the Public Garden, I trudge up to the storefront. Each step is harder to take than the last. A large sign hangs above the door. In bold black and pink lettering it reads:
Make Way for the Artists
There's a mama duck at the front and the letters of the sign rest on the backs of the baby ducklings. Next to the sign is a painting of a coffee cup with swirls of steam rising in the air. I choke up. This shop makes Mom's dreams come true. The pot of gold at the end of her rainbow.
Jetta would've loved it.
The door opens and the smell of cinnamon and coffee rush out. Just like the old shop.
"Are you going to stand around all day?" It's Stick. Except his wild red hair is slick with gel and parted at the side. He's wearing a sharp-looking suit.
I enter and stand in shock, unable to move even if I wanted to.
I'm in Oz. The shop is spacious with large windows. Black iron curly Q tables fill the room, with chatty, happy customers sitting at them. Along the back, a shiny counter showcases Mom's good cooking. Everyone wanders through the shop, studying paintings while sipping coffee.
Jetta would've loved it.
Stick waits tables. He smiles. He laughs. He charms the customers. His rough and tough edge and the dark shadows that were permanently under his eyes are gone, like all the abuse he suffered from his dad never happened.
A door in the back swings open. A tall, hulking teen lumbers through, carrying a tray of chocolate chip muffins. He also wears a black suit but has a white apron around his waist. It's Turbo. His black and shaggy hair is gone, not slicked back, but cut in a short movie star fashion. He whistles as he loads the glass case with the goods.
I inch forward. The friends I know are gone. I liked my friends the way they were. They might not have been perfect, but who is?
A boy I don't recognize works behind the counter. I look closer and my heart clenches. It's Big D. Mom offered Big D a job too. My eyes sting and I blink furiously.
I take the nearest chair, feeling sick. The room bustles with happiness and energy. Even though my life seems full, I feel hollow inside. Wasn't this everything I hoped for? Everything I fought for? But where's Dad?
Stick serves me a coffee. "Dude, you look bad. Drink some coffee then get to work. This is our busiest day."
"Why are you working for my mom?" I ask.
Stick narrows his eyes. "Dude, we've been working for your mom a couple years."
"Why?"
He slaps me across the head in a friendly way. "It's all part of your mom's plan to save us from drugs and the street. I've gotta get back to work. Slop that down and then help out." Stick leaves to clear and wipe down tables.
The cream swirls in my coffee, the color turning from black to tan. Mom must be happy if in this lifetime she whipped all our lives into shape. That's good. I wanted to fix my mistakes, but why did it have to be at Jetta's expense?
I have to get out. The happiness in this place weighs on me, suffocates my ability to breathe or think. With coffee in hand, I escape outside to one of the tables lining the sidewalk. People walk by holding onto their hats. Quite a few enter the shop, seeking solace from the wind. Each time the door opens a little bell tinkles.
I pull my coat together, gritting my teeth against the searing pain of the cigarette burn.
"You look lonely out here." Mom lets the door to the shop close, blocking out all the sounds and smells of the present. She sits in the chair across from me. The gray is gone from her hair, replaced with blonde highlights. The sparkle is back in her eyes, and she looks younger, or maybe it's the smile.
For a brief moment, I worry that Kronin is back in her life. "Do you know anyone named Kronin?"
She laughs. "What a silly question. Of course."
I let out a breath of air and slump lower in my seat.
"Why bring him up after all these years?"
"All these years?"
"He's your dad's friend, but he and his brother Kyle have been in prison ever since the Gardner Heist. I hope they never get out. All that precious art. Gone forever."
The burden of protecting Mom and Dad disappear. The Kronins are both in jail. Mom doesn't seem to have a clue that her husband was involved in all that stolen precious art. Frank honored my note and left Dad out of jail in exchange for the Gardner paintings.
"Since when did you start liking art?" I rattle off questions like a drill sergeant shouting orders.
She taps her finger against her chin. "I don't know. Your dad must've gotten me into it."
"Where is Dad?"
"Did you get enough sleep last night?" She tucks her hair behind her ears. "I wondered when you'd ask these questions. You've been quiet about him for a while."
"Well?"
"Your dad wishes he could be around more. He's always jet setting somewhere for business."
"What exactly does he do?"
"Something with art. I don't understand everything. He's not allowed to share that much. He helps recover stolen pieces, undercover work, but that's all I know."
"Where did you get the money for all this?" I nod back toward the shop.
A big smile spreads across her face. "Isn't it great? I didn't realize you were so interested in the business end of the shop. Part of it is money from your dad and part from generous donors who like to see the local artists appreciated and showcased. It's really taken off and supporting itself now."
I sip the lukewarm coffee. The wind sends tiny ripples across the surface of it. A part of my mission succeeded. No doubt. But it didn't miraculously change my dad. It just kept him out of jail. He's still chasing down art.
"You know I'd love to chat all day, but we have a busy morning. Anything else you need to know?" She moves to the edge of her chair, ready to leave.
My throat tightens. This is more attention than Mom ever showed me over the course of my entire life. She cares enough to come out and talk. She cares enough to help me and my friends stay out of trouble.
"Where are all the paintings Dad gave you for the shop?"
Mom waves her hand. "Those things? I sold them off to an old lady years ago."
I stop breathing for a moment. "You gave them away?"
"Your dad had the same reaction. His whole face went pale and he almost got sick. He tried to track them down but could never find them. I had no idea they were of such sentimental value or I would've kept them."
Inwardly, I cringe. Part of my deal with Frank, in exchange for Dad's freedom, was the paintings. But the 500 million dollar stash of art is hanging in some lady's house eventually to be sold at a yard sale or given away to grandkids.
"Anything else?" Mom stands and tightens her apron.
I want to ask another ten questions, knowing she'd stay and answer them. But no matter how good life is for Mom, my friends, and Dad-it feels wrong.
"Are you happy?" I ask.
She tilts her head and the answer comes fast and easy for her. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" She leans over and kisses my head. "Finish up and then come inside. Tuck in your shirt and straighten up first."
11:38 a.m.
I peer through the window for Make Way for the Artists. I breathe against the glass and then smear the cloud with my fingers. I'm a stranger?peeking in someone's window and viewing a life that isn't mine. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of Stick or Turbo. Mom chats up the customers. Big D's behind the counter.
But Jetta is missing.
This was her idea. She should be here to celebrate the artists. Her paintings should be on the wall. She should be here to laugh and hold my hand and twirl between the tables, lighting up the place with her presence.
When I went to the Gardner it was to get Dad out of jail and bring him home, but that didn't happen. My life is different. My friends are different. Mom is different. But Dad is the same.
A con artist.
A thief.
I have to live with the fact that I set him free from a life in prison in exchange for Jetta's life.
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"I see you took my advice."
I refocus and make out a derby hat in the reflection of the shop window. I don't turn around. "Yeah."
"Glad to see Izzy pointed you in the right direction," Frank says.
"She got paid."
"Oh, it's more than that. Her life has changed for the good all because you took a chance and made the right decision. She used to be a psychic, barely making her way in the world, and now she owns the healthy living store."
"So you remember talking to me in the courthouse? And right after the Gardner Heist?"
"Sure do. We appreciate your help."
"We?" I ask.
"Me and the boys at the office. We track down stolen art, and you brought two thieves to justice."
I hear the scrape on the cement as Frank pulls out a chair.
"But one of them was my dad." I wipe the rest of my breath cloud off the window, realizing I just made more work for Mom.
"He's been helping us for years. You're following in his footsteps. Changing lives."
Changing lives? Those words sound like a soap opera to me and that's what my life has turned into. I remember what Mom said. "What about the paintings? My mom sold them."
"I still hope to find them. Until then, your dad has been working off his debt."
I watch my friends hustle around in the shop. The smell of cigarette smoke drifts by. So maybe if Mom hadn't sold off the paintings, Dad would be home and more a part of the family.
It's your fault.
"Why don't you sit down, so we can talk about your future." Frank pushes a chair out.
I take one last long look at my friends and Mom and then sit down. "What do you mean? My future?"
"You have the makings of a brilliant time traveler art detective.
Heist Page 25
