter, a pot of fruit-and-almond decaf tea steeping in front of me. Mom always collected tea sets, but the collection had gotten out of control as my dad, my sisters and I had given one to her for every birthday, Mother’s Day, Christmas and anniversary. She’d had very little to buy, other than the building, to start her business. I guess she was right, six years ago, when she tried to convince us that selling the farm and starting this tea shop was meant to be.

The pot that sits before me now is one Rob bought for her, a ceramic one with a face like Groucho Marx with the bushy eyebrows, big nose and cigar. I smile at it as I fork small bites of carrot cake into my mouth. I’m savoring the sweet combination of cream cheese and my mother’s secret spices when Pam plops down next to me.

“Hypocrite,” she mutters as she clutches a mug of coffee between her hands, inhaling the scent of the beans Mom uses.

There’s no use talking to Pam until she’s had an IV of caffeine in the morning. I might have forgotten that from when we were younger if not for those weeks she stayed with me. Then I’d been careful not to talk to her in the morning, especially if Robbie had played one of his father’s pranks on her.

But today I risk it.

“I’m getting a serving of vegetables by eating this. It has carrots in it,” I point out.

She shakes her head, then takes a long drink of coffee. With the amount of steam rising from the mug, it’s a wonder she doesn’t burn her mouth.

I’m in no mood for her silent treatment and try again. “So you tattled on me?” I accuse her with heavy mockery.

“Hypocrite,” she says again.

“You have a rather limited vocabulary for a woman your age,” I remark, knowing how much those nine years she has on me bother her. I’ve been teasing Pam longer than Rob did, even though he was more inventive, but she’s always been more amused than annoyed by me.

She’s smiling against the mug as she takes a sip; I can tell by the widening of the lipstick marks she leaves on the rim. Pam goes nowhere without her makeup. I expect today she needs the armor more than any other.

I want to ask how she enjoyed her first night sleeping alone. But that question brings up painful memories. I didn’t sleep in our bed for weeks after Rob died. It was just too big and lonely without him.

“Hey, you tattled on me,” she reminds me.

Although a couple of weeks have passed since I told Mom about Pam’s plans, I feel enough guilt to squirm against the leather stool.

Mom’s restaurant looks more Irish pub than English tearoom with its rich brown leather stools and chairs, gleaming oak trim and floors and shiny brass fixtures. She did a lot of refurbishing down here, probably working out her anger over Dad’s death as I’d worked out mine in Smiley’s yesterday. But she’d done nothing with the upstairs, leaving the items the previous owners had stored up there.

“Mom needed to know why we were cleaning out the apartment,” I say in my defense.

“And the plan was to tell her that you were going to use it as an office for your bookkeeping since you sold Rob’s business,” Pam reminds me.

I shake my head. Although I often tease Pam about her age, she hasn’t been acting it lately. “I was not going to lie to Mom and sneak around behind her back.”

“Not perfect little Holly,” she agrees, transporting me back to my childhood.

She and Emma had been the ones to lie and sneak around, and because I was younger, they’d excluded me. Or maybe they’d excluded me because I had tattled back then, likely only out of revenge. It hadn’t mattered if I’d tattled or not, they always got caught and suffered the consequences.

Like Rob had. I shake off the maudlin thought; I’ve done enough wallowing. It’s time to move on. Maybe Pam has the right idea.

“Did you really think you could move in without her knowing?” I ask.

Pam shrugs, trying for nonchalance even as her face flushes with color. “I just wasn’t ready to tell her yet about leaving Keith.”

“You worried for nothing. Mom is okay with you staying here. She knows it’s just a separation.” A very temporary one, I suspect. Pam’s been married too long—she doesn’t remember how lonely being single is.

She shrugs again.

“Pam? You are going to try to save your marriage, aren’t you?”

“I worked on it for twenty-five years, Holly.”

Work? Was that what marriage was supposed to be, like a job you labored at twenty-four—seven? Mine hadn’t been like that, if you exclude the times I tried to get Rob to eat right. The rest of it had pretty much been a party, full of fun and games and lots of laughter.

Pam expels a weary breath, then adds, “I need a break.” From the exasperated look she shoots me, I suspect she doesn’t want a break just from her marriage but from her family’s questions about it, too. Not that Emma, Mom or I have asked her much about their problems. We hadn’t thought they had any, so we’ve been too shocked by the news to ask.

“Why are you here?” she asks me. “Books to do? Don’t let me keep you.”

I smile at the eagerness in her voice. She obviously wants to get rid of me. “I came to talk to Mom,” I say, but don’t tell her it’s because I need to see if there’s a chapter in the widow guidebook about how to deal with resentful children. If I admitted that, Pam might offer advice, or at least an opinion, since she has one about everything. But she really can’t understand. She has only one daughter, who was always sweet and loving. Of course Rachael doesn’t know her mom left her dad yet. After Rachael married, a little less than a year ago, she moved to the other side of the state, to Detroit, for her husband’s job.

“You wanted to warn her about your meltdown in Smiley’s,” Pam guesses.

“But someone already told her about that,” I say, glaring at my oldest sister.

“This is Stanville. You expected to keep a secret here?” she asks.

I don’t point out that she expected to do the same, and just continue to glare suspiciously at her.

“It wasn’t me. I haven’t even seen her yet.” She turns on her stool and waves at Mom across the room, where she’s leaning over a table. All the men over fifty, and some under, are staring at her behind. “Until just now.”

I could argue semantics with Pam, that she could have called instead of seeing her, but I know it’s not her way of doing things. And if it was, she might not have been the first and certainly wasn’t the last to share my Kitty Cupcake coup with Mom.

“I know it wasn’t you,” I admit, cutting Pam a break.

She’s going to need it. When she realizes she made a mistake, I hope Keith gives her one and takes her back. I’m almost relieved now knowing that the boxes and bags in the hall and the garage are full of my stuff, not hers.

The kids said the contents belonged to them, but when I checked, I found towels, blankets and pillows. Their “packing” had consisted of emptying the linen closet.

“It was probably Bulletin Bill,” she murmurs around her mug, shrugging a shoulder toward the end of the counter.

Bill Diller is the only man whose head doesn’t turn to watch my mother. We figured out when we were kids why that was, that he and our math teacher, Simon Van Otten, who is now the school principal, weren’t just fishing buddies. But since the locals keep electing Bill mayor, I doubt the rest of our little conservative town knows. They think he’s simply a confirmed bachelor. He and Simon are still fishing together exclusively.

As an old-timer gets up to leave, he stops by Bill, patting his shoulder. “Hey, Mayor, I’m going to see if anything’s biting since the rain stopped. You gonna let me in on the location of your secret fishing hole?”

Bill laughs and shakes his head, as it’s not a secret he’s willing to share. But that’s the only secret he’s ever kept. If I hadn’t told Mom about Pam walking out on her marriage, he would have.

“So how was it last night, by yourself?” I ask Pam despite myself.

She’s my sister. She was there for me. Even though I don’t agree with what she’s doing, I intend to support her.

“Quiet,” she says.

I remember those first nights after Rob died. The quiet had been deafening. Now I think back to how many times I jammed my elbow in his side and complained about his snoring until he rolled over, taking most of the blankets with him. What I wouldn’t give to lie shivering and wide-awake next to him. I’ve passed stage five and accepted that’s not going to happen. But Pam can still go home.

Before I can suggest it, she releases a deep breath. “It was heaven….”

“What?”

“The silence.”

“You liked it?”

“I loved it!”

So now is probably not a good time to mention going home to her. I’ll wait. She’ll get sick of the silence. I know. The kids gave me the silent treatment this morning, and I got sick of it in the amount of time it took them each to shovel down a bowl of cereal and rush out to catch the bus.

Pam jerks so suddenly that coffee sloshes over the rim of her mug. She lets out a soft whistle that only I can hear. When she’s with Emma and me, she’s not the banker’s wife, she’s the bossy older sister, but she can also be fun in her way.

My head swivels in the direction of her gaze. I hope it’s Keith, looking particularly handsome in one of his dark suits, that has her so interested. But this is a different man, one in uniform. He’s not a mailman or a meter reader but the officer the county sheriff assigned to serve and protect Stanville.

“He makes it tempting to break the law,” she murmurs.

Deputy Nathan Westmoreland is the man to whom I still owe an apology, and I’m not about to deliver it in front of the crowd in The Tearoom. Despite Mom’s damage control, I’ve already given them enough to talk about.

And talk they will.

If Smiley didn’t report me to the police, Bulletin Bill will. On spotting the deputy, who’s hard to miss with his wide shoulders and black hair, Bill jumps up from his stool and rushes over to him. The silver glitters around the huge stone of his turquoise ring as he pumps Westmoreland’s hand.

Pam and I look at each other and roll our eyes. She shrugs. “I can’t fault his taste.”

“I hope the principal doesn’t catch him,” I whisper. “I can’t stay,” I add, getting up from the stool. I need to do a little damage control of my own and have a few ideas on how to start. I’ll pick Mom’s brain another time.

As I slip out the door, I turn back and my gaze briefly meets the deputy’s. We nod at each other, and I feel my face flush. I really don’t care if everyone tells him what happened at Smiley’s. He’s seen me far more out of control than that.

Claire slams the door so hard that the Tahoe shakes. Then she settles into the back seat without as much as a hello. But at least she’s here. Her brother wasn’t when I stopped by the high school to pick him up first.

“Hi,” I say.

I get nothing but a huffy breath in reply. I’m not sure if that’s about last night and she’s holding a grudge or if it’s just her usual attitude. Since she hit puberty, she lets out more hot air than a ballooning contest.

I understand hormones. I can remember letting out a few of those huffy breaths myself, and I’d been a relatively perfect child, at least compared to my older sisters. But I’m in no mood for her attitude after waiting for Robbie.

“So you heard me this morning when I said I’d pick you up from school.”

This time she answers me although her tone is not to my liking. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Oh, yeah, but your brother wasn’t.”

“I have piano.”

That’s why I always pick her up on Thursdays. Robbie and I usually hang out at the office or The Tearoom until Claire’s done with her lesson with the mayor’s mother. Mrs. Diller used to be the music teacher at the elementary school when my sisters and I went there.

“Didn’t Rob know I was picking him up, too?”

“I guess he didn’t feel like waiting.”

It’s odd that she’s defending him. Usually she’s tattling on him the way I used to tattle on Pam and Emma.

“So he took the bus home.”

No big deal, unless he gets into the special gordita dinner before Claire and I get home. I chopped up all the peppers, tomatoes and onions before I left. Even though I washed my hands, I can smell the onions yet. The leather steering wheel will probably smell like them for some time to come.

I’m not so worried about Robbie eating the healthy things. But if he eats all the strawberry shortcake, his favorite food, before we get home, he’ll be in trouble.

“Maybe that’s what he did,” Claire says, in that I-know-a-secret tone every sister learns. Usually she uses it on him, though, not me.

I should be happy that they’re getting along, for that hasn’t been the case since Claire learned to talk. Like sisters everywhere, she knows which buttons to push for the biggest reaction, and pesters and teases Robbie incessantly. Robbie is typically quiet and mild-mannered; she’s always been the only one who can set off his temper…until now.

Now everything’s changed. The only reason they seem to be getting along is that they have something in common—being mad at me. I know they’re not automatically going to forgive me just because I made their favorite dinner, but it’s a start.

Besides, I owe them some homemade dinners. I’ve been so busy lately with trying to get everything ready for the closing with the business, training Steve’s mom, going over records while we waited for all the paperwork to be processed regarding Rob’s estate.

It got so bad that Claire and Robbie started complaining about eating pizza too much. Maybe Pam’s right—I am a hypocrite. Just because my children are both probably underweight doesn’t mean that now is not the time to instill healthy eating habits in them. I used to, back when I’d had Rob on that diet.

I remember the days they used to beg for Rob to pick up a pizza on his way home from work. He’d had one with him that night….

“Mom!”

I step on the brakes. “What?”

“You almost passed Mrs. Diller’s.”

I glance around and see that I am just past the short picket fence that marks her property line. Behind it stands a little white bungalow, its yard aglow with the riotous colors of all the mums she’s planted.

Despite her age, Mrs. Diller rises agilely from her knees and peels off her gardening gloves and floppy straw hat. As Claire hops out to join her without so much as a goodbye, Mrs. Diller waves her hat at me.

I hesitate before pulling away. Robbie’s not with me and I’m not sure what to do, so I watch Claire for a moment. I watch the sulkiness leave her face as a smile spreads across it. I watch her snuggle into Mrs. Diller’s quick embrace before walking with her into the house. The storm door bounces twice against the frame before closing behind them and shutting me out.

My chest hurts. I want to see that smile on Claire’s face again. For me.

“Everyone grieves in his or her own way,” the grief counselor had informed me. That was about all she could offer regarding the kids’ feelings, since they wouldn’t share any of them with her.

Until last night they hadn’t shared that much with me, either. The tears in the early days. The shock. The denial. Last night was the first that I’ve felt their anger. Ironically, the same day I really gave in to mine. Maybe everyone in my house grieves in the same way.

“Give them time,” my mother said the day of the funeral and several times since. With the business sold, I can give them all my time now. Tonight’s dinner is just the beginning.

Since I’ve waited at the curb so long, I don’t have time to drive home and back. I’ll let Robbie wait at home—if that’s where he is—for a while longer so he can cool off.

Instead I run into town to check on Pam. The outside door for the stairwell to her apartment is locked. She’s probably at her yoga class in Grand Rapids, which is about a forty-five-minute drive away from Stanville.

Thinking I might collect some paperwork, I use my key to let myself into The Tearoom. It closes at three-thirty every day. It’s only four now, so the air is still rich with the mingled aromas of coffee, herbal teas and cinnamon. I breathe deeply, appreciating now why this place means so much to my mother.

Even empty, it’s still abuzz with the chatter from the day, the gossip, which was probably mostly about me. Really, Pam owes me. If not for my incident at Smiley’s, folks would have all been talking about her separation.

I wonder how long it took Bulletin Bill to spill the news about me to the deputy. Not long, I’m sure. But I bet Westmoreland wasn’t surprised. What does surprise him? He was solemn but not upset the night he brought me the news about Rob.

Westmoreland’s not from here, but he’s lived in Stanville long enough to be accepted. A few years? I can’t remember when he came or where he’s from, probably a big city where he’s seen far more than a heart-attack-induced traffic accident.

For him that was routine.

For me, it was the end of every routine I’ve ever known.

I glance at my watch, then lock the door as I leave to pick up Claire. She grunts when I ask her how her lesson went. That’s still better than the silent treatment from the morning. Not much, but better.

The house is quiet when we step inside. Some of the bags by the back door are missing. That’s good. Robbie’s already begun to put some of it away, tantrum over as quickly as mine had passed in Smiley’s. Robbie’s still my mild-mannered boy.

“Call your brother for dinner,” I tell Claire, as I open the fridge and bring out the seasoned strips of steak and chicken, which I’ve already sautéed. They just need to be popped into the microwave for a quick reheat. I reach for a plate on the counter when my sleeve brushes against something that rustles. A folded piece of paper with “Mom” scrawled across it.

I pick up the note and unfold it.

“Since you’re getting rid of everything that reminds you of Dad, I figure you’re going to get rid of me next. So I’m saving you the trouble.”