by Orly Konig
Dottie continues to beam at me. “I remember you had a fascination with an antique rocking horse I kept in the store. Your mom would get so upset when you insisted on riding it.”
I remember that rocking horse. It had a leather saddle and bridle and real horsehair mane and tail. The first time I saw it, the real hair freaked me out. Then it fascinated me, and I couldn’t stop brushing it with my little kid fingers. “Mom and I got into a huge fight once over that rocking horse.”
“Oh, I remember. You made such a scene that two customers came to ask what was happening.”
“I was grounded for a week after that. To a seven-year-old, a week is a lifetime.”
“I remember you stayed far away from that horse on subsequent visits.”
“Yeah, Mom wasn’t one to cross.” I shift my weight and my gaze. She still isn’t.
“Way to go, Dot, you made the girl uncomfortable,” Joe says, shaking his head at her.
“I certainly didn’t mean to. My goodness.” She looks offended and worried.
“It’s not a big deal. It was a long time ago.” I attempt to defuse the bickering.
Dottie’s expression softens at being released from her mistake. She must be about the same age as my grandmother. As Grandma would have been, I correct myself. But while Grandma had embraced her grandma-ishness, as she called aging, Dottie is clearly clinging to youth. Her auburn hair is cut in a tight bob, the edges skimming the ridge of her jaw. There’s not one gray hair on her head. A silk scarf, expertly knotted and positioned on her right collarbone, matches her cashmere sweater. No wonder my mom was so devoted to Dee’s all these years; the owner is a poster girl for fashion.
“Okay, okay, come on, leave the kids alone,” Nick says with a wink. “We’ll find another fourth.”
Hank shuffles uncomfortably next to me.
“I really should be going,” I offer, although the idea of going home is not appealing and, for once, neither is going back to the studio.
“Are you sure?” Hank asks.
“Of course she’s sure.” Dottie pats my arm. “Pretty young girl has other evening plans than hanging with geezers.”
Hank looks from me to her. My heart squeezes at the confusion on his face.
“It’s fine, Hank. I’ll be back in a couple of days. I need to get more work done on our carousel horse, anyway.” I kiss his cheek, say my good-byes, and head out of the room.
Behind, I hear Dottie’s less-than-discreet whisper, “What does she mean ‘our carousel horse’?”
Two male voices drown out the third. The only thing I can make out is the escalating argument over who’s more constipated. It’s not just kids who bicker over everything.
Twenty-three
I’d already been asleep last night when Vale came to bed. He’d crawled under the blankets, the movement so gentle I’d barely registered it. I woke around three A.M. and felt him next to me, but the gap between us felt too wide to cross. And he’d left for work before I woke up this morning. At least he’d left a note. Need more sticky notes.
Sam kicks me under the table. “Are you going to order or just keep reading the menu for the zillionth time?”
I glare at her then order two eggs, scrambled like my life, with whole-wheat toast and a side of bacon. Because every emotional crisis needs bacon. “And an Oreo milkshake,” I call after the waitress, who gives me a thumbs-up.
“Milkshake? For breakfast?” Bree looks scandalized.
“It has milk in it.”
“And a lot of sugar.” She purses her lips in disapproval.
I make a mental note to take her kids out for breakfast one morning and let them order milkshakes.
Sam assesses me. “You look like crap.”
“So glad you’re my best friend.”
“She’s not wrong,” Bree adds. “Although I wouldn’t have said it quite like that.”
“Did you two kidnap me from my studio to insult me?” I’d tried putting them off but they wouldn’t take no as my final answer.
“Nope.” They answer in tandem.
This will not be good.
I ask about Bree’s kids, about Sam’s store, hoping to deflect whatever they have planned. I don’t believe for a minute that this will work in the long run, but they play along, asking about Hank and the carousel horse. We talk around our food and, just as I’m relaxing into the discussion, Bree and Sam exchange a look.
“What?” My skin tingles with the shift of tension.
Bree takes control. “Vale came by last night. He was pretty upset.”
I wish the booth would swallow me and spit me out in the middle of the ocean. It doesn’t, of course. I’m not that lucky. I’m not lucky enough to sidetrack either of the two terriers sitting across from me, either.
I’m actually surprised Sam didn’t sit next to me to block me in. As though sensing my itch to flee, she puts her foot on the vinyl seat next to me, creating a barrier.
“You need to go with him,” Bree continues, undeterred.
“I can’t. I have a deadline.”
“He said you told him you won’t go. That’s different.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s what you said?”
“I guess. I don’t remember the exact words. But it’s not what I meant. I was upset and surprised and upset.”
“That’s a lot of upset,” Sam quips. Bree and I both stare at her.
“I can’t just pick up and go. The horse isn’t done, and a lot of people are counting on me. Why is my career less important? Would you guys be having this conversation with him if the situation were reversed?”
“But it’s not, and we’re worried about you, so we’re asking.”
I should feel relief that I have friends who care, and I do, but the care is overwhelming and, at the moment, unwelcome.
“It’s been a year, Maya. Vale has been patient and supportive. You need to pull yourself together or you will lose him. This job offer and trip to Seattle couldn’t be any easier to interpret.” Bree folds her napkin into a perfect triangle, her two-carat solitaire and diamond-wedding band glisten under the bright overhead lights. She got the ring and her law degree the same day. She’s put the ring to good use while the law degree hasn’t left the box in their basement.
Bree is black-and-white. And marriage is white. Anything to keep your marriage is right. She fusses with her egg-white omelet and sips her low-fat latte.
Would she be giving me the same lecture if she’d lost a baby? If she’d killed that baby? If she’d betrayed the faith her husband put in her to protect their unborn child?
I have nothing to say. Anything I bring up will expose me, and that’s not something I can do.
Sam squeezes my forearms. Maybe she knows. Maybe they all know. Maybe that’s why they all tiptoe around me. But whatever anyone thinks they know, they can’t be sure unless I let it out. And I won’t.
“He doesn’t want to go, not really,” Bree pushes. “But you keep forcing him away.”
And pushes.
“You have to do something before it’s too late.”
And pushes.
“You shut him out. You shut us out. You can’t keep doing this, Maya.” Her mouth moves. I feel like I’m underwater. Whawhawha. She keeps talking or moving her mouth. Breathe, Bree.
No, I’m the one who needs to breathe.
“Hey.” Sam’s sitting next to me, her arm around my shoulders. “Okay, Bree, she’s got the point.”
“I’m not going to Seattle and you’re not going to browbeat me into it.” I pull away from Sam.
“But Maya—” Bree starts.
“Enough.” Sam growls.
“No, Bree.” I cut her off at the same time. “You don’t get to lecture me about moving or putting my marriage first or anything else. I don’t live your charmed life. Every day I wake up hoping this is just some nightmare.”
I pull a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and let it fall to the table. Without lookin
g at either one of them, I slip out of the booth and leave the restaurant. I’m sure everyone in my path hears the pounding of my heart, the roaring of my pulse. I bump into a man entering the restaurant but don’t stop to apologize.
I walk. I don’t know where I’m going. I just walk. Past stores with “open” signs, most still empty except for the workers prepping for the day. Past restaurants, most still closed.
The beach is already crowded. For once, though, I don’t step down to the sand, the pull of the waves not strong enough to overpower the emotional tug of the carousel.
The sounds of hammering, talking, and clanging of metal hang over the still merry-go-round like a cloud. It’s a reminder that my portion of the restoration work is just that—a portion.
I open the gate and enter. The chaos inside the fence welcomes me, soothes me.
“Look busy, boys, the boss is here.” Jerome’s baritone cuts through the shriek of power tools.
“Funny.” I let him pull me into a hug and allow the tension to be squeezed out of my body.
Jerome has been a family friend for more years than I have fingers and toes to count. His father and my grandfather were poker buddies, even though neither actually played poker. They met once a week and decided “poker buddies” sounded more manly than “shell-finding buddies.” We’d gotten rid of jars and jars of shells after Grandpa died.
Jerome had taken over his father’s contractor business and had done numerous jobs for Vale and his company. When I was putting together the carousel-restoration proposal, having Jerome on the team was the easiest of choices.
I break away from the hug and survey the merry-go-round. All of the floorboards have been replaced or repaired, buffed and polished to a shiny old-world look. The animals have been reunited and all have gleaming metal poles anchoring them to their spot. The drum panels surrounding the machinery and gears are in place.
I’d repainted the landscape images on the drum panels early in the restoration process. One panel, however, remains dulled with age and elements, a decision I’d fought for in the proposal. One drum panel, one ceiling pane, and one animal would be kept as close to original as we could. I’d felt it was important to maintain a glimpse into the historic charm and romance that these merry-go-rounds once embodied.
“Glad you stopped by.” He transforms into professional Jerome. “I wanted to talk to you about a problem with one of the ceiling panels.”
I follow him to where a panel rests against a wood-construction horse. “This thing has been giving me fits. When we went to reinstall it, this happened.” He points at a decorative swirl running down the panel, about five inches from the edge.
I kneel to get a better look. There’s a hairline crack that to the naked eye is part of the design. Then again, considering this will be above everyone’s head, it won’t even be visible to the naked eye.
But Jerome is a perfectionist, which is why I wanted him on my team.
I run my finger the length of the crack. “We should be able to fix it with cellulose filler. If we’re careful with the application, we can get away with touching up a couple of places instead of redoing the entire panel. There isn’t enough time for that.”
“I want to show off the rest of the work.” He takes me on a tour of machinery and gears, the heart of the carousel. Without them, the fancy outside panels and the carefully carved animals are nothing more than landscape ornaments.
But when the merry-go-round begins to spin and the music plays, the magic takes over.
I picture a young Hank and my grandmother riding on the same animals I rode with Simon and then Vale. I wonder what it was like for Hank to share the carousel with Annabelle, for Grandma to ride with Grandpa. Did it hold the same magic?
No—at least not for me. With Simon, the merry-go-round sprinkled our dreams with the hope of young love, and it listened to our secrets. With Vale, the carousel slowed from the frenzied excitement of wishes to the steady circling of possibilities. With Vale by my side, the carousel didn’t feel like it spun as fast and the music didn’t sound as loud. It felt steadier and more secure.
I turn, wide-eyed, startling Jerome with the sudden movement. “Jerome, I need to go. Thank you for everything.” I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. “You’re brilliant, by the way.”
“Of course I’m brilliant. But what did I do? Tell me so I can do it again for another kiss.” He grins.
I give him another kiss, wave at the rest of the team, and tap on my phone as I leave the bubble of my magic carousel.
“Hey,” Vale answers on the third ring. “Good timing. In ten minutes you would have gotten my voicemail.”
“I think my luck is, indeed, changing. Can you be home by seven tonight?”
“Sure.” He sounds skeptical but intrigued.
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
“Wanna clue a guy in?”
“Nope. You’ll find out at seven.”
“Okay,” he draws the word out, but I can hear the smile.
The magic of the merry-go-round. Each animal has its own beauty, its own secrets. But it’s when they’re all together that the magic happens.
I’ve been off-balance because I separated myself from others. Like my carousel animals, I really do need my tribe.
Twenty-four
I close my eyes and listen for the sounds of the house. The sighing of the air-conditioning as it clicks on. The grinding of ice cubes releasing into the tray in the freezer. The jackhammering of a woodpecker on the woodshed adjacent to the laundry room.
I set the grocery bags on the counter. Under the fluorescent flicker from above, the old kitchen looks sad. Last year we replaced the appliances, but the rest of the kitchen is hopelessly out of date. The grayish linoleum tiles are bubbling in a couple of spots. The once-shiny white cabinets are a dull, bleached, sandy color. And the greenish-gray Formica counter is begging to be ripped to shreds.
I grab my phone and type, “Kitchen redo next?,” then hold my breath waiting for an answer. He’s leaving in a couple of days for his “visit” to Seattle.
There’s no guarantee he’ll be back. And if he doesn’t return, will I stay here?
Before I can lower the phone, Vale responds. “Back away from the hammer! We still need the sink to ‘shower’ in,” comes Vale’s response.
Staying or not, he has a point. Maybe I can nudge the decision toward staying. “Hurry home. Fixing dinner.”
“Don’t burn the house down. Bathroom is almost done.”
Tonight will be the fresh start we need. Tonight I’m sprinkling carousel magic on us and giving myself permission to face forward.
I organize the ingredients on the counter and check the recipe. Restoring ancient artifacts I can do. Matching paint for historic carousel animals, I’m on it. Fixing beef stroganoff, however … I’m out of my element.
When it looks like the food is safely simmering, I pour a glass of wine and move to the front porch. A breeze kicked in while I had my head stuffed in a cookbook. The salty wind teases my curls, and I relax into a rocking chair.
I’m halfway through my glass when Vale climbs the steps to the front porch.
“Hi.” He eases the screen door closed behind him but stays by the door. He takes a deep breath. “Is that beef stroganoff?”
“Yup.” I grin. “And no appliances were harmed in the process.”
“I’m impressed.” He covers the few strides across the porch and sits in the chair next to me.
“It smells wonderful. I’m starving.”
“Sit tight. I’ll get you a drink first.” I stand and put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving.
He covers my hand with his and pulls it gently to his lips. “Can dinner wait?”
“Yes.” I extract my hand then lean down and kiss him on the lips. “But first we need to talk.”
Vale groans in mock exasperation. “Withholding dinner and sex? Wicked woman. If this is about the bathroom, I swear it’s almost done.” He t
races an X over his heart.
“It’s not about the bathroom.”
“Oh phew. So?”
“Wine first.” A few minutes later, I’m back with the bottle and a second glass.
We clink glasses then sip from our wine. The neighbor across the street pulls into his driveway. The car idles while the song finishes.
Vale laughs. “At least he has okay taste in music.”
We default to small talk. The neighbor’s music, the other neighbor’s yappy dog, how much longer the construction on the house at the end of the street will mostly take. Vale tells me about his day and asks about mine. Normal couple talk. The kind of couple talk we haven’t engaged in lately.
Come on, Maya, it’s time to bring up the complicated stuff. Magic carousel dust. Magic carousel dust.
“I’ve been thinking about Seattle.” Vale turns to look at me with a hopeful lift of his eyebrows. “But,” I push forward before the hopefulness spreads and I lose my nerve. “I can’t go right now. The reopening is only a few weeks away, and I’m committed to this job. For many reasons.”
He nods.
This isn’t so hard. I can do this. “I can’t promise that I’ll want to move later, but I am willing to discuss it. After the carousel is done.”
Another nod, and I can almost hear him flipping through the mental index cards of appropriate responses. “I’m good with that. I wasn’t asking you to abandon the project. You know that, right?”
“I do. But a trip right now doesn’t fit with the schedule.”
“I respect that.”
I wait for him to offer to postpone his trip.
“I’m still going.” He swirls the wine, watching the red liquid wave up then down the sides of the glass.
The answer knocks the wind from my lungs. “Why?” I manage.
“Because I still believe it’s the right thing to do. The time apart will be good for sorting through what we want. I want that job to be a new beginning for us.”
“You don’t think we can have a new beginning here?” My heart pounds louder than the neighbor’s music.
