On the Corner of Love and Hate

by Nina Bocci

  I was already on beer number six for the night. Well, not quite. Some had spilled on my shirt, while some was in the neighboring glasses of the other bar patrons because Henry had thought he was being slick by giving it away. With the fall semester in full swing, Henry was casually nursing his orange and cranberry juice cocktail like the good teacher that he was.

  “Have they gone back to Seattle yet?” he asked, eyebrows raised, as I drained my glass.

  I shrugged. “I called Christopher a few times, but it went straight to voice mail. I’m not holding my breath. It was a good deal, but if they think the press is only going to run the old scandal and hurt business, they may just say screw it. It’s not worth the frustration or the time and money to change people’s minds with ads. The new photo might help, but I’m not counting on it.”

  The family had stood and walked out of the room in a show of solidarity.

  “Once my father explained everything to me, he emailed the family detailing what happened and included the original photo. They didn’t respond, but it’s possible they’ll reach out. It might just be a saving-face thing right now.” Even with the photo that had proven his innocence, seeing that first image must have felt like Cooper—and by extension, Hope Lake—had disrespected the Jacksons and their business all over again. That was a hard thing to come back from. I huffed in frustration.

  “We’re supposed to be helping his image. Making Cooper seem less . . . Cooperish. He’s supposed to be wooing Whitney. Being the perfect political power couple.” I signaled the bartender for another pitcher. “You know about that, right?”

  He nodded. “How do you feel about that?”

  “Want a shot?”

  “I suppose that answers my question,” he said, laughing.

  “Oh, Henry. Always the peacekeeper.” I sighed, standing to pat him on his lovely tousled head. “Where to now? This place is boring.” I looked around at the pub. A handful of regulars were sitting at the bar, coming in after their softball game, stopping for a pint on the way home. Other than that, the place was empty.

  “We’re headed home. Where you’re going to sleep this off,” Henry told me, bending to pick up my purse. “Will you be walking or piggyback riding this evening?”

  “Piggy, please. I don’t know that I’ll make it very far on foot,” I said through a yawn. He slung my purse over his shoulder, confident enough to strut out of a bar with a hot pink Kate Spade on his arm.

  He laughed. “My guess is that you’d give up on making it home and sleep it off under the table. It would be like that time you visited me at Penn State over spring break and fell asleep curled up underneath a bath towel.”

  “I haven’t had vodka since.” Hiking up my skirt, I jumped on his back. He didn’t even flinch. Instead he reached into his pocket to pull out his tattered wallet and pay the bill. It was as if there weren’t a person attached to him like Yoda.

  “Onward, Skywalker!” I hollered, resting my head on his shoulder. Reaching back, he hooked his hands beneath my knees and walked swiftly out of the bar and into the unseasonably cool night, humming the Star Wars theme song. He’d parked at the end of the lot, and the rocking motion was doing me in.

  “Thanks, Henry,” I whispered as he deposited me into the passenger side of his ancient Jeep. And with that I drifted off to sleep.

  • • •

  “STOP SPINNING,” I GROANED, rolling over in search of the cool part of my pillow. Forcing one eye open, I saw that it was morning, but it looked miserable outside.

  Good, it matches how I feel.

  Resolved to get up, I scrubbed my hands over my face. They came away sticky from day-old mascara, dried-up beer, and Lord knows what else. When I stretched, I heard a crinkle and looked down to find a note stuck to my shirt with a safety pin.

  Emma,

  Morning, Sunshine! Don’t be stubborn, take the Advil I left and drink the whole bottle of water. You’re off work until Wednesday. We saw Nancy last night when I was carrying you up, and we both agreed you deserved a day off. She let me in and helped me get you dressed in your PJs. Didn’t peek, I promise. :) For the record, you shouldn’t sing the Golden Girls theme song at the top of your lungs at midnight. Your downstairs neighbor was fit to be tied. And you’re not going to be a crazy old spinster and live out your days with only your three best friends for company. Nick, Cooper, and I are your three best friends, and we wouldn’t let that happen. Eat some toast, drink lots of water and the Gatorade (it’s in the fridge), and call me in the afternoon when you come up for air.

  XO Henry

  (AKA Dorothy. Nick is clearly Rose and obviously Cooper is Blanche. That, by default, makes you Sophia. Your mother will be thrilled.)

  I racked my brain for any clear recollection after leaving the bar. All I remembered was belting out the Golden Girls theme song a dozen times while Henry was carrying me from the Jeep into the building and up all five flights of stairs. I was sure he deserved to be sainted for whatever I’d put him through.

  My stomach rolled. I shot off a quick text thanking him for taking good care of me and apologizing for the singing. His response was that he had turned off his implants.

  Ignoring my lurching stomach, I swallowed the pills and took a big swig of water. With nothing on the horizon but sleep and television, I snuggled back under the covers, ready to drift off again and ignore the rest of my responsibilities.

  By the time I swam up from sleep a second time, it was nearly two in the afternoon and I was starving: always a good sign postbender. After a quick shower to scrub the dried makeup and beer off my face and the drool from my hair, I stumbled down the stairs and into daylight. It was overcast and a relatively mild day, but between the hangover and the queasiness, it might as well have been ninety degrees and sunny.

  I pulled a hat down over my eyes and walked the short distance into town. There was no way I would have the coordination to ride my bike, and driving didn’t seem like the best idea, either. I wasn’t a big drinker, so a few beers usually did me in—never mind six. Add in the fact that I’d skipped dinner, and I was probably still partially hungover.

  Near the post office, my phone pinged with a group message from Henry and Nick with an invite to meet them and a few of Nick’s employees at China Garden for dinner whenever I was feeling up to it. It was followed by a message from Nick explaining that he had to eat at a certain time or he got hangry.

  ME: Raincheck? I’m still feeling green. How’s Wednesday? We can discuss my thoughts on the landscape reno for all the public spaces next summer?

  NICKY POO: Do u ever not work?

  HENRY NOT THE 8TH: She’s always thinking, it’s why she’s the best at her job. Wednesday is great, Ems. We’ll pick you up at 7 sharp.

  NICKY POO: Pizza and beer Wed. ur treat

  • • •

  FEW THINGS MADE ME HAPPIER than sitting on a park bench, people watching and gnawing on a soft pretzel. Especially when I was forced to seek out a bench because I was light-headed. Thanks, hangover. I felt lousy. Watching the town enjoying the fall weather made me feel marginally better.

  Young, sporty couples zipped around the park paths with their sleek helmets and bells. You could always count on yoga in the park, no matter the weather. Today there were dozens of brightly colored mats covering the grass. The Hope Lake seniors’ group walked around picking up imaginary litter so they could scope out the town and collect gossip, not trash. Now, that was a sight to see. If I ever needed information fast, I would just go to Mrs. Mancini and her league of extraordinary meddlers.

  The usual crew was walking toward me now as I sat quietly under the gazebo the town had erected about a decade before. It was sort of an odd piece of architecture, one of those things that you thought you needed because you thought people would use it, but then it just sat there and collected dust. The only time it was really used was at Christmas, when it was filled with caroling children dressed like Charles Dickens characters.

  And it was normally a peac
eful spot to relax and hide in. It would have been the perfect hangover recovery spot if I hadn’t had to listen to Mrs. Mancini and her crew banter about who was pregnant, who was moving home, and, yes, who Cooper Endicott was currently “seeing.” Not exactly something I wanted to chat about in my half-dead state.

  Before they saw me, I scooted down so that I was hidden behind the arborvitae that Nick’s landscaping company had planted around the gazebo a few years back in an effort to make it more inviting. I’d never realized how perfect a fence they were until I needed them to hide behind to eavesdrop.

  Mrs. Mancini, with her powder blue tracksuit and matching Nikes, commanded the small group like a general leading an army. Having the elder Dr. Bishop rolling along beside her on her hot pink motorized scooter made the entire spectacle a hoot.

  “The wife was to blame,” Mrs. Mancini was saying. “I heard that she came on to Cooper again. Practically threw herself at him while the two friends just stood there dumbfounded. You know him, he never could resist a pretty face. Even one as cosmetically altered as hers. It was like shooting ducks in a barrel.” As she relayed the gossip to her posse, Mrs. Mancini fanned herself with a thick hand. To prove that the drama was almost too much, I guessed.

  “You mean fish, Suzanne. Fish in a barrel,” one of the other women piped up.

  “I know what I said, and I said what I meant, Clara,” Mrs. Mancini snapped, turning her back on her friend. The woman hated being corrected almost as much as she hated realizing she was wrong.

  Someone cleared her throat. “Kirby’s airheaded wife was at the dry cleaners this morning bragging how he was going to be a shoo-in now. What a nightmare Rogers will be to deal with if he’s elected. He’s so condescending.”

  “Rogers said he was cutting what little bit of funding the seniors’ group has! We can’t let that happen,” the elder Dr. Bishop chimed in, earning echoes of agreement from the rest.

  “It’s all public funding he’s gunning for. Not just the seniors. His plan includes cutting stuff from arts and after-school programs for the children, too,” Mrs. Mancini added sharply.

  “Not the children!” the group gasped in chorus, and if they’d been wearing pearls, they surely would have clutched them.

  “Cooper’s got a plan to apply for senior grants. And don’t forget about the idea for the summer camp that Barreton University would pay for,” Mrs. Mancini said, ticking off each idea on her fingertips.

  They yammered among themselves for a few more minutes before coming to a collective decision. Although I couldn’t hear everything they were saying, I could hear Mrs. Mancini’s voice over the rest. “We still have time. That Jackson nonsense was nearly a decade ago. Cooper’s changed, and he’s got that gorgeous lawyer girlfriend now. Too many people thought he was—you know—promiscuous, and she gives him a sense of stability.”

  Why was she whispering that? It wasn’t like it was a state secret. He might as well have worn his conquests like Boy Scout badges.

  “I saw the girlfriend with him the other night at dinner—that girl can freeze ice on her backside. Why is she so serious?” Dr. Bishop shouted.

  “Goodness, Imogen, can you tone it down? We don’t need the whole town hearing about our business!” Clara said from behind her hand. Which was hysterical, because nothing they discussed was ever their business.

  Mrs. Mancini motioned to Dr. Bishop’s ears. “Turn up your hearing aids, for pity’s sake.”

  “Enrico is still worried. I could tell when I saw him at the diner this morning. He looks tired and stressed,” Clara said, and the group nodded.

  “Understandably,” someone else said. “Imagine building a legacy for years and having it put into jeopardy because of a guy like Kirby.”

  An alarm sounded from someone’s phone. “That’s time. Ready, girls? Let’s get in another half mile before poker,” Mrs. Mancini instructed, and after a chorus of grunts and complaints, the group left in a single-file line of varying shades of rainbow-colored tracksuits.

  Fishing out my cell phone, I called in reinforcements.

  “My darling,” my father answered. I could imagine him sitting on his soft leather chair smiling as he stared out the stained-glass window. “What do you need? Are you feeling better? Nancy said you were under the weather and had to use a personal day.”

  “If by ‘under the weather’ you meant ‘drank myself into a stupor,’ then, yes, I’m sick.”

  “I think that leaves you with only three hundred sixty-four days left.” He laughed. He wasn’t wrong; I never took days off. “I can send your mother over with some soup?”

  “Are you still in the office?” I asked, slowly standing up. The world had mostly stopped spinning, but I still wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Yes, why? Have you heard anything from any of the Jacksons?”

  “Dad, take a breath. I just need to talk,” I panted, turning a corner and nearly running into a cyclist. “And no, nothing from them.”

  He sighed. “Things will work out how they’re supposed to. And, kiddo, I know Cooper is sorry. You should probably talk to him.”

  I didn’t need to talk to him. Sometimes you just needed to chat with your dad. “Can you leave a few minutes early? I’ll wait outside your car.”

  On my way to Borough Building, I wondered if Whitney was still around or if she’d already gone to Barreton. There had been a handful of public appearances by the two of them together. Dinner, a movie, a couple hikes to show Cooper in touch with nature.

  Was this a rekindling of their relationship and not just a political ploy to get him elected? That was something that I was actively wondering about. Could I deal with Whitney in Hope Lake for the rest of time? I had avoided them for years after I found out they’d gotten together. What would I do if she actually moved here?

  Thinking about it brought to mind something that I’d toyed with once before, after Cooper had come home from college and started working at the CDO. When things had blown up with Mary Nora, I’d considered doing something I never had before.

  Leaving Hope Lake. Maybe it was time for me to consider it again.

  20

  * * *

  That afternoon, the ride to my parents’ house took significantly longer with my father driving. He prided himself on stopping to chat if he saw someone he knew. Or carrying out a recycling tub to the curb if he saw someone struggling. He drove just below the speed limit, waving at everyone he passed like a pageant participant. As a result, it took almost a half hour just to get to the edge of town. Ever the politician, my father.

  “Dad, are you going to miss this? Waving to everyone wherever you go, being the mayor that people can always count on? Twenty-six years is a long time,” I commented as he reentered the car after shooing some deer back into the woods. Driving up the side of the mountain, you never knew what animal you might encounter—and my father cared just as much about the safety of Hope Lake’s animals as he did about its human citizens.

  He thought about it as we drove up the winding road. The car windows were all cracked open to let in the crisp fall air. His usual sixties rock was playing softly on the radio, and his tie was tossed on the backseat of his Grand Cherokee.

  My dad sang a line of the Beatles song “Blackbird” before glancing over. “I’ll miss a lot of it. Not all of it, but a lot. The benefits of retirement outweigh the sadness of leaving, though.”

  I turned, pulling my leg up onto the seat to watch him drive. My father and I shared many of the same features and behaviors, including the inability to mask our feelings. If he was lying, I’d know it from the way his nose would twitch or if he swallowed just before he spoke. There weren’t any of the normal tells now, though. He looked genuinely at peace.

  Still, I was curious. “Like what? Tell me what’s the hardest thing to say good-bye to.”

  “What will I miss the most? I’ll miss seeing you every day.” He glanced over with a smile. “I’ll miss the energy of the building. Fixing problems, finding ne
w projects to take to the council. Like you, I love coming up with new ideas to benefit the town. But I won’t miss the headaches. The long days away from your mother; missing the opportunity to travel with her because I’m always at work or working from home. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

  “Don’t tell Mom that—she’s older than you!”

  “Only by a month, and trust me, I make sure she knows about it every year. It’s a highlight of our marriage to still be able to tease her mercilessly about her age.”

  He got the faraway look on his face that he always had when he thought of my mother. My heart did a little flip. What was it like to be that much in love with someone?

  An image of a smiling Cooper flashed in my head. I held it there for a brief moment before pushing the thought and the image to the back of my mind and firmly closing the door on them. Back to reality.

  “Seriously, though, Dad. Why are you retiring? You’re still youngish, you’re healthy, and you have a lot left to give,” I said.

  He patted my hand and smiled sadly. “I do have a lot left to give, and I hope that I’m able to continue doing so long after I retire. But I want to be a bit selfish, too, and give what time I have left to your mother. You know that I barely remember my own mother. She died when I was so young, and Nonno Peroni died right after your mom and I got married. You never got to meet him. He would have loved you, by the way. He was a little older than I am now when he died.

  “The past few years I’ve thought—what if I go early, too? I have so much left to do and see. I don’t want to leave this party early, but if I keep working like I have been, I’m afraid that I might. So I want to use the time that I have left to do everything I haven’t been able to do as mayor. I want to travel. See where my family is from and go on an adventure. Maybe we’ll go hiking or skydiving or parasailing—it doesn’t matter.

  “What does matter is that I can’t do that if I stay in this job. Too many people rely on me here, and I feel like if I continue wondering what if, I’m being unfair both to the town and to myself and your mom. I need someone I know loves Hope Lake as much as I do to follow me as the next mayor. Cooper is that person. No matter what stupid nonsense he gets himself involved in—and I know it’s all stupid—we have to help him get the job that we both know is rightfully his.”