by Laura Alden
Jenna. My daughter, my love, my life. “Did you ask her about it?”
“Certainly.” He sounded affronted. What kind of a father did I think he was? “She said there wasn’t anything wrong. I asked her again, a few minutes later, and again she said she was fine. What else could I have done?”
Men. I knew it was time to change the subject. I’d talk to Jenna and find out for myself what was troubling her. “How is your new job going?”
“Fine. I’ve restructured the workflow for sixty percent of the staff already. Office efficiency has increased by nine percent. Corporate headquarters is very pleased.”
“I’m sorry you have to drive so far,” I said. “Thank you for taking it on. I know you did it for the sake of the kids.”
“On the contrary, it’s given me a substantial amount of time to study.”
“. . . Study?”
“I’m taking a trip to Italy this fall.”
“. . . Italy?”
“Yes. The commute allows me to play language CDs. I’ve already gone through half of the first Berlitz course. At this rate I should reach a conversational level by August. I don’t expect to be fluent, of course, but I’ll have a firm grasp of the language and that should suffice.”
Richard was going to Italy? The Richard I’d known had always said there was no reason to travel overseas when there was so much to see in the United States.
“Travel expands your horizons,” he said. “You should consider going abroad. It would do you good.”
I gaped at him. Every time we’d celebrated a milestone anniversary, I’d tried to convince him to go on a trip. Fifth anniversary, he’d declined to go to Mexico. Tenth anniversary, he’d rejected a Norwegian cruise. Fifteenth anniversary, he wouldn’t even discuss my suggestion of a trip to the Holy Lands.
“Yes,” he said, nodding, “you should travel. You’re getting a little provincial, don’t you think? When’s the last time you went anywhere out of the Midwest? When’s the last time you really stretched your mind?”
I quit listening. Stopping Richard once he got up onto a soapbox wasn’t worth the effort. Travel? Hah. He’d obviously forgotten how little money a children’s bookstore owner made. My budget barely stretched to trips up to Mom’s, let alone trips in an airplane. And my mind was being stretched quite nicely, not that it was any of his business.
He blathered on about all the things I should be doing. While he talked about taking classes that would count toward a master’s degree, I stretched my mind even further by planning the next day.
“That will work,” I murmured. “That will work nicely.”
“Really?” Richard’s eyebrows went up. “I never thought you’d be interested in a class on decision theory.”
I smiled. “You never know, do you?”
That evening, after I’d kissed a sleepy Oliver good night, I shut his door and went into Jenna’s room. She was sitting up with her arms wrapped around her knees, her Christmas-present copy of Brodeur: Beyond the Crease turned facedown on the bed. I wasn’t certain that she would read a three-hundred-twenty-page biography, but once she’d opened the cover she’d become fascinated by the former NHL goalie’s story.
I sat at the foot of the bed, picked up the book, slipped in a bookmark, and laid it on my lap. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
She shrugged. “Nothing.”
Right. And I was the Queen of Wisconsin. “You didn’t want chocolate on your ice cream tonight.”
She sighed. “I just didn’t feel like it.”
“Thanks for the flowers. Your dad said it was your idea.”
A slight smile, a head dip, and a shrug. “You’re welcome. You do a lot for us.”
My body almost went into convulsions from the multiple points of view it suddenly had. Shock, that my daughter was growing up. Gratitude, that she was growing up to be considerate and thoughtful. Surprise, that she was, in fact, growing up. When had this happened? “I love you,” I said softly.
You have no idea how much. And until you have a daughter of your own, you never will.
“Um,” she said, pulling her knees closer to her chest. “I love you, too.”
We sat there a quiet moment. I listened to the sweet sound of her breathing, then asked, “So what’s wrong?”
For a long time, she said nothing. I didn’t want to ask a third time, but knew I would if I had to. Maybe not tonight, but tomorrow. Or the tomorrow after that. On and on until I found out what was wrong and did my best to help.
She picked at the comforter cover. “Coach Sweeney,” she said. “He called me ‘kiddo’ yesterday.”
“I call you kiddo.”
“That’s what I mean. He’s not my mom or my dad. He’s not nearly as old as you are. And he missed seeing this really good save I made during scrimmage and he didn’t care. At all.” She slid down in the bed. “All he said was, ‘I’ll catch your next one, kiddo.’”
I made a noise that I hoped communicated sympathy.
“He cooks, did you know? He knows how to put a salmon on a board and cook it on the grill.”
“Planked, you mean?”
“Yeah.” She rambled on about Coach Sweeney and the more she talked, the more animated she grew.
She might be feeling better, but I was not, because I knew exactly what was wrong with her. I didn’t want it to be true. Didn’t want it to happen. Not yet. Not ever, if I had any choice. Certainly not now. Not this minute. Some other minute, far off in the future.
Jenna was in the throes of her first crush. And it was destined to end badly.
* * *
I’d had grand plans to wake up early the next morning, get some work done on the story project, make a nourishing breakfast for my children, pack their lunches, and get us out the door with time to spare. That had been the plan. The reality had been waking up with a scratchy throat, rain whipping against the windows, and a black cat on my head. I thumped off the alarm, moved George off my pillow, and went back to sleep.
The next time I woke up, it was still raining, but my scratchy throat was gone, Spot was sitting on the floor looking at me with a hopeful expression. I glanced at the clock. So much for getting up early. I hated when I did this: make lovely get-things-done plans and then jettison them at the first sign of indecision. I ended up being mad at myself all day, and for what? For want of a little self-discipline.
“Never going to beat Claudia this way,” I told Spot.
He wagged his tail and grinned, clearly agreeing with me. Of course, at this point he’d agree with anything I said in hopes that it would get him outside.
“You know,” I told him, “it isn’t supposed to be like this. You’re the responsibility of the children. Why don’t you ask them to let you out?”
His tail thumped against the carpet and he squirmed an inch closer to the side of the bed. Another half inch and I’d be getting dog breath on my face.
“All right, you’ve convinced me.” I tossed back the covers and got up. Ten minutes later, I was toweling off a wet dog and fending off questions I couldn’t answer.
“Does it rain more on Mondays than any other day?” Oliver dragged over a kitchen chair, turned it around, and kneeled on it, letting his arms hang long over the back. “This girl at school says there’s this song about it.”
“‘Rainy Days and Mondays,’” I sang to Spot. “They don’t get you down, do they pup? It’s just a song, Oliver. I don’t think it’s a commentary on the weather.”
“What’s a commentary?”
“It’s like a comma, only it has a tary at the end.” Jenna slid into the kitchen in stocking feet. “Look, Mom, I went all the way from the stairs to here in one slide!”
I looked from one child to the other. “Where were you two when Spot needed to go out?”
They both shrugged.
“What’s a tary?” Oliver asked.
“Jenna’s being silly,” I said. Either that, or she was hanging around Marina too much. “A commentary is a bunch of re
asons.” Sort of. “Here, Jenna.” I held out the towel. “He’s your dog, remember?”
She backed away. “Only half mine. He’s half Oliver’s, too. It’s his turn to dry.”
I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. “You two can negotiate later. I want someone else to dry so I can make your breakfast.”
“It’s just cereal and juice,” Jenna said. “That’s not like a real breakfast. You know Alexis? Her mom cooks real food every morning.”
Her mom didn’t have to go to work every morning, either. “One of you take this towel in the next five seconds or there won’t be any allowances this week. Five. Four. Three—”
Jenna broke first. “Fine.” She whipped the towel out of my hand. “I’ll do it.” She glared at her brother. “Again.”
Oliver looked from the dog to his sister to me. “Why doesn’t dog hair keep growing like people hair does?”
My irritation over my children’s behavior had been replaced with amusement by the time I got to the bookstore.
“It is a good question,” Paoze said. “Why does not dog hair keep growing?”
The university’s semester had ended and Paoze was back to working full time. He was also working a thirty-hour week as a waiter at a Madison restaurant. I’d been steeling myself for his resignation, but when I girded up the courage to talk to him about it, he said that working at the store wasn’t work at all, so could he please continue as a staff member?
Lois turned away from him, her head down as she rifled through a box of board books. I was the only one who could see her evil grin.
“Dog hair,” she said, “is one of the most unusual substances on earth. Did you know that dog hair, all by itself, reproduces? Even off the dog, it has a life of its own. One little hair can multiply by the thousands. For years no one understood how the backseat of a station wagon could get covered by dog hair during a ten-minute drive. It took groundbreaking research by a group of scientists in Newfoundland—that’s in Canada, you know—to find out what really happens.”
“Really?” Paoze sounded as if he was falling for the story, but when he caught my eye, he shook his head.
“You bet.” Lois winked at me. “And what’s more, they proved that light-colored dog hairs reproduce faster on dark fabric.”
“And vice versa?” Paoze asked.
“Absolutely. And you know why this all came about? Because the scientists were from Labrador. You know, like the dog? That’s where all those dogs come from, see, and the dog hair was multiplying so fast that this one scientist was almost smothered to death. They had to find a way to stop it from multiplying, so—”
“You can stop now,” Paoze said. “I do not believe any of this. You are going to have to try harder, I think.” He gave Lois a sweet smile and walked away.
“Rats.” Lois let the board books drop to the bottom of the box. “Thought I had him. There really is a Labrador, you know.”
“What goes around comes around,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I nodded at the wall clock. “Cookie time. And I have an errand to run. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
I stopped at the antiques store and bought half a dozen chocolate chip with raisins and half a dozen Amazingly Awesomes. White bag in hand, I walked down the sidewalk. The dark red paver stones that made up the sidewalk were still wet from the rain on this shady side of the street. I stooped to move a wriggling worm to the safety of a flower planter. “Stay there, little guy,” I told him, brushing my fingers on my pants. “You’ll live a much longer worm life if you do, okay?”
On the next block, I noticed another sidewalk-stuck worm, walked past, then felt guilty. I made an abrupt turn to go back and take care of him. Half a step on my reverse journey, there was a great Crash!
I catapulted forward, trying to escape whatever it was behind me.
“Good heavens!” Debra O’Conner, my friend and one of the local bank’s vice presidents, hurried toward me. “Beth, are you all right? That nearly hit you!” She gave me a quick hug, then we both looked at the sidewalk.
Sharp shards of brick lay spattered in a large circle, the center of which I had almost been walking through at the instant of impact. My head felt light and I blinked away the dizziness.
“Saved by a worm,” I said shakily.
“A . . . what?” Debra frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe you should lie down for a while. I can call Evan.” She reached into her purse for her cell phone.
“No. Don’t.” Quickly, I reassured her of my hale and heartiness. “I don’t want to bother him about an accident. See?” I pointed up at the crumbling brick. “Half of those others are ready to go, too.” We peered at the walls of the old barber shop. Its owner had retired to Florida five years ago and a faded FOR SALE sign was taped to the inside of the glass door.
“Well,” Debra said briskly, “Rod should be maintaining his building, even if he hasn’t had an offer in three years. And no wonder, if the interior is in this same shape.”
She made one last attempt to mother me, but I put on a smile and waved good-bye. I had things to do and being taken care of wasn’t on the list.
* * *
A faint electronic “ding” announced my arrival at Faye’s Flowers. I stood inside the front door, eyes closed, breathing in the lush scents. I had no idea what any of them were, of course, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying them.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
My eyes snapped open to see a very tall and very blond woman roughly my own age looking at me. “Yes, fine. Thanks. I was just, um, well, I just like how your store smells.” An embarrassed Beth had entered babble mode. Beware! “And I was wondering if all florist’s smell the same way. I haven’t been to many, you see, so I was just . . . wondering.” I ran out of words. Fortunately.
She smiled. “No one has ever asked me that question before.”
Somehow I wasn’t surprised.
“But you’re right. The basic scents are the same. Any differences are probably in the gifts.” She opened her palm toward an antique chest of drawers, each drawer pulled out slightly to reveal a selection of specialty soaps. “Lavender, ginger, jasmine. This is a favorite.” She picked up a bar wrapped in a pale green ribbon, sniffed, smiled, and held it out.
I leaned forward. Eucalyptus. That’s what I’d been smelling. Lovely. Without even looking at the price, I said, “I’d like two, please.” Making them the only two things I’d ever bought in my adult life without a consideration of how the budget would deal with the purchase.
“Is there anything else?”
The woman wore the polite shopkeeper’s expression. Trying to please, trying to be all things to all people, and trying not to be a weasel about it. I’d seen the same look on my own face in the reflection of the bookstore’s windows.
“Are you the Faye in Faye’s Flowers?” I asked. “Faye Lowery?”
“Not Lowery.” She held a bar of soap in each hand. “I’ve been a Lewis for almost fifteen years.”
Barb hadn’t mentioned that detail. She also hadn’t mentioned that Faye was six feet tall, blonder than a beach lifeguard, and gorgeous enough to turn George Clooney’s head. The combination made it hard to believe that she’d ever been jealous of Kelly, but maybe she’d been a late bloomer.
I introduced myself as the owner of the Children’s Bookshelf and secretary of the Tarver Elementary PTA. “Do you have children?” I asked.
“Three cats, no kids,” she said cheerfully.
“Well, the Tarver PTA believes that anyone can contribute.” At least I was pretty sure we believed that, even if it wasn’t exactly spelled out anywhere. “For years our treasurer has been Randy Jarvis, and he doesn’t have children, either.” Or even a wife. “We’ve found,” I said, “that business owners are highly qualified volunteers.” It was a recent discovery, made in the last thirty seconds, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Thanks,” Faye said, backing away, “but I’m
really busy with the store right now. Would you like these wrapped?” She bumped into the counter and twirled around to stand behind it. Safe.
“Let me tell you about some of the projects the PTA is doing.”
She got the classic glazed look somewhere between my description of a museum field trip and our hopes to raise money for new library computers. “But the most exciting thing we’re doing right now is the senior story project.”
“Stories?” She sounded almost interested. As in, interested enough in pleasing her customer to keep the conversation going, but not interested enough to continue the topic any longer than necessary. I knew the tone of voice very well. Just recently I’d used it when a customer was going on at length about the wonderful carpet in her new doghouse.
“We have a group of children interviewing residents at Sunny Rest.” I said. “In a few weeks we’ll have a book of stories bound and ready to sell. Would you be interested in taking a few books? All profits go to educational projects of the Tarver PTA.”
She placed the soap in the middle of a piece of tissue paper. “Let me think about it, okay?”
“You should read some of these stories,” I pressed, watching her closely. “My son is interviewing Maude Hoffman.”
“Oh?” She folded the tissue paper around the soaps in a tidy little package. “How old is Mrs. Hoffman?”
“Eighty-three. Her story is sad, really. No children, and then her favorite great-niece died at only eighteen.”
“That’s too bad.” The soap disappeared into a flat-bottomed bag with handles of twisted paper. “And much too young to die. Car accident?”
“She drowned.”
Faye’s hands, which had been steadily moving, went still. “When was this?”
“About twenty years ago.”
She flicked a glance to my face, then to the cash I was holding. “That’s a long time ago.” She took the money and started making change.
Sometimes. Sometimes not. “She was from Rynwood, and Maude said if she’d lived, she would have been about my age.”
Faye counted out my change and said nothing.
“We look about the same age, too,” I said. “Are you from here? Maybe you knew her. Kelly Engel?”
