I don’t know what to say, so I smile.
“As for Naomi, I’ve just come from having a word with her. I made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that you are both the general manager of the inn and owner of Hope Springs Farm, and if she can’t figure out a way to work with you, she’ll need to seek employment elsewhere.”
Relief rushes over me. “I appreciate your support, but I’m not sure it’ll make much of a difference. She’s a difficult person. Coincidentally, did you pay her during her recent leave of absence?”
Brian lets out a sigh. “Yes, because—”
“You owe her for taking care of Billy. I understand. From a legal standpoint, if things don’t work out, what grounds do I need to have in order to fire her without worrying about a lawsuit?”
“You could fire her right now for insubordination. But, as a favor to me, I hope you’ll give her one more chance. If she screws up again, or the two of you simply can’t get along, I’ll support you if you decide to let her go. Although, because I have history with her, I need to be the one to handle the termination. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He plants his hands on his thighs. “Now. On a positive note. Would you like to go over to the main building with me to check out the progress?”
I jump to my feet. “Yes! I’ve been waiting all week to do that very thing. I try to stay out of their way while Jack’s crew is working.”
“That’s smart,” Brian says. “A watched pot never boils.”
The point he makes brings on a smile. But when we conduct our walk-through, from top floor down to the lobby, I’m discouraged by what we find. My unwatched pot may never reach the boiling point. I admit to Brian, “Now that the demolition is over, I expected them to have made better headway this week.”
“A lot is happening behind the scenes at this stage. But don’t worry, Stella. Everything will come together soon.”
“I hope you’re right, otherwise we’ll never make our deadline.”
I say goodbye to Brian at the door, locking it behind him. When I turn around, Naomi is standing in front of me. My heart leaps out of my chest, and I jump back ten feet. “For the last time, Naomi, stop sneaking up on me!”
She steps toward me. “Thanks for ratting me out to Brian.”
Hand against pounding heart, I say, “I didn’t rat you out. That’s not my style.”
She continues walking toward me, backing me up against the door. “If you have a problem with me, come to me directly.”
I lift my chin high. “We did that this morning, remember? I look past her, down the empty hallway to the reception area. “Where’s Jazz?”
“Stop playing parent to my daughter.”
“Well someone needs to, because you’re doing a sucky job of it.”
Naomi balls her fists at her sides, and I worry she might hit me. “Jazz is none of your concern.”
“She is when she’s living on my property.”
I brace myself for the impact of her fist on my face, but instead of punching me, she sneers. “That’s the thing, though. The property isn’t really yours.”
“Oh really? Whose is it, then?”
She opens her mouth to speak and closes it again.
“Go ahead, Naomi. Say whatever it is you need to say.”
“It’s not my place.”
While she thinks she knows something, I no longer believe anything she says. “According to Brian, the farm, including the inn, belongs to me. If you have grounds to contest ownership, you should take it up with Brian.”
“Maybe I will.” She’s so close to me I can smell her minty gum. But there’s something else on her breath as well. Is it alcohol?
“Have you been drinking?”
“So, what if I have?” She spins on her heels and storms off.
“Where’s Jazz, Naomi?” I call to her retreating back. When she doesn’t answer me, I add, “You shouldn’t leave her alone, Naomi. Bernard has been causing some problems around here.”
I don’t see either Naomi or Jazz again until late the following afternoon. I’m practicing my driving when I spot Jazz alone down by the lake. Slamming on the brakes, I get out of the car and call her name. When she sees me, she runs over and I lift her off her feet, spinning her around.
I set her down. “What’re you doing out here alone, kiddo?”
She sticks her thumb in her mouth, talking around it. “Mommy told me to go outside and play.”
“All by yourself?”
She nods, and with finger still in mouth, she says, “She’s drunk.”
Alarm bells go off in my head. So, I was right yesterday. Naomi had been drinking. And what does a six-year-old even know about being drunk. “What makes you think that, Jazzy?”
“That’s what Daddy says when she drinks the stinky yellow stuff in the tall bottle.”
Uh-oh. Not good.
Her lips make a popping noise when she pulls her thumb out of her mouth. “I like it when you call me Jazzy.”
“Then I’ll call you that all the time. Say, Jazzy, how about that promised trip to the library? I need to return a book, and we can pick out a few for you while we’re there.”
She grins. “Can we go in Billy’s Jeep?”
I don’t know why the mention of Billy’s name surprises me. Of course, she knew Billy. Is it extortion to pry information from a six-year-old?
“Sorry, kiddo, but we’ll have to walk. I’m just learning to drive. I don’t have my license yet.”
“Bummer,” she says with a pout.
“I’ll tell you what. You can ride with me to take the Jeep back to the cottage. But first we need to let your mom know where we’re going.” I thumb off a quick text to Naomi. Found Jazz wondering around the property alone. I’m taking her with me to the library.
I don’t wait for Naomi’s approval. She can get angry all she wants. I’m looking out for her child’s best interests.
Parking beside the cottage, we go inside for my purse and library book. As an afterthought, I grab a canvas tote bag out of the coat closet for our books. The tote is leftover swag from an old Jimmy Buffet concert with a parrot on the front. Jazz smiles when she sees it and insists on carrying it.
We head off, hands clasped and arms swinging, toward town. “Tell me about Billy,” I say. “What was he like?”
“Billy was nice. And funny. He made up silly songs and played them for me on his guitar. He liked to watch SpongeBob and eat licorice.” She sticks out her tongue. “Yuck.”
I laugh. “I agree. Yuck is right.”
“And Billy loved to read.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “I wish he were here now. He could help me learn to read.”
I stop at the next corner and lean down to face her. “Have you asked your mommy to help you with your reading?”
Her lip quivers. “Yes. But she’s always too busy.”
“Well then, Jazzy, how about if I help you?” Whatever Naomi has against me, she’ll have to get over it, because I can’t avoid this kid any longer. She needs me in her life. I realize in a jolt of clarity that I need her as well.
Jazz buries her face in my belly. “Thank you, Stella.”
We stand on the corner with me stroking her hair and her sniffling into my shirt while cars zoom past us. When she finally stops crying, we continue on to the library. Rose Mitchell has the day off, but her much younger coworker, Candice Moss, takes an immediate liking to Jazz. While I peruse the new release shelf for adults, Candice accompanies Jazz to the children’s section where they load up our tote with age-appropriate books.
Jazz has apparently shared her frustration in learning to read with Candice, because when they return to the checkout counter, while Candice is scanning our books, she says to Jazz, “You’ll learn to read soon enough, sweetheart. Try not to worry so much about the words and just enjoy the characters and their stories.” Candice directs her attention to me. “One of my girlfriends is an elementary school teacher.” She jots a name and number on an index card and giv
es it to me. “She has free time on her hands this summer if you’re interested in hiring a tutor.”
“Thank you. We’ll keep that in mind.” I slip the card in my purse, even though I can’t see Naomi being receptive to a suggestion from me that she hire a reading tutor for her daughter.
Jazz tries to carry the tote bag, but it’s too heavy for her and drags on the ground. I take it from her, and as we retrace our steps, she lists the titles of all the books Candice picked out for her.
“Will you read me one when we get home?” she asks.
“Of course.” Naomi has yet to respond to my text, and I have no clue what’s in store for us back at the farm. If luck is on our side, Naomi is taking a nap and will wake refreshed and sober and in a good mood for a change.
Jazz pauses in front of a diner, and we peek through the window. The diner has a retro theme with robin’s egg blue walls, a black-and-white checkerboard floor, and red leather booths and stools. I observe Jazz watching the families with small children. I recognize the same longing from my own face when I was that age.
I nudge her. “I don’t know about you, but it’s dinnertime and I’m hungry. Wanna get some food?”
She looks up at me. “Do you think Mommy will get mad?”
“Not if we bring her a burger.”
“Good idea,” Jazz says and barges through the door of the diner.
I send a quick text to Naomi, letting her know we’re grabbing dinner at Lucky’s Diner and will bring her takeout. When I enter the restaurant, Jazz has claimed the only two available stools at the counter and is chatting up the waitress, a young woman named Mel whose uniform dress is the same color as the walls.
When I slide onto the stool beside her, Jazz announces, “I’m having a hot dog, french fries, and a chocolate milkshake.”
Pen poised over order pad, Mel asks me, “Is that okay with you, Mom? It’s kinda late in the day for chocolate.”
“Sure! Why not? It’s Saturday. And summertime.” I wink at Jazz. “I’ll have what she’s having, please. And put in an order for a cheeseburger platter to go.”
I underestimate the effect of caffeine and sugar on a six-year-old. Jazz finishes her hot dog and shake, and immediately begins spinning the barstool at top speed. As soon as Naomi’s take-out order is ready, I pay the bill and drag Jazz out of the restaurant before she breaks something. She skips all the way back to the farm, and when we reach the front lawn, she cartwheels up the hill to the portico.
At the carriage house, I plant Jazz at the table in the lounge with her books while I go up to check on her mother. Naomi has still not responded to my texts, and I feel certain she’s passed out drunk.
I knock on the door. “Naomi, it’s Stella. Jazz and I brought you some dinner from Lucky’s Diner. Their food’s pretty good. Jazz and I already ate. We thought we’d give you some time to yourself.”
My words are met with silence. I bang harder. “Seriously, Naomi. You’re scaring me. I’ll use my master key if you don’t let me in.”
When there’s still no answer, I remove the set of keys from my purse and insert the master key into the lock. “You leave me no choice. I’m coming in.” Naomi is lying butt naked on her stomach with her face buried in the pillow. I set the Styrofoam container on the bedside table and give her arm a poke. “Wake up, Naomi. Jazz is downstairs. You don’t want her to see you like this.” Nothing. I shake her harder. “This isn’t funny, Naomi. I’m calling an ambulance.”
Naomi raises a hand, swatting at me, and muffled words come from the pillow. Naomi’s alive. That’s all I need to know. Her phone is lying on the mattress beside her. I plug it into the charger on the bedside table. So that she doesn’t turn this around on me, I text her from her own phone. I want her to know I’ve seen her drunken, naked butt. This is Stella. I’m standing beside your bed, and you are passed out cold. Jazz will spend the night with me.
I lock the door behind me and return to Jazz. “Your mommy is sleeping so soundly I hate to wake her up. What say we have a sleepover at my cottage?”
“Yay!” She punches the air, and then her smile fades. “But won’t Mommy get mad?”
“She knows where you are. Come on.” I scrape her books into a pile and stuff them in the tote.
It’s still early by my standards, but Jazz yawns, her sugar buzz wearing off, as we walk back to the cottage. I change into my pajamas and give Jazz my favorite I heart New York T-shirt to sleep in. Even though it falls way below her knees, she looks adorable in it. I clean her face with a washcloth, twist her curls into two braids, and show her how to finger brush her teeth. We get cozy in my queen-size bed with a few of the library books, but we make it through only two before she dozes off.
Jazz dances in her sleep. Literally. I receive ballet kicks to the abdomen and slaps in the face from flying hands. I lie awake for hours, worrying about this innocent child. Her mother has obvious emotional and substance abuse problems. Where is her father? Surely, he wants to spend time with his daughter. Does he even know where Jazz is? Has Naomi worked out visitation with him? If what Jazz says is true, he’s aware of his wife’s drinking problem. Is that one of the reasons for their separation?
I manage a few hours of sleep, but I’m wide awake again when the first streams of light peek through the wooden blinds. I go out to the porch to watch the sunrise. On the bench beside the front door, I find Jazz’s car seat and a folded note—a short message scrawled on guest stationery with the inn’s logo embossed at the top.
I’m seeking help for emotional problems. Please take care of my child while I’m gone.
I drop to the bench beside the door. Why would a mother leave her child with a woman she barely knows? Heck, Naomi doesn’t even appear to like me. She certainly doesn’t trust me. Taking Jazz on outings is one thing. I’m a decent babysitter at best. But I’m definitely not a parent. I know nothing about nutrition or discipline or time management. Never mind my professional commitments. I have important meetings scheduled for every morning this week. I wonder again about Jazz’s father. This whole situation is seriously messed up. I’m in way over my head here.
Eighteen
I’m still sitting on the bench an hour later when Jazz comes to find me. She crawls into my lap. “I’m hungry. Can we get some breakfast?” Her breath is surprisingly sour for such a sweet kid.
I kiss the top of her head. “Sure. Let’s go see what I have in the kitchen.” She giggles when I toss her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry her inside. I set her down and open the refrigerator. A lone carton of strawberry yogurt sits on the middle shelf of an otherwise empty refrigerator. “Yogurt?”
She turns up her nose. “I like the kind of yogurt you drink.”
“Right. A smoothie.” I slam the door shut. “I’ll bet Cecily has some goodies down at the carriage house. Wanna go see?”
“Sure!” she says and dashes out the back door.
As we cut across the lawn, I send a group text to Brian and Opal. We have a situation. Come to the farm ASAP. I hold my breath, hoping to see Naomi’s silver Honda parked at the carriage house, but of course it’s gone. When we enter the foyer, I’m surprised and relieved when Jazz doesn’t ask to see her mother. Instead, we go straight to the kitchen.
“Come on, kiddo. You can help me cook.” Lifting Jazz onto the counter, I remove eggs and bacon, butter and milk from the refrigerator.
When I was old enough to be left home alone, I often had to fend for myself for dinner. New York is the take-out capital of the world. But I quickly put on weight from eating rich food every night. Out of necessity, I taught myself to cook. Nothing fancy. Mostly simple foods.
We make plans for the day while I fry bacon and whip her up a cheese omelet. “So, Jazzy, do you know how to swim?”
She bobs her head. “I’m a good swimmer. But I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”
Where does one shop for kid’s clothes? “Maybe we’ll go on a hike instead.”
Jazz swings her legs, k
icking the counter beneath her. “But I want to go swimming.”
Still no mention of her mother.
“Okay. We’ll see.”
I plant Jazz at the table with her breakfast. My stomach is too nervous to think about eating. I’m struggling to open the sliding glass doors when Opal and Brian arrive together.
“What’s so urgent?” Brian wears a day’s growth on his face, and the hair on the back of his head is flattened from his pillow.
I shake my head, finger pressed to lips and eyes on Jazz. “Eat up, Jazzy, while us grown-ups step outside for a moment.”
I motion Brian and Opal out the glass doors to the small terrace. “Naomi’s gone again,” I say, and show them her note. I tell them about Naomi being drunk yesterday evening. “I didn’t bargain for this when I moved to Virginia, Brian.”
“I realize that. But the situation is somewhat . . .” He hesitates as though searching for the right word. “Sensitive.”
A flash of anger pulses through my body. “Why do you let Naomi walk all over you like this? And why did she take care of Billy when he was sick? Who was he to her?”
Opal stares at Brian with what I interpret as pleading in her olive eyes. I sense she’s ready to break, to tell me what I want to know, but Brian shakes his head at her.
The we conspiracy again. “Look, I have a right to know whatever it is that you two are keeping from me. On Friday afternoon, Naomi told me this property isn’t really mine. What did she mean by that? I’m gonna scream, if you say it’s one of those things I’ll have to figure out for myself.”
“Then I won’t say it,” Brian says in a sympathetic tone.
I stare back and forth between them. I’m wasting my time. These two may never tell me what I want to know. I look through the window at Jazz, who’s finished her breakfast and is now twirling around the room. “It’s not that I don’t care about Jazz. I truly love her. But I know nothing about parenting. I’m worried I might break her or something. We need to find her father. I’ve never met him. I have no idea who he is and where he lives.”
Dream Big, Stella! Page 13
