11. Annabelle
Annabelle
Thursday, I pack orders and get them to the post office just before it closes. I could go back to my apartment, but I don’t know when the bass will start thumping through the floorboards. I’ve got plenty of supplies in my tote bag, and I’m hungry, so I decide to work at The Up and Away Café.
The bell over the door gives a cheery jingle as I push inside and I’m hit with the warm smell of bacon and burnt coffee. The diner’s name is whimsical, but the decor is pure Michigan, meaning wood paneling and a linoleum floor.
I seat myself in the last open booth, across from three old men in ball caps with various levels of sun fade. A handwritten sign on the wall behind them reads, “Reserved for the ROMEOs,” and somehow, I just know they put it up themselves. They’re each tucking into a different flavor of pie.
“You’re Annabelle,” one of them says when he notices me. He’s wiry, sharp-eyed, and definitely the ringleader. “Stan’s girl.”
“In a way,” I say.
“In every way that matters,” the man next to him leans over to say. “He bragged on you like you were his own flesh and blood.”
My chest warms. “I didn’t know that.”
The first guy tilts his head, appraising me with dark brown eyes. “You’re cuter than I imagined. You have…spark.”
Before I can figure out what to do with that, the server appears.
“What can I get you?”
I grab the menu off the table and give it a quick scan. I order soup and a small salad, since I want to save room for pie later.
While I wait for my food, I get out five colors of Sakura Moonlight pens and add to the birthday card I drew this morning.
This one’s for Darla Lee. I hear she’s got a new rom-com coming out soon.
I idly wonder how people watch movies here.
Do they go to Escanaba or St. Ignace? Or is it more of a wait-for-Netflix situation?
I lift my head to ask the head ROMEO, and see him watching me. “I like your cards,” he says.
“You’ve seen them?” Are they already selling at Emerald Gifts?
“My wife showed me the card you made at the bakery.”
“Oh, you’re married to Dove.”
“Forty-seven years this spring.” He removes his hat, runs a hand over the gray tufts on his head, and replaces it. “Dove’s got that card in a frame next to the cash register.”
I die a little inside. That was a ten-minute job. I didn’t think she’d frame it.
“I’m Roy Jackson.” He puts down his fork to shake my hand across the aisle. “This here’s Fred Garcia and Milt Ingleside.”
“And you’re the ROMEOs,” I say, nodding to the sign. “What does that mean?”
“It stands for ‘Retired Old Men, Eating Out.’ Stan made it up, actually.”
“He was one of you?”
“He got a bit…busy after he married your grandma, but he still came around.”
My throat is trying to close up. I won’t let it. I take a breath and lift the glass of water the server brought me. “To absent friends.”
They lift their coffee cups. “To absent friends.”
“She was something else,” Milt says. “Your grandmother. Evelyn always walked in smelling like paint and lilacs. You could smell her coming before you saw her.”
The words hit me with an electric snap, and suddenly I’m not in the diner anymore.
When I was little, I’d sit on a stool in the bathroom and watch Nana get ready for dates.
She painted her face with precision and care, explaining every step to me.
And then, she’d let me have a single spritz of her perfume.
For the rest of the night, I’d sniff my wrist while coloring with the babysitter, convinced I smelled glamorous.
Nana’s dates never led anywhere. Not until Stan. At their wedding, during their first dance, I watched Stan making little circles on Nana’s back as he held her. I remember thinking, she found him. “I’m glad they had each other,” I say softly. “For however short a time.”
Milt clears his throat. “Stan never talked much about what it cost him. He didn’t want pity, and he knew Evelyn wouldn’t stand for it.”
I blink. “Cost him?”
The others try to shush him, but Milt insists on being heard. “Everyone already knows,” he says. “She should too.”
The server chooses that moment to drop off my food. I don’t touch it. Instead, I turn in my seat to face the ROMEOs. “What is it I should know?”
Milt shifts, glancing at the others. “He sold a lot of his properties. Even that set of cabins on the lake. Your grandmother’s medical bills were rough. They didn’t want to worry you.”
Behind me, someone drops a fork. A small child cries and is comforted.
The server refills a water glass, ice cubes plinking into a plastic cup.
My mouth has dropped open and I close it with force.
I knew Nana had been sick. I lived it. Local doctors.
Doctors in Ann Arbor. That one scary time she had to be airlifted. I never knew Stan paid for it.
“He never told me,” I whisper.
“Course he didn’t,” Roy says. “Didn’t want you thinking you owed him.”
My soup is cooling. I pick up my spoon. Put it down again. I turn to the ROMEOs. “Why leave me that building? I still don’t understand it.”
“No one does,” Fred says. “But you’d best make something out of it. That’s all they ever wanted for you.”
Outside, a snowflake drifts past the window. Just one, lazy and slow, like it’s testing the air. I feel the same way. Testing this town. This new life.
“Thank you,” I tell them. “Stan was lucky to have you as friends.”
The ROMEOs nod in that gruff way older men do when emotions make them uncomfortable. Fred pushes away his empty plate. Roy picks up the check. Milt gets a phone call and takes it outside. They gather coats and say goodbye.
Suddenly, I’m starving. I plow through my soup and salad, then order a slice of apple crumble pie, which comes warm, with a dollop of whipped cream in the center.
The booth across from me is now occupied by a family with two little girls.
Mom and Dad are each next to a kid, and the sisters are alternately giggling and kicking each other.
They’re a normal family, out for a normal weeknight meal.
Maybe the girls had an after-school club.
Maybe Mom had a hard day at work. Maybe nobody had time to cook tonight.
Maybe a grandparent is still in the picture, as a support to the parents, rather than a substitute for them.
I tell myself to stop being jealous of random families. Some people don’t have anyone at all. I had my Nana, who was more than enough. She loved me, she encouraged me, and she always made sure I had the best art supplies.
I set aside my dessert plate to work on the finer details of Darla Lee’s birthday card.
I design most of my cards on my tablet. They go from there to the printer, and I don’t see a paper card until the boxes are shipped to me.
But special cards for special people are drawn directly on cardstock.
I want the recipient to know they’re getting something handmade that’s one of a kind.
It means I need to take extra care, since there’s no erasing.
I’m taking my time with Darla Lee’s card, and loving the results so far.
I’m immersed in my work when Grant slides into the other side of my booth.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“All the other seats are taken. When that happens, we share. You can’t have a four-top to yourself.”
I swivel my head to take in the rest of the room. There’s one other table that has a single diner at it, a middle-aged woman primly eating the fish dinner. “Sit over there,” I say.
“I’m not sitting with Ms. Santiago.”
“Why?”
“She was my fourth-grade teacher. She always looks at me like I’m one spelling test away from disappointment.”
“Ah, so she knows you well.”
“Ms. Santiago’s scary,” he says. “You’re just… I don’t know. Barely tolerable.”
I go back to coloring my card. “I would send you to Ms. Santiago myself if I thought she’d take you, but I’m not cruel enough to unleash you on an innocent woman eating fried fish.”
I’m adding more sparkles around the edge of my card when I notice Grant flipping through the pre-addressed envelopes I left on the table. He gives a half-snort, half laugh. “Do you expect me to believe you know movie stars?”
“I don’t care what you believe,” I tell him.
“Why are you sending mail to LeVar Burton?”
“Because his birthday is on February sixteenth.”
“I don’t get it.”
“And I don’t care.” I wasn’t going to explain myself. I tried that once. After my Cate Blanchett success, I ran to Magnus, brimming with excitement, feeling like I’d unlocked the key to cardmaking success.
Magnus told me it was adorable, in a pathetic, fanfiction kind of way. What I saw as a genius marketing idea, he called “sucking up to celebrities.” I think he even used the word fawning, although my memory is fuzzy on that part because I was so mad I kind of blacked out for a minute.
He apologized later. It was a really good apology. But the damage was done. I started to trust him less, and dammit, I trusted myself less. I can’t let that happen again.
Grant points to the envelopes. “I’m just curious about—”
“No, you’re not,” I interrupt. “You’re trying to judge. To mock.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” I snap. “You made it very clear that I’m not allowed to tell you how to run your business. Well, this is my business, and I decide how to run it.”
Our server hustles over, order pad in hand. Grant asks for a cheeseburger and onion rings. “Which he’ll be taking to go,” I tell her.
I open the card I’m making and concentrate on the inside message, shaping each letter with absolute precision. When I look up, Grant is gone.
After the dinner rush, the crowd thins out and I don’t feel bad about taking up a whole table. When the staff checks on me a third time, I decide I should call it a night.