Bittersweet Homecoming (21 page)

“Did you make bread, too?” I wonder.

“The bread maker wasn’t really broken.”

“You’re kind of creeping me out.”

“Sometimes things have to fall apart completely before they can be put back together.”

“Are we still talking about the toaster?”

“I could always put those things back together,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But I wasn’t ready to.”

“What changed?”

“I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself,” she says. “It’s time to go on living my life. Adam would have wanted me to.”

A small smile plays at my lips. “That’s really great, Em.”

I’m happy for her, naturally, but I can’t help but have my misgivings. Is it too soon? Is she forcing it? Will she have a setback that will only plunge her back into depression? She’s always been practical. I’m sure processing and dealing with all of these emotions has been disorienting for her. Full-steam ahead is her comfort zone.

I sit at a stool at the kitchen island. “Have you made plans for your life beyond fixing Dad’s stuff and making breakfast?”

“I can’t go back to Duluth. There’s nothing there for me except for an apartment full of memories.”

“What about your job?”

“It was just a job,” she says. “I never really liked it. It paid the bills, nothing more.”

I lay my hands flat on the counter’s surface. “Okay, no Duluth, no insurance underwriting. What are you going to do instead?”

“I thought I’d fix up the apartment over Dad’s store. I could help him out until I figure out the next step.”

“So your grand plan is to live above the hardware store and stay in Grand Marais? That doesn’t sound like moving on, Em. That sounds like going back in time.”

“Dad’s renting a truck this weekend and we’re going to Duluth to pick up my stuff and bring it back here. Do you want to come with us? It could be a Henry Family road trip.”

“It’s like college all over again,” I remark.

“If you have something to say to me, Abby,” she states sharply, “go ahead and say it.”

“Is this really home anymore? Isn’t Duluth where you and Adam built a life? Your job? Your friends?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You said it yourself—you’ve never been in love.”

“I never said that,” I protest. “I’ve loved before.”

“Try going back to a place where everything reminds you of your dead husband,” she snips. “And all of our friends were Adam’s friends. I can’t go back to all those sad faces, to all those people who’ll only ever see me as Adam’s widow. At least in Grand Marais I have an identity. I was Emily Henry before I was Emily Harvester.”

“You’ve put some thought into this.”

She nods somberly. “I’ve had nothing but time.”

“I need to get back to my life, too,” I think out loud. “I should probably book a flight.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re in Los Angeles,” Emily says. “I know you like living in big cities, but LA seems excessive.”

I reach for the toast from the oven and take a bite. “I have my reasons.”

+ + +

The day before my return flight to Los Angeles, I drive out to the beach. It’s a beautiful, cloudless day and I know I’ll find Charlotte’s Jeep parked along the highway. I spot Amelia in the water. Her head is a tiny blonde speck on the horizon, bobbing up and down in water that reaches her neck.

Gusts of wind ruffle my hair as I cautiously pick my way down a sand dune. Green shoots of dune grass stick up through the compact sand. The edges of the blades of grass are sharp and they knick my feet.

Charlotte sits in the center of a beach blanket on the shoreline. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun, and a long white tank top covers a deep blue bikini. Her head is tilted down, eyes focused on the book in her lap.

The sound of waves knocking against the shoreline and the squealing cry of seagulls is too loud, and she doesn’t notice or hear my approach until I’m standing in front of her and my body casts a long shadow across her blanket.

She doesn’t say anything, but the deep frown on her beautiful face lets me know she isn’t pleased to see me.

“Amelia!” she suddenly calls out. Her voice is so loud and so unexpected, it makes me flinch. “Pick up your stuff; we’re heading back in.”

“Wait. Don’t. I’m not staying,” I say. “I didn’t come out here to ruin your day.”

Her eyes are hidden behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses. “Then why did you come out here?”

“I’m going back to California tomorrow, but I wanted you to have something before I left.” I reach inside my canvas bag and pull out a flimsy cardboard box used to store a ream of computer paper.

She takes the box from me, but her forehead is lined with confusion. “I don’t need printer paper. I don’t have a computer.”

“I know.”

“What is this?” she asks. She turns the box over in her hands, but doesn’t open it.

“An apology.”

I leave without looking back or another word of explanation. I’ve got to get back to my life, and she doesn’t follow. I consider it a miracle that she actually took the box. What she does with it later though, I’ll never know.

+ + +

My return flight to Los Angeles is over two weeks after coming back to Grand Marais for Adam’s funeral. During that time, I’ve witnessed my sister’s personal dismantling like one of those electronic gadgets she took apart. She gave the impression that she was starting to heal, but only time will reveal if she would ever be the same. One can repair a broken mirror, but you can still see the cracks.

I had not been untouched or unaffected by this trip either. Being back in my hometown reconnected me with my family and my dear friend Julie, but it had done so much more than that.

My dad and sister see me off as far as Duluth where they’re going to rent a moving truck and bring Emily’s belongings back to Grand Marais. My sister was serious about removing herself from the city where she and Adam had gone to college and had begun to build a life together. I make the rest of the trip to the Minneapolis airport on my own.

My workbag digs into my shoulder as I wait in the long security line at the airport. The line creeps forward slowly, one passenger at a time. In a few short hours I’ll be back in Los Angeles and back to my life.

There’s the white noise din of other people’s conversations happening around me, the periodic announcements about flight delays and departures, but somehow above the noise, I hear someone calling my name: “Abby! Abigail Henry!”

I twist and turn my head this way and that to look for the voice’s source until I see
her
across the airport atrium. It’s Charlotte. Charlotte Johansson is standing on a crowded staircase in the Minneapolis Airport. Her long blonde hair falls in a wavy cascade down her shoulders. She wears a long tank top and loose flowing skirt that reaches just below her knees. The strap of a knit messenger bag crosses her chest. Her features are pinched in concern as she scans the security line.

It’s like I’m starring in my very own romantic melodrama.

ACT 2

Scene 3

SETTING:                                           At the Minneapolis-St. Paul                                                                                     International Airport.

AT RISE:                                           ABIGAIL HENRY waits in a long                                                                       line to get through airport                                                                                     security. CHARLOTTE JOHANSSON                                                                       shoulders her way through the                                                                       crowds.

                                          (The two women walk purposefully

                                          toward each other. Their smiles

                                          grow bigger the closer they get.)

CHARLOTTE

I can’t let you leave like this.

ABIGAIL

Then don’t let me leave. Or better yet, come with me.

                                          Dramatic music swells as the two women                                           embrace. Fade to black.

How many romantic comedies have ended in that very way? But my life isn’t the movies. It’s not one of my plays either.

I apologize to the passengers around me and duck beneath the black, retractable line corral. “Excuse me. Sorry.”

The airport is crowded and other travelers knock into my shoulders as I try to weave through the people. My luggage makes it harder to maneuver. Charlotte still hasn’t spotted me moving through the crowds and I’m tempted to call out to her, but I don’t trust my voice to make it to her ears.

The concerned look on her face relaxes when she sees me climbing the stairs with haste. But then her features unexpectedly harden and sour. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a thick stack of papers. I barely have time to recognize it as the text from my play before she’s shoving the manuscript into my chest. The wind is nearly knocked out of me from the force behind it.

“Is this supposed to be about me?” she demands.

My hands curl around the papers’ edges, and I feel the bite of a dozen little paper-cuts on my palms and fingers. “It’s not entirely about you, but I was certainly inspired.”

“Do you do this a lot? Fuck people and then use their life story to get more famous?”

“I don’t—I’m not—” I sputter. “I wasn’t going to publish it. I wrote it for you.”

I return the stack of papers to her, pressing the script more delicately than she had into her chest. “Take it, please.”

“I don’t want it, Abby,” she protests. “I don’t want any of it.”

“Then why are you here?” I softly implore. “Why did you drive four and a half hours on the off-chance that you’d catch me before I went through airport security?”

“To throw these papers in your face.”

“Well, you’ve done that,” I say. “Now what?”

“Now I go back to Grand Marais.”

“How about a vacation instead?” I know I’m pushing my luck. “You’re already here, and I’m betting Amelia is with your parents. Why don’t you come to LA with me? And if LA doesn’t sound fun, we can go anywhere you want.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she dismisses me without hesitation. “Even if I forgave you—which I definitely do not—I couldn’t do that.”

“If you’re worried about the money, don’t. I’ve got frequent flyer miles I can cash in. Don’t say no. Don’t over think this, please.”

“It’s not that simple,” she shakes her head. “There’s payroll to do, and truck deliveries to supervise, and the Gustafsons are coming in for a tasting for their fortieth wedding anniversary that we’re catering,” she lists off. Her shoulders slump a little more from the weight of it.

“That’s a lot of duties for a bartender,” I innocently remark. “I hope the Roundtrees are paying you well.”

“The Roundtrees don’t pay me anything.” Her eyebrows bunch together. “I don’t work at the bar, Abby. I
own
the bar.”

“Oh, I-I didn’t know.”

The anger and indignation returns. “You just assumed I’d come running after you—the Big Shot Writer. A girl like me would be lucky to get a girl like you, right? Well I won’t be your charity case, Abby. You don’t have to save me because I don’t need saving.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“I like Grand Marais just fine,” she snaps.

There’s no time for me to formulate my defense because after her rant, Charlotte immediately hustles away, escaping and becoming just another body on her way to a new destination. I can’t even watch her leave because she blends into the crowds so well that she disappears. She has no cell phone, so I can’t even call or text her to give me another chance to explain. There’s nothing left for me to do but go through security and board my plane.

The security line has more than doubled since I left it. I won’t miss my flight, but I’m sure this is some kind of karmic justice. A forced smile is on my lips when I hand the TSA agent my license and boarding pass.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I don’t know what to expect when I get back to Los Angeles, specifically the condition of my apartment. Kambria’s not the first girlfriend with a key to my place to have ended with an ugly breakup, and experience tells me to expect the worst.

When I open my front door, I breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s clear that Kambria has been by to pick up her things, but everything else is unaltered. Most importantly, my houseplants are alive and well.

Claire’s voice is directly behind me. “It looks empty in here.”

“Kambria had a lot of stuff.”

“Yeah, next time you and a girlfriend split up, give me a little heads up. I came to water the plants and thought you’d been robbed.”

I’m too tired to put up a fight. “Sure thing,” I agree. My one-hour layover in Denver turned into three, and I hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane to Los Angeles thanks to the seat kicker in the row behind me. I’d considered it karmic retribution for my bad behavior in Grand Marais.  

“So what happened out there?” she asks me.

I had called Claire for a ride from the airport, but I’d left out most of the details about my extended visit.

“Nothing good.”

Claire frowns. “Do you regret going back for the funeral?”