Chapter 6 – Rosie
ROSIE
Grandma Dottie always believed a cup of coffee could make or break your day. If it tasted off, your day would be off. If it was perfect, your day would be perfect. It’s the reason why Dottie’s espresso machine is the most expensive appliance in her entire house.
This morning, I say a quiet prayer over the brim of my mug before I take a sip.
I need this Americano to taste better than it ever has before.
I close my eyes and take a drink. The robust flavor of the beans mixes smoothly with the creamy oat milk.
The combination of honey and cinnamon dances on my tongue.
It’s good. It’s darn near perfect. And I’ll take it.
I gaze out the window at the waves curling and crashing onto the beach. It’s high tide. My stomach swims with anticipation, almost like the ocean is calling me like it used to. A day spent surfing and lying out on the warm sand feels like yesterday and somehow, like a million years ago.
“Mama, I need help with my dress.” Charlie shuffles into the kitchen, holding both ends of a ribbon at her waistband.
“You look so pretty, baby girl.” I set my coffee down on the kitchen island and crouch down behind her.
“I’m not a baby,” she groans, throwing her head back dramatically.
This is her new thing. Her new era. She thinks she’s grown up since she turned six a few months ago. She hates when I call her by the nickname. But I’ve always called her baby. At least she doesn’t seem to mind Charlie.
“I know you’re not.” I wrinkle my nose and smile, tying the ribbon at her back while forcing away the emotions of the day that stretches before us. And it’s not just the memorial.
Her dress is a soft, light pink. Dottie hated black. Having Charlie wear it to her memorial service wasn’t even an option. Dottie loved blues, pastels, and coastal colors. Just like me. Or at least, what I used to love.
Now I usually dress in black. It’s easiest and the most professional-looking to wear to the salon. The rest of the stylists all wear black and I want to fit in. Plus, West prefers me in black. He says it’s flattering and makes me look sophisticated.
While Charlie had plenty of dresses to choose from, I had to buy a new one.
I found a flowy periwinkle dress with skinny straps and a V-neck at a boutique in Bellevue.
I packed it without showing West. My nerves are already high; I didn’t want to stress more if he hated it.
Besides that, it isn’t my normal style or color.
But I like it. It feels like something the old Rosie would wear. And it makes my chest look spectacular.
“C’mon, Charlie, we gotta go.”
I usher her out the back door, locking it behind us and carrying her booster seat under my arm.
We go around to the detached garage, and I push the button for the garage door opener.
A smile spreads on my lips as soon as I see Dottie’s Mini Cooper convertible.
It’s red, it’s shiny, and it’s so Dottie.
“Oooo it’s so pretty,” Charlie coos.
Unbridled emotion hits me like a shovel to the face. My eyes water, and it takes a few swallows before I get out words. “It really is.”
I put Charlie’s booster seat in the back and she climbs inside, buckling herself in.
“Does the top come off like Weston’s car?”
West has a BMW convertible. He almost never puts the top down. For one, it’s Seattle. It rains one hundred sixty days a year. For two, he’s too afraid the wind will tousle his hair. But if Charlie begs enough, he gives in.
“It does. But don’t even think about asking. It’s still cold and we don’t want to mess up our pretty hair before the memorial, right?” I slide behind the steering wheel and catch her frowning in the rearview. “After the memorial, I promise we’ll put the top down.”
Her face brightens. “Pinky swear?”
“Pinky swear.”
Grandma Dottie didn’t want a traditional funeral or a gravesite service, but she did agree to a memorial at the park in the center of town.
I squeeze Charlie’s hand as she walks next to me.
It’s more for me than for her. My heart beats too hard, too fast. But she has nothing to be nervous about.
Only I know that she’s meeting her father today.
As soon as Charlie sees Jack and Stella’s son, Max, she releases my hand and ditches me, running toward them.
Stella embraces me after I reach her. She may be petite, but her hugs are tight and comforting.
She assures me it’s fine for Charlie to sit with them.
It’s probably best this way, then I can prepare for my reading that the minister told me would come toward the end of the service.
There’s a song followed by a few words spoken by the minister at the local Lutheran church. Only by the grace of God do I make it through without crying. But now it’s my turn. When Dottie and I last spoke, I promised her I would read her favorite poem by Sylvia Plath.
The walk to the podium feels impossibly long, but my brain can’t seem to wrap around the fact that’s only a few feet.
After I reach the microphone, I don’t glance at the crowd of people.
I can’t risk making eye contact with anyone if I want to make it through.
Especially not Beck. If we lock eyes, I will combust into a bucket of uncontrollable tears.
But suddenly it’s dawning on me that I don’t even know if he’s here. Maybe I pissed him off last night when I interrupted his date. Or the night before, when I told him I was getting married.
But I can’t risk it. Searching for him will only force me to see the solemn faces of those here. Lifetime friends of Dottie’s. No other family though. My parents couldn’t be bothered with cutting their Italy trip short. I try to put Beck and everyone else out of my mind and focus on my reading.
At first, my words come out shaky, vibrating between the quiet sobs I try but fail at holding back. I swallow and push through it. No one is coming to save me from this or the reality that Grandma Dottie is truly gone.
The rest of the service is a blur after I return to my seat. I don’t know if anyone else spoke or sang. Or cried aloud. The only thing I’m very certain of is how alone I feel at this moment.
The park empties slowly, some people filter toward the buffet set up with drinks and snacks, but I amble toward the tribute table.
There’s a framed photo of Dottie in her happy place.
She’s on the beach wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a blue pantsuit.
There are a few candles, a small garden shovel, and even a pound of espresso beans from her favorite roasting company in Ojai, California.
My lips pull into a smile at this little detail.
The poem I just read out loud has been typed up and printed and framed. In a smaller frame there’s a photo of Dottie and me. My chest expands and my heart threatens to push through my ribs. Tears pool in my eyes again.
I pick up the frame so I can get a closer look. It doesn’t take me long to recognize when the photo was taken. I’m wearing a nice but simple white dress, and my hair is pulled up with a few wispy auburn curls framing my face.
My wedding day.
“You looked beautiful that day.” Beck’s voice sounds from over my shoulder.
I jerk and spin to find him hovering behind me. He takes the frame from me and studies it. A fresh tear slips from my eye, and I quickly swipe it off my cheek.
“I mean, you looked beautiful every day,” he continues, but I can’t speak, so I just watch him and listen.
“But on that day, you were stunning. I’d never seen you smile so much.
I thought your face might freeze that way.
” He chuckles, but his eyes are watering.
“And I was perfectly fine with that. Because your smile…was my favorite thing to look at.”
“Beck,” I whisper on an exhale, except I don’t know what else to say. The memories from that day hit me like a punch to the gut. So real and raw, forever carved into my brain. Like a tattoo in my mind.
“I was happy,” I finally admit. It’s seven years too late. But it’s true. I was happy then. Though happiness wasn’t enough to hold us together.
His Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. “We were, weren’t we?”
I stay quiet at first. His question feels rhetorical. Like he just needs the confirmation. And if I can’t give him anything else, I can at least give him that.
“Yeah,” I whisper, and another tear slips out.
“Mama?” Charlie calls.
And what has been the sweetest sound since Charlie learned how to say the word suddenly shatters the fleeting sincere moment we just shared.
I whirl around as Charlie skips toward me. Swiveling my head at Beck, I find him looking at her in a daze. Slightly confused, maybe slightly curious. I sidestep away from the table and into the grass to give us some space I have a feeling we’ll need.
Charlie reaches me and hugs my leg. “Can I have a cupcake? Pleeeeease?” The word drags out and hisses because of her missing front teeth. “Miss Stella said I had to ask you.”
I sniff and wipe the traces of tears off my face before she can see them. Crouching, I take her by the hand. My heart beats wild and desperate in my chest. This moment has played in my mind countless times over the last six years.
And now, it’s finally happening.
I suck in a deep breath as my eyes dance over her angelic face. “Charlotte, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
At first, she looks annoyed. But she’s inquisitive, much like her father.
She glances up at Beck, who has joined me in the grass, her big brown eyes squinting as she scrutinizes him.
I can’t help but wonder if he’s looking into her eyes too.
If he’s seeing the familiarity in them. If he’s putting the pieces together.
A boulder sized lump sits in my stomach. “This is my…friend, Beck. Beck, this is Charlotte, my daughter.”
In true Charlotte fashion, she sticks her little hand out. “Charlie,” she corrects me.
I almost breathe out a laugh. She always makes me laugh. But I’m too anxious about this particular introduction.
Beck shakes her hand and gives her a tight smile. “Hi, Charlie. It’s nice to meet you.”
She purses her lips and tilts her head, and I hold my breath. Does she see it? The similarities between them? Does she feel it? The connection I’m sure they hold even though they’ve never met?
But she turns and faces me. “Now can I have a cupcake, please?”
My eyes flutter closed while I exhale, relief filling me. “Yes. But only one. And stay with Stella while I finish talking with Beck.
“Okay, Mama.” She skips away happily.
It’s not the moment I had pictured in my head. But at the very least, it goes smoothly. And I really can’t ask for more.
“You’re a mom,” Beck finally says as Charlie is reaching for a chocolate cupcake off the buffet table.
It’s not really a question, more of a statement. But I answer him anyway. “Yep.”
“She looks like you.”
“Yep,” I say, wobbly. Because she does. She has my red hair, but hers is a darker strawberry blonde rather than my dark auburn. And she has my upturned nose. But her eyes are his. And so is her dimpled chin.
“Charlotte huh? As in Dorthea Charlotte?” he asks, still looking at Charlie.
He’s putting it all together, I know he is.
I fear I don’t have much time before he figures it out.
Stella advised me to just get it out, rip off the Band-Aid.
She said it would be better for him—for everyone—to get it over with.
But after holding this secret in for so long, releasing it isn’t easy.
I nod, the tears building again and threatening to spill. “I didn’t think there would be anyone better to name her after.”
“Huh.” He scratches at the back of his head before resting his fidgeting hands on his waist where his black belt is clasped, causing his suit jacket to flare backward.
“I didn’t even know you had a kid. I’m surprised Dottie, or Jack or Stella, never said anything.
” He’s studying Charlie, possibly taking notice of her features.
The ones that don’t match mine. Maybe he’s even doing the math. Counting the years I’ve been gone.
I don’t speak. I can’t. My voice, my words, have vanished.
Finally, he rips his focus away from Charlie and gazes at me. “How old is she?”
The tears escape from my eyes, racing down my cheeks, and I break. My body trembles and I cross my arms to try to stop it, attempting to hold myself together.
“Rosie.” He mutters my name quietly but sternly, and it rattles me. “How old is she?”
I shake my head and quietly sob, hugging myself. This is it. The moment of truth.