Ember steals quietly back in the room, holding a neatly folded pair of jeans. I notice that she wears a long necklace that hides between the folds of fabric on her loose dress. It’s a thin gold chain with an owl with tiny jewels for eyes on the end. Somehow it reminds me of Charly and the rings she wears on every finger. But Charly isn’t here, and Ember hands the pair of jeans to her mother, snubbing me already.
“Perfect,” Mia says, ignoring the slight and tossing the jeans at me. “We’ll let you change.” She leaves the room, Ember following and shutting the door as quietly as possible.
There’s nothing left to do but go along with them for now. Once I get a better feel for the place, I can figure out my exit strategy. I toe off my sneakers and pull off my loose, ripped jeans. Then I unzip the hoodie and tug it off. The white, stained men’s T-shirt beneath reveals my bare arms. I haven’t looked at the marks for a while, a constellation of five perfectly round pink scars on the inside of my left forearm. Once Shane traced them with his finger and swore that they looked like the Big Dipper. I don’t look at them if I can help it. That’s what’s so great about hoodies. They hide everything.
I pull on the new jeans—which I can tell are used, but clean and without holes—and then the shirt. The outfit shows off my body in a way I haven’t for years. It’s safer to be on the streets and alone in motels if you’re an indeterminable sex in a baggy hoodie and loose jeans. The henley and tight jeans hug my curves, and the three-quarter-length sleeves reveal three of my round scars.
My skin heats, something twisting ever so slightly in my gut when I see my reflection in the mirror: not a nameless, faceless person on a city street, but a Trix McCabe I haven’t seen since the Good Year. Palms sweating, I wipe them on the jeans as I look anxiously around the room until I notice a gold wedding ring among a handful of costume jewelry and tubes of lipstick on the dresser. I swipe it with a swift, even motion despite my nerves and tuck it into the pocket of my jeans. It’s best to have insurance. I don’t think I’ll last long here.
Before I leave Mia’s bedroom, I try to tug the left sleeve of the shirt down, but it won’t go any farther. Some of my scars will always show, whether I want them to or not.
Three
EMBER AVOIDS MY GAZE AS we drive into town. Despite the uneven country roads, Auntie uses the visor mirror in the passenger seat to apply red lipstick, smacking her lips when she’s through. Mia tells me it’s only a mile or so as the crow flies, which feels like a strange way to measure after growing up counting distance in city blocks and bus stops. I hold my hoodie in my lap, still feeling uncomfortable with my bare arms and snug clothing. Ember and I are sitting side by side on the bench seat in Mia’s old Suburban, but she is careful not to touch me or look at me. I wonder if she hates me already. I can deal with hate. It’s pity I can’t stand.
Town is a loose term for the collection of buildings I see as we enter. The sign for Rocksaw says, “Population 5,062.” It’s picture-book pretty, with big trees that divide the lanes of traffic in the middle of the brick-paved Main Street. The road is lined with raised sidewalks and storefronts that feature hand-lettered signs advertising things like “Fall Lumber Sale,” “New Scarves,” “Buy Local, Save Big!”
On the end of the second block sits a small shop with big windows and a door situated exactly on the corner of the building itself. The wooden building is painted burgundy, the windows edged with gold paint that’s starting to peel a little. A sign hangs out over the sidewalk, swinging in the breeze. It says, “McCabe Bakery & Tea Shoppe, est. 1919.” Red roses with twining green stems and leaves are painted on either side of the words, their colors faded from the sun.
There’s a growing cluster of people gathered around the sign in the window that reads, “Delayed Opening Saturday Morning.” When Mia parks in front of the business and gets out of the car, the crowd gets louder, their voices carrying through the open door.
“You’re finally here!” a woman exclaims, as if we were arriving with some sort of lifesaving medicine in the middle of an epidemic. “We thought maybe something terrible had happened.”
Another huffs, “I told you their niece was arriving today.”
I listen for more about the mysterious niece, but there’s nothing. I wonder what story the McCabes told about me and why I’m here.
One of the waiting women seizes Mia in a hug, thanking her for something involving pie, and when Mia manages to extricate herself, she hurries to unlock the front door, ushering in the crowd after. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, but I get out of the car anyway, watching the people.
“Trix!” Auntie shouts as she climbs down from the Suburban. “Come help Ember with the pies.”
“Thank God, the pies,” a young woman says from the sidewalk. She’s wiping her eyes, which are red-rimmed, like she’s been crying.
Three more women push into the shop, carrying tote bags with bits of yarn and what might be a half-knitted sock hanging out. It’s hard to look away from them as they clamber to get inside.
I circle around to the back of the Suburban, which Ember has opened. Inside are huge metal trays of pies. Some are topped with a sugar-dusted crust, others with crisscrossed strips of pastry that reveal juicy innards, and still more with crowns of meringue. Without so much as a glance at me, Ember grabs one tray, hoists it to her shoulder with practiced ease, and takes it up onto the sidewalk and into the shop. I assume that I’m supposed to grab the other one, so I pick it up, panicking when the pies slide to one side of the tray. Luckily I don’t drop any, and I’m able to right it and follow Ember inside.
The inside of the shop is filled with small tables with delicate chairs, though the right wall has a line of four booths, one of which is already filled with the knitting group. The walls are the same burgundy color as the outside of the shop, relieved here and there with old carved moldings in mauve and gold. It would be dark if it weren’t for the light spilling in the windows and the brass chandeliers hanging from the pressed-tin ceiling.
The left side of the shop has a big glass case with a rounded top, and Ember is busy filling it with her selection of pies. Mia is arranging a chocolate cake on a pink glass plate, covering it carefully with a clear glass topper. There’s a small wooden counter with a register at one end of the case that looks like it must have been with the place since it opened in 1919. Behind the counter is a swinging door, and when Mia ducks back in to grab something else, I catch a glimpse of Auntie at a massive stove, putting on a big iron kettle.
I slide the tray up on top of the glass case, and Ember takes it without making eye contact again, sliding the pies off the tray and placing them gently in the case, as carefully as Charly putting the Quinter twins down for a nap.
I wander back into the kitchen, where Mia meets me. “Perfect! I was just coming out to get you.” She tosses an apron to me.
“What is this for?” I ask, unfolding it. It’s short and black with front pockets.
“Work, of course. All the McCabe women work in the shop. It’s a tradition.”
“What’s the pay?” I ask as I tie the apron around my waist and dig into one pocket to find a notepad and pen. I’ve never worked a regular job. Jobs require some sort of stability, like staying in one place for an extended period, which I’m not great at. And when you’re working with other people, sooner or later they get all chummy and want to know your life story. Mine’s not one I like to share. Besides, why work at all when I can steal?
“Minimum wage. Do your job well and we’ll look at giving you a raise in a month,” Mia says.
I almost brag that I could wander among the customers out there and have more money in a day than she could pay me in a week. But I don’t. There’s no point.
“Great,” Mia says, as if I’m not staring her down. “Go on out and start taking orders. Tell the customers that we’ve got the kettles on. Tea will be coming out shortly. Refills are complimentary here, you know. And so are the readings.” She lists these things out on
her fingers in a matter-of-fact way.
“The readings?” I ask.
“Auntie’s readings. She’s always giving them out. But we never charge for fortunes. Because if she’s wrong, people might want a refund. But usually”—she makes a face that indicates she’s not quite sure how to phrase her thoughts—“it’s hard to tell exactly what Auntie’s readings mean.”
“So she just spouts off weird shit like she did to my caseworker?”
If Mia has sensitive ears, she doesn’t show it. “Fortune-telling isn’t a science. It’s an art. And sometimes art is messy,” she says with a shrug.
“Are you a fortune-teller, too?” I ask.
“Oh, of course not!” Mia says with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “I bake. That’s why the bakery part of the business is so popular. Before I moved back, Auntie’s muffins were legendary only for their ability to double as hockey pucks.” A glance back through the swinging door as Ember enters reveals the dining area is nearly full now.
“They must be good pies.”
“Oh, they are. Never-Lonely Lemon is always a hot seller before the holidays start ramping up. And then there’s Bracing Blueberry. Cherish Cherry. Lucky Lime. Ardent Apple.”
“Excuse me?”
“My pies have a secret ingredient that, well . . . helps out however it’s needed.”
“You’re saying your pies can cure those things? Or make them happen, or whatever?” I ask. “That’s ridiculous.”
Mia sighs. “No, honey. You being a McCabe woman and not believing me is ridiculous. I bet you’ve got some special talents of your own, too. It’s genetic.”
“Well, we both know that’s the only thing we have in common. Half my DNA,” I mutter, still irritated that I’m supposed to jump right in and join the family business when I only found out the family existed a few days ago.
Mia pretends she didn’t hear me and nudges me toward the door. “Now, go take orders. It’s not rocket science, and the customers know the procedure. They’ll train you as you go.”
I leave the kitchen and make my way to the closest table, which is occupied by the young woman with the red eyes and balled-up tissues. She’s wearing a lumpy sweatshirt and leggings, her hair twisted into a messy bun. “Bracing Blueberry, please. Tell Mia not just a slice. I need at least two. Actually, just keep them coming. And a cup of chamomile.”
I jot down her order, glancing up once to stare at her while she blows her nose loudly into one of the tissues. She looks like she might start crying again at any moment.
“It’s my own fault,” she tells me, crumpling the used tissue and dropping it onto the table. “Auntie told me storms were on the horizon for me. And she was right. I should have seen the signs. Ben dumped me. Six months! Six months we were together!”
I don’t know what to say, and crying makes me uncomfortable, so I wander over to the next table as inconspicuously as possible. Two women are sitting there, both middle-aged and sighing over stacks of magazines, flipping through pages and gesturing at articles.
“Never-Lonely Lemon for me,” the first woman says. “And the rosehip tea.”
“A raspberry muffin,” the second woman says. She hesitates before she adds, “And a cup of coffee, if Auntie says it’s all right.”
“It’s a café, right?” I ask. “Don’t they make what you want?”
“Oh, no,” the muffin woman says, sitting up straighter. “This is a tea shop, and Auntie only makes coffee when she feels like it.”
“Got it,” I say, jotting it down on my notepad.
“But maybe,” the muffin woman says, lowering her voice even though the chatter around us would drown out a helicopter landing, “add a slice of Ardent Apple in a takeout box.”
“Yeah, okay,” I tell her, making a note. I can’t believe these people actually buy into this whole magic-pie gig.
I take the orders of a few more tables before I deliver them back to the kitchen, and then return to take the remaining orders from two more tables and the booths in the back. Aside from the group of women knitting, there’s another booth of old farmers, three wearing dusty jeans and cowboy boots and one in overalls, who ask if Mia made any of her banana-nut muffins, and whether or not I think Auntie is in the mood to make coffee today. When I return with the second set of orders, the first are ready to be delivered. Mia is loading up the first tray with blueberry pie and chamomile in a delicate china cup with roses painted on the sides. “I could use some help,” I say pointedly to Ember, who is loading tea diffusers with rose petals. “It’s kind of busy out there.”
Ember’s green eyes widen, and she scurries back into what must be a walk-in cooler.
“Oh, this is normal for a Saturday,” Mia says as she slices pie. “And you shouldn’t pressure Ember into going into the dining room. It’s hard for her, you know.”
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, so I shoot back, “That’s a lot of tables to wait on all by myself.”
“But you’re doing great!” Mia cheers, sliding a piece of pie onto a plate. She pushes the tray toward me. “Oh, and if Ella with the Bracing Blueberry starts to perk up, you should tell her I have it on good authority that Morris Walker is back in town, and he’s single and looking real good these days.”
I don’t know Ella or Morris, but I feel like there’s some serious favoritism going on here. Was I brought here just to be a waitress? Were they looking for cheap labor? Is Mia trying to remind me that Ember is the real McCabe daughter and I’m merely some girl thrust on them by social services?
The crying woman, who must be Ella, grabs the pie off the tray when I return. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes through a mouthful of pie as I set the cup of tea down sloppily. It spills a little, but it doesn’t look like Ella’s going to complain about anything right now.
“Do you really think the pie is going to help?” I ask Ella when she’s swallowed a couple of bites with very little chewing.
Ella nods, dabbing at her eyes. “It does. Trust me. I’ve been coming here since Mia moved to town. Three boyfriends ago. It always works.”
“It’s just pie, though.” I keep waiting for someone to crack a smile, let me know that this is some kind of joke.
Ella shrugs. “Everyone in Rocksaw was a nonbeliever at one point. But Mia converted us. She brings a whole new meaning to the words comfort food.” She sniffs and looks up at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Wait, you must be the niece?” she says.
I nod.
“I’ll see you Monday, then. Try to forget this ever happened,” Ella says, gesturing to her crumpled tissues and red face.
“Um, yeah,” I mumble, confused by the strange people in this town.
I move on to the table of two older women with magazines. I’m still a little unnerved by the town’s devotion to this supposedly magic pie, but I try to move past that and do my new job. Auntie did deign to make a pot of coffee, and I’m careful not to splash as I set their cups down on the table and barely manage to keep the serving tray from wobbling at the same time. Maybe I’ll get tips, right? There must be tips involved here. Anything to help me build up a stash for when it’s time to hit the road.
“Oh, it’s a coffee day!” the muffin woman exclaims, hand over her heart.
“Auntie and Mia must be happy about your arrival, huh?” the Never-Lonely Lemon woman asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the new niece, right? Mia was talking about you last week. Said you were coming to live with them. Something about how your mom was going to be gone on a trip for a while?”
I can feel myself bristling. What the hell did Mia tell these people?
It must show on my face, because the muffin woman continues down a different conversational path. “Well, it’s a small town, so you know we’re always excited about new faces. And a McCabe? Well, they’re always interesting people to meet.” She raises her eyebrows, like she’s waiting for me to tell her that I can make magic bagels.
�
��Sure,” I reply, leaving them to eat and drink and gossip about me and my potential talent in peace. If they only knew what I could do.
I covertly watch Ella eat her Bracing Blueberry. By the second slice, she’s stopped sniffling, and another woman her age has joined her and ordered a slice of Never-Lonely Lemon that comes wearing a fluffy crown of gold-tipped meringue. In another hour and another slice apiece, they’re both laughing. When Auntie throws me a rag to wipe empty tables, I muse to myself that technically the pie didn’t cure anything for Ella, and the only thing I really saw was a friend come cheer her up while she was eating pie.
I look at the pies at the counter and wonder which ones might cure what ails me.
If they work.
Which they probably don’t. At least my gift is effective.
It’s on my seventh trip back to the kitchen for refills that Mia finally notices the scars on my left arm. She flinches, the same way everyone does when they first see them, like they hurt to look at. I slide the tray onto the counter to load it with more tea, and then, in a practiced habit, I pull my arm back against my side when I’ve finished, hiding the marks from view.
“Are those—?” Mia begins.
“They’re nothing,” I reply, keeping them hidden as I pick the tray back up from the counter.
Mia doesn’t say any more, but she can’t hide the pity in her eyes either.
After I deliver the tea, I go out to the old Suburban and get my black hoodie and put it on so that Mia won’t stare anymore. I place a hand over the lump of her wedding ring in my pocket and make a mental note to look for anything else around the house that might be of use to me when I leave.
At lunchtime, Mia covers the dining room for me while I sit in the kitchen at the empty prep table and eat a turkey sandwich. Before I came into the kitchen, I heard her out there gossiping with Ella and her friend about eligible bachelors in Rocksaw. Mia seems to know the name, occupation, and marital status of every man in town.
In my apron are exactly thirteen crumpled dollar bills I made in tips, plus two tens I snagged out of tote bags of yarn and sippy cups. This is abysmal, but I remind myself that with the twenty I took from Ms. Troy this morning, things could be worse.
A Constellation of Roses Page 3
