by Toni Blake
Then she looked back to Zack, who had quietly climbed up onto one of the kitchen chairs covered with shiny red vinyl that used to sparkle but didn’t anymore. “Maybe you can help me. What memories do you have about her? What kind of grandma was she?”
The little boy thought about it. “She made me pimento cheese sandwiches. And she taught me to tie my shoes.”
“Okay, that’s good. What else?”
He thought some more. “She smoked a lot and it made her smell bad.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Dahlia said. More people smoked than didn’t, but growing up in confined spaces with her chain-smoking mother had kept her from ever being tempted to try it. As fate had it, her mother had been diagnosed with advanced lung cancer only a few weeks before her passing. She’d not called Dahlia. Or told Dottie. Or anyone. Until last week when Hospice moved in. And even then no one called Dahlia. Dottie’s way of getting back at her for not being here, she suspected—trying to make her feel uninformed.
But the joke was on Dottie—Dahlia was grateful she hadn’t had to make hard decisions about whether to come try to help, grateful she didn’t have to more closely examine who her mother was, the good and the bad and the in-between, as she lay dying. Because most people were not monsters; even those who hurt us harbored shades of light and dark. For Dahlia, her mother’s darkness had made the unknown more palatable than life at home. But not knowing her mother was ill had released her from being pulled back into that dark, emotional mire.
Her mother hadn’t given her much, but that—that was a profound gift. Albeit probably not the sort of thing you put in a eulogy. So she asked Zack, “Anything else you can think of?”
He appeared to think some more, then shook his head.
“Will you miss her?” Dahlia asked.
At this, he stayed quiet, lowered his eyes. Already an honest enough child not to spew out a lie.
“It’s okay if you won’t. I left because we didn’t get along.” She slapped me every time we argued. She made me feel worthless. She left that out, of course. But it reminded her why it still felt raw. She liked to believe her mother had mellowed with age, that she’d been a better grandma to Dottie’s kids than she’d been a mother to her own. But who could say? Maybe her death had saved Zack from what she and Dottie had endured.
So when he still didn’t reply, she said, “You know what—this is bullshit.”
He looked up, perhaps a little frightened. “What is?”
“Trying to think of nice things to say about someone who wasn’t very nice. I’d rather do something fun—how about you?”
His countenance brightened as he gave an enthusiastic nod.
But what was fun to do? She looked around the house she’d grown up in—then spotted the old console stereo in the corner of the small living room.
Not much of Dahlia remained in the house, but she stood up, told Zack to wait there, and walked to the room she’d once shared with Dottie. Opening the closet door, she peeked up onto a high shelf, and under a pile of her mother’s handbags rested a stack of her old record albums.
Despite careful maneuvers, several handbags fell on her as she pulled the albums down, but she left them lying and carried the records to the living room, spreading them on the pockmarked coffee table. “Has Grandma ever played any of these for you?” she asked Zack, who sat next to her on the couch, studying them. Simon and Garfunkel, The Mamas and the Papas, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Van Morrison, Jefferson Airplane, The Monkees, and more. Back then, she’d saved up any money she got from babysitting or in birthday cards to buy records—because she could close her eyes and let the music carry her away.
Next to her, Zack shook his head.
“They were mine when I was a teenager. Want to hear some?” she asked, eager to share the one bit of magic that had made her life better here.
Now Zack nodded—a child of few words. But she understood why—the quieter you are, the less trouble finds you.
Trying to think about what might appeal to a kid, she plucked up the Monkees album Headquarters, slid the disc from its sleeve, and placed it on the turntable. From memory, she knew “Randy Scouse Git” was the last track on Side B, so she carefully lowered the needle on the spinning record.
As the song took her back in time, she smiled at Zack and said, “Let’s dance.”
When he didn’t respond, she stood up, grabbed his reluctant little hands, and led him to an open space on the floor to begin twirling around the room with him. Before she knew it, they were both laughing.
She stayed three weeks after the funeral, far longer than planned, so long that she lost her catering job. But spending quality time with a child who clearly needed some of that was worth it, no question. Dottie seemed more than happy to let him stay at the old house with her, making every night a sleepover.
They played games from the same closet as the albums—Trouble, Sorry!, and Mouse Trap. She taught him a song to help him remember all the US presidents in order, assuring him it would dazzle his teachers. “Wash, Ad, Jeff, Mad, Mon, Ad, Jack...” They played more records—she educated him thoroughly on the entire collection during her visit—and watched bad monster movies on a VCR her mother had purchased. She noticed he never wanted to go home.
“What’s it like there?” she asked one night while they waited for Godzilla—they’d found the original 1954 version at a local video rental—to rewind.
“Not fun like with you,” he said simply.
“Well, it would be hard to compete with the constant fun I provide,” she quipped. “But records and movies aside, I...hope it’s okay there.”
“Emily cries a lot and I think Mommy hates her,” he said.
Dahlia’s heart sank. Indeed the baby did seem to cry a lot—and Dottie generally appeared frazzled. “That’ll get better over time,” Dahlia assured him. Then said the words she’d been dreading but could no longer avoid. “I have to go home soon, Zack.”
His face fell.
“I know,” she told him. “I’m sad, too.”
“You could move here,” he said in that hopeful, guileless way of children. Perhaps she’d dissolved a little of that shell of practicality that had hung around him—for better or worse.
And for a second, she even considered the invitation. She had no job tying her to any place, after all. And she had the money from Tom if she needed it. But she missed Blake. They talked every night, and the longer she was gone, the more she realized how much she treasured him. “There’s a man in Phoenix,” she said. “I think I’m going to marry him. And he can’t move—his job and family are there.”
“Oh,” the little boy said, appearing crestfallen.
“But we’ll keep in touch,” she assured him.
“How?”
“The telephone. You can call me whenever you want. And I’ll call you, too.”
And so they did. They kept in touch when his baby sister died in her crib at the age of two, and Dahlia went home for another week. They kept in touch when he grew surly and more distant with adolescence, even if it took extra effort on her part. They kept in touch as he grew into a rebellious teenager, and she wondered if Dottie was abusive but was too afraid to ask.
I should be there for him. It niggled in her gut—and yet she couldn’t be in two places at once. She’d married Blake soon after that trip home and become an attentive wife, on his arm at more work functions, more family gatherings. She liked being settled. She liked the job she took at a local boutique. She liked the middle-classness of it all.
They lived in a pleasant ranch house with a pleasant yard. They threw pleasant cookouts and opened pleasant presents around a pleasant artificial tree every December. It wasn’t the aimlessness of her ranch life with Pete; it wasn’t the extravagance of her jet-set existence with Tom—it was the middle of the road, and she liked it there. As a child of her era, indeed it turned
out that the middle-class American dream seemed like the safest possible place to be.
And they were happy—until Blake wanted to have a baby. Well, he’d wanted it all along—but when she turned thirty-five, he pushed the issue. And even having gone through the same conflict with Pete years before, she’d thought she’d eventually want that, too. Only she hadn’t.
“I’m too selfish,” she told him one tearful night in bed. Maybe it was the darkness that gave rise to the stark truth, made her able to finally see it, say it. “Too selfish to put someone first, and that’s what you do with a child. I’m so sorry, Blake. I’m just not mommy material.”
She should have left him. Or he should have left her. Because her refusal drove a wedge between them nothing could fix. Oh, Blake tried. There were still work functions and cookouts. Now they just came injected with a degree of loneliness.
When Zack was sixteen, he called one day to tell her he’d left home.
“You can come out here, stay with us,” she said. “Tell me where you are and I’ll wire the money for a bus ticket.”
“Thanks, Dahlia,” he said, “but I’ve got a plan.” He’d grown up somewhere along the way, this troubled nephew of hers. “I got a job on a fishing trawler out of Saginaw Bay.”
She remembered youth, and plans. But even so... “I’m worried about you.”
“You left home at sixteen and got by fine,” he reminded her.
“I was lucky.” And not as scarred as you. And maybe I shouldn’t have told you how many nice people I met. What if you don’t meet nice people, too?
“I can take care of myself, Dahlia.” So certain. So set on his plan.
“Please call whenever you can,” she told him.
She didn’t hear from him as often after that and it worried her. But when he did call, he was alive and safe and seemed content enough, even if maybe a little empty inside. She worried about that, too.
Because contentment was a funny thing. And her own contentment with the conventional had faded. It wasn’t just about babies and wedges in her marriage—Blake had gone on loving her, even under the strain. It was the sense that maybe all those work functions and cookouts added up to...nothing.
But if she’d learned anything, it was that, in the end, she was more predictable than she ever could have imagined. Maybe after two divorces, she should have known that relationships and marriage just weren’t her thing. Hello—goodbye—to number three.
* * *
DAHLIA TOLD GISELLE the short version of those years as well, as they sat side by side in the sand attempting to build a castle. She left out the sadder parts, though—because why spread sadness around?
“I suspect,” Giselle said, carving on a turret, “that the end with Blake draws near?”
“Alas, it does. As time passed, I suggested we travel, or take up a hobby together, to rekindle the magic. But he thought I was Peter Pan and just didn’t want to grow up. And thus I decided there was more than one way to grow up, and I thought about what I really wanted—which was just a beautiful place to carve out a life by my own standards. I’d started out that way—but a weakness for romance had repeatedly led me into lives I was no longer defining. Perhaps Zack’s youthful courage reminded me I’d once had plenty of that myself. And so I parted ways with Blake, sorry to feel I’d robbed him of something, yet not sorry to leave the drudgery.”
“And then?” Giselle stopped carving the sand to ask.
Dahlia smiled, the tiny plastic sand shovel in her hand going still. “I built the life I lead now. I found Summer Island on an old postcard in some of my mother’s things, and after one short visit knew I was done running. And that it would give Zack a home base, and a family, small though it is. He needed that. He doesn’t know he needed that—he doesn’t know he was part of my decision to come back to Michigan—but he deserved better than what life had dealt him, and it was a good move for both of us.”
“And the café?” Giselle asked.
“I finally used some of Tom’s money—to buy the café and the cottage.”
“And you haven’t kept in touch with him, either. Or Blake?”
Dahlia shook her head. Then sighed. “Makes it all feel...very long ago, though. I do hope they’re happy.” As the words left her, she realized she sounded sad. Just a little.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t want me to try to find any of them?” Giselle asked. “I’m pretty handy with online searches.” She smiled hopefully, clearly feeling mysteries afoot.
Dahlia shook her head once more. Though what she didn’t tell Giselle was—she suddenly didn’t know if her choices held water. She’d just spouted about how she’d stopped running, but...what had she ever been looking for? And had she ever really found it? Or had she simply tired of the search? And why did a certain emptiness linger inside her as she thought back over the men she’d once loved?
* * *
ONE PERK OF living on Summer Island for Suzanne had been the lack of Valentine’s Day. Oh, it still rolled around on the calendar, but there wasn’t much fanfare surrounding it. No stores filled with heart-shaped everything, no restaurants for couples to flock to for a romantic dinner, and no roses for anyone to buy for their significant others.
Of course, back on the mainland, Valentine’s Day had been big business for Petal Pushers. But she didn’t mind not having the hassle here on the island, and as a woman who’d sworn off romance until recently, it had been pleasant for the day to pass by virtually unnoticed.
So it caught her off guard when on the morning of the fourteenth, as she lay next to Zack in bed, she received a text from Allie Hobbs inviting her to the Cozy Coffee and Tea Shop for an afternoon of chocolate and chatting.
She and Allie had always been friendly, but they’d never socialized outside of a group. And so...maybe this was a group thing? What if Meg was also invited? And why on Valentine’s Day? It seemed more like a day for Allie to spend with Trent than with friends.
But on the other hand, maybe it would be nice to get out for a while. Because it was Valentine’s Day. She recalled from Meg that Zack wasn’t much of a Valentine’s celebrator anyway—which was possibly forgivable here in winter, yet had still irked her on Meg’s behalf. Regardless, though, she now lived with a guy in a wholly undefined relationship, which could make a day that used to just pass by feel awkward. So perhaps this would make it less so.
She replied with: What a nice invitation! Will it be just us or are there others?
Allie answered: Just you and me. I hope that’s okay.
And then Suzanne understood. Allie felt bad about the embarrassing incident at the Knitting Nook, which Suzanne was simply depending upon time to make people forget.
Yes, of course, she replied. Then learned through more texting that while the shop was typically open only on knitting bee nights in winter, Josh was coming in to prep for a celebration with his wife and had invited Allie to sample the wares. Trent was busy today, so Allie decided to make it more fun with a friend—Suzanne.
Okay, good enough. Suzanne was in.
Very sweet of you, and I’m happy to come.
“Who ya texting there all fast and furious?” Zack asked, peeking over with a sleepy grin.
She smiled back. “Allie Hobbs. She invited me to get together this afternoon.”
“Hmm. Sounds nice, I guess. Let’s just be sure we get in both my exercise sessions.”
“Absolutely,” she said. They’d worked on using his foot with the crutches the last couple of days, and he was beginning to put a little more weight on his leg—with less pain. So no way was she letting up now. “In fact, I’ll hop up, make breakfast, and we’ll get started.”
* * *
DAY TURNED TO dusk as Suzanne made the trek home from the coffee shop—and snow began to fall. Through the pleasant afternoon, Suzanne felt she’d perhaps added a real friend to her small group of them,
an especially nice thought given that Meg’s status felt pretty uncertain.
As she’d suspected, Allie had apologized for accidentally starting the kerfuffle at the Nook, and Suzanne had explained her own remorse, as well. Girl talk followed, Allie confiding that she and Trent were starting to plan their wedding for late summer, and of course wanted Suzanne to provide the flowers. Chocolate had been the theme of the day, Josh serving a variety of chocolate desserts he’d whipped up. And that’s as close to a Valentine’s celebration as I’ll get—but it’s fine. Love isn’t about hearts and flowers anyway.
“Hey, Suzanne.”
She looked up to see none other than Trent approaching from the other direction. Allie had never mentioned what he was doing today—but perhaps he’d been at the bike shop or his law office. “Hi,” she said with a smile. “I just left your fiancée.”
He seemed unsurprised. “Heard you two were getting together. Have a nice evening.”
Soon she reached her front door—but drew up short upon hearing music coming from inside. It wasn’t even Zack’s usual sixties’ and seventies’ jams—much softer.
Confused, she opened the door, looked around for Zack, didn’t see him in any of the usual spots—and then heard him say from her right, “Hey there, Suzie Q.”
He stood with his crutches next to the dining room table—on which rested two plates of something Italian, two glasses of wine, a silk red rose in a vase, and a white teddy bear holding a heart that said Be Mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SUZANNE BLINKED. TWICE. To make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
But no. Zack Sheppard stood before her having somehow created a romantic Valentine’s Day dinner. “Happy V Day, Suzie Q.”
She raised her gaze from the table to the man, awed. “How on earth did you do this?”
He released his hands from the crutches braced under his arms to wiggle his fingers and say slyly, “Guess I’m magic.”
