Been There Done That

by Smartypants Romance

  I remembered how a younger me dreamed of having this very same life with Nick and winced. He’d once been a permanent fixture in this kitchen. He and I had twirled on those very same dark leather stools at the counter as children, wheedling after-school snacks from my mother. By high school, we’d been pseudo-chefs assembling our own elaborate creations, then disappearing to the basement or our favorite spot in the woods.

  I shook my head at myself. Is that why I’d come here? For a highlight reel of all my most gut-wrenching memories with Nick?

  “I love you, Z,” seventeen-year-old Nick had said, his vivid green eyes fixed on mine as we’d laid side by side on a carpet of crunchy leaves and soft earth, a canopy of gnarled branches stretching over us. “Forever. We’ll always be together. We’ll get out of this town. Soon. Together. Just like we planned.”

  But that hadn’t happened. By the time I’d transferred to Northwestern for college, Nick had been gone for an entire year. The bleeding in my heart may have slowed, but it never really stopped.

  Hard experience had taught me that not every dark corner needed light. I’d learned to suppress much of the emotion and impulsivity that had guided my college years. I was an adult. Firmly settled in the career I’d worked so hard for. I couldn’t afford to remember how good, how normal it had felt when I woke up in Nick’s arms on our return flight. For a moment, just a moment, before I opened my eyes, I’d been awash with a kind of peace and contentment I hadn’t felt in years. I’d breathed in the familiar smell of him and reveled in his hold. And then I’d opened my eyes and remembered. Remembered all that we weren’t, and how much it would cost me to repeat the mistake of trusting him. By the time I finally came to myself, I was practically in his lap. He’d waved away my embarrassment and apologies, but the intensity in his gaze told me something had somehow shifted, intensified between us. Adesola had been the perfect buffer during the return car ride, entertaining us all with her upbeat chatter while helping me stifle the urge to choke the truth out of Nick.

  I also wanted to wring my own neck. I knew better; I did. But my own body had betrayed me.

  Dear God, I was a hussy in my sleep.

  Focus on the task at hand. I slipped a mental leash around my thoughts as I made my way to my father. Spending any more time thinking about Nick would only uncork a geyser of angst I’d spent years smothering. Judging by how unsettled I currently felt, the seal of that cork was tenuous. Best not to unsettle the already precarious balance. I needed my mind clear and agile.

  Especially when dealing with my father.

  I planted a kiss on his upturned head. “Hey, Daddy.”

  Few townspeople would recognize my father in his current state of undress. Instead of a perfectly tailored suit, he wore a fancy blue bathrobe my siblings and I had all chipped in on together to get him for a birthday. Wearing his reading glasses and a blood-dotted dab of toilet paper stuck to a shaving cut, he wasn’t quite as formidable a figure. But make no mistake, Ezra Leffersbee was a titan in banking, in Green Valley and beyond. A town for the people, run by its people, he’d always preached to whoever would listen. He’d spent years chasing big box stores and Big Business out of Green Valley, often marshaling the town to pitch in and address the town’s individual and collective needs. He and my mother wielded their influence both overtly and subtly, at times simply allowing the strength of their name and the considerable current of power running through our family tree to speak for them. Real power, I’d learned, was silent, stealthy. More times than I could count, I’d watched them mount a campaign or wage war in formal wear, circulating among a room of the state’s movers and shakers. As fascinating as it was, I’d never desired to hold those reins, not in the same way my sister did. For me, happiness had always been Birkenstocks and my lab.

  That had always been a point of dissension between my father and me. The absolute last thing I needed right now was for him to crow over my career choice and remind me for the millionth time I should be working at the bank. With the rest of the family.

  My father held onto my arm, holding me in place. His dark gaze held mine for a long moment. I took in his familiar face, observing the new parallel lines running across his forehead and the deepened trails extending from the corners of his eyes. There was a new, gentle give to his pecan brown skin. I loved this man fiercely.

  But I was never really sure of how well he knew me.

  “Zora,” he said, his voice low and sonorous. “You all right? You sleep okay?”

  “Did you?” I gave him a side-eye. “’Cause you’re not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed yourself.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Your mother had me out all night at some gala for one of her causes.”

  I wasn’t fooled in the least by his offhanded tone. He’d have been briefed long before he walked out the door and would have found some other like-minded person also bent on world domination to talk with.

  “Hey, I was shooting the breeze with our neighbor the other day. Said he saw you and Jackson out at Cooper’s Field. Reminded us both of our days, squirreling around out there, young, dumb, and in love. I told him how me and Jackson’s daddy are expecting a proposal any day now. How is Jackson doing?”

  I grimaced briefly and worked to rearrange my features. “Okay, I guess. Great.”

  His grip on my arm tightened as his eyes narrowed. “You know, if y’all hurry up and tie the knot by—”

  “Well, look who’s here!”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the interruption as my mother swept into the kitchen. But the relief was short-lived. My mother had an uncanny, sixth sense when it came to us kids. I never underestimated her. She had the sharp-eyed acuity and hunting instincts of a bald eagle. If I wanted information, I needed to catch her off guard.

  She was never off guard.

  “Hey, Mama.”

  She was beautiful: face clean, curly hair pushed up in a makeshift bun. She swirled into the kitchen in one of her oldest silk robes, one that evoked some of my most elemental childhood memories. I knew it would smell of her favorite Estée Lauder perfume before I hugged her. She wore that very robe, sitting at the stove, pressing my hair with a hot comb before church when I was a child. She wore that robe as she stood in the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed, her face turned away from my tears after she handed me Nick’s short goodbye letter.

  God. The history.

  “Zora,” she said, a smile lighting her face as she drew near. “I can hardly believe it’s you. We beat out that university for some of your time today?” She squinted at me. “Did Walker tell you I made cinnamon rolls?”

  I laughed. My mother was perfectly aware of Walker’s “extracurricular activities” but she’d also learned that a pan of freshly baked cinnamon rolls worked like a homing device for him.

  “No, he didn’t, but I’ll gladly help with the eating of them. Since I’m here and all.”

  “Anything else going on?”

  Uh-oh. Her Spidey sense must be tingling. That wouldn’t do. “Nothing much. The usual.”

  She nodded slowly as she watched me, one eye slightly squinted in a way I knew meant she was working to assemble the errant clues she somehow sensed from me.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you, whatever brought you here.” She enfolded me in a hug. I closed my eyes at the softness of her slender form, the scent of her floral shampoo, and the deeper, woodsy notes of her perfume. Looking down into her face, I was startled at how much of myself I saw there. I had the same wide, dark expressive eyes, caramel skin, and generous smile. The fuller lower lip. She was beautiful and always had been, but she was also a force. A shrewd businesswoman, a tireless advocate of worthy causes. An exemplary example of womanhood for me.

  “I’m going to get dressed and get out of here,” my father said, rising to put his plate in the sink.

  My mother’s eyes burned into my face. I ignored it and went to pull a glass from the cabinet.

  “Good seeing you, Daddy. You know, you’re
getting pretty gray up top.”

  He ran a hand over his hair. “That’s your mother’s fault. She was supposed to be tweezing out the gray hairs as they grew in.” I turned and saw him level a mock accusatory glare at her. “I guess she’s been falling down on the job.”

  She rolled her eyes, settling in her customary chair at the kitchen table. “Ezra, do you want to be gray or bald? Pick one.”

  He waved a hand at her, but I saw the trace of a smile. “I’m out. Zora, tell Jackson your daddy’s going to come after him soon enough if he doesn’t hurry up and pop the question. I’m ready for grandkids, you hear me?”

  My laugh was thin and tinny. “I’ll tell him.”

  I watched him make his way out of the kitchen, then turned to find my mother leaned against the counter, watching me with folded arms and a smirk.

  “Girl, get a cinnamon roll and sit down so you can tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said automatically. “Daddy said you had an event last night?”

  She moved around the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, then switched on the radio in the window above the sink. Al Green’s silky voice came alive in the kitchen, slyly entreating his lover to remember the good times.

  “We went to a gala in Knoxville. They started a hot lunch program to benefit children who have difficulty paying for it. It’s in honor of that young man who was killed; he was in charge of his school’s cafeteria. It’s a wonderful foundation. If you know students looking for a worthy cause when they’re fundraising this year, tell them about the Castile Foundation.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’ve been reading more and more about kids being penalized for not having lunch money. It’s terrible.”

  “Yes, it is,” my mother said, frowning. “Both for the parents who don’t have options and the children who have hungry bellies and no choice in the matter.”

  My traitorous thoughts jumped the tracks and went to Nick. I couldn’t remember exactly how or when during high school I mentioned that Nick didn’t have the best lunches. Afterward, my mother sent me to school with duplicates of everything, snacks and lunches.

  I shook my head to clear it, closed and opened my eyes to interrupt the mental stream.

  “You headed to the hospital or campus after this?” Mama reached for my father’s plate and snagged a piece of plain toast before running a quick eye over me. “You’re a little more dressed up than usual.”

  I glanced down at my dark dress and black blazer.

  “Both. I’m giving a talk about implicit racial bias and the impact on patient health outcomes to some of our docs. Then I’m heading over to campus.”

  She smiled. “That sounds interesting. You know that’s one of my favorite talks. I wish I could go today.” She took another bite of toast, studied me with a distinctly speculative eye, then said, “Listen. I want you to know that just because you start a thing a certain way doesn’t mean you have to end it that way.”

  My heartbeat kicked up. I busied myself with plating a cinnamon roll and filling my glass with water before I sat across from her at the table.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was thinking about Bethany Winston the other day,” she said, biting her lip, and I knew how much it cost her to talk about Bethany without tearing up. Still, after all this time. Probably to be expected when one of your best friends died, I reflected, thinking I couldn’t imagine a world where Leigh wasn’t around to give me shit.

  “I miss her something awful. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Other day I was washing dishes and I thought of something she used to say all the time. ‘Life is short. Don’t dillydally.’ And she was right.”

  I nodded, unsure of where the conversation was headed.

  “I’ve been thinking about how you came home when I got the breast cancer diagnosis. You got to know the other ladies in my support group and completely immersed yourself in understanding more about communication between doctors and patients. I remembered how you ended up changing your major from pre-medicine so you could learn more about helping doctors have better conversations with ladies like us. And I wondered, would you make that same choice again, follow that same path? Knowing what you know now?”

  I stared at her mutely, swallowing against the thickness in my throat. “That was a hard time,” I finally said. Actually, it had been a terrible time. It didn’t take all that much for me to remember sitting next to her in her support group meetings, hands clammy. I’d been terrified she’d end up on the Wall of Remembrance like so many women before her. She’d pulled through it, thank God. But we’d kept going to those meetings. I’d been horrified to hear how helpless those women felt during their clinic visits. How fear clotted their throats and left them mute, unable to ask the questions that burned in their hearts and minds during preceding sleepless nights. How many of them hadn’t had anyone to go to their visits with them and often didn’t remember what was discussed afterward. How they felt small and ashamed in those moments because of their lack of education or ability to articulate their concerns. Even worse, the cold resignation and anger when residents, fellows, and oncologists spent the entire visit with their hand on the doorknob and spouted technical jargon they couldn’t understand. Further research exposed me to the dilemma of physician burnout, and all the systemic constraints that challenged physicians’ ability to deliver care. I’d been moved by patients’ and physicians’ stories, and unexpectedly galvanized into action. The experience had changed me, and the course of my life.

  I’d thought it was what I wanted. Probably, at the time, it was what I wanted.

  But it all just weighed on me now.

  “Hear me,” Mama said, disrupting my inner thoughts. “If the life you’ve made for yourself doesn’t fit anymore, change it. I can’t give you a promissory note for how long I’ll live, and if you’re doing something that doesn’t excite you anymore . . . Well, that’s not good, even if it’s an honorable thing. And,” she gripped my hand as she stared steadily at me, “your sacrifice won’t keep me here. Your life, this life you have, it’s yours. Do you hear me? Make the most of it, and do what makes you happy.”

  Our gazes clung as she stared at me meaningfully.

  “All right, Mama,” I said, then busied myself stuffing my cinnamon roll in my mouth and fleeing. Suddenly, it didn’t seem like the right time to raise the issue of raising the issue of Nick’s return.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nick

  I’d made a habit of shoving Green Valley and any related memories out of my brain for years now, but I’d forgotten how beautiful it could be. Life moved slower, more quietly here. After a few days, I no longer thirsted for the relentless pace of our New York and San Francisco offices. Suddenly, I relished the quiet. I caught myself straining to identify birdcalls, just as I had as a kid. I took the time to appreciate the perfect weather, the unseasonable warmth of early fall and the stunning perfection of all the late-summer blooms.

  Today, however, I was in a majorly fucked-up mood and had been all morning. True, I needed to take responsibility for some measure of my ire. It had been my decision to take a leave from the office right before a major meeting with our shareholders, and with more than a few crucial irons in the fire. But the sudden ineptitude of our staff irritated the shit out of me. After a series of emails that basically amounted to everyone running around like headless chickens, I’d finally managed to get everyone back on track. Then fielded a call from Eddie asking if I really needed to be so rude and hadn’t I said I was going to demonstrate more patience? The staff was only doing their best, after all.

  I’d hung up on him and taken my foul mood out to the wraparound porch of the rental house before I permanently burned any bridges. I’d taken possession of a handsome home on Lake Bandit, conveniently furnished by the owner. It hadn’t taken much effort to move my suitcase from Knoxville and settle in it.

  I should have been thrilled. My mother and I had joked about living out here in
this exclusive area all our lives. We’d driven by the houses, mouths agape, and I’d always asked her which one she wanted me to buy her when I was rich. Being here in this gorgeous house should have been a crowning achievement. A milestone.

  But I was beyond irritated. Because of Zora Leffersbee. Every time I closed my eyes, every time I attempted sleep, I remembered how easily she’d come to me in her sleep three days prior on my plane. I couldn’t free myself from the memory of her open palm against my face, my chest, then mere inches from my zipper. I’d forever remember the moment she finally awoke, her hands reflexively tightening on me before she slowly came back to the world. I wanted her to look at me that same way again, open and unguarded. I wanted her friendship; I wanted her love; I wanted her trust.

  I needed to touch her again. I needed her touching me again.

  Luckily, my assistant pulled up the long driveway and interrupted my stewing. He opened the back passenger door for Sir Duke, dripping sweat and stuttering incomprehensibly about the switchbacks he’d navigated along the way. I hadn’t even heard him. It was an overwhelming relief to see Sir Duke racing toward me at the lightning speed for which he was bred.

  I decided to drive into town and take Sir Duke for a stroll. He was eager to stretch his legs after the long drive, and I needed to think.

  As Sir Duke and I made our way down the tree-lined sidewalk, him stopping every few feet to sniff at curiosities, my thoughts strayed back to Zora. She’d cried when I told her about my mother. She told me she was proud of me, which shouldn’t have mattered so much.

  But it did.

  On an impulse, I decided to stop in the Donner Bakery. Maybe a shitload of sugar would sweeten my foul mood.

  The bell over the door heralded our tentative entrance. I shot a wary glance over to the woman manning the register. Sir Duke was a massive dog, and bringing him inside any establishment, never mind a bakery, was taking a chance.