Page 58 of Sweet and Salty

This makes me think of Jesse, of everything he’s hiding. There are times when his face tightens, and I just know he’s lying to me. It hurts, but he has his reasons. Maybe not exactly the same as my moms had, but everyone puts on a face once in a while.

“The stress drove Allison bananas. She never wanted to be closeted.” Mom wipes a tear from under her eyes. “I would havedone anything for her, so we slowly came out to people. Some took it better than others.”

This I also vividly remember. A sensation like slow-churning vanilla ice cream rolls in my stomach.

“Everyone now refers to her as my wife, but we couldn’t even legally get married in this state until after she died. It’s a good thing we did all that legal mumbo jumboing with her advance directive and whatnot before she got too sick. Or else your grandparents would have been in control.” I shiver, remembering the one time I spoke with Ma’s parents. Horrible people. “But the town grew on us and we grew on it. You all helped, of course. Children are excellent for breaking down barriers. And now this town is more accepting, which benefits everyone, believe you me.”

I do remember. When Rory and I were young, probably no more than six, there had been people in town who wouldn’t talk to us or let us play with their kids. Mostly extensions of the Dryden family. At least we had each other. Rory and I protected the littler ones at school. But our moms knew. They surrounded us with people who loved us and loved our family because we were good, kind people. To hell with the haters.

“You and Ma were trailblazers.”

“Allison was.” Mom’s voice gets dreamy and soft. “She’s the one who never wanted to give up. She’d say, ‘Marie, we can do this. We don’t have to move to Seattle or Massachusetts. We’ll chip away a little bit at their hearts. We won’t let them stand in the way of our being happy.’”

“We were happy. We are happy.” I squeeze Mom’s hand. The cinnamon rolls baking in the oven perfume the air.

Mom shakes her head. “I’m not telling this story right. My whole point is that Allison had grit. She was tenacious in making people love us. And I know you fought hard all your life to be accepted, to be loved, and to protect Frannie and Bobby, so theynever had to deal with all of the prejudice you and Rory did.” I don’t realize I’m crying until she fishes through her purse and digs out a tissue. “That’s all I want to say, hon. You are so like Allison in so many ways, but Bobby has a thicker skin. Not because he has a Y chromosome, but becauseyouprotected him. Now it’s time for you to step into your light. Fight for what you want. You want a liquor license? Re-apply and we’ll get Moe and Opal and everyone on our side against the Drydens. You want to win a baking show? Yes, I say win because you are so talented there’s no way you wouldn’t go on one and come in second. Apply. You want to move to Albuquerque and be a snowbird? Well, I might have some trouble getting off work around the holidays, but I’ll do it. And if you want a man like Jesse, who brings a light into your eyes I’ve never seen before, or a family of your own to spoil rotten? Then be brave. Be like your Ma.” Mom places a hand on my shoulder and rubs my back. “You already are, Laura. You just need to see it.”

I soil the tissue with my tears and snot. Thank heavens Sasha is off today, or they’d walk in and immediately express their concern.

Mom kisses me on the side of my head. “Allison was and is so incredibly proud of you.”

“How do you know?” I blubber.

“Because I’m proud of you. Now I’m going to go out front and tend to your customers so you can have a moment. We all need one now and then.”

She stands and moves her purse from the stool into my little office.

“Thank you, Mom,” I say softly.

She glances back over her shoulder at me. “I love you, Laura. Go check your cinnamon rolls. They smell like they might be burning, and you don’t want to ruin your streak.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Jesse

That Tuesday,after five and a half weeks, Moe returns with zero fanfare. I arrive at the shop in the morning, all ready to open, and there he is polishing the counter. “Hi,” he says simply. He hasn’t aged a single day since the last time I saw him. I think he’s wearing the exact same red flannel shirt and dark wash jeans.

I, meanwhile, feel like I’ve lived about a thousand lives. And there’s pig snot on my jeans. Fricking Edward.

“Wow. Hi. How was your trip?”

“Eh.” Moe shrugs. “Fishing, you know. Good job here. I knew you could handle it.”

“Thanks.” His faith in me seems unfounded, but I’m weirdly touched anyway.

“You can take the day off, if you want.”

“Oh.” I stick my hands in my pockets and glance around the store. I planned to restock the caulk guns and then dig through the back storage room for Fourth of July decorations.

Moe waves a hand in the air, dismissing me, and turns to the computer. “See you tomorrow.”

I turn on one heel and step back outside.

I shouldn’t be this unhinged. It’s just that my days have become so pleasantly routine. Wake up, feed animals, breakfast with Laura, work, home, dinner with Laura, hot sex with Laura. How am I going to fill this nine-hour Laura-less gap in the middle of the day?

I walk around town for the approximate five minutes it takes to get to the end of Main Street, then turn and walk back. Emma Larson waves as she unlocks the door at Time Enough at Last, a paper bakery bag caught in her teeth. Tourists, all likely staying at the hotel on Elm Street, wend their way past the restaurants and storefronts. There is the Curds This Way Cheese Shop; down that side street is the elementary school and the town library. Have I really lived here long enough that people wave to me as I walk by? People call out greetings, ask me how I liked the fish fry, if Laura and I are going to polka this weekend.

It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

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