Chapter 17
[Neve]
My sisters and I have made a final decision. Not that Icelyn was much help, but Lumi led the discussion, and Isolde agreed. Take the deal. I let Lumi give Tate the good news. The good-for-him news.
All I wanted to do was bury myself in bed, but Isolde and Lumi are at my door bright and early Saturday morning.
“Breakfast,” Isolde says, a little too cheerfully.
“Porthole in the Wall,” Lumi says, like a greasy breakfast at our favorite diner will solve everything.
Porthole in the Wall is the official name of a small diner frequented by locals.
It’s one of the rare gems we keep to ourselves.
The bright red entrance door with a porthole window looks like the swing door to a restaurant kitchen.
The fieldstone exterior contrasts with the tight interior that looks like the galley of a ship.
One long, wooden-backed bench lines a wall.
Tables with two chairs on the opposite side of the bench fill the space.
On the opposite wall are two-tops, set close together.
Gladys hollers for us to take a seat wherever we can find space.
Thankfully, a couple in the corner are finished, and we slide into their seats when they leave.
Gladys is the only waitress today. She’s as much of an institution as the diner itself.
Quickly, she comes over to our table, swipes it clean of dishes and crumbs, then returns to pour each of us a coffee without asking if we want any.
She dumps a handful of sugars and creamers on the table before rushing off again.
My doctor said to cut back on coffee, especially the caffeinated stuff, so I’ve had to cross over the foo-foo line of fancy coffee substitutes to get my fix.
“Let me just smell it,” I say, pulling a mug toward me and lowering my head to inhale the morning nectar. Only my nose wrinkles, because the acrid aroma is almost too much. My stomach rolls a little bit.
“Morning sickness?” Isolde asks me, sympathy in the question.
I shake my head. I haven’t had morning sickness since the first few months.
Now it’s just heartburn, and yesterday evening, I had chest pain like I’ve never experienced before.
It could have been the combination of raw apple pie filling and baked ziti, but something told me that burn was caused by something else.
Disappointment.
“So, the elephant in the room . . .” Lumi begins.
“That’s not really a nice way to talk about me,” I state, sitting straighter.
Isolde chuckles and shakes her head like I’m ridiculous.
“Tate,” Lumi states, almost a little too loudly because the couple at the table closest to us turns their heads.
I lean toward Lumi, shushing her.
Isolde turns toward Lumi. “Did she just tell you to be quiet?”
Lumi cracks a smile, knowing I’m typically the loud one in the bunch.
I glance over my shoulder at the couple who have returned to their scrambled eggs.
“There’s no elephant.” I lower my voice, addressing my sisters.
“How about apple pie?” Lumi says, tipping up a brow.
“Why are we speaking in metaphors?” Isolde asks. Then she turns her attention to me. “You told him, right?”
She knows I did.
“And?” Lumi rolls her finger in the air, prompting me to fill in more. “He came over the other day.”
I glance down at the mug of coffee I can’t drink and slump back in my chair. “It was nothing. We went apple picking and ate your baked ziti, and he didn’t kiss me.”
I glance up, shocked that I said all that I said, to meet two sets of eyes equally surprised staring back at me.
“You had baked ziti?” Isolde asks, whipping her focus from me to Lumi.
“Why do you sound upset that he didn’t kiss you?” Lumi tilts her head. “Are you upset?”
“Of course not.” I huff, crossing my arms over my belly.
“Of course you are,” Isolde counters, looking back at me. “I’m no expert on relationships, but who wouldn’t want a man like him to kiss her?”
“Excuse me?” I state, defensively, making a mental note that my sister seems a little too eager to want to kiss Tate.
“I’m just saying, he’s good-looking and seems nice. Not like Landon.”
I arch one brow. Landon. The guy who totally wants to kiss you. I don’t ask. I’m not looking for a fight or to compare one cousin to the other.
“What Isolde might mean,” Lumi begins, glancing from our younger sister to me. “Is that Tate obviously cares about you?”
“How do you know?” I ask, losing my defenses. “Because he took me apple picking and ate dinner with me? That doesn’t mean he cares.”
“Sounds like a date,” Isolde offers, and I hate how I’d already had the same thought.
After the kiss that didn’t happen, Tate stayed for dinner. I expected it to be awkward. A certain tension from the failure and the sexual edginess that lingered. But Tate served us baked ziti like nothing happened, because nothing happened, and we hung out chatting like we had earlier in the day.
He told me more about his experiences at medical school. And I told him how I never went to college. How the garage had been my education.
I expected him to judge me, being an Ivy League kind of guy, but he didn’t. He just listened. Told me it sounded like Dad and I had great adventures, along with a little contention.
A long time ago, I’d wanted to make the upgrades I imagine Bucky Beaver Body Shop will soon make.
I shake the thought of changes to come and futures taking a new direction when Lumi says, “That’s a start.”
“What’s a start?” I ask.
“A date. That getting-to-know-someone moment.”
“A date is torture,” I counter, but the bluster isn’t as fierce when I consider how easy it had been with Tate. We ate. We laughed. We did the dishes.
He left.
We baked the pie, but I was too stuffed to eat any of it. I told him he should take it. He did more work than I did. He told me to keep it. It’d be an excuse to come back over. Only, I haven’t heard from him in two days.
He’s probably counting his commission as we speak.
The thought wasn’t fair, but I was still a little salty about the sale. And the lack of a call from him. Or a text. I didn’t know the rules of dating because I didn’t date. And being as pregnant as I am, about to embark on single motherhood, I didn’t expect to start dating anytime soon.
“Hasn’t he called you?” Isolde asks, her voice sympathetic again.
“No.” The answer is hard and quick and seems to say it all. He didn’t call because he isn’t sticking around. He got what he wanted, and now he’s gone.
I sigh, fighting the sudden sting at the back of my eyes. I will not cry over Tate Love.
Lumi stares at me, assessing me, but there’s nothing to assess.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
She shakes her head, not believing me, but senses I’ve reached the end of my threshold on this topic.
“How’s the otter?” I ask Isolde.
“I think it might be a beaver after all,” she says.
The three of us meet eyes and burst into laughter.
After breakfast, Lumi and Isolde insist I attend the Fall Harvest Market.
Similar to our summer farmers’ market, this one is a bit bigger, offering final summer vegetables and the start of winter ones.
Pumpkins are also available along with a plethora of apples from Over the Hill Farm.
But there are also crafters present, selling quilts and crocheted blankets, suggesting fall leans toward cool nights and campfires.
Sauntering behind my sisters as they move from stall to stall, my mind wanders. I’m not shopping for anything, but I do stop at Charma’s booth. She has a selection of rings and antique-looking jewelry, as well as a mix of crystals and charms.
I’m not a jewelry person, but one ring catches my eye. The piece is messier than the other items. A gemstone, a pearl, another uncut gem, and a small sparkly item decorate a silver band.
“Those are moonstones,” Charma says, smiling fondly at the ring. “For intuition and femininity.”
I snort. Not many people consider me feminine, especially as I did more ‘boy’ things.
“I think she’d prefer something black, Aunt Charma.”
I spin to find Tate behind me, peering over my shoulder at the collection. The sound of his voice makes my pulse spike before I rein in my excitement, reminding myself I’m upset with his lack of communication since apple picking.
But he’s standing so close to me, his clove scent mingling with the fresh autumn air.
He’s wearing dark jeans and another Henley shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows.
The scruff on his face is just a thin layer, making him look a little more rugged, a little more local.
And the thought of him being a local makes my heart trip a second before I speak.
“Like my soul,” I counter, a little sharper than necessary, about his comment that I’d prefer black stones.
He glances at me, his rich eyes sparkling like their own gemstone. “Because black stones mean strength.” He looks at his aunt for confirmation.
Huh.
“And willpower,” Charma winks. Then she inhales sharply. “Oh.” Her gaze dances between us while her hand comes to her chest. “Oh. Oh my.”
“What?” I nearly hold my breath as I clutch my belly, leaning toward her, wondering what’s wrong.
“The orange is very strong around the two of you.” She blinks and glances between us again. “Your chakra.”
I blink at her, then glance back at Tate, waiting for one of them to translate what this means, but no one does.
Tate just gives a small, absent shrug and says, “I like orange.” Like it’s the most natural observation in the world. Only he shifts his gaze as he says it, and my eyes follow the direction of his, dropping instinctively to where he glances.
My feet are down there somewhere, in my treasured sandals, because nothing else fits comfortably. Tate looks at my feet, where my ankles are swollen, and my toes are painted bright Halloween orange, partially because I forgot and mostly because I can no longer reach my toes to fix them.
When I look up at him, he’s already moving his gaze again, like it never settled anywhere specific to begin with.
Charma slowly smiles. “Orange is sensual.”
My head whips in her direction.