Chapter 6 Jasmine
Chapter six
Jasmine
I’m thinking about that house while I plate fish and chips and watch Eloise and Heather in their usual booth.
Eloise is in her floral dress, bracelets chiming when she talks, gray hair slicked into a ponytail that says she has places to be.
Heather, softer and a little shorter, smiles at everyone like a benediction and then gets mad at herself for it later.
They’ve been a set for as long as I’ve had a memory I trust, and there should be a third, Annabel, but she’s at Kinsley Home these days, where the halls smell like lemon disinfectant and slow time.
I tighten my apron and carry their tray over. “Ladies.” I set the food down. “I swear I had time to sit and gossip, but apparently the entire town woke up today and chose Scotty’s.”
“That’s a good thing,” Heather says, eyes bright. “Proof of concept.”
“Proof of caffeine,” I say, hands on hips.
“Are you seeing her today?” Eloise asks, voice careful. That look—hope wearing its Sunday best.
“Yes.” The word leaves my mouth like it weighs a pound.
“We can come,” she says quickly, like speed will make it true. “She asked for Heather last week. I could swear I heard it.”
I force a smile that pinches. “Not today. Dr. King’s big on keeping things simple—no crowding. Next time, if Mom’s up to it, I’ll take you both. Deal?”
Eloise brightens, bracelets singing. “Deal.”
Heather squeezes her hand under the table. I start to turn when Eloise adds, way too-casually, “Where’s your cop friend? Haven’t seen him around.”
My stomach does an unhelpful squeeze. “He’s not my friend.”
“Oh, she knows,” Heather murmurs, deadpan.
“He’s one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met,” I say, which is technically true if you chart annoyance over time and ignore the curve.
“Uh-huh,” Eloise says, entirely too pleased with herself.
I retreat to the counter and try to shake the image of Asher Vaughn out of my brain: the scar that wakes when he’s irritated, the way he squares up like he’s about to argue with a stop sign, the quiet under the sarcasm.
I think about his eyes … deep blue, intense …
and wince when my knuckles graze the edge of the grill.
Great. Perfect. My love language is apparently second-degree burn.
“Jaz?” Sarah elbows me, nodding toward a couple at the window. “Two malts and a BLT.”
“Got it.” I reach for the malt glasses and force my brain back into the diner where it belongs: the crackle of bacon, the swoosh of the milk steamer, and Hank’s newspaper rattle. This is my church.
Heather’s voice floats from the booth. “Oh—did you hear? The Madison Street place sold.”
I look over. “What?”
“To an out-of-towner,” she says. “Mr. Beckett. Or Harold something.”
“Harold Beckett,” Eloise decides, like she’s filing him alphabetically. “Money. Terrible at small talk.”
The knot in my stomach tightens another turn. Mrs. Hartley with her permits and oil plans. An out-of-towner buying the house everyone avoids. If you put a red string between those things on a corkboard, it points to trouble.
“Rumor and pie crust,” I mutter, trying to be the rational version of myself, and burn my hand again.
“Out,” Sarah says, swatting me with a towel. “Clock. You go see your mom before you donate skin to the griddle.”
She’s right. I have somewhere to be. I give her a look of eternal gratitude (and mild terror at leaving her short-handed) and slip off my apron. The bell over the door jingles when I step into the afternoon. Sunshine hits my face; the breeze smells like dust and bakery sugar.
A cruiser rockets past at the far end of Main. My heart does a weird kick. I don’t catch the driver’s face, just the familiar white-and-blue blur and a flash of stubble in profile.
Was that Asher?
No. Not my business. Not my brain space. I get in my car and point myself toward Kinsley Home.
It always looks nicer than it smells—fresh paint, soft chairs, a mural with wildflowers—and still the lemon antiseptic crawls up your throat. The receptionist, Maria, smiles when she sees me.
“Hi, Jasmine.”
“Hey.” I sign the book. Under Patient: Annabel Wallace. It’s a name that used to be my world and, on days like today, might as well be a stranger’s.
“How’s she doing?” I ask reflexively.
Maria’s apology is practiced. “You’ll have to ask Dr. King.”
“Right.” I tuck the pen back into its chain and head down the hall. It’s muscle memory at this point—second door, then left, then the room that always has the TV a little too loud because someone’s hard of hearing and proud of it.
I mean to find Dr. King first. I don’t. I see her.
She’s in the robe I brought last time—blue with daisies—hands busy with something that looks like knitting. Her back is to me; shoulders narrow under the fabric in a way that hurts.
Please recognize me.
I move around her chair, slowly, like loud will scare the memory off.
“Hey, Mom.”
She looks up. Her eyes are the same color that they’ve always been, but the focus is wrong. It lands on me and slides off like rain off oiled paper.
“Do I know you?” she asks, polite as a stranger.
It still lands like a punch, even when you think you’re ready for it. I kneel and take her hands. They’re warm, familiar bones under papery skin.
“It’s me,” I say softly. “Jasmine. Your daughter.”
She studies my face. Something almost flickers and dies. “I don’t have children,” she says. “Jonas and I are still planning the wedding. Who are you?”
My father’s name drops like a stone in a still lake—ripples of a life I don’t have. I inhale lemon and loss and tell my eyes not to do the thing.
“Ms. Wallace?” Dr. King’s voice comes from the doorway. He’s as old as the building and twice as steady, stethoscope draped like a habit. He takes in the tableau in a glance, and his features soften. “Do you have a moment?”
I squeeze Mom’s fingers and stand. “I’ll be right back,” I lie, because the truth is I don’t know how to be here if she’s not here in the way that includes me.
We step into the hall, where the air is cooler and the clock ticks louder than seems decent.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “She’s had a difficult week. We’ve adjusted her meds a touch for sleep.”
“She didn’t know me.” I make my voice flat. If it’s flat, it won’t spill.
“Today,” he says gently. “It can be different tomorrow. Or not. Dementia is a thief who can’t keep a schedule.” He gestures toward the common room. “She’s been knitting again. That’s new this month. Motor memory waking something up.”
“What wakes people up?” The question is rawer than I plan.
“Sometimes: music from the right year, smells from the right kitchen, faces that anchored them.” He meets my eyes. “Sometimes: old friends. Familiar laughter, a story that loops enough times to catch.”
“Eloise and Heather,” I say, and my throat pulls tight. “They want to come. I keep… not letting them.”
“I understand protecting them,” he says. “There’s only so much heartbreak you can hand out in a day. But you might consider it. One at a time, short visits first. Give Annabel rails to grab when the water gets rough.”
I nod because it’s either that or crumble. “Okay.”
He hesitates. “And Jasmine—don’t measure love by recognition.” He pushes his glasses up, voice quiet. “Sometimes love is doing the thing that looks like nothing. Showing up. Letting her be held by the life you built around her.”
That does it. I blink hard and swallow harder. “Right,” I say. “Thanks.”
When I step back into the room, Mom’s looking at her knitting like it’s a map she doesn’t remember how to read. I sit beside her and pull a chair close enough that our shoulders touch.
“Pretty,” I say, because it is. “You always liked yellow.”
She glances at the yarn and smiles faintly. “My mother liked yellow,” she says, and for a second there’s a glint of that old Annabel—the one who’d stand over a pie and declare with religious fervor that you never skimp on butter.
I talk about safe things. “Scotty’s was busy. Eloise and Heather send hello. They’re being bossy, which you taught them.”
At Eloise and Heather, the corner of her mouth lifts. “Nosy,” she says, and it lands like a miracle.
“Extremely,” I say, laughing a little. We sit in that small warmth until it fades. When it does, I press a kiss to her temple that she doesn’t flinch from and stand.
“I’ll visit again soon,” I tell her. “And next time… maybe I’ll bring the nosy ones.”
She’s already looking past me, but I say it anyway, because promises count even when the person can’t hold them.
On my way out, Maria lifts a hand. “Take care, honey.”
“You too,” I say, and the words feel thin against the size of the afternoon.
The air outside is too bright. I blink and let the sun burn the antiseptic out of my nose. My phone buzzes. Riley checking in.
How is she?
Jasmine: Hard day. Tiny yellow miracle. Bringing E & H next time.
Riley: Good. I’ll drive. Also—don’t freak out if you see sirens later. School had an “incident.” Everyone’s okay. Will call.
My heart lurches into my throat. Everyone’s okay is a phrase that covers too much territory.
Who? I text.
Dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Tell you in person. Promise it’s trending okay.
I stare at the screen until my reflection judges me for inventing disasters. Then I force myself into the car, start the engine, and point toward work.
***
Back at the diner, the afternoon rush is cresting. I tie my apron in a bow and step into the dance like I never left. Sarah nets me with a look that says you good? I give her the half-smile that says ish and pour myself into the flow.
“Jaz!” Hank calls from his corner, brandishing the paper. “Says here a Mr. Harold Beckett closed on Madison. Manners of a turnip, says Eloise.”
“I am sure the turnips are offended,” I say, sliding a plate onto the pass.
Heather leans toward me as I drop off coffee. “How was she?”
“Soft day,” I say. “But yellow yarn got a smile. And next time, I’m bringing you.”
Eloise’s eyes shine too bright for the fluorescent lighting. She coughs and pretends to be blasé. “Well, I suppose she deserves the pleasure of my company.”
“She absolutely does,” I say, and mean it.
The bell over the door jingles. My brain braces for a badge without my permission, and I hate that it does. It’s not him. It’s a couple of contractors in dusty boots who look like they’re about to ask if we do bulk coffee.
“Four to go,” one says, and the other eyes the lemon bars. “And two of those.”
“Eight,” I correct, boxing them up. “Trust me.”
They grin and add two more. Money and pastry—the only bipartisanship I believe in.
By five, the tide ebbs. I finally lean my elbows on the counter and breathe. Sarah bumps my shoulder. “Go eat a real thing before you pass out.”
I take a stool by the pie case with a bowl of chili that could sober a sailor and stare at the world through the reflection in the glass. Main Street glows in that late-day desert gold that makes even the potholes sentimental.
My phone buzzes again. Riley: Can swing by in twenty?
I text back: Yes, bring Ms. Rainbow. I need a dog.
She sends a heart and a paw.
I take a spoonful, burn my tongue, and let my thoughts loop around the same old track: Golden Heights deserves to stay itself.
People like Eloise and Heather deserve to sit in their booth and argue about crossword clues.
My mom deserves yellow yarn that remembers the way back to her.
And if an oil rig thinks it can eat that? It can choke.
A cruiser idles at the curb for a minute. The badge in me that I don’t technically have notices the hockey stick still propped in the passenger seat, and my pulse does a dumb little jump before I remind it to behave.
He doesn’t come in. The car moves on. I tell myself that’s fine.
The door opens again and a gust of evening blows Riley in, all bright scarf and determination, Ms. Rainbow trotting like the world’s gentlest bouncer. The dog noses my hand once and parks her chin on my knee like a sandbag for emotions.
“Tell me everything,” Riley says, and her voice is exactly the right temperature.
I do. The lemon smell, the yellow yarn, the maybe-smile. Eloise and Heather’s upcoming field trip. The Madison Street rumor. And because the words want out, the flash of a cruiser with a hockey stick and a sheriff I’m not thinking about.
“Uh-huh,” she says, very neutrally, which is rude and also fair. “We’re going to make a plan for this Beckett person. Flyers, petition, town hall, legal noise. And we’re going to take E & H to Kinsley for a controlled cameo.”
“Controlled cameo,” I repeat, petting Ms. Rainbow’s ears. “I like it.”
Riley squeezes my shoulder. “Also… school incident today, but okay. Breathe. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Don’t bury the lede like that.”
“Then stop threatening to trespass,” she says primly, and we both smile because it’s a dance we know.
Outside, the sky goes that heartbreak pink the desert does for free. Inside, the neon hums, the pie case gleams, and Eloise waves her fork at Heather for putting ketchup on fish like a heathen. We are, despite everything, ourselves.
And tomorrow I’ll show up again—with flyers, with yellow yarn, with friends who refuse to let a town be sold for parts. If a certain sheriff with inconvenient eyes shows up too… well. I’ll deal with that when I have to.
For now, I breathe, scratch Ms. Rainbow under the chin, and let the day settle where it belongs.