“I think Farmers Markets are considered essential services either way. But is going into St. Louis a good idea right now?” I ask Mavis, frowning at the crates of asparagus, broccoli, cabbage, and various greens stacked neatly in the back of her truck. “I mean, do you even have a mask? Or gloves?”
Mavis waves a dismissive hand and makes a raspberry. “Don’t try to talk me out of going. I finally saved up enough to buy myself an RV in cash. One more Farmer’s Market, then I’m boarding up the farm and heading out for my big trip.”
I don’t have to ask where she’s going. Mavis has been talking about her big RV trip to the real Guadalajara for years now. I’m proud of her for meeting her goal, even if a solo road trip in a huge RV is the opposite of what I’d call a good time.
But still…. “I really don’t think you should be traveling right now. Missouri’s open, but that could change any day now with COVID spreading like it is.”
“Yeah, that’s why I want to get on the road as soon as possible. I don’t want Daddy Government trying to stop me. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll wait until my end-of-the-month appointment with Dr. Haim. Wouldn’t mind making sure this ticker won’t hold me back.”
That was another reason I was proud of Mavis. A few years ago she was diagnosed with Stage 2 COPD. But three years later she has a great prognosis thanks to lifestyle changes like quitting cigarettes, eating right, and adding on exercise beyond the work she does at her little farm.
Since she doesn’t have children or any relatives living nearby, I get the feeling her big trip to the real Mexico is the thing that gave her reason to live better. Which is why I feel terrible that I can’t be more supportive.
Maybe that’s why instead of warning her off her trip again, I confess, “It won’t be Dr. Haim coming out to see you at the end of the month. He sold Dad’s practice to another doctor.”
“He sold! Is the doctor handsome this time? I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when that tiny Dr. Haim took over your daddy’s practice. I don’t got nothing against Jews—only reason I used to watch the voice was for that cutie, Adam Levine. But Dr. Mac was a fine brother. And I appreciated having somebody that good looking to check up on me, even if some of the White folks didn’t approve of a Black doctor when he first came to town. But at least Haim sold to another doctor instead of Big Medical. I swear I can’t sneeze at Guac Bap without them charging me fifteen dollars for a Kleenex. So is he handsome or what?”
I press my lips together at the thought of my father’s practice being sold a second time without me having any say in it. But I have to admit, “Yes, he’s handsome.”
“Oooh, can’t wait to meet him on Saturday!” Mavis puts her truck in drive. “See you at the end of the month!”
“Oh, I’m not going to…”
Mavis peels out in her surprisingly fast ancient truck before the, “be there either” makes it to my lips.
Well, I guess she’ll find out the hard way at the beginning of April.
I get my second surprise of the day when I arrive home.
A and E are posted up on the couch, eating chips and watching some show on Netflix I’ve never seen before. It looks like a documentary, featuring tigers and a real strange-looking guy with a blond mullet.
“What are you two doing home?” I demand, coming up behind them.
The twins jump. I’m sure I wouldn’t have found them this way if they’d heard me enter. Right now they’re in violation of at least three of my house rules. Eating on the couch. Watching television, I didn’t approve first. And turning on any screen whatsoever before their homework is done.
A’s the first to recover. “School’s cancelled. They sent us home before lunch.”
“What? Why didn’t you call me? And why didn’t the school send out a message?”
“We texted you,” E replies. “And when we tried calling you at Doc Haim’s, nobody answered.”
I silently curse, realizing that I never took my phone off of silent mode.
I take it out of my purse and sure enough, there are several alerts hanging out on the home screen. Text messages from both A and E.
“Okay, I’ve got to figure this out. Make yourself a real snack that’s not junk,” I say, snatching the potato chip bag out of A’s hands. “And then start on your homework.”
“We don’t have any homework.” E turns around and comes up to her knees on the couch. “And I can’t go over my lines, because Mr. Neville says the spring musical will probably be cancelled.”
She tears up and I can’t blame her. She’s been dreaming of playing the lead in the spring musical ever since joining the Guac High Thespian troupe as a freshman. And she’d gone through a lot, including a former director who didn’t believe in colorblind casting. This year, she’d finally gotten the lead role her talent deserved as Cinderella in Into the Woods. But now it looks like that dream long deferred won’t be coming true.
My heart squeezes with pity for her.
But then she wipes underneath her heavily mascaraed eye and asks, “Can I go over to August the Fifth’s house? He’s having a little get together.”
“First of all, I doubt it’s going to be little. Brandt Manor is huge, and I know how you teenagers get.”
I mean really know. As a former popular girl myself, I’d been invited to my share of get-togethers. And they always went from little to—shock of all shocks in a town with nothing else for teenagers to do—complete ragers.
On top of that, August Brandt V was the great-great grandson of the original founder of Weiss Fox Beer, which was headquartered in Guadalajara. That meant not only did he have access to all the beer his underage guests could imbibe, but since Weiss Fox was the main source of income in our little town, he could also get away with whatever he wanted.
“Second of all, I thought you hated August Brandt.”
E shrugs like she hasn’t been complaining about the what an intolerable asshole the Weiss Fox scion was since junior high. “I mean the party’s just at his house. I don’t have to talk to him or anything.”
“Third of all, a party doesn’t seem like the right reaction to school getting cancelled due to a highly contagious virus,” I finish.
“But—”
“No buts. You’re staying here. And A, turn on something else, please. I have no idea what this is, but I can already see it’s not going to make the cut for my approved watch list.”
Now it’s A’s turn to whine. “But everyone at school’s watching Tiger King.”
“Is that what this is?” I vaguely recall a few posts from my Instagram feed about the crazy true crime docuseries. “Now I really don’t want you watching it.”
Cue the teenage anguish. I clean up the mess they’ve somehow already managed to make of the living room while they claim to be the only high school seniors in the entire world who aren’t allowed to watch whatever they want whenever they want.
“You know what, keep on whining,” I tell them. “I drink teenage tears for breakfast. And they taste good. Mm-mm-mmm!”
An indignant double intake of breath. Then cue the accusations about me being a horrible tyrant who obviously enjoys their suffering. Eventually, I simply take the remote to the house’s only television and deposit it in my purse before letting them know, “You can have the remote for the TV I pay the electricity bill for and the password for the Wi-Fi after you clean your rooms and bathrooms.”
More screams before they finally disappear up the stairs on a trail of loud laments about how hard their lives are.
Aw, teenagers….
After they’re gone, I sit down on the couch and finally respond to all the stuff I missed. According to the school’s many emails, Spring Break, which was already set to begin next Monday would be extended by an additional week. And following that, Guac High would switch to remote learning into the foreseeable future.
So that means I need to find a new job and figure out how to keep the twins occupied for the next two weeks with som
ething other than Netflix. Great.
I sigh. But I open my purse to pull out the bills I got this morning, nonetheless. I need to pay them and do some back of the napkin calculations to figure out how long we can survive on my savings.
However, my heart stops when I see the letter I forgot.
The one from R. Smith.
Chapter Four
For some reason, my heart is pounding as I take the letter out.
I once again read the name in the front corner. R. Smith followed by the South Dakota address. My chest tightens with fear. And it takes me a while, but eventually, I turn it over and run my finger under the triangular seam.
Inside I find a single piece of notebook paper, wide-ruled like the stuff in the Mead notebooks. But the writing is pretty. It’s a smooth feminine cursive similar to my mother’s who’d been drilled on neat handwriting at the Lutheran schools she’d attended until the age of eighteen.
For that reason, I guess who R. Smith is even before I start reading.
Dear Cynda,
This is Reina writing. We haven’t ever met that you would remember, but I’m Marilee’s sister.
Yes, Reina! That was her name! I remember now. Reina, the wild sister whose name was only spoken in whispers at Smith family picnics.
But as it turns out that was all I was right about. The next few lines stop my heart….
I’m writing to tell you a family secret we’ve been keeping from you for years. Marilee raised you. She was your mother. Your real mother. I’ll never deny her that.
But I’m just now finding out about your father’s death, and realizing that you’re alone in the world, probably thinking you’re an orphan. So I’m hoping it brings you some solace to know, that though Marilee was your mother true, I’m your birth mother.
I know this is probably coming as a complete shock to you. When Marilee and Mac agreed to keep you, it was on the condition that I never come back to Missouri. Never try to see you.
It still feels like I’m betraying some promise by doing it now. She and mama didn’t answer when I wrote them my amends, and I’m pretty sure that was because they wanted me to stay gone. But my guilt isn’t any worry of yours.
Anyways, I live in South Dakota. And I’m twelve years sober. Maybe you have some questions for me or just want to talk? Whatever you need, please don’t hesitate to call me. Here’s all my information.
I read but don’t necessarily see the telephone number and email written out below.
No. She couldn’t be. This has to be some kind of trick.
But as soon as I think that, I somehow know it isn’t.
Because suddenly everything makes sense. Why Mama said what she said about there being room for only one beauty per family. Why I once overheard her talking to a friend about how she couldn’t have kids, even though I was right there. Why my older parents treated me like a miracle and doted on me more than most parents did. Why the wild sister who’d tried to apologize had never been made prodigal by her church going kin.
The sound of the doorbell interrupts my series of revelations.
And proving that teenagers have the attention span of fish, both twins appear at the top of the stairs.
“Who is it?” A demands.
“It’s probably one of my friends wondering why I’m not at August the Fifth’s party,” E answers.
“Why wouldn’t they just text you?” A asks her, his tone snide.
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m popular and people actually like me enough to show up in person?” E answers back, her tone ten times snider.
I ignore them both in favor of opening the front door.
Only to freeze at the sight of the handsome man standing on my doorstep, his hand raised as if he were planning to knock just in case the doorbell wasn’t working.
It’s Rhys!
The Fine Prince is back and standing on my doorstep.
“What are you doing here?” he demands.
“This is where I live.” I blink at him, barely able to believe I’m seeing Rhys Prince for the second time in one day after three years without a word. “What are you doing here?”
He holds up the ad I posted at Coffee Me Bleu, the café/art gallery on Main Street. “I’m in need of a place to stay within walking distance of the clinic for a few months. And apparently there are no other vacancies in town at the moment.”
Now I’m really blinking. Is he serious? Judging from the expectant look on his face, he totally is.
“No,” I tell him. “You fired me. There’s no way I’m letting you stay here.”
He tilts his head. “Is that so. The chatty barista informed me that you really needed the money, so you’d be happy to let me stay. She was the one who suggested I walk right over. Though obviously she didn’t mention you by name.”
Damn this small town. In St. Louis and I’m pretty sure every other city in the country, just showing up at people’s houses isn’t a thing folks do. But Guadalajara still doesn’t fully comprehend the concept of stranger danger.
Heck, one time when Dr. Haim went on vacation, a plumber named Tommy appeared on my step with a bloody hand. Apparently, his client, old Mrs. Chanswick from down the street, had told him to come right on over after he cut his hand on one of her ancient pipes.
I mean, of course, I’d patched him up. And he gave me a pretty nice discount that time we had to get a new garbage disposal. Okay, if I’m being truthful, I usually find all the Guacamole neighborliness kind of charming. And I’ll probably miss it when I leave for Pittsburgh.
But not now! Right now, I’m like, “The nerve of Leah.”
Rhys snaps. “Yes, Leah. That was her name.”
We stand there, me frowning up at him and him frowning down at me. I’d forgotten how tall he was. Six feet plus and rangy, covered in lean muscle.
I remember how surprisingly heavy his body had felt against mine the night after our first date when we’d kissed for what seemed like hours outside my apartment door.
“Well?” he asks, interrupting that once sweet memory.
“Well, what?” I ask back.
“Are you going to show me the flat?”
“Are you going to give me back my job?”
“No,” he answers.
“Wow, look-it-there, you gave yourself my answer.”
Not going to lie, it feels great after the frustrating day I’ve had to shut the door in his face. Totally on period, as E likes to say after she’s made her point.
But Rhys catches the door with his foot before it can reach the satisfying slam part. “I’d advise you to give some thought to your current position.”
To think, I used to find his accent so sexy and charming before. But it’s totally cold now. And suddenly I understand why English people are always getting cast as supervillains.
“You have recently been let go and we’re in the midst of a pandemic,” he points out. “Do you really think another renter will come along willing to offer you two months’ rent upfront?”
I inwardly cuss because no, I don’t see that happening. I’ve been trying to rent that back house out since the day the twins got their early decision letters and that was what? Back in December. Months ago before anyone thought the virus would jump oceans and also come for us.
I grit my teeth. Wanting to say no, like I now wish I had when he asked me out on that first date.
But instead, I find myself countering, “Three months. Plus two month’s deposit.”
He looks at me for a long, cool second. Then he answers…
Chapter Five
Three years ago
“So, how are things going with The Fine Prince?” Gina asked, a month to the Saturday after Rhys asks me out. Like, as soon as we all appeared on the phone.
I leaned back against the brown brick outer wall of the Fountain Park Health Center, the free clinic I volunteered at whenever I had a day off. I’d just finished my shift when I realized it was time for the monthly call. I usually looked forward t
o chatting with Billie and Gina over FaceTime. But if this is the way we were starting, I could already tell it wasn’t going to go well.
“It’s been a whole month,” Billie pointed out in that analytical way of hers. Billie was one of those people who liked to get boring stuff like bills and laundry done while talking on the phone, and since her square picture was on top of Gina’s this time in my display, it looked like she was talking directly to Gina when she said, “I doubt he’s still around.”
Gina’s face, fully made up for that night’s shift at Magic Peaches, fell. “Girl, tell me you haven’t already ghosted him. I really liked this one for you.”
I averted my eyes. And though I tell Gina and Billie everything, I was kind of wishing I hadn’t bothered to let them know Rhys had asked me out. Because I felt all sorts of embarrassed as I had to admit. “He turned out to be a dud in bed.”
Gina’s eyes widened. And Billie finally looked up from whatever bill she was paying to ask, “He was bad at sex? I thought you said he was an amazing kisser. What exactly did he do wrong?”
Damn Billie and her very specific follow-up questions. I’d been hoping they’d leave it at that and let me go on to the next subject. Now I had to admit, “It’s not necessarily an issue of what he did. But what he didn’t do.”
Again I kept it vague, hoping they’d just drop it. But Billie dashed all hope of that by asking, “What exactly didn’t he do?”
“Yeah, what exactly?” Gina joined in with Billie in regarding me suspiciously from the phone’s screen. “What happened to Mr. Best Kisser Ever when you got him in bed?”
Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri (QUARANTALES Book 1) Page 4
