Back to Yesterday (Bleeding Hearts Book 2)

by Whitney Barbetti

  Maura handed him a bag and then waved him off before she wiped her hands on her apron. “Come along then, Trista. Gotta get this fish on ice.”

  I spent the next hour helping Maura pack the fish and then disinfecting the countertops before working on the dishes. Later, she showed me how to glaze the donuts, which I learned were Boston cream pies, made fresh every day in Maura’s kitchen. When the hour was up, Maura poured me a glass of milk and pushed a cream pie at me. “Milk’s fresh from my cousin’s dairy,” she stated proudly.

  It tasted fresh, as fresh as any milk I’d ever tasted. It didn’t have the taste of milk that had been in the refrigerator for days, and it had a richness about it that I wasn’t expecting. “Wow,” I said, holding the glass away from my lips. I watched as the white clung to the insides of the glass, slowly slipping back to the rest of the milk at the bottom. “Rich.”

  “If you’re not used to it, don’t drink so much. I’ll be making regular breakfast in a minute, and you can help and then eat that later. You’ll need the protein.”

  “A second breakfast?”

  “You’ll burn it off today, trust me.”

  She wasn’t wrong. By the time we’d finished the scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, oatmeal, and fruit and yogurt parfaits for the other guests, we had five minutes to eat a quick breakfast before she had me help with making a second round of everything, for the “later risers,” as Maura called them, but pronounced “latah risahs.” It seemed almost like another language, with how thick her accent was sometimes. While Maura set out the next batch of breakfast in the chafing dishes, I cleared the tables, took out the trash, and did three sinkfuls of dirty dishes.

  Immediately after the later risers’ breakfast was served, Maura had me get started shadowing one of her housekeepers, Claire. Claire was my age, but seemed to have enough energy to power the whole building if she wanted to.

  She snapped bubble gum as she introduced herself to me. “I’m Maura’s niece. I bring the milk.”

  “Ah,” I said, pointing over my shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “I had some. Very good—rich.”

  “Fuckin’ right,” she said, pushing her cart down the hallway. “How long you been here?”

  Even the way they pronounced “here” was something to get used to. “Um, what time is it?”

  “Ten.” She blew a bubble with her gum and then popped it back in her mouth.

  “Ten hours then,” I said.

  Claire nodded and scrunched up her nose. “The last gal, Charlotte, was here all around five minutes before she went and took off.”

  “Oh,” I replied, not sure what to say to that.

  “That girl is like the fuckin’ tide, I’ll tell ya.” Claire rapped on the first door after referring to a notebook in her pocket. When there was no answer, she slid her keycard in and pushed the door open. “She does this all the time, comes in and out. Summer’s our busiest season, of course, but that Charlotte don’t care not a bit about leavin’ people high and dry.”

  “And Maura keeps hiring her back?”

  “Ah, well, Aunt Maura’s got a soft spot for Charlotte. She was homeless when Maura found her a few years ago, and pretty much useless in the way of life skills. But Maura hooked her up with a job and ever since, Charlotte comes and goes throughout the summer, when she’s done chasing the impossible.”

  “The impossible?” I asked as I followed her into the bathroom, where she began picking up the towels and emptying the trash.

  “Yeah, you know. The boyfriend. The summer fling. Charlotte’s a sucker for love.”

  “Aren’t we all,” I murmured, taking the towel she handed me and shoving it in the laundry bag on the cart.

  “What? You got a boy who broke your heart?”

  I’d made a silent vow to myself when I’d woken up that morning. Don’t talk about Colin. Definitely don’t talk about Jude.

  So I shook my head, said my second lie since leaving Wyoming. “Nope.”

  “Maura says you’re probably clumsy.” At my confused look, Claire motioned at the fading bruises on my face. “But let’s be real. Did some prick do that to ya?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend or an ex-boyfriend, especially not one that would put his hands on me.” It wasn’t a lie, necessarily, but I still looked down at my feet on the thick carpet, not wanting to have her scrutinize me.

  “That’s good. Maura puts up with Charlotte because she saved her, but she don’t do that for just anybody.” She handed me the dirty glasses and showed me where the supply in the hallway was for clean glasses. “And if you expect to be kept on here, you need to focus on your shit.”

  “Oh, well I’m only planning on being here a week. I was heading to Kennebunkport.”

  “Ah. I went to Bunk.”

  “Bunk?”

  “The high school.” She held up a fist and punched it in the air. “Go Rams, rah rah, yada yada.”

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic.” I handed her toiletries and watched the process of her placing them along the countertop.

  Claire looked up and shrugged. “Too many memories. Boyfriend drama. I’d be a Charlotte if I’d stayed.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “So I came down here. Less tourists, too. If it’s tourist-shit you’re after, you should go farther north, to O.O.B.”

  “O.O.B.?”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  I shook my head, but didn’t want to talk about where I was from. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get familiar with the area. I’m looking for a place to settle for a bit.”

  “Ah, in that case, don’t go to O.O.B.” She leaned in, pushed my shoulder with hers. “Old Orchard Beach. Killer boardwalk, but packed to the fucking gills with people, man.”

  “Oh, well, I’m looking for more quiet. A place to think and figure out what I’m doing.”

  “Then you’ll have better luck in one of the smaller seaside towns, if that’s what you’re into.” I followed her as she walked into the bedroom and started stripping the bed. “Are you a surfer?”

  I laughed. “No. Not a surfer.”

  “Good. There aren’t many surfing beaches around. Long Sands is the closest, but it’s usually busy.” She pointed to the cart. “Grab the sheets on the bottom, won’t you?”

  I pulled them out and tossed them to her when she gestured for me to. “I’ve never even been in the ocean.”

  “What? You really aren’t from around here, then.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “What do you like to do then?”

  I thought of Jude. His eyes, steady and sure on mine as we set up tents. His hands, strong and solid, holding me to him. “I like camping.”

  “You can do that just about anywhere around here. What else?”

  I shrugged as I watched her make the bed. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m figuring out.”

  “Ah. Sheltered? That’s cool.” She looked me over for a second and pushed her black bangs away from her eyes. “Charlotte was sheltered too, I think. Explains why she’s making up for it now. We’re going out for drinks tonight. Wanna come?”

  I struggled to keep up with her and how she changed the course of our conversation so easily. “I’m not really much of a drinker.”

  “That’s cool. You can be our driver.” She grinned at me and blew a bubble with her gum as she fluffed the pillow.

  I got the feeling that Claire steamrolled people often. “I don’t have a car. Chuck is working on it.”

  “That’s okay. You can drive my car.” She smoothed a hand down the bedspread and then pulled a fresh pad and pen out of her waist belt and set them on the table. “There now. Fourteen to go.”

  “Fourteen?” I asked as she helped me pull the cart out into the hall. It was still relatively early in the morning, but I felt a few beads of sweat lining my spine already.

  “Yeah, there are twenty rooms on this floor, but only fifteen need service.”

  Pushing the cart
to the next room, I asked, “Is this place usually full?”

  “Oh, it’s full now.” She slid her keycard into the next door. “Welcome to summer in Maine.”

  Chapter Eight

  Charlotte and Claire had picked a restaurant right on the water, which surprised me. I’d expected a dive, with picnic tables and citronella candles clustered around fake flower centerpieces.

  Instead, we were seated at a table with cushions and cloth table coverings as we drank ten-dollar drinks. By we I meant Charlotte and Claire, because I was the designated driver, nursing my third chocolate milk.

  Thousands of miles between us and I couldn’t escape Jude’s influence.

  “So I tell him, ‘Dude, if you want this you gotta work for it,’” Charlotte said after blowing a stream of smoke from her cigarette. She tucked her thick brown hair over her shoulder before leaning forward on the table, right on her elbows. “And what does he do? He comes over with fucking flowers and chocolate, like we’re in middle school and it’s Valentine’s Day or some shit.”

  I sipped my chocolate milk through the straw as I observed them. Looks-wise, they were complete opposites. Claire resembled a Snow White crossed with a pin-up girl, with her thick, jet-black hair she wore over one pale shoulder. When she laughed, her bright red lips spread into her cheeks and her dark eyes sparkled. Charlotte looked almost feral—not in a homeless-kind-of-way, but a wild way. She wore minimal makeup, which I found interesting. For someone as boy-crazy as Claire had described, I’d expected excessive makeup. But Charlotte didn’t need makeup because she was gorgeous—sharp angular face, deep-set eyes, dark hair and skin. Not in a girl-next-door kind of way, no. She had green eyes that cut right through you and spoke through lips that would give Angelina Jolie a run for her money.

  Both of them were exaggerated in how beautiful they were, and when they were a couple drinks in and engaging in more personal conversation, I felt very sober and very plain.

  After a long day of doing various jobs for Maura, she’d let me off around dinner. Chuck had told me they’d had a couple jobs come in at the shop he worked for, so they’d get to my car in the next couple of days.

  I’d showered and worn my hair in its natural, frizzy state. In the humid summer weather, my hair had poofed up as soon as I’d left the inn and followed Claire to her car.

  The purple that had been in my hair had faded significantly, so much that it looked almost brown, and I hadn’t bothered with makeup. I wasn’t looking for attention—I was looking for a time out of my life on the go.

  “Oh, don’t be such a snob, Charlotte,” Claire admonished her, leaning back in her chair and propping her feet up on the chair beside her. “Boys are clueless; they don’t know any better.”

  “What did you expect him to get you?” I asked, surprising myself. I hadn’t contributed much to the conversation so far because I felt completely out of my element with them both.

  Charlotte looked at Claire, clearly feeling the same surprise I felt. When she looked back at me, she looked like she was trying to dissect my question. “Flowers die. Never have I ever expected flowers from him.”

  “Okay.” I looked at my drink, wishing I were back in my little hotel room, with the TV that didn’t always work and the whish-whish-whish of the ceiling fan.

  “Look, Joey usually buys me a gift certificate for somewhere, something he knows I can use. I can’t use almost-dead flowers for obvious reasons.” She sucked on the cigarette and then blew it out in the air above her head. “And chocolate? Well, I hate chocolate.”

  A waiter walked past us with a bright red lobster on his tray.

  “You’re not even a girl.” Claire shook her head before reaching over and grabbing the cigarette from Charlotte’s hand, catching her off guard. I watched as Claire snuffed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray. “You’re supposed to be quitting and this is the third stick I’ve watched you light up tonight.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes but leaned back in her chair. “Don’t be such a killjoy, C.”

  “I don’t have any brothers or sisters to take care of me when I’m old as fuck—you’re it, buttercup. Stop smoking so you can be around to wipe my ass.”

  Charlotte laughed and threw an ice cube from her drink at Claire. “See what I have to put up with?” she asked me, like we were close friends already.

  “Did you grow up together?” I asked.

  They exchanged a look, and I remembered Claire having said something about Charlotte being homeless before Maura found her. I thought it interesting, that Claire could accuse someone who was once homeless as a snob.

  “No, we just spend a lot of time at the inn. You’ll see.” Charlotte gave me a smile that looked like she could slice right through me.

  “You will,” Claire agreed.

  “I don’t plan to stay here long,” I protested.

  “We’ll see,” Charlotte said knowingly. She exchanged another look with Claire.

  Claire clinked her glass against mine. “We’ve done all the talking tonight. Tell us something juicy, Trista.”

  Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t opened my mouth to ask anything. I wished to keep my mouth firmly shut and shrink in my seat so that they didn’t know I existed. “Well,” I played with my straw in the glass, spinning it around. “I don’t have a dad.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte scooted closer, as if she’d be able to see my life better.

  “Do you have a mom?” Charlotte asked.

  Nodding, I said, “I do. But we’re estranged.” That seemed to be the nicest way to put it.

  “So you’re like Charlotte. An orphan?” Claire asked.

  Charlotte reached over and slapped a hand against Claire’s arm. “Don’t be a dick, Claire.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I tried to think of a way to make it sound less . . . well, just less. I didn’t have much in my possession except for my honesty. “She and I have differing opinions on how to live.”

  The table went silent for a moment and I sipped my chocolate milk before continuing. “I have my grandfather, though. He’s the reason I’m not a complete waste of space.”

  Charlotte pursed her lips as she regarded me. “And friends? Boyfriend?”

  I shook my head so fast I was surprised it didn’t fly off my neck. “No. I’m starting over, figuring my shit out.”

  “Yeah, well what’s that on your face then?” she asked with a motion of her straw at my face. I wondered if all the strangers in this small town were this intrusive, but I realized that having a bunch of colorful bruises on your face likely welcomed you to this kind of talk.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Certainly not anything I want to talk about.” It was as honest as I wanted to be about it. “And same with my mom.”

  “Sounds like you already figured out your mom shit. What other shit is there?” Charlotte peered at me and I felt that same dissection as before. But I stared back at her coolly, not entertaining her prying.

  “Maybe next time, you can be DD and we can get Trista to divulge all of her secrets,” Claire said.

  I laughed, quickly. “Probably not.”

  “Some drunken oversharing is always a good decision,” Charlotte said before shrugging. She waved down the waiter and ordered a basket full of biscuits. “I’m starving.”

  I looked her over then, surprised she could eat a basketful of biscuits and look all lithe and airy, like fat had never passed her tongue. We were silent when the waiter dropped off the biscuits and walked away.

  “So, how do you know Claire?” Charlotte asked, pinning me with her green gaze.

  “Trista worked at the inn today, since you were MIA again.” Claire popped three bites into her mouth and then spoke, “Who got a hold of you this time?”

  Charlotte was watching me, holding the bread like I would judge her for eating it. “Jake,” she said, not tearing her eyes away from me for even a moment.

  Claire made an “ugh” noise.

  “Jake?” Claire asked. “He’s such a prick.
”

  Charlotte shrugged and looked at Claire. “He’s changed.”

  “Oh, dear baby Jesus in a wicker basket,” Claire groaned. “He’s used that line so much, he’s ruined it for every other guy who claims they’ve changed.” She waved her hand to the beach. “I saw him just yesterday, in the water with what’s-her-face from the ice cream joint down on the boardwalk.”

  “Which ice cream place?” Charlotte asked, her chewing halted as she watched Claire intently.

  “The one that has the cotton candy on top.”

  “No way,” Charlotte said, “she doesn’t work there.”

  Claire shook her head. “She sure as shit does, I saw her there two days ago.”

  “No, she works at the taco place, by the arcade,” Charlotte argued.

  “She doesn’t. She was up to her elbows in cookie dough, so her name tag was all I could see.”

  “If that’s the case, then what’s her name?” Charlotte asked, “Not where she works.”

  “What is her name?” Claire asked herself out loud. “R-something. Rachel?”

  “No, I think it’s Rachelle.”

  “That’s right—Rachelle. The one who always gets the heart sticker when she gets tanned, so she’s got that white heart peeking out of her bikini bottoms.”

  “Oooh,” Charlotte said, understanding coming to her. “Didn’t Chuck work on her car a couple weeks ago?”

  “You both are exhausting,” I said, because they were. The back and forth reminded me of a tennis match, watching them lobbying words with hardly a breath.

  Charlotte laughed and Claire joined in a second later, and then they both exchanged looks that spoke to their deep camaraderie. “Sorry, Char. Anyway, Jake the fake was all up in Rachelle’s goods on the beach. It was like watching the soft porn that’s on those movie channels late at night.” Claire mimicked dramatic hands and a tossing of her head.

  “Gross,” Charlotte said, making a face. But the hurt was there, even as she tucked it away and focused her attention on a biscuit. Her mouth dipped down and I watched, slowly, as her good humor left her.