Chapter 18
Sunday is blissfully low-key. Berk’s is closed on Sundays, as is the pumpkin farm, so I sleep in until ten with no interruptions.
I talk to Juliet Monroe about the Fall Festival this week, because she and Rosie are the ones running the whole shebang.
Wednesday is Pumpkin Day—thus why Juliet picked up so many of them on Bugelbach’s opening day—and along with my regular pumpkin patch work, I’m going to be on duty at the festival too.
My pumpkin-handling gloves are ready to go. My pumpkin-orange sweater is hanging from the corner of one of the metal shelving units by my sleeping bag. Wednesday will find me in fine form.
It has occurred to me, however, that I need to make a few adjustments to my housing arrangements before that.
Namely that I have no food and no means of preparation.
As much as I would love to eat every meal at Keller’s Bakehouse, I know this to be both unhealthy and unrealistic, so it is with empty-bellied alacrity that I return to my childhood home on Sunday.
I time my visit to coincide with Alvina’s presumed return from church, which she’s probably attended with Daryl; maybe I can get a hint of how things are going today.
My food prep comes first, though, so when I emerge into the kitchen, I get to work.
I’ll buy some groceries tomorrow, but for now I make a few PB it’s sad, contemplative, and not entirely present.
Her footsteps are slow as she drifts not to the couch or the TV but to the wall where a smattering of pictures hang. She seems to know exactly what she’s doing, because there’s no hesitation in her movements when she reaches for one of the photos and lifts it gently off the wall.
When my gaze drops to the picture, to what’s capturing so much of her attention, my throat tightens.
It’s a family photo of the four of us—Nathan and I, Alvina, and my dad. Taken a year or two before he died, it portrays him exactly like I remember, with dark hair, bright eyes, and a relaxed smile.
The rest of us look so different now that it hurts to see the way we were.
Still paying no attention to her surroundings, Alvina’s slow steps move toward the couch, where she perches delicately on the arm rest.
Finally I set my plastic bag on the counter and leave the kitchen. I approach carefully, because with Alvina that’s always best, especially if you can’t read the situation.
Why did she take that picture off the wall? Checking in on her old family before she moves on to the next?
“So,” I say, and I find the word hoarse. “How are things with Daryl?” I hesitate and then ask, “Is he going to be my new stepdad?”
To my surprise, Alvina doesn’t answer right away. I’m not even sure she hears me; there’s a faraway look in her eyes as she stares at our family picture, and her hands are almost gentle as she brings it closer, touching the glass with one finger.
“Al—Mom?” I say.
“Hmm? Oh,” she says. She looks away from the photo and laughs lightly, and when she speaks, her voice is less theatrical. “Marry Daryl? It’s unlikely, I think.”
My brows jump at this, some of my wariness vanishing.
Alvina looks up and sees my surprise; then she nods and glances back at the photo in her lap. “I fear Daryl is far too good for someone like me.” She touches the picture fondly again. “He’s very like your father, you know.”
I blink. “Is he?”
“Mmm. He’s a gentleman.” She holds up her bony hand—looking, I think, at the ring finger that’s currently empty.
Then she fiddles with the shiny bracelets on her wrist. “I adore beautiful things. Your previous stepfathers—they did too. But Daryl…” She trails off, her voice musing, her eyes distant once more. “He’s different, I suppose.”
And my tight throat closes further as the world around me fades away. All I can see is my mother’s expression, and all I can feel is horror and deep, desperate despair, because it never occurred to me—it never even crossed my mind that my mother might actually fall for Daryl.
That she might actually end up loving him.
I don’t know why my heart is breaking, only that it is, ripping along seams already repaired so many times before. “How is he different?” I say.
Alvina doesn’t notice my voice break or my eyes tear up, and I guess it’s for the best.
“Well, I prefer things to go my way, and I don’t mind making a fuss.
It’s a woman’s prerogative, sweetheart,” she adds as an aside, flicking a few careless fingers at me.
“But Daryl doesn’t give an inch if he thinks I’m being unreasonable.
Can you imagine—me, unreasonable.” She scoffs, but there’s a fond smile at the corners of her lips, telling me far more than her words ever could.
“I expect he believes in growing old together, working hard for each other.” That little smile fades into something wistful.
Wistful. Like she wants those things.
“I think he’ll eventually realize I’m not that kind of woman,” she goes on. And although her tone is breezy now, her standard way of speaking, she doesn’t look like herself. Her eyes dart away from mine, and she smooths her hair with her free hand.
I find myself stepping forward and speaking. “You could be that kind of woman.”
STOP TALKING, my brain screams at my mouth. WE ARE NOT ENCOURAGING THIS RELATIONSHIP.
But my logical brain doesn’t seem to have any power in this conversation, because I go on. “You were before, weren’t you? With Dad?”
The protests in my mind quiver when a single tear runs down my mother’s cheek.
“I suppose so,” she says, turning her head and wiping the tear with a delicate flick of her wrist. “But I’m not sure it’s worth doing again, you know—that level of devotion. I’m quite happy enough the way I am.” The words are followed by a laugh that’s not quite real, a fake, airy sound.
It’s the laugh of a woman who knows she’s lying.
“Oh, this is all so silly to discuss, Reese, darling.” She stands up, smooths her hands down her shirt, and tosses the family photo carelessly onto the couch behind her. “You should turn in early.”
I blink at her. “It’s not bedtime.”
She waves this away. “Yes, well. You have bags under your eyes.”
Then she bustles past me, out of the room, and up the stairs again. I’m left watching her go, and as soon as she’s gone, I hurry around the couch to retrieve the photo.
I lift it carefully, smiling at my dad. “Hi,” I tell him, my voice soft. “I’ll put you back on the wall so you don’t have to stare at the ceiling, okay?” I carry him across the room, lifting my sweater to clean the frame—only to realize that there’s no dust.
I hang the picture gently, returning it to its place.
Then I glance at some of the other photos that hang nearby.
Their frames are all covered in a fine layer of dust, except for one: another family photo, one from when I was still in middle school.
It hangs slightly crooked, so I straighten it, squeezing my stinging eyes and wondering how much time Alvina spends with my dad when no one else is watching.
Bright and early Monday morning brings the beginning of the Fall Festival, and I swear the crisp breeze is scented with pumpkin spice.
Main has been closed off from end to end, giving plenty of room for all the booths and tables and activities.
I don’t make it to the kick-off breakfast because I’m helping Nathan open the store, but I smell what’s being cooked—delicious maple and sizzling sausage and fluffy pancakes.
As much as I love the pumpkin patch, I’m almost sad when it’s time to head over.
I step out of Berk’s and into the sun, the cheerful hum of chatter and enjoyment greeting my ears.
Leaving the sidewalk past the trees that line the road, I crane my neck up and down Main to get a better look; a smile finds me immediately at the vibrant colors and the milling of townspeople and the laughter of children officially off school for fall break.
My smile dims when I see Rosie hurrying around, though.
She looks frazzled, but that’s not what bothers me; it’s the memory of my conversation with Alvina last night that floods in and wrinkles worry into my expression.
I wave when I catch Rosie’s eye, and she waves back, but my greeting is halfhearted.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my mother the way she was last night. For a few brief moments, all of her masks were stripped away, and she felt human—not drifting aimlessly and carelessly but somewhat rooted. What’s more, she seemed to want to be that person, even if she denied it.
Maybe he could fix her!
The words I spoke in desperation the other day come back to me now, but I shake my head. “Absolutely not,” I say to myself. “It doesn’t work that way, and you know it.”
No one can fix another person. But the power of a positive, motivating influence…that can’t be denied, either.
I scrub my hands down my face and groan.
“Talking to yourself?”
I startle and whirl around to see Dominic, his arms folded. The cord of his necklace is tucked securely beneath a green t-shirt that turns his eyes from mossy to emerald, even in the shadow of his baseball hat.
The memory of pretending to kiss him floods into my mind, and I can feel my stupid cheeks heating.
He brought me a blanket. I wore his shirt. I sat on his lap.
“Yes,” I say, straightening up and dragging my mind away from what happened. Then I clear my throat. “But only a little, and for a very good cause.”
“A very good cause?” he says, stepping closer. His shadow looms over the pavement, swallowing mine completely.
“For—” I falter as I search desperately for a reason. Then, finally giving up, I say, “For charity.”
His lips twitch, but I go on before he can respond.
“What are you doing here?”
He points past me to the entrance of the hardware shop. “I need to grab a few things for Rosie. She bit off more than she can chew with all this”—he gestures up and down the street—“so I’m filling in some gaps.”
“Such a good brother.”
“And only one of my admirable qualities.” Some of the amusement in his eyes fades as he looks at me. “You okay?”
Because he could be talking about several things—my embarrassment-red cheeks, my worries about our parents, my flustered heart—I don’t answer right away. I wait until he goes on.
“You look worried,” he says, and relief trickles through me.
I cannot explain my flushed skin. I cannot tell him I’m still remembering our not-kiss.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, but I can feel my face fall, and I grimace. “Kind of? I don’t know.” I pause. “The situation with our parents might have changed a little,” I admit.
He unfolds his arms slowly and adjusts his hat, his brows furrowing. “How so?”
But before I can say anything, he glances over his shoulder and sighs. “No, sorry—I actually can’t talk at the moment. I’ve got to run.”
“We can talk later,” I say with a nod, and I’d be lying if I said I’m not relieved. “It isn’t urgent.”
“Great,” he says, his voice brisk now. He looks over his shoulder again, and following his gaze I find Rosie, who’s shooing him on. “I’m going,” he yells to her. Then he shakes his head and steps past me. “Later, Berkeley. Call me. Or I’ll call you—whatever.”
I hum my agreement and then watch him breeze into the shop, the overhead bell jingling. When the door thumps closed, I take a deep breath and push my hair behind my ears.
There is no need to get so worked up about a man saying he’ll call, I tell my heart. And definitely not this man. Get it together.
A past version of Reese loved a past version of Dominic.
Loved him deeply, even when she shouldn’t have.
It’s only natural that some of that will spill over.
But my responsibility now is to push those feelings out when they try to emerge.
So I nod firmly, remind myself that it has been six years and we’re both very different now, and then stride off, heading to Bugelbach’s.