Lizzie
Chapter Seventeen
Apparently, seeing Holden Aron again has made me choose violence.
I grasp the corner of the faded, hideous wallpaper and pull with all my strength.
An exaggerated grunt escapes me. The sound coming from my body has little to do with the effort of ripping the unusually stubborn wallpaper from the bakery wall.
It’s that seeing Holden face-to-face after all this time has shaken me up.
Usually, I would put each piece in the trash as I work—it’s neater and makes clean-up easier—but right now I don’t care.
I whip the piece I’m holding off to the side.
I attack the wall once again, as if it’s responsible for the tornado of confusing emotions I’m feeling right now.
I’ve got my claws in another piece, and as I tug on it, a voice behind me startles me.
“If it weren’t so god-awful tacky, I’d ask what that poor wallpaper did to you.”
I turn around to find Ruthie, of all people, standing behind me. She’s observing me as if it’s not creepy that she snuck up on me. I stare at her for several seconds before I’m able to speak.
“What are you doing down here?” God, that sounded rude. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that to come out like it did. I’m just surprised to see you.”
“It’s okay. You’ve had quite the shock today, so I’ll let it slide.” There’s a grin on her face, but something in her eyes sparkles.
“You can say that again.” Bitterness drips from my words, and I loathe how I sound.
I spin around and once again wrap my shaky fingers around the dried-up old paper, giving it another swift pull. A huge shard comes off, and it’s immensely satisfying.
I don’t hear anything behind me for a few seconds, so I assume that Ruthie has gone back upstairs with everyone else. I know that it’s my place, and I should probably join everyone as well.
But I can’t. Not right now. Unfortunately, the longer I stay down here, the weirder it’s going to be—but I don’t have it in me yet.
I hear a tinkling sound and turn around to find Ruthie using the old industrial coffee pot to brew some fresh coffee.
Emotionally and physically drained, I say nothing. Instead, I plant myself on the bench of the booth nearest me.
“Ouch! Shit.” I rub at the back of my thigh. I glance over at Ruthie, and she’s smiling at me.
“Did that seat bite the back of your legs with all those cracks in the vinyl?”
“How did you know?”
Ruthie saunters over to me and takes a seat across from me.
“Ella may have been my friend, but on top of having horrible taste in décor”—she gestures around the room with her palm up, as if she’s showing off some prize on a game show—”she’s also a cheapskate.
I’ve been telling her forever that she should replace the seats.
She insisted that it added to the ambiance of the bakery. Called it retro. Vintage.”
Ruthie laughs, and it reminds me of how the witches would cackle in Halloween movies when I was a kid. Yet it’s a perfect fit for her.
When she settles, we sit in silence for several uncomfortable seconds.
In fairness to me, today is only the third time I’ve met the woman.
The first time was at the ladies’ night we had at Tillie, and Henry’s a while back.
Then I ran into her when I was first downtown looking at this property.
And finally, again today, when she showed up to help entertain the kids while Henry and Tillie helped with the painting of my place.
“We can be a lot, huh?” Ruthie asks.
It’s the first thing in the last twenty minutes that even remotely comes close to putting a smile on my face.
I shrug. “I don’t mind, really. It’s true that I’m not used to having a lot of people around, but it’s nice. I just...”
The groaning of the near-ancient coffee pot alerts us that it’s done brewing. Ruthie stands, walks back over to the machine, then reaches up and takes two mismatched mugs off the wall hooks.
She glances over her shoulder at me.
“How do you take yours?”
“Just black, please.”
I stare out the window while I wait for her to return to the booth with our mugs.
“Thank you,” I mutter as she places one on the table in front of me.
“You’re welcome.”
I stare down into my mug, having learned the hard way that I need to let this coffee cool for a minute or two before I take a sip. The burn on my tongue is still healing from a couple of days ago.
Even though it’s summer out and I’m not even remotely cold, I wrap my hands around the mug, finding comfort in its warmth.
When I glance up, Ruthie is the one staring out the window.
“I’ve been on this earth for a long time, and I’ve had my fair share of lovers, if you know what I mean.”
My mouth goes dry. I’m not sure where this is going, but I’m also not sure I want to know.
“But I’ve never been married, which is okay with me, because I’ve enjoyed every man I’ve been with. Whether it was just a romp in the hay or a love for that moment in time. I’ve had a good life.”
Ruthie takes a sip of her coffee, then places it back on the table and finally turns her gaze upon me.
Assuming the coffee must be safe now, I lift it to my lips and attempt a sip. Damn it. It’s still hot. How is she drinking this so easily?
I feel like I should say something to keep the conversation going, but I’m not sure where Ruthie is heading with this.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“What’s the matter, honey? Never had a woman in her seventies talk to you about her sex life before?”
“Actually, no, I haven’t. But if you need to talk, I guess I’m okay with listening. Though Georgie would be a much better person to have this conversation with, seeing as she’s the steamy romance writer.”
“Oh, I know, sweetie, but her stuff is mild. She’s got a lot to learn in that realm before she can write the really good stuff. I’d only give her books one, maybe two, chili peppers.”
Unfortunately, I’ve just taken a sip of my coffee, and she shocks me enough that I spit it out. It splatters onto the table and my shirt. At least I’m wearing paint clothes. I feel like I’m always spilling something on my shirts and ruining them.
I proofread Georgie’s books, and the fact that Ruthie considers them mild has me very afraid to hear any more of her stories. She might have stories that are too spicy for me.
I watch as her expression changes, her smile fades, and some of the light in her eyes dims. She absentmindedly stirs the coffee in her mug with the spoon she left in it and stares down at the swirling liquid.
“Yeah, I’ve certainly not missed out on any experiences, but I would trade them all if I could have had more time with the only man I never stopped loving.”
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What happened?”
Maybe I don’t really want to know. Sad things seem to hit me so hard, and I frequently find myself grieving over what another person has had to go through. I’m about to apologize and tell her it’s none of my business, but she answers before I get a chance.
“Car accident. He was only twenty-four. It happened fifty-three years ago last week, as a matter of fact. It’s gotten easier over the years; the memories faded some, but the feelings never did. I think I prefer it this way, though. It would’ve made me really sad to have nothing of him left.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that, Ruthie. Thank you for sharing that with me.”
After that, we sit in silence for several minutes, sipping the hot liquid and taking turns staring out the window.
When we’ve finished with our cups of coffee, I offer her another, and she declines. So, I take the mugs to the sink, wash them, then set them on a dish towel to dry.
“So, you think you’re ready to come back upstairs yet? Face whatever the hell that was up there?” There’s a bit of sass to her tone, but the softness of her facial features betrays that it’s for show.
I hesitate. Am I ready to face my past?
“No. I’m not sure. I don’t know.” Gosh, I sound like a blubbering idiot. “Probably not yet. I’m... I’m embarrassed.”
An incredulous huff escapes Ruthie. “Sweetheart, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. He’s the one who acted foolishly. One minute he’s spewing irritated words at you, the next he’s trying to run after you—”
“He did?” I’m unable to mask the shock in my voice. “Holden tried to come after me?”
My stomach clenches. Why do I still react like this after a decade has passed?
“Uh, yeah. His brother stopped him. Then Georgie laid into him and jabbed her finger all up in that muscly chest. That’s when I stepped in and told them both I was coming down to see if you’re okay. Neither of them liked it, but they didn’t have a choice.”
I smile, imagining the man who was once the boy I loved and my spirited friend Georgie being put in their place by this woman.
I’d never tell her this because I suspect it might offend her, but she kind of reminds me of my grandma.
God, I loved her, and losing her sucked.
But I’m grateful for this fireball of a woman who made her memory fresh in my mind, even if only for a few minutes.
After a few more moments of awkward quiet, I get up the gumption to peer at Ruthie. She’s already studying me, as if she knows I’m going to ask her something.
“Wh-what's he like? Now, I mean?” The subtle tremor in my voice gives away how vulnerable I’m feeling right now.
“Who, love? Holden?”
I nod. I shouldn’t have asked, but I feel this obsessive need to know.
“Well, let’s see. You can see the obvious: he’s hunky.”
I chuckle. Yes, that much is obvious.
“And he’s typically a bundle of energy, the one who keeps everyone laughing. He’s very... lighthearted. But he thinks nobody sees that he keeps a wall up with just about everyone. I see it. I think Lester might as well. You haven’t met him yet, but you will.”
That doesn’t sound like Holden. The Holden I met in the library years ago, we spent many late nights sitting on the library floor getting to know each other. Falling for each other. He was open and trusting. At least, that’s what I thought.
I’m afraid to ask my next question. “Does... does he have a wife? A girlfriend?”
I know I just moved here, but I’m not sure I’d be able to stay if I had to watch him with a partner. Maybe even with the children he had with another woman.
A laugh bursts out of her, and she throws her head back.
“Holden? Are we talking about the same man, sweetheart? That man is the furthest thing from being in a relationship. His rule of three pretty much makes sure things never get that far.”
I’m almost afraid to ask. Almost...
“What’s the rule of three?”
“Three dates, max. That’s all any woman gets, whether he likes her a lot or not, and he ends whatever it is they have going on.”