Chapter 19
“Your heart’s still ticking, but, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna tweak it a bit.
” I reached inside her chest and pulled the chain until the weight was repositioned at the top.
I repeated this with the other two weights.
“There ya go, ma’am.” I closed the front of the clock and used a clean rag to wipe her down.
Sighing, I stepped back and checked the time, which showed I still had too much time to dwell on the awful news Cy dumped on me yesterday.
Wandering into the kitchen, I picked up my phone and stared at the screen. I could call my parents and demand they parent up and get my brother off my back. I could hear that conversation playing out in my head.
Cy is being a meanie. Make him stop. Make him share my daughter with me!
I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we are in the middle of saving a tree!
I pocketed the phone and rubbed my forehead, then looked up and my gaze connected with the delicate stemware on display in Olla’s hutch.
Images of women in movies or TV shows sipping on a glass of wine to relax came to mind.
I wished I could do that, just one glass to calm myself, but I never stopped at one glass.
What if you make yourself one glass then pour the rest down the sink. No temptation!
“No!” I spun in a circle and growled, trying to shake the inner voices.
Not trusting myself to be alone, I fled the cravings and made my way over to Henry’s, but he was on his way out.
He came to an abrupt stop, nearly plowing into me at his front door. “Oh! Hi!”
“Hi,” I parroted, watching him shove keys and a wallet into his pockets. “Where’re you off to?”
“Book research.” He didn’t elaborate, making it clear it was none of my business.
“Oh.” I shuffled back and forth, eyes trained on the weathered floorboards of the porch. “I’ll uh . . . see you around then.” I turned to leave.
“Would you like to go with me?”
I slowed, looking over my shoulder. “I don’t want to get in the way.”
Henry shook his head and motioned for me to follow him. “You won’t. Come on.”
I should have let the guy do what he needed to do in peace, but I desperately needed a distraction. One that would snag my mind away from my problems and the cravings, so I climbed into his blue Jeep without questioning our destination.
For the second time in two days, the destination ended up surprising me. “A tattoo parlor?”
“Yes,” Henry replied, holding the door open to the shop, and the exotic aroma of incense pulled us inside.
“Patchouli?” I mumbled and a guy covered in intricate ink agreed.
“Good nose. Patchouli and rosewood.” He grinned, brushing a dreadlock out of his face with a tattooed hand.
“Hey, Zee.” Henry did some complicated fist bump with the guy. “This is my friend Junie. You cool with her hanging out with us while you ink me?”
I gasped. “You’re getting a tattoo?”
“Why else would he be in my shop?” Zee chuckled as he led Henry to an iPad mounted on the counter.
“Fill this out while I set up, man.” He walked toward the back of the shop where the low hum of tattoo guns sounded busy and steady, mingling with the laid-back melody of reggae music coming from the overhead speakers.
“This is for book research? A tattoo?” I whispered.
Henry filled out the section wanting to know what placement he wanted. Thankfully, he scrolled over the genitalia option and tapped the box for his left inner arm. “Yeah. Don’t tell Zee, but I’m a little scared.”
Bob Marley began crooning the lyrics of “Could You Be Loved” as Henry finished up the consent form, signing his name with an H and then a squiggly line.
“By the way, how’d you come up with your pen name?”
Henry looked over his shoulder as he hit the submit button. “H. M. is my initials, Henry Morrison. And my nonna’s maiden name is Rossi.”
“Ah. Makes sense now.” I swiped a tattoo book and moved to the leather couch, preparing to get settled for a while.
“Come back with me.” Henry motioned toward Zee’s station.
Running my thumb over my fingernails, I glanced around, then met his gaze. “You sure?”
“Sure.” Henry gave me a lopsided, boyish smile. One that talked me into following immediately.
Zee got down to work rather quickly and efficiently, the gun humming away. About twenty minutes in, an ache settled into my arm. I rotated it a few times, then rubbed my shoulder.
“You having sympathy pains?” Henry chuckled.
“No.” I made a face and kneaded my arm. “I went to Topgolf with Gilbert yesterday. It’s got my arm sore.”
“Ah. So he’s back to being your personal trainer?” Henry’s blue eyes sparkled, as if we were sharing an inside joke. I guess we were, because he knew darn well Gilbert was no such thing.
“For now, yes.”
Henry nodded, seemingly not in any pain as the needle continuously dug into his arm. “Gilbert is a nice guy.”
“Yep.” I wanted to come clean and admit what Gilbert was to me, probation officer/sponsor, but the old man was so much more than that, and a tattoo shop wasn’t the right place for that conversation.
Less than an hour later, Zee slapped a piece of clear wrap around Henry’s bicep. “Keep it covered for the next hour. Clean with plain antibacterial soap and only put some unscented lotion like CeraVe on it. No sun and no pool for at least the next week.”
I could easily see the bold #15 inked along his toned inner arm. “Hashtag fifteen? What’s it stand for?”
“It’s . . . my lucky number.” Henry’s tone said there was more behind it than that.
I waited until we made it outside to pick back up on the conversation. “What’s the number really about?”
Henry straightened his glasses and peered around. No one was in earshot, I’d already checked. “Fifteen is where my third book hit the New York Times Best Seller list. Stayed there for three weeks too.”
“Yeah, but you’ve had several to hit number one since then.”
“The goal was to hit the list.” Henry unlocked my door, then held it open for me. “I didn’t care where.”
I climbed in the seat and gave him a dubious look. “I’m not buying that.”
“Then you’re not an author.” Henry winked at me and closed the door.
He rounded to the driver’s side and climbed in.
He drove out of the parking lot and down the road a ways before adding, “Authors say they don’t care about the list, that it’s about the writing first and foremost, and it is, but don’t let any of us fool you. We all want on that list.”
I gave that some thought. “Why not put number one on your arm instead of number fifteen?”
He made a right. “It’s like this box was checked after I hit number fifteen, and it never really mattered to me after that. I proved I was a legit writer to myself and that’s all that mattered.”
I considered what number I would have tattooed on my arm, if I was into tattoos.
Fern’s birthday? No, that was the best day.
I needed a hashtag-fifteen day. Maybe forty-five.
That was the number of days I stayed sober after my first stint in rehab.
It proved I could do it, and I was determined to make it an infinite number this second time around.
“What if you wrote those books . . . all thirteen of them . . . and none of them ever hit a bestsellers list? Those same stories? Aren’t they just as good even without the NYT title beside them?”
Henry glanced over before refocusing on the busy road. “You ever set a goal and once you achieve it, realize it wasn’t as grand as you had expected?”
I stared out the window, chagrined. “I’ve never achieved any goal I’ve made, so I don’t know.”
Henry changed lanes and for a few miles all I heard was the roar of the engine. Finally, he said, “You’re young, Junie. You have plenty of time to make goals and then see them happen.”
I shrugged, not feeling so optimistic. “If you say so.”
“What are some goals you have?”
“Let’s see. Maybe not get arrested again. Oh! And I would really like to never go back to rehab. It wasn’t my scene.”
“Stop being facetious.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have significant goals you’re working toward.” He side-eyed me. “Your sobriety. Regaining custody of Fernie. Your hat and accessory business.”
“I want my daughter back more than anything, but I’m so .
. . I’m overwhelmed. The cravings, the body aches when I deny the cravings.
And the stress of trying to eke out a living so I can support myself and Fernie.
Each day I wake up knowing I have to do all the hard things, to prove to my family and to the court I can be a decent parent. ”
Henry said nothing until he pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. “Junie . . . Those goals are hefty—”
“I know it.”
He turned in the seat and looked at me head-on as his hand found mine. “But from what I’ve learned about you this summer, you’re more than capable. Don’t give up, no matter how hard it gets.”
“I won’t.” My eyes pricked and my throat tightened. “Thanks for today. The distraction and for this talk. I really needed it.”
“Any time.” He squeezed my hand, then let go.
I climbed out of the Jeep and made my way inside my house. I started up the stairs, but a knock at the door had me reversing to answer it.
“So . . . I found this on my porch.” Henry held the basket of tomatoes a little higher. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more of that good bread, would ya?”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
He looked over the plump tomatoes. “It’s okay. We can just slice them up and eat as is.”
For a second, I considered telling him no thanks and ending things where we left them in the driveway, but he didn’t seem put off by my disastrous life, and those tomatoes sure did look good, considering I’d spent most of the day too upset to eat anything. “You ever had tomato cracker salad?”
He shrugged. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat then. I’m gonna make you my Grandma Olla’s tomato cracker salad.” I waved him inside and closed the door. Entering the kitchen, I grabbed the mayonnaise and a sleeve of saltine crackers.
“This is new.”