by Mary Simses
Maybe I should have thought of Mitch as more than the bike shop guy or the history teacher, more than the guy who played pool with me at Ernie’s or walked with me in the orchard. But what does it matter now? I betrayed him. I went on television and said things that hurt him. And now he won’t forgive me.
Twilight settles over the water. I close my eyes and listen to the clink of plates and flatware and glassware in the tent. I try to summon Mitch’s face—his velvet eyes, the smile that goes up a little more on one side than the other, the lock of hair that sometimes hangs over his forehead. And then I hear a voice behind me, and I’m truly convinced I’m imagining it, because it’s his voice.
“Nice view.”
When I turn, he’s standing there, one hand on the handlebar of a bicycle. “Mitch?”
“I hope I’m not arriving at a bad time,” he says. “But your mother told me it was okay to come out here. I wanted to make sure I got the bike to you.”
“The bike?” I take a closer look. It’s Renny’s Schwinn, although it’s not the Schwinn I dug out of the garage. The red paint sparkles, and the chrome shines, all of the rust gone. The new seat, lustrous and dark, is a perfect match to the old one, and the bike’s cables are glossy and black. The chain and derailleur have been replaced, and the wheels have been rebuilt, every spoke shiny silver. And he’s even replaced the bell. It’s got a yellow flower in the middle, similar to the old one, but when I move the lever, it chimes.
I run my hand over the new pedals, the freshly wrapped black tape on the handlebars, the pristine leather on the seat. “Wow,” I say. “I can’t believe this is the same bike.”
“So you like it?”
“Like it? I love it.” I walk around the Paramount, viewing it from every angle. I bend down and study the gleaming wheels. “I still can’t believe it’s Renny’s bike. It’s just the way I remember it.”
“Yeah, she came out pretty nice.”
“She did, Mitch. She really did.”
“I know you want to take it with you tomorrow, when you leave.”
I hear Mom and Dad and the group inside the house laugh again. “Yes, right.” I try to push aside some bit of reluctance I’m suddenly feeling. “So, you did all this work yourself?”
He nods. “Yes.”
I picture him by the repair stand, his hands on the wheels, the tubes, the brakes, the cables, making everything perfect.
Inside the tent, the caterers are folding up chairs and stacking them against the tent poles. “Look, I’m sorry to impose,” I say. “Especially after everything you’ve done, but do you think I could pay half the cost now and half in a couple of weeks? I just need to—”
“Don’t worry about that,” he says, rubbing a little spot on the down tube with the bottom of his shirt. “My dad was right. You did enough. You did plenty. In fact, I’ve got Kevin and A.J. working on organizing the rest of the workroom. We’re even talking about doing a little redecorating in the store. It could use some fixing up.”
“Really? That sounds great.” But it also worries me. “Don’t do too much. There’s something about that place that keeps people coming back year after year. Maybe the clutter is part of it.”
He scratches his chin. “I didn’t think the word clutter was in your vocabulary.”
“Ah, well. It’s creeping in there.”
I gaze at the Schwinn. “Thanks, Mitch. Thank you for the bike. It’s beautiful.”
He looks into my eyes. My heart starts beating fast. And I remember being a kid, eleven or twelve, bicycling in town one day, when my tires skidded on something slippery—probably oil or sand. I fell and scraped my arm, and it started to bleed. I walked the bike to the Bike Peddler, gritting my teeth so I wouldn’t cry. A young guy was working in the shop, a teenager with a nice smile and a lock of hair that fell over his forehead. He took one look at my arm and pulled me into the bathroom, where he gently washed off the blood and dirt, dried the cuts, and applied a bandage. Then he brought me out front and handed me a white baseball cap with the name Shimano on it in blue letters. He told me it was for being so brave.
That guy was Mitch.
I turn to him. “You know, I just remembered something. I fell and scraped my arm one day when I was a kid, and I came into the store. You washed off the blood and put on a bandage and gave me a baseball cap. You said I was brave.”
He smiles. “I told you we’d met before.”
“You did, but it took me all this time to remember.”
“Sometimes things take a while,” he says.
He leans the bike against the chair. “I need to say something, Grace. About that interview. The thing on the news.”
My heart plummets. I look away, toward the purple horizon. A Boston Whaler with five noisy teenagers in it gurgles past us. “Mitch. I’m sorry. I wish I could turn back time and do it all over again and not—”
He puts a hand on my arm. “Grace, stop. That’s not why I’m bringing it up.”
I like the feel of his hand on my arm, warm and strong. “It’s not?”
“No. That’s not why I was angry with you. It wasn’t the interview, although I was kind of pissed off about that.” He smiles, and there’s a long pause. I hear the group on the Whaler and the sound of laughter.
“It was you,” he says finally. “I really care about you, Grace. I think I might be falling in love with you. And I couldn’t have you around because…” He looks away. “Well, because you’re in love with Peter. I just wanted to let you know the truth.”
I stare into his eyes, and I see honey and caramel and all sorts of colors I never noticed before. He might be falling in love with me. Me. Grace Walker Hammond.
“I’m not in love with Peter,” I correct him.
He stands up a little straighter. “You’re not?”
“No, I’m not. I thought I was, but it was really about something else.” I hear a few final hoots and calls from the Whaler, and the boat motors around the bend and drifts out of sight.
“Huh,” Mitch says. “Not in love with Peter.” He takes a step toward me, and then another step. We’re so close, we’re almost touching. He reaches out and strokes my face. I look into his eyes, and I can see the future there. It’s stretched out before me, and Mitch is part of it. He leans in and kisses me, and I hear the faint sound of a seagull and a splash.
Epilogue
Do you think I could take it for a spin?” I glance at the bike.
Mitch laughs. “It’s your bike, Grace. You can do whatever you want.”
“I’d just like to try it out, ride it down Salt Meadow before it gets dark.”
“Then let’s do it.”
I follow Mitch as he walks the bike across the lawn and over the gravel driveway, down to the road, stopping at the weathered sign that says Private, No Trespass.
“I can’t believe you still haven’t fixed that,” he says.
“That sign will never be fixed,” I tell him. “It’s kind of a family tradition.”
He nods. “Traditions are good.”
At the end of the driveway, I glance down the road, where the Percys live, and the Banners and the Rudolphs and the Albans. I can see Mrs. Baylor’s white picket fence at the bend, and the pink beach roses that peek through the slats and hang over the top.
I glance at Mitch’s hands, still on the handlebars, and I realize I’ve never taken the time to notice them before. They’re nice hands, with long fingers that look strong and dexterous—hands that can fix bikes and write comments on high school essays.
We walk from the driveway to the edge of the road, where the surface is smooth and covered in blacktop. I take the handlebars, but I can see that the seat is too high. I’m wondering how to adjust it when Mitch pulls out a wrench, loosens a bolt, and lowers the seat for me.
“Sorry,” he says. “I took it for a test drive.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say.
He holds the bike as I raise my leg over the top tube and settle into the seat. �
�It feels pretty good.” I place my feet on the ground and run my fingers over the new handlebar tape. I look at the cables that travel from the handbrakes to the brake pads on the wheels. I squeeze the front brake, then the back. Everything is solid. I look up, and Mitch’s eyes meet mine. I think about what he said the day in the orchard, when I told him about the first time I ate an apple fresh off a tree. Those are great moments. When you have this feeling that what’s happening is really special and you know you’ll always remember exactly what took place. Every detail. This is one of those moments.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
He takes his hands off the bike, and I give myself a little push. I pick up my feet, and I’m off, cruising down Salt Meadow. I build up some speed, and then I coast, the freewheel ticking happily, my feet comfortable on the pedals, air rushing past. And Renny is with me, experiencing each bump in the road, each movement of the shifter as I run through the gears. She’s with me, listening to the whir of the tires on the asphalt and the bark of the Johnsons’ beagle when I round the bend, and I know I’m no longer in sight but that Mitch is still back there, waiting.
Acknowledgments
A book is a big project and many people have been involved in this one. Kim Witherspoon, my agent, gave me excellent guidance and support. Jamie Cat Callan, my friend, mentor, and earliest reader, once again used her skill and patience to help me navigate the bewildering sea of a first draft. My editor, Judy Clain, provided such insightful suggestions about the manuscript, and so much encouragement, that I was able to improve and strengthen the story in ways I cannot count. Assistant editor Amanda Brower never missed a detail and helped make the prose shine from beginning to end. My copyeditor, Katharine Cooper, saved me on numerous occasions (she’s the real stickler for grammar!). And everyone else on my team at Little, Brown did an amazing job, from design to production to sales, in putting the book together and getting it out there. Thank you all.
I would also like to thank Meghan Hibbett, Deborah Krainin, Michael Simses, and Kate Simses for their guidance on how movies are made; Mark Quinn and Philip Elliott of the Palm Beach Bicycle Trail Shop, for their insights into all things bike-related; Lieutenant Michael Marx of the Palm Beach Fire Rescue Department for his emergency medical technician expertise; Joe Norkus for showing me what he can do with a cue stick, and Leanne Distasi for letting us use her pool table; and Pam and Will Braun of ciaobelladesigns.com for their insights about creating beautiful note cards.
I am most grateful to my additional readers, Michael Simses, Kate Simses, Suzanne Ainslie, Rebecca Holliman, Ann Depuy, and Christine Lacerenza, for their observant comments, which led to revisions that improved the story tenfold. To Christine I give another thanks for researching my many inane questions and for conducting the now infamous “water reflection experiment” on the Five Mile River in Rowayton, Connecticut.
Last on the list, but first in my heart, are my husband, Bob, and my daughter, Morgan, who are always there with the emotional support that keeps me going. I love you.
About the Author
Mary Simses grew up in Darien, Connecticut, and lived for many years in New England, where she worked in the magazine publishing industry and later as a corporate attorney. During that time, she wrote fiction on the side, and several of her short stories have appeared in literary magazines. Simses now lives with her husband–law partner and their daughter in South Florida. She enjoys photography and listening to old jazz standards. She does not go around with a Sharpie correcting other people’s grammar. Mary Simses is the author of The Irresistible Blueberry Bakeshop & Café.
marysimses.com
Also by Mary Simses
The Irresistible Blueberry Bakeshop & Café
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Mary Simses
Newsletters
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2016 by Mary Simses
Cover design by Juliana Lee
Cover photograph by Shutterstock
Author photograph by Capehart Photography
Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: May 2016
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ISBN 978-0-316-38207-6
E3-20160422-DA-PC
