When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  The old Jackie would tell Tom where to stick it, and probably even turn in her keys and apron. Two weeks at one job would be two weeks longer than most jobs I’ve had.

  The new Jackie, though, the Jackie who’s really trying to grow up and put on her big girl pants, says, “Sure thing, Tom. I’ve closed up once before; I can do it again.”

  “I’m not spoiling any fancy plans or parties you’ve got going?” he asks, smoothing his white hair into place as he scoots on over to the shelf, a thin paperback in one hand.

  “No worries.” I offer to take the book from him, then shelve it an arm’s stretch up. “You enjoy time with Shirley.”

  “You been over to the islands this summer yet?” He removes a book from a lower shelf, runs a finger over a few adjacent spines, then shelves the book properly.

  “I went with my husband, Andrew.” I feel a tiny frog forming in my throat. “Early summer.”

  “Beautiful there, isn’t it? Bremerton?”

  “Bainbridge.”

  He nods, taking a seat on the stepladder, but not before hoisting up his pants in that funny old man way. “You seen your husband lately?”

  Tom and I’ve broached the subject of Andrew and our separation. I don’t like to talk too much about it, reserving all of those personal run-on moments for Dr. Pierce and the girls, but I have mentioned him now and then. I shared that we were separated, that we haven’t seen each other or spoken in two months.

  “No,” I reply sadly. “No, not yet.”

  “Well what’s he waiting for?” He claps a thigh. “You’re just about the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen.” He leans forward. “‘Cept for Shirley, of course. She’s a real looker, that gal!”

  Shirley, the real looker of a gal, will, on occasion, come to the shop when I’m around, but usually she’s here to help Tom open and close, or when he’s just too beat to come in at all. We don’t chat too much, not like Tom and I, but she’s certainly done her share of letting me know how ready she is for their son William to finish up his divorce details and get on back to the store to relieve “his old geezers of parents” from the hard work.

  Apparently William had been integral in manning the shop up until his soon-to-be-ex-wife decided to put him through the ringer with a surprise sting of infidelity, then demanded a share of Hodge’s Bookstore in her alimony package. I commiserated with Shirley, letting her use me as a sounding board, which is what I could tell she needed, even telling her things can tend to careen out of control when separation or divorce is on the table. Eventually things would look up, I encouraged her.

  Tom stands from the stepladder, and it makes a loud screeching sound. “I think that husband of yours ought to get himself straightened up and come on over,” Tom says with a sweet look in his blue eyes. “He oughta take you in his arms and say he’s sorry.”

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty of sorry-saying to do myself,” I tell him matter-of-factly as I shelve a book by Mark Twain.

  “You? Aww, no.”

  “Oh, Tom, I’m a handful. My husband may put up a good fight, but I know how to win a round myself.” I give him a smile and motion for him to let me handle this, to get back to his reading and enjoy the down time he’s got while I’m still on the clock.

  ***

  “I can’t believe we haven’t come by here, yet!” Robin says, pushing her two-seater stroller through the narrow passageway to the back of Hodge’s Bookstore.

  “Look at Aunt Jackie,” she says to Rose, who’s happily captivated by the book she brought in with her, a colorful one that lights up and makes noises. “Aunt Jackie’s gone out and gotten herself a job. Just like a big girl.”

  “Ha, ha, ha.” I give Robin a hug. “You’re a comedian, Robin.” I peek into the rear of the stroller where I catch the chubby-cheeked face of baby Phillip.

  Robin pulls back one of the many blankets Claire crocheted for him and rubs his tummy gently. He begins to suck on his pacifier rapidly, his eyes shut in what looks like a knocked-out, peaceful slumber.

  “He’s gotten so big!” I gasp through a whisper. “Do kids really grow this fast? I don’t see him for a short bit, and then, bam! All grown up. A big boy.”

  “I’m a big girl,” Rose says, peering around to the back of the stroller. “I’m going to be fwee dis year.” She tries to hold up her three middle fingers.

  “Try it like Aunt Emily taught you,” Robin tells her. “Remember?”

  “Oh yeah.” Rose smacks her forehead with her small hands. “I’m going to be fweeee.” As she says three she holds up her thumb, index, and middle finger.

  “There you go,” Robin says with a light clap so as not to disturb Phillip. She looks at me with a stupefied expression. “Em said that’s how the kiddos in Europe do it, and probably practically the rest of the globe.” She holds up three fingers, just like Rose. “So much easier, right?”

  I’ve never considered it, but as I test it out for myself I realize sage Emily has a valid point.

  “So, you don’t close up just yet, do you?” Robin asks as she surveys the small shop.

  “Tom said I could be flexible with the closing time, but I said I’d stay around until two.”

  “Very responsible, girl.” Robin makes a tsking sound.

  “Come on,” I say, grabbing the index cards I’ve been using as I take inventory of the horror and sci-fi books. “I haven’t made drastic changes. It’s just a job.”

  “I’m teasin’.” She picks up a book and flips it over to read the back. “I’m glad the job’s working out for you.”

  “Mommy, I wanna cupcake,” Rose says. She pulls one leg out of the stroller.

  “Uh, she’s escaping,” I point out, standing on my tiptoes and leaning over the counter. I spy Rose pulling out her second leg.

  “Rosie,” Robin says, eyes still glued to the book, “we’ll have cupcakes as soon as Claire gets here, once Aunt Jackie closes shop.”

  “When’s dat?” She’s now standing next to the stroller, her book at her side. It’s still blinking red and blue lights and singing some lullaby.

  “Hey-o!” Claire chimes vibrantly, striding into the store.

  “Claire!” Rose shouts, running into her arms.

  “Rose!” Claire scoops her up. “How’s my favoritest girl ever?”

  “Mommy said I can have a cupcake when you get here.” She begins to play with the stethoscope around Claire’s neck. Ever the observant and intelligent little girl, Rose presses the round portion of the scope to Claire’s chest. “Cough,” she demands. “Now bweave.”

  Claire laughs and explains how she should probably take back “this expensive little tool, whose replacement I won’t be able to afford.”

  “How’s life, Claire?” I ask, putting the index cards away in their wooden box.

  Claire walks up to me, and Robin joins, two books now in her hand. Claire hoists Rose further up onto her hip and answers morosely, “All right.”

  “What now?” Robin asks, face twisted in worry. “Rough day at work?”

  “Work’s fine.”

  “Conner?” I guess.

  Claire nods. “The LA firm he interviewed with, on the phone? Well, they’re asking to meet in person.”

  “That’s great news!” Robin says energetically, then her face twists back into that worried way. “Or not. You mean? So it’s more than a possibility?”

  “Likelihood,” Claire says, glum. “I don’t know, and I’m not going to freak out just yet. It is only a second interview, not an offer.” She shakes her head briskly. “Jeez, listen to me. Only a second interview. It’s the first second interview he’s had. They’re going to hire him; I just know it.”

  “That’s great,” Robin says, “and that’s bad.”

  “Totally.” Claire sets Rose down. “Then to make matters worse, one of the Washington firms he applied to said no, and the other we still haven’t heard from. They could at least have the decency to tell him no.”

  “Bastards,” I mutter, quickly clampi
ng a hand to my mouth as I remember Robin’s no-cursing rule around the kids.

  “Agreed,” Claire says. “Spokane we still haven’t heard… I mean, at least Conner’s family is in LA.”

  “But you hate LA,” I point out, even though I know it’s not exactly helpful.

  “Yeah, well.” Claire tosses her hands up. “What am I going to do? I’m working around the clock as it is trying to keep us afloat, and Conner’s going mad without a job. He’s either job-searching like a maniac or he’s depressed, playing video games with Chad on the weekends—the last thing I like to come home to after a long extra shift!”

  “It’s still important he strike a work-life balance, Claire,” Robin offers kindly. “Obviously he should be working in overdrive searching for a job. You’re going above and beyond here. But the job market’s difficult right now.”

  “Tell me about it.” I knock on the countertop. “Look at me. I have a degree and I’m working in a used bookstore.” The girls are silent, and I catch their drift. “Okay, not exactly the same thing. Maybe if I ever actually used my degree then I’d have a résumé.” I chuckle. “Robin’s right. Conner’s working hard. He’ll find something.”

  “I’m glad he can get rid of some steam hanging out with Chad,” Claire says. “It’s so tough to see him like this, saying he feels all useless and stuff.”

  “Come on,” Robin says, looking at her watch. “Nearly two o’clock. Let’s help Jackie close up shop and then get our cupcakes on.” She sets the two books on the counter. “And I’ll take these, please.”

  I read the titles aloud, “Steamy Nights in Argentina and The Cheese Connoisseur’s Guide. Interesting choices.”

  Claire giggles, looking relieved to have gotten rid of some steam of her own—and I bet she’s thankful for the comical change in topic.

  “Planning on doing some wining and dining and hot love-making south of the border or something?” Claire picks up the romance novel.

  “Research,” Robin says she pulls out her wallet.

  Claire laughs some more. “You can’t be serious? Research? For what? How to put the moves on Bobby?” More laughter, belly-aching now. “With cheese?”

  Robin stacks one book on the other, the rather risqué cover of the romance novel now hidden. “I like cheese, and I want to broaden our horizons beyond cheddar and mozzarella. So sue me.”

  “Still doesn’t explain the Fifty Shade of Something or Other,” I titter.

  “Research,” Robin says as I calculate the books’ prices. “I’m working on an entirely different type of book cover at work right now, and I’m stumped. This might be the spark of inspiration I need right now.”

  “Nice save,” Claire teases as she fastens Rose in the stroller. “You don’t mind if I go push them around out in the square while you guys close up?” A sorrowful expression begins to coat Claire’s sweet, peaches and cream face. I know how badly she wants a baby of her own, and right now is the worst time in the world for her and Conner to even consider growing their family.

  But, like with all things, life’s what you make out of it and sometimes you’re just given a ‘no’ or a ‘wait,’ and while it can totally suck waiting or dealing with the denial, eventually the ‘yes’ to something will come your way, and, well, everything will turn out some way, somehow. It just has to.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Just when I thought Emily had dropped off the edge of the Earth, I finally got a return email from her. As expected, she and Gatz are having the time of their lives. School’s in session, so he’s got his nose in the books, Em says. But that’s no problem for her, because she’s been volunteering at a center for the blind. She said that it’s a whole new world of volunteer work.

  I’ve started reading about Helen Keller and her life and work, she wrote. Amazing! Just think of this! How do you describe the grass to a child who’s never been able to see? You can give them a blade of it or let them squish their bare toes in it, but when you tell them it’s green, what then? How do you define color when you can’t taste it or smell it, feel it or visualize it?

  I can’t imagine the challenges Emily faces each day she goes to work with these children in need, but I know if anyone’s up for the job and able to make a profound impact, it’s her.

  My response email was a little on the short side, and I didn’t exactly mention the whole I-spent-all-your-money-on-foolish-things situation. I want to be honest, but I’m not stupid. I don’t want to disappoint Emily, and I’m working hard at paying her back, putting almost all of my money earned at Hodge’s Bookstore inside her mason jar.

  I did fill her in on my new job, how I had some great ideas brewing for her redecorating, and that my sessions with Dr. Pierce are going well and I’m making progress, even if I’m still down about my marriage and Andrew and I are still not on speaking terms.

  As I closed the concise email with a long line of Xs and Os, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself at how that can so often be the case: When you’re down in the dumps and feeling sorry for yourself, you can drone on and on in an email…that shoulder-to-cry-on kind of thing. When you’re feeling good and like you’ve got a handle on things, you don’t spend much time writing about how fab things are turning out.

  Perhaps that’s why Emily’s tough to get a hold of when she’s traveling. Sure, her connection to the internet or a computer may be spotty, but I can see now how when she’s excited about a project and caught up in the moment, when she has a goal or a busy agenda to go after, taking the time to slow down and regurgitate the news can take a bit of effort.

  “Come on, Bella!” I say in a spirited tone after I close my laptop. I leap from the sofa, eager to tackle my own goals, in particular a certain project I’ve recently been inspired to take on.

  Throwing open Emily’s bedroom closet doors, I’m met with a rainbow explosion of clothes and accessories.

  Damn, I think, biting the side of my lip. When Emily said I had a few too many things over here still, she wasn’t kidding around.

  The craziest thing is that I’ve been living here for, what? More than two months, and it’s only now that I really take the time to stop and look at the disaster that has become the closet, the dresser drawers—the entire bedroom, for that matter.

  My clothes are all over the place, crammed into each closet shelf I share with Emily (although it looks like I’ve taken over); taking up a good half of the hanging space; almost every pair of shoes lined on the bottom of the closet floor belonging to, you guessed it, me; dresser drawers spewing out tank tops, halter tops, and pairs of jeans, leggings, and the occasional skirt—all mine. The bed has a few articles of clothing atop it, and what’s under it I don’t want to know.

  My luggage pieces from Paris are still only halfway unpacked, pried open, with bras, necklaces, and scarves draped over the corners. The place is, in one word, a pigsty. It’s embarrassing, and I can’t remember the last time it ever looked so bad. On the bright side, I’d done so much shopping in Paris and had evidently left so much at Em’s place beforehand that not being able to access my wardrobe at home thanks to Andrew locking me out was obviously not such a problem. I mean, sure I could so use some love from the Valentino, Versace, and even random summer-fun H&M and Forever Twenty-One buys that are locked up back home, but I really can’t complain. I’ve certainly got enough to get by.

  I decide to tackle the disastrous room one corner at a time. That’s how Tom taught me to organize the un-shelved books at the store. In fact, it was all that organizing down there that’s inspired me to turn in my Saturday plans of treating myself to a martini at House 206 (for working so hard and feeling so good) and getting to work on tidying this place up. Dr. Pierce would be proud, I think.

  It’s damn tempting to not snag twenty bucks from the mason jar and run down to a bar or club and do a little celebrating at finally earning a paycheck, finally feeling like I’m making some progress post-Andrew. (And trust me, I’ve been very tempted.)

  But think how mu
ch better I’ll feel by cleaning up this place? Knocking back a party drink and getting it on on the dance floor would make me feel good right then and there, but afterwards? I’d come home to a still-messy bedroom, and I’d eventually regret having wasted the twenty that would better serve Emily than my party habit.

  My fingers alight on something spiky under the bed, and I peer below, gripping it and yanking it free. It’s one of my favorite Balenciaga heels—bright yellow and silver-studded. I search for its match, then hold them both up at eye level.

  “Beautiful,” I whisper. I stand and race over to the full-length mirror.

  Okay, I think once I slip them on. These shoes deserve to go out to a club or a bar. They have no business staying closeted or, worse, stuffed under a bed.

  As I twist and turn my ankles, gawking at how gorgeous the brightly colored high heels are, I pretend to hold up a martini with one hand and press my hand to my chest with the other.

  “Why, yes, they’re pre-release,” I say imaginatively. “Aren’t they to die for?” I fake a sip of martini. “Oh, yes, darling, I would love to go away to the Hamptons with you next weekend. With my husband? Oh, why yes, Andrew will definitely block out a whole luxurious weekend. Dinner, dancing, luxurious parties.” I fake another sip, then do an enthusiastic twirl, skip, and twirl, and then—

  “Ow!” I shriek, instantly gripping my ankle. I hop up and down on an unsteady high-heeled foot.

  Kicking off both heels, I rub at the ankle that went all wonky on me for some reason. The pain’s brief, dissipating almost entirely now, but then a new kind of pain surfaces.

  “Oh, no!” I pick up one of the shoes. I can feel my heart break. The shoe’s long, skinny, four-inch heel is hanging on by a thread, snapped straight in half. “Son of a bitch.”

  Inspecting it with a long face, I decide it’s not so bad after all. This happened once before with a pair of Manolos, and I just went out and bought a replacement pair—an even better pair, which I’d thought unimaginable.