Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
FRANKIE
Now
The evening before the auction, Frankie was invited to dinner with Thora and Owen.
Thora’s knee was finally healed enough that she didn’t need the cane to move around.
She’d celebrated this newfound freedom by cleaning the house, so when Frankie arrived, she was resting on a chaise out back at Owen’s insistence.
“I’ve put some chicken on the grill,” he said.
“Grams made potato salad earlier, and I’ve poured you some lemonade already.
Only the garlic bread left.” He nodded toward the garden, urging her out there before she’d had a chance to offer him help in the kitchen.
His bangs flopped over one eye, and because his hands were covered in marinade, he blew a breath upward to move the strands.
“That’s it,” Frankie said. “After dinner, I’m giving you a haircut.”
“Threatening me with a good time, are you?” He winked.
Frankie played off his innuendo. “Depends. You’ve got to look respectable if you want to be my date for the auction tomorrow.”
His smile vanished, and his eyebrows jumped. “You’re asking me out?”
She shrugged, heading for the patio door. “Are you going to let me cut your hair?”
“Damn straight I am.”
She grinned as she left him behind. This was exactly what she needed on the eve of what was sure to be a day of sweeping change in her life. A meal with two people who had always accepted her, flaws and all. More time with Owen.
“Hand me that pillow over there, will you?” Thora said. “Not that I couldn’t get it myself, but you’re closer.”
“Of course.” Frankie’s smile lingered. Everyone needed help from time to time. Someone to lean on. That’s what connected them. Maybe she needed some new mantras, especially now that she meant to take Amber and Greg’s last name. Milnes ask for support. Milnes admit struggle.
They settled in, watching the swallows swoop and play above the magnolia trees while the savory smoke from the grill permeated the air.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Thora asked after a while.
Frankie had shared her plans with a select few that included her current dinner company, Matt, Kayla, and the other teachers at the school. They were most likely to be impacted after all, so she’d wanted their blessing.
“I think so. I’m nervous, but if I can drive on the left side of the road, I can do this.
” She sipped her lemonade, her thoughts going to Amber.
They’d been in touch daily since Frankie returned, and she, too, had approved of what Frankie was about to do.
“I don’t know if I said so before, but thank you again for arranging that flight.
None of this would have happened if you hadn’t. I wouldn’t have found my mom.”
“Oh, nonsense. I was happy to.”
Frankie studied the older woman for a beat. “You’ve done nothing but help me since I came to you that first time. Why? I was no one to you, but you’ve rallied your whole network for me.”
Thora reached her hand across the small table that separated them, and Frankie took it.
“You know I live for this,” she said, a tender glint in her eyes.
“The search. The mystery. The impossible quest.” She squeezed Frankie’s hand, then let go to pick up her glass instead.
She sipped it thoughtfully before setting it back down again.
“But you’re wrong. You weren’t no one. You were Frankie.
And if I needed another reason, it’s that you put some life back into my grandson’s eyes again—just like I knew you would.
You were the one who got away. Didn’t you know? ”
Frankie’s lips parted in surprise, but just then, Owen joined them, carrying plates and silverware that he set down on the patio table. “Could you grab the potato salad, Frankie?” he asked. “I’ll be right behind you for the bread. Grams, need help up?”
“Oh no you don’t,” Thora said, swinging her legs over the side of the chaise. Then her voice softened. “But I will take a refill of that lemonade if you’re already going inside.”
Thora’s words rang in Frankie’s ears while they ate.
She hid it well enough—or at least she thought she did—but she couldn’t help her gaze sliding to Owen when he laughed that unbridled laugh she remembered from their youth at something Thora said.
Had he regretted breaking it off with her then?
Thought of her enough afterward that Thora had picked up on it?
But if he’d regretted ending it, he could have said so. He’d known where to find her.
After they cleaned up, and Thora had settled inside with a crossword puzzle and Dr. Zhivago playing on TCM in the background, Owen brought a chair out onto the deck and handed Frankie a pair of scissors and a comb.
“Do your worst,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head and sitting down. “I know you’ve been dying to get your hands on it.”
Frankie stood behind him, eyes lingering on the width of his tan shoulders, but then she took hold of herself. “Right,” she said, placing the tools on the table next to them. She hesitated, then let her fingers slide into his hair to see what she was working with.
“Oh my God,” Owen grunted on a deep chuckle. “That feels so good.”
Frankie’s cheeks warmed, but his words boosted her nerve, and she dug in with firmer fingers, reveling in the feel of his soft strands against her knuckles.
“You could stand to lose a couple of inches,” she said. “It’s a bird’s nest up here.”
“It hasn’t been high on my list in a while.”
“Yeah, I get that.” She reached for the comb and scissors. “Ready?”
“Mm-hmm.” He sounded like he was drifting off, and when Frankie peered over his shoulder, his eyes were closed.
“Tilt your head a little that way.” She adjusted him, then got to work.
For a long while, the only sounds around them were those of the garden and the metallic snip of the scissors. The golden hour was tinting the few clouds on the horizon pink and bronze, and it highlighted the blonde in Owen’s hair as it fell to the floor.
Frankie’s fingers grew more confident as she worked, her movements falling into a known rhythm that made the present blend with the memory of all the other times she’d done this. It may have been a long time ago, but when she let herself relax into his space, it was like riding a bike.
Driving with him had felt the same. Eating together. Sleeping curled up next to him.
Like no time had passed.
“Why did you break up with me?” she asked, the question posed before she could second-guess herself. “I know it’s been a long time, so it doesn’t really matter, but would you tell me anyway?”
“What?” Owen looked up at her, forcing her to pull the scissors back.
“I mean, I know what your letter said, and I get not wanting to be attached to anyone starting college, but was that it? Or was it me?”
“Frankie…” Owen had turned in his chair while she spoke, so he was facing her more directly. “What are you talking about?”
She dropped her hands to her sides. “What do you mean, what am I talking about? It’s a pretty simple question—why did you break up with me? I’m curious.” She shrugged one shoulder to show just how casual the question was.
He squinted up at her as if gauging if she was joking. “But I didn’t,” he said. “You broke up with me.”
“What?” She huffed out a laugh. “Why would I have done that?”
“Because you started dating that baseball player guy. What was his name again? How do you not remember this?”
Frankie pinched the comb tighter in her fingers. “Because it didn’t happen. You wrote me a couple of months after leaving for Boston and said you needed space.”
“What?” Owen shook his head, blinking into the distance like he was trying to retrieve the details of that fall. “No…” He faced her again. “You wrote to me. You broke up with me.”
They stared at each other for a long while, confusion mixing with old hurts in both their eyes until a single word spilled across Frankie’s lips. The syllables formed on her tongue more on instinct than with conscious effort, as if she’d been guided there by countless signs over the past month.
“Estelle.” She sank onto the next closest chair, something inside her clicking into place. Something like the final piece of the puzzle.
“Estelle what?” Owen asked.
“She wrote the letters.”
Frankie pulled on the memory of that fall, urging it to the surface.
She and Owen had spent as much of the summer together as they could.
They’d both had jobs, so there were days when they couldn’t see each other, but when they didn’t, they’d text on their Nokias—three fours for I, three fives for L, three nines for Y—and sometimes Owen would leave notes on her porch on his way to and from his construction gig.
They’d both been tearful saying goodbye when it was time for him to leave for Boston, but they’d had a plan, which made it bearable.
She’d finish high school, and then they’d be together again.
The world would be at their feet, and they’d have each other.
Until then, they’d write all the time, they promised, and she’d read his first letter almost to pieces, attempting to absorb everything he was describing of his new world up north.
She’d started her senior year, and there had been no honeymoon period before she was swamped with assignments.
She’d also had her own little group of piano students to keep her busy, so she’d spent a lot of time at Starview.
They’d had some issues with theft at the school that fall.
Her backpack had been snatched from the staff room one day and was found outside near the garbage bins missing her cell phone and make-up bag, and Estelle’s car had been broken into and a scarf she loved taken.
But none of those events overshadowed the way she’d counted the days until his next letter would arrive, so when it had taken longer than she’d expected, she’d been thrown off by it.
The tone inside had been the same as always, and yet she’d not quite been able to shake the delay.