by Chris Cooper
“Really?” Izzy asked. “Get his number?”
Bev choked on her Chablis.
“What? It’s a reasonable question,” Izzy added. “Haven’t you been seeing anyone lately?”
“No, too soon. It hasn’t been that long since Glen passed away.” Bev ran her thumb along her wedding ring and twirled the diamond around to its proper place.
“It’s been five years, Mom. I’d say that’s long enough. You ought to think about it,” Oliver said.
Bev still held strong to her wedding vows, except for the “til death do us part” bit. As far as Oliver knew, she had dated no one since his father’s passing after a massive heart attack while Oliver was away at college.
With his father gone, Bev needed someone else to critique, and Oliver became her pet project, or at least that’s how he felt.
“What about you?” Bev asked. “Any girls in your life?”
“Well there is Nekko.” He laughed. He and Anna had become great friends, but friends were all they were meant to be, and he was fine with that, despite the consistent prodding from others.
“I’m serious. You’re well on your way to thirty, and the longer you wait, the harder it gets.”
“Are you telling me I’m hopeless then, Bev?” Izzy took a swig of wine. “I like to think I’m at the peak of my sexual prowess.”
Oliver tried to picture Izzy dating, but the thought made him chuckle. She was far too independent to be in a relationship, at least with anyone from Christchurch.
“You’ve always told me you were married to your art,” he said.
“And we’ve had a wonderful marriage,” she added.
Once they had finished eating and Oliver cleared the dishes, Izzy brought out another bottle of wine. “My studio is calling, but I think you two have a lot of catching up to do.” She winked at Oliver as she refilled his wineglass and set the bottle on the table.
He shot her a desperate glance, but she was gone before he had a chance to make a verbal plea.
Oliver and his mom sat in silence as he searched for something to talk about.
They started with small talk. Oliver asked about his mother’s life back home, and she filled him in on her new role as a board member for a local orchestra. She droned on about her responsibilities and the importance of the position, but it was difficult for him to stay focused on the conversation.
You’re an adult—just say something. The thought looped in Oliver’s mind until he had mustered up the courage to bring up the topic they’d been avoiding for nearly twenty minutes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he blurted.
She pounced. “And why the hell didn’t you?” Her polite smile faded. She had been waiting for the moment.
“Um, I—”
“Have I not always been there for you? What did I do to deserve to be lied to?”
“I didn’t mean to lie to you. It’s just—”
“The thought of you working in a bakery and living with Isabelle… How absurd. I’m surprised the woman hasn’t already driven the place to financial ruin.” She sat back in her chair, put her fingers to her lips, and stared off into the distance.
“Is this what you came here for? To insult one of the few people who has supported me through this whole change?” The dig on Izzy made him angry. Oliver knew the woman had her flaws, but she’d taken him in without so much as a second thought, at least that he could tell.
“Supported you? How could I have supported you if you never bothered to tell me? Here I am, thinking you’re making a name for yourself in the city, and you’re out here, goofing off.”
“Why did you come here, Mom?”
“I came here to stop you from throwing your life in the garbage. We worked so hard to give you opportunities we never had, and I can’t just let you squander them.” She looked down at her lap and teared up. “What would your father think?”
This struck a nerve, and Oliver’s face became white-hot. He sat for a moment, trying to collect himself and prevent her from seeing she’d shaken him. Without saying another word, he poured another glass of wine, stood up, and left his mom sitting on the back porch.
As he climbed the stairs to his room, he heard the scraping of canvas coming from Izzy’s studio.
He tried to tiptoe to the third-floor stairs, but he couldn’t escape the creak of the old floorboards.
“That was quick,” Izzy said from the studio.
He stuck his head through the crack in the door. She stood over a large canvas and squeezed out a blob of red paint from a tube. A blur of colors covered her feet, and it looked as if she’d been using her toes for brushes.
Pan sat in the far corner of the room, tucked away in a tiny doggie bed under a shelf of paint brushes, watching the odd scene unfold.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Oliver couldn’t hide his bright-red face, and Izzy must have picked up on his nervous energy.
“Do you really have to ask?” He took a large swig of wine.
Izzy shrugged her shoulders. “Bev?”
“She’s been playing nice, but she unloaded as soon as I apologized for hiding the move from her. She asked me what my father would think about me living with you and working at a bakery and tried to guilt-trip me about not telling her.”
“Yikes.” She made a long stroke with her big toe. “Well, you left the city a year ago, and the only reason she knows about it is because of me. Think that might give her the right to be a little irritated?”
She shuffled the drop cloth across the room with her feet until she was within arm’s length of him.
“Has she ever stopped to consider why I might have kept it from her? I’d never hear the end of how disappointing I was. How do you think it feels to hear you would have disappointed your dead father? To hear you’ve wasted thousands and thousands of your parents’ dollars by not using an education they helped pay for? Can you imagine the stress of having to deal with that? And to have to choose between disappointing your parents and making yourself happy?”
Izzy laughed. “Do you think it thrilled your great grandparents when I spent the year after high school living in a yurt on a communal farm? And look at me now!” Izzy gestured at her paint-covered feet. She had pulled her frizzy gray hair back into a chaotic bun that was splashed with acrylic.
Oliver tried to hold in his laugh.
“Think it made them happy I never married and had kids, when your grandmother married right after high school? Life’s tough, kiddo. You will only make it worse if you keep hiding from her. If you don’t explain yourself, she has no choice but to jump to her own conclusions.”
Izzy’s words caught him in the throat.
“You’re an adult,” she added. “If she doesn’t like the truth, then so be it, but you’re too old to be sneaking around like a teenager.”
Oliver looked down at Izzy’s paint-covered feet. “You’re right. I should have stood up for myself, told her the truth, and stopped being a baby a long time ago.”
Oliver stood over the work in progress. He took a moment to realize what Izzy had painted—an abstract landscape.
He stood and watched her paint for a few minutes until he heard his mom climb the stairs to her bedroom. He waited for her to settle in and lie down, making the box spring squeak. He swallowed his fear and stepped into the hallway.
“Thanks,” he said as he took the first step.
“I should charge for these pearls of wisdom,” she replied.
He took the stairs to the third floor. The lamplight from Bev’s bedroom cast a dim glow across the hardwood floor. He caught himself holding his breath as he approached, and his knock was timid.
“Come in,” she said.
Oliver pushed the door open. His mom lay in bed, glasses pushed far down her nose, attempting to focus on the text of her Danielle Steel, which she held out as far as her arms could manage.
He sat on the edge of her bed, a gesture that seemed to catch her off guard. “Can we
talk?”
“What can I do for you?” she asked, refusing to look up from her book.
“I shouldn’t have stomped off like that. I’m not a child, but the way you talk about Izzy is insulting. She has been nothing but supportive.” He rested his hand on her leg.
Bev set her novel facedown on the bed. “Perhaps I was harsh, but you can’t blame me for being angry, when you’ve been lying for an entire year.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the job. I thought I’d take some time off, find another job, and be on my way. I never expected to stay. It all happened so fast, and I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Would you have ever owned up to any of this if I hadn’t caught you?” she asked.
Oliver felt the lie on the tip of his tongue but pulled it back. “I would have had to, eventually. I couldn’t keep this from you forever, but the longer I waited, the harder it got.”
“I see.” She looked down at the bed.
“Come with us to the bakery tomorrow morning.” He threw out a life preserver. “We’re headed over to the flea market in Amberley. You could come with us—see what it’s like. We nearly sold out last weekend. I’ve been managing Izzy’s books, too, and business is booming. I think you’d be proud of me if you saw everything in action. It’s more work than you think.”
“We’ll see,” she replied.
“All right. Well, at least promise to think about it. We’ll be up bright and early. We could make a whole day of it, maybe see the city after the flea market.”
She nodded.
“I’ll leave you alone now. Maybe we can talk again tomorrow. Have a good night,” he said, turning toward the door.
Silence.
Oliver crossed the hall to his bedroom and set his alarm for early morning. Nekko had taken up her typical half of the bed, and he lay down, wide awake and stroking her orange fur.
I did my best, he thought. The ball’s in her court.
Chapter Four
Oliver cupped his hands around his coffee mug and let the smell of hazelnut fill his nose.
“She coming?” Izzy asked, pulling a jar of granola from the cupboard.
Oliver shrugged. “I’m sure she heard my alarm, but I think she’s still asleep.”
“Go wake her up.”
“I don’t want to bug her. She never said she would go. I’d just hoped…”
Izzy poured a bowl of granola and joined Oliver at the table.
“Juicing not doing it for you anymore?” he asked.
“Needed something crunchy.”
Oliver looked at his watch. “Better be off soon to help Anna.”
Based on last week’s success at the flea market, they’d planned ahead and had done most of the prep the day before.
Oliver grew impatient, and after several minutes of watching Izzy pick through her bowl for the best bits of dried fruits and nuts, he stood up and headed toward the staircase in the living room.
I will wake her up, he resolved.
As soon as his foot hit the first step, he heard the creak of his mother’s door. His spirits lifted as she plodded down the stairs.
“I’m not late, am I?” she asked.
“You’re just in time. I was on my way up to get you.”
“Shall we head off? I assume I’ll be able to grab a bite at the bakery.”
Bev entered the kitchen with Oliver following closely behind.
Izzy looked up from her bowl. “Decided to join us for an early morning bake-off?”
“I thought I might as well try it. Has anyone seen my purse?”
“It’s by the front door, I believe,” Izzy replied. “Go grab it, and we’ll meet you out front.”
After Bev left the room, Izzy stood up and approached Oliver, resting her hands on his shoulders. “See? Looks like honesty did wonders. For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. Pan’s proud of you, too, aren’t you Pan?”
Pan popped his head out from underneath the table.
Thunder echoed through the town as they climbed into the station wagon and drove to the bakery. Oliver pulled the car as close as he could to the back door, just in case the rain came early.
Bev helped Oliver fill up the baskets while Anna and Izzy worked the ovens. By midmorning, they’d loaded the station wagon once more and were prepared for the trip to Amberley.
“Coming with us?” Oliver asked Bev as she dabbed her forehead with a kitchen towel.
“I had no idea running a bakery was so much work.” She huffed. “I may have to sit this one out. I’m not sure I would be of much use at this point.”
“She can stay with me and mind the store.” Izzy turned to Bev. “Don’t worry, the bakery is always slow on rainy days. I have a few orders to fill, but other than that, we can sit and catch up.”
As Anna waited in the car and Oliver grabbed a few last-minute items for the tent, Bev cornered him in the kitchen. “Thanks for the invitation. Glad I came.” She opened her arms wide for a hug.
“Me too,” he replied, somewhat taken aback by the gesture.
He looked back as he closed the kitchen door behind him, and his mother stood watching with a smile.
“Hopefully, the rain holds off for the market,” Anna said as Oliver climbed into the car.
“Mm-hmm,” Oliver replied.
“Would be a shame if we couldn’t turn a profit today.”
“Yup.” Oliver kept his eyes locked on the road as he pulled out of town.
“We could always rob a bank on the way back—perhaps knock over a gas station.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Anna punched Oliver in the leg. “Hey!”
“What did you do that for?” He tried to massage out the pain.
“What is going on with you?”
“Sorry. I’m shocked that Mom came to the bakery this morning. I didn’t expect her to, and it means a lot that she made it.”
“I’ve only met her twice, but she seems fine. Maybe she’s a little snooty, but it’s clear she cares a lot about you.”
“You’re right. She’s trying, at least.”
Anna looked up at the menacing storm clouds. “I really hope this rain holds off.”
“The organizers said the rain was supposed to be spotty. Hopefully, we’ll get lucky. It’s the last flea of the season, so we should have a good turnout if the weather holds.”
The rain started when Oliver and Anna began unloading the station wagon and halted once they’d finished and were under the safe cover of the canvas tent. The clouds cleared by late morning, and a large crowd seemed to follow the sun as people shuffled into the park.
Morning bled into afternoon, and they had little time to rest amidst the flurry of customers. They’d sold most of their baked goods by late afternoon and finally had some downtime.
Oliver looked across the aisle at where Ruby’s tent had been. Instead of cozy purple curtains, the new occupant had lined the booth with old mirrors and trays of brass doorknobs. An elderly man sat guard in a folding lawn chair, chewing on a mystery substance like a grazing cow.
“Give me a hand with this, would you?” Anna was trying to lift a large cardboard box of honey onto the table. “He wants a case!”
Oliver turned toward a man who had pulled a large wad of cash from his wallet.
“I was telling Anna here, I bought a jar last week and loved the stuff. I’d like to test it out in my café. If it sells, perhaps we could make some sort of arrangement to carry it regularly.”
“Great!” Oliver replied, helping Anna lift the box and place it on the man’s cart.
“Izzy will be thrilled,” Anna said. “We’re completely sold out.”
Oliver held up a bun he’d accidentally crushed with his elbow earlier that morning. “What about this guy?”
“A gift for the birds,” she replied. “Let’s pack up.”
“Why don’t we go out and have a little fun tonight? The evening’s still young. How about a drink after we load up?” Oliver
asked. “Might as well see a bit of the city.”
“Sounds good. Based on how much money we’ve made today, we should set up shop here permanently.” Anna counted the contents of the money box under the table so as not to draw attention to the large stacks of cash.
“We’ll have to keep an eye out for storefronts to rent,” she said.
“Can you imagine Izzy running two bakeries?” Oliver asked.
“Good point, and she has a very strong stance against franchises.” Anna laughed.
“Still, if people will stock her honey, maybe we could get Rolling Pin pastries into Amberley shops too.”
Once they’d packed everything safely away in the station wagon, the duo walked through the parking lot toward the center of town. Brick row houses and storefronts crammed the Amberley blocks, and music drifted down the narrow streets. They passed an art gallery, which displayed a colorful abstract oil painting in the window.
“Has Izzy ever been here?” Oliver asked. “This place seems much more her style than Christchurch.”
“I think she gets her art supplies from a shop next to the college up the road. The rent around here is insane, though. Plus, I think she enjoys playing the role of the town eccentric. She wouldn’t be able to do that here. Could you imagine Izzy blending in? She’d be bored to death within a week.”
An acoustic crooner belted “The Times They Are a-Changin’” from his perch on the edge of a stone fountain. Anna and Oliver stood on the periphery of a small crowd gathered around the singer.
“Makes me wish I’d gone to college,” Anna said. “Spending nights out like this with cool friends, fancy cocktails, and music. What was it like?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he replied.
Oliver felt out of place—even old—next to the cluster of sharply dressed art students. His college experience had been nothing like this since he’d spent most of his time hunkered in windowless computer labs, poring over textbooks and computer models.
They stood and listened for a moment until Anna spotted a restaurant across the street.
“How about that place?” she asked.
