A Measure of Happiness (6 page)

Luke laughed. He held Charlie's face between his hands and gazed into the eyes that had turned girls into goofballs in high school and probably in college. Despite what Charlie had claimed when he and Abby were going out, he could've controlled the girls chasing after him, if he'd wanted to. “Silly Daddy,” Luke said. “Celeste's eyeballs didn't fall out.”

Charlie's loafers peeked out from under the couch skirt, as though he'd kicked them off as soon as he'd come through the door. An open Sam Adams sat on the coffee table, even though Abby would never crack a beer until Luke was in bed for the night. And, for all his faults, Charlie would never drink and drive. That could only mean he wasn't leaving anytime soon.

All the evidence had been right in front of Celeste's face, if she'd cared to take off her blinders and notice.

“Aren't you going back to school?” Celeste asked.

Charlie shot her a triumphant grin. “Yup. First bell's at seven-twenty.”

“He graduated UMaine in May,” Abby said, “and he got a job teaching freshman biology at Hidden Harbor High.”

That made sense, in a weird way, since Charlie was about as mature as the average high school freshman. No offense to high school freshmen. “Tell me he doesn't live here,” Celeste told Abby.

Abby smirked and then smoothed her features for deadpan delivery. “He doesn't live here.”

“I mean, it's one thing to screw—”

Luke's big blue eyes blinked at Celeste. Abby's identical blue eyes widened at Celeste. “Luke, honey, do me a favor and go back to your room with Daddy.”

“I don't want to go. I want to play with Celeste. She's pretty and she smells like frosting!”

“You'll have plenty of chances to play with Celeste. She's going to stay with us for a while.”

Abby ignored Charlie's eyes popping out of his head.

For once, Celeste agreed with the douche bag.

If Celeste woke up on the couch every morning to find Charlie sauntering out of Abby's bedroom and scratching his crotch, she'd be able to hold neither the contents of her stomach nor her tongue.

That wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for one beautiful little boy who looked an awful lot like the daddy he adored.

“Put your eyes back in your head, Charlie. I'm not staying,” Celeste said.

“Yes, you are,” Abby said.

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Leave her alone, Abby,” Charlie said. “You heard Celeste. She doesn't want to stay here.”

Abby and Celeste glared at Charlie.

“What?” Charlie looked from Celeste to Abby, his facial expression the equivalent of throwing his arms up in defeat.

Only Abby cracked a smile. She brushed Charlie's hair from his eyes and touched Luke's face. “Can you take Luke—?”

“Spider-Man!” Luke said.

“Right. Take Spider-Man,” she said—and Luke nodded—“to his room for a few minutes. I need to talk to Celeste alone.”

“Sure, babe,” Charlie told Abby. “Good to see you, Celeste,” he said to Celeste, but she was sure he was thinking,
Good riddance.

“Be good to them,” Celeste said. She hoped he heard,
Don't you dare hurt them again.

“Always,” Charlie said, his voice lowered and serious. Celeste could've sworn she saw Good Time Charlie tear up. Then he snapped up his Sam Adams from the coffee table and took Luke to his room. The door clicked shut, muffling Raffi.

“He's changed,” Abby said.

“Because he says so?” Celeste lifted her duffel bag from the couch to her shoulder.

“What do I have to say to make you stay?” Abby asked, her voice as full of resolve as when she'd said those words to Charlie a little over four years ago, and just as sad.

It proved Celeste's point. Staying here would only succeed in bringing Abby down.

“I gotta go,” Celeste said, pretty much Charlie's response from years ago. Even though she heard it secondhand, Celeste would never forget the last conversation Abby and Charlie had before he left her the first time. Celeste didn't care to hear his second-time leaving firsthand.

In high school, Abby had never listened to Celeste's advice about Charlie. Oh, sure, Abby would nod and smile and agree to the Charlie facts. Then, one look from Charlie, and she was gone.

“Wait!” Abby said. “Let me make some phone calls for you. I'll see if another B&B has an opening. Something.”

“Not really in my budget. Don't worry about me. I'll figure it out. I always do.”

“
We'll
figure it out,” Abby said, reminiscent of Celeste's words to Abby. The first time, when the sight of two bright pink lines had knocked Abby down. The second time, when Charlie's leaving for college had dragged her under. “Please. Let me help. Stay.”

Abby had two boys to take care of. She didn't need to worry about Celeste again. She didn't need to stress over cutting up Luke's food, counting Charlie's empties,
and
hovering over Celeste's meals.

No way in hell Celeste was going back to those days.

Celeste pulled Abby into a bear hug. Celeste's heart beat hard and fast, the opposite of the slowed heart rate that earmarked starvation. This time, sleep, not food, was what Celeste's body craved.

“Miss you,” Celeste said.

“I'm right here.”

“You're miles away, in Charlie Land.” Celeste slid open the pocket door.

The young mother from the den stood in the entryway, baby on her shoulder, toddler at her feet, Abby's
Ring for service
bell in her hand. The woman flashed Abby a smile. “Great timing! I was wondering whether—”

“Excuse me,” Celeste whispered, her voice a thread of sound. Abby's hand on Celeste's arm, a last attempt to get her to stay. Celeste slipped from Abby, skirted past the mom and kids to the front door. One last backward glance at Abby's face, torn between Celeste and the rest of the world. Celeste gave Abby a nod and a smile. Then she was gone.

 

Celeste wasn't a gypsy. Yet, two months ago, she'd given up her apartment in Phippsburg, sold most of her possessions, driven to New York, and acted the part. She didn't recognize her own life, so in an inside-out, backward, this sucks big-time way, renting a furnished apartment in Hidden Harbor made perfect sense.

A black pleather couch and chair flanked a table made of metal and glass, all the better to peer through the center and view the tribal rug's black-and-burgundy geometric patterns that reminded her of her dentist's office. The side table held a cordless phone, one of those jobbies that never worked properly, with a humongous answering machine. And in the bedroom there was a black captain's bed, too short for her average frame, as though whoever had furnished the apartment couldn't decide whether the rental demographic was men defending their masculinity or Munchkins.

The prints covering the walls were all metal-framed, modern, and abstract. Not a seaside watercolor in the mix, as though she weren't in Hidden Harbor, as though she weren't anywhere specific at all.

The worst part? She'd signed a one-year rental agreement.

She wanted to go home. But that place didn't even exist anymore.

She unpacked her groceries in the tiny kitchen, her hands weak from exhaustion. Lined the crisper with McIntosh apples and clementines, stocked the top shelf with nonfat Yoplait yogurts, a head of romaine lettuce, and a bottle of balsamic vinegar. Before hitting the grocery aisles, she'd driven through the McDonald's drive-through, parked Old Yeller, downed a plain burger, and called it dinner. All she could manage today. Tomorrow, she'd head back to Shaw's for a full order, stick-to-your-ribs sauces, pastas, and meats. Maybe even a pint of Ben & Jerry's for a housewarming. Then she'd sit on the couch, eat the entire pint herself, and watch cellulite ripple her thighs.

She'd skip the Ben & Jerry's.

Yogurt was almost as good, right?

Celeste took a strawberry yogurt to the couch, licked the lid, and dialed her parents' Florida phone number, her parents' home phone.

She'd never get used to thinking of her second-generation, too young to retire, Hidden Harbor townie parents living on the ninth hole of a Boca Raton golf course. When she was growing up, her parents hadn't even played golf, unless you counted Bernie's Miniature Golf, the seaside attraction with the odd combination of a prehistoric green dinosaur rearing up on its hind legs, a Dutch windmill, and the ubiquitous water traps. But the week after Celeste—the last bird in the nest—graduated from high school, her parents had made their big announcement. They were selling the house and flying south to the old folks' state, supposedly past their usefulness once Celeste had managed to keep her chin up and her weight on.

Now her childhood home was as good as a junkyard, a neighborhood eyesore no amount of signatures on petitions or town meetings had succeeded in eradicating. Cars, rusted and rotting, lined the driveway where she and Abby had chalked the blacktop for hopscotch, jumped double Dutch with the neighborhood kids, and traded misinformation about boys.

Growing up in a house full of brothers had taught Celeste that boys were immature, silly, and goofy, prone to mess and insecurity. In short, they were human. So why had she expected unrelated boys to be anything special? Why had she expected unrelated boys to act as though she was special?

Her mother's latest chipper message kicked into gear. “You've reached Davey and Delilah.”
Davey? Really?
“We're busy playing golf, swimming laps, and sipping tequila. Leave a message and we'll get back to you after we're off the course and dried out.”

“Hi, guys,” Celeste said. “I'm back in Hidden Harbor. Just thought you'd want to know. . . .”

Had her parents even realized she'd gone to New York? She'd told them she was going to culinary school—of course she'd told them—but had they even remembered? Her brothers and their families were scattered across the country; each of the once-self-described black T-shirted high school slackers had aced college, married a girl with long hair and a tiny waist, and then promptly convinced that tiny-waisted girl to push out a kid or two. Celeste's mother sent cards on the appropriate birthdays, Christmas, and Easter. According to Celeste's brothers, their parents occasionally visited, breezing into town on a Thursday, leaving on a Sunday, and preferring to stay at a hotel rather than “bother” a daughter-in-law.

In the last four years, Celeste's parents had returned to Hidden Harbor and “bothered” her exactly twice.

Didn't they miss Hidden Harbor? Didn't they miss her?

The cold pleather cushion stuck to her jeans. The chill slid to the small of her back, reminding her how fast the seasons changed in Maine. Today's cloudy, early fall sundown was giving her a taste of winter, the Earth spinning and cooling. No one had ever accused Hidden Harbor of moving fast, but Celeste could see it now, the world barreling forward, while her life was destined to move one step forward, two steps back. Thanks to first Katherine and then Matt, circumstances beyond Celeste's control.

Even Abby was moving forward, sort of, by getting back with Charlie. Maybe Charlie had changed. Anything was possible, right? Maybe Celeste was more than a little jealous of Charlie, because Abby forgave him again and again, whether he deserved it or not. That's what Celeste liked best about Abby, her ability to ignore faults and see the best in people. After all, Abby saw the best in Celeste.

Celeste snatched up the receiver and dialed Abby's number.

“Briar Rose B&B,” Charlie said, and Celeste's grin deflated.

“Hello?” Charlie said. “Anybody there?”

The left side of Celeste's upper lip rose in a sneer. Unlike Abby, Celeste couldn't assume the best in Charlie. She needed proof.

“Who is it?” Luke's voice in the background, little-boy shrill but carrying a hint of huskiness. “Can I talk on the phone?”

“Anybody there?” Charlie repeated. And then to Luke, “Nobody's there, buddy, no one—” The connection cut out.

Celeste rubbed her hands together, but the cold remained. She went into the kitchen, spooned the yogurt down the drain, and ran the disposal. She leaned against the counter, and the machine vibrated through her back, a rumble against a low ache. She was impossibly tired, the sound almost soothing in its repetition. Her eyes drifted shut, and her head jerked up fast and hard. No sleeping until she showered. Steam off the last couple of days, and then—yes!—oblivion.

She let the shower run and undressed before the bathroom sink. First kicking off her bakery clogs and pulling her long-sleeved white T-shirt up over her head. Next came the chignon Katherine had fashioned. Each pin released a reciprocal sigh. Celeste rubbed the soreness from her scalp. Hair around her shoulders, she unhooked her bra, but the removal offered no relief. Her breasts ached, as though she were expecting her period. Which she was not. She unzipped her jeans, pushed them over her hips, and the fabric scraped against her thigh, shooting a pain all the way to her throat. Upon closer inspection, a wide, sensitive swatch of black-and-blue stood out against the pink flesh of her inner thigh. Not the first time sex had left her bruised.

The first time she and Justin had had sex was a disappointment. It had hurt when he'd entered her, and wasn't the tearing supposed to have catapulted her into an orgasm? She was just about ready to give up on the whole stupid sex thing. But on the third or fourth try, something clicked, she got off, and she knew she'd discovered her favorite sport of all time. Missionary style was fine by Justin, but why should they stop at one position when there were endless possibilities and contortions? Bottom, top, sideways. Hands, lips, tongue. The only thing as good as getting pleasure was giving it.