No Parking

by Valentine Wheeler

“Wipe your feet,” she retorted, pointing at his wet footprints.

  Kevin grumbled and did an about-face, scraping his shoes on the welcome mat. “Now can I have coffee?”

  Marianne laughed and handed him a mug. “You sticking around today, or are you racing off to the city again? I wouldn’t mind the company if you wanted to hang around.”

  “Slow day today,” he admitted. “Suddenly I’m finding I need to rest a whole day about once a week, like some kind of Old Testament God. Isn’t age grand?”

  Marianne nodded sympathetically. “I’m definitely feeling it, too, in this weather.” She shook her head. “Remember when we used to go hiking miles and miles every weekend? I used to know the Blue Hills trails better than parts of Swanley.”

  “I forgot about that.” He smiled fondly. “You should retire, Marianne. We could do some of those hikes again, a little slower.”

  “I can’t retire,” Marianne replied. “What would happen to the bakery?”

  He sighed. “I can’t believe none of the kids are interested.”

  “I can,” said Marianne. “They watched me give it everything and still struggle. And they’ve all got degrees and careers—even Jacob has a plan, now that he’s finally committing to school.”

  “You think he’s going to buckle down and finish his degree?”

  “I hope so.” Marianne leaned on the counter, stretching her back. It was stiff from her evening scrubbing out the ovens. “Even if he doesn’t, there’s nothing wrong with working for the Post Office the rest of his career. At least he’ll get a pension someday. Look at Doris. She’s been carrying mail twenty years, and she doesn’t look a day over thirty.”

  “I always hoped Anna would take over,” admitted Kevin. “She was the only one of our three I could see staying in Swanley.”

  Marianne sat down heavily on her stool. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to this place, Kevin. Not with everything going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Marianne sighed. “There’s some strange questions right now about the property; that’s all. The fact that we can’t find the record of who owns what part is very frustrating. And I heard a rumor Leventi wants to sell the other suite. And with the will we found, I don’t know what to think. Or what to do.”

  “Sell it? Why would he do that?”

  “Apparently, he has an offer from Dunkin’ Donuts. Think about what that would do to business here.”

  He winced. “It wouldn’t be good. I’d heard a rumor about something like that, but I didn’t know it was him. And I didn’t know he was planning to put it in the Cairo Grill. I should have mentioned it.”

  Marianne shook her head. “No reason you would have known it was relevant to me. That’s all right. But it won’t be good to my revenue. And it wouldn’t help the parking lot issue either. What if he puts in a drive-through?”

  “So, what are you thinking? Because I know you, Marianne, and you’ve got your plotting face on.”

  She straightened, putting her hands on her hips. “I think… I think my dad’s will is the clue we need to figure this out. I think maybe he never sold it, Kevin.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the only thing that makes sense. He never sold the building, not to Simon, not to Luke, not to anybody. He asked Simon to run things over there, and then Simon slowly took it over until everyone believed he owned it. Why would my dad have ever sold it? You know what this place meant to him, especially after Grandpa died.”

  “There’s no way.” Kevin shook his head. “That’s too unbelievable. How would he convince everyone?”

  “Easy. He was running the place, and nobody had seen my dad up and about for months. My mom was getting sicker every day, and he was dealing with untreated PTSD. It would be simple to make people believe my family sold it to pay for Mom’s treatment. And I was too young to know what was going on. By the time I took over, he could have fooled us all.” The more she thought about it, the more she believed it. “But how can I prove it?”

  “You have your deed, right?”

  “Well, yes, but it’s from 1866.”

  “Still, doesn’t that prove you own it? Real estate law was never my specialty, but that seems right to me.” He tapped the edge of the table first with his thumb and then his middle finger in a rhythm that had driven Marianne nuts when they were married.

  It didn’t bother her nearly as much now, and she once again sent a prayer of gratitude that they’d managed to stay friends after the divorce. They were better that way. She sighed. “I have no idea whether it’s valid after all these years.”

  “Well, it should be filed at city hall.”

  “They wouldn’t let me look, remember?”

  “They wouldn’t let you look; that’s right.” He stood, drawing himself to his full height and gave her that winning white smile he’d used in every city council campaign flyer for decades. “They’ll let me in.”

  Marianne shifted her weight, trying to explain. “I don’t want to go around the process, Kevin. The system is there for a reason.”

  “They’re the ones who are wrong here!” Kevin shook his head, running a hand through his hair and mussing his neatly brushed silver waves loose. “I know you disapprove of how I work. That’s not news to me. But sometimes the back way in works as well as—or better than—hitting from the front! If I have a key, why not let me use it?”

  “Because that’s cheating!” She wasn’t sure how to explain it more clearly. She wasn’t someone who used her connections to get what she wanted.

  Kevin threw his hands up, nearly shouting, “So’s taking a left on Oak Street after seven in the morning to cut your travel time by three minutes, and I’ve seen you do that a hundred times! This is just as close to legal!”

  Marianne stared at him for a second, suddenly fighting a smile. Kevin met her eyes, his sparkling with annoyance, and then they were both laughing, the tension broken. “Jesus,” said Marianne. “We’ve still got the fighting part of the marriage down.”

  “That’s the only part we were ever really good at,” said Kevin.

  “And raising kids,” corrected Marianne. “We brought up three pretty great ones.”

  He nodded. “That, too,” he sighed. “I want to help. I love this place, despite everything. It’s where our kids grew up. It’s where we grew up. And it’s good for the town. You always said the town was my favorite mistress, and you weren’t exactly wrong. You know how much I love it. I don’t want a Dunkin’ instead of Windmere. You know I don’t. So let me help you.”

  “Fine.”

  Kevin blinked, taken aback. “Really?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah. Go ahead. Give it a try. I could use the help, I guess.”

  He stared at her. “I—all right. I will.” He cleared his throat. “Well, the first step is to get that will filed with the probate court. It counts for squat until then.”

  “Will you help me do that?”

  “I can’t be your lawyer, Marianne. You know that, right? We’re family, and we have a history.”

  “Do I need a lawyer for this?”

  He shook his head. “For filing a will in probate? No, I can help you with the paperwork for that. But if things get sticky or if they aren’t as easy as we’re hoping they’ll be, then yes, you’ll need one.” He smiled. “And actually, I know just the lawyer for you. If it comes to that.”

  “Let’s do it then. Let’s file it.”

  *

  Rana’s shop always smelled so good: warm and spicy and delicious. It was a nice change from the sweet floury scent of the bakery. Marianne checked out the woman she’d just handed a falafel wrap to and then snuck a bite of pickled turnip from the condiments. She didn’t exactly like the flavor, but she couldn’t stop eating the little pink slivers.

  Rana’s shop was also a break from the constant caroling and bright lights strung around town. Marianne had never been a big Christmas fan. She and Kevin had always defaulted to his Jewish traditions—despite t
he last name McNamara, his family had been somewhat observant of his mother’s faith. She’d strung up lights along the windows in the bakery and put out snowmen cookies in the last week, filling dozens of orders for cookies for Santa. She’d never liked the Santa myth, and she especially didn’t like the number of parents who requested Santa-shaped cookies to leave for him. If Santa were real, Marianne couldn’t imagine him enjoying eating himself in effigy. Rana’s shop was a haven for agnostic grinches like her; snowflakes in the windows cut out by her smallest customers while waiting for their food were her only sign of the season.

  The door creaked open, Doris struggled through with her hands full of parcels and mail, and Marianne hurried out from behind the counter to hold the door open for her. Doris smiled and dug in her satchel, handing Marianne a few letters and a small manila envelope. “I thought I might find you here,” she said. I tried to make it before you closed, but we had a couple sick calls today on top of the Christmas volume and we’re all pulling double duty. Is Rana around?”

  “She had to run to the back for something,” said Marianne. “I’m watching the store for a minute. Do you want me to take her mail for her?”

  Doris smiled gratefully. “I’m way behind. You know what this season is like.” She pulled out a stack of small white envelopes and a large manila one with a barcode. “Can you sign for this one?”

  Marianne took the pen and signed the scanner and then took the pile.

  “Thanks, Marianne. See you tomorrow.” She waved and hurried back out to her truck.

  “Hope things get better out there,” Marianne called after her retreating back.

  “Was that Doris?” asked Rana as she reappeared from the office. “I meant to give her some mail to send out.”

  “Sorry,” said Marianne. “She was in a rush.” She offered Rana her mail. “She deputized me to deliver this.”

  Rana took the pile. “I think that might be a federal crime.”

  Marianne shrugged. “I’m a rebel. Anything good?”

  Rana frowned at an envelope.

  “What?”

  “It’s from Luke Leventi,” she said, tone wary. “I’ve already paid my rent, and he cashed the check. What else could he want?”

  “Maybe he’s finally fixing that pipe in the bathroom,” mused Marianne.

  “I think he would call for something like that.” Rana carefully tore open the envelope and pulled out the single page inside, scanning it. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “This letter. It says he won’t be renewing my lease.”

  “When does it end?”

  Rana shook her head. “February. But I already called to let him know I want to stay!”

  “Has he sent you a new lease?”

  “No,” said Rana. “He can do this?” She read the letter again, quickly. “He can do this, can’t he? Because he’s the landlord, he can decide I have to leave. But why? I’m paying my rent and keeping the place clean. How can he do this?”

  Marianne leaned over her shoulder, scanning the letter quickly. “Oh, that ass.”

  “What?”

  “She pointed to a paragraph near the bottom. “It says if you don’t notify him with 90 days’ notice by certified mail, he doesn’t have to renew.”

  “But this lease is supposed to be renewable! When I rented the space, I told him I planned to be here at least five years! How could he not tell me he was kicking me out? That’s not fair!”

  “Yeah, but the lease says he can do this, unfortunately.”

  “I know he wants to sell the place, but he shouldn’t be able to kick me out!”

  “I think it’s a message,” said Marianne. “I think it’s a message to me.”

  “To you?” Rana stared at her. “I’m being evicted, and you think it’s about you?”

  “I’m looking into his business—”

  “I know you are! But this is my life, Marianne! You own your bakery. I don’t. And now I have two months to find somewhere new.” She shook her head and squeezed back behind the counter. “I don’t think this is a great time for you to be here right now. Thanks for watching the shop.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marianne offered. “I know this isn’t about me. If you don’t want me around, I understand.” The pit of her stomach sat sour.

  Rana sighed. “Just give me a little while to figure out my next steps, Marianne. I’m not ending our friendship. I need some time, all right? This is going to be awful, and you aren’t making it any better.”

  Marianne stared at her for a moment and then turned and went back outside. She hadn’t thought about what would happen if Luke found out she was investigating his claim to the building. She probably should have. She’d thought if she could prove her ownership, everything would stay the same. Except even if she did prove it, things would change. She’d be Rana’s landlord. That would change everything by itself. The wild little dream she’d been holding onto of Rana growing old with her in shops side by side, partners in business and in love, fizzled and popped.

  She took a deep breath. She couldn’t back off now—that would ensure she never got her rightful property back. And now she’d cost Rana her security, and maybe her business, if this didn’t go well. She had to figure out how to stop that sale and fix this somehow.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Unfortunately, nothing involving the town was going to be fast or easy, not in late December and right before the special election primary. Marianne didn’t know how the week before Christmas had snuck up on her so quickly— it had been mid-November last time she’d checked the calendar, and despite the snow and the decorations, she wasn’t ready for it to be Christmas quite yet.

  Her kids had stopped asking if she wanted them home for Christmas years ago; she sent them Hanukkah presents every year, and they came home for Passover and Anna sometimes stayed a week or two. But watching everyone else’s families come in late December always left Marianne a little bereft.

  Kevin would probably call her Christmas morning, and she’d watch her usual X-Files marathon that night. Other than that, she’d been hoping Rana might want to have dinner since she didn’t celebrate Christmas either. But now, Rana would be in her apartment across town tonight, and tomorrow she’d be a dozen yards away in her own shop, feeding the few residents of Swanley who either didn’t celebrate Christmas, or who needed to escape their own families for a while.

  Marianne’s shop would be open a shortened day Christmas Eve—she was letting herself sleep in for a few hours and only opening after ten since very few people would be out and about that morning. She wouldn’t bake much in the morning: mostly loaves of bread for people’s Christmas dinners and the pao de quiejo filled with ham that she made every year for Ray and his snowplow crew. Word had gotten out about them, and now she had a whole fan club for them. She didn’t make them year-round—people could drive into Framingham to get them from actual Brazilians—but on Christmas, she was the only pao game in town. She was somewhat glad there wouldn’t be many customers—discussion the last few days had been all about the special election, and she was tired of worrying about it.

  Instead, she pulled out a box from the closet and dusted it off, pulling the flaps open. Back before her mother died, they’d done big Christmases every year. She still had this box of stuff—all that was left of those celebrations. She started unpacking the box, each layer making her more nostalgic.

  Here was the ornament she’d made in first grade, her handprint in some kind of clay and painted with red and green and circled with lace. And here was the blown-glass bird she’d never been allowed to touch, nestled in its wooden box that her mother’s father had made by hand back in Greece. Beside it rested a small framed picture from her parents’ wedding, a string attached with a plaque with their anniversary date in an etched heart. She picked it up, admiring her mother’s wide tulle skirt and lace veil. Her father stood beside her, his face filled with joy. She hadn’t seen that joy often after the war and
after her mother died.

  She’d never seen it on a picture of her and Kevin either. They’d married so young, been together so long, slowly sucking each other dry of the friendship and compassion they’d shared as kids, so by the time they’d divorced, they had nothing to say to each other. Only the last few years, after a decade avoiding each other, that they’d rekindled the friendship they should have kept all along. She wouldn’t trade her kids for anything—the marriage had been worthwhile just for the three of them—but she wondered what a life would have been with someone she matched well. She hadn’t dated anyone since the divorce, and only Tori before Kevin. That had been high school forty years ago. It was hard to admit, but she finally could—she was lonely. She missed having someone to share her life with—a teammate and partner. She could take or leave the naked parts—the companionship, ease, and love were what she missed most.

  Marianne didn’t know if Rana was that person for her. She didn’t know if she’d ever get the chance to find out. But she wanted to try. She wanted a friend she’d made on her own terms, not one she’d known for forty years. Maybe if the whole situation with the deed and with Luke got resolved, there’d be less strangeness to fight through between the two of them. Because when they were together, when things were good, and no outside forces were adding stress and nonsense, everything was easy and fun between her and Rana. Attraction aside, she liked her. She liked her, and she wanted to be near her.

  She poked the fire with the iron, watching the sparks drift around the burning logs. She’d figure this out. Maybe next December, they’d share the fire and the muffled sounds of carols, eating lo mein and watching Mulder and Scully. She hoped so.

  *

  Two days later, Marianne sat glued to the television. The forecast had called for snow, the day of the election, and Marianne had been hoping it would pass quickly or wear itself out over Albany or Springfield before it even got to Swanley. No such luck. By the evening, six inches had accumulated over twelve white mid-December hours, and voter turnout wasn’t looking good. That didn’t bode well for Ms. Hechevarria, Luke Leventi’s opponent. Her supporters tended toward reliance on public transit or rides from friends, as well as trending young. And in a race between two Democrats whose policy differences weren’t the huge chasm they’d be in states less liberal than Massachusetts, Marianne figured a lot of people probably looked outside and said either one is good enough.