“Good afternoon, Mr. Brockmeyer. Is Scarlet ready?” I followed Don in. I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t knocked. I swore I wasn’t a freak, just staring at their front door, contemplating their granddaughter’s life.
“Yes, she’ll be right out.” He looked out the window. “I see Red is holding up all right.”
“She is. As soon as I save up the money, I’ll get her painted the cherry red I mentioned last week. Tony, from Tony’s Auto Repair, is going to paint it.”
“Heard about that. Well, she’ll be a beauty, son.”
Scarlet walked into the kitchen, where we were standing, wearing a tank top and cutoff shorts. “Bye, Granddad.” Scarlet kissed Don on the cheek. “I’ll be home a bit later.”
I begged my eyes not to stare at the way her tank top fit her body in all the right places.
Her eyes twinkled when she looked at me. “Ready?”
I nodded. “Bye, Mr. Brockmeyer. I’ll take care of her.”
Don shook his head. “I never doubt that, Cash.”
Centerville Road twisted and turned out toward the beach with glimpses of the Pacific through the trees, and then it finally came into view.
Scarlet looked out the window, a little distant this afternoon.
“You okay?” I asked, sliding my hand to her thigh.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About dying.”
My heart stopped. “Why?” I blurted out.
Slowly, she turned her head to me, but she was quiet. “Cash, we’re all going to die someday. Each and every one of us. Nobody gets out alive.” Scarlet giggled and tickled my side. “Come on,” she whispered. “Don’t get grumpy. If I can’t tell you what’s on my mind, how on earth are we going to live life together for the next eighty years?”
Her words brought a calm to my clammy hands, my heart.
“It’s weird how death is there, waiting at the back door of life. We know it’s there. We know it’s inevitable. And there’s no good time to go, right? Young people, like me, think they still have their whole lives to live. Middle-aged people think they haven’t finished raising kids or completed the goals they set out for in life. And old people, well, maybe some of them are just fine with going to heaven, but maybe some of them aren’t. Maybe some of them still have their husbands or wives, and they’re scared of leaving them. But every one of us will experience death in different ways, same ways. And the grief for those still living … the grief can be awful. While I haven’t experienced grief to that extent, I know it’s coming. I think at least. So, that’s what I was thinking about.”
I asked the question my heart begged me not to. “What if you die before you experience grief?”
She smiled, stared at the Pacific Ocean, her hand laced in mine. “I think dying without experiencing grief is the easy way out.”
And she was absolutely right.
“I think that grief is harder. I’ve thought a lot about this. I thought of leaving you, Grandma and Granddad, and my mom behind if I died. It would be far harder for you guys to cope. But not me because I’ll be dead.”
Scarlet laughed.
I didn’t.
“How can you talk about this so easily, Scar?” My tone was sharp. “This isn’t funny. This is your life we’re talking about!”
She looked back from the ocean and met my gaze, unscathed by my tone or my words. “What if we had the inability to love? What if we walked around this earth without sex, romantic picnics, hugs and kisses, and heartwarming moments of compassion and empathy? Because that’s love too, right?” She was quiet for a moment, but her stare burned a hole into the side of my face.
“You’re mad because this is the price you pay for love. So, be happy God gave us the ability to love. We could walk around this earth like a bunch of zombies.” She went back to staring out at the ocean.
My hand tightened around hers. This is the price I pay for loving Scarlet unconditionally. The worry, the fear, the sleepless nights, all of it.
“You’re right,” I said.
I’d rather picture the next eighty years together, so that was what I did. I forced myself to look at our time together than the time we were not together.
I took a left onto a dirt road and drove up the hill. “My grandparents own this chunk of property right up here.” I looked up through the windshield.
I had just been up here yesterday and the day before and the day before, working on finishing touches. I wanted everything to be perfect for Scarlet.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
We plateaued at the top of the hill, and Scarlet popped out of the truck. I was sure she felt much better when her body wasn’t being pumped full of chemicals that wreaked havoc on her insides, trying to fight the disease that could kill her.
“Cash, this … this is amazing!” she said.
I turned and looked. I’d seen this view before. The ocean, the trees that framed the view, where farmland littered the land below. But now, I saw Scarlet in the frame—her hands at her hips; her turning and smiling at me; her hair in a different shade of red, billowing in the breeze—the blue sky in front of her. She was my home, my refuge, and I would fight for that view for as long as I could.
She stood there for several moments, taking in her surroundings. I stood several feet behind her, leaned on the truck, and watched her.
Finally, she turned and walked toward me. I saw the tears that had formed in her eyes.
“Are you about to cry?” I asked, my voice softer than earlier. “What’s wrong?” I pulled her to me.
“No, it’s the wind. It’s fine,” she said and looked up at me. “What are we doing here?”
I took her by the hand and led her a few yards to the right.
She held her breath for a minute and stared back at me. “A tree house?”
I could see the excitement on her face.
I retrieved her list from my back pocket. “Number nine, right?”
She dropped her head to her chest, smiled, and wrapped her arms and legs around me. Kissed my neck.
Stay in the moment, Cash.
Her chest rested against mine.
I wondered if two heartbeats could ever beat in unison. If two hearts could ever connect as deeply as ours had on so many different levels and so many different ways.
After a moment, I set her down and took her face into my hands. “No matter what, Scar, promise me, whatever shit life throws at us, we’ll make it.”
So sure of herself and us, she took me by the hand. Without doubt, without fear, without a care in the world, she simply said, “I’ve never thought different.”
I pulled her under my arm and led her to the tree house I’d built with Conroy’s help.
“I can’t believe you built this for me.”
Without a door, it was a single-story tree house with a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot floor plan. It was plain, but on the floorboard by the door, it said, Cash Atwood and Scarlet Brockmeyer. Forever and always. June 2008.
But I’d wait for her to find it one day.
“This is perfect, Cash.” She ran her hand along the window frame.
“I didn’t put a window in it because I wanted you to be able to hear the ocean.”
She smiled. “What about our stuff?”
“Already packed sleeping bags and marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers. What more do we need?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Come on. Let’s go get our stuff at the truck.”
The sun prepared the sky for its departure with brilliant oranges and reds. It reminded me of Scarlet’s peace—how a life could be so simple, so cut and dry—like a blue sky, and it wasn’t until the simplicity faded and the hard came that we began to see life in brilliant color, but only after the healing started.
The fire in front of us crackled to life, and I watched as the flames danced and the sunset waited for us.
“I could be in this moment ri
ght here forever, Cash.”
“Me too.” I kissed the top of her head as she sat between my legs, resting her back against my chest. “But you’re an awful marshmallow roaster.”
I took the stick from her, blew out the flame, took the old marshmallow off, and put on a new one. Handed her the stick back.
“Just a golden yellow,” I told her, knowing she’d inevitably burn it.
“I don’t know what you expect when you bring me up to a beautiful place with beautiful company and assume I won’t get distracted.”
I didn’t answer her. I just smiled. “I guess I’ll spend the next eighty years blowing out your burned marshmallows.”
“And I’ll spend the next eighty years keeping the flame going.”
“For the next eighty years.”
“For the next eighty years.”
37
The Ladybugs
Present Day 2020
The pile of notes sits on The Ladybugs’ table at Dillon Creek Pizza.
“Junie, what’s this all about?” Clyda asks as Mabe, Delveen, and Pearl follow Junie into Dillon Creek Pizza.
To the right, next to the window, their table is full of white pieces of folded paper.
The Lunch Guys follow the women in, not to play their dice, but to participate in what’s about to happen. Behind them, every single author of each note on the table file into Dillon Creek Pizza.
There are four chairs for each woman at the side of their old table.
“Please, ladies, have a seat, and then we’ll tell you what this is all about,” Junie says.
The four women sit, and everyone gathers around.
Laura takes her note from the table. “The Ladybugs helped my family after we lost everything in a fire. Our house had burned to the ground, and The Ladybugs helped raise over fifty thousand dollars to help replace what we’d lost.” Laura takes her note and disappears into the crowd of people.
Gerry, a single mother of two girls, takes her note and reads it. “The Ladybugs gave my daughter a scholarship to the university of her choice in the amount of five thousand dollars for each year she attends school. Not only that, but Erla also helped her write her admissions essay. Now, my daughter is a PhD candidate at Northwestern.” Gerry nods to the women, takes her note, and goes to the back of the crowd.
Laurel Atwood takes her note from the table and reads it. “The Ladybugs helped raise a community to be thoughtful, mindful, and helpful. They taught us what it means to give to others before ourselves. They are the epitome of what community means.”
And the notes are read and read and read until the very last one, which is Junie’s note.
“You kept Dillon Creek Pizza afloat while we were gone in the city. If it wasn’t for you five, Dillon Creek Pizza wouldn’t exist. Please, please, please, reconsider your decision of the hiatus,” Junie asks.
Delveen, Pearl, and Mabe exchange glances with tears in their eyes, but it’s Clyda who stands for the group.
“We’ve done this deal for a long time. I think I can speak for the group when I say, this gratitude is profoundly touching. While we did our absolute best while we served as The Ladybugs, it is also with grace and faith that we lean into the spirit of rotation and allow another group of fine women and/or men to step into The Ladybugs and serve the town of Dillon Creek—hell, Humboldt County. We’re getting to an age where our minds tend to take mini vacations and our bodies don’t work quite like they should.” Clyda pauses for a moment in an effort to keep her composure.
“Erla would have wanted The Ladybugs to continue, but she, too, believed it needed to move into a new set of hands with fresh ideas and a youthful energy for such work.
“On behalf of The Ladybugs, thank you for loving us and showing us what community is. All of these notes and all of the handwritten thank-yous that we’ve received over the years have not gone unnoticed, nor do they go unappreciated. So, thank you, Dillon Creek. It has been a ride.”
Even though The Ladybugs have declined the offer to continue, the crowd still cries with admiration and appreciation. And it sure feels like a happy ending.
After the crowd disperses, Junie approaches Clyda. “You all have been a blessing these past years, and I looked forward to your monthly meetings. Your emergency meetings, your laughter, your conversation. You will be missed immensely. I hope you all will still come in and eat here.”
“Without a doubt, Junie.” Clyda reaches in for a hug.
“Bo blew my mind when he made the calls to all these people to see if they’d read what they had written.”
“What?” Clyda asks in confusion.
“Oh, yes. Laura started the notes.”
“Bo?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Clyda remembers a time when Bo and she were sweet on each other. Sure, they were just kids, maybe nine or ten. Then, Borges came into the picture, and the rest is history. But if he hadn’t entered the picture, Bo would have been a close second. And it wasn’t his looks, or his admirable smile, or the way he cared. It was because Clyda knew deep down that he’d love her with all he had and that she could trust they would have a good life together. It wasn’t so surprising that Carl had asked first. In fact, Clyda had hoped he’d ask first because she knew if Bo did and he died, it might have just broken Clyda too.
Things happen for a reason. Timing is everything.
“Keep in touch,” Junie says. She touches Clyda’s arm and walks away.
Bo takes off his cowboy hat and approaches Clyda. His almost-transparent blue eyes sparkle from the natural light of the restaurant.
“You know I couldn’t let you guys just leave Dillon Creek Pizza without a last-ditch effort.” Bo rubs his stubble with the palm of his hand, looking at Clyda, bashful.
Bo didn’t arrange this because he’d always had a thing for Clyda; he did this because he was a kind man.
“I appreciate your effort, Bo. More than you know.” She touches his hand.
Clyda doesn’t do this for false pretenses, nor does she do this because she has feelings for him. She did at one time. But she’s accepted the feelings and allowed them to sit back and watch life take course.
“Don’t be a stranger, Clyda.”
“I could say the same for you. Keep Junie busy, would you?”
“Not a problem.” He laughs. “Hell, I’ll probably die in that chair.” He thumbs back to his seat at The Lunch Guys’ table.
Bo turns, places his cowboy hat on his head, and walks toward the door.
“And, Bo?” Clyda calls after him.
He turns. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Bo tips his hat. “Pleasure is all mine.”
38
Scarlet
Present Day 2020
Before I leave for my weekly scheduled dinner with Anna, I pull out my phone and look at the text I sent Cash a day ago after our whatever it was—a fight, an argument, over something so silly. I’d written the text in the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep, when my heart was somehow open and vulnerable.
Me: Can we talk?
Sure, it was three in the morning, and it was marked delivered over fifteen hours ago.
I leave my phone at home because, right now, it’s just an added distraction, and I make the short drive to dinner on Main Street.
Something always magical happens when I pull onto Main Street during December, and it makes me miss this place more than I’d like to admit. In the last fifteen hours, I decided for sure that I am going back to Boston, that I’m going to have another realtor list the house, and that I’d meet with Trident Investment Properties—Frank’s biggest business rival.
Paul, the CFO of Trident, called me yesterday to meet. I explained that I had a situation going on, one that I needed to iron out the wrinkles of, nothing big, and that I’d be back in Boston by Christmas Eve. I booked my flight back to Boston. Arranged for a moving company to pick up the Keep pile. For some reason, they’re backlogged. I sup
pose it’s the holidays, but it will take two weeks for them to just pick up the stuff, and I need to be here when that happens. Now, I just need to figure out what to do with the Unsure pile and donate the rest.
I park the car next to The Flowerpot.
It’s dark outside, but between the lampposts and the Christmas lights down Main Street, it’s bright.
I grab my purse and lock the car just as I hear, “Oh,” behind me.
I turn to see Mabe. A look of shock and sadness registers on her face.
“Mabe? Are you all right?” I walk to her and touch her shoulder.
“It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She swallows, smiles, and shakes her head, staring down at her feet for a quick moment. “I’m sorry, Scarlet. I saw your grandmother’s car, and just for a second, I thought that losing Erla was just a bad dream. That she was alive and her car was here to prove it. It’s funny what the mind does, isn’t it?”
She meets my gaze as my insides freeze. I see the grief in Mabe’s eyes.
“Yes.” And I do something I don’t normally do. I pull her to me by her shoulders and give her a hug, and when I do, I feel Mabe take a big, deep breath.
We stand here for a moment, together, under the magic of Christmas and darkness that will hopefully be in our rearview mirror soon, when only small amounts of grief take up just minutes of our life instead of days.
“Now, what’s this I hear about The Ladybugs disbanding or going on a hiatus?” I say, trying to change the subject.
Mabe eyes me curiously. “Is that why you invited us over for dinner the other night?”
“Maybe.”
“I knew you were up to something! I told Clyda, it’s not like Scarlet to invite a bunch of old women over. She’s not a small-talk kind of woman.”
I don’t know whether to be offended by Mabe’s comment or to laugh. She’s right though; I’m not for small talk, but these women were important to my grandmother. The Ladybugs were important to my grandmother. These were her best friends, and here they are, breaking up because their grief is too heavy to bear. And I remember what took place instead of having The Ladybugs over—Cash and I got into a fight instead.
Leaving Scarlet Page 20
