by Chris Cooper
“Sure, go ahead,” he replied, cracking a courteous smile.
She slid several of the flyers underneath the corner of a basket of blueberry muffins. “I’m Ruby, by the way. Pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand.
“Oliver,” he replied. “And this is Anna.”
“Nice to meet you,” Anna popped up over Oliver’s shoulder.
“The show starts at eight, and it’s our opening night,” Ruby said. “You should stop by if you have the chance. We’re right by the church.”
“Hopefully, we can make it,” Oliver replied.
“And I’ll be doing readings all day and would love to read you,” she added, pointing at the booth between the Peter’s Pickles and bubble-tea booths. Ruby had covered its ugly striped canvas with violet fabric and transformed the tent into a cozy bohemian den of sorts. A circular table sat atop a red patterned rug, and she had lined the makeshift room’s borders with pillows.
“Think we need to step up our decorating game. Your booth puts ours to shame,” he said.
“Thank you. It’s even nicer when you’re inside. Hope to see you later.” With a sly smile and a nod, Ruby was on her way to the next booth, the heels of her long leather boots sinking into the semisoft earth.
“Well, someone’s made a new friend,” Anna said from behind.
“What do you mean?”
“She was flirting with you.” She straightened a basket of baguettes on the back table. “You should stop by her booth.”
“Sure she’s just trying to drum up business.” He watched Ruby float across the aisle to Peter’s Pickles and approach whom he assumed was Peter. “See?”
“Have some confidence.”
“If she’s flirting, she’s currently flirting with a middle-aged man who’s somehow converted his comb-over into a ponytail and has clearly eaten an unhealthy amount of his own product. She’s not exactly my type, anyway.”
“Oh, you have a type? I assumed you were asexual.”
“I am not asexual,” he replied defensively.
“What’s your type then? Tall, blonde, and skinny?”
Oliver searched for a way to change the subject and picked up a flyer. “Mistress Ruby’s Grim Menagerie. Sounds weird, don’t you think?”
“You’re not getting off that—” Anna peered over his shoulder at the poster. “What kind of show is this?” The front of the flyer was black with a skeletal bat spreading its wings across the page. “What’s a menagerie?”
“No idea. From the looks of the flyer, a dead-bat puppet show. Might be fun,” he joked.
“Always wanted to see a dead-bat puppet show,” she replied.
By the end of the day, they’d sold off most of their honey supply, and the baked goods had dwindled to a few baskets of odds and ends. The other merchants packed up their tents, so Anna and Oliver followed suit.
Oliver pitched the Grim Menagerie flyers into the trash bin as he cleared off the folding tables.
“So that’s a no on the show then?” Anna asked.
“Unfortunately, Nekko and I have already made firm arrangements. I’m going to sit on the couch and sketch while she walks back and forth across my lap and tries to lie on the sketch pad.”
“Well, wouldn’t want to disrupt such a fun evening.”
“You’re welcome to join although I don’t think I have a pad large enough for you to walk across.”
“I’ll pass—thank you very much.”
Once they loaded everything into the car and affixed the tables firmly to the roof, they made the short drive back to Christchurch. After unloading at the bakery, Oliver drove Anna back to her cottage then returned home.
He’d thought about trying to find a place of his own, but his bakery salary made that a challenge. Christchurch wasn’t exactly full of affordable housing. He also enjoyed having a human to come home to. Nekko provided a great deal of companionship but was terrible at holding conversations. Izzy kept him on his toes and ensured he didn’t spend too much time inside his own head. Although she was his great aunt, their relationship was more friendly than familial.
The sky darkened as the last sliver of sunlight vanished over the horizon, but all the lights in the front of Izzy’s house were off. Pan greeted him as he unlocked the door, but Izzy was nowhere in sight. He walked through the dark living room and toward a dim light coming from the kitchen, nearly tripping over Izzy’s handmade Native American drum on the journey.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, the room lit only by a small nightlight plugged into the counter outlet. She took a swig from a bottle of Irish cream when she noticed Oliver.
“Are you drinking straight cream? Had a rough evening, I’m guessing?” he asked.
“It’s the hardest stuff I could find.” Izzy avoided eye contact. “I messed up big time, kiddo.”
Oliver pulled up a chair on the other side of the table and sat across from her. “Surely nothing bad enough for this dramatic response.”
She took another swig from the bottle. “I told your mom you’ve been staying with me.”
“What?” He felt the color drain from his face.
“She knows you lost your job in the city and have been helping me with the bakery.”
Oliver reached for the bottle and took a giant gulp. The mix of whiskey and cream was sickly. “Why would you tell her?”
“She pressed me. You know I don’t hold up well under interrogation,” Izzy replied.
“Why would she even think to call you?”
“Apparently, she tried to send you a package, and it came back as an incorrect address.”
“But I had my mail forwarded.”
“Well, they must have crossed wires somewhere. She knows, and there’s no going back now.”
Oliver had been careful to hide his move from his mother. He typically avoided confrontation at all costs, and Bev Crum was a walking, talking confrontation. He’d worked hard for his mother’s approval, which had played a large part in him taking a job in the city, and he knew how disappointed she would be if she found out he traded his suit in for an apron. Fortunately, she didn’t have caller ID, and they rarely spoke, so the task hadn’t been that difficult. He had planned on telling her, but the longer he waited, the more difficult it had become.
“How am I going to explain that I’ve been lying to her for an entire year?”
“Don’t you think it’s time to come clean? You’re twenty-five, and you’re still scared of your mom.” The whiskey had made Izzy feisty.
“Aren’t you still scared of her? Isn’t that why you rolled over on me?” he shot back.
“I think you’re missing the point,” she said defensively. “Don’t you want her to know about your life? Surely, she’ll be happy for you when she sees how well you’re doing here.”
“Want to bet? She’ll end up trying to convince me to leave—just watch. And she’ll do it while slipping in a ton of passive-aggressive comments about the way we live.”
“Your mom has her hang-ups, but she cares about you. She wants to make sure you’re doing all right.”
“No, she wants to make sure I’m not embarrassing the family. I assume she’ll want me to call and explain?”
“No need,” Izzy replied.
“Why not? Is she so angry she doesn’t want to talk?”
“She’ll be on the afternoon train on Friday. You’ll have the privilege of explaining in person.”
The sensation in Oliver’s stomach was reminiscent of when the Briarwood Witch had lifted him up by his insides.
She took another swig from the bottle. “Your mom’s coming to Christchurch.”
After commiserating and finishing nearly half the bottle of Irish cream, Izzy and Oliver turned in for the evening. Nekko grew annoyed by Oliver’s constant tossing and turning and moved to the windowsill to watch the yard below.
No matter how hard he tried, Oliver couldn’t rid his mind of his mother’s impending visit. He felt guilty for keeping such a large change
in his life from her, but he’d known how she would react. He hated disappointing her—always had—but he felt childish for refusing to stand up for himself. She would be angry for sure, but telling the truth would have saved him a lot of mental anguish. He wasn’t sure why she had always made him so nervous. Perhaps her need to criticize was the perfect foil for his need to please.
After several hours of restlessness, Oliver slipped into a paranoid sleep, just in time for the sun to rise.
Chapter Three
On the day of the big visit, Oliver spent the morning filling orders between waiting tables at the bakery. Once the lunch rush died down, he and Izzy set off to pick his mother up from the train station, leaving Anna to prep the bakery for the morning.
Izzy spotted Martin waving from across the square. “Let’s stop over and say hello before we go to the station.” She, too, must have been trying to prolong their walk as much as possible and seemed to sense Oliver’s uneasiness.
Martin was touching up the woodwork on the bay window at the front of Fletcher Antiquities, and maroon paint speckled his forest-green sweater.
“Brush get away from you, Martin?” Izzy asked.
“Fortunately, this isn’t my good sweater.” He smirked. “Glad I caught you. Stumbled upon a chimney pot at an estate sale this weekend. I’ve got it in the back of the shop, if you want to take a look.”
Izzy’s face lit up. “You finally found a spare one!” She looked at her watch, and her smile faded. “I’ll have to come back another time, though. Oliver’s mom is in for the week, and her train arrives in a minute or two.”
“No worries,” Martin replied. “I’ll keep it aside for you. Your mom’s in town, eh, Oliver? Bring her by the shop. I’d love to meet her.”
“Will do.” Oliver grimaced. As they turned toward the station, he looked at Izzy. “Chimney pot?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’d know one if you saw it. It’s a clay column that sits—” She spun around and pointed at the top of the antique shop. “See the clay thing on top of the brick chimney? That’s a chimney pot. I need one for a new fountain design, but they’re expensive and hard to find. Martin promised to hunt one down for me.”
They passed under the archway to Christchurch station, just in time to see the arriving train squeal to a halt.
Oliver felt himself clamming up as Izzy stepped toward the edge of the platform.
“Relax,” she said, giving him a side-eye.
At first, he couldn’t find his mother. Maybe she missed the train. His hopes were dashed when he saw her bleached-blond pixie cut slowly bobbing down the aisle.
“There she is,” he said.
They camped out under the lamppost nearest to her exit. When the sliding door opened, Beverly Crum stepped out, tugging a piece of leather luggage behind her. Although the train ride must have been several hours long, her coral slacks and cream-colored blazer were still perfectly pressed and wrinkle free. She said nothing when she saw Oliver at first, just stood for a moment, scowling. Just as Oliver thought he was going to be sick, as if someone hit a reset switch on the back of her neck, his mother’s scowl rose to a wide grin.
“Well, give your mother a hug.” She opened her arms. She was a good foot shorter than Oliver—he’d gotten his height from his father’s side of the family—but she had the grip of a grizzly bear. She pulled back but held firmly to his waist. “Your hair’s all mussed.” She used a hand to fix his cowlick that had been blown out of place by the breeze. “You’ve let it grow so long!”
“It’s fine.” Oliver pulled away and ran his fingers through his hair.
She turned toward Izzy. “Isabelle, so good to see you. I see you’re still as fashionable as ever.” She went in for another awkward hug.
Izzy wore a pair of denim overalls, which she’d draped with a bright floral shawl. Oliver had seen some of Izzy’s more interesting outfits over the last year, and this was conservative in comparison.
“Always a pleasure, Bev,” Izzy replied. “If you’re ready, I thought we’d stop by the bakery on the way home so you can have a look around.”
“We’re walking, then?” she asked. “I had a hunch. Let me slip on more comfortable shoes.” Bev sat on a station bench and swapped her heels out for a pair of gym shoes.
“You wore heels on the train?” Izzy asked. “Why not flats?”
“Comfort is never an excuse to look like a slouch. Never know who you might run into. Station wagon having issues again?”
“No, no. Just thought it would be nice to walk,” Izzy replied.
“Let’s be off,” Bev said, hopping up from the bench. “Lead the way.”
Izzy guided the pack through the station and toward the bakery. Anna had already locked up for the afternoon when she finished in the kitchen, but Izzy pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the front door.
“Bev, meet the bakery,” Izzy said.
Bev walked along the U-shaped counter and admired the artwork on the walls. “It’s so quaint. You manage all of this by yourself?”
“Oliver’s taken on quite a few responsibilities, and one of our friends from town works here too,” Izzy replied, ignoring the subtle jab.
“Good to see you’ve finally outgrown your starving-artist phase.”
“Oh, you sound just like your mother. Art is still a large part of my life.” Izzy gestured around the room. “You know, your son has a penchant for paint too.” She pointed at the mural on the far wall. “He’s got some interesting ideas for Halloween.”
Bev stepped over to the mural on the other side of the bakery. The piece featured caricatures of many of the bigger town personalities. Oliver had painted it the previous summer and had been adding to it ever since. Unlike the more controversial works in Izzy’s studio, this one was a friendly gesture for the townspeople, and it was a hit. Even Madeline, the leader of the town Elders, found the images amusing, and Madeline rarely found anything amusing.
“I didn’t know you still liked to doodle,” Bev said. “Thought you stopped a long time ago.”
“I’ve picked it up again. Izzy’s been a great inspiration,” he replied.
Anna cleared her throat from behind the counter. “Isn’t anyone going to introduce me?”
“Mom, this is Anna. Anna, this is my mom, Bev.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Anna,” Bev replied. “My, you are a pretty one, aren’t you?” She turned her head and gave Oliver a sly smile.
“Um, thanks,” she replied. She shot Oliver a puzzled look.
He turned to Bev. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Oh no, definitely not.” Anna laughed hard enough to make Oliver feel self-conscious.
“Shame,” Bev replied.
“Let’s head to the house.” Oliver tried to steer the conversation away from his nonexistent love life. “I’m sure you’re exhausted from the ride.”
“I could use a breather and a glass of wine,” Bev replied.
“To the wine, then!” Izzy raised her fist.
Bev huffed and puffed all the way to Izzy’s house while Oliver wheeled her heavy suitcase behind him. Although she’d made a few remarks, her demeanor pleasantly surprised him. She had to be upset with him, but she wasn’t showing it outwardly. Perhaps she had changed since they’d last seen each other. He’d changed, so it was only reasonable to assume she’d done the same.
Pan heard the trio approaching and barked frantically at the other side of the door, little paws clawing at the wood.
“Never imagined you as the yappy-dog type, Isabelle,” Bev said.
“Pan is not yappy,” Izzy shot back as if Bev had just insulted her child.
His mother shooed Pan away with her foot, but a simple tennis shoe to the face wasn’t enough to deter the resilient corgi.
“Pet him, or he won’t leave you alone,” Oliver said.
She made one last attempt to sweep the pup away with her foot before relenting. She leaned over and gave Pan three staccato pats on the head. “Al
l right, now go bother someone else.”
Pan sat on his haunches and stared.
“Go on,” she added, flicking her wrist.
Pan refused to move. Izzy shook the treat bag in the kitchen, and he scampered off into the other room.
“Think you’ve made a new friend,” Oliver said.
“I have enough friends already,” Bev replied. “Oh my—is that Nekko?” She pointed at the butterscotch whale perched on the windowsill.
Nekko turned her head toward them, momentarily pulled away from the squirrels playing on the lawn outside.
“That’s her. Think she’s been bulking up so Pan doesn’t have a weight advantage over her,” he replied.
“She’s so fat!”
Nekko turned her head at the insult. Her fat rolls hung over the edge of the windowsill like a cellulite curtain.
“We keep her on a strict diet. She’s just lazy and has bad kitty genes,” Oliver said defensively.
“It’s not work—” Bev caught herself midsentence and changed the subject. “Help me with my suitcase, will you?”
Oliver lugged the leather suitcase up the stairs to the guest bedroom on the third floor and set it on the bed. For the first time since his childhood, his mother would be right across the hall from him. Bev might have been a homemaker for most of her life, but she doubled as an amateur sleuth. He had tried to stay up late as a kid, plugging his headphones into the bedroom TV, but she could always hear the chatter from across the hall. She had a nose for lies, and sneaking anything by the woman was impossible, especially when she slept ten feet away.
“So many stairs,” Bev said. “Looks like I’ll be getting a good workout while I’m here.”
“Izzy’s setting dinner out on the back porch. I’ll let you get unpacked, but come join us once you’re done.”
“Will do,” she replied, unzipping her suitcase.
Oliver turned to leave but stopped short of the doorway. “I’m glad you’re here.” The words left his lips before he could stop them, somewhat catching him by surprise.
