by Elsa Kurt
Gloria fiddled with her American flag pin for a moment. “Oh, he’s a tough old crow, that one. Still bossy as ever.” She laughed, but it was forced, as was her smile. ‘I do miss…well, no sense in moaning over what was. How are you doing, dear?”
Instinct overcame awkwardness, and Mae reached across the counter and gently squeezed her soft, crepe-skinned hand. “I’m fine. Some days are—”
“Harder than others. Yes, I know.” She covered Mae’s hand with hers and nodded kindly. Being the tough bird that she was, she briskly changed vein. “Is that the Jacobsons out there? I’ve been meaning to pop in and see them at the travel agency. I’m thinking of taking the Colonel on a cruise. Change of scenery. You know?”
“Yup, it’s them. They love talking business. Go on out and say hello while I get your balance.”
“Thanks, Mae. I think I will. Certainly doesn’t look like I’ll be interrupting anything,” she stage-whispered.
Mae smirked and bobbed her head in agreement. Gloria Van Bergen clacked out onto the patio in her sensible navy-blue pumps, her back razor straight, and her beauty parlor shellacked, pale ginger hair barely moving as she went. The moment the Jacobsons saw her, their whole demeanor changed. Or reemerged. They were suddenly animated and handsy with each other, leaning in close.
“What do you make of that?” Mae said to Bruce as he passed by with a tray of empty plates.
He looked from the Jacobsons to Mrs. Van Bergen then down at Mae. He deadpanned, “I make nothing of that. Leave it alone, Huxley.”
“What? Geez. I’m just observing human behaviors, Grady.”
“Less observing. More clearing tables,” he called over his shoulder.
“What’s your hurry?” Mae regretted asking the moment the words flew out her mouth. She waited, but he kept walking toward the kitchen. And because she couldn’t leave well enough alone, Mae opened her big mouth again. “Let me guess, you’re—”
Bruce’s frame filled the kitchen doorway his expression grim. “Come back here a minute, Mae.”
Mae scanned the café until her eyes landed on William Grant, sitting in the far corner with his laptop and coffee. It was in that second that she consciously accepted that what—or rather whom—she’d been looking for was him. He wore a chambray blue button-down shirt today, as neatly starched as the white one he’d worn the night before. His short, salt-and-pepper hair was parted to the side and looked slightly damp. Like he’d just taken a shower, dressed, run a comb over it, and left. In a hurry, perhaps? He was watching her, his ivory coffee cup pressed to his bottom lip. When their eyes locked, he raised his cup and nodded, mouthing the words “good morning.” Mae lifted her hand and gave a small wave.
“Mae.” Bruce. His tone was sharp, his eyes traveling from Mae to William then back again.
His expression told Mae everything—his disapproval of William’s presence, his frustration with her, and something else. On the defensive, she strode into the kitchen, pushing past Bruce more roughly than she’d intended. In the farthest part of the narrow room, leaning against the screen door and clutching a shiny red apple, stood a skinny, raven-haired girl with piercing grey eyes. She looked in desperate need of a bath and a solid meal.
“Feather Anne.”
“Hey, sis.”
From behind Mae, Bruce muttered, “Shit.”
Chapter 8
NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT
“First of all, we’re not sisters. I mean, if you want to be technical, we’re half-sisters.” Mae slapped down a napkin on the round bistro table before William, her voice low, almost a hiss. “Also, no one besides me, my aunt, and Bruce know that. Oh, and Joel Asheby. And the Brightsiders, I suppose.”
“Okay, but I don’t know—” began William. Then he waited.
“What do you want to know about her? How about I start with what’s important? She’s a little shit. And a thief. Oh, and a liar too. You know what? I don’t want to talk about her. Or her mother, so don’t ask.”
Mae stalked away, leaving William to stare after her. This was a side of the usually sweet and benevolent woman he’d not seen before. Surely, the child couldn’t have done so much to have angered her so. It had to be the mother.
After a few minutes, William caught sight of who Mae had been referring to. A small, waif-like girl stood outside the café window. She held a large red apple in her thin, dirty hand the way a pitcher holds a baseball, and William believed for a moment that the child was going to throw it through the window. The girl’s big grey eyes followed Mae through the glass as she lifted the fruit in front of her face. William had a brief image of Snow White, although this little girl was more like a street urchin from Annie than a Disney princess. She raised her other arm and held the apple between both hands. Without taking her eyes off Mae, she bit into the apple, taking a chunk too big for her small mouth. Heedless of the juice running down her chin, she masticated in a bovine-like manner. Before the piece in her mouth was swallowed, she took another absurdly large bite.
The girl must’ve felt William’s curious gaze and turned slowly to him. He nodded, offering a smile. She, in turn, opened her mouth wide and gave him a full view of her vigorously chewed apple. Then she gave him the finger and walked away without a backward glance. William frowned then chuckled and shook his head. After watching her disappear around the corner in her scuffed Keds, too-big denim overall cut-offs, and too-small Rainbow Brite t-shirt, he let his eyes wander around the half-filled café.
Glimpses and snippets of lives abounded. Stories and backstories, layers upon layers. His side and her side, and the truth somewhere in between. Lonely folk, tired folk. Happy ones, just getting by ones. Every walk of life, yet they all shared one commonality. It was the way they responded to Mae. Just as sunflowers turn their heads toward the sun, they all swayed toward Mae, then they bent to follow in her wake.
What was it about her that affected him so? Them, William. Them. Her beauty? Yes, but beauty, especially nowadays, was cheap. You could buy it, create it, manufacture it, fake it…but that wasn’t where her beauty came from. There was something…otherworldly about her. No, that’s not right. William backspaced over the word. There was something imperial about Mae Scarlett Huxley. Yes, that was it. Or at least part of it. Mae Scarlet was delectably contrary, he realized at once. For all her innate grace, she was also quirky, awkward, offbeat. And yet, still, there was another something—a something else—about Mae that drew him in. Them, damn it. Them. And it was intangible. It was that word at the tip of your tongue, that song you almost remember, that scent that brings you back in time—
“Mr. Grant?”
William looked up, his fingertips poised over the keyboard. Bruce towered over him—deliberately towered, William was sure—with barely hidden dislike.
“Yes,” William said, his expression blank.
“Can I sit?”
William gestured to the chair across from him and inclined his head. Going by the man’s formality and stony expression, this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat between new acquaintances. William instinctively knew the young man’s speech had been likely rehearsed, probably in front of a mirror. He also knew his thoughts were uncharitable and petty, so he made a conscious effort to wipe the condescending, patronizing look off his face that he knew had settled there the moment the man-boy approached.
Still, William couldn’t refrain from supposing that Bruce Grady would begin politely but firmly, then launch into the Many Virtues of Mae, followed by a dissertation of how long they’d known one another, a declaration of intent, and lastly, a not so thinly veiled warning. William suppressed a sigh. If only there were someone to place a wager with.
“I won’t take up too much of your time, Mr. Grant—”
“Please, William.”
Bruce nodded. “Right, yeah. Anyhow, I just wanted to, you know, talk to you for a minute while Mae’s out in the back garden. The thing is, Mr—William, Mae has gone through a tough time and, well, she’s vulnerable. Sh
e’s also too trusting.” The last part he said more to himself than to William. “Now, I don’t know what all this book crap—sorry—is about, but I sure hope you’re not going to take advantage of…the situation. No offense or anything, but the people in Chance are good people. For the most part.” William suspected that big Bruce Grady was picturing Miles Hannaford’s cocky grin at that moment. “And Mae? She’s the best thing in this town. There is no one like her, you understand?”
“I think I do, Bruce. Thank you for…clarifying things for me.”
“Yeah, well, everyone here loves Mae. We’d do anything for her. We’ve got her back, you know? We—”
“Yes, I understand. I can promise you, nothing bad or harmful will go into this book, Bruce. I’m quite fond of Mae.” He let the words hang in the air then added, “And the town of Chance.”
“Yeah, well, not too fond, I hope,” he said icily.
“Nothing to worry about, son.” For reasons he chose to ignore, William then said, “And while I’m under her roof these next weeks, I’ll be sure to stay well out of the way whenever possible.”
William immediately knew Mae hadn’t told Bruce about his impending stay at her house. It was confirmed by the way the man’s eyes widened, and his jaw clenched.
“Right. Well, I’ll let you get back to your work.” He stood abruptly, leaving William with the distinct feeling that the way Bruce said “work” suggested that it was not even remotely what he’d call labor.
William tipped an imaginary hat to the irritated younger man, which seemed to irritate him even more. After he’d gone away, William stared again out the window, half-hoping to catch sight of the elfin-like girl who was but wasn’t Mae’s sister. His curiosity was piqued. What strange dynamics had come to play out in Mae’s life to renounce the little girl who plainly resembled her? It was in the enigmatic grey eyes.
He typed the word grey. Then, setting the cursor before the word, added slate, realized it was wrong, and changed it several times over. Each descriptive was right and yet wrong. William had seen Mae’s eyes change colors three times, not that he was counting. When she was flirtatious—yes, he’d noticed, he was a man after all—a definite shade of lavender pooled and swirled. When she became agitated or embarrassed, they took on the ominous hue of storm clouds. And when Mae Huxley was sad, they became tarnished silver.
“Sorry about before. Hey, did I see Bruce at your table?” Mae had returned to him. The lunch crowd had dissipated to a mere few stragglers.
William was slow in answering. He was too busy contemplating the color of her eyes at this moment. It was a new shade, pale grey-green. Without taking his eyes from her face, he typed sea glass. The now familiar scent of chamomile and sweet lemon drifted his way, and he unconsciously inhaled deeply. William Grant leaned toward Mae just like…well, just like a sunflower to the sun. She gave him a look that said, “hello, earth to William,” and he blinked hard and shook his head briskly.
William smiled with an innocence that was disingenuous. “Sorry, I—yes. He came over to see if I needed anything else.”
Mae’s eyebrow shot up in disbelief. “Bruce? He came to see if you needed anything?”
“Mhm. You seem surprised, Mae.” Actually, she seemed incredulous. Suspicious.
“I—well, yes, actually. He’s not exactly on board for all this. Plus, I haven’t told him that you’re going to be staying at my place. I don’t think he’ll—what? Why do you have that face? You told him?” Mae winced theatrically then pressed her palm to her forehead. “Ugh. Okay, no big deal. I mean, we’re not dating or anything. Me and Bruce, that is.” She blushed suddenly and grabbed his arm. “Not us, either. I’m not—we’re not…no one is—”
“Mae?”
“Yes, William?” She sounded as if she anticipated a scolding.
William covered her hand—still on his arm—with his. “Breathe. I understand. I’d like to wait for you to finish here and walk home with you if that’s all right?”
Mae sagged in her seat and exhaled. “Yes, William, that would be fine.”
He gave her hand a pat then said teasingly, “Good, now off with you.” Mae giggled and set off to clean up and close. William watched her go and realized that she was not the only one full of contradictions.
Chapter 9
JUST FRIENDS
Bruce watched the Grant guy watch Mae. His grip on the broom handle tightened, and his jaw tensed and released rhythmically. A pointy elbow jabbed his hip.
“Ah, what’s the matter, Brucie-Moosie? That old man movin’ in on your girl?” It was Elise Martino, either coming or going to or from yoga class—Body in Balance, owned by Brittany—in the next building. Her black hair was in a high ponytail, and her bright fuchsia yoga pants were so tight they could’ve been painted on. Under one lean, tan, well-toned arm was a purple rolled-up yoga mat. She craned her neck to look up at him. “Hello? Anybody in there? Geez, you got steam comin’ out your ears, Gaston. That guy’s got nothin’ on you, so relax.”
Bruce looked down at the five-foot-tall motor-mouth. “Who’s Gaston?”
“Oh my God,” she pronounced it “Gad.” “Seriously? Gaston? From Beauty and the Beast? Don’t even tell me no one’s ever called you that. Come on.” She punctuated “on” with another painful elbow jab.
“Jesus, that thing made of steel?” Bruce rubbed his sore hip. “She’s not my girl, anyhow. Me and Mae are just friends.”
“Yeah, yeah. Friends-shmiends. You gotta get yourself outta the friend-zone, Moosie-Moose.”
Bruce grunted his reply. He’d been out of the friend zone once already, not that it was anyone’s business. Unbeknownst to him, Elise—and most of the town—either knew or suspected it already. It was a very, very small town, after all.
“I mean, what does anyone know of this guy, anyhow? He just blows into town, and bam, he’s staying in her house. That’s crazy, right? What if he’s a murderer or a rapist or something?” A vein throbbed in his temple.
“Whoa, whoa. Hold the phone. He’s stayin’ at Mae’s house?” Elise looked as though Bruce had just told her that Christmas had arrived early and Santa brought presents only for her. She was already feeling around for her cell phone, no doubt to call Brianna or Brittany or whoever and spread the tasty morsel of new gossip.
“Shit,” grimaced Bruce, realizing he’d just vented to the last person he should have. “C’mon, Elise, don’t say anything.”
Elise rolled her eyes. Then, grinning like the Cheshire cat, she sidled up even closer to Bruce—so close that her right breast pressed against Bruce’s forearm—and said, “What’s it worth to ya?”
“Jesus, Elise. What’s the matter with you? What would Ethan say if he saw you?”
At the mention of her husband, Elise deflated, but not so much that she took her breast off his arm. She affected a pout and turned doe eyes up at him. “Oh, come on, Brucie. We used to have fun together. Besides, Ethan is a dick.”
She said that last part like a petulant child—granted, a foul-mouth one—and even stamped her foot. Bruce chuckled and nudged her. “He’s not that bad, Lissie. I’ve met him a few times now, and he seems all right. Even if he does have that funny accent.”
“Ugh. Mr. Proper English,” said Elise with a scowl. She mimicked his British accent, “Elise, we need to schedule,” she pronounced it shed-yule, “a meeting with the headmistress of Gianna’s future primary.”
Bruce laughed and said, “What the hell does that mean?”
“Right? Exactly. I told him, it’s called pre-k here. It’s at the frickin’ First Baptist, for Christ’s sake. There’s no headmistress. Anyhow—oh, you know what? Fuck it. Everyone will know soon enough. We’re splitting up.” For the first time since she’d nosed her way over, Bruce really looked at her.
They went way back, Bruce and Elise. Sometimes he forgot that. He’d even had a crush on her on and off throughout middle school. And while he didn’t much care for her little clique, each of the girls was all right o
n their own. Elise was especially all right. He’d never forgotten that she’d come to visit his dad in the hospital after his accident. She’d looked scared as a rabbit—her eyes wide as she stared at all those tubes and machines around Steve Grady—but she took one look at big, teenaged Bruce, set her get well soon basket down, and stood beside him, hugging his arm in both of hers and leaning her head against his bicep. They’d never talked about that day. Bruce softened and put one of those still-big arms around her and pulled her in for a side hug.
“Sorry, kid. I had no idea. What the hell happened? You two seemed okay at the St. Patty’s parade.”
Elise shrugged against him and wrapped her arms around his waist. It was like hugging a tree. “It’s just, I don’t know, different worlds. He’s so…proper—don’t laugh, you jerk.” Elise swatted Bruce on the back. “I’m serious. He wears pajamas to bed, for Christ’s sake.”
“Oh, you should totally divorce him, then. What kind of freak wears pajamas to bed? Relax, I’m teasing. Listen, I mean, sure, we were all surprised when you came back from your big summer in Europe thing with him in tow. Shit, when you announced you got married? Everyone’s heads exploded. But I don’t know, Lissie. You guys got a kid and all…”
“I know, I know. Trust me, I know. It’s just, everything happened so fast. One minute I’m lookin’ at Big Ben, and the next I’m fricking married. Now, it’s like all the things I thought were so sexy—I mean, like, so sexy—about him then are now totally annoying. I don’t even think I like him, Bruce, let alone love him.”
Mae walked out from the kitchen, glanced at Bruce and Elise, then pretended to not have seen. Elise noticed and pushed off from the brick wall that was Bruce Grady. She would admit it to no one, but she could’ve stayed in his arms for days and been completely content. But he only had eyes for Mae, and well, Elise was a married woman. For now.
