Chapter Ten #2
I fell in love with the Commons when I first arrived in Ithaca, which is a big reason I rented the apartment around the corner, despite its deficiencies.
It’s like a cute small town in the center of a somewhat sprawling midsize city.
It has a feeling of overlapping histories to it, like it’s been through hard times and come back over and over again, transformed with every rebirth but always bringing its old selves with it.
Sure, there’s a Starbucks and an Urban Outfitters now.
There’s also the cutest pastel-explosion bakery I’ve ever seen, and a bookstore that always has at least one cat sunning itself in the window, usually two or three, and a knitting shop called Wool-to-Wool Yarns.
And today, there’s a bustling outdoor market, with tents and tables in front of every venue, and a crowd already gathered, inspecting the wares.
“I saw the ad for the market on my way home from work yesterday,” Everett says as we merge into the flow of the crowd, him with his arm around my waist and me pulling Aggie behind us. “I thought it would be fun to check out together.”
“You thought right,” I say, though I refrain from confessing it’s the together that will make it fun.
The Commons hosts a lot of markets and festivals.
Earlier this month, it was the annual Apple Harvest Festival.
There’s also a festival dedicated to chili and another to chowder, as well as open gallery nights and outdoor concerts.
I came to a few of the events last fall, shortly after I moved here, but I never feel more alone than when I’m surrounded by people who aren’t alone: couples in cozy embraces, parents giving piggyback rides to kids, friends soliciting each other’s opinions on handmade pottery or jewelry, and, most notably, people walking dogs.
A year later, being here with Everett and Aggie, I can appreciate the energy without my prior envy toward the lovers, dog walkers, or clusters of laughing friends. I can just enjoy it.
“Tea or coffee?” Everett asks.
“Tea. Always. Coffee is overrated.”
“Interesting. And good to know.” He steers us around a group of slow meanderers and toward the side of the street. “How about pastries? Streuseltaler or a classic pain au chocolat?”
“I don’t know what that first one is.”
“Then I believe our decision is made.”
We weave through the crowd in no particular rush, which is good, given the not-insubstantial wagon I’m pulling behind me and the way it parts a crowd.
When we reach the far corner of the block, Everett stops and pivots us toward Havisham & Harrison’s Tea Company.
The old-timey storefront is carved from dark, polished wood with delicate gold trim and big bay windows.
With the sign’s gilded typewriter font, the display of hanging antique teapots pouring lush bouquets of flowers into one another, and the ornate, faux-gaslight sconces flanking the windows and bright green door, the shop is straight out of a Dickens novel.
I’ve admired it every time I walked past it, though I’ve never been inside, on the solid assumption that it’s well above my price range.
“This is my date and my idea, so I’m paying,” Everett says as if he’s reading my mind, something he’s remarkably good at, given our relatively short acquaintance.
Also... date . Good. Phew. Noted . “We only have two hours to spend together before the week gets away from us, and I just want to do something nice for you. Okay?”
Wow. He really does know me, because I instinctively want to put up a fight, and he saw it coming.
I’m still replaying my dad’s insinuation about my financial irresponsibility on our call yesterday, as well as our fights about the debt I’d incur by attending Cornell, and a hundred other arguments we had about money, security, and independence while I was growing up.
However, Everett’s offer feels really good, like someone’s taking care of me for a change, letting me off the hook for taking care of myself.
Is it so wrong to let him treat me to breakfast?
Warm lips meet mine, parting softly as Everett’s nose bumps my cheek and his hands cup my face.
My breath catches with surprise, but as he coaxes my mouth open with his, the surprise fades and I melt against him, still holding the wagon extension with one hand while the other grips his sweater, which proves to be as soft as it looks.
The softness of his sweater is my last coherent thought.
The rest evaporate like the flash paper that magicians use, which sparks into fire before vanishing, leaving no trace it ever existed.
My knees go wobbly. My toes curl. My skin warms. My tongue finds Everett’s, deepening the kiss, but only for a moment before he pulls away, still cupping my face with both hands as his cheeks dimple and his beautiful hazel eyes sparkle with mirth behind his glasses.
“You were thinking too hard,” he says. “Did that help?”
I swallow, and swallow again, before managing a nod.
Then I notice Aggie watching us from her wagon with her head resting on the front panel, looking as pleased with herself as if she orchestrated the entire morning.
Just past her wagon, a pair of googly eyes is glued above a jagged, curved crack in a drainpipe, turning the crack into a crooked smile.
It’s so silly I can’t help but smile back as I give in to the joy around me and steal another kiss from Everett.
“Thank you,” I say. “Offer accepted.”
A sign on the tea shop door says No pets , so Aggie and I wait out front while Everett heads inside to place our order.
Several cute café tables are set up outside for the market, all of them occupied with people sipping from antique cups and saucers as a short, wiry woman with a nimbus cloud of unruly silver curls bustles in and out of the shop to wait on everyone.
She’s in a ruffled eyelet apron over a floral dress and heather wool cardigan, all of which has a fluttery energy to it, though it’s her red and white spectator shoes that keep drawing my eye.
As she passes us while heading into the shop for the third or fourth time, her gaze drifts our way and she stops short, pressing a hand to her heart while the other grips a bright blue teapot.
“Are you the Goode Girls?” she asks me.
Heat floods my cheeks at the unexpected attention, which feels different here than it did in the park, where I’ve grown used to seeing a lot of the same faces as Aggie gets her exercise.
“Um, yes?” I stammer.
“Oh my lord,” she lets out in a gust. “What you’re doing for that dog is just wonderful.”
I send an affectionate glance toward Aggie. “It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“Well, that goes without saying!” The woman scurries over and crouches by the wagon, giving me a can I?
look, to which I nod, because Aggie deserves all the affection the world has to offer.
The woman asks if we’re waiting for someone and I let her know my friend is inside getting tea for both of us.
She says she’s honored we’re here, and introduces herself as Diana, the Havisham half of Havisham & Harrison.
Introductions made, she fawns over a delighted Aggie while telling me about the seven or eight wire fox terriers she adopted through various rescue organizations over the years, and how much she loved each one, and what was unique about each, but how it’s been harder to consider having a dog now that she and her partner are older.
This is something I’ve already learned about Aggie, that she unlocks people’s stories about their dogs, which is a really beautiful gift, now that I’m thinking about it.
“I’m sure we’ll be back,” I say when Diana straightens up, looking at Aggie like her heart will break if she has to say goodbye. “We live nearby, though I saw your no-pets policy.”
Diana flicks my comment away. “We have to put that sign up to comply with city health ordinances, but queens of all sorts are welcome anytime.” With that, she whisks open the shop door, calling out, “Arthur? Arthur! It’s the dog I was telling you about.
And the girl who adopted her. They’re here getting tea and don’t you dare charge them for their order! ”
The door swings shut behind her and a few minutes later, Everett emerges with two steaming paper cups and a dark green shopping bag with an H&H logo hanging off his arm.
“So much for my offer to treat,” he says through a breath of laughter.
I point an accusing finger at Aggie. “It’s her fault. She hooked another one.”
She lowers her head to rest it on the wagon’s front panel again, the picture of innocence, looking back and forth between us as her brows twitch the way I love so much.
Everett and I share a smile. Then he hands me my cup along with the bag, which turns out to hold half a dozen green and gold tins of loose-leaf tea.
“Apparently those are their bestsellers,” he says. “English breakfast. Earl Grey. Mint. They insisted, and I figured their tea was probably better than whatever you have at home.”
I stare at the contents of the bag. “They just gave you all of this?”
“They gave you all of this,” he corrects, and at my obvious swell of discomfort, he adds, “Sometimes people do nice things just to do nice things. Enjoy it, Cameron. It’s only tea.”
I don’t have a chance to argue because the shop door opens again and Diana drags a very tall, very lanky man out by the wrist. He’s mostly bald with a tidy silver mustache, while his collarless striped dress shirt and black vest give him the air of someone from another time.
“Go say hi,” Diana kindly but forcefully instructs him, and he shyly obeys, bending low to let Aggie smell his unusually long hand. Half a second later, she’s wagging her tail and inching her head forward for a pet, with her usual gift for overcoming anyone’s shyness.