Just South of Perfect

by Grace Palmer

  The song peaked, and Sam twirled Stella away from him effortlessly before drawing her in again. A few other patrons had joined them on the dance floor now, including Drew and a very pretty blonde woman. Stella wondered what the townspeople thought of her.

  Did Sam do this often? If Alma and Georgia were trying to set him up, did he come here every Friday night for this exact reason? Was Stella nothing more than another woman in a long line of women Sam had wooed around the dance floor?

  Did it matter?

  “Delicious enough to stay a few extra days?” he asked.

  Stella was so lost in her thoughts that it took her a moment to remember what they were talking about. “Oh, well, almost, but no, I’m afraid not. I’m going to get back on the road as soon as my car is ready.”

  “I was hoping you’d answer differently.” Sam’s smile slipped, and Stella’s heart flopped against the side of her chest. He released his hold on her hip to run a nervous hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “After you left the shop, I called my parts guy to get an estimate on the parts we need, and he said it’s going to be a couple days. I hoped maybe you’d decide to stay on your own, so the news wouldn’t be quite so disappointing.”

  Stella felt something like relief. For a moment, she’d thought Sam was hitting on her. Then, a second later, understanding followed. “It’s going to be a few days on the part?”

  “The parts shop is a town over, and it is closed today and tomorrow. The owner is a friend, so he said he’d do me a favor and run me the part himself Sunday rather than wait on shipping, but that’s the best we can do.”

  She was frustrated, but blaming Sam wouldn’t do any good. He didn’t break her camshaft or crack her serpentine belt or do any of the other things that made her car break down. Sam was just the mechanic close enough to fix it, and he shouldn’t be punished for that.

  “Maybe I should have my car towed to a bigger shop,” she wondered aloud. “I trust your expertise, but maybe somewhere else will have the parts I need.”

  “Maybe, but the tow would cost you a fortune. I’d tow you myself, but I have clients booked tomorrow and Sunday, so—”

  “Of course. You’ve done enough for me already. I would never ask you to do anything for free.” Was everyone in this town so accommodating? They didn’t know Stella, but they were making a serious effort to ensure she had a good time. The obvious reason was that they were all nice people, but Stella couldn’t help but be suspicious.

  “You don’t have to ask; I want to help.” The song ended, but Sam held onto Stella’s hand, holding her in place. “For the late tow truck arrival and the delay in the part, I’ll fix your car for parts—no labor included.”

  “Sam, no. It’s fine, really. I can pay for—”

  Sam carried on talking like Stella never said anything. “And since you have to stay here a few more days, maybe you’ll let me make it up to you by showing you around Willow Beach. The Duke Saloon is my main haunt, but there’s a café on Main Street that makes a great cup of coffee. They have fancy coffee drinks too, but I can’t recommend one of those.”

  He was rambling, and Stella realized all at once why. He had said before he didn’t have any ideas, but now it seemed like he had at least one: Sam wanted to take her out on a date.

  A large part of her wanted to say yes. Sam was charming and kind, and he was handsome in a rugged way that made Stella feel safe with him.

  The problem was, she was only going to be in Willow Beach for a few days, and there was no reason to make things more complicated than they needed to be. It would be better for both of them if they didn’t get too attached.

  Stella clutched Sam’s hands in both of hers and smiled. “You are so sweet, but you don’t need to do that for me. You’ve helped me enough already, and I couldn’t possibly steal any more of your time. Thank you for the dance, though.”

  Before he could respond, Stella slipped away and went back to the bar. Georgia and Alma made eyes at one another and asked too many leading questions about Sam, forcing Stella to admit he was a tremendous dancer and easy on the eyes, as well, but when Stella told them she was tired for a second time, neither of them fought her on it.

  Drew offered to drive Stella back up to the inn. When she got to her room, she changed into pajamas and fell immediately into bed. Today had been the longest day she’d had in months, if not years. So, despite her racing thoughts, Stella fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  6

  Stella smelled pancakes before she even opened her eyes.

  The smell was familiar and comforting, and she smiled, pulling the blankets under her chin and snuggling further into the mattress.

  She and Jace had eaten pancakes every Saturday morning for as long as Stella could remember. When he was little, she sliced fruit on top to look like eyes and a nose and a beard. As he got older, she invested in expensive jams and syrups from a specialty market down the street from her office building.

  The first weekend after he left for college, Stella woke up and made pancakes, but she made more than she’d ever be able to eat on her own, and the whole routine made her sad. What was the point of the tradition if she didn’t have anyone to share it with? Every Saturday since then, she’d opted for coffee, half a grapefruit, and a slice of buttered toast. A new routine, not nearly as cute as the old one.

  She slipped back into sleep, but when she woke up a bit later, the smell of pancakes hit her again. Only this time, she sat bolt upright in bed.

  The bedroom was bright and tidy…and unfamiliar.

  It took a few seconds for Stella to remember where she was and why. Then, she heard the distant, muffled sounds of other people moving around the inn. She heard the seagulls squawking nearby, and the sound of water lapping at the shore.

  The day before had been such a bizarre whirlwind that Stella almost wrote it all off as a dream. But no, she was really here, at the Willow Beach Inn. And according to Sam, she was going to be here for at least one more day and night, so she might as well get out of bed and start her day.

  She dug some clothes out of her suitcase and padded into the bathroom adjoining her room for a shower. As she’d gotten older, Stella had noticed her hair being less oily than it used to. She used to wash her hair every day, but now she only washed it a couple times per week. After the day she had yesterday, today was most certainly going to be one of those days.

  The shampoo in the shower was much better than the typical hotel soap. It lathered luxuriously, and Stella spent more time than necessary running her fingers through her hair and scrubbing every single strand with the lavender scent.

  When she was done, she pulled on her favorite pair of jeans and a loose linen blouse and headed downstairs for the breakfast Drew had raved about the day before.

  Stella expected to find the rest of the inn’s guests at the small tables just off the kitchen. She expected to hear chatter and the clanking of silverware. Instead, as she came down the main staircase, all was quiet. And when she turned into the dining room, the tables were empty.

  She turned in a circle, looking for a sign of anyone, and that was when she noticed the clock hanging on the wall. And the time.

  “Ten thirty?” She was so surprised she said it out loud. How could it be ten thirty? Stella hadn’t slept in past eight in the morning in eighteen years.

  Being a person who liked routines came very naturally to Stella. Even when she didn’t try, her body clung to routines such as her wake-up time. Stella never set an alarm because she didn’t have to. On weekdays, she woke up at six thirty in the morning, and on weekends, she woke up at eight. Give or take a few minutes, of course, but no more than a few.

  It wasn’t as if Stella’s nights were perfect and peaceful, either. Jace didn’t sleep through the night until he was eleven. After they got through sleep training and regressions, bed-wetting, and monsters under the bed, he started having night terrors. He had one per night like clockwork every night until sixth grade. Stella couldn’t do an
ything to help him aside from sit and talk with him until he came fully back to consciousness. When he did, she’d get him a drink, kiss his forehead, and go back to sleep for a few more hours.

  Still, every morning, her eyes would pop open at their usual time without fail.

  Now, she’d accidentally slept most of the morning away.

  A door on a squeaky hinge opened behind her, and she turned to see Georgia walking into the room with a small stack of pancakes in one hand and a bowl of fresh-cut strawberries in the other.

  “There’s our weary traveler. I was wondering when you’d join us.” She set the plate and bowl on a table in the middle of the room and then turned around to fetch a glass bottle of syrup from under a cabinet along the edge of the room. “I kept your pancakes hot in the oven, so they might be a bit on the dry side, but the coffee is fresh. I brewed it only five minutes ago.”

  “You kept this food hot for me?” Stella felt drawn to the pancakes like a sailor to a siren. They looked like a picture from a magazine—fluffy and perfectly golden with a yellow pat of butter on top.

  “Breakfast ends at nine most mornings, but you had a hard day yesterday, and I wanted to let you sleep.”

  “I haven’t slept in this late in years,” Stella said, grabbing nervously at the still-damp hair draped over her shoulder. “Decades, even. I can’t believe I just woke up. It’s very unlike me. I’m sorry I threw off your routine.”

  “My routine is to make my guests comfortable and happy, so I’m right on schedule. Besides, it was really no trouble. I’m sorry to say all of the muffins are gone, but I saved you some pancakes before Drew ate them all. Twenty-seven years old and the man still eats like a teenager. It’s a medical wonder.”

  “Still, you really didn’t need to do that for me. I could have found something in town to eat,” Stella said as she laid a napkin in her lap and reached for the syrup.

  “Nonsense.” Georgia dismissed the thought with a flick of her hand. “It was no trouble at all, and I’m more than happy to do it. What I’m not happy to do, however, is all of the breakfast dishes. But alas, my children seem to have disappeared, so the task falls to me. Yell if you need anything.”

  Drew was not exaggerating. Georgia did indeed make a mean breakfast. Maybe the pancakes were a bit dry from having sat out while Stella snoozed the day away, but they were flavored with brown sugar and cinnamon, so Stella really didn’t mind. The syrup was thick and rich, and the butter—goodness gracious, even the butter—seemed to taste brighter than any butter Stella had ever had.

  From what she could tell so far, Willow Beach had all the makings of an untapped culinary gold mine. Between Alma’s fried chicken and Georgia’s pancakes, it felt like Stella had died and gone to greasy, carby heaven.

  She’d nearly finished with her pancakes when she heard the coffee pot steam and sputter behind her and remembered she still hadn’t had a sip of caffeine yet. Usually, coffee was the first thing Stella fumbled for in the morning, but apparently, she’d slept so well she hardly needed it. That didn’t stop her from getting up and making a cup though.

  Just as she sat back down at her table, the hinge squeaked again, and Georgia strolled back into the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Can I get you anything else? Seconds, maybe?”

  Stella groaned contentedly. “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite. That was remarkable, Georgia. Thank you.”

  “I’ve had so much practice over the years that making a big breakfast is second nature to me now. It’s practically a science.”

  “You do all the cooking yourself?”

  The sparkle in her eyes dimmed slightly. “I do now.”

  Of course. Georgia’s husband. Stella shook her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Yes, you absolutely should have. You were curious, and I’m happy to tell you. It has been months, and really, I’m surprisingly fine with it all. Maybe I should have fallen apart, maybe I should still be a sobbing mess. Who knows? Maybe I still will be those things. But right now, I’m doing okay. I’m great, even.”

  “You don’t have to be anything. Everyone deals with things differently. Take me, for instance,” Stella said, throwing her arms wide. “My son went off to college, and I took a spontaneous road trip to try and figure things out.”

  “What things?”

  Stella shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest idea. If you’d have asked me two days ago if I liked my life, I would have said yes. But now I’m not sure. I’ve had time to think about my life, and the more I think about it, the more I realize everything revolved around my son. I don’t regret that, but what it means now that he’s gone is that I don’t have very many friends or hobbies or any idea at all of how to fill my time. I also don’t think I like my job very much, but then I think, ‘How many people actually like their jobs? Am I supposed to like my job? It’s good enough, but is good enough enough?’”

  Georgia reached out and laid a hand over Stella’s, and warmth flooded Stella’s face.

  “I’m sorry. I’m paying you for a roof over my head, not to be my therapist. I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

  Georgia actually looked offended. “You’re telling me because I asked. And because although you may only be paying me for a room, that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you and your problems.”

  Emotion squeezed the back of Stella’s throat, and she felt pathetic. This near-stranger suggested they were friends, and here she was on the verge of bursting into tears.

  “Do you want to know what someone told me after Richard left?”

  Stella nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Someone told me that you have to experience the rain to see the rainbow.” Georgia pulled her hand away and swiped an arc through the air in front of them. “I know what they meant, and they only wanted to help, but I’ve never heard a worse piece of advice in my entire life.”

  “Really? Why?” Stella thought back over the many signs she has painted for her mom’s flea market sale, trying to remember if she’d painted that phrase on a sign already. It seemed very familiar.

  “It gives people the idea that all pain has a purpose. Or worse yet, that all pain and suffering has a happy ending waiting just on the other side of it. But I experienced pain and heartache. I went through the rain and came out on the other side, but—” Georgia looked around sarcastically, lips pressed into a thin line. “Does it look like it’s stopped raining to you?

  “I run a business I love, and I have family and friends many people would kill for, but I still haven’t seen my husband once since he left months ago.”

  Stella gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. But you know what? I’m also relieved.”

  “You are?”

  Georgia took a deep breath and smiled softly to herself. “Yes, because I’m moving on. I have someone in my life I really, really like. Some days, I still sit on my bed and cry over what I lost, but then I get up, get ready, and go about my day. Pain, recovery, and progress aren’t linear. It’s less of a march and more of a jazz square—a constant reworking and renavigating as you go. Life changes and people change. Not all rain ends in a rainbow, and sometimes the most vibrant rainbows of all happen while it’s still raining. The trick, I think, is that rather than focusing on getting through the rain, we should all learn to dance in it a little bit.”

  The phone at the front desk rang at that very moment, and Stella was grateful because she was seconds away from crying.

  Jace going off to college wasn’t the same as being left by your husband, not by a long shot. Children were supposed to leave the nest. They were supposed to outgrow you and go into the world on their own. Stella should have been thrilled for Jace, and she was, but she was also devastated for herself.

  Maybe that’s what Georgia meant about rainbows sometimes appearing in the middle of the rain. The good and the bad can be complexly intertwined, and right now, Stella neede
d to figure out how to focus on the good. She needed to figure out how to dance in this rainstorm rather than be swept away in it.

  “What are you interested in?”

  Georgia’s question was innocent, so Stella answered without much thought: “I like to paint.”

  Suddenly, Georgia was pulling canvas, tubes of paint, and bags of brushes out of a storage closet behind the kitchen.

  “I bought all of this thinking I could do a painting class with the guests—you know, try and have some more activities—but turns out you need painting experience to teach people to paint.” She laughed and shoved supplies into Stella’s arms. “Now someone can make use of all of this. Please. I should have gotten rid of this stuff two years ago when my experiment promptly failed. Though I’m glad I didn’t because now you can have it.”

  Now, Stella sat in front of the canvas on the back porch, a cup of coffee in one hand and a twirling paintbrush in the other.

  She hadn’t painted seriously in years. And even then, it wasn’t serious. She’d pulled out a canvas once or twice a week for a few months while working on the painting that now hung above her dining room table. It was an abstract floral piece with bright flowers crawling up the canvas and green vines dripping down from them. She liked it, but she’d only painted it to avoid paying hundreds of dollars for something similarly sized online. No one else would ever want it.

  Stella stopped, the paintbrush stilling between her fingers. The question Georgia had asked was what Stella did for fun. Not for profit or purpose—for fun. When did everything start to need a purpose? What did it matter if her painting was terrible, so long as she had fun painting it?

  With her newfound energy, Stella put down her coffee, dipped her brush in the glob of yellow paint on the wooden pallet Georgia gave her, and began to paint.

  She was only playing at first, trying to remember how paint moved over a canvas and figure out how much water to add to loosen the texture without the paint becoming too thin. Soon, however, the painting began to take shape. Her spot on the back porch was lovely. The green lawn sloped away from the back of the inn, moving toward a rocky path that stretched to the water’s edge. It was nearing midday, so the sky was bright blue and clear, but Stella imagined the view at sunset. She painted cotton-candy clouds and rays of light as soft and bright as a baby duck’s feathers. The grass and trees were turquoise with blue and purple leaves, and even the rocky path was soaked in the imagined sunrise, rocks breaking through pink dirt in shades of blue—cyan, teal, and indigo.