by Tia Louise
“Suit yourself.”
His answer makes me chuckle. I’m getting nothing out of André I don’t earn.
Pausing for a moment, I look up at the two-story buildings—my project. The paint’s flaking off all of them, and I’d like to give them a good once-over before I start tomorrow.
I’ll come back after I’ve had a cup of coffee and eaten something. Pulling the driver’s side door, I’m greeted with the usual pop! It’s a far cry from my Audi, but I couldn’t give a shit. I place the bag on the bench seat and slide in.
* * *
It’s early afternoon when I make it back into town. I’ve left the truck at home, and I’m on foot this time. It’s not far enough to drive unless you’re carrying perishables.
The sun beats down strong, and sweat traces a line down the center of my back. I’ll need to get an early start tomorrow if I’m going to beat the hottest part of the day. I’m keeping construction-worker hours now, not lawyer hours.
Stopping at the first building, I peer through the leaded-glass windows. When I was a kid, this was a five and dime store. Emberly’s aunt owned it, and I remember she kept a barrel of candy at the front register. She’d told me why once, but I can’t remember. Something about a book she’d read… Little House on the Prairie shit.
The main thing I remember is it was full of hard candy, similar to Jolly Ranchers but a homemade variety. I was addicted to the cinnamon ones, and even though they were a nickel, she’d let me have them for free. I must’ve eaten twenty of those damn things a day. My mouth was always on fire.
Cupping my hands over my eyes, I see the place has been completely cleaned out except for the front register. A heavy wooden table is positioned against the back wall, and the shelves that extend to the ceiling are full of what look like baking supplies.
A large farm-style sink is beside two ovens stacked against the wall and on the other side is a refrigerator. It looks like somebody’s opening a bakeshop, and it’s pretty damn girlie—all whitewash and ribbons and dried flowers and twig clusters everywhere.
Wyatt gave me three different colors for the buildings—light blue, a peachy beige, and sand with black shutters. This place should be the peachy beige, I think.
Moving down to the hardware store, a few customers are inside. Wyatt is behind the counter bagging an order. I’m surprised. When I lived here nothing was open on Sundays. A quick glance tells me noon to six for this place today. Every other day begins at ten.
My new boss catches my eye, and I give him a nod. He waves for me to come inside, and I go up to the counter. The person he’s helping grabs his bags and takes off out the door.
“Ready to start tomorrow?” Wyatt asks.
“Yep, bright and early.” Motioning with the swatches, I say, “Peachy beige for the cake place. Light blue for you, and this fleshy sand for the poboy shop.”
He nods. “Works for me.”
“I’ll need to get the supplies. You here early?”
He frowns and holds up a finger. I wait as he reaches under the counter, taking out a small metal box. A set of keys is inside, and he pulls one off and hands it to me.
“Lose this, and I’ll dock your pay a hundred dollars.”
I almost laugh. “You own a hardware store. You can make a new key for free.”
“But I’ll have to change all the locks, and that’s a pain in the ass.”
A quick nod, and I take it. “Understood.” Stepping back, I motion next door. “I’ll set up the scaffolding and arrange it so it doesn’t impede your business.”
“Good thinking.” He gives me that weird, knowing look he gave me earlier. It makes me uncomfortable, like he has some secret on me, and he’s going to whip it out when I’m not looking.
“Okay, then.” I back toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to your customers.”
Out on the street, I walk in the direction of the poboy shop. I’ve got the cottage pretty stocked, but a muffuletta and a glass of pinot sound good for tonight.
André is inside, and he’s slammed. It’s early for dinner, so I keep walking further into the old neighborhood. It’s a road I remember well, and my chest grows tighter with each step. Without realizing, I’ve put myself on a path down memory lane.
Everything changes as I get closer to the main cluster of houses forming the tiny garden district. The town is laid out around a collection of twenty or so houses in a four-block radius. It’s where the original “founders” planned a neighborhood village. The stragglers, newcomers, transients, and business-owners planted their cottages and shotgun houses on the fringes or they lived over the businesses they owned.
My hands are in the pockets of my jeans as I follow the sidewalk. The trees are ancient and otherworldly. Their trunks are dark wood, nearly black, and thicker, as big around as two adults. The branches are heavy and curved, almost reaching to the ground, and covered in dark green leaves.
I’m thinking about painting, stretching a canvas, when I look up, and I’m at the corner.
It hits me like a gut punch. The old house takes up the entire block with its curved porches and arched latticework. The yard is pristine as always—crepe myrtles and gardenia bushes. It’s too late for the gardenias, but the bushes are thick with leaves. Other bushes are dotted with cranberry-red clusters of flowers.
My breath is shallow as my eyes rise higher to the cedar shake roof, to her old window hidden behind the tall oak tree. One thick branch extends like a ramp from the ledge to the ground. I involuntarily clutch my stomach as a phantom memory assaults my mind.
I can see Ember swinging over that narrow gap between the roof and the tree. She was quick and nimble. She moved like a dancer, sure and strong…
“Hello! You there?” The strong female voice cuts through my internal distress.
It’s stern and authoritative. It’s so familiar.
“Young man!” she insists. “This is private property!”
Pushing off the painted fence, I turn to see the woman I remember well. From her startled expression and the way her eyebrows shoot up, I can tell she remembers me, too.
“Jack?” It’s just above a whisper. “Jack Lockwood?”
“Hello, Miss Marjorie.” I gesture to her fence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be on your land. I just… I…”
I don’t know what to say to her. She never wanted me here. Anytime I was, I was sneaking around, or I would sit in my car out there at the corner, waiting until I saw Ember dash across the road and into the woods just beyond the settlement.
The wild woods with the path that led all the way to the shore, to our place. The place where we would meet.
“What are you doing here?”
I have to confess, I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me the same question. “It’s my home. I came back to see if anything has changed.” That’s a new reason. Is it true?
“You weren’t supposed to come back.”
She’s never looked this way in my memory—confused, anxious… afraid? I don’t care about this woman standing in front of me. I didn’t care about her as a teen, and that sure as hell hasn’t changed now. Only one question is burning in the top of my mind.
“How is she?” Nostalgia, longing, regret… all the feelings of loss twist together in my chest.
Her mother’s lips tighten, and I see her fear turn to fury. “The same as she ever was.”
“What does that mean?” I don’t intend for my tone to be forceful. Still, it came out as a challenge.
“It means she’s still better off without you.” With that, Marjorie Warren turns on her heel and storms into her enormous home, slamming the door.
I’m left staring at the mansion, knowing the words aren’t right. They can’t be right.
Only… what made Ember start believing them? At some point after I left, something changed. I remember that night, talking to my father, seeing the proof it was over…
I slowly return the way I came. Passing the poboy shop, I decide I’m
not hungry. Talking to Marjorie has left me feeling exhausted and beat down. Everyone keeps asking me the same question—why am I here?
I’d thought it was to clear my head, get some perspective on work, but now I’m thinking I came here for another reason. Something in me needs to put the past to rest. I need to close this door. I need to write the end to this chapter of my life.
Back in the cottage, I pull out my laptop and do something I’ve fought against for years. I open a search engine and type the name Emberly Rose Warren. My finger actually hesitates before I hit Enter and wait.
In a blink, the page fills with entries, but none of them are her. One is a stripper, which almost makes me laugh. Clicking the Images tab turns up nothing. She’s not here.
The answer to my question won’t be found that easily.
Six
Ember
Inside the narrow box, I’m strapped down, unable to move. A loud noise and a sudden jerk forward, my head snaps up while my shoulders are held firmly in place. Sound is muffled. The darkness is green, with only flickers of iridescent turquoise like the sun on fish scales or headlights in the rain.
I cry for my dad. I cry for my sister, but no one answers.
Then the water comes.
It streams in through the walls in smooth arcs. It rises up from the floor, a black torrent touching my feet, my ankles…
It comes so fast my breathing is tight with panic.
It’s at my knees.
It’s at my waist.
It’s at my chest…
Strong hands grip me, pulling me out of the watery grave. My eyes squeeze tightly shut, and I hold onto my savior’s neck. It’s a man. He smells like cedar and cinnamon…
Cinnamon.
It’s not a man.
It’s a boy.
I sit on his lap, my legs around his waist, and he holds me tightly against his chest. We’re both naked, and our skin is flush against each other’s. It’s soothing and warm. My fingers lightly trace the lines on his back, and I press my lips against his neck, tasting the salt on his skin.
He holds me, one hand at the back of my head, fingers threaded in my hair. The other is around my back, holding me steady.
Something incredible just happened, something powerful and life changing. Together we climbed a mountain and jumped off into the expanse. We flew through the air and touched the stars, let the rainbows slip through our fingers…
Blinking slowly, I open my eyes to a hazy awareness. In this place between consciousness and dreams, I feel him so distinctly inside of me. I taste him so clearly. My body hums with the energy of my fading orgasm, and his scent lingers in my nose. It takes several seconds to recover, to understand where I am.
To realize it was only a dream.
I blink at the painted wood walls, the fan turning slowly, the long shadows tracing up the corners of the room with each oscillation.
Reality hits me all at once like a punch to the heart. I sit up and look around. I’m dressed in a thin white tank and panties, and it’s early morning.
“Oh my God.” I drop my head into my hands with a groan.
I haven’t dreamed of Jackson in… well, a week, I guess.
Damn him.
Ripping the sheets aside, I climb out of bed and walk slowly to the kitchen area of my studio apartment. My legs tremble like I’ve just run a mile, but it’s all in my mind. He’s not here.
“Get a grip, Emberly,” I mutter, picking up the kettle and filling it with tap water. I set it on the small stovetop and flick the heat to high.
I won’t do this again. I won’t dwell on the past because my present is actually pretty great. Tabby’s idea of taking Coco to hand out samples on the boardwalk yesterday paid off, and I have five orders for this week alone.
“Five!” I whisper to no one.
I should get a cat…
Either way, one woman asked for a three-tiered chocolate-pepper cake with elaborate, buttercream rose decorations for a dinner party of thirty. That’s three hundred dollars plus a seventy-five dollar delivery charge!
Two other people wanted simple six-inch rounds for the week’s dessert. Another man wanted a fruit tart. Combined with Betty Pepper’s penis, I could make a thousand dollars this week. Granted, my profit after supplies wouldn’t be that much, but still.
Holding the coffee press, I do the I’m making money dance. A loud banging outside my open window makes me squeal and almost throw grounds everywhere.
Shit! I forgot—Wyatt shoved a slip of paper under my door last week saying he’d hired someone to paint the storefronts. It’s about time. The three of us pay a tiny fee each month for “beautification,” and I swear, I was beginning to think he’d pocketed that money.
Tiptoeing to the balcony, I peek around the corner to see what’s happening. Down below, on the opposite end of the row, a tallish guy in an ancient-looking grey tee, jeans, and a baseball cap is assembling scaffolding in front of Betty’s market/poboy shop. I can’t see his face, but his arms flex as he twists and hammers the metal rods. Nice physique…
Not that I give a shit.
I only care about two things right now—making my business a huge success and making a home for Coco and me. Men are off my list for the duration.
The shrill whistle of the kettle breaks my concentration, and I skip over to pour the boiling water over the coffee grounds before I head to the bathroom for a quick shower. It’s bright and early, and I’ve got to get busy if I’m going to meet the demand of being a soon to be regionally famous baker.
* * *
Two hours later, all three of the sponges for the spicy chocolate cake are waiting on the cooling rack, and I’m leaning over the heavy wooden table studying a book of decorative frosting techniques when the little bell over my door rings.
Tabby flies inside. “Are you okay?”
She crosses the room reaching for my hands, and the fear in her enormous eyes makes my stomach plunge. Terror shoots through my chest, and I pass her, rushing to the door.
“What happened?” The apron is over my head, and I’m grabbing my shoes. “Is Coco okay? What’s going on?”
“What?” Confusion lines her face. “Coco’s fine—I mean, as far as I know…”
Stopping at the door, I turn and glare at her as my arm drops. “Tabby! What the hell are you thinking barging in here like that and scaring me to death?”
I lean against the glass door, trying to calm my breathing and feeling super annoyed. My heart is beating so fast it hurts.
“Are you serious?” Tabby’s crosses the room to where I stand, studying my expression.
“What the hell, Tabs?”
“What have you been doing today?”
Pushing her hands away, I walk to the table where my book is open to the page on alternative piping nozzles for buttercream roses. “I’ve been working on this cake order since seven. I need a Wilton 2D star tip, but I’d have to order it online…”
She watches me chewing her lip, and I frown. “What small-town drama has you so wound up?”
The bell rings above the door, and in walks my mother holding Coco’s hand, stopping just inside. Her eyes are strained as well.
“Mommy, cake! Let’s make cake!” Coco chants as she skips across the wood floor to me, her long hair bouncing all around.
She’s wearing a bright yellow gingham dress with little strawberries around the smocked collar. I stand and swing her up on my hip.
“What are you doing here?” I give her a quick kiss on her rosebud lips.
“Granny said I can play with you today!”
“She did?” Frowning, I turn to my mother, who is peering through the window in the direction of Betty’s shop. “Doesn’t Coco have preschool?”
My mother’s blue eyes slide from the glass to me, and she hesitates, her chin slightly lifted. She was acting weird last night when we got back from the strand, but Coco had fallen asleep on my shoulder. I didn’t have time for whatever lecture she might offer, so
I went straight to the bathroom, bathed my whining baby and put her to bed before saying a quick goodnight and heading back here to crash.
Walking slowly to where I stand with Coco on my hip, she clutches her square handbag tight against her stomach as if it’s a shield. “I thought you might like to have her with you today.”
“I want her with me every day, but you said preschool is important to get her ready for kindergarten.” I don’t add the tuition is outrageous.
“Missing one day won’t hurt her.” My mother looks at my best friend a moment.
They hold each other’s gaze as if searching for something. I have no idea what, nor do I care. I meant it when I said I want Coco with me all the time, but of course, my mother picks the busiest week of my life to bend her rules.
“It’s great to have her here, Mom, next time, just, you know, check with me first?” Putting my daughter down, I wrap my long brown apron over my denim cutoffs and white tee knotted at my waist.
My daughter walks around the large, open space while I face my mother, waiting to see if that’s all she has to say. Again, she hesitates a few moments in silence as if she’s waiting on me to do something.
“Is that all? Because I’ve got five cakes to make this week, and I need to get to work.”
Her brow lowers, and she turns on her heel headed for the door. “I have to run a few errands. I’ll come back and get her for lunch and naptime.”
My jaw tightens at her words. “You don’t have to. I can keep her and have her home after supper. Unless she gets too hot. I’ll text you.”
Standing at the door, she shakes her blonde hair. “I’ll be back.” With that, she leaves, and I exchange a glance with Tabby.
“Keep an eye on her just a second.” Apron off, I jog to the stairs leading up to my apartment.
Throwing open the closet, I drop to my knees and dig in the box of toys I keep for days like this. I need to shop for new ones now that she’s started preschool. Still, a plastic bucket of assorted play-dough molds is inside—perfect! I dig deeper, pulling out several Ziploc bags holding different colors of the squishy stuff.
