We purchased the house for three thousand dollars in a land-grab auction, sight unseen, and it’s in dire need of repair. But everything’s relative. All that remains of several other houses on our block—as well as those in the vicinity of the diner—are burned wooden beams to suggest there was once a home, a pile of rubble in front to remind us it had a porch.
Throughout the winter, we scattered buckets in some of the rooms to capture the water seeping through the ceiling. David plans to put on a new roof this summer. The shingles he’s been collecting differ in color, but he assures me no one will notice.
David’s privy to leftovers from home renovations in the affluent suburbs that keep a wary distance from Detroit, known to locals as The D. David’s handy—this house could employ his skills full-time—but his availability is limited, as he works for his father’s company. He also takes online business classes and hopes to have his MBA in a year.
I have an extra room upstairs. It’s my favorite, just large enough to fit my desk and chair. But the room’s containment is the point. There’s only space enough for me and Chester, my worn, frayed sock monkey. Dad gave him to me when I was a child, and he sits flopped into the seat. As a kid, I had a habit of chewing his paw whenever I was upset. I still do, at least when no one’s around.
The one time my mother summoned the courage to visit our East Side digs, she referred to this as my bonus room. Attempting to compose a cheerful face as I showed her around—pointing out, for instance, the massive blocks of original molding adorning the doorways—her moist, blinking eyes betrayed her brave smile as she poked about our dingy dwelling.
When we opened the diner, afraid to upset her further, I encouraged her to visit after we got our footing. My mother, my mother. I love her dearly, but her lifestyle troubles me. Trapped within a soulless marriage, her self-worth is defined by her beautiful home and possessions.
David saunters into the living room, a towel wrapped around his torso. I stand and tighten the sash around my robe. He pushes back my hair, and his eyes, eager and sparkling, express admiration. His lips brush mine, and with my fingertips, I push him away. There’s no time for this. We’re supposed to be going on a picnic today. Smiling into his eyes, I run my hands down his biceps and whisper, “Later.”
I wouldn’t champion boudoir skills as the enlightened woman’s approach to securing matrimony. But they don’t hurt. I’m thirty-one and am feeling every one of those years since opening the diner. I’ve slept with enough toads, traded enough notes with girlfriends, to understand that guys like David—handsome, smart, and sincere—are rare. If I want my happy-ever-after to be shared with a husband and children, I’d better soften my moodiness.
I remove his towel, roll it into a whip, and swat his lovely torso.
“I like it when you play games,” he says, laughing, jerking away from the reach of the snapping towel. “Speaking of play,” he continues, placing his hands on his hips and raising a brow, “have you got a name for that thing you do?”
He’s so easy—that thing. But it works like a charm.
“No time for that thing now. Simmer down, cowboy.” I kiss his cheek. “Save it for later.”
The front door buzzer rings, and then a bone-chilling howl echoes up from the lower level, reverberating through every corner of our home. Sam’s dog, Hero, has a nerve-jangling howl, and his whine could wake the dead.
“There goes the alarm,” David says, glancing at the clock. “Ten fifteen.”
“Kevin must have arrived. Let’s get moving. They’ll be up in a few.”
Entering the bedroom, I cover my ears, muffling the noise from Hero’s commotion below. My backpack rests on top of the armoire, so I climb on top of a chair, stretching to reach it. David tickles my exposed midriff.
“Stop it!” I yelp, giggling in spite of my irritation. I jump from the chair, bag in hand, landing on the floor with a thud.
“One of these days you’re going to kill me.” I drop the pack and bend, rubbing my foot. “I could have broken my ankle.” He tries tickling me again, and I swat his hands away.
After selecting clothes befitting a picnic on Belle Isle, we slide into jeans. We’ll be sitting on a blanket spread across a plastic liner, which will protect us from the damp ground. I don a red shirt and David wears blue; no one can accuse us of not being patriotic.
My straight, white-blonde hair falls past my shoulders. Born and raised in Michigan, I carry the creamy, porcelain complexion of my Polish ancestry. My glossy mane is a family trait—the exact shade as Babcia’s, my grandmother’s, when she was my age.
David’s hair, gold and streaked with brown, is a shade darker than mine. He combs it to the side, and it grazes his left brow, lying shaggy around his ears. He claims to be void of vanity, but he trims his three-day stubble with the precision of a surgeon. I like that he cares about his looks and works out regularly, chiseling the lean, hard body I love.
I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I drop two snowy tablets into a glass filled with water, then gulp down the frothing brew. I’m bringing out the big guns to get through the day; my holistic remedies haven’t helped a lick. I check my face in the bathroom mirror, steamy from his hot shower. Two red-blotched cheeks and a crimson nose. Pale-blue eyes, watery and red—rabbit eyes.
My eyelashes are white blonde, almost invisible, and I brush mascara over them so my eyes don’t disappear into my face. I take time to perfect my lips, first lining them in pencil, then filling them in with Demon’s Delight, an almost-black shade of plum. My skin hasn’t felt the sun’s warmth in months. I burn easily, so I layer SPF 50 sunblock on my face and arms. I’m annoyed with myself for being concerned with the way I look, even when under the weather. What if I skipped the makeup, the randy flirts? Would David still love me?
Under the scrutiny of his wolf whistles, his eyes traveling down my body, I strut to the kitchen and select a Cabernet from a closet serving as our pantry. Inexpensive, yet decent enough for quaffing, it will be bastardized by my syphoning it into Cherry Coke bottles. Consuming alcoholic beverages on public land in Detroit can land you with a hefty fine or, worse, a stint in Wayne County Jail.
I cleared out Welcome Home’s fridge yesterday. No need to sell food less than fresh after a holiday. For the time being, Sam and I aren’t getting a paycheck, but at least we don’t have to buy groceries—one of the little perks food entrepreneurs can sneak under Uncle Sam’s hard-boiled eyes. We don’t need much money in general. It’s amazing how cheap it is to live in Detroit.
We’re betting our dwindling start-up capital will tide us over until we can make an income. We couldn’t have opened the diner without Kickstarter, which is an online way of soliciting folks who may be interested in patronizing entrepreneurial ventures. What a godsend, that money. That plus the ten thousand dollars my mother lent us.
I remove chicken, a mix of spicy greens harvested from the diner’s garden, and mayonnaise from the fridge. Goat cheese rests on the counter alongside bread Sam baked yesterday. As I slice the bread for sandwiches, I regard David. The man knows how to wear a pair of jeans. Not too tight, not too loose, and faded to perfection. Remote in hand, he flicks on the TV. He cracks open a peanut pod with his teeth, pops a nut into his mouth, and chews with exaggerated relish.
“Don’t do that,” I reprimand, shaking my head.
He looks at me in his innocent-babe, adorable way. “Whaaat? I put the empty shells in a bowl.” He points to an empty half pod resting in a bowl, the other half scattered alongside bits of wheat-pocked peanut debris. “Nuts are packed with protein, plus these are unsalted.”
I deflect my voice to a lower, sultry octave to ensure it’s not the high-pitched whine of a shrew. “It’s not the nuts, silly. It’s that god-awful TV. Come on, please? Turn it off. Open the windows. Let’s listen to birds.”
“Chill, baby girl. This is a Reggie Roberts rerun. You’ll get a kick out of this guy.” He points the remote to an African American man built lik
e a linebacker. Dressed in a baby-blue tuxedo, his large-toothed grin’s the size of Lake Superior. “All this time we’ve been together and we’ve never watched Reggie Roberts? The city’s mascot? It’s Name Your Price. Pure Detroit kitsch. Everybody loves him.”
I shake my head, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. When I look into his eyes, a lovely blur of teal, I have the unnerving sense that I’m staring into my own. Many confuse us for brother and sister, and I’m happy watching our elongated shadows walking together in the afternoon sun. Whenever I happen upon my solitary outline, I feel sliced in half. I wrap the finished sandwiches and put them aside.
Antique wood groans as feet trudge up the stairwell.
Laughing, I tackle David, trying to grab the remote. “I don’t want them thinking we watch daytime TV.” He waves it above his head, defending the remote as if I were trying to pull down the American flag. While we’re wrestling, the door opens—Sam and Kevin.
“Are you guys practicing to audition for Jerry Springer?” Kevin asks, his voice as soft, deep, and familiar as my feather comforter. He places Sam’s pack on the counter.
“Oh, Kev. Aren’t the baby tigers cute?” Sam drawls, elongating her vowels, her voice oozing sarcasm. “They’re fighting over Reggie Roberts.” She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Addie, you continue to amaze. I had no idea you were a fan.”
“I’m fighting him to turn the damn thing off.” I give one last lunge toward the remote, to no avail.
“Here’s your mail.” Sam sighs and shakes her head, placing the pile next to her backpack. “Look at all this garbage.”
“Thanks, Sam. I keep forgetting to bring it up.”
She places her hands on her hips, a question in the furrow of her brow. “What was all the jumping and hollering about? A chunk of ceiling fell down. Came close to landing on my head.”
I wince, walk to the counter, and gesture toward David. He’s describing to Kevin how Reggie Roberts earned the NFL’s Offensive Rookie of the Year Award when he played for the Detroit Lions.
“Sorry, Sam. Blame David and his usual high jinks. The guy won’t give me a minute of peace. I’ll make sure he patches it up next week.” I give her the once-over. “Wow. Love your dress.”
“Thank you,” she replies, thumbing through the stack of mail. Peering at a grocery flyer, she tears off a coupon for dog biscuits and slides it into the zippered pocket of her pack. She looks up, catching my eyes, a big grin on her face. “I’m wearing it to celebrate the beautiful day.”
Sam in a dress: that’s incongruous. But it’s becoming—her long, shapely legs are too often hidden in jeans. Scanning the TV screen, her almond-shaped eyes, the irises a periwinkle blue, reflect amusement. Sam, David, and I have eyes in different shades of blue: blue grays, blue teals, blue greens. David’s eyes are both—sometimes blue, sometimes green. Gazing into his eyes is like watching the meandering hues of the capricious Great Lakes.
Reggie Roberts’s voice swells against the canned laughter.
“Buckle up your seat belts and hang on tight. Sexy’s coming back to daytime!”
A contestant sashays across the stage, impersonating Lady Gaga, her butt swaying like a pendulum, skirt wiggling up meaty thighs, threatening to reveal her panty line.
“Are you kidding me?” My words are directed to Sam and then to the screen. Shaking my head, I’m at a loss to express my distaste for this show.
“Addie’s just jealous,” David says. “Don’t fret, sweet thing. You’ve got the same swing in your backyard.”
He wears an expression of a young boy teasing a girl because he hasn’t a clue about how to act around her. He shrugs, and offers peanuts to Sam and Kevin, who each take a handful.
“Really, David,” I say, ice in my voice. “One step forward and two steps back. That woman alone can turn back the dial on everything women have worked for in the past fifty years.”
Another contestant parades onto the stage, a tacky parody of Lady Diana. Sam snorts with laughter, drops her peanuts on the counter, and scampers toward the screen. Bored, I lower my head and shuffle through the pile of catalogs and letters. It was worth buying that half-off throw from Pottery Barn to get on their mailing list. I study their decorating style and look through the glossy pages so I can find similar knockoffs at Detroit Resale Outlet.
A letter with a familiar scrawl makes me flinch. A distant life peeps out from beneath the stack, my name—Adelaide Jaworski—written with a jet-black pen on the envelope. The noise in the room fades beneath the thud of my beating heart. My breath quickens. I stuff the letter in between the Pottery Barn pages. David would never thumb through this.
I’m not going to open it. I’ll get rid of it, along with the other recyclables. I’m the most determined woman I know. I will erase this letter from my brain. But what if I open it? What’s the big deal? It’s been close to—what—ten years? I’m not the woman I was back then.
I open the fridge, pour a glass of tea, then wipe the droplets off the countertop. With the side of my palm, I slide the scattered peanuts into a pile and then polish the laminate with such force, the cracked and yellowing surface glistens.
Sam’s giggles subside, and she returns to the counter, regarding me with a curious look, a question in her eyes. Her lips tighten, and she tilts her head to the side, as if wondering what’s up. Damn my sweating brow.
“Sorry, Addie,” she ventures. She straightens her dress, her voice now restrained. “I forgot to ask if you were feeling better.” She returns the peanuts, one-by-one, to the bowl.
“I’m on the mend. But the sun’s so warm.” I place the chilled glass against my fiery cheek. “I’m not used to it.”
The letter’s fate will be decided at another time. What a way to ruin a day. I glance at the clock and relax my shoulders, which have worked their way up, nudging my earlobes.
“Let’s get this show on the road.” I stuff my bag with the sandwiches and the wine-filled soda bottles.
Normally I’d be delighted with the way the day’s unfolding, even suffering through a cold. But that letter knocked me off my game. Maybe I’ll burn it.
Chapter Three
Sam
The buzzer zaps my nerves, a terrible jolt of a sound. I check the clock: ten fifteen.
With a ferocious gnashing of teeth followed by an eerie whine, Hero gallops to the door. The Hound of the Baskervilles comes to mind, as if he races baying across the moor. With his white coat of fur, Hero resembles a ghost, as well. Standing on his hind legs, he stretches long against the doorframe, his front paws scratching the weathered oak panels.
Amid his yowls, I hear a commotion, sounding like it’s coming from Addie’s bedroom above. She screams, “Stop it,” her words followed by a loud thud. A chunk of plaster dislodges from the water-stained ceiling and hurtles down, crashing next to my foot. Thank God it didn’t land on my head. Hero, oblivious, continues barking at the door, but his ruckus earns his room and board. Who needs an alarm with him around? If an unwelcome stranger pays a call, it’s amusing to watch the fool stumbling down the crumbling steps, hightailing it down the street.
Hero’s daily rubdowns are well deserved. The reality is he’s just a lapdog with a bark far worse than his bite.
I adopted him from the Humane Society on Chrysler Drive. He’s a pit bull with a smattering of hound, evident in his floppy ears and resonating wail. Although abandoned and starved down to bones, he did have a collar. The round metal tag affixed is stamped HERO, to which he responds when called. That’s it. Hero. No owner’s name or number. I’ve always wondered if he’d done something special to earn his name—like dragged a baby with his teeth from a burning building, or attacked a thug before an elderly woman was robbed.
Weighing in at fifty-five pounds, Hero has the wide-set eyes and musculature of a pit, with the goofy playfulness of a mongrel. He was estimated to be around two years old when I adopted him, soon after we purchased our home.
Hero and I’ve made a comfy nest i
n this house—all cinnamon smells, dog biscuits, and soft Pandora radio. Except for that buzzer and bark. I still jump when I hear the commotion. Gotta hand it to Kevin: prompt to the minute. He’d never sacrifice a moment in my company.
“Just a sec,” I shout, giving Hero a biscuit to shush him. I dash to my bedroom, shake off my robe, and shimmy into a dress. I smooth the folds: pale peach with delicate green vines stitched at the hem. One hundred percent cotton, it accentuates my curves at the bodice and spills into an umbrella, landing just above my knees. Last week I spied it in the window of Vanguard Vintage. My size, so I couldn’t resist.
I rarely wear a dress. When was the last time I’ve felt so feminine? For once my given name, Samantha, suits me. Addie’s always one-upped me on beauty, but she works it with makeup. Perhaps today I’ll be in her league.
I unlatch the three locks and unbolt the door, Hero panting by my side. I’ve trained him not to jump on friends.
“Great dress,” Kevin comments, his skin dampening as he regards me. I back away and he clears his throat. “Happy Memorial Day,” he adds as an afterthought, careful not to cross the boundaries I’ve set.
He hands me a folder. “April and May’s hard copy for your files.” Kevin, an accountant at Bradley and Collins, does our books and payroll in exchange for meals at the diner.
With his wide-set brown eyes, thick, muscular frame, and big, toothy smile, he reminds me of Hero working a party, tail wagging and drooling. And when one annoyed guest bops him on the nose, he ducks his head, gives a shy, loping grin, and pants on to the next person.
“Thanks, Kev. What a nice day for a picnic.” I keep my expression neutral to ensure he doesn’t get the wrong idea. He’s well aware I want nothing more than friendship—says that’s fine—but I see the yearning in his gaze.
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 5
