Stay With Me (42 page)

Most of my winters have just been rainy, misty, freezing misery, with the occasional brisk pretty day that fools townspeople into thinking throwing a carnival in the middle of it is a grand idea.

The Copper Falls Winter Carnival is chaos, themed red in honor of the chili cook-off, and offset in white by the ridiculousness of a fake snowflake parade. That about covers it.

They get giddy over this mess. Making floats for a parade that will kick off carnival rides in the icy rain and turn all their papier-mâché and Ivory soap creations into paste. Every year.

Everyone except me. And my Nana Mae, who finds the festival and the whole snow thing in a town right off the Gulf of Mexico as silly as I do. Well, except for the chili part. That part was pretty good, and Georgette Pruitt from the flower shop usually made the best one, if you could ignore the blinged-out snowflake hat she always insisted on wearing.

But it wasn’t just that, either. And it wasn’t just the cold rainy ick in the air and people progressively losing their sanity over a lame festival that essentially celebrated nothing. Or from having to watch my otherwise intelligent neighbors self-implode every year debating whether deer meat chili is better than beef or trying to one-up each other with one hundred and one versions of fake snow crafts for their floats. No, I think that’s just extra icing for me.

I had my own reason for the event to push me sideways every year. The cheesy festival and music and lights and red flyers on every street post, the smell of chili, cookies, and homemade candles, and the weeks preceding it when no one talked about
anything
else—those were just markers. Big obnoxious signs that hung that reason right out in front of my face.

And then, even that felt different this year. I felt lopsided.

I should have taken some time off from the bookstore to read or reorganize or clean out closets for the giant communal garage sale that was also part of the fun. Something brainless that didn’t require thought or hand-eye coordination. I should have, but as usual I didn’t. And my nerves had about had it.

This particular morning was not a winner. Like a jolt from a dead sleep at two in the morning. That tends to mess you up a little, overly zealous neighbors or not. I cracked my knuckles and rolled my neck, trying to pull my foggy head together.

Bam . . . bam . . . bam-bam . . .

I clenched my teeth as the wall vibrated behind me and elbowed it back sharply in response. Another
bam
answered, sounding all too much like a cane against the thin walls that separated the bookstore from the diner next door. A cedar cane, in fact. One with a duck head handle. I heard my heartbeat in my ears and took a deep breath to dial it back.

My wise old Cajun Maw Maw used to say,
“Hide your crazy, girl. Ain’t nobody wanna see that shit.”

Maw Maw died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-two. My other grandmother, Nana Mae, who is neither Cajun nor known for being exceptionally wise, is still kicking at eighty-five and says it’s because she lets all her crazy out.

As I rolled my head back and forth on my shoulders and listened to the
snap crackle pop
of too much stress, I started thinking that Nana Mae’s way might be the smarter choice. Holding my Southern tongue and smiling through the melodrama of a moody teenager and the daily antics of the old Scrooge next door didn’t seem to be good for longevity. Not to mention people who cared entirely too much about the logistics of papier-mâché. Maybe I should let go of a little crazy.

Bam . . . bam . . .

“Like—now!” I yelled through my teeth in the direction of the wall.

An elderly woman in an unfortunate Pepto-Bismol pink pantsuit glanced up at me with disdain from where she sat in an oversized chair reading a paperback romance novel.

What, the
banging
was okay?

“Sorry, Mrs. Chatalain,” I said softly, reaffixing my smile and sucking back my crazy.

My stomach growled, reminding me that it was lunchtime and that I’d forgotten my leftovers at home. I rubbed at my temples, which had drummed out a dull rhythm since I’d awakened. Something had me on edge. It was always my most difficult time of the year—I expected it. Waited for it. But something was different.

“What’s with you, today?” said a voice to my left. My assistant manager, Ruthie, strolled from the back of the store looking all bohemian with her black beret cap and her hands tucked in the pockets of a long and well-worn black sweater. Her small frame looked lost in it.

I shook my head.
She’s forgotten,
I thought.
She doesn’t remember. But that’s okay. Somebody needs to be normal for once.

“Johnny Mack and his stupid-ass cane,” I said under my breath, nodding toward the offending wall. “There’s not one note of music playing anywhere in here today.”

Ruthie chuckled. “It’s his entertainment, Jules,” she said with a wink before something else caught her eye. “Uh-oh, look who’s coming.”

I followed her gaze to the wall of spray-snow-frosted glass flanking the front of the bookstore, where a lone teenage girl with crooked hair was heading up the sidewalk.

“Damn it,” I muttered.

The bell jingled as she pushed open the door and I watched Mrs. Chatalain raise an eyebrow at the girl’s black smudgy eyeliner, dark shiny hair that was longer on one side than the other, and navy blue T-shirt that said
You laugh because I’m different. I laugh because you’re all the same.

“Hey,” the girl said, her mouth cocking in an endearing crooked grin that lit up her face and killed the I-don’t-care mask that she worked so hard to maintain.

“What’s wrong?” I said, standing up.

She frowned and shrugged, the frayed black backpack slung over her shoulders moving with her. “Nothing, why?”

“Why aren’t you at school?” I asked.

She pointed to the giant clock across the street that was about to rattle the windows with its eleven o’clock toll.

“It’s lunchtime,” she said.

I closed my eyes and counted the reasons why I loved her as my pen slipped from my fingers and clattered from the counter to the floor.

“At school, Bec.”

Her face scrunched up. “They had gumbo today,” she said simply. “Their gumbo sucks. Nothing like Nana Mae’s.”

“Not even mine?” Ruthie said with a head tilt and mock hurt expression.

Becca smiled. “Not even yours, Aunt Ruthie.” She tilted her head to match. “Although I do really like when you make potato salad to put in it.”

“Thank you,” Ruthie said with a little curtsy.

I splayed my fingers wide on the cool granite countertop, letting the hard cold seep in. I probably needed to press my wrists against it. Or go stick my head in the break room freezer. “You have to quit doing this, Bec. It’s not an open campus. I’m tired of calling—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” she said, holding her palms up. I noticed there was something new drawn in black Sharpie inside her left wrist. Of course there was. “We’re not doing anything anyway.”

“The law doesn’t care, baby.”

She widened her eyes at Ruthie in the eternal oh-my-god-ness of it all. “Got it. But I’m here, so do y’all want to take me next door?”

Her face broke into a cheesy innocent grin that was so fake, it broke me. Ruthie snickered at my side as I shook my head.

“Girly, you really ought to be my blood. You’ve been around me too long,” she said, walking around to hook an arm around Becca’s neck.

That was true. Ruthie had been Becca’s “aunt” since birth, and my best friend since kindergarten. She’d been with me through everything.
Everything.
And helping in the bookstore right alongside me since we were eight years old and my mother ran it.

“I do like your hair, I have to say,” Ruthie said, fingering the lengths that were razor cut from just under her chin on one side to past her shoulder on the other. “Wasn’t sold when your mom told me about it, but it works for you.”

Bec’s smile was brilliant and she fluttered her eyes at me. “Thanks!”

I smiled, humoring them both. “Ready?”

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom first,” Bec said, dropping her backpack where she stood. “Theirs is kinda—ick.”

I sighed as I stooped to pick up her bag. “Why don’t y’all just go and bring me back something?” I asked Ruthie, gesturing toward our lone customer.

“Nah, I’ll stay,” she said, plopping onto the stool and grinning at me. “I brought chicken salad.” Laughing at my expression, which I’m sure showed I’d rather be flogged, she continued, “Go fuss at him.”

As if on cue, three short bumps reverberated through the wall. I sneered and gave her a knowing look. “Not a good time for that.”

She frowned. “Why—oh.” Her expression changed and her eyes got a far-off cast to them as she joined me in my retro journey. “That’s right. No wonder you’ve been funky this week.” She sent a glare toward the wall. “He probably doesn’t even know anymore.”

I licked my lips. “He knows. He always gets a little extra asinine right after New Year’s.” I looked away and reached behind the counter for my not-red purse. “Maybe I’ll dump my food on his head or something.”

“Oh, if you feel the urge, text me first,” she said. “I’ll run over there for that.”

I laughed and shook off an involuntary shiver at the same time. Ruthie narrowed her eyes at me.

“What else?”

“What do you mean?” I knew what she meant. Ruthie could read me like a damn psychic. She knew me too well.

“Something else is going on.” Her dark eyes narrowed to slits in her pale face. “You look all twitchy.”

I scoffed. “I’m not twitchy.”

“You’re twitchy.”

“Snowflakes,” I said.

She shook her head. “This isn’t a snowflake twitch. I know the snowflake twitch.”

I blew out a breath and glared at her, not that it had one iota of effect on her. Ruthie was impervious to my attempts at badassery.

“Whatever,” I said, looking away. “Just had a bad night.”

“Did you have sushi again?” Ruthie asked.

I chuckled as I ran a hand through my hair, holding it back. “No,” I said, glancing toward where Becca had disappeared. “I just—I had a hell of a time falling asleep, and then when I did—I dreamed about Noah.” Her eyes widened just a little, then she crossed her arms as she set a smile right back on her face that made me laugh to myself. “Nice cover, Ruthie, don’t play poker.”

She ignored my snarky remark. “So, like, ‘Hey, look at me, I’m Noah, I’m an asshole just walking by’ kind of dream, or like—
dream
?” she said.

I picked up my pen, dropped it again, and squatted to grab on to it with both hands. “Not that kind of
dream
,” I said, mimicking her drama voice. “It was just one of those—” My face suddenly felt itchy and I rubbed at it. “It was probably just because it’s coming up. My brain trying to make it harder than it already is.”

I pasted a smile on as Becca strolled up like a queen.

“What?” she said.

I shook my head. “Ready now?”

“Yeah, I’m hungry, let’s go,” Bec said.

I sighed. “Oh, yes, let’s.”

“Don’t beat up Johnny Mack!” Ruthie called out, smiling back at Mrs. Chatalain and grabbing some mailers I needed to address and send out.

Bec’s new hair swung in front of me as we walked outside in the breeze. To her credit, she could pull it off. To her detriment, I saw her dad’s truck parked outside the diner and knew instinctively there would be drama.

I was actually a little intrigued that Hayden would be there, since Johnny Mack Ryan wasn’t on his favorite list either and I knew he wouldn’t go to his diner on purpose. The old man’s hatred for me spewed over onto everything, and my marrying Hayden three years after Johnny Mack’s son joined the Navy and swore never to return—well, let’s just say that expanded the toxicity to him by association.

To my daughter, too, but that had different roots.

The aroma reached me before we ever opened the thick wooden door and my mouth was watering by the time we made it two steps in. I wished the smells came over to my side of the wall as often as the phantom music came to his.

The clock tower in the old courthouse across the street vibrated the tile under my feet with its announcement. The diner was still only half full, it only being eleven. The tide of office workers from the courthouse wouldn’t hit till noon, and the contractors perpetually working construction down at the river would roll in around a quarter to one. Then it all started up again for dinnertime at five. Johnny Mack did a booming business, in spite of his sour disposition. With his daughter, Linny, at his side keeping customers happy and laughing and spending money on his amazing dishes, people tended to overlook the snarls and sneers and griping from the chef.

Well, people except me. I had a little more trouble blowing him off. Maybe because his vitriol toward me wasn’t just the snark of an old man. Because he used to love me like a daughter. Because it was personal.