by Jayne Denker
"Oh, Marty wouldn't do that. He still loves me."
I can't stifle the indelicate snort that bursts out of me. "Sure. Okay."
"You think he doesn't?"
"I'm sure he cares, in his way. But men are territorial by nature. If he's finished with you, it doesn't mean he's okay with somebody else having you."
"You make me sound like leftover Chinese food."
I shrug. If the cardboard carton fits…
"Marty's not like that."
"So he broke up with you…why? Wanted to 'take a break'? Get some space? Do his own thing because he's 'too young to be tied down yet but let's revisit this in a few months or a year'?"
Hannah stops walking and stares at me, wide-eyed. "No! He asked me to marry him!"
I did not see that coming. "Well, what happened?"
Her head droops, and she starts shuffling forward again. "I…couldn't decide."
Shocker.
"Okay then," I say, catching up to her with one long stride. "If you had any doubts, you were right to not say yes."
"But I wanted to marry him!" she wails.
"Then why didn't you?" I wail back.
All I get is a shrug. We turn a corner by the darkened candy shop, and I suddenly wish I had a glass cutter with me—one pane of the window removed, silently and stealthily, with minimal damage, and I could reach in and grab the multicolored lollipop that's calling to me from the lower shelf of Macomb's display.
Eventually Hannah whispers, "I wish I were more like you."
Dragging my attention away from the siren song of the lollipop, I laugh and say, "The only person you should want to be is you."
"But you always know what to do! You never hesitate. About anything. Ever!"
"That's not entirely true." But it isn't entirely untrue either. What can I say? I always know what I want. Like the lollipop. Which I'll probably buy tomorrow when I don't need to worry about where to find a glass cutter.
"I'll bet when you get proposed to, you won't have even one doubt."
"Probably not, but since nothing like that is happening in the near future, I don't have to worry about it."
"Oh, I don't know." She flashes me a small smile and starts walking again. "I figured Conn would be getting around to it pretty soon."
I'm rooted in place, flabbergasted. "What in the world are you talking about?"
"You. And Conn. Perfect proposal, perfect wedding, perfect marriage. It's so obvious."
I close the gap between us, grasp her by the upper arms, and look her in the eye to make sure she absorbs what I'm about to say next. "Hannah. Conn and I are not together."
Her pale eyebrows come together in a peak over her nose. "Sure you are."
"I swear to you, we're not. He's just an old family friend. He always has been."
Hannah chews on this for a moment, mutters, "Huh," and wanders off.
"Hey—"
"Where does this go?" she asks suddenly.
I want her to repeat back to me that she understands the situation between me and Conn—or rather, that there isn't one—but she's come upon one of the most picturesque streets in Abbott's Bay, a narrow lane that's barely a legitimate street by modern standards.
"Down to the beach, eventually."
"It's cute."
That's an understatement. South End Close is lined with tall, narrow houses butted right up against the sidewalks, giving the impression they're leaning over to gossip with the ones on the opposite side of the road. Some sport artfully-weather-beaten-to-dove-gray clapboards. The rest are painted dark brown or a muted blue or even, in some cases, the near black you can only seem to get away with in old seaside towns like this one. Almost all of them have bright flowers in their window boxes and in large, painted ceramic pots on their front stoops.
She's already halfway down the sidewalk, looking from one side of the street to the other, eventually stopping in front of a familiar dwelling. "Melanie, this house is for rent. There's a sign in the window."
"I know."
"Why didn't you show it to me before? It's adorable."
"No, it isn't. It's small. And it backs up to the shopping district. Believe me, once the tourists got here, you wouldn't be able to hear yourself think."
"I don't know. This street seems pretty peaceful to me."
"But the house isn't big and airy and on the beach, like you want."
"Who said I want big and airy and on the beach?"
"Everybody wants big and airy and on the beach!"
"Beach air makes my hair frizzy. Can you get us in to look at it first thing tomorrow? I really want to, Melanie. Please."
Wow, she expressed herself decisively. I can't shoot her down now. "What time is it?"
She checks her phone. "Midnight."
"Really?"
"One minute past, to be exact. Why does it matter?"
With a sigh, I climb the front steps. "Because it's apparently first thing in the morning, now."
Hannah gapes as I punch in the code on the lock box hanging on the door and pull out a key. "How did you…? Are you psychic?"
Dear God. I should be in bed—asleep, comfortable, oblivious. Instead I'm showing houses in downtown Abbott's Bay at midnight. "No, crazy person. My dad owns the house."
"Why didn't you show it to me before?"
"My dad owns the house," I repeat. That is the explanation. Hannah doesn't get it, so I add, "I love my dad, but you don't want him as your landlord. Trust me."
"Is it the money—?"
"No, it's…you know what? Never mind. Let's take a look around."
I push open the front door and step inside to turn on the lights. Hannah walks past me into the narrow entryway, taking in the ornate ceiling, hardwood floors, plaster walls, and elaborate trim around the doorways. I've seen that look before: she's a goner. Totally hooked. The place could have four feet of water in the basement and a colony of fruit bats living in the bedroom closet, and she'd take it. For the record, this house has neither. It's actually quite nice, if you like small spaces. Hannah apparently does. She dashes through the rest of the rooms, upstairs, downstairs. When she returns to me, the look on her face only confirms what I already know.
"You want it, don't you?"
Hannah nods eagerly, eyes shining.
"Well when it's right, it's right. Congratulations on knowing what you want."
"In houses, anyway."
"You mean 'if only you applied this kind of decisiveness to the Marty situation'?"
Hannah nods again, her eagerness subsiding. She stares at the blank fireplace, saying nothing.
"Oh, come on." I try desperately to jolly her out of her sudden funk. "Today a rental, tomorrow the world! Get yourself a backbone, woman—I know it's in there somewhere."
"I know. But…I screwed up things with Marty, maybe for good. I feel like I'm…hopeless. Am I hopeless, Melanie? What should I do?"
"You have got to stop asking me that."
"I really need advice."
"Not from me, you don't."
"But…you're so…put together! And confident! And…I don't know…you seem to know what to do in any situation."
"Well," I demur, "that may be true, but all this is your business! Well, yours and your therapist's. Why don't you give her a call in the morning?"
"I think I'm going to fire Dr. McCrory. She never actually gives me advice. She says all she should do is help me come to my own conclusions. I get that, but don't we all need someone to point us in the right direction sometimes? I know a lot of people who would pay good money for that." She slumps against the wall and heaves a sigh. "I wish I had someone to tell me the truth, even if it's ugly. Like…'Hannah. Babe. That color does not work with your complexion.' Or 'Nut up and leave that no-good idiot in your past.' You know, like you do."
"Hannah. Babe. What you're describing is called a friend."
She smiles warmly. "That's what I need."
I smile back in spite of myself. "Okay. You've got one of t
hose." Over her chipper little "yay," I add, "And if you want frank talk about colors and complexions, I can tell you right now you have way too much beige in your wardrobe. It washes you right out."
"Oh." I'm afraid she's going to be upset, but she just nods. "It's my funky skin tone. When you have parents of different races, sometimes you have a gorgeous, rich color, but mine ended up kind of…weak."
"I think you should stop calling yourself weak anything. Your skin tone is unique, not funky. Wearing the right colors will make all the difference in the world, so when it's daylight, we're going shopping."
"Oh, shopping! That's the perfect friend thing. What's your hourly rate?"
"A professional friend? Interesting business prospect. I'm not sure about fees yet. I'll have to assess the market."
CHAPTER SIX
I slap down the rental agreement on my father's desk the next morning, drawing his attention away from his WebMD research on suspicious rashes. "South End Close, rented."
He glances at the paper then goes back to Hypochondriacs "R" Us. "I don't see a signature."
"Hannah's coming in later to sign and get the keys. Then I'm going to help her move in."
"I didn't know we were such a full-service agency."
"She's a friend of mine."
Dad looks at me curiously. "Hannah? Am I supposed to know you know a Hannah?"
"She's new in town."
"Well, then I'm looking forward to meeting her. She'll make a good tenant?"
"A very good tenant. Don't terrorize her."
"Me?" My dad draws back, shocked—shocked!—that I would dare suggest such a thing.
"You can be a little…particular."
"Don't stereotype."
"It's got nothing to do with your sexual orientation, old man, and you know it. I'm talking about you being type A. Just leave the poor girl alone. Trust her to keep her bathtub scrubbed, her front stoop clear, and the backyard tidy, and don't…do what you did last time."
"I was perfectly within my rights. I didn't enter the home without prior permission from the tenant."
"Peering in the window was not a fair tradeoff."
"How was I supposed to know the woman had a tendency to do nude yoga in her living room?" he roars.
"Well, she did. One downward dog later, and you were practically a resident of the Graybar Hotel."
"I was more traumatized than she was," he sniffs.
"Trust," I admonish him. "Stop worrying about your precious properties. Focus on your reelection campaign. Or try to reconcile with Jerome."
"I'm not interested," Dad says, entirely unconvincingly. "I have you," he adds, patting my hand affectionately.
Great. He and his boyfriend have been broken up for three months, leaving Dad with way too much time on his hands, which makes him do suspect things like stalk tenants and google his latest imaginary affliction. I refrain from rolling my eyes as I take the contract off his desk.
"Reelection campaign," I repeat, not sure he heard me the first time, because he hasn't looked up from his computer. "Focus."
"I could say the same to you. How about my platform?"
"'Chickens reclining in a sunbeam on a gleaming oak floor and a kitten in every pot.' There."
"Will you take this seriously, please?"
"You first." He waves me away, but I hang back in the doorway. "Um, Dad?"
"Hm?"
"Did you know Conn wants to sell his house?"
"Mm."
"Is that a yes?"
"He may have mentioned something about it when I ran into him the other day. Says you won't list it."
"Of course not! It's the Garvey homestead!"
"What have I always told you? There's no room for sentimentality in real estate."
"I'm not being sentimental." …Much. "I just think he's making a mistake."
Finally my dad looks at me over his monitor. "Do what the client says. Ignore your history with him."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Touchy. It means you two pretty much grew up together, so you have…feelings."
"Dad!"
"What? I meant you have feelings for the house. Conn too, eh?"
"Okay, I think we're done here."
"You were the one who brought it up."
"And I deeply regret it."
While I wait for Hannah, I work on my dad's campaign schedule. It's not too hard: I check his agenda from two years ago and update it with the new dates and times for the same old functions—the Memorial Day parade, the Fourth of July parade, the Labor Day parade. In between we've got the town carnival, the arts and crafts festival, the Symphony on the Pier, the town-wide flea market, and the Up All Night festival where all the businesses in the historic district stay open, well, all night. With the summer portion of the schedule filled, I relax. It'll tide Dad over for a while.
When Hannah arrives, I introduce her to Laura, expecting afraid-of-her-shadow Bates to barely make a peep, but within minutes they're gabbing away like old friends who haven't seen one another in a year. I don't think Laura said that much to me in the first six months of her employment with Abbott Realty. I have to admit there is something about Hannah that makes you want to open up. She even snookered me, and here I am, her new best friend.
After a while I break up their bonding session and have Hannah sign the lease so we can move her in. She only has some essentials—pretty much whatever would fit in her car—so it doesn't take long to unload her stuff at her new house. Abbott Realty has a storage space full of staging items we use to make a vacant house more appealing. We could spare a sofa and a couple of tables—and certainly a bed—for a few months, so I've arranged to have them delivered. Some suitcases and a few boxes later we're done, with enough time left over to put Hannah's clothes away in the wardrobe. Yep, all beige. Shopping will definitely be on the agenda soon.
First I take Hannah on a walking tour of Abbott's Bay, pointing out the landmarks, best places to eat, and best places to shop. Hannah stops at a lot of gallery windows—we're heavy on the arts and crafts around here—to admire the work on display.
"Do you create or just appreciate?" I ask her, seeing a particular light in her eye that denotes more than a passing interest in the visual arts.
"Oh, I don't know," she says shyly. "I've taken some classes, and my teachers have said I have talent. I was thinking maybe I could work on my painting this summer."
"So I was right? You are going to hunker down and lick your wounds, and you need something to focus on, so you don't spend all your time sleeping and eating ice cream by the pint?"
"Is that what I'm supposed to do to get over Marty?" she asks with a laugh. "Become a cliché?"
"I heartily discourage clichés of any kind."
"I'll skip the ice cream binges, then."
"Good choice."
"Wait. Does that mean MooMoo's is out?"
"MooMoo's is never out," I assure her.
On the way to the ice cream stand on the pier, I point out the marina and the glut of houses clustered around the bay to the south, then the landmark lighthouse to the north. In between, on a shallow crescent of beach, lie the most majestic houses in town (and, admittedly, some old crapholes like Conn's), several of which Hannah rejected in favor of an old, narrow townhome built in 1830. Go figure.
Hannah's certainly a puzzle, but as we walk back up toward town, giant ice creams in hand, I sneak a peek at my new friend and note that for the first time since I've met her, she seems genuinely happy—or at least at ease. There's still a bit of sadness in her eyes, but when she's out in the sun, catching drips down the side of her cone, a bit of gravitas works to her advantage. I decide then and there that I enjoyed being roped into being her friend.
Okay, I walked into it willingly. I admit it.
* * *
"I am never going to remember all that."
Hannah and I collapse into the wingback chairs at Deep Brew C late in the afternoon, too walked-out and shopped-out to even
stop at the counter for a drinks order.
"It's easy," I answer, slipping off my shoes and wiggling my toes. "Always be nice to Pauline so you'll have a better chance of getting out of a parking ticket later. And never call her a meter maid. The Little Brown Jug is the best package store in the area. Tell Natasha I sent you, and she'll hook you up with some great wine. Only shop at Henry's Grocery for essentials. Filling your fridge there will require a bank loan. Make the trip to a supermarket outside of town instead. I hear we might be getting a Wegmans soon, but don't mention it to Henry or you'll make him cry. It's his worst nightmare. No, seriously—he actually dreams that a Wegmans comes to town and he's forced to close up shop because they have a better cheese selection than he does. Oh—and speaking of large chains, never, ever mention the double-D in this place."
"How dare you."
I knew even a shorthand reference to Dunkin' Donuts would bring Conn around. I beam up at him from my unladylike slouch and flutter my eyelashes. "Sorry, darling."
Before he can read me the riot act, Hannah says in a winsome voice, "Melanie was giving me a list of dos and don'ts for living in Abbott's Bay. Dunkin' Donuts was on the 'don't' list."
Conn's expression clears. "So you're living here now?"
Hannah tells him about her new residence and what we've been up to all day, and he responds enthusiastically. Now that the bear has been sedated, I reach out and touch his wrist.
"Conn, honey, would you be a doll and bring us some coffee? We've been on our feet all day, and we're pooped."
"Really? You're that helpless?" He knows he doesn't have to turn on the charm with me. He's also not falling for my Southern belle impersonation. He doesn't say no, however.
"Please?"
"Good grief."
"Love you!" I call after him sweetly. I turn back to Hannah, only to find her studying me closely.
"Are you sure you two—?"
"Completely."
"Not even—?"
"Not even anything. Not a past relationship, not a one-night stand, not an unrequited thingamabob. Nada."
My protests fall on deaf ears, as Hannah's attention is focused on the beautiful ballet Conn performs behind the bar when he's making up drinks. I don't blame her. Stronger women than Hannah have succumbed to the Power of the Conn. I've seen fiercely independent females swoon at the mere sight of his muscular forearms. But if she's still moping about that Marty guy, she doesn't need to complicate matters with a crush.
