I take in a shocked breath. "It looks great."
"I know." Her smile gets bigger when she looks in the mirror. "I can't believe you did it."
Another hair misunderstanding. But this is the best of the day. For the moment, it seems Lindsay has put aside our disagreement about Ben in order to concentrate on how good she looks.
For once in my life, I encourage vanity. And I'll encourage it all the way home to Beaumont if it'll help keep the peace.
30
What should be a ninety-minute drive takes closer to three hours thanks to Lindsay's constant requests to stop. First she has to use a restroom, then she's hungry, then she needs the restroom again. Without a doubt, it's a ploy to drag this out and put off our reunion with our parents as long as possible. The only reason I haven't called her on it is because I know she's nervous, and after our yelling match last night, I'm trying to be understanding and not push her. But when she tells me to stop at a Circle K twenty minutes from the house, my patience flees.
"Whatever it is, it can wait." I drive right past, shaking my head.
"Easy for you to say. You're not pregnant."
I open my mouth, then close it, biting back the cutting retort I was ready to throw at her. Right now, it's best if I say nothing at all.
"I'm sorry," she says a moment later. "I'm just so anxious. I'm not really thinking straight."
"It's okay."
This would be the appropriate time for me to give her some words of wisdom and encouragement. To tell her that Mom and Dad will be thrilled to see her, and that they won't freak out about the baby. I want to tell myself the same thing: that they'll be supportive about my divorce and crumbled career. But I can't. Because I have no idea how any of this is going to play out. How will Dad feel when he finds out the mess both his girls have made of their lives? And Mom . . . how much of this will register with her?
All the unknown factors in this family equation render me speechless. I can feel Lindsay's eyes on me, willing me to say something wise, but I'm all out of bumper-sticker wisdom. Instead, I opt to fill the silence with something innocuous.
"Why don't you find something on the radio?"
She turns on an indie music station she likes. "Is this okay?"
The song that's playing is an odd combination of soft and hard, sweet and sour. The music is full-bodied, with layers of strings, percussion, and wind instruments. But the singer belts out the lyrics in a kind of speak-sing way. Her vocals are loud, bordering on angry. It's a mishmash of styles that makes little sense.
"Perfect."
As soon as we pull into the driveway, I see how much things have changed. The flowerbeds in front of the house, always Mom's domain, show signs of neglect. The roses haven't been trimmed. The woodchip ground cover is uneven and needs replenishing. And, most egregious of all, there are weeds sprouting everywhere.
Lindsay sees it too. "That's not good."
I hope my smile doesn't look as phony as it feels. "Come on. Let's go in."
We're barely out of the car when Dad bounds from the house. "My girls! You're finally here!"
Dad's always been a good-looking man, sort of a seniorcitizen version of Brad Pitt. I've never thought he looked his age. Not until today. He still has a full head of hair, but now it's completely gray. The lines on his face are deeper, as though it's a struggle to smile through the weight of his worries. If the last four years have taken such a toll on him, what have they done to my mother? What have I missed?
Why did I stay away so long?
I'm closest, so he hugs me first. I squeeze him tight, clinging as long as I can. "It's good to see you, Dad."
"You too, Sugar Plum."
He plunks a kiss on my forehead, then runs around the car to Lindsay. His eyes drop briefly to her loose top and bulging stomach, but his smile never falters. He throws his arms around her and kisses her cheek. Her eyes bug out as she looks at me over his shoulder. I shrug in return, as clueless as she is. Maybe this will all go much smoother than either one of us thought.
"I'm so glad you two are home." With one arm still circling Lindsay's shoulders, he walks her around the car to me, puts his other arm around my waist, and leads us toward the house.
I glance back at the car. "Shouldn't I get our bags out of the trunk?"
"That can wait. I'll unload it for you later." We get to the porch steps and he stops, turning to face us. "Before we go in, there's something I need to tell you."
My chest constricts and I take a deep breath to loosen it. "How's Mom doing?"
"Good," he says in that way people do when things really aren't good, but they pass for good considering the situation. "But that's not what I need to tell you."
Now he's scaring me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong, just . . . unexpected." He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and bounces on the balls of his feet. "There's someone here to see you."
Lindsay and I look at each other. "Us?" I ask.
"No, actually. Not both of you. Just Lindsay."
The earth shifts beneath my feet. If I were still in California, I'd dismiss it as a tremor, but here in Illinois, there's only one thing I can blame on this feeling of shock and dread.
Lindsay's face lights up as she comes to the same conclusion. Then the door behind her opens, a figure filling the frame, removing all doubt.
"You've got to be kidding." I growl the words.
Lindsay shoots me an icy look, then runs up the stairs and into his arms. "Ben!"
I try to reconcile how he figured out where our parents live. Somewhere along the line, Lindsay must have told him our final destination. After that, it would have been easy. There aren't too many Samuelsons living in a town the size of Beaumont.
Standing at the top of the porch, her head pressed against his chest, Lindsay obviously thinks this is the most romantic thing ever. True proof of his undying love for her. I find it just plain creepy. Especially when he looks at me over her head, his expression smug and self-satisfied.
"How could you let him in the house?" I brush past Dad, stomp up the stairs, and grab Lindsay's arm. "Get away from him."
She backs away from Ben, but she pulls away from me too. "Lighten up, Natalie. He came all this way to be with me. Doesn't that prove anything to you?"
"Sure. It proves he's a bigger stalker than I thought."
Ben puts his hand on Lindsay's shoulder, showing me he's in control of the situation. "Are you ever going to give me a chance?"
"Why should I?"
"Your father did."
Wait a minute. I turn to Dad. "How long has he been here?"
"A few days."
Lindsay sighs. I explode. "A few days? He's been here, in this house, for a few days?"
"Yes," Dad says slowly. He doesn't seem to know how to handle the crazy lady I've become. "We've talked, gotten to know each other. He told me all about Lindsay and the baby."
"The baby." I turn to Ben and grab at the one straw I know is a deal breaker. "Have you changed your mind about the baby?"
"I've changed my mind about a lot of things."
Dad is smiling. Ben is smiling. Lindsay is beaming. I'm the only person in this bizarre tableau who doesn't think it's a beautiful sentiment. Desperate for a way to bring sanity to this most insane moment, I jog back down the steps and grab Dad's hand. "You don't know the whole truth. He hit her."
"Natalie!" Lindsay yells and moves toward me, but Ben's fingers tighten on her shoulder, holding her back.
Dad's gentle smile is totally unexpected. "I do know about that. Ben explained it to me. Told me how you thought the bruise was from him, but that she walked into a door in the middle of the night."
"And you believe him?"
"I do. Natalie, I've done the same thing." He gives Lindsay a wink. "Guess you inherited your night blindness from me."
There's nothing left to say. I turn and walk toward the driveway.
"Where are you going?" Lindsay calls.
&
nbsp; To get away from you. Because I can't stand here and watch Dad help you throw your life away.
"To get the bags."
31
It's a beautiful day in this picture-perfect, idyllic neighborhood. The sun shines down on the neat rows of well-kept homes, some with yards surrounded by honest-to-goodness white picket fences. A gentle breeze wafts through the trees, rustling leaves, encouraging the birds to sing a little stronger, a little sweeter. The only dark spot in this otherwise pristine scene is the black cloud that surely hovers above my head as I stride down the sidewalk.
Once we were all inside the house, it became obvious to me that I had to get back out. Lindsay and Ben went into the living room together to talk. Mom was upstairs sleeping. And I went into the kitchen with Dad, who looked about as sheepish as I'd ever seen him. After another brief discussion about how insane the situation was—if you could call me ranting and him listening a discussion—he suggested I take a walk and get some coffee. Finally, something that made sense.
It takes about twenty minutes to get to what is now referred to as Old Town. Since the last time I was in Beaumont, they've started a refurbishment and beautification project. With so many of the buildings hidden behind scaffolds and in various stages of repair, it looks more like an anti-beautification project. But most of the shops have big signs proclaiming them open for business, including—Yes!—the coffee shop. There's no physical sign on the building, but the words Uncommon Grounds are stenciled on the large front window. Below it, someone has taken glass markers and drawn pictures of a mug of coffee and a dancing muffin. Cute.
A bell jingles as I walk inside. Despite the sad condition of the building's outside, the inside is quite impressive. If the deep red of the brick walls and the warm, honey-toned wood floors aren't enough to make me feel at home, the overstuffed chairs and couches certainly do. Best of all, beyond the coffee area are shelves and shelves of books. I may never leave this place. And since I'm the only customer at the moment, it's not like anybody will shoo me away for the table space.
I look over at the counter and see someone partially obscured by machinery. "Excuse me. Are the books for sale or for reading here?" I ask.
"Either one." A deep baritone calls out, the tone so bright and uplifting, I can tell the man's smiling before I see him. He steps into view, wiping his hands on a blue-and-white striped towel. "You're welcome to read whatever you like. If you enjoy it and want to buy it, even better."
He's young. Not college-student young, but certainly younger than I am by a few years. His dark hair curls up at the ends, as if he's overdue for a trim, and a dusting of stubble shadows his cheeks and chin. Add to that tan skin and well-shaped forearms and he looks like he should be outside with the construction crew instead of serving up coffee and biscotti.
Tossing the towel to the side, he leans over the counter. "What can I get you today?"
There's a loaded question. Several witty remarks come to mind, but I have the presence of mind not to say them. Instead, I give the chalkboard menu behind his head a quick once over. "I'll have an iced caramel latte."
"Great choice."
After he rings up the total and gives me change, I look for a tip cup to dump it into but don't see one. "We don't do tips here," he says.
I nod as I drop the coins into my wallet. "Apparently, you do read minds."
He laughs, a full-bodied, throaty sound that sends a rush of heat through my chest and makes me glad I ordered an iced drink. "No mind reading necessary. Everybody looks for a tip jar the first time they come in."
"Shucks. Here I thought I'd found someone with superpowers."
"Sorry to disappoint you."
I smile back at him for too long, lost in ponderings about his teeth and whether they're naturally that straight and white or if he's had work done. "Uh, I'm going to find a seat."
Not the best wording, considering that all the seats are available.
"Get a book if you like," he says. "I'll bring your drink over in a sec."
By the time I scan two shelves, I realize that all the books are fiction. Which means I don't have to worry about seeing any of my how-to-make-your-marriage-work books. I do, however, find a few of my novels. Unlike some of the other books with well-creased spines, mine look brand new. Is that good or bad? Has no one picked these up? Or maybe people have picked up other copies, read them while sipping their coffee, and liked them enough to buy them. I choose to believe the latter scenario.
When I've decided on a novel, I take it to the seating area and sink into a hunter-green chair that's so wide I'm able to curl my feet up on it. I open the book and start to read. Rather, I try to read. But I can't concentrate on the words. My mind keeps going back to Lindsay, wondering what she and Ben are doing and whether she'll come to her senses before she's completely taken in by his act.
A moment later, rather than make me come get it, the coffee guy brings my drink to me. "Here you go." He sets it on a table by the chair.
I look up at him and our eyes lock. Wow. Those are some great eyes. It's like God ran out of standard-issue eyeballs and gave him a pair of sparkling topaz gems instead. He glances at the chair next to me, and for a moment, I think he's going to sit down. But the bells on the door jingle and three giggling teenage girls push their way into the store.
Quickly, I read the name on the tag pinned to his polo shirt. "Thanks, Adam."
His smile widens. "I hope to see you again . . ."
"Natalie."
"Natalie." He heads to the counter, then turns around and says casually, "Come back soon."
I pick up my drink, half expecting the ice to be melted from the warmth in his voice. The way he said my name, it was almost like a caress. No one's ever said my name like that. Not even Tony.
Tony.
It's like being drenched in cold water. I'm still a married woman, even if it's only a legal technicality. What am I doing fawning over some stranger just because he was nice to me?
And gorgeous. Don't forget gorgeous.
The giggling from the girls has gotten louder now that they're giving Adam their orders. Seems he has the same effect on all members of the female species. A piece of a Bible verse flits through my head, something about fleeing temptation. Not wanting to give myself time to rethink or rationalize it, I plunk the book on the table and head for the exit. As the door shuts behind me, I hear his voice one more time. I don't know if he's talking to the girls or calling out a parting message to me. It doesn't matter. My life is complicated enough right now without adding lustful thoughts to the mix.
I head up the street, back to the safety of my parents' house, where all I have to worry about is resisting the urge to attack my sister's no-good boyfriend with a frying pan.
32
When I open the front door, it rams into something solid. Stepping around, I see a suitcase. At first, I think it belongs to Lindsay and wonder why Dad didn't take it to the guest room. Then I realize it's not hers. And it's not mine. There's only one other person it could belong to.
Can it really be true? Has God answered my prayer and made Lindsay see the light? Has she sent Ben packing?
Laughter drifts in from the kitchen, dashing my hopes. I find the three of them sitting at the table, a bag of Oreos between them. Ben twists one open, hands the half with the cream filling to Lindsay, and pops the other half in his mouth.
"Hey, Sugar Plum." Dad waves me over. "Come break cookies with us."
"No, thanks." Oreos will always remind me of the night Tony left and my subsequent sugar bender. And now, they'll remind me of Ben too. I hate that such a delicious treat has been ruined forever.
Lindsay licks the remaining cream off the cookie in her hand. "Where were you?"
I raise my half-full cup. "I walked to town and found a coffee shop."
"Then you must have met Adam." Dad is too excited about the possibility that Mr. Coffee and I made contact. They must know each other.
"Yes, I did." Despite my best inten
tions, my mind skips back to the moment when he said my name. Natalie.
I've got to change the subject. "I saw the suitcase in the living room. Is Ben leaving?"
Ben looks down at his watch. "Wow. It took her less than two minutes to get to that."
Lindsay frowns at me. "Yes, he is. But not for the reason you think."
I look at Dad, hoping we won't have to play twenty questions and he'll simply tell me what's going on.
"Since you two girls are here now, it's not appropriate for Ben to stay too. Plus, we don't have enough room. So I'm taking him to a hotel until we can figure out a better arrangement."
A better arrangement would be him going back to California. "How long do you plan on staying?"
He leans closer to my sister. "As long as Lindsay does."
"What about your apartment? How are you going to pay rent and pay for a hotel?"
"I moved out."
"So you broke your lease."
"No, we didn't have a lease. It was month-to-month." An embarrassed look comes over his face and he fiddles with the napkin in front of him. "Besides, the landlord asked me to leave."
This finally gets something other than a love-struck reaction out of Lindsay. "He did? Why?"
"The guy below us complained. A lot." He looks up and leans in to her earnestly. "But I'm glad. Losing everything made me realize the only thing I really need is you."
This is ridiculous. He can even make getting evicted sound good. "Don't you have a job to get back to? Or did you lose that too?"
"I'm a musician," Ben says. "As long as I've got my guitar, I can find work just about anywhere."
"Just about any bar, you mean."
"If that's where the gig takes me. Yes." His voice is tight.
Dad stands up, the feet of his chair squealing on the worn tile floor. "Natalie, you're not being fair to Ben. Give him a chance."
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