Tangled Up in Daydreams (18 page)

“That makes sense.”

“This is good, right?”

“Sure.”

“So maybe …” Jay pushed.

“Jay, maybe what?” Setting her feet back down on the ground.

“Maybe this changes things.” Trying to be helpful.

“It hopefully will change him, but I don't know if it changes us.” Taking another deep breath. “I don't really want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay. Listen, I just pulled up. Think about the shop, okay?”

“Jay.” Getting a little frustrated.

“I know, I know. I love you, Molly.” Starting to hang up.

“Wait.” Catching her friend.

“What?”

“I bought you a massage at Burke Williams for all your help this week. It's all in the computer there, so you can just call whenever.”

“Molly, that's very sweet, but totally unnecessary.”

“You've had to clean up a few messes lately. It's the least I can do.”

“Well, thank you. I'm not one to refuse a free rubdown.”

“Enjoy. Talk to you soon.” Hanging up the phone.

Molly downed the last of her coffee and stood up. She set the mug by the sink and looked into the backyard. She felt a twinge. Jay bringing up Liam was hard. Molly should be there for him. She shouldn't have left. How could she have left him like this? She pictured him in a room by himself, lying in a tiny dorm-sized bed, staring at the ceiling and counting cracks. She pictured him crying and alone and suffering. She saw the curve of his back and his eyes ringed in red. She imagined him aching. Molly felt a swirl in her stomach and her coffee returned all over the sink. Molly wretched again. Her face went hot. And she stood there hunched over for what seemed like an eternity. The nausea slowly ebbed and she splashed water on her face. She also rinsed her mouth out. After drinking a cup of water, Molly swallowed hard. She wiped off her face and steadied herself. Molly walked slowly over to her mother's desk that sat in the corner of the kitchen. She took a deep breath, sat down, opened the first drawer, and pulled out the Yellow Pages. She flipped it open, found Susan's number at the store, and dialed.

“Hi, is Susan there? It's Molly Stern.”

“Hi Molly, it's me. How are you? Your mom said you were in town.”

“Pretty good. It's been nice being home.” Passing pleasantries. “How is everything going this summer?”

“Great, actually. I already sold all but two necklaces from the order.”

“You're kidding?” Molly asked, surprised. “I just sent those to you, like, three weeks ago.”

“I know. I made a little display with old dollhouse furniture and music boxes for them. I think people really respond to their sense of nostalgia. Women will pay anything to grab a piece of their past.”

“I love that.” Smiling over the phone.

“Did you bring anymore with you?”

“I have a handful, and I just got my tools and supplies to make some more.”

“Why don't you bring in what you have so I can see?”

“Sure, and if there are certain stones or colors you think people are gravitating to, I can make the new ones in that direction.”

“Sounds terrific.”

“I'll be by in about fifteen minutes.”

“See you soon. I also just got in these amazing reworked antique lace blouses. I think you will love them.”

“Great, 'bye, Susan.”

Molly bounded upstairs with a grin on her face. She forgot all about her puking attack and conversation with Jaycee. Her mind was trained on the elation of selling. Most of the time, when stores bought Molly's wares, she felt this enormous sense of guilt. In the pit of her stomach, she had this gnawing doubt. People were investing in her to make their own business profitable. That made Molly nervous. When she would see certain pieces languish like droopy, stale dime-store candy in glass display cases, she would feel terrible that people had paid her and had yet to be paid themselves for their risk. Molly hated risks, hated being the blue-chip stock others wagered on. She knew she needed more confidence in her worth, she knew she had to try to believe. She would try harder.

Molly pulled alongside of Sorella and hopped out. In one of the windows, her necklace was on display. It was a piece with turquoise, a tiny set of silverware, and pale pink ribbons. She had found the charm at the Rose Bowl with Liam a few months ago. They had been looking for a new small couch for the living room. The red couch that now had Noah's Ark burns on the cushion.

“Hi, Susan.” Molly pushed open the door.

“Molly.” Susan answered as she pulled Molly into a hug. “You look a little tired.”

“I know, it's been a long week.”

“Everything okay?”

“Fine, thanks.” Giving her best smile.

Susan was a small woman around forty with a slight frame and a short auburn pixie haircut. She had on a black off-the-shoulder tunic with a slanted hemline, a pair of worn-in jeans cuffed past the ankles, little white lace socks, red high heels, and a big leather belt slung over her hips. Her fantastic sense of style permeated the store, which was filled with every designer you already knew and others you knew would be in upcoming issues of
Vogue
. If Sorella was in LA, it would be making Fred Segal–type bucks, serving every fashionable lady. But, here in Idaho, only the lucky ones got to check out her stash. Susan loved Idaho, and had the store simply because she loved fashion. Molly admired her and tried to do most of her shopping at the store.

“So, where are those tops you mentioned?”

“I pulled them for you. They are in the dressing room. There are no sizes because they are one-of-a-kind and recycled. I just put them all in there so you can pick.”

“Great. Here is what I have now. You can look while I try.” Handing her the velvet case.

Molly headed into the curtained closet and looked at the shirts. They were right on: Victorian, lace, asymmetrical. Molly's staple look lately had been jeans on bottom, cool blouse on top—and these were perfect. Like with her jewelry, Molly mixed the old with the new. Most of the time, she knew she looked like a cartoon: lots of color, texture, and eras, but somehow it all worked together and Molly had no intention of changing. She plowed through the shirts and found three. One was black with a deep V-neck and lace inserts along the sides, one was patterned with pink flowers and off-the-shoulder with a ruffle, and the other was white with a lace turtleneck and cap sleeves.

“Molly, these are great,” Susan stated as Molly went to the counter.

“So are these.” Handing her the shirts. “I'll take them.”

“And I will take all of these necklaces. I can't do the earrings.” Handing back the velvet pouch. “I have no way of displaying them properly.”

“No problem.” Putting it in her hobo brown suede bag.

“Should we trade?” Susan asked.

“Let's do it separately. Different money.”

Molly paid, then wrote Susan up a receipt. She handed her a copy and placed the check in her purse.

“Can you make me something in coral and maybe let's do a really delicate one in ruby?”

“Sure.”

“Everyone is gravitating to the reds this summer.”

“I'll bring them by next week.” Taking her package. “Thanks again, Susan.”

“No problem.” Coming around and giving Molly another hug. “I'll see you later.”

Molly threw her package in the car and decided to leave it parked. The restaurant was only a few blocks away. The walk would do Molly good. She still felt a slight tingle in her skin and her stomach felt a little queasy. Maybe she was catching a bug. She took the blocks double-time hoping some exercise would flush it out and burst into the restaurant with a slight sweat on her brow. Her mom was hunched over a table with her laptop in front of her.

“Hi, Mom.” Giving her a kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing?”

“Doing the menu for the private party we're throwing at the end of next week. Dad made a few new dishes he wanted to add, and he found this poem you wrote a few years ago that he wanted to put on the cover.”

“What poem?” Leaning over her mother.

“I'll recite it for you.” Clearing her throat. “Here goes.”

THE SADISTIC CHEF

“You're joking, right?”

“Nope. Dad thinks it's funny and different. The hosts are really expecting a unique evening and I think this is a perfect intro.” Not looking up from her work.

“Whatever you say, but in my humble opinion, a restaurant promoting a sadistic chef is a little off.”

“And your point is?” Helen turned her head and winked at her daughter.

“Nothing, nothing at all.” Heading back into the kitchen.

Molly smiled as she walked. She liked that her father found that old poem she had written for him when he opened the restaurant. She liked that he had saved it, read it, and used it. It was a sign that he had noticed and maybe had all along, but now it seemed more tangible and Molly enjoyed the touch.

Early seventies rock played softly on the old radio, and everyone seemed settled in the retro, hippie melody. Her dad was by the stove with Alex, pondering a big black pot.

“What's it missing?” Henry asked, turning to his son.

“I'm not sure.” Taking a sip. “It needs a kick of some sort. The sweet potatoes are a little too sugary. People won't get through the whole bowl.”

“I know.” Taking another sip.

“Let me try.” Molly walked between them and dunked a spoon into the soup. “Did you do the base with pancetta?”

“Nope, I want it to be vegetarian.”

“Well, what if you threw in some roasted garlic and sprinkled the top with some salty spicy nuts—like a pecan.” Taking another taste. “That might balance it out.”

“Leave it to the prodigal daughter to fix things.” Kissing his daughter on the forehead. “Does Liam appreciate the talented chef he has?”

Molly's face fell and Alex threw Henry a “What the fuck are you talking about, Dad?” look. She carefully set the spoon down and backed away from the stove.

“Oh, Molly.” Henry, realizing what he had said. “I'm so sorry. It just slipped out. I wasn't thinking.” Going over to her.

“I know, Dad. It's okay. I'm fine. Better. Never mind. Is Renee around? I thought I might help her a bit.”

“Yeah, she's back there and I know she would love the extra hand. Ashley has the flu,” Alex answered.

“Well, then I do have perfect timing.” Walking toward the back. “And Dad, Liam actually did most of the cooking. I guess I just feel comfortable with men who like to feed me.”

In the back kitchen Renee was hoisted up on a stool, lining little tart pans with dough. Her back was to Molly and her once slight frame returned for a moment. Her blond ponytail curled down her narrow shoulders. She almost didn't look six months pregnant.

“So, I have two fairly nimble hands, which I am offering up to you. How may I be of service?”

Renee swiveled around and smiled. All her roundness returned, and she set her hand on her belly out of habit. She brushed back a lock of hair and pointed to the walk-in fridge.

“Inside, you will find a flat of cherries that need pitting, as well as one of peaches. The cherries then need to be made into a compote, and the peaches need to be mixed with some flour and spices and topped with cobbler dough.”

“Yes, taskmaster. You waste no time!” Opening the fridge.

“Sorry, but I'm so behind today. I feel like I am moving underwater.”