Bittersweet Homecoming (27 page)

“So do I,” I murmur as we drive past the bar.

“Then why are you being so stubborn?” he demands. “Turn this car around and let’s go see if she’s there.”

“There’s no point, Anthony. We’re only in town for three days. Seeing her would only make things harder.”

“What things?”

“Going back to LA? Trying to move on?”

“I think you’re being dumb, Miss Abby.”

I slink down in the driver’s seat and continue to steer us in the direction of my dad’s house. “Yeah, well nobody asked you.”

+ + +

I spend my first night back in Grand Marais sleeping on the pull out couch in my dad’s den. The apartment above the hardware store isn’t ready yet so Emily’s still sleeping in her old bedroom, and because he’s a guest, Anthony gets my room. The den had once been an ambivalent room to me, possessing no real emotional currency, but now it holds recent memories of guilt and regret. Even without the stiff, squeaky mattress, it would have been an uneasy night.

The room is dark except for the periodic glow of my cell phone. My thumb hovers over the touch-screen display. The number for Roundtree’s Bar & Grill is still in my list of recent contacts. I could call and see if Charlotte’s working. I could drive over to the bar. I could sneak out of the house, and no one would ever know that I was gone. But to what purpose?

I think about Charlotte’s letter. I’ve read it so many times, I have it memorized, word for word. I know the color of the ink pen she used, and I can visualize the elegant swoop of her cursive writing. I imagine her drafting multiple versions, or at least weighing each word before committing it to paper. She didn’t have to write me. She didn’t have to thank me for the book, let alone share her feelings about me. It was different when thousands of miles separated us, but now it’s only a short drive. I push a long, frustrated breath from my lungs. It’s going to be a long, sleepless night.

The next morning I’m up before the rest of the house, mostly because I never went to sleep in the first place. The antique roll-top desk in the den houses an old computer that probably hasn’t been turned on since Emily graduated high school. I wince when the dial-up modem shrieks, determined to wake up everyone in the house. I’ve forgotten how loud the Internet used to be. I’ve also forgotten how
slow
it used to be.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble to myself as I wait for the website to load. The spinning hourglass on the screen mocks me. I don’t get very far before I hear footsteps creaking in the hallway, which has me swiftly turning off the computer monitor.

“It’s a little early to be watching porn, don’t you think?” Anthony remarks as he stalks into the room.

“I wasn’t,” I deny.

“Oh really?” His tone lifts in disbelief. “Then why did you shut down your computer so fast?”

I bite my bottom lip. “No reason.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Anthony is much taller and stronger than me; he easily wedges between me and the computer like a basketball player boxing out to get a rebound.

“Don’t, Anthony!” I try to grab his arms and pin them behind his back.

He sticks his butt into my gut, blocking me from the computer. “Nuh uh,” he denies me. “I wanna know all your dirty little kinks.”

I swipe at his hands to no result. “It’s nothing, I swear.”

My dad pops his head into the room. “Everything okay in here?”

We immediately stop hitting and slapping each other.

“Yeah, Dad. We’re fine.”

“Try to keep it down,” he says in his stern, paternal tone. “Your sister’s still sleeping and today’s a big day for her.”

“Okay, Dad,” I agree.

“Yes, sir,” Anthony adds.

With a final, doubting look between the two of us, my dad leaves.

When he’s gone, I slap Anthony’s arm, but I can’t help my giggle. The moment makes me feel decades younger. “Stop getting me in trouble.”

“Don’t try to blame me. You get yourself in trouble all on your own,” Anthony chides. “Now let’s see what you were trying to hide.”

All I can do is cover my face as he turns the monitor on to discover what I’ve been looking at.

“This is the lamest porn ever,” he complains. “Why didn’t you want me to know you were looking up an online newspaper archive?”

I peek through the space between my fingers. “I was hoping there’d be a story about Charlotte. Maybe when she played volleyball in college or bought the bar.”

“God, you’re a glutton for punishment.”

“I know,” I sigh.

“Do you think there’s a picture?” he asks. “I want to see what she looks like.”

“I didn’t get that far before I was rudely interrupted,” I huff.

Anthony’s eyes don’t leave the computer screen. “Put a sock on the door handle next time,” he says. “What’s this girl’s last name?”

“Johansson. Two s’s.”

“Good Norwegian stock,” he says as he types on the keyboard.

“I think it’s Swedish,” I correct.

“Same thing,” he dismisses. “Roundtree’s Bar and Grill under new ownership,” he reads aloud.

“Move over,” I order.

Anthony continues to deny me access to the screen. “She’s cute.” He scrunches up his face and leans closer to the monitor. “Or at least I think she is. This photo is horrible quality.”

“Let me see.” I shove against his shoulder, but he still won’t move.

“No.” He continues to read: “There’s a familiar face behind the bar in downtown Grand Marais, but instead of being a bartender, now she’s the owner. Charlotte Johansson, daughter of MaryAnn and Frederick Johansson, is the new proprietress of Roundtree’s Bar & Grill, long-time watering hole for the residents of the city. ‘When we decided to retire,’ says Curt Roundtree, who has owned the local pub with his wife Veronica since 1973, ‘the obvious choice was Charlotte.’ The local woman bartended during summers when she was home from college at the University of Minnesota.” Anthony stops and quirks his lips. “Well, that was wildly unremarkable.”

“It’s a weekly town newspaper, not award-winning journalism.”

“Maybe you could move here and write for them,” he suggests with a teasing smile. He finally moves out the way so I can see. “So what now, stalker?”

“Googling someone is hardly stalking,” I scoff. “If it were, you’d be on America’s Most Wanted.” I take one last look at the grainy black and white image of Charlotte that accompanies the story before shutting down the computer.

“What should I wear to the party today?” He crosses his legs and clasps his hands over his knee. “I’ve never been to a hoedown before.”

“I thought you were going to stop with the small town jokes?”

“I said no such thing. You lived here, so own it.”

“When do I get to see where you grew up?” I realize that I don’t know where Anthony’s originally from.

“Child, there was no growing up,” he dismisses. “I was born fully formed and fabulous.”

“I’m sure.”

“Should I butch it up at the party? Am I supposed to be your boyfriend?”

“Not unless you want to confuse the entire town. They already know I’m gay.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Miss Fabulous could have been your date.”

“I could only be so lucky.”

+ + +

I can’t find a single working pen in the entire house.

All of the letters I wrote to Charlotte are back in my apartment in Los Angeles, but I can’t let myself leave town without at least leaving her a note. I don’t know what I’ll write yet, but first I need to find something to write with. Every pen I find has dried up or run out of ink. It’s probably the Universe telling me to back off again, but this time I’m ignoring the cosmic message. I pull open the junk drawer in the kitchen and rummage among the rubber bands and random envelopes. Nothing.

At the bottom of the deep drawer is a book I’d nearly forgotten existed. The local phone book. Thank you, Universe. There are a number of listings under the last name of Johansson, but I find the one I’m looking for:
Johansson, C. 208 Prospect Avenue.

I glance up at the ceiling, hearing the sound of the upstairs shower turn off. Anthony’s getting ready and my dad and Emily are already at the hardware store setting up for the party.

I grab the cordless phone in the kitchen and dial the number before anyone can walk in and try to talk some sense into me.

“Hello?” I hear her voice.

“Charlotte?”

“Speaking.”

My throat tightens and I’m barely able to get out the next few words. “It’s Abby. Henry,” I clarify, not knowing if there’s more than one Abby in her life.

“Oh, uh, you caught me at a bad time. I’m just out the door.”

“I saw my mom on Tuesday.” The words rush past my teeth.

“What? How?” she asks.  “I didn’t know you guys were in contact.”

“I hired someone to find her, and he did.”

“Oh. Wow. How did it go?”

“Not well. Actually, pretty horrible. I kind of wish I hadn’t done it.”

“I’m sorry, Abby. That couldn’t have been easy.”

Her words make my heart ache. She’s far too kind. I’ve been an asshole and yet she still shows me compassion.

I internally debate if I should say anything about the party later or the fact that I’m in town. “Well, I suppose I should let you go.”

“It’s okay.”

“I thought you were running out the door?”

“I am. But, I have a little time. I only said that because it gave me an out in case I changed my mind about talking to you.”

“Have you? Changed your mind?”

“Keep talking,” she says. “I’ll let you know.”

“How’s Amelia?” I ask. When I say her name, I picture that untamable blonde hair, the same as her mother’s.

“She’s good. She’s really excited for first grade. School doesn’t start until after Labor Day, but she made me go to Duluth last week for back-to-school shopping.”

“That’s adorable.”

She makes a noise in agreement. “Her backpack is filled with Trapper Keepers and pencils, and she’s already picked out her outfit for the first day.”

“Uh oh,” I chuckle. “Is it a pink tutu and her rain boots?”

“Actually, it’s pretty sensible. I was impressed.”

“And how’s Reggie?”

“He’s still hanging around, still eating half of the food on my daughter’s plate.”

“I can’t blame him. You’re a good cook.”

“That’s a leap,” she protests. “You’ve only had my eggs.”

“I wouldn’t mind some more.”

There’s a quiet cough, and I wonder if I’ve said too much.

“Are you writing again?” she asks.

“I’ve been dabbling, but nothing really serious. I should probably do that though before the bill collectors start knocking on my door.”

“What do you do all day if you’re not writing?”

“I think about you.”

I hear her sigh. “Abby…”

“I’m sorry,” I jump in, immediately regretting trying to flirt. “It’s too much too soon, isn’t it? This is our first time talking since…”

“I know. And I’ve thought about this—what it would mean to start talking to you again. It’s probably not healthy or fair to either of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“A long-distance relationship? Those never work out. Someone’s going to get bored, or frustrated, or distracted by the next pretty girl.”

“Someone,” I repeat. “You mean me.”

“Maybe I mean myself,” she counters.

“We can’t be friends?”

“Can we even do something like that—be friends?” She says the words as though they’re the most preposterous thing she’s ever heard. “Just talk with no flirting or emotions or words of endearment?”

“You mean talk about the weather and sports? I can do that.”

“Really?”

“Sure. How do you think the Vikings are gonna do this season?”

“Are you asking me for real?”

“I don’t know. But are you willing to give it a try?”

There’s a pregnant pause. “I’m sorry, Abby. I really do have to go. You called at a bad time.”

“Okay. Maybe … maybe we can talk later?”

“About sports?” I hear her soft laugh, and I immediately feel better about the impromptu phone call.

“I’ll start looking up random sports trivia right now.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“You’d better get a move on,” Anthony scolds. “Your sister’s party starts soon.”

There’s a damp towel around my head and my face is makeup free. “I was planning on being fashionably late.”

“Being ‘fashionably late’ to a family party is tacky, Abigail Henry,” he scolds. “I thought I taught you better.”

Despite Anthony’s rushing, we’re still late getting to the grand re-opening. Emily had said jeans and flannel were appropriate, but I want to look nice. I don’t often have occasion to wear a dress to events I actually want to attend.

The butcher-block paper has been removed from the store’s front windows and there’s practically a line waiting to get inside. It looks like the opening of a hot new club in Hollywood, not a hardware store’s rejuvenation.

Inside, the store is packed, and Emily is surrounded by well-wishers. It’s a far more comforting view than when she’d been circled by mourners. A lot can change in a month.

“Nice dress,” Emily approves when we finally have a moment to talk. “What’s the occasion?”

“Haven’t you heard? My little sister is crazy.” I raise my plastic wine glass in salute.

She sticks her tongue out at me. “Thanks.”

“So, you’re really doing this, huh? Staying in Grand Marais, working at the hardware store, and fixing up that old apartment yourself.”

“Yup. I’m gonna gut the bathroom, get new appliances in the kitchen, update all the electrical, and the wood floors will get refinished like I did downstairs. After some fresh paint on the walls, new light fixtures throughout, and hardware on the kitchen cabinets, it might actually be livable.”