Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Dulcie
Pulling up to the bakery in a party bus looks a little bit strange, I’m sure, but then, it’s not like this is a surprise.
I’ve been texting with my mom and dad in a group text the whole way home, giving them updates on our ETA.
For once, neither of them inundated me with long, essay-like messages.
They used to do that when I was away at college.
My dad has even learned how to use emojis, and he gave me a few thumbs up and happy faces.
They’ve kept what they’re really feeling out of it, probably so they won’t send my anxiety out of control.
Anxiety? Or anticipation?
As the party bus drives away, leaving us at the curb with our luggage, I think it’s more of the latter.
After stopping for lunch yesterday, we did a few more hours on the road, then took a break for the night at a motel in some little town in the middle of nowhere.
I thought, with everything that had happened and was going to happen, I’d be too wired to sleep, but I surprised myself by having one of the best rests in recent memory.
Luca says he slept well in his room, but there’s a small (large) chance he lied.
On the anxiety to anticipation scale, he’s been leaning toward nervous wreck all day. I’m just thankful he didn’t throw up on the bus. There were quite a few moments when he was pale and sweaty.
It could have been the bus. It probably wasn’t the best choice. Even I had to chew gum for hours to help with the motion sickness that was trying to creep up on me.
“Can I get that for you?” Luca reaches for my bulging suitcase. In comparison, he’s got a small duffel, while I have a bag twice my size and a bursting full backpack.
This is one time when I don’t need to assert my independence. “Sure. Thanks.” Any distraction is a good distraction.
We didn’t leave early this morning. We got breakfast, and the driver clearly wasn’t hurrying down the road. It’s Tuesday, and the bakery is only open until seven. It’s been closed for thirty-five minutes, but I know my parents are both here.
My dad has a surprise for Luca. He wants to make a pie together.
It’s fitting that Luca and I never made one. The first one he makes since leaving here should happen right back where it all started. Full circle.
But Luca doesn’t know that.
He’s stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, one hand on the handle of my suitcase and the other steadying the brown leather duffel bag hanging from his shoulder.
The clothes he wore just for me yesterday are put away.
Today, he rode in a T-shirt and jeans. Before we got out, he pulled on a black hoodie and did the hood up tightly to hide that one side of his face.
I didn’t comment on it. If he needs this to step back into society, that’s okay. He can set the pace. I’m not going to rush him into anything.
I promised yesterday that I’d give him time in all respects.
Luca’s transfixed by the faded blue and white awning.
This place hasn’t changed much in fifty years.
Every five years or as needed, the windows get a fresh coat of blue paint on the wooden trim, and the wooden door gets a new layer of stain.
The lettering on the windows that swoops down in half arcs becomes sun-faded and starts peeling, so every couple of years, my dad has someone come in to scrape it off and redo it.
It was nice growing up here. It was big enough that there was always something to do, but small enough that we’ve never had to worry about smashed windows or break-ins.
The front counter is clearly visible through the windows, as are the shelves and display stands.
I know the door will be locked. I could call, but I have my own keys in my purse. I’m ready to dig for them to unlock the door and let us in when a flash of white appears. It pauses and angles fully into view.
It’s my dad in his white coat and apron.
I freeze, but he doesn’t. He rushes to the door. The lock isn’t sticky, but in his excitement, he fumbles it, making it seem like it is.
“Shannon!” He calls for my mom, his big voice barely contained inside the store. “Shannon, they’re here!”
The door flies inward. I have never seen my dad smile so big.
I’ve been through all the family photos.
My grandparents lived here before my grandpa passed and my grandma moved to Arizona to be with friends and to avoid the cold weather.
She grows grapefruits in the front yard of the most adorable little house.
Anyway, I’ve seen all the photos of my dad and his siblings from all stages of life.
I’ve seen him at Christmas and Easter and plenty of times in photos at the bakery and at pie contests and exhibitions all over the state and beyond.
But I’ve never seen him look this happy.
It’s not just because Luca’s here, but because I’m right beside him.
It’s not pride that I could do this for my dad that surges through me, but also for Luca.
It’s a feeling far closer to relief. It hits me hard, squeezing my lungs and wringing my emotions out of me.
I can’t make an effort to keep myself from crying.
It happens like that crazy storm at the cottage, rolling over me and letting loose.
My mom rushes out from the back and charges me, hugging me so tightly that I nearly get winded. I hug her with just as much force, though, backpack and all. There’s laughter, tears, and a whole lot of, “Oh my baby, I’m so glad you’re back. I missed you so much!” It all goes down.
My dad hugs me with just as much feeling when my mom steps back to allow him access.
She takes my backpack the same way she used to when I was a kid getting home from school.
There were a few years of my life when my parents kind of embarrassed me with how much they loved me, but I got over that fast. I’m their only child.
They should be allowed to express their love.
I know a lot of people in the world who would do anything for their parents to hug them or tell them that they’re loved, just once. I know how blessed I am.
I can feel the awkwardness dial up as my parents turn to Luca. We’re out on the freaking sidewalk having a family reunion, and he’s just standing there.
Dad doesn’t allow the silence to linger. He doesn’t throw himself at Luca in a big hug like he did with me, but he does open his arms and step over to him before grasping his shoulders in his big palms. “Luca.” It’s the way Dad says his name that undoes me and brings on a fresh wave of tears.
I’m all raccoon streaks of eyeliner and mascara again. I should have known not to put any on this morning. Waterproof, my ass. I can see the black smears in my reflection glimmering on the bakery’s window.
“We’re so glad you’re both here,” Mom says through tears that she quickly swipes away. “Come in. We have everything set up in the back.”
Luca’s eyes flick to my face, not entirely in alarm.
I smile and nod, trying to telegraph to him that this will be okay.
I can feel it. There’s a sense of peace and contentment wrapping around all four of us that I’ve rarely experienced before.
My dad won plenty of prizes and blue ribbons for his pies in the past, and he held the Pie Master title for a long time, but in comparison, even those moments of joy don’t come close to this.
Dad steps back and clutches his hands in front of his white apron like he needs to physically restrain himself from reaching out to touch Luca again to ensure he’s real.
Unshed tears glisten in his eyes. My dad is an emotionally available man, but there have been very few times I’ve seen him cry before.
“Let’s bake a pie, yes?” Dad asks in a voice made rough with emotion.
Luca sighs, releasing a breath that spools out and out. “Here, when you said you had everything ready in the back, I was thinking imprisonment and torture.” His lips pull back in that lopsided grin that melts my insides and my heart.
“Just fruit, flour, sugar… the good stuff,” Dad assures him.
It would be too much to touch Luca in any way. I might be a terrible actress, but I can get through the pie. I need to get through the pie. This is for my dad and Luca. Anything I might want comes after this. The reconciliation between these two, between all of us, is so much more important.
I take Mom’s hand instead and start telling her all about the tree that fell on my rental car, the party bus, and the emergency stop at the laundromat because I’d gone through all my clean clothes.
All the stuff I didn’t tell her over text because I knew she’d worry.
She’s still worried, but at least it’s all in the past now.
I can tell the story with humor and laugh about it in hindsight.
Dad and Luca follow us back.
None of us misses the harsh rasp of indrawn breath as Luca crosses the threshold. Some of the equipment has been updated over the years, but like the exterior, the interior hasn’t fundamentally changed.
He stops, reaching out a hand to the brick wall right by the doorway. I can practically see the film reel of memories that play behind his eyes.
“Just like old times,” Dad says, clapping him on the back. “You’re welcome here, Luca. You always were. The past is the past. Today, we just make a pie. Just for the sheer love of it. I haven’t done that in a very long time.”
Luca swallows audibly. His face twists no matter how hard he tries to keep his emotions from showing. His eyes darken to the same rain-washed green of the trees that surrounded the cottage where I stayed.
Mom pulls out one of the three wooden chairs we keep back here. Baking is hard work. You’re on your feet a lot, but these are for those few rare, precious moments of sitting and catching your breath.
I’ve done my homework in these chairs. I’ve watched and absorbed a thousand lessons and grown up in them.