Page 87 of Of Literature and Lattes
“What?” Janet sat straight.
“She dumps on you—pick either ‘she’ you want—and you dump on me. I get that you’re safe for them, so they launch on you, and I like that I’m safe for you. But I’m not your punching bag. How can you not see this? What was it this time? Her apartment? Or pick the other. Her stomach? Her job? Her FBI work?”
Janet stilled. She felt as if threads were unraveling before her eyes, straightening, untangling, clarifying. “Yes.”
“Well, she needs to figure it out. You both do. And no, she’s not moving in with me, so don’t ask again. I gave that mattress away last week and I’m not buying another. Neither are you.” He stood and faced her. “This has gone on long enough. Let me know when you either come to your senses or you’ve canceled our appointment with Pastor Zach. And you’d better let Lexi know. She’s put a lot of work into next Tuesday.”
With that, Seth walked away.
Janet sat and stared after him.
Ryan lifted a hand in greeting but, noticing Seth’s tight expression, lowered it as quickly. Seth was striding across the street, head down, aiming for his car. Ryan was sure he hadn’t seen him and felt grateful he hadn’t—just by raising his hand he suspected he had intruded on a private and unpleasant moment.
He glanced back to the bench where Seth had been sitting with his ex-wife, the blonde who worked at the bookshop. Her expression was nothing like his. He was thunder. She was thunderstruck.
And both reminded him of Jeremy. He had sported Janet’s amazed, slightly befuddled look for almost a week—until today, when he darkened into Seth’s.
Ryan looked back to the counter. Jeremy stood talking with a customer. He was saying all the right words, but his expression still looked grim. It had been that way since he’d come back from dropping Becca off at Krista’s with a piece of paper crumpled in his fist and the news that he wasn’t Becca’s dad.
“You are her dad.” Ryan had shoved the paper back into Jeremy’s hands. “No matter what that says, you’re the one around. What do you think makes a dad, anyway? Not that paper.”
“The court won’t see it that way.”
“Forget the court!” Ryan had yelled—not because he was angry, but because he was afraid. He knew what it felt like to lose everything, and his friend had come close too many times. “Forget Krista. They don’t matter here. Becca’s is the only opinion that matters, and to her, you are Dad.”
That had gotten a near smile from Jeremy, for only a second. Within the next beat, defeat draped over him again like a curtain. Krista’s constant calling didn’t help. At least ten times Ryan saw Jeremy click Decline when her ringtone sounded. The fact that Becca’s picture was the one that flashed when it rang probably made it all the more painful. Jeremy had finally turned the ringer off and thrown the phone into his desk drawer.
Ryan had also overheard him talking to Madeline this afternoon at the shop’s side counter. Although he didn’t hear the whole conversation, the body language conveyed enough—as did the few words he caught.
“I’m very sorry, Jeremy. If there’s anything I can do, let me know... Is there anything you want to do?”
“Nothing,” he’d said to her. “Nothing at all.”
“Are you open tonight?” An older man paused in front of Ryan.
Ryan realized he was blocking the door and stepped aside. “Yes. I was watching everyone in the square, sorry. Please come in.”
George Williams nodded to the young man and headed toward the counter. Color caught in his periphery. Something was different...
Ah... He stopped. He smiled. He savored the sight. The pillows.
He’d have to tell— George stalled. She wasn’t waiting at home. She wasn’t putzing in the kitchen or searching for her readers, which were invariably resting on top of her head. She wasn’t calling the kids and gently pestering them for a visit or the latest news. How long would sharing something with Margery be his first reaction? His first desire? He breathed deep and, for the first time in too long, felt true pleasure and peace in the action. Probably until my last breath, he thought.
It had been one week since Margery’s service, and this was his first time out and about. Everything felt new and raw—exposed to the air and too blistered to heal. It wasn’t as if Margery had been able to accompany him to the coffee shop for months before her death, but the fact that she never would again, and that she wasn’t home for him to tell her who he saw, who he talked to, and what was going on, felt foreign and wrong. He didn’t like this new world he woke up to every morning. He also wondered if he’d ever get used to its silence. But he did like remembering her. Small moments were beginning to come back to him through the pain, and he cherished each one.
Not that, with the kids around, he had many opportunities for those silent savorings. They chattered constantly. But the noise felt different now. As much as he loved them, their comments and musings never reached that corner of his heart he’d reserved over sixty-five years ago for Margery alone.
Three of the kids had gone home. They had work, and their kids had either jobs and babies or, if they were younger, sports camps and internships. Three still remained. Michael, Devon, and Bella hovered. He imagined them right now, sitting around his kitchen table checking their watches and discussing how long they should leave him alone, who was going to come look for him when darkness descended, and what kind, bolstering, and consoling words they’d say when they found him.
He couldn’t blame them. He even appreciated their efforts. After all, they were grieving too, and to fake such chipperness took energy. They loved him; they wanted to protect him. But protect me from what? he asked himself. Life?
Because that’s what this was. At eighty-one, this was life.
“George, it’s good to see you.” Jeremy nodded to him as he reached the front of the line.
George pointed out into the shop. He felt, then saw, his own hand shake. That was new too. Perhaps sleep will help, he consoled himself. He had gotten little in the last few weeks. That too was hard alone. “I like the pillows.”
Jeremy smiled, but it wasn’t the happy smile of victory or the smooth smile of peace George expected. Andante was busy tonight. The young man should be pleased. But there was something empty about his expression and his smile that, oddly, mirrored George’s own loss.
