I did, however, feel guilty saying good-bye to him this morning, even after that zinger he shot about marriage. He’s sacrificing a day’s paycheck to work on the house. Back in college, I was young. Immature. Experimental. But so was David. Would he really think I was a bad person because I’d dated Graham? And would I, indeed, want to spend my life with a man who would judge me like that? Maybe Mom’s lessons are something I need to revisit. I smile at her and shrug. I’m not up to prattling right now, nervous knowing Graham will be here soon.
I walk to the wall and study an abstract expressionist painting, Max’s prized Clyfford Still. Max says Still’s genius is in his ability to focus on the dark and the light, the intense and mysterious. Max’s focus, however, is on ownership bragging rights. The painting was almost the price he paid for this home. I turn and look at Mom, tittering and anxious, playing with her rings. And the price she’s paying?
Yet her timing with men has always been exceptional. She ditched my roving-eyed dad and her elegant home at the top of his career, eschewed child support, and settled for a hefty lump sum. Plus, Dad was responsible for paying for my education. Smart move. Fast-forward ten years and Dad would lose a bulk of his fortunes in junk bonds, dicey dot-coms, and speculative markets. He never told me as much, but I’m sure the crash was devastating to him, rekindling his parents’ stories of impoverishment during the war. He struggled paying my tuition.
Mom should have been the financial adviser in their relationship. She invested her settlement in a conservative portfolio, which has been growing—untouched—as her consecutive husbands paid, and are still paying, her maintenance.
Dad showed his support of Welcome Home, our start-up, with three hundred bucks. I appreciate his vote of confidence. These days that’s a lot for Dad. Despite all of Max’s wealth, he donated only fifty dollars to our Kickstarter campaign. Over Easter, when he thought I was out of earshot, I overheard him saying, I may as well have flushed that money down the toilet.
If the diner’s a success, proving him to be the asshole he is will be my greatest triumph. I glance around the room, at the painting, the table, and the chairs. The art books lined up on a shelf have never been read and serve only as ornamentation. Is it worth it, Mom?
The doorbell rings. Mom jumps and collects herself, smoothing her skirt. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be nearby. Iced tea’s in the fridge if you want to offer him something. But don’t take too long.” She shoots me a warning glance. “Just settle things with him and escort him out the door.” She glides across the room and up the spiral stairwell to the second level.
I open the door and there he stands, a silver Mercedes glimmering behind him in the driveway. His ironed khakis, polo shirt—Pepto-Bismol pink—and Top-Siders complete the look. Always the master of disguise. But his clothing appears tired and hangs off him as if he were a coatrack. This dude is skin and bones. Delicate, even. I glance at the bag he holds in his hand and indicate, with a tilt of my head, he should come in.
He offers me a nervous half smile and enters the house, glancing around as if uncertain. There’s no semblance of the bedraggled yet handsome stoner rich kid I dated way back when. I’d imagined his bad-boy image would have been stepped up by all those years in the pen. Where’s the stamp of prison on his brow, the swagger in his gait? If David were standing next to this man, he would look like the felon.
“Have a seat, Graham. It’s been a while.”
He selects a black leather lounge and runs his hand along the curved rosewood arms. Except for the lush shape of his lips and his steely-gray eyes, I don’t recognize him. I feel uneasy. What was I thinking, letting an ex turned ex-con back into my life, even if for only a few minutes? I’m glad Mom’s upstairs.
“Can I get you a glass of iced tea?”
“No thanks. I’m good.”
One thing hasn’t changed: that voice. I take a seat on the sofa and look at him, my eyebrows raised in inquiry, as if asking, You were the one who staged this meeting. What do you have that’s mine? He stands and saunters to the window.
“Your gardens are beautiful. My folks are thinking about unloading their house. Scaling down, getting something more contemporary.” He chuckles. “Of course they’d never leave Grosse Pointe.” He turns his head and smiles. “It’s nice by the water. Let’s catch up on the terrace.”
“No. I’ve got to get back to Detroit.”
“Choosing the slums over paradise?” He winks at me. “Still adorable.”
My lips twitch, annoyed that he’s flirting and making light of my choices. Even more annoyed at myself for wearing this dress. What was I thinking?
“I don’t see things that way. I’m happy building a business, making a life in The D.”
He returns to his chair, shoves the bag under the seat, and slumps forward, dropping his head into his palms. Pushing his elbows into the crook of his knees, he emits a slow, whistling sigh. After a moment he looks up, catching my eye.
“Awkward. Me showing up out of prison. Acting stupid. Implying you’re the one who made a bad choice. Pretending the past ten years didn’t exist.”
“So how did it go for you?” I glance at the bag and return my eyes to him. “I mean, prison and all.”
“Prison’s a compressed version of the real world—at least society’s underbelly. The other inmates knew I was in for drugs, pretty minor stuff. So, for the most part, they left me alone. For a couple of years I shared a cell with another guy also doing time for possession. He was OK. Played the guitar. He taught me a few chords, which helped me relax.” Graham closes his eyes and strums an invisible guitar.
“I’ve heard it’s not so bad in prison,” I venture. “That it’s just the child molesters who have it rough. Tortured and whatnot.”
“Those dudes, the real sickos and pervs, were separated from us. At least I never saw them. But life was harsh for all of us.”
“You don’t have to talk about it, Graham.”
“No. I’m good. My parents have me seeing someone. It helps having a circle of people I can trust.”
So now he considers me a confidante. Agreeing to meet him was such a mistake.
He continues. “I know people say prisoners are taken better care of than kids in public schools. But that’s total bullshit. I was in level one, for the lowest offenders, and it was no cakewalk. Breakout fights and stabbings were a regular occurrence.” He studies his nails. “I did my best not to stand out.”
He sits directly across from me, staring at my legs. I shrug and cross them, once again regretting I wore this dress. I push my hair behind my ears.
“You’ve got a restaurant, right? Why did you decide to get into the food business?”
“While trying to figure out my next move after graduating, I got a job at Zingerman’s Roadhouse. I learned quite a bit from their business model. We understood our goals, had regular meetings, and spoke up if we had ideas for addressing a concern. We also received a share of the profits. Besides, working in the food industry seemed a good fit for me.” Zingerman’s was also the place I met David. As he looked up from his menu to order, his electric-blue eyes startled me. I’ll never forget the jolt that traveled up my spine.
“Mom says your place has been featured in some food blogs she subscribes to.”
“Business has definitely improved, thanks to the attention. But today’s news is tomorrow’s fish paper. We still have a long way to go. Sam and I are hoping honest food will stand the test of time. We’re taking advantage of the opportunities in Detroit, the Promised Land,” I add, managing a smile.
“At least you’re able to eat tasty, nutritious food. God, prison food is nasty. Dogs eat better than inmates. I lost thirty pounds, and I was thin to begin with. I have stories, man. Don’t get me started.”
“I’ve never known anyone who’s served time.” I look about the home, noting the irony of prison talk in this environment. “I guess I’ve lived my life in a glass house.”
“But glass walls shatte
r. One of the guys I was friendly with was a classical pianist in a previous life. Went to Juilliard, where drugs were thick. He claimed he was at the wrong place at the wrong time . . .” A few seconds pass and his eyes, glassy, return to meet mine. “My biggest accomplishment in prison was staying away from drugs. They were everywhere.” He catches my eye as I glance toward the clock.
“And so often I was tempted. But that would mean hurting my parents. Again. The only people who believed in me. Who loved me.” His voice is elevated now, and he speaks rapidly, in earnest, as if to make sure I understand exactly what he is saying. He leans forward in his chair, his hands gripping the handles.
“All I ever wanted was love, and I threw it away. Ironic, right? So now you got me started, and I can’t shut up.”
A shred of what attracted me to him years back rises to the surface—his lips, the color of his eyes. And despite his voice, despite the clothing attempting to disguise his skinniness, the lines around those lips and eyes tell me he’s broken, vulnerable, ruined. Disgust melts into pity.
“Ten years is a long time. But it’s behind you. You survived. You’re lucky to have a supportive family.”
“I know. I kept Dad and his money a secret, even from the guys I came to trust. To fit in, I cooked up some lame past for myself about my parents being separated and my mom living on public assistance. My folks understood. My parents dressed in thrift-shop clothing when visiting. And they never came together.”
I smirk thinking of his mother, with her glossy coiffed hair and immaculate clothing, wearing resale. And what about his preppy voice? As if readying my mind, he continues.
“You may recall I’m a master of impersonation.”
“You got that right.” I smile at the memory of the high-school boy who so arduously studied Eminem. “As a kid, you had that street rap yodel down to a science.”
“In jail, I copied the tougher guys’ movements, the way they talked. I sure didn’t share the fact I had a guaranteed job at Dad’s dealership when I was released. All anyone in prison wants is a job when they get out. But how do you find work when your teeth are rotting and you’ve no computer skills?”
He shuffles, uneasily, as if the question he’s always wanted to ask is finally surfacing. He catches my eye.
“I’m assuming you have a boyfriend.”
I’m drained by this conversation. Whatever’s in the bag is not worth this effort. A moment passes.
“Yes. I have a boyfriend. And he’s home now, replacing our roof.”
His eyes sweep across my body. “Of course you do. I was hoping, praying . . .” He shakes his head. “Whatever.”
He pulls out the bag lying beneath his chair, places it in his lap, and clutches the handles with both hands, as if he’s reluctant to give it to me.
“This is just a placeholder. Until my parents return. They’re in Scandinavia until the end of August. The original piece, the one belonging to you, is in their safe. Before I was sent away, I stashed it in one of Mom’s jewelry boxes. My brain was kinda scrambled.”
What is he talking about? His posture is ramrod straight in the chair, and his thigh jerks up and down to the rhythm set by his wildly tapping foot. He reminds me of an idling race car before it roars down the track.
“Mom put all of the jewelry in the safe before she left for Sweden.” He places his palm atop his leg to quiet his movements. “I messaged my folks and asked them for the code, explaining the situation. Of course they refused.” He shifts his eyes away from my face, gazing at the lake. “I don’t really have their trust back.”
He pulls a box from the bag and holds it, his hand trembling, as words tumble from his mouth.
“The truth is I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to see you and apologize to your face. I didn’t think you’d agree to meet me unless I could pique your interest.” Beads of sweat dot his brow, and he swipes them off with the back of his hand.
“I’m so sorry for what I put you through when we were dating. When you left me, I was furious. I wanted to get even. To take something of yours you treasured. I—the drugs. I was messed up.”
He doesn’t need to say more. I know what he has: a piece of my family history I thought I’d lost so many years back. He hands me the box and I open it. A cheap tin chain dotted with rose-colored glass beads linked to a plastic cross. A sour taste trails up my throat as I choke back a sob. He stole my most cherished possession: Babcia’s rosary. I refrain from throwing the cheap imitation into his face. How could I have ever pitied this creep?
When Babcia left Poland, all she brought with her were her mother’s antique amethyst rosary beads and a pair of cameo earrings. On my eighteenth birthday, she gifted me the necklace and, later, gave Sam the earrings. I kept it buried under my underwear in a chest of drawers. I’d thought I’d lost it.
I didn’t realize it was missing until I’d graduated. I was moving and tore up my apartment looking for the rosary. I never suspected Graham would have stooped so low. He may have been a druggie, but I never imagined he was a thief. I kept the loss a dark secret, confiding only in Mom. The thought that Babcia would ask to see it haunted me until the day she died. Tears blind my eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Addie. Coming here was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to hurt you. My folks will be back at the end of the summer. I’ll return your necklace then.”
The rosary pricks the palm of my hand. “You need to go. Now.”
He comes to my chair and places his hand on my shoulder. I brush it away, but the imprint of his fingers burn. Rage creeps up my neck.
“Please go. Just go.” I drop the fake onto the floor and put my face into my hands, choking back tears.
Pulling his keys from his pocket, he looks down at me. “This was a mistake. I’ll call you when my parents return.”
If Babcia were alive, she would not want me to pursue getting her rosary back. Not if it meant seeing Graham again.
The second the door closes, Mom rushes down the stairwell. “So, the mystery of the missing rosary’s been solved. Please don’t cry. I hate to see you cry.” She stretches out her arms. “Give me a hug.”
I stand and she pulls me into her, stroking my hair, as if I were a child.
“I’ll take over from here. When Anne returns from Sweden, I’ll call her and get the real rosary back.”
“I never want to see him again. I never dreamed he’d be capable of stealing.”
“There’s no need for you to be involved with Graham Palmer. But wine will most definitely be involved at lunch. Freshen up your lipstick. It’s smeared.” She rubs her forefinger on my chin. “Now it’s time to go spend your stepfather’s money. There’s a new fusion restaurant that just opened at Somerset. Asian-Mediterranean. And then we can work off our meal shopping for summer handbags at Gucci.”
She laughs at the thought, and then her mirth segues into a fit of coughing, sudden and swift, like a dog’s barks, bouncing from wall to wall.
Chapter Six
Addie
“I know, Mom, I know. I can’t believe it, either. The press is back to get a comment, and the line out the door has never been longer. I’ve gotta get out there.”
She tells me, again, how proud she is. I’m grateful for the relationship Mom and I’ve been forging over the past two years, but I would never consider her my best friend. As an adult I get to select my closest friends, and I can defriend them, for instance, if they inflict wounds. But my mother, no matter the wounds that she’s inflicted in my past, will always be my mother.
Best friend also implies equality in a relationship. Our therapist counseled us that healthy mother-daughter relationships are built on a hierarchy rooted in a mother’s unconditional love.
Mom’s mother died when she was a child, and her dad, my deceased grandfather, was overwhelmed by the demands of his farm. I’ve never asked Mom if she had received unconditional love as a child. But from the snippets she’s shared about her solitary childhood and his heavy-handed discipline, I d
oubt it. Mom’s always been adept at not sharing information about her past.
Yet when the New York Times called to fact-check and said they were doing a review in their Sunday paper, I called my mother before any of my friends. Even David.
Most of Grosse Pointe, Birmingham, and Bloomfield Hills must read the Times. Our parking lot is filled with flashy cars, and the line outside the diner loops halfway around Welcome Home. Two photographers, I assume from the Detroit News and Free Press, wander around the building and snap pictures of the diner from across the street. I freshen my lipstick—I’m sure I’ll be in some of them.
The article was highly flattering:
Ask any patron about the Welcome Home Diner and their answer will be “charming, old-fashioned.” Known for their Heartbreakers—massive cookies that are the stuff of legend––the diner is the antidote to today’s hypercharged society. Don’t miss the Buttermilk Pancakes with Apple-Maple Syrup and Walnuts or the pork and savory greens. Their menu items are simultaneously unique and traditional . . . their desserts, ambrosial.
We’ve made Braydon the floor manager, and he’s at his happiest when the diner is packed. He’s learned every regular’s name, knows just what to say to elicit a smile, and wants everyone to like him. But aside from a couple of lawyers who’ve become regulars and Quiche’s pal Danita, our employees are the only African Americans who’ve ever taken a seat in our restaurant.
It’s as if our neighbors go out of their way to avoid us. In the press, the popularity of our diner is touted as a symbol of promise, our eatery a microcosm of a soon-to-be-realized Detroit. The city, however, will never live up to their pledge if our own neighbors refuse to join us for a meal.
My eyes travel across the line of patrons pattering about this or that while accepting a bit of cake that Braydon passes. Some are hipsters and live downtown. But most, judging from their appearance and the cars they’re driving, are affluent professionals venturing into the city from suburbia. I have a secret fear that one day Graham may be a face in line. Thankfully, I haven’t heard from him since we met last month. I told Sam about Graham and the rosary, but I’m uneasy that I’ve never mentioned any of this to David. He has enough trouble with my desire to get married. Our parents’ marriages paint a grim portrait of the institution.
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 10
