Chapter 4
Four
“Leave it to your mother to hide a brain tumor,” Jonathan says with an empty chuckle. He pours me a glass of wine at his kitchen island then sets a plate with a reheated pork chop and potatoes in front of me.
I stare at it. The thought of taking a bite makes my stomach churn.
He must see the guilt on my face, because he adds, “It’s not your fault, you know?”
I make a sound that’s neither agreeing nor disagreeing. I don’t blame myself for the tumor, I just don’t know how I missed it. How I can be with this woman—my mother—every single day and not notice something so catastrophic.
Across his open kitchen there’s a full view of the living room where Bennie’s asleep on the couch. A blue light dances across her face from the movie playing quietly on the TV.
Jonathan has two kids from his first marriage who are almost out of high school and handles Bennie with ease. I wouldn’t necessarily call them close—about half the time we spend together is when she stays the night with my mom—but they’re fond of each other.
He takes a sip of his whiskey, his two-finger nightcap of choice. “How was she?”
I shrug, twirling the stem of my glass. My chest aches so badly I wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like. “Fighting the surgery.”
He sets his glass down and wraps his hands around my shoulders, digging his thumbs into the muscles that are tense enough to be rock. He reads me well. Sees my stress and knows exactly where to push to give relief.
“What’s the plan?”
Jonathan loves a plan. It’s his favorite question when anything starts to go off the rails and one of the things that makes him so good for me. When times get tough, Jonathan doesn’t get emotional.
And, much like my parents never fought, I’m not sure if Jonathan and I have ever argued in our two years together. That’s saying something considering our first conversation happened because he disagreed with me.
I had just placed my go-to order of a London Fog—my one ridiculous indulgence—at the local coffee shop when he interjected.
“You know,” he said, slight smile lifting his lips as he stepped next to me.
With his svelte build, salt-and-pepper hair, dazzling smile, and crisp white shirt with a presidential-red tie, he was a sight to behold.
I was his complete opposite in my usual uniform of overalls, tank top, and worn leather sandals.
“Studies show coffee is far superior to tea. Less acid and better for your teeth.”
I looked at him, unable to tell if he was flirting or serious. “Is that so?” He nodded, and I feigned concern. “Guess I better not tell my dentist.”
“Keeping secrets from a medical professional?” He paid for both of our drinks, looking at me sideways. “I see the kind of woman you are.”
Then he smiled fully, and it was like a patch of warm sun through parting clouds.
I’d spent years alone after losing Nash, pouring myself into Bennie and work, and for the first time I thought maybe I was ready to take a step forward. Nash wasn’t coming back; I needed to move on.
Jonathan left that coffee shop with my phone number, and as they say, the rest is history.
Dating in this stage of life is different than when I was younger.
More calculated and less spontaneous, both of which suit me.
With him a few years older than me and having kids and me having Bennie, everything moves around their schedules and the lives we already have carved out.
Some weeks we’re together almost daily, some weeks we only talk a few times.
He has his hobbies—he’s obsessed with road cycling—while most of my free time is wrapped up in the store or perusing flea markets for the store. But he’s good with Bennie, he’s there when I need him—like today—and nothing is forced or stressful.
My mom jokes about him being perfect, but he really is as close to the word as it gets.
He only has two flaws: He hates being told no and he’s wretched when he drinks.
Since we rarely disagree, me telling him no has never been an issue—that’s reserved for people he works with and stories about his ex-wife—but I’ve had the unfortunate experience of seeing him drunk once.
For as buttoned up and predictable as he is in his everyday life, Drunk Jonathan is a complete trainwreck.
The one and only time I saw this side of him was at his brother’s wedding where he sloppily lectured every guest on how their food and drink choices were destroying the enamel on their teeth then gave a toast where he listed every flaw of the bride and groom, citing how each made them perfect for the other.
It was supposed to be funny—I think—but it was anything but and nearly ended in a physical altercation when his brother took the mic from him. It was disastrous.
But together, we work.
He likes to plan; I like knowing what to expect. He’s practical; I like the steadiness that provides. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get married after Nash, but when Jonathan proposed by listing all the reasons it was a logical next step, I said yes.
“The plan,” I begin, blowing out a long breath, “is to force my mother to have brain surgery and hope a global antique shortage leads thousands of customers to flood the store tomorrow.”
He chuckles, digging his thumbs deeper into my shoulders. “Sounds easy.”
“That’s what I thought,” I say over the rim of my glass before taking a sip. When it hits my tongue, I taste it’s a cabernet—an expensive one—and swallow it down with the whisper of memories it brings. Nash always loved a good cab.
Jonathan stops massaging to step in front of me, taking my hands in his. “And plan B?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.
Concern is etched in every one of his clean-cut features as he kisses my knuckles. “You already got the police report filed?” That is such a perfectly him thing to ask. There’s no dwelling or reminiscing; he simply takes action. “I can contact my attorney. What else can I do?”
I laugh softly. “You in the business of miracles now?”
His eyes bounce between mine as if trying to follow every direction my thoughts are scattering.
I have to call my sisters, explain all of this to Bennie, and figure out how to salvage the business. And Mom’s health—I have no idea how to convince her to have a brain surgery we can’t afford.
“Didn’t I mention that when I proposed?” He kisses me gently then twirls the engagement ring around my finger. “Plan C?”
My current plans all require months of work—none of them immediate enough. We need money faster than a few summer markets and a fall wine pairing can get us.
“I’m working on it.”
“Listen,” he says, almost cautious. “I know you rushed into things with Bennie’s dad, and then he died.
” My body physically tenses at this. “I know that you’ve done everything on your own a long time.
But you don’t have to have everything figured out before we get married.
I can help you. I want to. I’m good at fixing problems.” He smiles slightly before adding, “Which is why I think maybe it’s time to consider selling. ”
I jolt upright so quickly my elbow bumps the glass on the counter and some of the wine sloshes over the rim.
“Old Vines?” Absolutely not. That place might be pushing me to a breaking point, but it’s home. Bennie would be devastated. I would be. Mom. “No way.”
“I played with the numbers—” He blows out a weighted breath. “I don’t see how else this works out, Rue. It might take you years to get that money back. The store was already losing money. Now this . . .”
“I said I’m working on it,” I snap. Jonathan’s large kitchen shrinks to a snuffbox. I clear my throat to make a pathway for air. “What if we push the wedding back? So I don’t drag you into this, I mean. Give me a little more time to fix everything.”
He scoffs. “A wedding isn’t going to make or break a failing business. And I don’t want to push it back, do you?”
The last thing I care about is getting married right now, and a headache builds at the base of my skull from the thought. A June thirtieth wedding feels impossible. It’s just over a month away.
“No, of course not.” I rub my palms on my thighs. “But I need to fix this. I will fix this.”
“And your mom? Should she even be working?”
“Of course she should be working,” I argue. “The doctor said she’s fine—why wouldn’t she work?”
He gives me a skeptical look, silently reminding me she just gave all our money away.
“Either way, our wedding is next month.” He gives me a kiss that reminds me he has my best interests in mind. “Other than a loan—which I doubt you’ll qualify for given the circumstances—it’s a tough spot, Rue.”
“You don’t think I know this is tough?” I’m spiraling at his implication. He thinks it’s a lost cause. Sees the business as dead in the water and my mom as a bag of bones, and it’s only day one of the disaster.
He winces apologetically and it wracks me with guilt. This isn’t his fault.
“Sorry.” I close my eyes and rub my forehead. “I know you’re trying to help.”
He’s so levelheaded, he must be right—he usually is—and with the unnatural rhythm my heart is pounding, I know I shouldn’t be making any decisions.
I’m too close to it all—to the store, to my mom.
Maybe I should sell it. I can get married and move on to the next chapter.
One without the money pit that is Old Vines.
It sounds so easy, yet I have never hated the thought of anything more.
“Just think about it.” He plants a kiss on my head. “But this summer is ending with you married.”
His voice says he’s joking, but his eyes say he’s worried.
“I know it is.” I lean into him with a hug, and he wraps his arms around me. “Tell me about your day.”
With the comforting cadence of his voice, he does.
He tells me about a kid who bit onto a rope tied to the monkey bars then jumped, effectively ripping out his two front teeth, then about a woman who brought a pet ferret in with her—on a leash—and called it her emotional support animal right before it peed all over the chair.
He doesn’t make me feel any better, but I do manage a laugh.
“A bad guy took all the money from the bank account for the store,” I tell Bennie as I tuck her favorite tattered pink quilt around her body. “And Gypsy has a spot on her brain that’s been giving her headaches.”
“Is she okay?” she asks.
“Of course she is.” I push her hair away from her face and tap her nose. “But we have to keep an extra eye on her.” In a more playful voice I add, “And keep getting the mail when she forgets.”
At this, she grins. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” I kiss her forehead before standing. When I turn off the light, an explosion of stars scatters across the ceiling and walls from a nightlight.
“Mom,” she calls when I’ve nearly closed the door.
I pause and widen it a crack. “Yeah?”
“Do you love Jonathan the way you loved my dad?”
The question is from so far out of left field, my breath catches.
“Um.” I swallow. “You love everyone differently, I think.”
“Do you miss him?” she asks. “My dad, I mean.”
Oy.
“Sometimes,” I admit.
“Would you still be together if he didn’t die?”
I grip the doorframe. “Maybe.” My mind wanders down that make-believe trail for the first time in years before I snap myself out of it. “Where is this coming from?”
“Just wondering.” She smiles sleepily. “Love you.”
“Love you, back.”
I pause at her closed door, rattled. It’s natural for a kid to want to know about a parent they’ve never met, but it doesn’t change the way every memory hurts when I’m forced to relive them.
It also doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.