The Makeover (18 page)

“A group of them power walk past my house every evening in good weather,” Deb explained, one hand filled with another round of chips. “And lord can they
talk
. It became sport to eavesdrop. You can’t imagine how many times I weeded the same little plot of land in my front yard, just to listen to those baboons babble.”

Henry had to hold Camellia upright as she shrieked with laughter. 

TWENTY-SIX

Once Labor Day weekend had passed, the town of Markleeville wound down from a touristy roar to an early off-season hum, with some of the older part-time residents, who no longer had to rush down state to get their kids back to school, staying on a bit longer to relish the quieter side of summer.

Meanwhile the last of the detail work was in full swing at Camellia and Henry’s lake house: carpeting was being laid, the remaining light fixtures were getting installed, a re-ordered marble countertop was being secured into place. With the patio finally in place, the landscapers were due out that week to install sprinklers, grass, and a lush grouping of shrubs and trees.

Now that the diner had finally slowed down, Camellia was able to take an extra day off during the week, which she used to give Shelby an additional afternoon out of the house. While there were a hundred other things she could have done with that time, especially packing their things at the cottage and measuring for window dressings at the new house, Camellia didn’t mind. She knew Sharene was getting weaker, and she wanted to take advantage of the time she could spend with her newest friend.

However, Camellia was shocked to discover Sharene looking energetic and happy when she arrived for a Wednesday afternoon visit.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Shelby remarked, grabbing her shoulder bag and keys from the chair nearest to the door. She hugged her mom and held Sharene’s face in her hands. “She woke up like this, all sparkling and lively. Sure looks like remission to me!” She kissed her mom on the forehead and then grabbed Camellia, bestowing a bear hug. “Be back soon, have fun!”

Camellia and Sharene watched Shelby drive away, making sure she was out of sight before Camellia closed the front door and pulled Sharene onto the couch. “Do you think you’re in remission?”

Sharene grinned sardonically. “No. But Shelby can think it all she likes. I can’t remember the last time I saw her in such high spirits.”

Cam
ellia pressed her lips together and knit her brow. “So what do think it is?”

“I did a little research while Shelby was in the shower this morning. There’s a lot of talk out there
about one last burst of energy before dying.”

Slack-jawed for a moment while digesting the information, Camellia shook it off and frowned at Sharene. “Well, if that’s the case, shouldn’t you be spending this time with Shelby?”

Sharene crinkled her nose. “I don’t want her to know. Besides, I could be wrong, right?” She patted Camellia on the knee. “Come with me. I have something for you.”

Following closely behind, Camellia climbed the stairway to the second floor and then ascended another narrower set of steps hidden behind a door. It led to a crowded attic that smelled of cedar and mothballs.

“Over here, by the window,” Sharene called out, bending over a row of old packing boxes that had softened with age.

“What is it?” Camellia wondered aloud, expecting Sharene to bring out old family photos to show her.

Instead, Sharene held up a spectacular black trench coat with a detachable shawl cape. Camellia stood dazed, feeling pretty sure she knew exactly what she was looking at. “Is that...Yves Saint Laurent?”

Nodding, Sharene said, “From the ‘70s. It was my mother’s.”

“M-May I?” She could barely speak. Sharene placed the coat in her arms. Inspecting it carefully, Camellia’s eyes continued to widen. “It’s perfect. No wear.”

“She was quite the collector in her day,” Sharene explained, opening each of the boxes in front of her and pulling out armfuls of vintage clothing; the sight of them making Camellia gasp. “My father was a defense attorney in Chicago,” she went on. “Had a lot of high profile cases, which made him a lot of money. My mom always knew how to spend it.”

“Does Shelby know?” Camellia couldn’t believe such a treasure had been sitting untouched in this attic for years, possibly decades.

“Sure,” Sharene said, unfolding a Chanel pantsuit with wide, cropped legs. “Unfortunately, she’s way too tall. My mom was only about five-foot-four.” Camellia gasped again as she took the fitted Chanel jacket from Sharene’s hands, running a hand across the gold-button detailing. “I thought you could find some use for them.”

Camellia whipped her head up to look at Sharene. “You’re...giving them to me? But they’re so valuable.”

“You’re valuable.” With only minor trouble, Sharene lowered herself to the dusty floor and sat cross-legged. “You’ve done so much for Shelby and me. So much. This is the least I can do.”

Peering through the contents still in the boxes, Camellia exhaled heavily, taking it all in. “I’m not sure how much of it will fit me, either. I’m on the taller side, too.”

“Actually, I thought it would be a nice start for your own vintage boutique.”

“A vintage boutique?”

“I don’t know how much of it would sell in Markleeville, but I’ll bet you could have some success online.”

Camellia leaned against the windowsill and gazed down the quiet, tree-line street, pondering the thought. She adored vintage clothes. And she certainly knew her designers. There would be a bit of a learning curve, figuring out how to price the items, but that could quickly be remedied with enough research, which she was willing to do. She fingered the hem of the Chanel jacket she was still holding. She did have a website she wasn’t using for anything now that the modeling agency idea was kaput. With a few instructions, her web guy could turn it into a shopping site. Maybe she could write a weekly column for it, too, educating shoppers on the eras and the designers and what to watch out for when shopping vintage. Henry could photograph the clothing. And she could run the business from home, which would be convenient if there was a baby.

She turned back to Sharene, who was staring at her intensely as if willing Camellia to say yes. “I can’t thank you enough,” Camellia gushed. “I want to do it. I want to have my own online boutique.”

“Thatta girl.” Sharene smiled brightly, and held up a hand. “Now help me up, would you? I want to save some energy for Shelby.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

On Monday, Camellia and Henry met with the builder and his sales rep for the official walk-through. Room-by-room they turned on lights, flushed toilets, opened and closed windows, and checked faucets and drains. Henry kept a keen eye on paint finish and nail holes, while Camellia made sure all their choices were accounted for. The house felt vast at this stage, with the rooms finished but not yet furnished. With the exception of a few minor fixes, including one set of lights wired to the switches in the wrong order, the home was perfect. The sales rep marked up the paperwork, indicating the changes needed, and Camellia and Henry signed off.

They were scheduled to close on the house on Thursday, giving the builder plenty of time to make the repairs and clear out. Camellia booked the moving company for Friday morning, but she and Henry were planning to spend Thursday night there, with carryout and a makeshift bed on the floor. It had been Camellia’s idea. She had waited a cycle after having her IUD removed to try to get pregnant, and she had a romantic notion of conceiving that first night on the floor with nothing else present but the two of them.

After the builder left, Camellia and Henry walked out to the back patio to watch a large flock of geese feeding on the vegetation by the water.

“They’re getting ready for winter,” Henry noted, as a smaller flock flew overhead.

“I feel like we are, too,” Camellia said, sliding her arm around Henry’s back. “No more ugly wood stove.”

“No more country-blue, overstuffed furniture,” he added.

“And I was worried you would attempt to take it with us,” she teased, reaching up for a kiss. Her cell phone rang and she let go of Henry to dig for it in her oversized tote. “It’s Shelby,” she announced brightly.

Shelby’s low wail eradicated Camellia’s smile. Her pained expression revealed everything to Henry, and they bolted for the car with Henry behind the wheel and Camellia pressed against the passenger door, ready to run to Shelby. Her foot tapped the floor wildly. Neither of them spoke.

The tires squealed as Henry took the turn onto Shelby’s street. He pulled into the driveway, and Camellia leaped from the Escalade before Henry could come to a complete stop. She tore through the front door, following Shelby’s cries upstairs.

She halted in the doorway of Sharene’s bedroom. Sharene was laid out on the made bed, her arms at her sides, her face peaceful. Shelby sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, rocking from side to side, her shoulders heaving.

“I’m here,” Camellia called out. Shelby jerked around and peered at Camellia with red, swollen eyes, and then scrambled into her arms. They stood in the doorway for what felt like hours, Camellia holding the girl tight as Shelby sobbed into her shoulder. Henry appeared quietly, surveyed the scene, and touched Camellia on the small of her back. “I’ll call the funeral home,” he whispered, and then disappeared downstairs.

When the funeral director arrived, Camellia and Shelby were seated in the living room, Camellia feeding a steady stream of tissues into Shelby’s hands. Henry was waiting outside, and held the door open for two solemn-looking men, who expressed their condolences to Shelby in hushed tones before following Henry upstairs. Within minutes they were carefully making their way back down, reverently managing the weight of the body bag they carried between them.

At the sight of the body bag, Shelby hid her face in the crook of Camellia’s neck, wailing uncontrollably. Tears slid down Camellia’s cheeks,
which she whisked away with the back of her free hand. She was more crushed by Sharene’s death than she had expected, but this wasn’t the time for her to break down. Her job was to be strong for Shelby.

While Henry sorted out details with the funeral director, Camellia took Shelby up to her room to help her pack a bag. She refused to let Shelby stay in the house alone that night.

“Tomorrow you can decide what you’d like to do, but for tonight, you’re coming with us,” Camellia instructed gently, pulling a couple of outfits from Shelby’s closet and folding them into a pile on the bed.

Shelby nodded weakly. “I wish she had fought harder,” she mumbled, the first words she had uttered since calling Camellia.

Camellia clicked her tongue, dropped the dress she was holding, and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t ever let me hear you speak of your mother that way again. She fought her whole life. She raised you single-handedly and
ran
a successful diner to provide a good life for you. She even fought against severe treatment so she could enjoy every last minute with you. Your mother was a fighter, Shelby. And one day, you’ll realize that you are, too.”

A chilly northern wind greeted Camellia and Shelby as they stood in front of the diner early Thursday morning. Beech Street was as quiet as Camellia had ever seen it, with every business closed and the Escalade the only vehicle parked along the street. Camellia turned the lock and pushed open the diner’s front door, the tinny bell ringing like a gong against the reticence town.

Hesitantly, Shelby followed her inside, gripping onto a small sign they had come to adhere to the front door, announcing the diner would be closed that day for a funeral and private luncheon. Camellia flicked on the lights, looked around, and gasped.

The perimeter of the diner was lined with photographs, three and four rows high. Camellia and Shelby looked at each other with wide eyes and pushed slowly forward, taking in the scene. While Camellia didn’t recognize many of the people, she knew what she was looking at: it was the story of the Beech Street Diner, staring Sharene and Shelby.

Sliding into one of the booths, Shelby scanned a grouping of photos taped to the wall, giggling lightly.

“What is it?” Camellia asked, moving closer for a better look.

She pointed to a photo in the bot
tom row. “I remember this day,” she murmured.

The picture was of a young girl, about five, standing on the diner counter wearing an apron that stopped below her feet. She was holding two ladles high over her head, her expression fierce.

Camellia grinned. “I take it that’s you.”

“I told my mama I was quitting kindergarten and working at the diner instead.” Shelby threw her head back and laughed. “I thought the diner was way more fun than sitting in a circle reciting the alphabet.”

Camellia’s eyes locked on a faded photo of a beautiful young couple locked in an embrace, smiling widely for the camera. “That must be Sharene. She looks just like you.”

“And my dad,” Shelby added, lightly running a finger across their faces.

“You had no choice but to be gorgeous with such stunning parents,” Camellia noted, which Shelby didn’t seem to hear. She looked lost in thought as her eyes moved from one old photo to the next. “I’m going to put on some coffee,” Camellia murmured mostly to herself. As she reached the counter, she noticed an envelope lying there with Shelby’s name on it.

“I wonder who did all this?” Shelby’s wistful voice f
loated across the diner.

Camellia waved the envelope in the air. “Perhaps this will shed some light on it.”

Shelby cocked her head and padded across the checkerboard floor, gingerly taking the envelope from Camellia. She tore it open and removed a sympathy card that had been signed by all the employees. She read aloud, slowly and deliberately.

“Shelby, it’s been an honor working for Sharene for the last twenty years and it would be an honor to work for you twenty more. We love you and stand beside you: the Beech Street Diner staff.”

Shelby hugged the card, her expression an unmistakable look of pride.

The tinny bell announced Henry, Lisa, Deb, and Justin, all of them crammed in the doorway. “It’s time,” Henry said.

Shelby’s doleful sigh reset the somber mood. With downcast eyes, she shuffled to the door where Justin put an arm around her and escorted her to the car.

“Where you able to get the closing moved?” Camellia asked Henry quietly, locking the diner behind them.

“Rescheduled to three o’clock. The luncheon will be over by then, and Lisa and Deb said they’ll stay with Shelby until we’re done.”

As Henry pulled out into Beech Street, following behind Lisa’s truck en route to the chapel at the cemetery a mile and a half north of town, Camellia looked back at the diner. So many good memories were wrapped up in one little space. Some started years before Camellia had ever heard of a sleepy little town called Markleeville, back when she was still fighting to flee small-town life for something bigger. And some happened just this year,
like the day she set eyes on a fresh-faced Shelby Jenkins.

And it was meeting Shelby and realizing that a trusting young girl filled with potential could become so much more than a power play – could, in fact, fill a childless void Camellia hadn’t even know existed – that she
had found something bigger than all of New York City. And when she added Henry and Lisa and Deb and Sharene and all the characters, both good and bad, who made up Markleeville, what Camellia had found was a home.