Speak From The Heart: a small town romance

by L. B. Dunbar

  I’ve been asking myself the same one for almost two weeks.

  + + +

  Shortly after I hang up with Tricia, Doug calls me into his office.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Elizabeth Parrish was your grandmother?”

  I stare at him, blinking in confusion. “Actually, I told you repeatedly who my grandmother was, but it never seemed of any interest to you.”

  When I first mentioned the syndicated columnist was my dear nana, my boss scoffed, stating a column on etiquette did not make her a journalist. However, the fact is she was, and at a time when women didn’t do such a thing as work outside the home or express their opinions.

  “As you know, City’s Edge has an affiliate publishing house,” he continues. I do know this. Our paper is a part of a large media corporation, which boasts of print and visual news in addition to traditional paper publishing. “I have word they’d like to write a book about her life.”

  I stare at my editor, my heart racing. This . . . this . . . Is. So. Big. This bypasses the column I’ve finally begun writing and fulfills a lifelong dream I wasn’t certain would come to fruition, especially after my conversation with Tricia.

  Am I living experiences which give me wisdom? Or am I still floating in the current of life?

  “They’re thinking of asking Simon Goodwin to write it,” Doug interjects.

  Simon Goodwin? Who the hell is Simon Goodwin? And why aren’t they asking me? I work for this company. I’ve been writing here for ten years. I know the subject intimately. She was my grandmother!

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?” My boss looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot from reading under fluorescent lights.

  “No. No, I will not let some man named Simon Goodwin write my grandmother’s story.”

  Doug straightens in his seat, placing his elbows on his desk. His fingertips are steeped at his lips. His mouth gapes, but I continue.

  “I’ve worked for this paper for nearly a decade, and I’ve been passed over for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to write articles I’ve researched or newsworthy stories I’ve followed, but I draw the line at this. This is everything I’ve ever wanted and more than I could have ever asked for, and I will not let someone else have it.” My voice rises, and my blood races within me. “If I have to get a lawyer to investigate my rights, I will, because I won’t let someone else write her story. It’s me or no one.”

  “Emily . . .” Doug begins, but I can already hear his retort. Some insult about a better man for the job. Not journalist. Man.

  I hold up my hand to interrupt him and speak. “You know what, Doug? Save it. I’ve heard enough over the years. I quit.”

  I turn on my heels, still not certain I just said what I said and stalk to my desk. Within three minutes, I’ve collected my things, noting how sad it is that after a decade of sitting in this spot, I can fit all my personal effects in a printer paper box.

  “Don’t be rash,” Doug says, finally approaching me in the outer office. “We gave you the column.”

  “Gave me?” I stammer. “I deserved that column. I earned it,” I tell him. I’m already doing better with the two I’ve published than Frank did in the past three years of writing it. Gave it to me? Like a concession. “I’m not being rash. For the first time ever, I’m . . . I’m going to be happy.”

  I brush past my boss—the man who has passed me up for other men, time and time again—and make my way to the elevator, but I’m not a total fool. I’m a woman on a mission, and I press the up button instead of down and head for the top floor. I plan to have an impromptu meeting with the president of our company, who happens to be a woman.

  Estelle Prescott takes me without an appointment.

  “I’ve heard of you,” she says after introductions.

  “Because I just quit or because of my work?”

  “You just quit?” The fifty-something brunette stares at me over horn-rimmed glasses which look trendy and stylish perched on her nose. She dresses like a power-bitch, and she’s something I’ve never aspired to be, but I admire her tenacity and her climb to the top. “Tell me what happened.”

  Speak from your heart. Tell it like it is. Say what you want. Nana’s advice rushes back to me.

  I explain the years of dedication and disappointment while the box sits on my lap. I’m not looking for her sympathy, just stating the facts. I’m a journalist, so that’s what I do. When I arrive at the issue at hand, I try to keep my voice steady—and fail.

  “I can’t let some man write her story. And if it can’t be me—as it obviously won’t be—I also won’t approve of it.”

  Estelle narrows her eyes at me and tilts her head. “Sometimes, family is too close to a situation to write objectively.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but in this case, I respectfully disagree.” It’s my only defense, but a plan is forming. I know how I’d write Nana’s story. I’d incorporate her column. There’s your wisdom, Emily. I can already see it laid out in my mind’s eye, and excitement over the possibility blooms in my chest.

  “Let’s do this—you write me a proposal of how you’d outline the book and submit it directly to me. Then we can talk.”

  It’s more than I could have hoped for, but I have another demand. “I’m not returning to that office. If you accept my proposal, I’ll be employed as an independent contractor, and I’ll be working remotely.”

  She continues to stare at me. She notices my fingers gripping the corners of the cardboard box on my lap. It’s the most unprofessional position I’ve ever been in, yet somehow, it’s completely satisfying.

  “We have writers based all over the world,” she states. “Keep the column and write me a proposal for the book.”

  This is the push I needed. See, Jess Carter? Being pushy has it benefits.

  And in the land of make-believe, it’s time for me to chase some new stars and wish upon a few of them.

  Rule 24

  Say what you need to say.

  [Jess]

  “Jess, it’s Sue. I think you need to come to the house. There’s a problem here.”

  Not again. It’s been one headache after another. We ordered a new sink for Elizabeth’s house only to find it didn’t fit the cabinet. I investigated replacing the cabinet to find it isn’t a standard size, and this means a custom rebuild. The whole kitchen needs to be gutted, just as I suggested to Emily in the first place, but I can’t call her and tell her these things. I can’t explain to her how I canceled all her contractors and took on each project myself. I wanted to do these things for her. I told myself it was my thank you for all she did for Katie.

  In reality, I did it because I love her.

  It’s a truth I’ve refused to admit to her. I’m doing all this, hoping one day she’ll come back to me.

  You chased, man. Now you have to let her go.

  “Okay, give me fifteen, and I’ll be there,” I tell Sue. She’s been a good neighbor, looking after the place. She’s nosy but still a decent person. After that business with Gabe, when I exposed what he did with my wife to the Town Tavern, I thought word might get back to her. I worried she might resent me for what her precious son did, but she hasn’t mentioned it. Joe, on the other hand, can’t quite look me in the eye. He knows the truth, and he’s ashamed about the way his son behaved.

  Katie’s at school, so it’s easy to hop in my truck and head over. I drive to Mrs. Parrish’s on autopilot, dreading the ache in my heart I feel every time I’m there. I’ve missed Emily every day like I said I would, and the silence between us has killed me.

  When I pull up in front of the house, a car is parked in the driveway. I pull in behind it and stare at the license plate. Not the numbers and letters specifically, but the name of the state spelled out across the top of the metal. The red Jetta isn’t anything special, but I’d know it anywhere.

  Slowly, I exit my truck. For some reason, I go around to the back instead of letting myself in the front door.

  And there she is
on her hands and knees, halfway in the playhouse, ass in the air, looking around inside.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I laugh. I startle her, and she hits her head on something inside the small structure. She backs out and stands up while rubbing at her skull. Her hands are covered in dirt from being on all fours just outside the playhouse. Her jeans have mud patches on the knees from the damp earth. She continues to rub at her head where she bumped it, and the action makes her hair swirl all over. It’s standing up in places and falling loose from her ponytail.

  She’s a hot mess.

  And so fucking beautiful.

  She stands there staring at me for a moment before she speaks. “I need to get into the house. I heard someone rented it, and the rental office is acting suspiciously about it. I’m exerting my right as the owner to order a cease and desist.”

  This isn’t exactly the reunion I’d thought we’d have. I want her to rush into my arms. I want her to tell me she’s here to stay—not to visit, not to inspect the house.

  “I’m not certain that’s a thing with renting.” She’s smart enough to know this, but she looks frantic. “So what were you doing in the playhouse?”

  “Looking for a spare key.”

  I raise my brows in question.

  “I gave the rental agency the original and left a copy with Sue. She won’t let me have it. I don’t have another spare. I thought there might be one in here.”

  I nod, and then cross the yard to the screened-in porch.

  “Jess,” she calls after me, following me. Her voice is a mix of frustration and stress as though I’m walking away from her instead of leading her to what she wants.

  Does she want the house back?

  Will she kick out whoever lives here?

  I reach up to the lip of the frame of the back door, pull down the key, and hold it out for her. She reaches forward for it, but I hike it a little higher, just out of her reach.

  “How did you know that was there?”

  “It’s a small town, Emily. Everyone has a spare key somewhere.”

  Her eyes narrow on me. “Is that how you snuck in the house?”

  I don’t answer that question but ask my own. “What are you doing here?”

  “I . . . I just need some things from the house.”

  “Like what?”

  “Are you going to let me in or not? I was told the renter was coming home soon, but I’m tired of waiting.”

  I stare at her. She doesn’t know who’s renting the place? Damn, the agent did a good job.

  I place the key in the lock and turn it until the latch clicks open. I pull the door forward and hold it open for her. The position is reminiscent of our first meeting at Sound Advice. I’d held the door open for her, and she’d walked in with her Nana’s radio. Her hair had been a mess, and dirt had covered her clothing. She’d had a haughty air about her when she entered the space then, and I watch as she struts into this house with that same attitude now. The difference is she belongs here more than she belonged in the repair shop. From the moment I saw her, I knew she’d be trouble for me. I knew I’d never be the same if I got close to her, and I haven’t been the same since . . . because I did get close.

  Now, I want nothing more than to pull her close to me and tie her down to this place, but first, I follow her and find her in the living room, staring at the mantel. The old wood has been cleaned up and re-stained. An assortment of frames are positioned along the wood plank. She leans closer to take a better look. I watch as she her pauses a moment when she spots the radio, restored to its original position on a small stand near the fireplace. She spins to face me, only something else catches her eye near the front door.

  A coatrack has been added to the wall and a bench with cubby holes for shoes sits beneath it. A pair of work boots for a man. A set of pink sneakers for a child. And a pair of silver sandals tall enough to break an ankle.

  “What . . .?” Her mouth falls open, but she stays rooted to the living room floor. “Do you live here?”

  I smile slowly, unable to fight the grin.

  “That I do. This is my new castle.”

  She stares back at the shoes. “How could you live here with another woman?”

  “I . . . what?” What the fuck? Is she crazy? Does she not recognize those heels? Before I can say anything further, she’s up the stairs and racing for her grandmother’s old bedroom. Thankfully, the door already stands open, or she’d likely rip it from the hinges. I follow her up the stairs slowly and wait for reality to settle in.

  I find her standing in her grandmother’s space, spinning in a small circle. The windows no longer hold lacy ruffles. She removed them herself before she left. Sharp-looking plantation blinds cover the lower half of each window, providing privacy but letting the sunshine in through the top pane. The bed isn’t made. I’m not diligent about that, and she stares at the messy blankets.

  “How could you live here with someone else?” Her voice turns vile and angry, and she turns those bright blue eyes on me.

  “Are—are you insane?” I stammer out, still in disbelief about her accusation.

  “This is my house. This is Nana’s space. This cannot be happening.” She shoves fingers into her messy hair and tugs it to the base of her neck. “I quit my job.”

  The air is sucked out of my lungs. “What did you say?”

  “I quit my job.” She pauses. “Well, sort of. I gave up the office and said I’d work remotely because I wanted to come back. I wanted to be here, but now . . .” She waves a hand at the bed.

  I step close to her, cup her jaw in my hand and force her to look at me.

  “You came back?” I stare into her eyes, holding her gaze. “Why?”

  She tries to look away, but I don’t let her.

  “Why?” I snap, my nerves on the edge.

  “Because I-I love you. I wanted to be with you, but I—”

  My mouth collides with hers, and I swallow all the words. Whatever ridiculousness was about to come next did not need to be said because she was back. She came back for me. For us.

  She picked me.

  I lean away, and she glares at me even though her mouth just gave in to mine.

  “You can’t kiss me like that if you live here with another woman.”

  “Oh, I live here with another woman alright,” I tease, and her eyes narrow to slits. “She’s a real beauty. Blonde and slim. Blue eyes and smart. She’s a real princess.”

  The angry energy vibrating off Emily almost electrocutes me. I can’t wait to get her in this bed and spark when we connect.

  “I hate you,” she says as a tear slips from her eye.

  “You just said you loved me,” I remind her, smiling at her like the mean bastard I am. “Besides, the other woman is only six. I think she’ll understand.”

  The silent pause weighs heavily between us until reality settles in.

  “But the sandals . . .” she whispers.

  “They’re yours, babe. Did you forget about them?” They’re the shoes I kept the night I walked her home. Maybe she did forget. Maybe they didn’t mean anything to her.

  “Why are they by the front door?”

  “We’re waiting for Cinderella to come home.”

  She stares at me. It takes a minute before my implication hits home.

  “See, I know a fairy tale or two myself. And those shoes are waiting for the woman they fit, but after chasing her, I knew she needed to make her own decision.” I stare back at her. “Are you back for good, Emily?”

  “I don’t have a place to live.” She chuckles quietly as another tear slips down her cheek.

  “Yes, you do, baby, and you know it. You need to stay right here where you belong. With me and Katie.”

  She nods, and the tears fall faster, and the scene would break my heart if I didn’t think they were tears of something other than sadness.

  “I love you, too,” I say when I realize I hadn’t said it back to her. “I want you to stay with me and Katie.
I pick you. Pick us.”

  “Us?” she whispers.

  “Me and Katie and you.”

  “I do, Jess.” The tears fall harder as she leans into me. “I do.”

  Our mouths come together again, this time sweeter, until I walk her to the bed, where I plan to be anything but sweet with her.

  My Emily has come back to me, and I’m going to show her she’s my precious rose in a garden.

  And I’d find her and pick her, again and again and again.

  Epilogue

  Speak from the heart.

  [Emily]

  On a beautiful fall day, amid the vibrant yellows, reds, and oranges of the trees overhanging Nana’s backyard, Jess and I sit on a blanket where he’s prepared a picnic lunch for us. It’s one of those gorgeous pleasant and warm afternoons that make you want to be outdoors one last time before winter hits. Katie is off at school, talking successfully and making new friends, and Jess wants a few hours alone together to play hooky from life. The backyard feels romantic because of all the different moments we’ve shared together here, both before I went away and after I came back for good.

  “Wine in the afternoon,” I tease as he reaches into the basket and pulls a bottle of white zinfandel.

  “My girl likes sweet things,” he teases back. He knows how much I love this wine.

  “And, we have much to celebrate.” He pours a glass of my favorite Michigan wine and hands it to me. He pours himself a glass even though he doesn’t really like the sweet stuff, and he clinks the edge of his flute to mine. “I love you.”

  While that’s celebratory in and of itself, I know that can’t be it, but I say the words back to him and we drink.

  “I have some news,” he begins again, and I look up at him. His hair is loose and a bit shorter, brushing the sides of his jaw. His eyes match the sky today, and the intensity in them is softer than usual. I wait with anxious anticipation and watch as he lowers to his side. “The design for the radio sold.”

  “Oh, my gosh. That’s amazing!” I still don’t understand all the electrical jargon, but I’m so proud of him. I set my wine glass to the side and lean forward to kiss him, which heats up beyond a little congratulatory kiss. When we break apart, I bite my lip in restraint. I want more of him, but we haven’t eaten yet, and this moment seems important to him.