by Jess Bentley
“Buzz off!” she hisses, twisting around.
Her expression is serious and focused, like this is not the first time she’s had to bare her fangs to make her point. I take a step back, careful to show her I mean her no harm.
“All right, settle down now,” I murmur low like she’s a wild horse or something. “I’ll just be over here if you need some assistance.”
Blowing her breath out through her cheeks, she turns back to the door and plunges another key into the old brass lock. After some enthusiastic jiggling, it does turn and the door swings wildly inward, carrying her along with it. She disappears into the gloom with the sound of her heels echoing on the old wooden floorboards.
I take the handle of her suitcase and carry it over the threshold automatically, depositing it next to the umbrella stand.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?” she snaps.
My eyebrows go up. “Your suitcase? Carrying it inside for you?”
She pouts and wiggles her fingers in the air as though brushing her thoughts aside.
“Oh,” she huffs. “Well, thank you.”
Amused, I take a couple of steps into the shop. This used to be the hat shop, I think, though it has been closed for quite a while. The woman who owned it passed on some time ago, and her family moved to Chicago. I guess they didn’t really give it much of a thought until recently. Out of sight, out of mind.
The woman paces the perimeter, shaking her head every few seconds like she’s upset at what she sees. I’m not sure what she was expecting. It’s just a dusty old shop, after all. Is that a surprise somehow?
“Is this your first time in Willowdale?” I call out.
I’m not sure why I am trying to make conversation with this obviously irritable person, but I am. She doesn’t answer right away, but twists the old knob on the office door until it comes off in her hand. The door swings open anyway, releasing a gust of musty air.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” she snarls.
Her hands rise and then fall, slapping against her thighs. For some reason, I find that sound stupidly exciting. It’s the sound my palm would make against her round, naughty bottom.
“What seems to be the problem?” I ask as an excuse to walk up behind her.
Ostensibly I am looking over her shoulder to check out the office, but really I am just aligning the front of my body to the back of hers. It’s a good fit. Static electricity sizzles between us.
“This is all supposed to be finished already!” she mutters.
When she crosses her arms over her chest I can see the muscles flexing in her shoulders. She is awfully tense.
“Finished, how?” I ask, my voice suddenly dry.
She whirls around on her heel and squints at me suspiciously.
“Can I help you with something? Are you supposed to be here?”
I back away, hands up, noticing the electrical impulses strung between us like Christmas lights flickering.
“I was just making sure you’re all right,” I assure her.
I’m not sure I’ve ever met somebody so defensive and prickly right off the bat. It kind of makes me want to chase her, like a cat wants to chase the mouse that most wants to run away.
“I’m absolutely fine,” she huffs, practically shoving me through the front door.
When I’m back on the sidewalk, she slams the door behind me with a bang, snapping the lock for good measure. I can’t explain it, but for some reason I am positive I’m going to see that woman again.
She likes me already. I can tell.
Chapter 5
Joe
Call me, I text Didi.
Call me.
Call me now.
Call me or I am calling Martha.
My phone rings.
“Guess where I am,” I say to the phone as soon as I hear the call connect.
My voice echoes in the large, dusty room, probably dislodging whole generations of spider families from their ancestral homes.
“You’re in Willowdale,” she answers with a defeated sigh.
“And what am I looking at?”
There’s a pause.
“A pretty crappy storefront, probably,” she admits.
I don’t say anything, instead choosing to breathe slowly the way my yoga neighbor has coached me. In for three… Hold for three. Out for three…
“This is why you were so insistent that you should finish the trip,” I say, mostly to myself.
Obviously this is something she already knows. I am just saying it out loud because I can’t believe this is the mess she left me with.
“You have ten days until the opening,” she answers meekly. “I mean, that should be plenty of time, right? What could it possibly take? A coat of paint and some lights? A sign guy? I mean…”
“An ADA-compliant bathroom? Floor refinishing? Replace the suspended ceiling, for Chrissake? And I’m supposed to plan and install a show with a goddamn party for three hundred people? Are you kidding me with this?”
She mumbles some response, but I can barely hear her. The blood is rushing in my ears like a speeding train. I force myself to slow down my breathing because sparkly fireflies are dancing around the edges of my vision, and I’m afraid I’m going to hit the floor in about ten seconds.
“Okay… I guess I didn’t realize it was that extensive.”
I walk to the front window again, peering out through the dust-streaked glass, hoping this view will seem more optimistic. For the sidewalk, I need benches and some planters. This is doable. The printer I like is actually located in Florida and I can probably rush a job to get brochures and signage delivered. I’m a pretty good graphic designer. I should be able to make it happen.
But when I turn around and face the interior of the storefront again, my hope deflates like a popped balloon. It’s just one big empty room. It’s been empty for years. I don’t think there was a store in here once we reached middle school. It’s a monumental amount of work.
“Oh my God, Didi,” I choke out. “What have you been doing? Why isn’t anything… Anything at all… Even started?”
She doesn’t answer for a few seconds. I know she’s calculating what to tell me truthfully and what to artfully edit to make herself look better.
“You know what? It just got away from me, Joe. Every time I tried to get started, it seemed like there were ten things that I needed to do at once. I couldn’t just pick one, so I’d put it off… Then I would get distracted…”
“Then you’d have to go out for drinks…” I add unhelpfully.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” she pouts. “It’s a lot of work!”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you!” I yell back, losing my patience. “It’s an amazing amount of work! It’s an impossible amount of work! Didi… you are so fucked!”
There is a tiny sound on the other end of the line and after a few seconds I realize she’s crying. Or, she’s sniffling. Actually… she’s probably crying for sure. I can just imagine her pert little nose going all red like we were kids. We’d screw something up and as soon as she knew we were caught, the waterworks would start. Not that she isn’t sincere—she totally means it—but it irritates me because it’s not helpful. It gets absolutely zero done.
“How much of this does Martha know about?” I ask, though I probably know the answer.
“She thinks we’re on schedule,” Didi sniffles. “The invitations already went out.”
“Great. So I can’t delay it. Half of Naples got invited to Martha Adler’s brand-new gallery, which I am supposed to magically materialize in ten days.”
More sniffling. It’s a good thing we are two thousand miles apart.
“Joe, I am so sorry. Like, really sorry. I know I have put you in a horrible position.”
“If your leg weren’t broken, I would make you come down here.”
“And I would be on the next plane!” she wails. “Absolutely the next plane!”
Reality starts to sink in, and I get a sense that ti
me is ticking away that doesn’t have to be. I’ve got a mountain of things to do. Walls, ceiling, lighting, HVAC, flooring… Oh my God.
“I know you can do this, Joe,” she babbles encouragingly. “It’s totally the plus side of being a control freak! You’re actually really good at getting things done!”
“You’re a jerk,” I announce and thumb the call to disconnect it.
Before my hand even drops to my side, I feel guilty. I shouldn’t talk to her like that, even though she is kind of a jerk. Even though she did create this entire catastrophe and then stick me with it.
Now it’s time to get to work.
Chapter 6
Joe
Uber is, of course, not available in Willowdale.
That’s not exactly true. My Uber app knows where I am. It shows me a cute little drawing of the six streets that make up our tiny town. But according to the app, it will take three hours and fourteen minutes to get me a driver.
The tiny little cars don’t even show up on the app. They might as well be on the other side of the world.
Cursing under my breath, I leave my luggage in the hat shop and decide to walk. Frankly, it’s only like four blocks from here. I just didn’t feel like being all out in the open, right in the middle of the day like this.
Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my vintage checked-poplin dress with a matching capelet, I head out onto Main Street, hoping to reach my parents’ house without any distractions. I don’t want to see anybody, or be seen by anybody. I just want to get things done.
Willowdale is simple, like a child’s crayon drawing of a town. We have two stoplights now—which is one more than we had when I left. We have one mail carrier. We have a combination town hall/library/police station in what used to be a bank building.
We have a main street called Main Street, and we have a town square with a rather grandiose gazebo in the middle of it. It’s got spotlights and everything. The town square was renovated our last year in high school as a gift from the outgoing seniors. I remember the girls giggling over who was going to get married in it first.
All along the square are planters filled with overflowing mounds of honeysuckle and trumpet vine. The perfume is almost nauseating, but yet kind of nice too. Kind of a grandmotherly-type smell. Sort of friendly, if a smell can be “friendly.”
Walking with my shoulders hunched, I take the fastest possible steps. We should actually be getting pretty close to dinnertime, I suppose, so most people will be hopefully inside their houses. But as I glance up I see a couple walking toward me. They’re talking to each other, moving their hands in front of them, their eyes shadowed by matching white golf visors.
But just to be safe, I decide to cross the street. I dart between the cars parked at an angle and hurry across out of a Manhattan habit, not because of actual Willowdale traffic. I don’t know if anybody has ever gotten a ticket for jaywalking in Willowdale, but I would hate to be the first.
“JoJo?” comes a voice.
Using my childhood nickname can only mean one thing: this person went to school with me. My skin crawls. I cringe and look for an escape.
“JoJo! I knew that was you! What on earth are you doing here?”
I force myself to turn toward the voice and plant a big old smile on my big old face.
“Dusty!” I sing out as believably as possible. “I didn’t see you there!”
She steps out of the doorway of the general store, flicking a cigarette from between her fingertips into the empty parking space in front of her. She blows a plume of smoke out of the side of her orange-glossed lips as she walks toward me with her arms out. I know I can’t escape, so I take the hug, wondering how many times a person can die inside before they die for real.
“JoJo, you look just amazing! I saw you, and I was like, that’s definitely JoJo! And here you are!”
My cheeks hurt from smiling already. I would have to say that in Manhattan we smile approximately 65 percent less. Wrinkles, you know.
“You look amazing!” I singsong, remembering how people talk around here.
We’re definitely expected to lavish each other with gradually mounting volleys of ridiculous, transparently false compliments. It’s sort of our thing.
She grins, her dimples like thumbprints in her cheeks. I remember she always had perfectly straight teeth, making a perfectly natural movie-star smile. It’s a good thing, too, because her people would never have been able to afford braces. I remember in middle school she was on the free lunch program. Actually, I guess a lot of us were.
“So what are you doing here?” she asks. “Just to visit? Did you come to see your mom?”
“Oh, yeah,” I answer quickly, trying to calculate the fastest way to explain the story and then get out of this conversation. “I’m just here for work. Just trying to fix up the old hat shop. You know it?”
She squints down the street, back the way I came, tipping at the waist. Her chestnut-brown hair spills out of a messy ponytail and cascades halfway down her back. If Dusty was in New York, she would have Hannah-like appeal. She’s a natural beauty, totally wasted on Willowdale.
“The hat shop…” she repeats vaguely. “Oh! That old place? What does anybody want with that?”
“Oh… I work in an art gallery in New York, and we needed to expand, so we were thinking since Willowdale is right next to Naples… right on the ocean… You know, with Naples getting so overcrowded...”
She smiles at me again, absorbing the information without needing to form an opinion, just naturally creating the kind of receptive listener people love to be around.
“Dusty, do you want a job?” I blurt out suddenly.
She looks around, up one side of the sidewalk and then down to the other. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she blinks several times and purses her lips.
“Hell, yes, I want a job. Mr. Tandy thinks he’s gonna marry me off to his son.”
I use this as my chance to back away. “Okay! I’ll be back!” I explain loudly as I hustle down the sidewalk. “You’re gonna be great!”
She waves at me with her fingertips as I rush away, her expression totally trusting and pleasant.
That’s right, because I’m the boss, I tell myself. I’m getting stuff done. I’m making things happen.
The front porch door closes with a bang as my mother runs across the porch toward me, her arms flung out wide. I brace myself for impact and can’t help smiling as she hurls herself toward me, capturing me in a sweaty, enthusiastic, heartfelt hug.
“What? You’re here? What is going on?” she babbles, her face buried against my neck.
Immediately she starts dragging me toward the house, like she’s afraid I am going to get away.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I chuckle, swept up in her enthusiasm. “You’re going to trip me, Ma.”
“Oh, I forget you New Yorkers expect to have space,” she sighs dramatically as she untangles her body from mine. “I knew you would forget where you came from, Joanna. I just knew it.”
My eyes sweep back and forth over the wide lawn, the queen palms mixed in with the old oak tree bringing back lots of memories. I know it’s only been four, almost five years, but everything seems bigger.
“I’m not a New Yorker,” I object automatically, although I suspect I kind of am. I certainly have been trying nonstop to be one.
“No, you’re not,” she agrees, punctuating her words by lightly slapping the back of my hand that she refuses to let go of. “And you’re here! How are you here?!”
We walk up the wide front steps and onto the front porch and I automatically breathe in deep, filling myself with this familiar old scent. The cedar, the palms, the breeze from the Gulf. Something changes in me right here, I can feel it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” I explain in a hurry. “I didn’t mean to just spring this on you.”
She drags me back toward the kitchen, pointing toward a stool by the counter for me to sit on while she goes through the ritual of br
inging out a couple of jelly jar glasses and a pitcher of sweet tea. She presses the cool glass into my palm, her eyes bright with moisture that she blinks away, shrugging apologetically.
“I’m just so happy to see you,” she half whispers in a hurry.
“Aw, Ma, I’m happy to see you too,” I confess.
I feel guilt lapping at the edges of me like floodwaters that want to get in. But I don’t have time for guilt right now. It’ll come later, I know it, but right now I have a mission.
“So what’s the story, morning glory?”
I take a sip of the tea, trying to organize my thoughts. The taste is welcome and refreshing, just like I remember it.
“Well, this is all kind of all screwed up, to be honest. I think I really need your help.”
Her eyebrows go up and she pushes her wild red hair, now shot through with streaks of equally wild silver, behind her ears. Her people are Scottish, stocky and sturdy, pretty and optimistic with flaming red hair. I’m glad those are the things that I picked up from her.
“Anything you need,” she explains to me as she wedges her wide bottom on the other kitchen stool.
“Well… This was all supposed to be Didi’s job. Our boss, Martha, wants to open a gallery in the old hat shop.”
“The old hat shop... Wait, Phyllis’s place? Why, nothing has been in there for years! Gee, it has to be like ten years at least, far as I remember.”
“Yeah, and it smells like it,” I remark sourly.
“Well, you can handle that!” she shrugs, grinning proudly. “They definitely sent the right lady to do the job.”
I place the glass carefully on the counter. “In… nine days?”
She swallows and flares her nostrils. “Nine days for what?” she asks cautiously.
“Well, Didi… she sort of… dropped the ball,” I explain in a rush. “I need the place turned over in nine days, so I can have a big grand opening on the tenth day.”
Mom opens her mouth, then closes it, then raises her eyes to the ceiling and takes a deep breath to suppress what I’m sure is explosive laughter.
