Waterfront Café

by Mia Malone

  “Oh, look,” Shelly squealed, “They’re taking the signs down! I didn’t know they were starting already.”

  Brody turned toward the low house with its three small stores and a joint front porch. Marie had been approached by the Misses Clarke who had asked for ideas on how to prettify their stores. They had virtually no budget at all, which had made the task difficult for Marie, but it turned out that they had something even better; They had Dottie, and what Dorothea Baker wanted, Dorothea Baker got.

  A number of people, including himself and Pat got roped into doing parts of it in their spare time. Shelly and her husband helped, and a few of the young men in town were sniffing around Abigail Clark, Shelly’s words, so they shared that they would be happy to get involved in what Dottie labeled a community project. In reality, it was people rallying around three women who struggled to keep their small shops afloat, and another reminder of why moving back to the small town felt good.

  Marie had come up with a design for them that would cost almost nothing, except for some buckets of paint which Brody shared that he had standing around since his own remodel. He did absolutely not have buckets of decidedly hippie colored paint standing around, but when he came back from the home improvement store two towns over with a car full of supplies, he saw how Marie’s eyes softened, and decided that the small lie was entirely justified.

  Jag and Jools spent their evenings building shelves in the big, empty warehouse attached to the back of the building. Marie was doing a mural in one of the places and had already painted three signs which would go up once everything else was done. He’d seen her plans, and it would look good, really good, once it was done.

  “Brody,” a quiet voice suddenly said behind him, and he turned slowly.

  “The fuck?” he grunted.

  Marie’s son winced.

  “Can I talk to Mom?”

  Marie

  The Café had closed for the day, and I was watching Jag wash clams while I was waiting for Brody.

  “You’re making clam chowder?” I asked.

  “Finally,” he muttered. “Took a lot of shouting to get that to happen.”

  “Really?”

  Since we were on the east coast, and the owner of the place we were in was born and raised in the state of Maine, I couldn't see why it would require any kind of shouting at all.

  “Dad hates clams,” Jag said with a snort. “Jools too.”

  “Wow,” I said, and got a grin from Jag.

  “Jools is pretty verbal about his relationship with clams, which is one of intense hatred after eating a bad one and throwing up his intestines through his nose. Don’t know what Dad’s excuse it.”

  “I'll ask,” I said, and added, “It doesn't surprise me that Jools is verbal, though.”

  I didn’t want to ask how Jag felt about living with Jools because Brody might call him a boy, but he wasn’t one. He was a man, and it was his life so he could live with anyone he wanted.

  “He’s okay,” Jag said calmly, and went on as if he understood what I hadn’t asked. “I never had a grandfather. I kind of like his antics, even the ones that are fucking annoying.”

  Then he went on to describe what life was like when one lived with Jools Martin, and that life was interesting, to say the least. Jag fake-grumbled about the old man not having a coffee maker and making the black brew served in the morning the old-fashioned way by boiling water and apparently draining the shit out of beans he’d crushed with a contraption from two centuries ago. Then he shared that the TV in the living room had been hidden under a blanket because it only showed shit and added that he’d replaced the washing machine with something that hopefully would make Jools’ thighty-whities less gray in the y-front.

  “Did not need that visual, Jag,” I protested, but I did it laughing because of the look in his eyes.

  He’d shared Jools’ underwear preferences just to tease me, and it had been funny.

  “Mom?”

  I whipped around to stare openmouthed at my son who had walked in, followed by a hard-faced Brody.

  “Joey?” I asked which was stupid because I knew who he was.

  “I’m sorry to just show up like this,” he said. “It’s just... I want to explain. You know, it was hard when dad died, and then Marlena –”

  “Hey,” Jag barked out and walked up to place himself nose to nose with my son. “Cut that shit.”

  “What?” Joey asked.

  “I had a shitty mother who’s also a selfish bitch and no father at all until a few months ago. Can you say the same?”

  Joey blanched and took a small step back, only to be followed by a pissed off Jag.

  “No, not really,” Joey said.

  “So, what are you whining about?” Jag asked. “Stop making excuses and own up to the fucking shitstorm you were part of planting your mother in the center of.”

  “It isn’t that easy.”

  “It's exactly that easy. I was handed a barrel of lemons in my life, and I'm here making fucking lemonade. You were drenched in lemonade from your first breath, so stop bitching, man up, and fix this.”

  Joey swallowed, and as they looked at each other, some kind of message passed between them. I should do something but had no clue what, and when it seemed as if a fight I was pretty sure Joey would lose was about to start, I took a small step forward.

  “I like lemonade,” I said.

  “Mom...” Joey murmured. “I know. Pink lemonade.” He swallowed and looked me straight in the eye. “I'm so sorry. I fucked up, and I'm really sorry. Please forgive me.”

  My eyes started burning, and I nodded.

  “Let’s go home,” I said. “We’ll have some coffee and sit for a while.”

  “I’d like that,” he said calmly. Then he caused the burn in my eyes to become tears which I had to blink furiously to keep from spilling over because he turned to Brody and asked, “Perhaps you want to come too?”

  Brody’s face softened, but he shook his head.

  “Nah. Gotta close down here, and you two could use some alone time. I’ll be home later. We’ll have dinner.”

  “Okay,” Joey agreed. “Thanks.”

  He looked over at Jag and nodded, which got him a nod in return.

  Then we walked to the Mermaid house, I made coffee, and we sat down on the porch. The ocean was less gray suddenly, and I wondered if it was because I had my boy next to me.

  “That text you sent me,” I said slowly. “Did you write that yourself?”

  He snorted out laughter, and I turned to look at his slightly embarrassed face.

  “No,” he admitted. “I'd typed up something about coming for a visit, but I have this... One of my friends... Well, I was in Starbucks, and she sat down, asked me what I was doing. Don't know what the hell happened, but I just, I don't know... exploded, I guess. Told her everything about everything, and when she'd stopped yelling at me, she helped me figure out what to send.”

  He looked sheepish, but I tried to wrap my mind around what he'd told me. She? There was a she in his life and one who yelled at him when he was acting a little bit like an ass?

  “She yelled at you?” I asked carefully, not wanting to pry.

  Or, yeah. I really, really wanted to pry, but I didn’t want him to know that I did.

  “In Starbucks,” he confirmed. “She even dropped the f-bomb on me a few times.”

  “The f-bomb,” I echoed stupidly.

  It wasn't as if I didn't hear that particular word on a daily basis from one or all of the men I spent time with these days. I didn’t mind because it was just a word, and I’d rather hear someone say that that shit was fucking fantastic and mean it than polite words murmured with no particular meaning at all.

  “In Starbucks,” Joey repeated and shook his head as if saying fuck in a public coffee place was unheard of.

  “A friend?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We’ve had some classes together. She has a dog, and
I used to help her out. Take it for walks and other things, you know?”

  I didn’t know what other things he meant but also didn’t care.

  “What did she say?” I asked curiously.

  “That I’m a goddamned moron, Aunt Linda is a bitch, my sister is a spoiled brat and that you should get a reward for not cutting us off sooner.”

  I blinked and felt my lips twitch with a smile I tried to hide.

  “I like her,” I murmured.

  “I really am sorry, Mom. We had the best childhood, Melie and I. Both you and Dad were great parents. And you did all those things for us, drove us everywhere, all the time, and I treated you like a goddamned cash machine.”

  I could hear that unknown girl's words coming out through my son's mouth, but since I liked them a whole lot better than the stuff he'd said in the past six months, I decided to not call him on it.

  “I didn’t mind,” I said instead. “Yes, I drove you around to everything, but I didn’t mind because those times in the car... we talked. Remember? You and me. Me and Melie. The three of us. About what you had done during the day, who your friends were and what you had for lunch. What you felt about things. About life in general, but I guess in a way also about your dreams.”

  He made a throaty sound, put his elbows on his knees and leaned his head down.

  “You just made me feel like such a shitty kid.”

  “What? Joey, what?”

  He turned to me, and I stared at him, wondering what the heck I'd said to set him off.

  “I never asked what your day had been like, Mom. Never asked who your friends were or what you had for lunch.” He swallowed visibly and whispered. “If I had, I wouldn’t have been so surprised about your dreams.”

  “Sweetie,” I said and put an arm around his shoulders. “Not your job. Your job was to grow into a good man.” I tried to lighten the mood by winking at him and added, “Worried about that for a while, but things are looking better now.”

  “Mom,” he said and rolled his eyes. “I just... When dad died, you know? I guess I lost it. It felt like I was supposed to be... I don’t know. A grownup. The man of the house.” He made a face and looked down on the ground. “Or whatever.”

  “Honey,” I said gently. “Surely you know that I manage quite well on my own.”

  “I know. Don’t know what I was thinking, and then I met Marlena.” He raised a hand to stop me from speaking, and went on, “I’m not putting the blame on her. I know you don’t like her, and I know she’s difficult, but she’s under a lot of pressure from her folks. They’re both university professors and expect her to be successful. She’s easier when there aren’t people around.”

  God. She was easier? Not easy? I did not want that for him, but it was his life.

  “If she wants to make amends then –”

  “I broke up with her.”

  I wanted to get up and dance around in a silly victory dance, but I didn’t because that would be juvenile. But I really, really wanted to.

  “I’m sorry,” I said instead.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “I didn’t love her, so it was the right thing to do. The shit of it is that she got kicked out of college two weeks later.”

  “What?”

  “Her professor is really demanding, and also incredibly bright. This apparently meant she has a photographic memory, which became a problem when Marlena, um... borrowed a few paragraphs from a text published more than twenty years ago.”

  It took me a while to figure out what he meant, and then I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop a totally inappropriate giggle from slipping out.

  “Marlena cheated?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Joey sighed. “They went back and checked her old papers, and it turns out it wasn't the first time.”

  When I had recovered from my surprise, Joey got up to top up our cups, but he froze and stared at the mermaid on the wall.

  “She looks nice,” he said. “When did you paint her?”

  “I didn’t paint her,” I protested. “Dottie Baker did.”

  “Mom, please. I grew up watching you paint, so I recognize your work. You painted this one.”

  Before I could tell him what I'd done and swear him to secrecy, I heard someone clearing his throat and turned to look straight into Brody’s amused eyes.

  “Babe,” he said. “How the hell could you think no one would notice what you were doing?”

  Then he started laughing and he was so beautiful my heart missed a beat.

  And then I laughed with him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Girlfriend

  Brody

  “Okay, okay,” Brody said impatiently. “I heard you, Mom. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Soon.”

  “Okay, soon,” Brody sighed.

  “You could go away on a romantic weeken –”

  “Mom,” he barked and pointed at himself with both his hands. “Fifty-fucking-two.”

  “There’s no need to be crude.”

  “Huh,” Brody muttered, lacking anything better to say and seeing that his mother was prepared to dig in.

  The stubborn woman had apparently let someone else rent the Mermaid house, disregarding the fact that Marie had a contract and calmly ordering her oldest son to ask his lover to move in with him.

  “Exactly,” she said. “She's out of the hospital soon, and I told Marjorie that the Mermaid house would be available a month from now, but sooner is probably better.”

  Brody nodded and thought about what he'd say to make Marie realize that she should move in with him.

  Permanently.

  “Does the new tenant need a nurse?” he asked his mother. “Someone from the retirement home could probably –”

  “Oh, she's not old. Marjorie's grandson works at the same college as her, but in a different faculty, and he mentioned that she'd need somewhere to stay for a while.”

  “What’s her problem?”

  “I don't know exactly. Marjorie's grandson said she was amazing. Brilliant. And that she'd had some kind of meltdown, but I'm not exactly sure what that means.”

  Brody blinked and turned slowly.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  What else was there to say? His mother did what she always did which was exactly whatever the fuck she wanted.

  “I’ll talk to Marie.”

  “I knew the two of you would hit it off,” Dottie said smugly.

  “Mom,” Brody sighed. “Someone like Marie would be better off with Pat, but he can’t have her.”

  “Broody,” his mother crooned. “Patrick has already spent most of his life laughing himself silly. There’s no need for him to meet someone like Marie. He needs someone to steady him. Someone he’ll have to take care of.”

  Understanding dawned, and Brody couldn't hold back a bark of laughter.

  “You didn’t?”

  “What?” Dottie asked, way too innocently.

  “You set me up with Marie, and now you have some nutty professor type lined up for Pat?”

  “You set yourself up with Marie, and what Patrick does with the ladies is none of my concern.”

  Oh, yeah. His goddamned mother had totally lined a woman up for his fifty years old and happily single brother to meet. Brody grinned, knowing that he'd enjoy the next few months.

  “Hey,” Jools said and joined Dottie by the counter. “Coffee me up, boy.”

  Coffee me up?

  “Jag taught you to say that?”

  “Yup.”

  “Right,” Brody muttered and tried to hide another grin.

  Jesus, he thought. Was he becoming a ray of fucking sunshine?

  “You up for a challenge, old man?” he asked.

  When Jools simply raised his brows and murmured that he indeed was up for just about anything, Brody shared that he had planned to have guest chefs in the Café. He’d made plans wit
h four friends and word had spread so he had a long list of others who wanted to come, including some he hadn’t even met.

  “Not a bad idea,” Jools said and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, nodding as he thought about it. “Not bad at all.”

  “It'll be interesting. The chefs have to stick to my pricing, but other than that they get completely free hands. Four days each; Wednesday to Saturday.”

  Jools nodded again and was about to ask something when Brody cut him off.

  “You’re the first one out, so start planning.”

  “What?”

  Since his uncle was wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Brody leaned his elbows on the counter and yeah. He grinned again.

  “Jools,” he said. “You built this place from nothing, so the first one has to be you. Think about it... What would you cook if it wasn’t for forever?”

  “If it was just for four nights?” Jools asked hoarsely, swallowed and looked at the photo of a younger version of him and Brody. “I could...”

  His brows went down over eyes which were suddenly intense, and Brody felt his gut clench. There it was, right fucking there in Jools' eyes. That rush of adrenaline. The old man was pushing toward eighty, and he still felt it.

  “Anything?” Jools asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you look over my shoulder?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do I get to boss you around?”

  “Fuck no. You get to boss Jag around, be happy with that.”

  ***

  He was in his home, on his couch, and had Marie on his lap, which meant life was pretty much perfect as far as Brody Baker was concerned. He was about to broach the topic of her future living accommodations when thoughts about doing something he'd sworn he'd never do again popped into his head. Jesus, he thought. Really? Getting married a third time?

  “One of your friends called,” Marie murmured, and Brody pushed back thoughts of proposing, which was too soon and something which made him slightly nauseous anyway.

  “Yeah?” he asked. “Who? Officer Hottie?”

  “No,” she giggled. “Met him at the Café the other day, though. He really is astonishingly handsome, Brody.”