Chapter 9
I PULLED UP TO MY PARENTS’ little, red single-story cottage, just a short, winding drive up the mountain from the center of town. A smooth blanket of snow sat like a cloak over the roof, bluish-white under the dusky sky.
A collection of pine trees crowded around the house, the very same trees I’d gotten lost in for hours when I was little, imagining there might be a castle hidden somewhere just beyond the thick forest. I’d never found it, though.
I cut the engine, stepped out of the car, pulled my weekender out from the back, and marched toward the house. My phone pinged. A picture of Poe lounging by the fire from Agnes, who’d agreed to take care of him while I was gone. My chest yearned for Poe’s sweet cuddles and soft purrs.
The front door flung open no sooner than I’d reached the front porch, revealing my dad with a few more wrinkles and a little less hair than when I’d last seen him. How had that happened?
“Hi, honey.” He beamed, beckoning me in for a hug.
“Hey, Dad.”
I stepped inside, the familiar scent of my parents’ home instantly hitting me: a mixture of Pine-Sol and firewood.
“Is that my Jane I hear?” my mom called from the kitchen.
“It sure is,” I said.
She rounded the corner, wearing an apron and a smile stretching from ear to ear as she opened her arms wide. She looked smaller than I remembered. Frailer.
“Happy almost-birthday, Mom,” I mumbled into her short silver hair.
“Oh, sweetie, we’ve missed you.”
We made our way into the living room, just off to the left of the entrance.
The same lumpy white-and-green plaid couch sat before me, with its smaller matching armchairs placed on each side.
A cozy fire rumbled in the corner, right by the old, bulky television set that teenagers today would refer to as “vintage.”
“How was your flight?” Dad asked as I dropped my bag and collapsed into my old seat by the fireplace, falling right into the formation of years past.
“Oh, you know. Fine.”
“Well, you came just in time. Dinner’s almost ready.” Mom beamed. “I thought we’d have your favorite—chicken macaroni casserole.”
“Sounds perfect to me.”
I smiled to myself. I’d mentioned liking chicken macaroni casserole in high school once, mostly as a bid to keep her from making meatloaf again.
She had taken that to mean I simply couldn’t do without it and made it for me every time I’d visited home since leaving for college.
Five years later, chicken macaroni casserole was still my homecoming meal in Cathy Caldwell’s book.
“Can I get you anything? Water?” she asked as she moved for the kitchen.
“No, I’ll wait.”
At the sound of the oven’s beep, she hurried off. Dad’s tired eyes met mine as he sat down, letting out an old man grunt in the process.
“She’s really glad you’re here.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He glanced conspiratorially over his shoulder toward the kitchen.
After confirming she was out of earshot, he turned back to me and whispered, “I don’t want her to hear what I’ve planned for tomorrow.
But I reserved a table at Jack’s for a ladies’ brunch.
Sue and Evelyn will meet you both there and surprise her. ”
Sue and Evelyn were Mom’s oldest friends. They were generally sweet, though they tended to be the Avila Falls busybodies. If there was ever any news you wanted to be spread around town within a day, Sue and Evelyn were your ladies.
“Then I’ll meet up with you both, and we can take her to see a movie at the Cedar Cinemas. For dinner, I thought we could go to Los Caballeros.” The family-owned Mexican restaurant in Avila Falls was where an endless stream of high schoolers from Avila High had gotten their first job.
“All sounds great.”
Dad gave a satisfied nod, confirming that he, too, thought he had done a wonderful job planning Mom’s birthday celebration.
“Dinner is served!” Mom called.
“It smells great,” I remarked as I moved into the kitchen.
Cream linoleum floor, oak cabinets, and appliances that had seen better days greeted me, just as they had thousands of times before.
The table was set simply, as Mom’s table always was, with the bright yellow dinner plates she’d found at half price and the emerald water glasses that my grandmother had given us. Even the paper napkins were the same brand she’d always bought.
“Get it while it’s hot!” She ushered us toward the table.
We sat, taking turns serving ourselves a helping of chicken casserole, asparagus, and a roll. My stomach grumbled shamelessly.
I picked up my fork to dig in when my parents’ hands stretched out to hold mine. I peered up. Their eyes were closed, awaiting my grasp. I quickly dropped my fork and grabbed their hands.
As I watched them, I realized I hadn’t prayed before a meal in years.
Dad began, “Dear Lord, thank you for this day. Thank you for our wonderful daughter, Jane, who is here with us tonight. Bless our conversation as we share this meal. In your name. Amen.”
I stabbed a piece of chicken and inhaled it. Mom had never been much of a natural cook, but tonight, this chicken hit the spot. Maybe because I’d been running on only half of a bone-dry, nine-dollar bran muffin from JFK.
“Say, why did the asparagus start gardening?” Dad asked, holding up a spear of asparagus on his fork. His eyes twinkled—the look he always got when he told one of his jokes.
“Why, Dad?” I humored him. Mom leaned forward, readying herself for the punchline.
“Because it wanted to connect with its roots.” He winked and popped the asparagus in his mouth. We awarded him with a giggle.
My phone buzzed. The Caldwells had a relatively strict no-phones policy at the table, but I snuck a small peek anyway. I couldn’t risk missing an important notification.
Indeed, it was something time sensitive: a Google calendar reminder for my first meeting with Liv, which was set to begin in an hour. I frowned. How had I forgotten about that?
Dad eyed my phone. “Something the matter?”
“Just a work meeting I have tonight. I completely spaced it.”
“What’s it for?” Mom asked as she broke her roll in half.
“It’s a, uh, memoir I’m writing. Not for myself, obviously. I’m writing it for Olivia Carter. And we have to talk tonight.”
“Olivia . . . ?” She furrowed her brows.
“Olivia Carter. The singer? She sang that one song, you know, ‘I’ll Be Your Juliet.’”
“Is she a friend of yours?” Mom asked. I let out an involuntary chortle. My parents froze, staring at me questioningly.
“What? No. You haven’t heard of her?”
Mom shook her head. I glanced at Dad only to be met with the same response. How in the world had my parents missed this memo?
“She’s huge right now.”
“Oh, well, that’s nice.” Mom smiled.
“Sounds like they’re giving you good projects,” Dad chimed in.
That was one word for it. But how many more “good projects” would it be until they would let me publish my own book? I shook away the cynical thoughts and sliced a spear of asparagus in half with the side of my fork.
“Do they ever let you pick your own people?” Mom wondered.
“What do you mean, my ‘own people’?”
“To write books for?”
“I haven’t asked. But probably not.” Where was she going with this?
“Well, I ask because your father and I like this show, To Serve and Protect. It’s so good, isn’t it, honey?”
Dad nodded animatedly. “Very good. That is quality television right there.”
She continued, “The lead girl in it plays a young detective. Pretty girl, very good actress. Maybe you should write a book for her.”
My parents had a penchant for picking a new network procedural show to watch every year. Doctor shows were fine in their book, but cop shows were the definition of excellent dramatic entertainment.
“Maybe,” I said. There was no explaining to them that I had no control over which memoir assignment landed in my inbox, no articulating the prominence of the people Carmichael chose to take on as clients.
Still, it was clear they were doing their best to connect in the way they knew how.
And I chose to take a little bit of pride in the thought that they would want me to write a memoir for one of the few actresses they knew, even if she wasn’t Carmichael material.
We munched in silence for a few moments.
“Do you remember Linda, my old coworker?” Mom asked.
Despite retiring a year and a half ago, Mom still kept up with her work friends from Saint Teresa’s Hospital. Linda was a sweet, motherly woman who would give me a lollipop anytime I stopped by as a kid.
“Of course I remember her.”
“Her daughter is a singer too. Writes really pretty songs. She performed at the Avila Falls Fair last year. She says she’s moving out to Nashville any day now. Maybe you can connect her with this Olivia girl.” Mom grinned, verifying that she had no idea who Liv was. I hid my amusement this time.
“Olivia’s pretty busy, but I’ll see what I can do.” I took a sip of water. Another bout of silence ensued. I searched for a way to fill it.
“So, Dad, how are things at the market?”
“They’re good, but we need another few hires. Young ones. Some of those high schoolers. Those boxes are just getting too heavy for me.” He took another bite of chicken.
Dad had been the manager at Dawson’s Market from the time I could remember. Once the young, strong, go-to guy who could restock any shelf, he had started relying more heavily on the teenage stock boys over the last few years.
How much longer before he won’t be able to stock any shelves at all?
“If you ever want an assistant manager position, it’s always open.
I’ll fire Al right away.” A little flash of his eyebrows let me know that he was at least half joking.
But I also knew him well enough to recognize the undercurrent of truth.
My parents hadn’t exactly hidden their desire for me to move back to Avila Falls over the years.
“Didn’t you mention you were writing your own book? A novel?”
I put down my fork and looked at Mom. Had I heard her correctly? She peered back at me with soft eyes.
She hadn’t ever asked about my book before. Anything I’d ever told her about it had been initiated by me and me alone—a truth that stung. I’d resolved not to even bring it up on this trip, deciding it wasn’t worth the heartache it would cause.
And here she was, asking to know more about it. She was trying.
The only problem was that I had nothing to tell her. There wasn’t any news on it, no updates, no happenings. My mind flooded with a strange combination of gratitude and gloom. I’d spent years longing for her to ask about my book. But I wished she hadn’t asked tonight.
“I did, yeah.”
“How is that going?”
A follow-up question too? What had gotten into her? I fought to keep my expression neutral. The alternative being letting my jaw hang open.
“It’s, uh, it’s . . . good,” I squeaked. “It sounds like they might be taking a look at the manuscript soon.”
It was possible that I was stretching the truth. Still, I clung to whatever hope I could muster. Maybe they would.