by Lisa Henry
The alley was narrow, cluttered with dumpsters and cars parked haphazardly in the spaces between the run-down back entrances of the businesses fronting Main Street. Elliott walked until he reached an unfenced gap between two properties, and turned down there.
He found himself on Main Street, between a restaurant and a bookstore. They were both still closed, but Elliott killed a few minutes checking out the window of the bookstore. It seemed to be a secondhand place, and the display appeared to be as eclectic as the selection of titles. A stack of old Hardy Boys and Nancy Drews spilled out of a battered old red Radio Flyer wagon. A Lego robot stood atop a tower of pulp science-fiction novels from the fifties and sixties. Elliott couldn’t quite tell if the aura of nostalgia was intentional or not, or if it was ironic. It made him want to come back when the store was open and check out their shelves. Elliott had always liked books. Norland Park had a library, but it hadn’t been the fancy sort of library most people assumed. Okay, so there had definitely been shelves with matching sets of leather-bound tomes. But there had also been shelves full of kids’ books, and comics, and Boys’ Own Adventure books that dated back to God only knew when and had been almost read to death by generations of Dashwoods.
It was strange to think that at some point Great Uncle Montgomery must have read the same stories Elliott had. Maybe they’d even been bought for him. It was strange to think of Montgomery as a child. It was difficult enough to think of him as a human being, in all honesty.
Elliott turned away from the bookstore, and his gaze was caught by a sign in the window of the restaurant: Now Hiring. There was a cell phone number scrawled at the bottom. Elliott entered the number into his contacts list. It was probably too early to call now, but he could do it later. He didn’t have any experience working in a restaurant—he didn’t have any experience working anywhere—but since the sign didn’t specify they were after a chef or anything, hopefully it was washing dishes or waiting tables or something he could learn on the job.
He walked slowly down Main Street, wondering if it would ever feel familiar to him. If it would ever feel like home.
Barton Lake was a postcard-pretty town, but Elliott would be lying if he said he wanted to be here. There were worse places to be by far, but that wasn’t the point, was it? He missed Massachusetts. He missed Norland Park. He missed his dad.
When he finally made his way back to the tiny apartment above the store, Abby was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee held between her hands. She was staring into it with the intensity of a fortune-teller, as though she expected it to offer up all the secrets of the universe.
“How’s your head?” Elliott asked.
Abby groaned. “Why did Paula think opening that second bottle was a good idea?”
“You agreed with her,” Elliott pointed out.
“Well, clearly I shouldn’t be trusted.”
“Clearly.” Elliott sat down opposite her. “I went for a walk on Main Street. There’s a restaurant that’s hiring. I’m going to call them later.”
“Oh, that’s great.” Abby smiled like he already had the job in the bag.
“They haven’t hired me yet, Mom.”
“They’d be lucky to have you!”
Elliott rolled his eyes at that, and they sat in silence for a moment. Abby sipped her coffee.
“I was talking with Paula last night, and she mentioned there’s a whole parcel of land right on the lakeshore that the town wants to sell for development,” Abby said at last. “But nobody’s been biting. Is that the business terminology? Biting?”
Elliott shrugged.
“Well, I mentioned to her that we knew the Ferrars family.”
Elliott tensed.
“They’re in property development, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know.” Elliott thought of Ned’s tentative smile, of their kiss in the greenhouse, of their whatever-the-hell-it-was in Henry’s study. “We didn’t really talk about it.”
“Well, they are,” Abby said. “So I’m going to pass on their contact details.” She raised her eyebrows. “If that’s okay with you.”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” Elliott said. He wondered if he sounded too defensive. Stupid. There was nothing to be defensive about. “Mom, I know you and Marianne think that Ned Ferrars and I are having some big romance or whatever, but it wasn’t like that. It was just a . . . a thing.”
Abby regarded him closely for a moment. The corner of her mouth twitched, and then she nodded. “Okay, baby.”
“Okay?” Elliott repeated warily.
Abby smiled. “Okay.”
Elliott relaxed.
Okay.
***
Trade was surprisingly brisk at Lake Springs Crystals and Healing on a Saturday morning. Customers bought a few DVDs and a bunch of touristy knickknacks, and Elliott actually sold more incense than he burned.
He thought about Ned as he worked. About how he liked the guy, about how it had been . . . not fun, exactly—not when everything was still so crowded with grief and confusion—but nice? Or hopeful, maybe, to be reminded that just because his entire world was made out of grief and confusion now, great ugly swathes of it like paint applied too thickly to a canvas, that didn’t mean it would last forever. There were glimpses of color behind the stark black and the muddied brown of the present, and Ned had helped him to see them. Elliott would always be grateful for that.
There was no future in it though. He had no idea if he’d even meant anything to Ned, and it wasn’t as though Elliott was in any way emotionally stable enough at the moment to even consider something as crazy as a relationship. Just thinking the word was ludicrous.
It was what it was. Just a moment in time when their lives intersected briefly. It didn’t mean anything. Still, an unaccountable thrumming rose in Elliott’s chest when he thought of the possibility of running into Ned again. A warmth, and a nervous tension. A sort of strange, breathless hope that had no place taking root there.
Elliott pushed his thoughts of Ned away and tried to concentrate on working instead. The only problem with that was there wasn’t a whole lot to do. A steady procession of customers made their way into the store, so it would have been rude to pull the vacuum cleaner out, but it wasn’t busy enough to keep him completely distracted from his thoughts. There were only so many times he could rearrange the DVD rack, after all.
Eight times.
He rearranged it eight times before Marianne appeared just after midday with his lunch.
“I made you some bruschetta to apologize for being late,” she told him, setting the plate on the counter. “I’m later than I intended because I had to go and buy some tomatoes.”
Elliott picked up a piece of bruschetta. “Worth it,” he said, and bit into it.
Marianne flashed him a smile and bounced forward to greet the next customers who walked into the store. “Hello! Is there anything I can help you with?”
Elliott ate his lunch and flicked through an astrology magazine.
Greta clomped down the interior steps in her thick-soled boots shortly afterward, Abby behind her.
“We’re going to get Greta some things she needs for school on Monday,” Abby announced. “Then how about we take over here, and you and Marianne can have the afternoon off?”
“Marianne’s been here for a whole twenty minutes,” Elliott deadpanned.
“But I made you lunch!” Marianne called out from the other end of the store, from somewhere between the dream catchers and the tarot cards.
Greta stomped toward the exit. Just before she reached it, the door was pushed open, bells jangling, and a woman stepped inside. It was Lieutenant Colonel Brandon. She looked as uncomfortable as last time, eyeing Greta and Abby suspiciously as they swept past her into the street.
“Hi!” Marianne’s smile was as welcoming as always. “You’re back soon. How did the yoga go?”
“It was . . .” Colonel Brandon’s brows drew together, and her forehead creased. “Fine. It was fin
e.” She cleared her throat. “I was wondering if you had the next one in the series.”
“I have no idea,” Marianne said. “I’ll have a look.”
“The last time I was here . . .” Colonel Brandon cleared her throat again. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Oh, I’m Marianne.” Her smile grew. “Marianne Dashwood. And this is my brother Elliott.”
Elliott smiled politely.
“Dashwood?” A faint look of surprise crossed Colonel Brandon’s face. “As in the Massachusetts Dashwoods?”
“That’s us,” Marianne said. “Well, that’s them. I guess we’re the California Dashwoods now, right, Elliott?”
“I guess so,” Elliott said.
The California Dashwoods.
It didn’t sound so bad.
***
On Saturday afternoon, Elliott walked back to Russo’s, the restaurant on Main Street, and spoke to the owner. On Sunday night, he worked a trial shift as a waiter. At the end of the night, he was put on the regular roster.
On Monday, Greta started school and Abby watched the store for John.
On Wednesday, Marianne talked herself into three shifts a week at the cinema, working the concession stand.
On Thursday, Elliott got a text message from an unknown number: This is Ned Ferrars. I got your number from John. I’m going to be in Barton Lake next month for work, and I was hoping to visit you and your family.
And suddenly that stupid crawling hope was back, beating in his chest like a second heartbeat.
Elliott had no idea what to do with it at all.
“California Dreamin’” was playing on the radio when Elliott left Russo’s, stinking of garlic and carbonara sauce and with a lousy forty-three dollars in tips after an eight-hour shift. It was almost midnight on a Saturday. It was drizzling again, and cold. Elliott turned his collar up, shoved his hands into his pockets, and started out for home. The night was dark, and Elliott picked his way carefully down the narrow path that led to the alley behind Main Street. There was no lighting back here. A cat slunk across Elliott’s path. The rain-slick asphalt shone like oil. It was hard to reconcile the fantasy of the dreamer who wanted to escape to the warmth of California with a place like Barton Lake.
Elliott had seen more sunlight back in Massachusetts.
Toward the end, before Henry had gone into the hospital for the last time, he’d liked to spend time on the lawn of Norland Park with his paints and a canvas on an easel. Elliott’s memories of those slow afternoons were warm and sun-dappled. He remembered his father’s hands, fingers long and thin and speckled with paint.
“It’s a beautiful day, Elliott.” A slow smile. “It’s a beautiful world.”
Elliott didn’t think the ache would ever completely go away.
He had always connected a little easier with his father than with his mother. Or Henry had understood his quietness more than Abby, or something. Abby had spent much of Elliott’s childhood trying to bring him out of his shell, trying to free some wildness of spirit in him that she was sure he was repressing. Always reminding him he could color outside of the lines, or throw away the Lego instructions. Henry hadn’t pushed. He’d understood, more than Abby, that Elliott wasn’t wired that way.
Henry had relied on it, in the end.
“You’ll look after them, won’t you, Elliott? When all this is done?”
“Of course I will, Dad.”
Henry had reached out and cupped his cheek with his hand. “And you’ll look after yourself too, won’t you?”
Elliott had nodded, his throat too tight to answer.
“I love you, Elliott.” He’d left a smudge of paint on Elliott’s cheek when he’d removed his hand.
There hadn’t been nearly enough of those long afternoons on the lawn.
The soles of Elliott’s shoes crunched against the grit of the asphalt. He turned into the yard behind the store and the apartment, and dug his keys out of his pocket as he climbed the steps.
The light in the living room was on, and so was the television that one of John’s daughters had loaned them. Some late-night talk-show host was delivering his monolog while Elliott turned the key in the lock. He pushed the door open to find Marianne sitting cross-legged on the couch in her pajamas, a bowl of popcorn on her lap.
“How was work?” she asked, patting the couch beside her.
Elliott hung his jacket on the hook by the door and toed his shoes off. He glanced at the table and saw that the paperwork he’d picked up for their mom to apply for Greta’s Social Security survivor benefit was still untouched. Just looking at it gave him a headache, but he knew that if he didn’t push Abby, it would never get done. He sighed, sitting down on the couch with Marianne and reaching for a handful of popcorn. “It was okay.”
“You smell like garlic.”
He shrugged.
“I’ll go to bed if you’re tired,” Marianne offered.
“It’s okay.”
They watched TV in silence for a while.
“You should get out more,” Marianne said at last.
“I get out plenty.” Elliott rolled his eyes. “I just got home.”
“Greta and I are going to the Crystal Caves tomorrow. What are you doing?”
“Working.”
Marianne tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, as though Elliott were a particularly interesting specimen of some sort. “And does the inside of a Californian restaurant look any different than a Massachusetts one?”
Elliott rolled his eyes.
“Elliott, we moved all the way across the country, and you haven’t left Main Street yet!” She waved her hand. “Even the light is different here. The way it filters through the leaves. The way everything here is more golden. Have you noticed? Have you even really been outside? You know, stopped and smelled the flowers?”
“I’m working, Mar,” he said, keeping his tone balanced and pushing his sudden burst of irritation down. This wasn’t . . . It wasn’t a holiday. Someone had to earn a wage while Marianne seized the fucking day.
He reached for another handful of popcorn, hoping that was just his tiredness talking. He didn’t want to resent Marianne. He didn’t want to clip her wings either, not when she was only trying to help. It wasn’t fair to think of her as selfish. She wasn’t. She was one of the most generous people Elliott knew. She was just . . . She was Marianne. Abby had never had to encourage Marianne to color outside the lines.
“Guess what happened to me today?” Marianne asked.
“What?”
“There’s a Turkish restaurant over in Whitwell.” Marianne caught his look. “It’s the next town, Elliott. You’d know these things if you went outside. Anyway, one of their belly dancers quit and they offered me a job!”
“Do you even know how to belly dance?”
“One of the other girls is teaching me.” She smiled. “They have dancers in every Friday night, and Jody said last Friday she made over a hundred dollars in tips.”
“It’s not stripping, is it?”
“No.” Marianne looked thoughtful. “That would pay a lot better, actually, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t be a stripper, Mar.”
“Don’t be a prude, Elliott,” she shot back. “I’d be an awesome stripper.” She shimmied her shoulders and leaned back. “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”
Elliott raised his eyebrows. “Not this one.”
Marianne shrugged. “You’re not my target audience.”
“Thank God.”
“Thank God,” Marianne echoed, and they both laughed and settled back to watch some more television.
***
A crunch of tires on dirt, and Elliott startled into wakefulness and pushed himself up off the folded-out couch. It was day, and the apartment was full of light. The gauzy curtain in the window fluttered a little in the breeze.
Elliott heard the dull sound of car doors being shut.
“I’m fine!” Marianne’s voice was pitched high with s
tress. “I’m fine, really!”
Elliott pushed open the back door.
There was some type of sporty silver car pulled into the narrow yard. A Porsche, maybe. And there was Marianne, limping away from it, while some guy—the owner of the Porsche, probably—offered himself as a makeshift crutch.
Greta climbed out of the back seat of the Porsche.
“I’m fine!” Marianne said again, sounding more flustered, and possibly close to tears.
Elliott started down the steps just as the guy replied to Marianne. He spoke too quietly for Elliott to hear what he said, but suddenly he was sweeping Marianne up into a bridal carry—she gave a squawk of surprise—and carrying her up the steps.
“Mar?” Elliott asked.
“Sprained my ankle!” she said with a grimace, an arm looped around the guy’s neck. “Met a hot guy!”
The guy in question let out a huff of laughter as he swept her through the doorway and into the apartment. Elliott held the door open for Greta.
“It’s been an emotional roller coaster,” Greta deadpanned, stomping in after them.
The guy set Marianne down carefully and looked around for Elliott. “Do you have ice?”
“I’ll get it,” Greta said.
“What happened, Mar?” Elliott asked.
Marianne hobbled toward the folded-out couch and sank down with a chorus of wheezing springs. She lifted her leg onto the bed, wincing, and tugged up her jeans. “Ow. Ow ow ow.”
Elliott leaned down to inspect her ankle. It was swollen and bruised.
“I offered to take her to the hospital,” the guy said, “but she said it wasn’t that bad.”
“It’s fine!” Marianne insisted. “It’s only a sprain! And it was enough that you brought me home, really.”
Greta reappeared, elbowing between Elliott and the guy. She was holding a bag of frozen peas, which she set down on Marianne’s ankle. Marianne winced again.
