by Holly Jacobs
“Wow,” he said as he looked at me.
I pushed my dress down, and then dragged a stray curl from my cheek to behind my ear. “Thanks, I think.”
“You’re welcome. You do look nice,” Ned said.
There it was . . . nice again. Mom would not be pleased.
“Locked yourself out again?” he asked.
“No place to tuck keys in a getup like this.”
“Come on in before you go all Marilyn in that wind.”
It took me a minute to realize that he was referring to Marilyn Monroe. I stepped into his house as he walked down the hall to the kitchen. To be honest, Ned came to my house far more often than I came here. I’m not sure why. His house was a nice enough place. And he wasn’t one of those single guys who live in a mess just because they could.
No, his place was probably far neater than mine, but that was because Ned’s place was Spartan.
Ned had the bare minimum of furniture. A couch, a recliner, and a huge flat-screen television that dominated the living room.
I’d never been up to his bedroom, but I imagined it was much the same. A bed. A dresser. And not much else.
He came back with the key. “You could have come in.”
“I wanted to keep an eye out in case Anthony showed up early.”
“He’s not an early kind of guy,” Ned said. “Or a running-late kind of guy. He’s the kind of guy who shows up precisely on time. Someone solid you can count on.”
He didn’t sound convinced that those were good traits, but I thought they were. “Good to know.”
“Have a nice time,” he said.
“I will. Thanks.”
Rather than going back inside, he followed me across the driveway to my porch. “I’ll take the key back because odds are you’ll need it sooner rather than later.”
“I’ve only locked myself out a couple times.”
He snorted. “I’ve only had the key a year and this is your third time. So that means you lock yourself out an average of once every four months.”
“You locked yourself out once as well.”
“No. Mela did. She left to go home while I was out on a walk and locked the door, not realizing I didn’t have a key. So technically, she locked me out.”
I used the key and handed it back to him just as a car pulled in the drive. “And that’s my cue,” Ned said. “Have a good time.”
Ned stopped to shake Anthony’s hand as my date got out of his car. Then Ned went inside and left just Anthony and me. I held the door open as I waited for Anthony. I swear I could feel my curls bopping their way out of my mother’s styling.
“Hi,” I said as he came up on the porch. “I just have to run in and grab a coat and my purse.”
“No hurry. We’ve got time.”
I wasn’t sure what to do, so I said, “Do you want to come in?”
“Sure.” He stepped inside and I knew the hall he was looking at was the antithesis of Ned’s. He glommed in on my antique, cast-iron firefighter symbols. “I like these.”
“They were my grandfather’s. My mother’s father. He was a fireman here in town. Dad’s dad was a teacher.” I’m not sure why I added that. It didn’t have anything to do with the firefighter symbols and it felt awkward.
“My grandfathers were both railroad men,” Anthony said. I think he said it more to put me at ease than from any dire need to share his grandfathers’ occupations.
I grabbed my coat and purse, checking that I’d put the house keys in my bag. “Shall we?” I said, praying the rest of the evening would be less . . . well, stilted.
Three hours later, when Anthony brought me home, I knew that my prayers had not been answered.
Chapter Six
. . . that first date with Anthony was an awkward one at best. His idea of reading for fun was picking up some dusty historical tome. I read fiction.
Anthony was from Pittsburgh and found Erie’s very small-townish qualities almost claustrophobic sometimes, he said.
I complained that it was a long drive from my eastside home to the west side of town.
It took twenty minutes on a bad traffic day.
Anthony loved sports.
I loved Broadway.
I came home sure that I’d never hear from him again.
He called the next day while I was working at the pantry with Coop.
I came home and listened to the message.
He wanted to go out again next Friday.
I guess what I’m saying is, sometimes opposites do attract, Amanda. And sometimes, just because something is difficult, it doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to write a lecture.
Love,
Piper
Two weeks after Thanksgiving, Ned was on my front porch with a Christmas tree in hand.
“Surprise,” he hollered and leaned it up against the railing.
We hadn’t seen much of each other since before Thanksgiving. He’d gone to New York with Mela to spend the holiday with her family. I’d gone to my parents and I’d taken Anthony. Not out of some passionate need to share a holiday with him, but because he was alone in a new city and wasn’t going home to Pittsburgh for the holiday.
No one should spend a holiday alone.
I made sure that Mom and Dad understood Anthony wasn’t the one. He was a nice guy and we were dating, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t feel I was “the one” either.
I don’t write romance, but I do believe that there’s someone for everyone, and I was pretty sure that Anthony wasn’t my someone, but he was a nice guy and we’d gone out a few times since that first date.
“Thanks, Ned,” I said, looking at the tree.
“I thought I’d help you set it up,” he said. “Mela’s out of town on business.”
“Sorry,” I told Ned. “You know I’d love to, but Anthony got us tickets to La Bohème up at Mercyhurst. Why don’t you leave it on the porch and we’ll set it up tomorrow?” I motioned him inside. “It’s freezing out there. I think the weather guys got it right and we’re going to have snow tonight.”
Rather than remark on the weather, Ned said, “You hate opera.”
“Don’t you dare tell Anthony that. He knows I like Broadway and thought I’d enjoy it. And I might like opera. I try to be open-minded.”
Anthony had been so pleased that he’d gotten us tickets. I got the impression that he thought if it was on stage and had music, it must be something I’d like. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was a big difference between Broadway and opera. And I had only ever seen one opera. Maybe I did like it and just didn’t know it.
“Oh, come on,” Ned scoffed. “Open-minded you’re not. You’re the one who refuses to try sushi because you’re sure you won’t like it.”
“There is a difference between raw fish and opera.” I didn’t add that I wasn’t sure there was much of a difference.
“Yeah, sushi’s good and opera is . . .” Ned paused dramatically, then added, “well, opera is opera.”
“So says the more close-minded of the two of us.” Just to tease, I added, “I bet Anthony could get two more tickets and you and Mela could join us.”
Ned scoffed. “She’s out of town, remember? But you and I both know you’re not going to like it.”
“We’ll see.”
When Anthony dropped me off, I knew that Ned had been absolutely right—I did not like opera.
It turned out, neither did Anthony.
Oh, he tried to make out like he’d enjoyed himself, but we both knew that was a lie . . . one that we could laugh over.
When he pulled up to my house later, he said, “Maybe I could come in tonight?”
I liked Anthony. He was a pleasant companion, but there was no spark between us. I wasn’t sure what else t
o call it, but I knew it existed.
I’d felt that spark with Amanda’s father when I was fifteen. I think I’d been looking to recreate it ever since.
But maybe that wasn’t as important as I’d thought. Maybe it was just a spark of childish first love, and an adult sort of love was built on more than that flash of fire.
Maybe something that burned cooler but steady was better.
I looked at Anthony and I nodded. “I think I’d like that.”
Anthony smiled. “So would I.”
After that night, we had that added element to our dating. But I wasn’t sure it drew us closer like I’d hoped.
But we were becoming linked in other people’s minds. Even my parents.
Anthony and I spent Christmas together. He came to my parents’ house Christmas morning and stayed for dinner. My mother was impressed that he pitched in and helped with the cleanup. And he’d brought presents for everyone. A nice bottle of whiskey for my father. A beautiful silk scarf for my mother.
And for me? He’d found an autographed copy of Heinlein’s Have Space Suit—Will Travel.
“Oh, Ned—” my mother said, then quickly corrected herself. “Anthony, Piper loved Heinlein as a kid.”
“I know,” he said. “I went browsing through her bookshelf and found her collection of Heinlein books. Her copy of the Space Suit was the most decrepit looking of the bunch, so I figured it was a safe bet.”
I hugged him and was so thankful I’d come up with something brilliant for him. “Here.”
I handed him the thin envelope. He pulled out two tickets to a Pittsburgh Penguins hockey game.
Ned had suggested them, and from the look on Anthony’s face, it had been a great idea. “I talked to a lady at the box office and she assured me these were great seats and you’d be happy. I thought you could ask one of your buddies to go with you,” I added quickly, just in case he felt he had to invite me out of politeness.
I did not want to go all the way to Pittsburgh to watch a hockey game . . . match? Didn’t matter what you called it; I didn’t want to go.
“You’re sure you don’t want to go with me?” he asked.
My parents said, “She’s positive,” in unison as I said, “Absolutely sure.”
We all laughed.
It was a nice Christmas.
I still didn’t feel a huge spark for Anthony, but whatever there was deepened into a warm glow.
Maybe that was better than a spark. Maybe it would be easier to maintain.
When Anthony brought me home Christmas night, he seemed to be waiting to be invited in, but despite the nice Christmas, I didn’t want company.
So I kissed him after mentioning how tired I was, then I said good night and thank you for a lovely day.
When I got inside, I sat in front of the tree Ned had brought me and took the small box from under it.
Inside there was a small gold charm. This year, it was a car. Amanda had turned sixteen in August and I knew there was a good chance she was driving by now. And if she wasn’t driving, she almost certainly was thinking about it.
I’d brought down the journal earlier and I reached for it now. I noticed how worn the soft leather was becoming. I’d filled almost half of the pages.
As I sat under the rainbow-colored lights from the tree, I knew that when I finished with this notebook, I’d put it in the chest with all the letters from Amanda’s Pantry, and all the little gifts I’d bought her over the years.
This charm would join the rest.
Dear Amanda,
Merry Christmas. It’s evening now and you were on my mind all day.
I bought you a car charm this year. I wonder if you’re driving.
If you are, be careful. I worry.
I’m sure your mom and dad do, too.
I spent the day with my parents and a man I care about. At first, I worried that I didn’t feel the same passion for him that I felt for your father, but I’ve realized that I’m no longer a child and maybe a quiet caring is better.
You’re sixteen now. I was sixteen when you were born.
And that’s why tonight seems like the perfect night to tell you about your father.
I was a geek in school. I was that girl who always had her nose in a book—books that weren’t part of any class assignment. I’m sure you know the type, and maybe if it’s genetic, you are the same type yourself.
Over the years, my classmates had grown accustomed to my oddities and they seemed content to just let me be.
I was a sophomore when your dad moved to our school. Mick. His last name was Grant. George and Grant. We frequently sat next to each other in classes that assigned seats alphabetically. His locker was right next to mine as well.
Mick was not a geek.
He was a basketball player, but, oddly enough, he didn’t seem to notice any of the cheerleaders who tried to catch his eye. He noticed me.
By that Halloween, we were an item.
By Thanksgiving, we were intimate.
I took a pregnancy test when I missed my period.
I was so scared telling him the news.
I think I avoided telling you this story because I don’t want to paint him in a bad light. So, let me be sure to remind you that he was young and his reaction . . . well, I’m sure it would have been different if he’d been older.
He denied he was your father . . .
I stopped writing.
After his denial, Mick had suggested an abortion and said he’d drive me and pay.
I declined.
There was no need to tell Amanda that part.
I wouldn’t lie to her in this book, but that wasn’t anything she needed to know.
I declined to have an abortion, then went home and truly thought about what to do. I wanted this baby. I’d thought that somehow Mick and I would make it work, despite how young we were. In my fantasy, I thought that we’d marry and raise our child together. I was sure my parents would help us.
But when Mick denied he was the father and suggested the abortion, that childish fantasy shattered. For a day, I thought I might keep the baby and raise it on my own, but in the end, I put aside my childhood and became an adult. I tried to decide what was best for my baby. During the rest of the pregnancy, I tried to find a way out of giving the baby up for adoption, but each scenario only served to convince me I had to do what was right for her. A sixteen-year-old mother was not it.
Two weeks later, I told my parents. They were marvelous. I asked if I could go away for the rest of my pregnancy. And I told them I’d decided to give you up for adoption.
They stood behind both my decisions.
I told them I wanted to go to Ohio and stay with Aunt Bonnie. My mother, your grandmother, was working toward her Ph.D. in addition to teaching. I didn’t want the stigma of having a pregnant teen daughter to follow her.
I was so relieved when Mom and Dad agreed that I could go to Ohio. Aunt Bonnie agreed, which we all knew she would. And we told the school that I was finishing out the school year in Europe.
My aunt helped me screen potential parents for you. We both fell in love with your parents. In the trunk, I’ve put the letter they wrote to potential birth mothers.
I haven’t read it in years, but they described themselves as normal and average. Your father was a professor and your mother was an elementary school teacher. They sounded like my parents, and I knew I couldn’t give you a greater gift than parents who were as wonderful as mine.
I caught only a glimpse of them as they picked you up. They looked normal. Bland, even.
Until the nurse handed you to your mom.
At that moment, they were transformed. Your mom was so beautiful. They were head over heels in love with you. And in that split second, I knew they were meant to be your parents.
And so I let you go.
But that briefest of glimpses has been something I’ve held onto all these years.
I hope they were—are—as marvelous as my parents are.
The last time I saw Mick was to have him sign the adoption papers. The caseworkers told me that the adoption couldn’t go through without his signature.
We met at a restaurant outside of town a month before you were born.
He didn’t ask any questions about me or about you. He simply took the papers, signed them, and got up and left.
When I returned to school for my junior year of high school, he wasn’t there. I heard he went to the local Catholic all-boys high school. Their sports programs were always on the news and occasionally, they’d mention his name.
Later, I heard he was going to Notre Dame, and though he didn’t make the team, he planned to walk on and try out.
I never heard if he made it.
I haven’t heard of him since those high school newscasts, and I haven’t spoken to him since he signed the adoption papers.
If I could, I’d have avoided telling you about Mick. I’d like to think he’s grown up and would welcome you with open arms if you ever look for him. But I wanted you to be prepared if that wasn’t his reaction. If you ever want to find him, you have his name and a few facts, so that should give you enough to point you in the right direction.
I hope finding out about him didn’t hurt too much. I’ll confess, I didn’t tell you about him sooner because I was afraid telling you about him would hurt you and hurt me. But I’m fine. I so hope you are, too.
The clock chimed in the hallway.
It’s midnight, Amanda. Another Christmas is over.
I hope it was a wonderful one for you.
I hope it was filled with love, laughter, and family.
Know you’ve been in my thoughts all day.
You’re in my thoughts every day.
Love,
Piper
Chapter Seven
I love April. The world comes back to life. More specifically, my backyard comes back to life with its dizzying array of blossoms and buds.
