Bittersweet Homecoming (25 page)

I wasn’t supposed to have feelings for you. You were leaving for California, and I thought we could have some fun and that would be the end of it. But when I found out you’d had a girlfriend the entire time, it hurt all over, and I hated you for that. It made me realize that I felt something for you; it’s been a really long time since that’s happened. It gave me hope that maybe I wasn’t completely broken.

You can write back or not; I think part of me just needed to write out these thoughts and send them into the world like a message in a bottle.

“Is that a handwritten letter?”

I’d been so focused on Charlotte’s words that I didn’t hear Carlie walk up behind me.

“Yeah.” I quickly fold the letter in half.

“I haven’t seen one of those in years,” she remarks. “It reminds me of having a pen pal in the fourth grade.”

“She’s not much for technology,” I explain.

Carlie makes a humming noise. “Is that the rest of the messy situation you were talking about?”

“Uh huh.”

“What happened?”

She’s asked me that question once before, and on the second time I feel my resolve slipping. I want to talk about this to someone. I need to. And maybe Carlie is the impartial stranger to do that with.

I make a face between a grimace and a grin. “How much time do you have?”

She smiles warmly. “All night.”

Coffee cups are emptied and refilled until we’ve drained the last of the coffee I have in the apartment. We talk all evening and into the morning about relationships past. I tell her about the mess I created with Kambria and Charlotte and she doesn’t judge; she listens. She tells me about her own insecurities with women. She leaves when the sun is just beginning to come up and we hug before she goes out the front door. I don’t think either of us sees a romantic connection with the other, but Anthony had been right about one thing; it feels nice to have someone to talk to.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

One of the benefits about being a full-time writer is getting to make your own schedule. I can sleep for how much or how little my brain and body needs. After Carlie leaves, I sleep for a few hours. When I wake up, I’ve got no place to be and nothing to do, but I’m not quite ready to mentally process everything I’ve been feeling lately. That’s sure to happen the moment I set pen to paper, so I procrastinate on dealing with those emotions for a little while longer. I turn my phone off entirely, not just to vibrate or even to silent, pull a mindless mystery novel off a shelf, and cuddle up on the couch to read.

Very often it’s not the content of the book that brings me peace and resolve, but the simple act of solitary reading. It’s an emotional and mental vacation from the daily grind to acknowledge that I deserve time to myself. I control the pace, and if I want to read another chapter, I do.

My monastic life is short lived, however, when I hear the sound of a key in my front door followed by the clicking of heels.

“So you
are
alive.” It’s Anthony. “I was texting you.”

“I had my phone off.”

Anthony picks up my discarded book from the coffee table like it’s a dirty diaper. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. It’s practically an antique.” He sets the book down and puts his hands on his hips. “Where did you disappear to last night? Did you and the librarian hit it off?”

“Kind of.”

“What happened?” He sits down on the couch with his hands on his knees and leans forward. “I want all the sordid details.”

“I invited her back here for coffee and we talked.”

“You talked?” Anthony is aghast. “That’s it?”

“I told you I wasn’t looking for anything.”

“Kambria came in not too long after you disappeared with your new librarian friend.”

“She’s a barista,” I correct. “And her name is Carlie.”

“I’m still going to call her The Librarian.”

“Did you talk to Kambria at all?” I ask.

“Her mouth was attached to that same redhead’s, so I’m afraid I never got the opportunity.”

“I feel like I should reach out to her and properly apologize,” I think out loud.

“Why? That ship has sailed, honey. It’s time to move on to the next.”

“Did you ever even like her?” I question.

“Not really, but I’d never tell you that when you were in a relationship. She’s a cute little thing, so I understand the attraction, but she was a little dull for me.”

My phone, now on, rings its annoying hip-hop ringtone. “Saved by the bell,” I breathe out. “I should take this. It’s my sister.”

Anthony waves me off.

“Hey.” I’m filled with trepidation. The last time she called when I was in California, it was to tell me that her husband had died. I instantly expect the worst.

“Did you get the invite?”

“I did.” I relax a little bit, but I’m still expecting her to drop some bomb on me.

“What do you think of the new name? We had the hardest time coming up with something for the store. Handyman Henry wouldn’t work anymore, and Henry & Daughter didn’t have the right ring to it.”

“Slow down, Emily. What’s going on over there?”

“We’re re-opening the store.”

“I can see that from the invitation, but why? I didn’t realize it had closed.”

“Dad and I thought it was time for a little rebranding. And we can’t very well keep the Handyman name if I’m going to own half of the business. I’m clearly not a man.”

“Wait.” I sit up straight on the couch. “You’re doing what?”

“I’m investing the insurance money from Adam’s accident into the business. Dad wants to slow down and not work so many hours, and I’ll be picking up the slack.” There’s a hopeful energy in her voice that I haven’t heard in a long time.

“What do you even know about being a handyman? Handyperson,” I correct myself.

“I know how to do things. I’ve watched Dad fix gadgets all of my life. So can you come to the party?”

She continues to talk when I hesitate with my answer. “Is a funeral the only thing that can tear you away from your life in California?”

“Let a girl talk, huh?” I complain. Her passive aggressive question has me annoyed, but more with myself. I had been away from my family for too long before Adam’s funeral.

“What does a person wear to the grand re-opening of a hardware store? Is it black-tie only?” I ask.

“More like business flannel.”

“Well luckily that’s all I have in my wardrobe. Can I bring a friend or is this like a family-only event?”

“A friend or a
girl
friend?” Emily pointedly asks.

“I’m single.”

“For real? Or is this your different-area-code-single like before?”

“Keep it up, and I won’t come.”

“Sorry. I’ll behave.”

She’s being a nag, but I’d rather have this annoying little sister version of herself than the woman who refused to get out of bed.

“Charlotte wrote me a letter,” I reveal. “Like a real letter, not an e-mail.”

“Cursing you out for being a despicable human?”

“Kind of.” It doesn’t really matter the content of the letter. I’d found it to be both hopeful and sad.

“Is this your way of asking me if she’ll be at the party?”

I clear my throat. “Is that ridiculous of me?”

“Yes.”

“Emily—” I start.

“Charlotte Johansson’s not on the guest list,” she cuts me off. “
Now
will you come?”

The news is a relief, but I discover it’s also a disappointment.

I hold my hand over the receiver and turn to my friend. “Hey, Anthony, wanna go hang out with some moose?”

There’s just one more thing I need to do first.

+ + +

ACT 3

Scene 2

SETTING:                                          The café of a bookstore in                                                                                     Bunker Hill.

AT RISE:                                          ABIGAIL HENRY hides behind a                                                                                     book display, regarding an older                                                                       woman who sits by herself at a                                                                       table, reading from a well-worn                                                                       paperback book and sipping hot                                                                       coffee. The woman is unaware of                                                                       her silent audience, but even if                                                                       she had been, she wouldn’t                                                                                     recognize ABIGAIL as her                                                                                                   estranged daughter.

LINDA HENRY

(looking up from her novel)

Can I help you?

ABIGAIL HENRY

(sits down in the chair across from LINDA)

My name is Abigail Henry. I’m your daughter.

I say to her the words I’ve practiced over and over again in the bathroom mirror once I decided I was going to find her.

“Is this some kind of joke?” My mother’s eyes flick around the busy coffee shop like she’s looking for the hidden cameras. Her gaze dashes everywhere except to my face.

“I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”

She finally looks directly at me. “Why?”

“Why?” I echo. I don’t expect her question.
Shouldn’t it be obvious?

“Do you need money or something?” she asks. I see her gaze flick to the floor where her purse resides. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then why have you been looking for the woman who abandoned you over twenty-five years ago?”

When she says the words out loud, it forces me to sit back in my chair.
Twenty-five years
. God, that’s a long time.

“I wanted to see you.”

She continues to stare shrewdly at me. It’s so reminiscent of Emily, it’s eerie.

“I wanted to know who you are,” I try again.

She folds her arms across her chest and repeats her earlier question. “Why?”

Her question bothers me in a way I couldn’t have expected. I stand up so quickly, my chair nearly topples over. It lurches back on its two rear legs, hovering, threatening to fall, before to comes slamming back to the earth. I feel a lot like that chair.

“You’re right,” I grunt out. “This was a mistake and a waste of time.” She hasn’t said those words, but they seem to be hovering in the air around us.

Why?
Why
?! Fuck her.

I grab my bag off the floor and stride purposefully out of the bookstore, moving my legs as fast as they’ll go without breaking into an all-out sprint.

I suck in a deep breath once I get outside. My shoulders, once rigid and proud, now slump forward in defeat. I feel like a fool and I’ve no one with whom to share my embarrassment. I slide my sunglasses over my face to hide the tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks.

“Abigail, wait.”

My head and my heart tell me to keep walking, but my feet disobey their silent command. I stare straight ahead with my chin tilted up. I can feel the coming quiver of my lower lip.

“I’m sorry,” I hear her say. She’s standing in front of me, but my eyes are closed behind the dark lenses of my sunglasses. “You ambushed me. I wasn’t expecting to run into my daughter when I left the house for coffee this morning.”

I suppose that’s fair, but I don’t admit it out loud.

“Can we start over?” she pleads. “Maybe get something to eat?”

I adjust my glasses on my nose, but I don’t remove them. “Why?” The monosyllabic question bubbles up my throat, and by the time it rushes past my lips, it’s become a snarl.

“I’m guessing you went to a lot of trouble to find me.”

She doesn’t know the half of it. I’ve gone through multiple agencies and a handful of investigators who all told me to give up.

“One cup of coffee,” I finally allow.

Her things are still at her table for two, which is where we end up sitting. There’s a small square of paper on the table announcing upcoming events at the bookstore-coffee shop. I fold the paper in half and repeat the motion until the paper is so small and compact that it can no longer be folded. I’m agitated—not the best emotion under which to be entertaining a reunion like this. I wonder if Daniel Hanson suggested a public meeting like this because he knew propriety would force me to keep my emotions in check.

“You have a granddaughter named Emily.”

“How do you—.” My mother cuts herself off and starts again. “You found me; I shouldn’t be surprised that you know about them, too. The name is a coincidence,” she reveals after taking a drink of her coffee. “I had nothing to do with that. I even encouraged Samuel to pick another name, but his wife was stubbornly stuck on the name Emily.”

“Do they know about us?” I ask.

Her manicured fingernails tap against the side of her ceramic mug. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s embarrassing. Besides, how do you even start that conversation? ‘Guess what, Family, I was married before and had two little girls whom I abandoned.’” She shakes her head. “That’s not very flattering.”

“But it would be the truth,” I note.

“If you say a lie enough, it becomes your new truth.”

I visibly flinch, and she apologizes.

“I’m sorry, Abigail. I speak without thinking sometimes.”

I fiddle with the handle of my ceramic coffee mug. “I do that, too.”