Bittersweet Homecoming (28 page)

“Sounds like you’ll be busy for the next five years,” I quip.

“Just in time for your next visit,” she counters.

I take a sip of my wine. “You’re hilarious, Em.”

Anthony sticks close to my elbow during the party except to get food. “There are some tasty morsels here, and I don’t just mean the food,” he remarks when he returns with a plate stacked high with snacks. “We need more Lumbersexuals in LA.”

I’m about to warn him not to fall for a local when I notice the graphic on the plate under the stuffed mushroom caps and cherry tomatoes. It’s the logo from Charlotte’s bar. “Where did you get that?”

“By the giant stack of paint cans,” he says, nodding his head toward a back corner of the store. “Your sister ordered quite the spread. I guess Midwesterners actually eat at parties.”

I spot a collapsible table set up near the painting supplies at the rear of the store. I haven’t had a chance to wander that deep into the room yet. A woman in a cap-sleeve dress stands behind the table, carefully arranging finger-foods and bite-sized desserts on elevated serving dishes. Her blonde hair is tied up in a bun, accentuating her high, chiseled cheekbones. A denim apron with the logo for Roundtree’s Bar & Grill protects her clothes and cinches her lithe waist.

“You told me she wouldn’t show up,” I hiss in my sister’s direction, “but she’s the damn caterer.”

Emily shrugs, unaffected by the venom in my voice. “I never said she wouldn’t be here. I said she wasn’t on the guest list.”

“You knew what I meant! Why the hell would you do this to me?” I lament.

“Because I love you, Abs. And sometimes you need to get out of your own damn way.”

Anthony looks puzzled. “What did I miss?”

Emily and I speak at the same time: “Charlotte.”

“Where?” he gasps. He stands on his tiptoes and cranes his neck to see over the partygoers. “Oh, this ought to be good.”

Despite the room’s moderate temperature, I can feel my body begin to overheat. I don’t know what to do or say, but the store is too small and there are not enough people at the party to avoid her the entire night. I can either walk out the front door and pretend like I never saw her, or I can be brave and finally confront her.

Emily nudges me in the rib cage. “Go talk to her,” she urges.

“Why?”

She rolls her eyes. “Because you like her, duh.”

“And if you don’t,” Anthony piles on. “
I
will.”

“Okay, okay.”

I drink down the remaining wine in my glass, but it’s not nearly enough to give me a false sense of bravado. I shake out my hands at my sides. This isn’t the organic reunion I was looking for, but I can’t let this opportunity pass me by.

Charlotte’s focused on re-stocking food and doesn’t look up when I stop in front of her. The scent of warm food co-mingles with the hardware store’s natural perfume. I stand for a moment with the food table between us and watch her at work. She plucks lollipop drumsticks from rectangular metal trays and arranges the food on the serving plate. I’m transfixed by her fingers, long and tan.

She’s beautiful—even more so than the mental picture engrained in my head. I want to kiss her red mouth and make her forget about all the shitty things I’ve done.

Finally, I clear my throat. “Hi.”

“Is there something I can get you?” She still doesn’t look up. Other guests reach around me and grab the complimentary offerings nearly as quickly as she can lay them out.

I rub at the back of my neck. “I’m hearing rave reviews about the food, so I had to check it out for myself. Are those mini quiche?”

When she eventually looks up, her features reveal her surprise. She looks a little like a deer in headlights, and I can’t blame her; I’m feeling the very same way.

She ignores my compliment and question: “Emily told me you weren’t coming back for the party.”

“Yeah, there seems to be a lot of subterfuge happening,” I note wryly. “I think she’s trying to play matchmaker.”

I steal a glance in Emily’s direction, but she’s currently involved in an animated conversation with Anthony and doesn’t seem to notice me, or else she’s doing a good job of pretending like she’s not watching us.

“Why didn’t
you
tell me?” Charlotte asks.

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to complicate things, I guess. I’d just barely extended the olive branch.”

She nods, understanding. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks.” I absentmindedly touch the hemline of my outfit. It’s a blue cotton halter dress with a skinny orange belt at the waist. Anthony told me the color compliments my dark chestnut hair, and I trust his judgment more than my own. “It’s probably a little much for a hardware store re-opening, but it’s kind of fun to get dolled up sometimes.”

“It looks good.”

“You’re the one with legs born for skirts,” I feel compelled to add.

Her hazel gaze falters, and she looks away.

“Um, how about those Twins? Think they’ll win the division?” I clear my throat. “I just mean ... you look really nice, too.”

“I’m a sweaty mess. I’ve been cooking all day.” She brushes a few chunks of hair that have fallen out of her bun away from her face.

“The spread is impressive,” I compliment. “I haven’t eaten yet, but it all looks really good.”

“You should fix yourself a plate,” she suggests. “Emily’s paid the bill.”

I exhale, long and low. We’re conversing civilly, which is encouraging, but she may just not want to make a scene in front of half the town.

“How long are you in town for?” she asks as she begins to make a plate for me, piling it high with deep-fried foods.

“My flight’s tomorrow afternoon.”

I notice the hitch in her movements when she hears my answer. She licks her lips and nods, but doesn’t say a word.

“I don’t have to,” I blurt out. “I mean, I could always postpone it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I just thought that maybe … maybe we could spend some time together.”

“Do you have writer’s block?”

I know what she’s referring to, but I’m not going to let her derail my efforts. I know there’s something greater than bad blood between us. “No. I want to spend time with you.”

“For how long?”

I stare at her with intent. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Pretty words from the writer.”

“Charlotte …” I’ve run out of those pretty words.

She makes a disgruntled noise and unties her apron strings. “We should talk about this someplace else. People are starting to stare.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well,
I
do,” she says sharply. She removes her apron and discards the garment on the buffet table. “I have to live in this town, and I’d rather not be the center of another gossip tornado.”

There’s a room in the back of the hardware store that serves as my dad’s office. It was also Emily’s and my playroom growing up. The scent of wood and oil and nails is even more pronounced in the little room. It looks untouched by Emily’s upgrades.

I close the door behind me to give us more privacy. Charlotte walks to the center of the room and turns on her heel to face me as the door clicks shut.

“You never called,” she says in a voice more matter-of-fact than accusatory. “You write a play about Amelia, you track me down at the bar, and then you never call. Until today,” she snorts, “when you’re actually in town.”

I grimace at the truth in her words. “Would you believe me if I said I lost your number?”

“I don’t think it really matters if I believe you or not anymore.”

Beyond the thin door the muffled sounds of the gathering continue. I wonder if Emily or Anthony has noticed we’ve disappeared.

“I got your letter.”

She sighs loudly and her fingers grip the front of her hair near her forehead. “That was dumb of me,” she speaks to the ceiling. “I wanted to take it back as soon as I sent it, but my arms weren’t long enough to get it out of the mailbox.”

“I wrote you a letter every day I was back in California,” I admit. “I wanted to send them so badly.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I guess I didn’t see the point. I was in California, and you were here, hating my guts.”

“I didn’t hate your guts,” she’s quick to rectify. “I was confused. And hurt.”

“I’m so very, very sorry, Charlotte,” I say with devoted sincerity. “I’ll apologize until the end of days if that’s what it takes.”

“I don’t want more apologies.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Something you can’t give me.”

Her words cause my stomach to stir uncomfortably. “What makes you say that?” I don’t wait for her answer because I know what she’ll say. She won’t do long distance, and she’s not going to move. “I really like you, Charlotte. A lot. You’re smart and funny, and not to mention, sexy as hell.”

“I’m also a single mom,” she adds.

“I know. And I adore Amelia.” I latch onto her hands. I’ve gone long enough without touching her. I’m encouraged when she doesn’t pull away. “I think we could be good together.”

“Nothing has changed, Abby. I’m too old to do long distance, and I’ve already told you I’m not leaving Grand Marais,” she sternly insists. “Amelia’s got enough to deal with without me ripping her away from her home.”

“I’m not asking you to. I can write anywhere.”

“You’d really want to leave your glamorous life in California for the chance to date a single mom?” She looks unconvinced.

“She’s not just any single mom,” I boast. “She happens to be a successful business owner who makes the best scrambled eggs and brandy Old Fashioneds in town.”

My attempt at levity is lost on her. “Grand Marais is too small for you,” she says with a shake of her head. “It’ll never last.”

“Maybe I don’t live in Grand Marais. Not right away, at least.” I hadn’t seriously considered a move before, but now that the words are out, it doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. Los Angeles was never a forever city for me. “Maybe I have a place in Duluth or the Twin Cities, and we see each other whenever we want. Give it a chance, Charlotte,” I implore. At this point I’m not above begging. The phone call was important, but seeing her again, in the flesh, has solidified how much I want to be with her. “Give
me
a chance.”

She tucks her lower lip into her mouth, and my heart feels like it’s stilled in my chest as I wait for her answer.

EPILOGUE

ACT 4

Scene 1

SETTING:                            A high school football game in                                                                       small town America. It’s near                                                                       dusk, but the stadium lights                                                                                     haven’t turned on yet. The sky is                                                         filled with light pinks and                                                                                     purples.

AT RISE:                            ABIGAIL HENRY and EMILY HARVESTER                                                         sit together on metal bleachers.                                                         Before them the local high school                                                         football team competes in a match                                                         against a rival city’s team. A line                                                         of cheerleaders shout out practiced                                                         routines and other fans sitting                                                                       around ABIGAIL and EMILY root on                                                         the local team.

Emily and I don’t know any of the kids on the field, but that doesn’t dampen our exuberant cheers. It’s nearly halftime and the Cook County Vikings are up by a touchdown.

“How’s business these days?” I ask.

Despite my earlier misgivings about Emily becoming partner in my dad’s business, it’s actually been going really well. It’s kind of a relief actually. Now my dad might actually consider retiring one day, and the business will stay in the family for at least another generation.

“Really great.” Her head bobs with enthusiasm. “Dad’s finally figured out the new cash register.”

“Only took him two months,” I remark with a chuckle. “I’m impressed.”

The hard metal of football bleachers vibrates beneath us each time someone climbs up them. More than a few people stop to say hi and most at least make purposeful eye contact and say hello on their way to their respective seats.

“We’ve got a big job coming up,” she notes. “The sports boosters want a new concession stand with heat. Are you interested in a little part-time work?”

“You don’t want to trust me with power tools.” I shake my head and laugh. “Besides, I’m actually getting some good work done on my new play.”

“What are you working on right now?”

“A love story.”

“Does it have a happy ending?”

I stare at a leggy blonde in light blue skinny jeans climbing up the bleachers, her hands occupied with two Styrofoam cups. The polished brass buttons on her fitted army green jacket gleam under the fading sun. She’s wearing a scarf that my grandmother made me; it looks better on her.

“That remains to be seen.”

Charlotte sits beside me and passes one of the cups to Emily and the other to me.

Emily sniffs the contents of the Styrofoam cup. “Did you put booze in this?”

“I’m a bartender, aren’t I?”

“Drinking on school property?” Emily’s voice lowers sternly. “Abby, keep your girlfriend in line. She’s gonna get us all in trouble.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure she does what she wants.”

Charlotte leans towards me and nuzzles her nose against mine. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As happy as I am, I can’t help feeling guilty that I’ve got Charlotte, but Emily no longer has Adam. The three of us hang out a lot when I’m in town, and we do our best not to make Emily feel like a third wheel. The prospective suitors in Grand Marais are lacking, but I’m always on the lookout when I’m in Duluth.