“Who are you rooting for?” she asked, squeezing in next to him.
“Myself,” he said, downing the shot. “Hey, let me ask you something. Do you think Rory changed over time? Did he become…angrier? More difficult?”
“Hmm,” she said. “Was Rory Kincaid born an asshole or did he become an asshole? That’s a tough one.”
“I still don’t know why you keep insisting he was such a bad guy.”
Matt barely got the question out before a man appeared, put his hand on Stephanie’s shoulder. He had reddish hair and wore an expensive watch. If Matt had to bet, he’d say he wasn’t local. He was a New Yorker. Maybe LA.
“See ya,” Stephanie said, slipping off with the man into the crowd. He watched her until she was out the door, his unanswered question hanging like a rope around his neck.
Chapter Twenty-Four
What’s up with these?” Lauren signed in at the counter, stepping around a stack of framed photos. “Redecorating?”
“A little business venture,” Nora said. “What do you think of them?”
Lauren bent down, looking at the first in the pile. It was a black-and-white shot of an empty beach and the ocean, mounted on white in a simple black frame. She flipped through, looking at the rest. All were in black-and-white, all various nature scenes around town.
“Simple. Nice. What’s the business angle?”
“The photographer offered me a commission if I hang them on the walls here for sale. They go for a couple hundred apiece so it could be a nice chunk of change for me.”
“Do you even have space on the walls?”
Nora handed her a scribbled list of the day’s specials. “Can you please get these on the board for me? I have to check on the pastry delivery. They were stale yesterday. Did you have complaints?”
“No, not from my tables.” Lauren walked to the chalkboard and realized all of Henny’s signs were gone from the main dining room. “Nora, what happened to Henny’s signs?”
“Yeah, that’s the catch in the photography deal. I need to take those down.”
“Oh no! Henny is going to be devastated.”
“She’ll be fine. She doesn’t make more than twenty bucks or so a sign. It’s a hobby, but this place is a business. If I can generate some income off the wall space, I gotta go for it.”
Lauren knew it was tough to run a business year after year. Just look at what her parents went through with the store. Still, she felt bad for Henny. She would try to remember to buy a few of the signs before the end of the day. It was difficult, though, to think of anything once the breakfast rush started. When she was in the zone, her life and thoughts outside of the rhythm of taking orders, filling drinks, and delivering plates to the tables didn’t exist.
That’s why she was oblivious when her past walked through the door.
She rounded the counter, holding two full pitchers of iced tea, freshly sliced lemons floating on top. She didn’t notice Emerson Kincaid until she nearly collided with him, at which time she promptly dropped both pitchers, soaking herself and the floor. Lauren was vaguely aware of busboys and Nora scurrying around her, containing the mess. All she could do was back away, useless.
She was never more thankful than she was in that moment that he and Rory didn’t look very much alike. It was not like seeing a version of Rory walk in the door. But it was very much the physical incarnation of a different life, of a time that had begun to feel more and more like it existed only in her memory. The idea that players from that particular drama still roamed freely, still had lives beyond the brief moment when their worlds intersected with hers, was almost too much to think about.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day of the memorial. A conversation that haunted her.
“I need to talk to you,” Emerson said.
“Why?”
He looked older than she remembered. He was completely gray with deep lines under his eyes like his mother had. Lauren did the math; he was in his mid-forties. But he was still clearly in good shape, his shoulders broad and arms muscular under his T-shirt.
“You still wear your wedding band,” he said.
“I have nothing to say to you, Emerson.”
“This will take five minutes. Where can we talk?”
Lauren, feeling trapped, glanced around the packed restaurant.
“Sir, would you like a seat or are you looking for takeout?” Nora asked, holding menus. Nora obviously knew he was not there for food, that this was personal. Lauren thought of the first time Matt had shown up here and cornered her. That was a cakewalk compared to this.
“I’m so sorry, Nora. He’s a…family friend. Can I take five? Aside from the iced tea, everything else is in order. Just waiting on tickets.”
Nora gave her an Are you sure? look and Lauren nodded.
Lauren felt guilty that her personal drama kept showing up on Nora’s doorstep. But, well, for the past four years, Nora had been telling her she needed to have a life. And this was what Lauren had been afraid of; this was what her life looked like.
Emerson followed her outside and half a block down the street, safely out of earshot of the sidewalk tables.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Remember a few years ago I warned you that someone was trying to make a documentary about Rory? Well, he’s still at it. I just found out he interviewed the Villanova coach last month. I want to make sure you’re not talking to him.”
“Your own mother spoke to him.”
He looked at her in disgust. “I can’t believe it. You are talking to him.”
“I didn’t say that. What I said was that your mother spoke to him.”
“My mother was extremely upset at the idea of some New York film guy exploiting Rory’s legacy. But since we had no legal recourse to stop him, she at least wanted to do her part to represent him in the way we want him represented.”
“You just have an answer for everything. As always.”
Emerson narrowed his eyes. Rarely, in all the years she’d known him, had she been anything less than respectful to the great and powerful Emerson, the man who could change her life with a single conversation. Had changed her life with a single conversation. Yes, there had been a time when she had seen him as a confidant, when she had sought his counsel. When she had bought into Rory’s reverence for him. Her mistake. A tragic, costly mistake.
“Lauren, I want your word that you won’t participate in this film.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Are you trying to say my brother’s legacy isn’t my business? It isn’t your business. You were barely married by the end.”
She felt herself begin to shake. “We were married. And if I want to talk about my late husband, that’s my right.” The rage was more about a conversation that had taken place behind her back half a decade ago than about the one taking place in that moment.
“If you say one word against my brother, we’re going to have a big problem.”
“Are you threatening me, Emerson? Don’t bother. Rory’s gone. There’s nothing more you can take from me.”
“Take from you? That’s a joke. You ran away so fast, you left skid marks. The going got tough, and you sure as hell got going.”
“Fuck you, Emerson.” She walked toward the restaurant, but then turned back for a moment. “Oh, and if you want to know if I said anything on camera, you’ll have to buy a ticket to the movie.”
Beth spread out all her tools: doughnut cutter, rolling pin, doughnut pan, piping bag, and parchment paper. Ethan seemed most fascinated with the electric mixer.
“How long will it be before we can eat them?” he asked.
“Well, it takes about a half hour to do all the baking, but there are periods where we have to let the dough rest, so it will be about two hours.”
“Two hours?”
She laughed. “It goes by quickly. And it’s worth the wait. All good things are.
Besides, it’s only nine in the morning. We can’t eat doughnuts before lunch.”
He seemed to contemplate this reasoning.
“What kind are we making?”
“I thought we’d start simple for our first try. Just regular glazed. But if you like helping out, we can really make any kind of doughnut.”
“Chocolate?”
“Sure. Chocolate, coconut. I made an apple-pie doughnut once that was delicious. If you could make any doughnut in the world, what would you make?”
He thought a minute. “Peanut butter and jelly.”
“We could do that,” she said, already thinking about what kind of peanut butter would work best as filling. “But for now, we start with the basics. In the kitchen, you have to be organized. So we have all of our ingredients there, and we have our equipment here.”
She pulled a bowl in front of them and combined the yeast, milk, and flour, explaining to him that baking was like science. “You have to measure and be very precise. Now we’re going to stir this into a paste, and then it has to sit for a half hour.”
“That’s it?” he asked, disappointed.
“No, it’s just the beginning! When it’s ready, we’re going to combine it with other ingredients in the mixing machine, and then the fun part: we get to roll out the dough.”
The deck door slid open. Stephanie appeared, wearing the same clothes she’d worn at dinner the night before. Beth swallowed her rage as Ethan ran to his mother.
“Mommy! Where’d you go?”
“Hi, hon. I went for an early walk,” Stephanie said, eyeing Beth. “Are you baking with Gran?”
“We’re making doughnuts,” he said. “Today just plain but Gran said we can make any kind. Even peanut butter and jelly.”
“Well, your gran is an amazing baker, so if she says so, it’s true.”
“Stephanie, can I talk to you for a minute? Ethan, hon, like I said, that mixture in the bowl has to rest. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll do the next step.”
She took her daughter by the elbow and practically dragged her up to the second floor.
“Where the hell have you been?” Beth whispered.
“Mother, I’m a grown woman. Last I checked, I don’t have a curfew.”
“No, but you have a child. You can’t just run around all night. This is unacceptable, Stephanie. It’s time for you to grow up!”
Stephanie brushed past her and headed upstairs. Beth’s eyes filled with tears.
Howard had been right. This summer was a disaster.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Matt packed up his camera. His laptop and clothes were already in the suitcase, and his key was on the desk. The only thing left were the index cards organized and spread out on the floor. He bent down, looked at the timeline of Rory’s story, the painstakingly constructed puzzle, and then scooped them up and tossed them into the trash.
All that was left to do was say good-bye to Henny. Technically, he could just walk out, let the door lock behind him, and be done with it. Maybe he was procrastinating; when he got into his car and drove onto the highway, it would really be over.
He walked to the back deck, where he could usually find Henny sanding or painting first thing in the morning, but the tables were empty and she wasn’t outside. Her car was in the driveway, so he walked to the front porch and rang the doorbell.
“What are you doing out here? You lock yourself out again?” she asked when she finally opened the door. It took her so long to respond to the bell he thought maybe she wasn’t home after all.
“No. I’m checking out. I left my key on the desk. I just wanted to say good-bye.”
“So you’re not extending your stay?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I have to get back to New York.”
Henny burst into tears. Okay, this was a bit more of a good-bye than he had bargained for. His phone rang, but he ignored it. Dropping his bag, he asked, “Is something wrong?”
“No, I’m fine.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry. This is very unprofessional. You were a model tenant. It was great to meet you. If you can rate me on the website, that would be helpful.”
“Sure. Not a problem. But maybe…can I come in for a second?”
Matt hadn’t spent any time on the first floor of the house. The living room was just as quaint and comfortable as his bedroom, with cozy reading chairs upholstered in pale blue and yellow, a white wicker couch decorated with starfish throw pillows, a white wooden coffee table, and, of course, painted signs everywhere.
“Oh, you know, I want to buy one of your signs before I go,” he said, an attempt to cheer her up so he could leave without feeling like he’d walked out on her. “Something to remember this trip by.” Though he wouldn’t soon forget it. The place where his film died.
The comment brought a fresh wave of tears. “You’ll be the last person to buy one.”
“Why’s that?”
“Nora took them down from the restaurant walls. She needs room to sell fancy, expensive photos!” She blew her nose loudly into a handkerchief. “My signs have been on the walls of the café since the day it opened.”
This is what he got for procrastinating.
“Well, um, maybe another place in town will sell them.”
“I’ve been looking around but any other place wants too much of a percentage of the sale. I won’t make any money. And I don’t want to raise the price.”
“Maybe you should sell these online. Then you keep most of the money and you have your own virtual store. I know you said you don’t like doing things on the Internet, but that’s really where things are at now. You can sell to people all over the country. All over the world.”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe when my son comes to visit for Thanksgiving he can set it up for me.”
“It’s not complicated. I can get you up on Etsy in no time.”
She brightened. “Really? If you can do that for me, I’m happy to give you a few nights here free of charge.”
“Thanks, but—”
“I insist!”
“I appreciate it, but I was here for work and now things have fallen through. I don’t have any reason to stay.”
The doorbell rang.
“Now, who in heaven can that be? And I’m a mess.” She dabbed at her eyes.
“Do you want me to get it for you?”
She nodded. Matt walked to the door, recalculating his timeline. He could set her up on Etsy, then grab lunch, then hit the road. He’d be back in New York by four.
Matt opened the front door.
“I changed my mind,” Lauren said. “I’ll do the interview.”
He stared at her.
The irony of timing was too much for him. He didn’t even have money to pay the sound guy and his DP.
“What changed your mind?” he asked, really just curious about the extent to which the universe was fucking with him.
“You were right about one thing. I do care about the truth.”
He looked at his packed bag just inches away from her. He thought of the two dozen index cards in the garbage upstairs.
He thought of Rory, chasing the puck in the crease, forty seconds left on the clock, game six of the Stanley Cup semifinals. He shoots, he scores…
“Come back in twenty minutes,” he said.
Lauren’s decision to talk to Matt had been a knee-jerk reaction to Emerson’s warning, and now that the moment had arrived, she was scared.
She stood outside Henny’s front door, her heart beating so hard and fast she felt she could barely breathe. I can just leave.
But no. She’d been going over and over it in her mind, and talking to Matt was the right thing to do. Yes, when he’d first shown up, when she’d learned about the film, she saw it as Matt asking something of her, taking something from her. And then when Emerson told her not to talk to Matt, she realized that Matt was actually offering her something. The chance to tell her story. Maybe it could serve a purpose. The truth might matte
r.
“Hey. Come on in. Almost ready for you,” Matt said.
“Wow. Is Henny okay with all of this?” Lauren asked.
All the framed photos and Henny’s signs were gone from the walls, and most of the chairs and the sofa had been pushed to one side of the room.
“Yes, she’s fine with it. Don’t worry. We’ll have this room back in shape by the time she gets home tonight. Can you have a seat in that chair?” He directed her to a dove-gray armchair that had been angled in front of the window.
“We’re going to…like, get right into it?” she said nervously.
“Let me check the setup here,” he said, twisting the legs of a tripod to stabilize it. She perched on the edge of the chair.
“And you said this would just take an hour?”
“Lauren, if you can just slide back an inch,” he said.
Lauren fidgeted nervously in her seat. Matt moved from behind the camera and sat across from her. He grabbed some papers from a nearby end table and handed them to her.
“Before we start shooting, I need for you to sign this release.”
“What? I never agreed to sign anything.”
“It’s standard operating procedure, Lauren. You don’t have to sign it, but if you don’t, I can’t film you.”
She glanced down at the pages in her hands.
“You don’t have to answer any question you don’t want to, and you certainly don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”
“But everything I say on camera you can use or edit?”
“Yes. Once you’ve spoken on camera, the material becomes, essentially, property of the film company.”
She scanned the paperwork, then looked up at him.
“I need to know why you’re doing this film,” she said. “Why this? Why Rory?”
He met her gaze, and the intensity was unnervingly familiar to Lauren. There had been only one other person she’d known who could convey all his passion and focus in a quiet glance.
“My older brother, Ben, was a Marine,” Matt said. “He enlisted right after 9/11. Fought in Operation Enduring Freedom. And we lost him in 2004. There was no fanfare. He wasn’t on the front page of the New York Times. There was no memorial in an arena televised for the world to see. No one except for the people who loved Ben cared that he was gone. He was just another statistic. But when your husband died, he became America’s hero. I couldn’t tell my brother’s story, but I knew I could at least tell Rory’s.”
The Husband Hour Page 14
