Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
AVERY
I’m stuck.
My manuscript is going nose-down, on its way to a fiery explosion. The right words elude me. Just like real life, I hadn’t planned on Gabriel’s character returning. Not including it feels untrue, even if this story isn’t supposed to be entirely factual. I’d planned on taking the skeleton of our real story and filling it in with fiction. Right now, what I’ve written is pretty damn close to fact.
Even Jill admitted how good it would be to use this development in the story.
I’ve recounted seeing Gabriel again, the dog running into my cabin, and the fair yesterday. It’s almost as if, by writing about it in this semi-removed way, I get a different view of it all. I control the circumstances, the happenings, and the outcome. Considering I know nothing about what might happen in real life, that control feels good right now.
I get it all down on the page, then sit back, stretching my arms above my head. I need a break. After a few hours of writing these tense, emotional scenes, I’m left with a pulsing buzz zipping through my veins. I need to move.
I think it’s time to explore Sugar Creek.
Luck must be on my side today, because I’ve found a parking spot at the end of the busiest street in town. I slip my phone and wallet into my back pockets and tuck my purse and laptop under the passenger seat out of big-city habit, likely an unnecessary precaution here.
I browse boutique after boutique, buying a pair of turquoise earrings and a braided leather belt. I thread the earrings through my ears and cinch the belt around my waist, then continue on down the street.
Something sweet hits my nose, growing stronger with every step I take, as if there is sugar floating in the air. I follow the scent to a bakery, the one I saw from my car my first night here. It doesn’t look fancy from the outside, but it appears sturdy. Made of brick, like the other storefronts on this street, and glass windows showcasing the treats inside. Passersby know exactly what they’re going to get if they go in. It just so happens coffee and a muffin are what I need to refuel and get back to my manuscript.
The door chimes when I step through, and the scent of warm sugar wraps me in a comforting hug.
“I’ll be out in a second,” a voice from somewhere in the back of the store yells. I’m perusing the cases of muffins and other baked goods when there’s a crashing sound from the back, the unmistakable clink of metal hitting the floor.
Cautiously, I round the counter, slowly pushing through the swinging partition to the back. A woman sits on her backside, her hands at her face. A large sheet pan lies sideways on the ground, propped up by her leg. Muffins are strewn around her.
“Can I help you up?” I ask, offering a hand.
She drops her hands from her face and looks at me. Recognition glimmers as she allows me to help her to her feet. “You’re Gabriel’s wife. Ex-wife,” she amends. “Sorry.”
I nod to let her know her faux pas is forgiven, but my curiosity rages. Who is this woman who seems to know about Gabriel? And me?
She wipes her palms on her backside and surveys the mess on the floor. “I didn’t sleep much last night. Guess I’m just a little clumsy today.”
She kneels, and I follow, retrieving the scattered muffins. We load them onto the sheet pan, and she slides the entirety into a nearby trash, a forlorn look on her face. “I got up an hour early to make those.” She tucks the pan under her arm and looks back at me. “If you’d like to take a seat out there”—she gestures to the front of the store—“I’ll be by in a moment with a coffee and a muffin. Does that sound ok?”
“Lovely,” I respond, making my way out to a small round table. The woman approaches a few minutes later, tray laden with two saucers and cups, a white porcelain creamer and coffee carafe, and two warm muffins.
I help her set down the cups and saucers, and she arranges the rest. “One is cinnamon spice, the other blueberry.” She points at each muffin. “Take your pick, and I’ll have the other.”
I reach for the blueberry and nibble at the side, sighing at the incredible flavor. “You made this?”
“Yes.” She takes the empty seat across from me. “Everyone chooses the blueberry. Except for Gabriel. He asks for whatever needs to be sold.” Her grin holds the affection of a mother.
I reach for the cup. “I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, but…who are you?”
She smiles in this slow and patient way, and says, “My name is Jane. This is my bakery.”
“And you know Gabriel?”
Her cup pauses at her lower lip. She nods. “He’s only been here a short time, but he’s slipped into the workings of this place like he was a part we’ve been missing all along and didn’t know it.”
“How do you know him? Because he comes in here?” I have this sudden desire, this insistent nudging, to know more about Gabriel. Who he is today, the person he has become.
She nods again. “That, and he helps me when he can. He chopped firewood for me this past winter. He’d said he’d never done it before, but he caught on quickly. After that he came by every other week and did it. Sometimes I arrived home and it was there, neatly stacked, waiting for me. And Joel”—she waves a hand—“he’s really helping out Joel.”
“How so?”
“He works for Joel’s business, but I don’t think he knows what that’s doing for the man. And his wife. Their son died thirty years ago in the Gulf War. I think they’ve been slowly dying ever since then, too. Gabriel…” Her head shakes slowly, teeth running over her lower lip. “He fills a void.”
I have a strong sense she’s not only talking about Joel and his wife anymore.
My thumb traces the rim of my coffee cup. “Gabriel is a very good man.”
That’s never not been true. Even at his worst, he was good. Bad decisions are not the property of bad people.
“He’s finding his footing. I’m happy to see that.”
A stab of jealousy cuts through my chest. Gabriel is out in the world, muddling through and figuring out who he is now. He’s learning to chop firewood, working with his passion, and choosing near-expiration muffins. And he’s doing it without me.
I blink against my own thoughts, confused by them. I’ve known I still love Gabriel, but I told myself it was in that way where, once you’ve recovered from the heartbreak, you think of them with a nostalgic fondness. This doesn’t feel fond. Or nostalgic. It is sharper, more combative.
I do not know what to do with it.
I sip my coffee. “Do you know much about me and Gabriel?”
“He’s been open with me. Or as open as he wants to be, I suppose.”
This surprises me. The Gabriel I knew kept his hurt close to his chest. “How open?”
Jane smooths back her hair, runs her fingers across the top of her opposite palm, shifts in her seat. Her obvious discomfort throws fuel on my curiosity.
“That question is better asked of Gabriel. I don’t want to betray a confidence.”
I try not to frown as I bite into my muffin. I’m glad she’s being respectful of Gabriel, but it’s getting in the way of me understanding more about him. About why he would confide in Jane, and what he’s told her.
“Are you married, Jane?” Her ring finger is bare, but she works with food. She likely doesn’t wear it when she bakes.
She sweeps an arm around the shop. “Sure I am. To this bakery.”
I huff a soft laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Once upon a time, I was married.” Something in her eyes recedes, like a waterline pulling away from the shore. There’s a vacancy there, a haunting, something she tries hard to suppress. I haven’t known her long enough to draw such a conclusion, but it’s obvious to me, this pain she wears on the inside.
“Do you want to talk about it?” My register drops, getting deeper and softer, measured. I may not practice therapy anymore, but that way of thinking is never too far. I see now that it wasn’t just the job, but me. Listening and problem solving is a core part of who I am.
Jane shakes her head. “Some problems simply exist, and that’s all there is to it. Talking about them won’t help.”
“Talking about them almost always helps.”
“Who?” Jane’s eyebrows lift. “Who does it help? It can’t help the victim if it’s the victimizer doing the talking.”
Interesting. It sounds as if Jane has slotted herself in the offensive role. I don’t love the term ‘victimizer’ because it’s more commonly used to describe someone who’s committed a crime, but since Jane’s used it I’ll roll with it. “The victimizer doesn’t deserve to be heard?”
Jane eyes me. As I watch, the curtains she uses to keep herself from being seen too deeply fall into place. The pain she keeps inside goes back the way it came, and a light filters into her gaze. She is the muffin lady again.
Jane sweeps crumbs off the table into her waiting cupped palm. “You’re an author? From Phoenix?”
I say nothing about the abrupt subject change. “I’m not an author yet,” I answer. “I’m not published. And yes, I’m from Phoenix.”
“Sure hot down there.” Jane tosses her muffin liner in the trash.
I don’t think Jane wants to talk about the searing heat of summer. I dip my chin a fraction, the way Dr. Ruben used to, a way of silently acknowledging what I’d said without giving it too much attention. I stay quiet, and I wait, and after a few seconds of silence, I’m rewarded with, “I used to live there. Smack dab in the center of the city. Not that it’s much of a city”—she raises a hand in a vertical line, indicating tall buildings—“but you know what I mean.”
“I do.” I finish my last bite of muffin. “Did you own a bakery there?”
“No.” She chuckles, as if the idea is absurd.
“What did you do?”
She stares at my chest, but I don’t think she’s seeing me. Her eyes gloss over, and she takes an odd-sounding breath, like she’s suppressing a sob. Her eyes meet mine. “You’re good,” she says, pointing a shaking finger at me. “Gabriel said you were.”
“I’m not practicing anymore.” I swallow the last of my coffee.
“It doesn’t seem like you need an office to practice.”
A smile tugs up one side of my mouth. “Once a therapist…”
Jane takes my empty cup. I throw away my liner and my napkin. “Thank you for the coffee and muffin, Jane.”
“My pleasure. It was nice to put a face to the name. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I hope that’s a good thing,” I joke.
She places a hand on my upper arm. It’s warm, comforting. My mother’s young face flashes through my mind. “It is, honey. It really is.”
I say goodbye and go back to my car. I’m walking quickly, because I’ve been struck by something precious and fleeting.
Inspiration.
I hadn’t planned to work from my car for two hours, but that’s what I did.
I wrote two thousand words, and good ones, too. Not words that’ll be deleted later in favor of something snappier, wittier, more succinct.
I stretch out my fingers, my hands, my wrists. They are sore in the best way.
Children play at the park across the street. I’m parked in a church parking lot, under the shade of a tree. My windows are down, and a breeze streams through my car.
Now that I’m not focused on writing, Jane rolls through my mind. I can see why Gabriel thinks well of her. She’s interesting. While it’s not uncommon for most people to carry a burden, Jane’s seems different. Heavier, more far-reaching. She has cast herself in the role of villain. Why? Why is she here, spending her life alone? Why did she leave Phoenix?
And then there’s Gabriel. All this time I thought I was writing about him in past tense, and one day, that ceased to be true.
I’m drawn to him. It’s that simple. Despite everything that has happened between us. Why is it I want to go toward the source of pain? Shouldn’t I be running the other way?
Right now, sitting here in this car after talking to Jane and writing, I want Gabriel. I want his touch, the way he’d curl a knuckle and run it down my arm, or cup the back of my neck and draw me to his mouth. I want his smile, his introspective gaze, his eyes that see into my soul. I want my life back. I want my husband back.
But my husband doesn’t exist anymore.
Gabriel experienced a significant, life-altering event. Firefighting Gabriel who put everybody else’s happiness before his own is now Woodworking Gabriel who lives in a small town and I have no idea what he does with his happiness.
Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to him, even when it seems like I shouldn’t be. He’s someone new, an iteration of the man I didn’t think I could breathe properly without.
Maybe, if Gabriel were still the man he once was, it would be easier to stay away from him. I could use the past to inform the future, learn the way most humans learn. By experience.
But he’s not. This version of Gabriel is better than the previous. Likely subtle to others, but glaringly obvious to me, this new Gabriel seems content. Less internal chaos, more peace with who he is as a person. Still one to do good for others, but not at the expense of himself.
The corners of my mouth creep up, and instead of resisting, I let it happen. Let that warm, cozy feeling reverberate through my chest. Let myself contemplate the question forming in my mind.
Can I fall in love with the same person a second time?