Losing Mr. Right

by Natalie Charles

  “We’re busy, all right,” Vaughan said. “Thank goodness for my girls. I don’t know what I would do without them.”

  She was referring to the three young women she employed to help run the inn. Three. Full-time staff. I marveled at the number, because it meant that business was really strong. What had Nana been thinking, complaining about a slowdown all those years? “And I’m here, too,” I said. “So whatever you need, if you want me to fill in anywhere—”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that, sweetie. And I know your grandmother appreciates all your help, too.” She winked. “Whether or not she admits it.”

  We shared a laugh, and it felt so great. I loved my mom, of course, but if Vaughan could have been my cool, younger aunt … well, that would have been a lot of fun. Standing in the cramped little kitchen, wrapped in the scents of fresh blueberry muffins and sea air, I decided that my summer of heartache might be salvageable, after all. It might even be fun.

  “Speaking of Nana.” I set my hands on my hips. “I’m on my way to see her, so I should get going.”

  Vaughan gave my arm an affectionate squeeze. “I’d better run, too. We’ve got happy hour tonight and I need to set up. You should come up to the house. Have some wine.”

  “Thanks. That sounds really nice.”

  The innkeeper took one last look around the cottage. “You’re settling in, I see. But this place definitely needs to be updated. Here.” She reached into her pocket. “A little housewarming gift.”

  She handed me a small wad of bills. My mouth dropped open. “Wow. I mean, I can’t accept this, Vaughan—”

  But Vaughan clicked her tongue. “Shush, it’s nothing. Get some new curtains and throw pillows. You’re going to be here all summer, so you might as well spruce it up.”

  My fingers teased the money in my hand. I didn’t want to be tacky and count it, but … one, two, three hundred dollars. “That’s so nice of you. Really. Thank you.”

  She grinned. “It’s secretly selfish, because I’ve thought about renting this cottage from your grandmother. It’s just sitting here, and we’re so busy all the time. So make it look nice and maybe in the fall I’ll negotiate something.” She winked. “Win-win.”

  “Right. Of course.” I tucked the money into my pocket. “Thanks again.”

  After Vaughan left, I took a quick shower and changed into something more modest. I’d worn frayed jeans and a tank top to the general store, and Nana would not approve of visible bra straps. I settled on a bias-cut sundress that was covered in little pink flowers. Then I braided my hair and flung it over one shoulder. The look was romantic and sweet enough that Nana would struggle to find something to complain about. Probably.

  I grabbed the basket of muffins—saving a few for myself—and left the cottage. I nearly stumbled over a wicker basket that someone had left right outside the door. “What the—?” I stopped to pick it up. It was plastic-wrapped, and inside were assorted bone-shaped dog biscuits and a chew toy.

  I glanced around, but no one was near. There was a card taped to the plastic wrap, so I opened it.

  For your Rottweiler. If he changes his mind, give me a call.

  —Brett

  He had left his phone number at the bottom of the card. I smiled and tucked it into my handbag. Maybe my fake dog was having a change of heart, after all.

  • • •

  NANA HAD nothing nice to say about the Ocean’s Edge Nursing Home. “The nurses are stealing from me,” she grumbled as soon as I entered her room. “And I won’t eat this food.”

  She was sitting up in bed, leaning against a stack of pillows. Her thin white hair gave away her age, but Jai Ling’s body was strong and wiry. She had lived independently for six years since her husband had died, and she prided herself on not needing help from anyone. I understood that being suddenly vulnerable was not merely upsetting to my grandmother: it was infuriating.

  I smiled. “Hello, Nana. You look well. I brought you some muffins.”

  Nana was watching television, but she turned down the volume when I entered so that her complaints didn’t have to compete with the cheering studio audience on the game show. She had a private room with a view of a garden, but according to her, it allowed too much sunlight in the morning and too little in the afternoon. She would have preferred a room that faced south, not east. We had discussed the room’s decor extensively during our last visit: mauve wallpaper with butterflies and a framed painting of a lighthouse. It reminded Nana of a funeral parlor, as did the floral arrangement at the main entrance.

  Now Nana pushed aside her bed tray, pointing to the plate of food. “Look at what they feed me,” she said. “It’s obscene.”

  Lunch was mushy macaroni and cheese, plain steamed mixed vegetables, and an oatmeal raisin cookie. It may not have been high cuisine, but neither was it rat turds. “Nana, what’s wrong with your lunch? It’s just macaroni and cheese—”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand.” She sat back in bed and crossed her arms.

  I pulled a small stool on wheels beside the bed and sat down. “How are you feeling? Your ankle, I mean,” I added quickly, because I couldn’t spend another hour listening to complaints about the wallpaper again, I just couldn’t.

  Nana was almost two weeks out of surgery, and her ankle was still wrapped in a black brace. “I’m fine. I want to go home.”

  We had discussed this at length last time, too. “I know you do,” I said, smoothing the shoulder of her jade-green robe. “But for now you’re going to need to be in a wheelchair, and your house doesn’t have a ramp. It’s only temporary, and you know I’m going to be visiting you in the meantime.” I smiled brightly when Nana turned her dark eyes toward me. “And this is a good place to recover. I’ve been in nursing homes before, and this one doesn’t even smell like pee. Plus they made a nice nameplate for outside your door. Did you see it?”

  Nana frowned. “They spelled my name wrong the first time. I made them do it over.”

  “Well, good for you. Now it’s correct.” I gave her two quick, fortifying pats on the arm. “How about a muffin? They’re delicious.”

  Her face softened. “All right.” I rose to get the basket. “Your dress is short,” Nana muttered.

  I pretended I hadn’t heard and set a large muffin on a paper napkin. “Here you are.”

  Nana plucked a small piece from the top of the muffin and placed it in her mouth. I watched her chew it slowly, her face not giving any hint of her verdict. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes. It’s very good.” She reached for another piece. “Did you make this?”

  I’m bunk at baking, but I felt ashamed to tell my grandmother that. “No. Vaughan made them. Wasn’t that sweet?”

  She stopped mid-chew. Then she spat the piece of chewed muffin into her hand and dropped it onto the napkin. “I don’t want it.” She pushed the food tray aside again.

  What had just happened? My mouth hung open. “I thought you liked it—”

  “I don’t want it,” she repeated. “Your mother said you were going to bring me a pillow.”

  I blinked several times. “Yes. But—”

  “I would like my pillow.”

  I took a deep breath before rising and walking toward the plastic shopping bag I’d brought. It was stuffed with a new white cotton blanket and a down pillow, and I pulled both out and helped position my grandmother. “There,” I said as I drew the top of the blanket to her chest. “Better? Those other pillows don’t seem comfortable.”

  “No.”

  I sat back down on the stool. I was bothered by the wad of muffin on the tray, but Nana had turned up the volume on the television again. It was 11:56 and her soap opera began at noon. After that, she’d take a nap. So I had four minutes to find out what was wrong. “Nana. Did something happen with Vaughan?”

  Her thin lips tightened slightly, but otherwise she stared at the television as if I hadn’t spoken at all. I leaned closer. “Nana. Nana? I’m living at the guest cottage, so if so
mething is going on I need to know about it. Is she behind on the rent? Because I can ask about that. I know you count on that money—”

  “No,” Nana said flatly. “It’s not the rent. She pays me lots of rent. More than she needs to.”

  Vaughan was paying her extra rent? I thought of the money I’d received to redecorate the cottage. “Vaughan is very generous, and business at the inn is good—” I stopped as Nana issued a loud, dry laugh. “What? What’s wrong with what I just said?”

  Nana shook her head, her eyes fixed on the television screen. “Business is good. Every other bed-and-breakfast in West Portsmouth is struggling, but not Vaughan. Somehow her business is good.”

  My shoulders tightened. I was the one who’d helped her to find Vaughan in the first place, and I’d been confident of the choice then. Now I was learning that Vaughan was doing so well that she was actually paying Nana more than she was obligated to pay. Wasn’t that confirmation of how skilled Vaughan was at her job? “She’s obviously very good at marketing,” I said. “She has those wine-and-cheese parties for her guests, and—” I stopped when I saw the look on Nana’s face. “What? What am I missing?”

  I had two minutes before the soap opera started, and I needed to understand this. Nana’s reaction was plain bizarre. “Nana, please tell me.”

  She turned down the volume of the television. “I didn’t fall off the ladder.” She turned her head in my direction. “Vaughan pushed me.”

  I had to remind myself not to laugh. Accusing nurses of stealing from her was one thing, but this? This was just lunacy. “Vaughan. Pushed you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why in the world would she do that?”

  “Because I know about her business.”

  I rubbed at my forehead and decided to play along. “Uh-huh. And what about her business do you know?” This ought to be rich.

  Nana shrugged. “I know she’s running a brothel. And I don’t like it.”

  I started. “Wait. What? You think Vaughan is running a … whorehouse?”

  But Nana held up one hand and reached for the remote control with the other. “Sssh,” she said as the opening credits to her soap opera started. “My stories are on.”

  CHAPTER 5

  BRETT

  I KEPT THE morning open so I could work outside. I’d been wanting to plant a garden. Back in Seattle, I’d had a condo with a small terrace and some potted herbs. The women I dated were turned on by that for some reason, as if growing parsley made me a chef. Trust me, it didn’t. I knew my way around a kitchen, but I didn’t grow things to make my own herbed chèvre. My parents always kept an herb garden so they could throw cilantro on enchiladas or add some fresh basil to a salad. It reminded me of home, that’s all. And now that I had my own home with a yard, I thought I should expand my garden. It was literally the most domestic thing I’d ever done.

  I had it all plotted out. I was going to plant some tomatoes, green beans, peppers, and onions. Then I’d have a row of squash and carrots. June was already too late for lettuce and kale, but that was all right by me. For the rest of the summer, I hoped to have a decent haul. I leveled a spot of land by the empty pool and then set down the mesh liner I’d purchased at the garden store the day before. This would keep out the weeds. Then I constructed the planters by using some planks from some old pallets I’d picked up on one of my walks mixed with some new lumber. After a couple of hours, I had two empty wooden garden boxes. I took a break to admire them.

  David would like this, I thought, and then felt that now-familiar twinge of sadness. The thing no one tells you is that after you lose someone, you suddenly think of all the things you need to tell them. It’s this cruel irony: they’re gone, but everything makes you think of them. Like right then when I was staring at my garden boxes, I thought of that time David brought my dead aloe plant back to life. I’d neglected it, and he’d somehow resurrected the thing. I was never the one with the green thumb, but now I was the one planting the garden. Go figure.

  I retrieved the bags of fertilizer and soil that I’d been storing by the house and carried them over. Physical labor helped to drive away the sadness. By the time noon rolled around, I had planted and watered my little garden. I rewarded myself by sitting beside the pool with a lemonade and admiring my work. Not bad at all.

  New lumber for your garden? No fresh compost? David would smirk. What would Mom and Dad say?

  David and I had an artsy-fartsy, homemade-granola kind of upbringing. We wore secondhand clothes because my parents couldn’t support the exploitative conditions in developing nations where most clothes were produced. We composted our trash before it was trendy. We marched for causes, like equal pay and the environment. Dad took Mom’s last name when they married to buck the patriarchy. Look, I had the best parents on the planet. They were quick with hugs and patient with our shortcomings. But I realized as I got older that they were also kind of eccentric, and sometimes these values they instilled were a source of guilt.

  For example, Mom and Dad knew about the money I’d made. I mean, everyone seemed to know. But they wouldn’t talk about it. Our household wasn’t one that celebrated consumerism and material success—it was the opposite, really. So when I was home, I sort of felt this shame because I’d succeeded. The last time I saw my parents, we were having dinner together—just macaroni. My company’s success was the elephant in the room, the thing no one wanted to talk about. Mom kept going on about this feminist conference she’d attended, and Dad was talking about the book he was researching, and finally I just snapped. “What am I supposed to do now? What do I do with all of this stupid money I’ve made?”

  Man, I felt like a child. They had this effect on me sometimes, like all I wanted was for my parents to tell me that I was okay even if I’d chosen not to work in academia. And Mom said, “I have no right to tell you what to do.”

  “But I’ve become this … capitalist,” I said. “Suddenly my life is about my portfolio and asset diversification. On some level, it feels wrong.”

  It was hard to explain. I knew how lucky I was. Not just fortunate—lucky. I wasn’t the smartest guy in the world or the most talented; I’d just had the right idea at the right time. And even though I worked hard, it still felt like a windfall.

  But Mom just shrugged and said, “I think you should do all the good you can.” It wasn’t an answer. She didn’t know what I should do, either.

  David didn’t have the same anxiety about money. If David had been here, he would have folded his arms and looked around at all of this. You might as well use it. He’d wonder why I hadn’t filled the pool, or he’d think it was absurd that I was sleeping in the guesthouse. Actually, no—even David would hate the whole place. The chandeliers in the main house, the winding staircases, the poshness of it all—he’d make it a point to grind me down to size, call me Lord Brett Hannigan. Brothers were good at keeping each other humble.

  “Give me a break, man,” I muttered quietly. “Yeah, it’s a big, stupid house. What else was I supposed to do?”

  Donate your money, David would have said. What do you need it all for, anyway? You could spare a couple million without losing sleep. That was the other thing that no one told you: Even when you leave, ghosts will follow. David had followed me across the country.

  I finished my drink and wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my arm. I missed my brother every day. Sometimes it felt like life was too long without him. But by that time it was past noon. I had to shower and get moving with my day. I had clients to walk with.

  MINDY

  THE STREETS of West Portsmouth were busy after I left the nursing home. Families and couples crowded the sidewalks, lugging umbrellas and coolers as they made their way to and from the beach. Closer to the center, people were shopping for artwork or antiques or enjoying a late lunch. I felt invisible in the crowd and that was fine by me. I circled the blocks aimlessly while I tilled my thoughts.

  So Nana believed the Bayberry Inn was being used—a
s she put it—as a brothel. But who knew what was true when Nana flung bizarre accusations routinely? She wasn’t paranoid per se, but she had developed a different sense of things as she aged. Lost house key? Someone must have broken in and stolen it. Dry patches on the front lawn? Tourists were urinating on the grass on their way to the beach. Upset stomach? Poison. On the one hand, it was natural that Nana would fall off a ladder and blame Vaughan, or that she would see how successful the inn was and imagine it was being used as a brothel. On the other, the claim needled me. Despite walking for almost an hour, I hadn’t decided whether or not I actually believed her.

  The sidewalk in front of the inn lifted and split above the roots of an old maple. Beneath the awning of its branches, I noticed a familiar face. My breath hitched and I smiled. “Brett.”

  He turned. Above his beard, his face was tan and slightly sunburned, and he was wearing a dark T-shirt and gray shorts. I was pleased to discover that my initial assessment had been correct: Brett had a great body, defined and strong. I was glad I was wearing that sundress, and that Nana thought it was too short.

  Brett’s face lit. “Hey. I was just passing through,” he said.

  “Me too.” I rested my hands on the small purse slung diagonally across my chest. “Nice to see you. You look tan.”

  “Oh?” He examined his own forearm for confirmation. “Yeah, I’ve been working outside.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and leaned one shoulder against a brick fence post. “How was your move?”