“She asked for more of the peach cobbler,” I continued, “she says it’s her favorite. I told her I would put in a good word with you to see what we can do.”
Grandma smiled. “Peach cobbler was always your brother’s favorite, too.”
“Yeah, I remember.” I pressed my lips into a sad smile.
Our conversation faded into the background with the music, and we continued to work on the task at hand. Since it was March, Grandma wanted to make Saint Patrick’s Day themed pies. We experimented with food coloring, trying our best to turn the fruit-goop green. After a few tries and failures with the cherries–they had turned an unappetizing brown color that resembled something like clotted blood–we had successfully turned a batch of peach cobbler into a nice shade of emerald green.
We cut and carved out four-leaf clovers from the dough and placed them in varying patterns across the crusts. Grandma had managed a rather impressive leprechaun running toward a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow on one of her pies, putting my field of clovers to shame. I didn’t mind that my artwork wasn’t exactly up to par; just working hands-on was remarkably remedial all on its own.
At the red light, I eased back into the leather bench-seat, inhaling the scent of cherry pipe tobacco. Grandpa had carried a bag of it in his glove compartment for as long as I could remember. I loved the old truck. It was practically a relic with the original interior. A fine layer of dust had settled and baked into the dash, and there were tears in the leather seat that had never been repaired. The clutch stuck a little, making it all the more difficult to maneuver with my bad leg, but I didn’t mind.
I learned how to drive a stick using Grandpa’s truck. My dad had gotten so frustrated with my slow pace and inability to learn as easily as Gabriel had. “Darcy,” he said, “you’re making this much more complicated than it has to be.” His hands were rolled into tight fists at his sides. This was how you knew when he was really, really irked. This was also when I bit my lip, knowing better than to say what was actually on my mind.
“Lighten up Dad, your presence alone would cause Henry Ford to forget how to drive a stick,” Gabriel said from the passenger’s side window.
“All right, just forget it,” Dad tossed his hands up exasperatedly, “you two can figure this out on your own.” He gave the handle a good yank, letting himself out of the truck as he slammed the door behind him.
“Don’t worry about him,” Gabriel said, taking his spot on the bench. “He’s going through a rough patch at work. It’s not an excuse, but you know how he gets when things aren’t going his way.”
I nodded, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “I just wish he wasn’t hard on me. I can’t help that I don’t glide through everything like you,” I said.
“I don’t glide,” he said, “I listen. There’s a difference.”
“I listen,” I said defensively.
“You try to listen, but your brain works like an internet browser. You have a million different tabs open all at the same time, and you can’t seem to stay focused on just any one thing,” he said.
I felt my brows furrowing, but I knew he was right. “Okay,” I said, “so how do I fix it?”
“You have to learn to slow down the rhythm,” he said, “concentrate on exactly what I tell you, and nothing else. Shut out the extra noise in the back of your mind.”
“Yeah, but how?”
He thought for a moment, glancing around the interior of the truck as if the secret was hidden in one of the compartments in the dash. Gabriel reached forward and turned up the volume on radio. “What do you hear?” he asked.
“A song...” I shrugged, wondering what he was getting at.
“Right now you’re listening to a musical composition with vocals, drums, guitars, and bass. All of these things were recorded or written separately, and then mixed together to make up this song so you can hear it the way it’s meant to be heard. But if you strip it down to its basics, you can pick out each instrument and hear the exact notes and chords played individually.”
“So?” I asked. My brother had an obsession with music; so while his explanation probably made a world of sense to those musically inclined, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
“So,” he said, turning to face me, “if you can learn to break the song down into separate parts, you can learn to drive a stick. Here, close your eyes and try to pick out the acoustic guitar.”
I sighed. “Okay.” I leaned back into the seat and closed my eyes. At first, it was hard enough to shut out the thousands of thoughts pulsing through my brain to even focus on the music, but then I forced myself to listen to the lyrics. Once my brain had quieted, I began to appreciate the sounds that were spilling from the speakers, and slowed them down. After a minute, the lyrics had faded away and I was concentrating on the sound of the acoustic guitar. I followed the rhythm and the twang that the strings emitted over the frequency. “I got it,” I whispered.
“Good,” he said. “Now, push in on the clutch with your left foot, and turn the key in the ignition.”
And with Gabriel sitting beside me, it had been as simple as that. My twin had always had a way of getting through to me when no one else could. It was like he could take something complicated, and break it down in some bizarre–yet meaningful–way that made it easy for me to relate to. Though, in truth, I had a feeling that it was really just a “Gabriel” thing. I had often thought that he would have made one hell of a teacher. If only the rest of life could have been as easy as receiving valuable life lessons in the driver’s seat of Grandpa’s old truck. I missed that.
***
I pulled up to the parking lot of the Crescent Moon, stacking four pie boxes carefully in my arms and started for the sidewalk. I shifted the pies, grabbing the handle with my index and middle finger and tugged. I stumbled a little on my way in, but recovered in enough time to set the pies on the counter without dropping any of them. The blast of warm air greeting me was so intense it caused a shiver to run down my spine. The feeling was quickly overridden by the delectable scents of fresh coffee and baked goods permeating through the air.
“Hey, you came back!” Beck said from behind the counter. Today, her long black hair was pulled into a ponytail with layers of choppy bangs sweeping over her face. Her eyes were rimmed in deep purple makeup with a hint of neon yellow lining the corners. Her lips were painted in the lightest of pinks so that they almost blended in with her face. She turned, and I could see a white ribbon was holding her hair in place, matching her white A-line dress.
“Hey,” I said, greeting her.
“I see you’ve been roped into doing the pie delivery. Welcome to the zombie-hour.”
“The zombie-hour?” I raised an eyebrow curiously.
“Otherwise known as the period of time where being up this early requires a serious caffeine fix to even function,” she clarified. “I call it the zombie-hour because everyone stumbles in looking like they popped out of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video–you know, minus the whole dancing bit.”
“Ah,” I said, understanding. “I get it now.”
“Do you have more in the truck?” she asked, stepping out from behind the counter. “I’ll help you bring them in.”
“Thanks,” I said.
We managed to get the rest of the pies safely inside without any accidents. I helped her stack them behind the counter, placing them carefully in left-hand side of the display case.
“I have an envelope around here somewhere with a check for your grandmother.” Beck turned, fumbling with the register until she produced a white envelope, and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, stuffing the envelope in the inner pocket of my jacket.
&n
bsp; “Those designs are super cute,” she said, pointing to the pies. “I love seeing what your grandmother comes up with. It’s amazing.”
“We were up half the night working on them. I’m nowhere near as talented as she is, but it was fun.” I admired the shamrock pies from the opposite side of the glass.
“So the artsy genes run in the family, eh?” she asked.
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Well, you look like you’re in need of some caffeine?” Beck commented. She mimicked doing one of the “Thriller” dance moves.
“Dire,” I replied, chuckling.
She grinned. “What can I get you?”
I studied the menu briefly before deciding I didn’t really have a preference. Everything looked good, and the smells were overwhelming my senses. “Anything sweet with a few shots of espresso,” I decided.
“Hold that thought.” Beck turned from the counter and set to work, digging in the cupboards behind her. I watched as she appeared to mix a few things, pressing several buttons on a strange looking machine that made a high-pitched beeping sound.
While she worked, I studied the different fliers that were taped to the counter. There were help wanted signs, and advertisements for all kinds of different services. But it was the neon green flier that caught my eye. In thick black letters read: Sinking Tempest. Underneath, was a black-and-white picture of four guys in an action shot up on a stage holding various instruments.
“Are you going?” Beck asked me.
“What?”
“To the show.” She tipped her head toward the flier I had been staring at.
“Oh, I doubt it.”
“Everyone is going,” she stated. “It’s at the Pool Hall just off campus, you know, the one across from the beach?”
I did know, actually. It had once been a favorite party spot of mine on the weekends. In fact, it was pretty much a favorite party spot for everyone at University. It was a preferred spot because the bartenders rarely took anyone’s ID.
“My boyfriend is in the band, lead guitar actually,” Beck said, sliding a mug across the counter. “I have to be there, you know, to show support and whatnot.”
“Are they any good?”
“Really good,” she answered. “They’ve been in the recording studio for months and this is sort of their welcome-home party. They’ll probably get signed soon.”
“Cool,” I said.
“You should come out, it will be fun.”
“I’m not really into the party scene anymore,” I said, picking up my mug to take a sip. The liquid was hot, but tasted sweet with a kick. I detected subtle notes of caramel and mocha. “This is good,” I said, “really good.”
“Thanks, coffee is kind of my specialty.” She grinned, “Look, you don’t have to drink or anything. I mean, you do like music don’t you?”
“Yeah, definitely.” I wondered if this was the sort of band Gabriel would have been interested in seeing. He’d drag me to the Pool Hall on numerous occasions to see a band, though I rarely payed attention considering I was off socializing with the rest of the underage students that were indulging in alcohol. “When is it?” I asked.
“Friday night, eight o’clock,” she said. “Did you ever work things out with your friend from the other day?”
“Not exactly, I mean, we’ve talked, but not about anything important.”
“You should call him and see if he wants to come. It might give you a chance to clear the air.”
Another good idea. I had been a little salty when Luke brought up spring break at his parents’ beach house–even if in my mind I had a good reason… Luke didn’t deserve my attitude.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “sounds good.”
“Let me see your phone.” She held her hand across the counter. I slipped it out of my pocket and handed it to her. I waited as she programmed her name and number into my contacts, and then did the same with her phone.
“Thanks,” I said, finishing the last of my coffee. I was beginning to feel slightly less like a “zombie” and more like a human being.
The little golden bell above the door chimed, and a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties with strawberry red hair came walking in. She had wide, childlike features and freckles that trailed across her nose, speckling her ivory skin. As she approached the counter I could see that her brown eyes were almost red in color.
“Good morning,” she said to the both of us in a cheery voice. It was a tone that signified just how much of a morning person she was, and not at all a “zombie-hour” partaker. She walked behind the counter, dropping several grocery sacks on the counter top, and turned to mess with a tangle of strings on a frilly pink apron.
“Good morning, Layla,” Beck returned in less of a cheery tone.
“Oh, you’re the baker?” I said.
“The one and only.” She smiled. She had a nice smile; it was easily her most eye-catching feature.
“Your cookies are amazing,” I told her.
“Thanks! Have you had any of the muffins?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “I will next time, though.”
“Layla, this is my friend Darcy. She’s Evelyn MacKenna’s granddaughter.”
“Oh! It’s nice to meet you.” Layla reached across the counter and shook my hand. Her palm was so tiny in relation to mine. I felt like an awkward giant standing next to the five-foot-nothings.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I said.
“So. You have to tell me…” She leaned in, eyes brightening. “What is the secret ingredient your grandma uses to make her pies so amazing?”
I laughed. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t betray her secret.”
“Ah-hah,” she declared, “So you’re saying she has one?”
I laughed again. I was sure my grandma probably had a lot of secrets, but I had never seen her use anything out of the ordinary when it came to baking pies. She liked to joke about the pies tasting so good on account of the homemade dairy ingredients she used, but I had a feeling that was only part of it.
“Give it up Layla, you won’t get anything out of her,” Beck said and then turned to me, “Just ignore her antics. Aunt Layla won’t even let me near the kitchen when she’s baking.”
“That’s because you make me nervous,” she said, pointing a finger. “Baking is an extremely delicate process and you’re not exactly the most graceful person I know in the kitchen.”
“Bite me,” Beck spat, rolling her eyes.
“Keep it up, and you’ll find yourself on a plane back to Europe to go live with your parents,” she warned. There was a playful tone to her voice, so I knew she was joking as she chided her.
“My parents are military doctors,” Beck explained. “They move around a lot, and Aunt Layla was kind enough to let me stay with her while I’m in college–on condition that I work for her, of course.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I said.
“See,” Layla pointed, “someone else agrees with me.”
“She’s just trying to be polite. Darcy, tell her.”
I laughed, and pushed out from the table. “I think this is my cue to leave. My grandparents are probably wondering why it’s taking me so long to get back to the farm. Thanks for the coffee, and it was nice meeting you, Layla.”
“Nice meeting you, Darcy.”
“I’ll see you Friday.” Beck beamed. “I’m so happy you’re coming.”
I waved goodbye on my way out the door, and started down the sidewalk. The air seemed less chilly, but that could have just been on account of the espresso pumping through my ve
ins.
I climbed behind the wheel of the old Chevy, and pointed the truck in the direction that would lead me to the farm.
Chapter Seven
Sometimes I missed my classes at HU, especially on days like these when I drove past the campus and saw the students walking across the lawn with their backpacks slung over their shoulders. I missed the smell of the art room and the feel of a paintbrush in my hand. There were days when I’d pick up a brush, blending the acrylics to match my mood and just let circumstance guide my hand over the canvas. The end result wasn’t always clear in the beginning, much like the path of my life. But somehow, it always turned out–whether it was good work or not, it always seemed to turn out.
Luke had picked me up at the farm, and we were on our way to see the show Beck had invited us to. We drove through campus, and though it had been four months since I had seen it, it felt like a lifetime.
“Is it weird for you,” Luke asked, breaking my train-of-thought, “seeing campus again?”
“Not weird,” I replied. “It’s just sort of empty feeling.” I remembered my two months at University well, but looking back was like digging into the memories that belonged to someone else. I had been a different person then, but that girl was foreign to me now.
Luke nodded, pointing the car in the direction of the beach. The Pool Hall was only about ten minutes outside of school grounds, and we were getting dangerously close. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat.
A beat later we were pulling into the parking lot, and I could already hear the loud bass pulsing through the building and opened door. It was unseasonably warm today, with temperatures nearing the upper fifties even after the sun had set. I had settled on a pair of blue skinny jeans and a long-sleeved thermal that had a few buttons on the collar. It was a form-fitting shirt, and I felt mildly self-conscious underneath my jacket.
Luke took the lead, and I followed a step behind him as we started for the Pool Hall entrance. There was a man at the door dressed in all black from top to bottom. He had a bald head, and sported a thin black goatee. His arms were crossed over his thick midsection, but he lowered them as we approached.
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