Tristan backs up to the door that leads to the garage. “Yep. I’ll see you then.”
I’m about to walk out the door when he calls after me. “Oh, and Emma?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to dress so nice for work. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to ruin expensive clothes and everything.”
“Jeans and T-shirt kind of place,” I acknowledge. “Got it.”
“Later,” he says, and pushes his way through the door.
As if everything that happened was not strange enough, the bizarre start to my day continues when I arrive home to find Marley sitting in my kitchen. By itself, it’s not such an oddity, but my mother is standing dutifully over the stove preparing bacon and eggs like she’s a Stepford wife.
“Morning, Emma,” she chirps in a singsong voice that I’m not used to. “Marley and I were wondering when you were going to be home.”
Rather than agree, Marley picks up a full mug of coffee and takes a sip while I eye my mother skeptically. I want to ask who she is and what she’s done with the drunk that used to inhabit her body.
Marley looks relieved to see me, not that I can blame her. My mother sober is just plain strange. My mother sober and cooking may very well be the first sign that the end is near.
I’m not sure why she’s bothering. I mean, is she trying to make up for lost time? For all those Sunday mornings when I was a kid when she should have got up and made bacon and eggs? I want to ask her these things and then some, but I don’t have it in me to argue this early in the morning, and I’m partly still flying on adrenaline at the prospect of spending time with Tristan every day.
I walk to the coffeemaker and pour myself a cup before sitting across from Marley. “I got a job.”
The corner of her lip curls from behind her own coffee mug. “As if,” she says. “You just said last week you needed to find one.”
“Found one.”
“Did you slip and accidentally fall into a job? Because I’ve never seen anyone find one that fast in this town.”
“Kind of,” I say. “No slipping or falling, but definitely being in the right place at the right time. I went to give Tristan’s jacket back this morning because he lent it to me at the party.”
Color creeps across Marley’s face and she sighs. “Okay.”
“And they were looking for an administrative-type person.”
“I think I remember seeing something about that in the paper,” Marley says.
I point to myself and grin. “She is me.”
“Shut up.”
“True.”
“Just like that?”
“Yep. I guess this skirt was worth the money.”
“So you get to work with a dangerously hot man all day while I save the children.”
“You could get a job too,” I suggest. Thing is, Marley would never go for it. She doesn’t have to work. She’s been blessed with a wealthy family. Her father is an heir to some New York empire that seems so far removed from Stonefall that it’s hard to believe. Marley will never have to worry about making money, so she simply doesn’t work. Instead she volunteers at various nonprofits, whatever her passion happens to be at the time. Right now, it’s saving children.
“Pass. I like saving the children.”
My mom shovels perfectly cooked eggs and a side of bacon onto two plates and sets them before Marley and me, but she doesn’t sit down. “I’ve got a lot to do today now that you’re back, starting with a trip to the grocery store,” she says.
I start to spoon the eggs into my mouth and pause with my fork in the air. “Where’d this come from?”
“Oh, I made a quick trip, but I didn’t have a list, so I have to go back.”
Wait. What? A list? Grocery lists and bacon and eggs were things that other mothers made. Normal mothers. I’m so taken aback by her behavior that I’m unsure of how to reply. “Can you get syrup for chocolate milk?” Hey, if we’re making up for lost time, I want to be twelve again.
“Of course,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be back later, okay?”
“Sure.”
My mom leaves and Marley looks at me, finally letting her jaw drop. “What the hell was that?”
“Don’t you mean who the hell was that?”
“Whatever,” Marley says. “That was weird.”
“I know.”
“But this,” she points to her plate, “is surprisingly good.”
I laugh. Marley’s right; it is pretty good. “Don’t get your hopes up for me. If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.”
Tristan
Mateo is about to leave when I come back in. He holds his paper coffee cup up like he’s going to shoot a basket, tosses it, and throws his arms in the air victoriously when it sails into the trash bin. I look at my watch, sure I’d only been out front for a few minutes. “You’re leaving already?”
“Yep,” he says as he brings his hands up to make fists. “Potential new client this morning.”
“Good luck.”
He dismisses this statement. “I don’t need luck, boss—not once he sees me box.”
His words couldn’t be truer. Stonefall isn’t a big place, so it’s not like there’s a plethora of boxing teachers, but even if there were, Mat would still have no problems building a client list. He is the best and there isn’t a person in our county, our state, who would be brazen enough to argue that point.
“Dad just gave Emma a job.”
Mateo’s grin stretches clear from one side of his face to the other. “More Emma means more Marley.”
“Possible,” I say.
“Probable. Do you think you’re ready?”
I finish the last of my coffee too but instead of aiming for the rubbish bin, I throw the cup toward Mateo. “Don’t worry. I play nice with others.”
“It’s not playing nice I’m concerned about,” he replies. “I mean, are you ready to spend that much time around, you know, a girl?”
He says girl like it’s some kind of fucking curse word, but I know exactly what he means. I’m pretty sure my eyes could slice through him as I reply, “She’s not Katie.”
He cracks his knuckles. “Maybe not, but I bet she’s amply screwed up. I mean, look at her mother.”
I don’t bother telling him about her ass-slide across the bench seat of my truck or how terrified her eyes were when I woke her. No, I think it’s best to keep this information to myself because Mateo is right: she does seem a little screwed up and screwed-up girls need saving. I can’t even save myself, so the thought of saving her is not reasonable.
“We’re all screwed up. Are you still coming over to watch the fight?” I change the subject, wanting to steer Mateo’s train of thought away from Emma and the level of her possible fucked-upness, or maybe so I don’t have to think about it myself.
My parents eat lunch together precisely two times a week. They’ve done it every week since I can remember and even before then. Monday and Friday, rain or shine, sick or healthy, no exceptions. It was a promise they made when they wed. Dad says it’s so they can make sure their week starts and ends with happiness, which yeah, is a little vomit-worthy I realize, but it keeps my folks happy and that’s really all that matters.
I love that even after thirty years of marriage, my mom tries to look her best for these lunch dates. I love the way my dad’s face lights up when he sees her and the way their hands intertwine as they walk away.
It’s not rocket science to realize how lucky I am to have parents like them. They’ve been supportive of me my entire life. When I was six and I was going to be a writer, they signed me up for a creative writing class at the community center. When I was nine and going to be a lawyer, they started doubling the money they put into my savings account each month for tuition. When I was fourteen and told them my
future was in Boston, at MIT, they both cried tears of joy. When I left MIT to come back here and work in the family business, they tried to stop me, begged me to reconsider, urging me to push forward with my future. Problem was, at the time, imagining any kind of future without Katie in it was unfathomable. I couldn’t be there. I couldn’t wake up every single day in that place. Not without her.
My mom marches into the shop and stops beside me. I know what she’s waiting for, so I lean down and kiss the top of her head.
“Hello, darling,” she says.
“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”
She looks at the watch wrapped around her wrist. “I’m afraid I’m a tad early, but I’m here to get your dad for lunch.” She says this like I don’t know. Like I haven’t been around the last twenty-four years to witness their weekly routine.
“He’s in the office.”
“I know,” she says.
“We hired someone today,” I tell her proudly.
She perks up at this new information. I’m sure she may be happy at the prospect of Dad being less worn-out, less tired from the work required at the shop. “Who?”
“Emma Fletcher,” I say. I point to the Volkswagen. “That’s her car. You remember Emma from when we were kids?”
“Oh yes, sure. That’s wonderful news. When does she start?”
“Tomorrow.” I realize, when I say this, exactly how much I’m looking forward to it.
Emma
I’m scouring through the racks of clothes at the consignment shop in town in search of secondhand treasures. I’d left almost everything behind. I like to wear nicer things, and therefore my selection at a store like this one is fairly limited between the very few finer items and paint-stained, worn-out clothing or yoga pants and tank tops. None of these present a very acceptable option for a job at a garage.
I look at the price tag on the faded denim jeans in my hands: $1.99, which means my forty dollars can go a very long way. Marley is browsing too, but more from boredom than necessity.
She holds a black vest that she’d never wear against her alabaster skin. “Black washes me out, doesn’t it?”
I shrug, continuing to sift through the throwaways of others. “It’s not the best shade for you. I think brighter colors suit you more.”
“You’re such a lucky bitch, you know,” Marley proclaims. “Your skin is flawless.”
I turn a peach-colored sweater over in my hands. It’s a lightweight knit piece in excellent condition. I think it could be cute paired with the skinny jeans. “Says the girl who is the same shade as perfectly churned vanilla. Your skin is flawless.”
“Well, yeah,” she agrees. “As in unblemished, but yours is the same color as a hazelnut. I’d rather be hazelnut than vanilla. Vanilla is boring.”
I hold up the sweater, tired of comparing our skin to ice cream flavors. “Do you like this?”
“Yeah,” Marley says, “it’s cute.”
I add it to my small pile of items. “Okay, I think this should do. At least for now.”
“What about that gray T-shirt?” Marley asks, pointing.
My eyes dart to a plain T-shirt the color of rain clouds displayed at the front of one of the racks. “No, it looks like something I’d wear to run, not to work.”
Marley shrugs. “The sweater you’re holding is better anyway. I still can’t believe you get to see Tristan every day. You know, there was this point a while back, when he first came home from Boston, where Eliza Newton had such a crush on him that she actually pulled some hoses or whatever from under the hood of her car. Screwed it all up on purpose just so Tristan would fix it.”
I laugh at the enormity of how stupid that was. “Wow. That’s epically dumb.”
“I know, right? Anyway, she hung around that shop for a week straight and came out defeated. Said Tristan was too fucked up for any girl to handle, something about his ex-girlfriend going off the deep end.”
I almost drop the sweater. Tristan seems to have it together, enviably so; not that any of this should matter to me. Tristan isn’t the only one off limits to me; it’s his entire species, so whether or not he’s a basket case is of no concern to me.
“He doesn’t seem messed up,” I say. “I mean, he seems fine. Besides, what would he be messed up about?”
Marley hangs the black vest back where she found it. “Dunno. I never really paid much attention, but I guess if you have a mental case for an ex-girlfriend, the possibilities could be endless.”
“Hmph. Eliza probably made it up because he wasn’t interested.”
“Probably,” Marley agrees. “Softens the blow.”
I bring my purchases to the register and wait while the woman rings up each item by hand. My total is $18.94, which manages to snag me three pairs of jeans and five tops, all in reasonable condition.
That night I select the peach sweater and a pair of darker skinny jeans. They’ll look cute with the pale nude ballet flats I have.
I crawl under the covers, equal parts nervous and excited about the following day. I find it difficult to settle and every time I close my eyes and try to focus on nothing, I end up thinking about how miserable tomorrow will be if I don’t manage to get to sleep soon, which only makes the whole thing worse. I hardly sleep as it is. When I’m actually trying to sleep, the task is downright impossible. I fluff my pillows and my blanket, switch sides, and flip onto my stomach, but nothing works. Finally I go to the back of the desk chair where I’d discarded Tristan’s jacket earlier. The worn fabric is soft in my hands and the smell of it is still phenomenal.
Once I’m back in bed, I pull it to my chest, shape my body around it, and sleep.
SEVEN
Tristan
That night, Mateo arrives at precisely seven thirty to watch the fight. He’s got a six-pack of beer in one hand and a pizza box in the other. Since the pay-per-view is costing me fifty big ones, the least he can do is make with the libations and nosh.
I move over to let him in and as he pushes past me, I inhale the pie.
“Meatlovers,” Mateo advises.
I take the beer from him and set it in the fridge, but not before getting two bottles out and cracking them open. I retrieve the paper plates and hand one to Mat while I keep one for myself. It’s only then that it occurs to me that we ate pizza a couple of nights ago. Meatlovers. But if I’m being honest, I couldn’t care less. Food is food. As long as it’s edible and fills the hunger pains in my stomach, my standards aren’t too high. I suppose this could be either very wise or very stupid, depending on how one chose to look at it.
Mateo is on his second piece by the time I’m halfway done with my first. “So next week is the county fair.”
I bring the neck of the bottle to my mouth and take a swig. “Yep,” I say. “Why, you suddenly have a desire to learn square dancing, muchacho?”
Mateo points his finger. “Dude, don’t ever call me muchacho or I might punch you in the teeth. And what if I did want to square dance?”
“Well, muchacho,” I say, mostly because I know it’ll irritate the shit out of him as much as I know he won’t punch me in the teeth, “I say if you want to learn square dancing, chase your dreams, friend.”
I’d be smart to stop talking and start eating because with Mateo as a dining companion, it’s survival of the fastest. If I don’t race to get my fill, I get nothing but more hunger pains, so I need to make sure my half of the pizza is devoured.
“Okay, well, what if I had a different motive, perhaps a more sinister one—would you still encourage me to chase my dreams?”
I pretend that I’m pondering his question. “Ah, yes. Yes, I believe I would.”
“Good, then you can help with my diabolical plan.”
I have to laugh. Mateo is the type of guy who traps spiders in shot glasses and sets them free. For him to have a “diabolical plan,” it real
ly must be something else, and now I’m curious to hear it. “What is your dream–slash–diabolical plan?”
He smirks. “To go with Marley. It’ll be like a date, only she won’t know it’s a date.”
Well, that’s some fucked-up logic. “How is she not going to know it’s a date when you ask her out?”
“Because,” he advises, “we’re going together, and you are going to be the one to suggest it.”
“I am, am I?”
“Yes.”
“Nice try, muchacho, but I don’t think so.”
Mateo’s mouth drops in feigned horror. “What do you mean? So much for chasing your dreams, you bloody hypocritical bastard.”
“Quit being such a pansy about her. Just ask.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself, but you’ll always wonder if she would have said yes.”
Mateo turns his body toward mine. “Okay, I’ll bet you.”
“Bet me what? You’ve got nothing to bet.”
“Not true,” he says. “I have my motorcycle.”
I nearly choke on my beer as it tries to shoot back up my throat and makes me sputter and cough. “Bullshit, you wouldn’t.”
Mateo straightens like the action can give him some resolve. “I’ll bet you that Leblanc will take it on the final match of the night. He’ll get a KO in less than three rounds.”
“And if I lose?”
“If you lose, it’s your job to get Marley beside me at the county fair.”
“In exchange for a motorcycle?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“You’re batshit crazy,” I tell him. “But you’re on.”
So, Mateo is fucking clairvoyant and all-knowing, ’cause that bitch predicted the future. Leblanc didn’t let him down, and as a result I lost both a motorcycle and the notion of staying free and clear of the inevitable love story of Marley and Mateo. Go figure.
I unintentionally drive by Emma the next morning on my way to work. It’s six thirty and she’s running the path behind the town cemetery. Cryptic and creepy as fuck.
The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher Page 6
