Bittersweet Homecoming (26 page)

She smiles and the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes deepen. The lines on her face tell me she’s smiled a lot in the past twenty-five years. “You’re beautiful.”

I rub the back of my neck. The compliment doesn’t sit well with me. “Good genes, I suppose.”

Her face takes on a look of concern. “How’s your father doing?”

“He’s great. Wildly successful. Business is booming. New girlfriend every other week,” I breeze. “I’ve stopped bothering learning their names by now.”

I don’t know why I feel the compulsion to lie. A better one would have been to say he’d happily remarried not long after she left. But it’s too late to say that now.

I’m sure she can tell I’m lying. She smiles softly instead of calling my bluff. “I’m glad he’s well. And your sister?”

“She’s great, too.” I leave it at that without elaborating.

I hadn’t really thought this through. I knew I had questions for her, but I never took the time to reflect on the fact that she would probably have questions about how we had turned out, too. I’m not going to tell her that my dad hasn’t been on a date in nearly three decades and that Emily’s back to square one now that her husband had died.

“What about you?” she moves on. “Job? Married? Any kids?”

I can’t handle her questions. “Can we not do this right now? It’s a little much.”

Her smile tightens. “I understand.” Her hands open on the table, palms up. “Whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”

I’m an author who can’t write unless she’s ruining someone’s life. I can’t hold onto steady relationship because I’ve got too many walls, and it’s probably because of you.

“I’m fine,” I settle for.

What a disaster.

“This was … interesting,” is the word she decides on.

My sunglasses, like reflective armor, are back on the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t do it again.”

The wounded look on her face makes me angry. “No?”

“Let’s not kid ourselves, Linda,” I say, finally reverting to the only name Emily will refer to her by. “We share DNA and a few other mannerisms, but that’s about it. And to be honest, even just talking with you makes me feel guilty about Dad and Emily.”

“I understand. If you change your mind though . . .”

“Don’t worry,” I cut her off. “I won’t.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Anthony has had his face pressed against the passenger side window of our rental car for the past hour. “This place is adorable, Abby,” he says as we slowly drive down Main Street. “It doesn’t look real.”

“Does that mean you’re going to stop picking on me about where I’m from?” I ask.

“Never.”

It’s my second time of the short summer visiting Grand Marais. In a few days the town will be celebrating its annual dragon boat festival, always popular with tourists and locals alike. As we drive past the harbor I can already see a few of the long boats out in the water.

“Where’s your dad’s store?” Anthony asks.

“Just a few shops up on this street.” I pull the vehicle over to the shoulder when we get closer. The hand-painted signage outside the store is gone, and the new name—Henry Family Handicrafts—is printed on an updated awning over the main entrance.

“Cute,” Anthony remarks.

“Do you mind waiting in the car for a second?” My eyes are locked on the new storefront.

“Sure, but crack a window for me, child.” He waves himself with a hand. “I didn’t know it got so hot in Iceland.”

I leave the car and hop up the concrete stoop that leads to the store’s entrance. The glass pane windows at the front of the store are covered with tan butcher-block paper. A computer-generated sign promises the store’s grand re-opening the next day. I try to peer through the small window cutout in the front door, but my vision is blocked by more of that construction paper.

I don’t expect the front door to be unlocked, but I try the handle and the latch pops free. The door swings open—no bell ringing above my head—and I walk inside. The store smells different. I’m overpowered by the scent of fresh paint and sawdust. The worn wooden floors have been sanded and refinished, and the walls have received a fresh layer of white paint. The products on the shelves are the same, but the shelves themselves are different as is the layout of the store. The register is now by the front door instead of the back, and an advanced, touch-screen register sits atop an empty glass display case.

“She changed everything,” I speak aloud.

My head tilts up and my eyes travel to the ceiling when I hear noises coming from upstairs. Anthony is waiting outside in the car, but I continue my investigation. It’s been years since I’ve been in the upstairs apartment. No one has lived in it since my parents moved to my dad’s current house, not long after I was born. I imagine it covered in grime, serving as storage for things that wouldn’t fit in the shop downstairs.

A poorly lit staircase at the back of the building leads up to the second-floor apartment. On bad days growing up, I used to threaten that I was going to move out of my dad’s house and live above the store. They were always empty threats, however. The upstairs apartment was unlivable, too hot in the summer and frigid in the winter with no running water or cable television.

The door to the apartment is ajar, and I can hear banging noises and the sound of a radio coming from inside. I tentatively push open the door wider.

“Hello?” I call out. “Dad? Emily? Are you in here?”

The door opens into a small mudroom that’s currently stuffed full of rolls of pink insulation. I wiggle past the materials and follow the sounds of the continued banging. My ears lead me to a small galley kitchen. The appliances are outdated, but the room is filled with natural light. An open window over the kitchen sink allows a cool cross breeze through the apartment.

It takes me a moment to realize that the banging noise is coming from the sink and that there are two legs sticking out from underneath the cabinetry below the porcelain sink. A baby blue flip-flop taps in time with the song on the radio.

“Emily?” I tentatively guess.

The legs stiffen, followed by an even louder bang. Two hands and arms appear and the person beneath the sink crabwalks out.

“Jesus, Abby!” my sister exclaims. “You scared me!”

“I called out your name, but nobody answered.”

Emily’s hair is up in a ponytail and the top of her head is covered in a bandana. She looks a little like Rosie the Riveter. “Did you just get here?”

I nod. “Literally just driving into town. I saw the new sign out front so I stopped to check it out.”

Her grin is wide and excitable. “What do you think?”

“You changed a lot of things.”

She bobs her head. “I know. But I figured if we’re going to have a grand re-opening, people will want to be able to see a difference.” Her smile falters momentarily. “Do you not like it?”

I shove my hands into my pockets. “It’s different.”

Her smile is gone. “You sound like Dad.”

“Hey, it doesn’t matter what I think. You’re the one sinking all this money into the store or whatever.”

“We needed a sign that’s actually visible from the street. And the new cash register means Dad can actually accept credit cards now.”

“Yeah, but did you have to take the bell down?”

“It’s getting polished.”

“What about the Popsicles?” I question.

“They’re still in the freezer. But I bought a second freezer for all of dad’s venison so the meat and the ice cream don’t have to live together anymore.”

I nod once. It’s acceptable. “Okay.”

“God, you and Dad are like the same person—terrified of change.”

“Hardly,” I scoff. “I’m the one who lives in Los Angeles.”  I don’t want to fight, but it’s so easy to fall into this pattern when I’m around her. We revert to our child-like selves. “What’s up with the baditude?” I ask.

Her eyebrows pinch together. “The what?”

“Not important,” I dismiss. “What’s with the nag job?”

“I know. I’m totally stressed. I think I underestimated how much work this would be.”

“Are you second-guessing moving back?”

“Not yet. But ask me again this winter when there’s nothing to do except count the snowflakes.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Are
you
second-guessing being in LA?” she asks.

“I’m losing myself out there. Los Angeles,” I say aloud. “I know it’s supposed to be a place where you can re-invent yourself, but maybe who I used to be wasn’t so bad. The girl that grew up in Grand Marais never would have cheated or broken up with someone over voicemail,” I explain. “Being back here reminded me of who I used to be. Grand Marais hasn’t changed;
I
have. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing anymore.”

“Then why are you still out there?”

“I found Mom.”

Emily looks up sharply at me. The movement is so abrupt that she nearly hits her head under the sink. “I must be getting high off of these fumes because I could have sworn I heard you say you found Mom.”

I lean against a countertop and sigh. “I hired a private investigator to find her, and he tracked her to LA.”

“Why in the hell—.” Emily stops herself and shakes her head. “Never mind. I know why you did that.”

“Do you? Because for the life of me I still don’t know why I did it. I’ve been asking myself that very question ever since I had a stupid cup of coffee with her.”

“Look at yourself, Abs. Look at your life. Everything has been shaped by Linda’s abandonment. Growing up you escaped into books and later the theater. Now you write plays about people whose lives you’d rather be living. And don’t even get me started on your love life.”

“I haven’t found the right girl,” I bluster.

“Or you’re afraid to let anyone get close to you because you don’t want anyone to hurt you,” she counters. “And yet you’re terrified of being alone.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek.

“Wrench,” she sticks out her hand.

“It was a mistake. A big fucking mistake.” I rummage around in the metal toolbox on the floor and find the tool Emily needs. “I can’t believe how much time and money I wasted trying to track her down.”

“So that’s the real reason you’ve been in Los Angeles? Because you knew she was there?”

“I guess so.”

“And now that you’ve had your grand reunion, what now?”

“I don’t want to see her again. I should probably move.”

“It’s a really big city, Abs. I’m sure you won’t bump into each other.”

“It’s tainted now. She’s there, and I won’t be able to stop thinking about that. I’ll see her at every grocery store and coffee shop.”

“What about moving back home?” Emily suggests. “You can write wherever you want to. Take a plane to LA if you have meetings or read-throughs.”

Emily’s partially right. I can write anywhere, but to be a working playwright, I have to be near a city large enough to have a vibrant theater community. That means Los Angeles or New York or Chicago, maybe even Minneapolis.

“I don’t think I could live here fulltime, away from civilization. It might drive me crazy.”

“But you’d have me. You’d have dad,” she points out.

“I know, Em. But I don’t think I’m cut out for small town life anymore. Plus, there’s the gay thing,” I add.

“Stop with the excuses,” she scolds. “Nobody cares that you’re gay. People in this town only know you as Abigail Henry, not Abidyke Henry.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Did you come up with that all on your own?”

She makes what I can only describe as a pleased smile. “Pretty good, right?”

“Not too shabby,” I concur.

“I can’t see Charlotte living in a big city, sis.”

“I wasn’t thinking about her.” I avert my eyes, afraid they’ll give away too much. “How about you? Any new love potential?”

I hear my sister’s muffled snort under the sink. “Yeah. They’re knocking down the door.”

“Have you put yourself out there?” I ask. I don’t even know how a person would do that in a town the size of Grand Marais. Most people have to consult their genealogy before they start dating to make sure they’re not related.

“I’ll get there,” she says. “I want to start dating again eventually, but you’ve got to let me work through these emotions in my own way, on my own time.”

I give her a wistful smile. “So you’re saying another long weekend won’t cut it, huh?”

“Probably not.”

When I return to the car, I’m appropriately chastised by Anthony for leaving him for such a long time. But soon we’re back on the road towards my dad’s house, which unfortunately has us driving past the one place I’d most like to avoid on this second trip home.

“There it is,” Anthony breathes in reverence. “Like Mecca itself—Roundtree’s Bar & Grill.”

“No.”

“Pretty please, Abby? I’m
so
thirsty.” He smacks his lips together as though parched.

“There’s a big ol’ lake out there I’d be more than happy to throw you into.”

“She’s probably not even working right now,” Anthony reasons.

“She owns the bar,” I remind him. “She’s always working.”

“How about I go in and you wait in the car this time?” he proposes.

“No,” I say again.

“I’ll behave!” he promises. “I just want to see this woman.”