Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Betsy
I’m not proud of myself, but I played hooky all day Friday, wandering around town and seeing the sights before heading back home to Nana.
I didn’t want her to know I quit my job on only the third day, the one her best friend had gotten me out of the goodness of her heart. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
To be honest, I mostly spent the day talking myself out of feeling guilty.
I’m not one to jump ship at the drop of a hat.
I can withstand strict bosses or nasty coworkers or even that confused, fish-out-of-water feeling when you’re the new girl in the office.
It’s just that I knew I couldn’t help Silas.
I’d only be a drag on his bottom line, and I could tell the ship was already sinking.
Silas didn’t say it in so many words, but I can read between the lines.
I didn’t have it in me to be another expense for him when I could find a job somewhere else just as easily.
I gave him all the research I got from the mamas in town and then removed myself from the situation.
Nana and I stayed up late playing mahjong, a tile game Nana recently started playing with her elderly friends.
I’m not very good at it, but it was fun to spend time with Nana, just the two of us.
All the other times I’d come to visit as a child, Mom was here, adding an element that usually led to arguments, hard feelings, and a heaviness lingering in the air that didn’t lead to easy conversation.
Nana and I steered clear of any controversial conversation—namely my mother—and we got along just fine.
I wake Saturday morning to the smell of pancakes and bacon. I slide out from the single sheet—the handmade quilt at the foot of the bed is far too warm for summer—and head downstairs, bed head and everything. The stairs creak with every step. I wonder if I could YouTube how to fix them.
“God bless you, Nana,” I announce as I waltz into the kitchen that still has faded wallpaper with alternating lines of colorful flowers and chickens. It’s an eclectic wallpaper I doubt they make any longer.
Nana turns from the stove, her floral apron almost swallowing her whole. “There’s my sleepyhead. Silas has been working you too hard, but I’ve got some vittles here that’ll have you ready to cheer on our Angels!”
The stab of guilt for lying to her wakes me right up. I run my fingers through my hair and help myself to the coffee maker for a fresh cup. “What are we cheering for?”
Nana turns, her face aghast. “It’s football Saturday, darlin’!”
I remember what Silas told me. “Oh, that’s right. College football. It’s not much of a thing on the West Coast.”
Nana goes back to flipping the pancakes. I get out plates from the cabinet. “Well, you’re in the South now. We need to find you some purple and gold gear.”
I study her, realizing she does indeed have a purple sweater on under the apron. Sipping my coffee and waiting patiently for the bacon to be cooked just right, I wander over to the bar area, noticing a stack of mail. A single finger pushes them around enough to see most of them are bills.
“Nana,” I start, setting my coffee down and facing her back. “We didn’t talk about me paying rent while I live here, but I’d like to start helping out with expenses. What do you think is a fair amount on a monthly basis?”
Nana slides our pancakes on the plates and uses the tongs to grab a few slices of bacon for each of us. She turns with the plates and I take one from her, following her to the breakfast table.
She doesn’t answer right away. She gets settled in her chair and bows her head to say a quick prayer over our food and our day. When that’s done, she pours syrup over her two pancakes and hands the little porcelain syrup dish to me.
“Well, now, I don’t know about all that.” She cuts into her pancake with the fork, and then sets it down against her plate with a clink. “There’s something you should know, Betsy Mae.”
I take my first bite of pancake and nearly expire at how good it tastes. I don’t know what it is about home-cooked meals from scratch, but the food I was eating before doesn’t even seem like food compared to this.
“I reverse mortgaged the house last year,” Nana says, finally grabbing my attention away from the pancakes.
I swallow hard. “You what?”
Nana looks guilty as she fiddles around with the food on her plate.
“The roof was bad, Betsy. I had a guy patching it here and there and that worked for a few years, but the whole thing had to be replaced eighteen months ago. Then the pipe near the kitchen sink sprung a leak in the slab and that had to be repaired. The final nail in the coffin was my car breaking down. Needed a whole new transmission!” Nana sounds close to tears.
I shift out of my seat and come around the corner of the table to give her a hug. She pats my arm and sniffles. I’m a terrible granddaughter. I had no idea all this was going on. I bet Mom didn’t either. Hell, even if she did, she didn’t have any extra money to send Nana. She never does.
“I’m so sorry, Nana,” I whisper into her thin white hair that’s already been teased and hair-sprayed to give her a few more inches of height.
Nana pats my arm again. “It’s fine, darlin’. I just did what I had to do, but I’m sorry to say this house isn’t paid for like it was before. If you want to live here after I’m gone, you’ll have a mortgage to pay back.”
I release her and sit back down. A growing sense of panic is waking me up far faster than that cup of coffee. “It’s okay. I don’t expect to be handed anything in this life.”
“Oh, Betsy Mae. I wanted to hand you this house. I really did.” Nana uses the edge of her apron to wipe her eyes. “My social security just doesn’t cover enough for those kinds of repairs.”
My brain is spinning. I moved out here thinking I’d live with Nana, help her in her last years, and then quietly stay in her house when she was gone.
But a reverse mortgage changes things. Is it appropriate to ask how much she mortgaged?
I’ve heard some of these reverse mortgage companies are predatory, talking old people into all kinds of crazy situations like mortgaging the whole thing just for a pot of money now and losing the house altogether once they die.
“It’s okay, Nana,” I say again, though nothing feels okay. I take a bite of my pancake that’s gone cold. It’s still better than anything I ate for breakfast back home.
Oh God. I just quit my job!
The realization makes me nearly choke on the pancake and I have to take a swig of coffee to get the bite down. I shouldn’t have quit the boutique. I desperately need that paycheck now.
“Nana?” I ask in a small voice.
She looks sad as she eats her breakfast. Her blue eyes are watery as she lifts them in my direction.
“How much did you mortgage? I’d like to see if I can start paying that back off again.”
Her gaze flicks to the stack of bills on the counter. “The exact number is in there, but about thirty thousand.”
My eyes widen, even though I told my face not to react. I don’t need to make her feel any guiltier. I start nodding and can’t seem to stop. “Okay. I can work with that. It might take me awhile, since I have student loans I have to pay back too, but I can help chip away at it.”
Nana reaches out and pats the back of my hand.
“You’re a good girl, Betsy Mae. Enough about that nonsense.
Tell me about your life in California. Your mama was never very good about keeping me informed.
When you called and told me you wanted to move out here, I was so surprised.
Figured you two would never leave the West Coast.”
That lump in my throat never leaves, but I manage to eat the rest of my breakfast. “Well, I finished two degrees, which turned out to be pretty useless as I still don’t know what I want to do with my life.
My boyfriend, the one I was living with, broke up with me for his coworker, some blonde bombshell who wore heels and skirts.
I had to move out, but didn’t have anywhere to go.
All my friends had roommates already and living on my own is impossible in California with the rent prices. ” I sigh, suddenly out of steam.
Nana pats my hand again. “It’s okay, darlin’. You’re always welcome here. I’m just so glad you called me. You can live with me as long as you want, even if it’s after I’m crossin’ through those pearly gates.”
I smile gratefully. “I just feel like such a loser. I’ve amassed all this student debt and I don’t even use my two degrees. I still don’t know what I want to do with my life. No boyfriend. No career.”
I trail off, feeling more exposed than I’ve ever been.
All my life, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t turn out like my mother.
She’s gone through so many minimum-wage jobs, she probably can’t even remember them all.
She quits every single one, usually because of a boss who comes down on her for showing up late, or not showing up at all.
She goes through almost as many boyfriends.
I grew up in constant fear that there wouldn’t be enough money that month for basic necessities.
College was my answer. I’d get a degree and launch a career that would earn me plenty of money.
But here I am at thirty-four realizing I’m just like my mother.
The realization stings.
“I’m a firm believer in everything happening for a reason.
I know you might think different, but once you get to my age, you can feel things deep in your bones.
You, Betsy Mae, were never in the right place.
Now that you’re here in Heaven, you’ll find your purpose.
I jus’ know it! You have a job. A new roof over your head.
Things are already turning around, darlin’! ”
It takes all the acting skills I have to keep my smile in place. Nana is so precious, giving me this pep talk. She believes in me, something my own mother never did.
I will not let her down.
I scrape my chair back as I stand. I collect my plate and Nana’s, holding my head up high. “Thank you, Nana. I believe you’re right too! Now that my belly’s full, I have an errand to run before we sit down and cheer for our Angels.”
“That’s the spirit!” Nana beams up at me, a tiny bundle of positivity and goodness. It’s enough to make the toughest of hearts melt.
I rush through cleaning the dishes and the kitchen, then race upstairs to get dressed. I’m out the door and headed to town on a very specific mission. I’m laser focused and determined to fix things here for Nana. And for myself.
The scent of freshly baked pastries and roasted coffee hits my nose the second I push open the door at Cloud Nine Coffee.
The barista that was here when I came with Mary London lifts her head and gives me a welcoming smile like she remembers me.
Maybe she does. A weird kind of warmth spreads in my chest. I get in line, and when it’s my time to order from Amanda—which I gleaned from her name tag—I lean in and drop my voice.
“Any chance I can fill out an application for the open job?” I nod my head toward the Help Wanted sign in the front window that I saw when I was here two days ago.
Amanda amps up the smile and reaches under the register for a single sheet of paper. “Sure thing! The boss is here today. I’ll see if he’s available to do the interview right away. Just fill this out and have a seat.”
I tip her more than the standard twenty percent I give all servers, and have a seat at a two-seater table in the far corner.
I brought my résumé with me, which shows extensive barista experience, and I fill out the form.
My knee is jostling up and down as I wait.
Amanda comes over with my drink instead of calling my name like everyone else.
“He said he’d be right out. Good luck!” She tosses me a wink that feels genuine. I can’t help but shake my head at the differences between Heaven and Hell, my hometown. I nearly snort at my own joke. Life truly is funnier than fiction.
“It’s too sweet!” barks out an older gentleman on the other side of the shop.
“I’ll make you a new one, Mr. Barrett.” Amanda darts over to take the offending drink from his hand. I lift an amused eyebrow, remembering how horrible some people can be to service workers. If I can get this job, I’m sure I’ll be having to deal with lots of Mr. Barretts.
“Betsy?”
The timbre of the male voice has a shiver running up my spine.
I twist so fast in the wooden chair I hear my neck pop.
Silas stands there in a light purple polo and khaki shorts, eyeing me like I’m a bomb that might go off if he steps any closer.
He looks just as handsome as ever, though his hair is a bit mussed, like he’s been running his fingers through it.
Well, this is awkward.
“Hi, Silas,” I say pleasantly. As if I didn’t flip him off repeatedly the entire time I was employed and then quit on him abruptly yesterday. “Getting some coffee?”
“You could say that.”
Then we just stare at each other. Why does the most annoying man in Heaven have to be so cute?
And why did we have to get off on the wrong foot?
Not that he would ever date me, even if I wasn’t his employee, or I hadn’t crash-landed into his boutique on day one.
I’m definitely not his type. Too many piercings, not enough cleavage, no manners to speak of, and addicted to both my clothes and coffee being black.
“What are you doing here?” he finally asks, taking a small step closer and blocking out the rest of the coffee shop.
My cheeks instantly heat. “Um, well. I’m interviewing. I think.” If the boss ever gets here.
“Ah, I see. You need a job?”
Is it just me or is his eye doing that twinkling thing again?
I clear my throat. “Yes. I’ve recently become unemployed.”
Silas grins and it makes my stupid insides leap for joy and then melt into a puddle. He slides into the chair across from me, his hands on top of the table, leaning into my space.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. I can’t have him here when the boss comes to interview me. He’ll ruin the interview, and I really need this job.
Silas rolls his lips inward and then lets them go. My gaze snags on the movement, realizing for the first time that he has very nice lips. Full, but not overly so. Soft. Surrounded by the barest of stubble. The kind that would leave my pale skin red and irritated if—
“I’m interviewing you for the job, storm cloud.”
My startled gaze flies to his face, finally registering the smug smile and the name tag pinned to the left breast of his polo shirt.
Silas Winthrop, Owner
Well, fuck me.