Chapter 13 #2
“To sway public opinion.” Cece can see Richie isn’t following her. He is a man who has had no use for politics, local or national, until this moment. “We can get out there and knock on doors. Collect our own signatures. I bet there’s a ton of support in the community for more jobs.”
Richie works his hands together like he’s holding an imaginary bar of soap.
“Look, right here,” Cece says. She points to a line in the letter.
“While the majority sentiment expressed by the public may be considered in the Commission’s deliberations, please be advised that the Zoning Commission retains sole and final authority over the approval or denial of the building permit. ”
“We still have a chance, you mean.”
“Correct,” Cece says, “and if we can bring our own list of signatures and make our case, there’s a good chance it’ll be approved.”
“It’s worth a shot, I suppose,” Richie says dubiously. “Where do we begin?”
For once in a very long time, Cece knows exactly what she needs to do. “Leave that to me.”
Cece knocks on Morgan’s front door and then retreats to the top step of the stairs.
She has no real right to ask anything of him, especially after running into him with Jonathan, but she’s desperate.
Pride be damned—she needs his help to save Rayburn.
From the backyard, the whine of a saw. Cece picks her way around the side of the house where she finds Morgan standing in a cloud of sawdust, bright orange earplugs crammed into his ears, extension cords crisscrossing the lawn.
Cece gives him a big wave, but he remains bent to the task, lips pursed, guiding wood slats with both hands, the saw spitting out scraps like spent sunflower seeds.
A few more cuts, the saw powered down, Morgan stands before her brushing sawdust from his beard and pant legs. Two red indentations grace the sides of his nose from the now-removed safety goggles.
“Remember when you asked me if there was anyone I wanted you to thump?” Cece says.
Morgan slides his backward hat around to face forward. “Sounds like something stupid I would say.”
“It was appreciated at the time,” Cece reassures him. She’d expected him to laugh or at least crack a smile. “I can come back. If you’re busy…I mean, I know you’re busy. I can see you’re working…”
“Just trying to finish up a few projects I’ve been neglecting.”
“Totally. I get it,” Cece says, flustered at her own presumption of Morgan’s availability. “I’ll stop by another time.”
She turns and goes back the way she came, stepping gingerly on moss-covered bricks.
“What’s the problem?” Morgan says before she’s out of earshot. “Guys from work still giving you a hard time?”
After Cece hurriedly explains the situation—the impending town hall, Richie’s financial gamble, their immediate need for signatures—Morgan says he knows where they should start.
“You’ll help me, then?”
Morgan tugs a rumpled plaid shirt on over his threadbare V-neck. “Sure thing.”
“We can do it another day, if you’re busy, that is.”
“Sounds time sensitive.”
Cece can’t deny this fact. “What about Lacy?”
“She’s up at her mom’s place. Coming back down tomorrow.”
“Too bad. She could have joined. We need all the help we can get. Should we take my car?”
“Know where we’re going?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Might make more sense for me to drive, then.”
After retrieving the pens and clipboards from her trunk, Cece jumps into Morgan’s pickup truck and they head downtown.
How many times has Cece heard this truck from a distance and turned to watch, anxious and expectant?
Now she’s inside, the cab just as she imagined, a leather bench seat, worn and grooved, the back seat a tangle of power tools, paint cans, and extension cords.
Don’t be weird, Cece thinks to herself, and redirects her attention out the window.
The silence grows between them. She wants to ask him why he was acting strange the last time she saw him.
But speaking Jonathan’s name aloud will ruin everything; it will force them to have some kind of definitive conversation that ends with them not spending the day together.
Her job—Richie—requires her not to bring it up, Cece thinks to herself.
It’s the right thing to do. Still, she’s antsy, the silence working on her like some kind of medieval torture, compelling her to reveal… what? Anything. Everything.
“My parents are getting a divorce,” she blurts out. It feels more real now that she’s said it aloud. Morgan’s the first person she’s told. “Or at least I think so. My mom is moving out.”
“Sorry to hear,” he says. “How are you taking it?”
Cece scolds herself. What did she expect him to say? Thanks for this incredibly revealing and depressing information, Cece. I’m so glad you’ve told me this. Then again, maybe this is good, maybe this plants them firmly in the friend zone, sharing their messy lives, unconcerned with appearances.
How is she taking it? Well? Fine? All in stride? “I guess I don’t really know. My sister is upset. They’ve been together for almost forty years.”
Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Siobhan, Lacy’s mom—we didn’t make it six years.
I’ve come around to the opinion that a good, decent marriage is about the toughest thing a person can try to do.
And even when you find it, you’ve got to work to keep it good.
There’s no slacking off, or at least that’s what it seems like. I wouldn’t know.”
“Why did you guys break up? You and Siobhan?”
Morgan seems to be weighing how much he wants to tell Cece. “We weren’t good for each other…Maybe that’s unfair to her…I wasn’t ready to be a father.”
“But you are now.”
“I’m trying.”
“My parents were good for a while, I think. But people change. Or they don’t change at all.
Both can bring problems. It just seems like one big crapshoot.
No one knows if they’ll love or even tolerate each other in five, ten, twenty years, but they do their best to assess the risk and take the leap. ”
“I don’t know how much assessing goes into it. People are spontaneous and pretty reckless in my experience.”
Cece picks at the frayed leather seat under her thigh. “Maybe that’s my problem. Too much assessing.”
“Is that why you called things off with Jonathan? Too much risk?”
A pang of guilt needles between Cece’s ribs.
How much truth does this particular moment require?
How much truth will absolve her? And what does she owe Morgan?
Since when did friendship make things more complicated?
Truth, in all its variations, seems like the best policy; after all, Cece could use a friend right about now, even if it comes at a cost. She forms the words in her head and recites them back to herself before she says them aloud.
“Kind of the opposite. You probably already guessed, but we’re trying to make things work again. ”
From the side, Cece studies Morgan’s face. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for. Relief? Disappointment? What does she want him to do with this information? His demeanor betrays nothing, no inner turmoil, no gloom—a perfect statue radiating stoicism. “Seems like a nice guy.”
Cece fights the desire to defend Jonathan’s personality against any potential perceived assholery—he isn’t one of those mindless finance bros; he wasn’t in a frat; he’s offered to invest in Rayburn Oyster—but she chews her cheek instead, sensing that Morgan would prefer to drive in silence.
There’s something else that stops Cece from breaking the soundless morass that settles between them like river mud. Morgan’s demeanor, his tight grip on the steering wheel, his eyes narrowed and straight ahead, like he’s determined not to look at her.
Whether the palpable tension can be attributed to their not-so-forgettable sex a month ago or Cece’s proclamation that she’s back together with Jonathan remains unknown.
Is Morgan angry with her, disappointed? Disappointed would be much worse.
Or maybe she’s just being paranoid. He has a lot going on.
Maybe this newfound taciturnity can be easily attributed to the ex or something else entirely.
He’s helping her, after all. Take the win, Cece thinks.
Windows down, the wind gusts deafeningly, eliminating any need for conversation.
Cece is infinitely thankful when they hit nearly every green light on their way across town.
Morgan insists they start on Perry Street and work their way north.
Cece is less familiar with this part of the city and is happy to follow his lead.
The roads grow more rutted, the homes cramped together and divided into multifamily apartments.
Low-slung power lines hang across streets like loose stitches in the sky.
Gray satellite dishes teeter on sun-faded shingles.
Air conditioners lean precipitously out of windows.
From a chain-link-fenced yard, a dog yaps.
“Just a little different than Mystic,” Morgan says with a chuckle.
Cece wonders if this is some sort of test, if Morgan’s seeing how far she’ll go outside her comfort zone.
If it is, she’s determined to pass. She may have given up on being an actuary; she may have embraced risk and taken her leap of faith (or foolishness), but Cece has never met a test she hasn’t wanted to ace.
They decide to split up to cover more ground. “How about a bet?” Cece shouts while she crosses the street. “Person with the lower number of signatures has to buy the other a drink at the Whaler tonight!”
“Let’s focus on getting actual signatures first.”
“Spoken like someone who’s afraid to lose!”
Cece recites her script to herself while she climbs the rickety steps of the first home.
She pulls back the screen door and gives three confident raps.
Somewhere, a car alarm blares. From inside, rustling, like someone is moving boxes out of their way.
A sliver of light. A woman in a nightgown peers at Cece through enormous glasses.