by Tracy Ewens
“What in sweet Jesus is this?” his father’s voice bellowed from outside the house.
Matt looked down. Let the grumbling begin.
“Are you responsible for this?” he barked, looking pale and visibly worn out from the short trip home.
“I told him to. Now stop it and put both hands on the walker. Be careful, it’s slippery.” His mother rolled her eyes at Matt and helped guide her husband toward the ramp. After a stumble and several complaints, they arrived at the landing.
“Good to have you back, Dad.” Matt gave him a one-handed hug as his mother took a picture of them in the doorway on her iPhone.
“I’m sure. Now you can get back to your penthouse,” his father grunted as if he were saying something under his breath, but it was loud enough for all to hear.
Matt stood back to allow him into the house.
“Aw, Matty, you bought bagels and lilacs.” His mother put a black bag down and leaned in to smell the flowers. “Thank you, honey,” she said in soft contrast to the grumbling and kissed him on the cheek. Her hair was a little shorter and she smelled like soap—she usually did.
Right as Matt was going to comment on her haircut, his father declared, “I’m going upstairs to rest.”
“Oh no”—she took three large strides toward him and gently turned the walker—“we set you up down here.”
“In the servants’ quarters?”
His mother smiled. “We don’t have servants’ quarters. Doctor says you can’t climb stairs until he sees you back in his office, so you’re in there until next Tuesday.”
Huffing and shaking his head slowly, his father hesitantly walked toward the small room at the back of the house. Matt felt a tinge of pity for his father. He was a big man, but he’d lost weight and was so frail at the moment. Of course, Matt knew his dad would be back in “fighting shape,” as he liked to say, in no time. It was hard to see him down since most of Matt’s childhood memories were of his father working, and working hard. If something needed to be done at one of their shops, it didn’t matter what time of day or what he was doing, his father would get it done. Birthday parties, Sunday dinners, Matt’s own rehearsal dinner the night before his wedding: if something needed to be dealt with, his father dropped everything. It was a work ethic, his mother had often claimed to soften any sense it was an obsession, but now that Matt was older, he understood. His parents had ten shops; that didn’t come easy.
“How about I help you get settled?” Matt grabbed his father’s bag off the table and started to follow behind.
“Nah, I’m not an invalid. Sit with your mother,” he said over his shoulder, one hand lifting quickly off the walker to dismiss him.
They would surely have to help him into bed, but he let him go for now.
“Why do you back down?” his mother asked, pulling some prescription bottles from her purse and pouring a glass of water.
“From him? I wasn’t aware there was any other way to deal with Dad. I’m not going to beg him or be somewhere I’m not wanted.”
“Did you ever think sometimes people don’t realize they need you? That it’s your job to help them figure that out?”
“No.” Matt stuck a bagel in his mouth and sat at the kitchen table.
“Well, it’s true. Your father is stubborn. He doesn’t realize he’s vulnerable.”
“Correction. I’m a huge disappointment because I went out and made money, a sin worse than all sins, except maybe divorce, which I’ve also managed. So, I think it’s best if we try to tolerate each other because I’m his only child, only son, and”—his mother quietly gasped—“his only living son, sorry, Ma. So he doesn’t even get a do-over with another kid. It’s a tragic tale.”
“Stop it. Your father is very proud. He’s not—”
“Good at showing it. Right. I seem to attract people with that particular block.”
His mother shook her head, put some pills in her hand, and took the water into his father’s makeshift room. When she returned, she sat across from him at the small table. “How are things at the shop?”
“Good. I’ve added some new pastries and a couple of prints I had made of the roasters. Poppy is back part-time.”
“She sent me pictures of the baby. So precious.”
Matt could feel the baby talk coming on, as it often did with his mother. “When are you going to get married again?” “I wish I had some grandchildren.” He decided quickly to cut that off before she even started.
“She is a beautiful baby. I should get going. Do you need me to help you get him into bed?”
She shook her head. “The nurse will be here in a little while and I can handle your father. Thank you for the flowers and for opening the house.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll call you later.” Matt kissed his mother on the cheek, put his coat over his arm, and closed the door behind him.
He’d done what he was asked to do and nothing more. Leaving before polite conversation turned into a list of his shortcomings was self-preservation, and he couldn’t control his father any more than he could control the weather. As if on cue, the sun burned through the clouds and Matt climbed into his car.
Chapter Five
Hollis remembered Patty Cranston became addicted to her mother’s prescription pills their sophomore year in high school. Her dad was said to be some kind of music producer and she’d started clubbing early in life. Hollis never hung out with Patty and at the time thought for sure the story was mostly rumor. But she did remember Patty was sent to a rehabilitation hospital called The Happy Orange something-or-other. It was a “positive” place for teens with addiction and once Patty was clean, she started sending pictures to her friends back at school and saying the program had “saved” her life.
Standing on the back patio of the Innkeeper’s Cabin, paintbrush in hand, Hollis began to wonder if she was at the grown-up version of The Happy Orange because this had turned into some kind of rehab program.
“You’re dripping,” her uncle said.
“Oh, sorry.” She felt the droplet of paint squish between her toes. Hollis set the paintbrush on top of the can of “Caribbean Sunset” paint and used a paper towel to wipe off her foot.
“Sage is getting married in Napa,” she said, looking out over the water.
“I heard.” Her uncle was propped back up again, this time with his feet on his teak table, reading the newspaper.
“In two months. I thought Garrett’s sister would get married first. Isn’t that how it works?”
He peeked over the paper. “How what works?”
Hollis picked up the paintbrush and started another slat. “The order of things. Makenna is Sage’s friend. I’ve met her once. She’s marrying Travis. He asked her before Garrett asked Sage, so shouldn’t they go first?”
Mitch set the paper down completely this time and shook his head. “Hollis, I don’t think there are rules for this sort of thing. Doesn’t Kenna have a child?”
“Yeah, so?” She scooted the paint can over with her foot to reach the rest of the slat.
“Maybe that’s a little more complicated. Why do you care?”
“I don’t, but two months isn’t long and I’m not sure if that’s enough time.”
“For her or you?”
“For her. I’m fine.” Paint dripped onto her toes again.
He tried not to smile and handed her another paper towel.
“Crap. Why the hell am I doing this?”
“You said you wanted to help.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as if he was watching some fascinating freak show.
“I said no such thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. You set up this ‘whole work around the place and do things other than my actual job.’ I was perfectly fine in my cabin washing down my sugar with wine.”
“I’m almost positive you offered to ‘help out’ when you arrived.” He used the finger quotes and even though his T-shirt said, Keep Calm and Paddle
On, she still wanted to punch him.
Hollis cursed when the paintbrush slid a little too far into the can and she got paint on her hands. “Two months. Can she even get a dress in that time?”
“I’m sure she can. Maybe she’ll wear your mom’s.” He handed her the entire roll of paper towels this time.
She tried to figure out why the idea of Sage wearing their mother’s wedding dress bothered her. It’s not like she had plans to get married. Sage was welcome to it, wasn’t she? Maybe you want to get married? Oh shut up, will you? No more thinking.
Uncle Mitch looked startled and concerned. This was it, she was talking to herself. More accurately, she was arguing with herself. If she was going to be carried off in the happy jacket, she might as well start drinking again, Hollis thought.
“Who’s going to be her maid of honor?” her uncle asked.
“Both of us, Annabelle and me, which is stupid, don’t you think?” Hollis plopped down at the table and felt a bit like a petulant child. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt childish, happy, or otherwise.
“No. I think it’s nice. What about Meg?”
“She’s not going to make it, are you kidding? She’s probably in some hut in the middle of nowhere. Especially since it’s so soon. I think maybe I should tell Sage to postpone it.”
He guffawed. “I love how you assume she would just do that because you say so. Sure, postpone her happiness because you’re in a funk… what happened to you back home, Tiny Tots? Are you ever going to tell me?”
“My stuff has nothing to do with this.”
Eyes still on her, he waited for her to say more.
“Speaking of marriage, Matt is married. I’m sure you already knew that,” Hollis said. The abrupt change of subject along with the shake in her voice rang pathetic as Hollis scrambled to discuss anything other than her failure. Of course, thoughts of Matt were right there waiting to leap from her mouth.
“I… did know that. Did he tell you he was married?” Uncle Mitch asked with an awkward expression usually reserved for secret keepers.
Hollis paused at his look. What am I missing? “I read about it in the newspaper.”
“Oh, well, sure. Years ago. So, back to my question—Why are you here, Tots? What happened at work?”
Shit! Hollis glanced toward the bay as if there were answers out there. “It’s a long story.”
“I have a big patio, lots of fence to paint.”
He gestured back to the paint can. Hollis glared at him and grabbed his iced tea from across the table.
“Let’s start with this question: Were you fired?”
“No.”
That was all she was willing to offer and the simple shift in conversation to her work, her reality, was all it took to make Hollis uneasy.
“Okay, you quit?”
“No. I’ve been working. I have my laptop. I needed to step back. Stress, it was stress.” Hollis stood up, restless to do something other than sit there and be interrogated, but not wanting to paint. Giving in, she crouched to the paint can and started on the bottom part of the three slats she’d managed so far. Painting was definitely not one of her core competencies, as her boss would put it.
“Sure, let’s go with stress for now. Do you remember that movie The Karate Kid?”
Hollis shook her head.
“Oh, it’s a classic. Maybe we can rent it while you’re here. This kid wants to learn karate because boys keep beating him up, so he goes to Mr. Miyagi and the guy puts him to work fixing things around his place. Sort of like this.”
“Am I the karate kid in this little story?” she asked, wiping her forehead while trying not to get paint in her hair.
He nodded.
“I know a little karate.” She returned to painting.
“Well, there you have it. I am Mr. Miyagi and you are the student. What was his name? Cute kid… Ralph. The actor’s first name was Ralph. You can be him.”
“Yikes. Will lunch be provided if I let you call me Ralph?”
“Sure. I’ll feed you once you can catch a fly with my chopsticks.” As he returned to his paper, Uncle Mitch looked amused with himself and his reference to a movie the majority of the world had probably forgotten.
Hollis painted in silence and against all logic, thought about whether or not she was happy. Damn him. “You happy, Holls?” What kind of question was that after all this time? She supposed she’d opened it up with her “Did you miss me?” stupidity, but that was a direct question. Happy was such a broad term. Was she happy before this latest screw up? She thought she had been, but with the warm sun on her face and paint ruining her one decent pair of flip-flops, she wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d simply shut down and convinced herself she was happy.
Hollis shook her head. She needed to stop thinking before she turned into the homeless lady she often noticed on the Muni back home, complete with unitard and purple cowboy boots. Actually, she at least played a tiny ukulele and clapped for herself after each song. Hollis could barely paint a fence. When the last dribble of paint snuck down the brush and onto her wrist, she gave up.
“I need to get some work done, so karate kid is over until tomorrow.”
“Internet is down.”
“What? Why?” Hollis turned.
“I’m having a new router put in so the guys needed it down until about three.”
“Why does it take that long?”
“Hey, you put it on the action plan.” Her uncle stood and took the paintbrush from her. “Matt has Internet at the coffee shop.” He raised his eyebrows.
Hollis huffed, returning to sulky-child mode, shook her head, and walked inside.
“Since you’re going to be out, could you stop at Kerensky’s and pick up my order?” Uncle Mitch called after her.
“What’s in the order?” Hollis asked at the door.
“More paint and some varnish for the chairs. I can’t remember what else, but he has it all boxed up for me.”
“Sure.” Hollis grabbed the truck keys hanging on a hook near the front door of his cabin and walked out. Needing the comfort of her laptop and hoping there would be good news any day, she tried not to panic. She was at least a few more weeks away from cowboy boots and a ukulele. Maybe.
Matt handed over control of the register to Poppy, who had just started her shift. He was emptying coffee grounds, a part of filling in that he liked because the smell reminded him of being young. A lot of things about being at the cove did that, reminded him that inside all of his important adult meetings and the trappings of a grown-up, he was still a kid who used to sweep behind the counter for ice cream money. Tying the bag closed, Matt glanced up when the bell jingled and the front door of the shop flew open.
Hollis walked, more like stormed, into The Bean with all her affected corporate purpose and Matt’s warm, sentimental mood instantly turned to aggravation. She should have left Tomales Bay by now. Why was she still hanging around? The hesitant lilt of her voice when she asked if he’d missed her had been on repeat in his head. She was messing with him and Matt wasn’t in the mood. When she took a seat at the table under the oversized clock, his mind somehow couldn’t process adult Hollis in his parents’ place. The one version that seemed right running through that door was sun-bleached, seventeen, and flinging herself into his arms. This woman was on a couple of IPOs away from complete bitch, and Matt imagined the furthest thing from her mind was getting anywhere near his arms. Fine by him.
“Do you have Internet in this place?” she asked, digging in her bag with self-importance, which was amusing considering she had what appeared to be paint on her shirt.
Matt finished wiping down the counter by the window, taking his time because he was confident it would piss her off. “We do.”
Hollis pulled out her laptop and placed it on the table as if it were an extension of her arm and began tapping away at the keyboard.
“What? You need a password? Who still does that?” She looked at him with the wild eyes of s
omeone rarely unplugged.
“We do.”
Fingers poised midair, she raised her eyebrows like she could somehow command him that way. Matt returned two chairs to their original tables and picked up a straw wrapper off the floor.
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“Are you going to ask me nicely?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Then no.”
Hollis shook her head as she dropped her hand to the table. “Fine. Locke-ness, could you please pretty please with extra caramel sauce on top, tell me the stupid password for your Wi-Fi, which was obviously installed before the new millennium?”
At the sound of the nickname she’d had for him, Matt froze, all potential jibes vanishing. He gave her the password and walked away.
Maybe today was a good day to count the sugar packets, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck. He joined Poppy, who was carefully sweeping crumbs off a display behind the counter.
“Who’s that?” she asked, brushing her hands over the trash.
“Who?”
Poppy put her finger to her lips. “Hmm, let’s see, the gorgeous brunette wearing the Tori Burch flip-flops. She didn’t get those in this town and she was giving you an impressive death stare. One more time, boss man. Who is that?”
“Hollis Jeffries.”
“Wow, she even has an out-of-town name. Hollis, it’s different.”
Spot-on choice of words. Matt willed himself not to entertain exactly how different Hollis was and instead continued chatting as if that would calm the racing of his pulse. “Your name is Poppy, that’s different.”
“True, but I have stretch marks and am still wearing an elastic waist. That hair is salon gorgeous disguised in a ponytail and I haven’t seen you this electric, well, ever.”
“I’m not electric. That’s not even… what does that mean?”
Poppy rang up two people and turned to fill a ceramic travel mug with decaf. “Electric, sparky, alive I guess. She’s someone, I can tell, because my hormone super powers are still raging.”
Matt laughed and felt his shoulders loosen a little. “Her uncle is Mitch Jeffries. She used to come here with her family, probably long before you were even born. That’s how I know her.”
