CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

"Ugh. Beer me."

Conn laughs and continues to rinse out some glasses. "Since when do you self-medicate with alcohol?"

"Since I started taking Hannah house hunting."

"Find anything?"

"If we did, would I be begging you for booze in the middle of the afternoon?"

"You seriously want a beer?"

I actually consider it. But then I deflate, collapse onto the nearest bar stool, and sigh, "No, not really."

"Triple espresso then."

"It is that time of day."

After Conn makes my coffee, he rests his elbows on the bar and studies me for a moment. In a somber tone, he asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He sounds so serious that for a second I almost buy it. I squeeze the lemon rind over the cup, watching the spritz zing the tan foam, and mutter with a smile, "Shut up."

"No, no—I really want to hear all about it."

"You do, do you?" I take a sip of my espresso and contemplate which story I should regale him with. Maybe I should give him the entire rundown so he can get the full House Hunting with Hannah experience.

The problem isn't that she's super picky, which is too bad—I can handle super picky. When you cater to millionaires, you learn how to field some crazy demands. You know—they'd love to rent the beach house for six weeks, if only they could move a wall or two, rip up the entire lawn, and put in fresh sod…and a pool. I can make it happen, can't I? Or they want the refrigerator restocked by invisible elves every day. For free, of course.

That isn't what I'm faced with this time. Hannah is the opposite of super picky. She wanted to take all the houses I showed her. Like Dory, she was newly delighted every time we walked through the door of another one. Each house was "it"…until she saw the next place. Rinse, repeat. All day.

Eventually I suggested, if she liked them all, it was simply a matter of…oh, I don't know…picking one. Any one. Eenie meenie miney mo. She'd decide on one and would be ready to sign, but then she'd think back to a previous house. Maybe it was better. One house had the best views. Oh, but the first one was so charming. Wait. What about the place that looked like it belonged in Architectural Digest? No, maybe that one was too fancy…

On and on. And on. And on.

"I showed her the Miller place."

"Ooh, that's a stunner," Conn says.

Bless him. He gets me. "Right? But she wouldn't even consider it. 'Belongs to a family,' she said."

"Well, yeah, but they're selling it."

"Hannah got all sentimental and said it looked like the kind of place where children should be running around. And…and grandparents should be chastely embracing by the fire pit while Mom and Dad serve up s'mores. Whatever tourism ad started running in her head."

"Okay, she didn't feel at home there. No big deal. Did you show her the A-frame on the spit?"

"Ski resort."

"Huh?"

"She says it belongs in the mountains, not on the beach. Out of the running."

"Cripes, sell her mine."

"Stop it."

"I'm serious. Rent to own. If she wants it after the summer's up, she can keep it. Everybody wins."

"I told you, I'm not selling your house."

Conn holds an invisible phone up to his ear. "Hi, Maude? Got some business for you."

I slap his hand away. He grins at me and starts fitting printouts of the dinner specials into the menus.

"Anything good tonight?"

"Please. I've got something good every night."

"Okay, whoever told you that? She lied." Conn snorts as I pick up one of the small squares of paper from the stack. There are noticeably fewer options and no dessert specials at all. "Going a little short lately?"

He shrugs. "I don't want to overwork Ornette, you know?"

"Ornette likes coming up with the specials. He lives for it."

"Yeah, but there's such a thing as too many choices. Why do you care, anyway? You'll still get your meatloaf."

"You know I always order the scallops," I fire back lightly, even as my stomach twists.

I don't know why this change in routine bothers me, but it does. Like something's off-kilter. I just can't put my finger on what, exactly. And then it hits me.

"The napkins!"

Bugging his eyes at me in a spot the loony sort of way, he whispers, "What about the napkins? Are they talking to you again?"

Conn tried to keep me from taking what he suddenly considered to be too many. Now he's cutting corners on the menu and nagging me about my outstanding bill and even wants to sell his house…

"Are you in trouble?" I blurt out.

I've always assumed Deep Brew C is making a nice profit because it has a steady stream of customers, but it could be going under for all I know. Conn's behavior certainly makes it look like that's the case.

"What?" Even though he punctuates his question with an astounded laugh, I'm still suspicious.

"If this place is…I mean, if you're having trouble, just say so. Do you need money?"

Uh-oh. His brow lowers like a storm cloud, darkening his blue-green eyes. I've overstepped. But I can't seem to stop talking. It happens sometimes.

"Not…not charity or anything," I stammer. "A loan. Do you need a…a little bit to get you over the hump? Till the summer people get here? Is that what's going on?"

And the giant, foot-thick, studded-metal, bulletproof door of Conn's private affairs slams shut in my face. He looks down and stuffs another specials list into another menu. "Everything's fine, Melanie."

His voice is hard. If I know what's good for me, I'll back away now. But so very often, even when I do know what's good for me, I choose to ignore it. This is one of those times. Unfortunately. "I'm just saying…"

"Stop saying. Okay? Mind your own business."

Ouch.

Annoyance radiating from him, Conn doesn't look up again. That gets me to stop talking, finally, and I back away a couple of steps. Keeping one eye on him, I scoop up my purse from the floor, root around in it, find a pen, scribble out a check, and gingerly slide it across the bar. I feel like I'm feeding the lions at the zoo, and my hand could be bitten off at any second.

"Paying my tab," I whisper.

As I turn away, I catch a glimpse of a smile—a tiny one—as Conn shakes his head disbelievingly.

 

*   *   *

 

"'Lo."

The cell phone slides off my head and hits me on the side of my nose, waking me up a little bit more. I have no idea what time it is. Dark o'clock. I fumble with the thing, cursing its slipperiness, while a muffled voice says something unintelligible.

"Wait, wait," I say a little more clearly. "Hannah? What's going on? Has the B&B burned down?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line. "No," she says, sounding puzzled. "Why?"

"Because you're calling me in the middle of the night."

"It's 11:30."

"Like I said."

"I'm sorry! I thought you'd be up."

Her voice is throaty, and her nose sounds plugged. She may have caught a cold since I saw her several hours ago, but I doubt it. Those are tears. I push myself up a little, stuffing one of my pillows behind my shoulders. "What's going on?"

"You know what? It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

"Hannah, I'm awake now. Don't waste my good will."

"Can we go for a walk?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A walk. Can we?"

"No, we can't go for a walk. It's the middle of the—"

"I just got off the phone with Marty."

Oh. Her ex. I swipe my hand across my bleary eyes and groan. "Give me five minutes. I'll meet you out front of the B&B."

Five and a half minutes later, we're walking the nearly deserted streets of the town center. I've always loved the cramped, uneven, brick-paved historic district, with its gas streetlamps and tiny shops all crowded in on one another, like a little American Hogsmeade. I feel like we should be wearing black robes instead of yoga pants and hoodies.

"He wanted to see if I was okay," Hannah murmurs.

"He wanted," I correct her, "to check up on you."

"That's what I said."

"There's a difference. He was checking to make sure you're still devastated and not, you know, dating someone else already."

"Oh, Marty wouldn't do that. He still loves me."

I can't stifle the indelicate snort that bursts out of me. "Sure. Okay."

"You think he doesn't?"

"I'm sure he cares, in his way. But men are territorial by nature. If he's finished with you, it doesn't mean he's okay with somebody else having you."

"You make me sound like leftover Chinese food."

I shrug. If the cardboard carton fits…

"Marty's not like that."

"So he broke up with you…why? Wanted to 'take a break'? Get some space? Do his own thing because he's 'too young to be tied down yet but let's revisit this in a few months or a year'?"

Hannah stops walking and stares at me, wide-eyed. "No! He asked me to marry him!"

I did not see that coming. "Well, what happened?"

Her head droops, and she starts shuffling forward again. "I…couldn't decide."

Shocker.

"Okay then," I say, catching up to her with one long stride. "If you had any doubts, you were right to not say yes."

"But I wanted to marry him!" she wails.

"Then why didn't you?" I wail back.

All I get is a shrug. We turn a corner by the darkened candy shop, and I suddenly wish I had a glass cutter with me—one pane of the window removed, silently and stealthily, with minimal damage, and I could reach in and grab the multicolored lollipop that's calling to me from the lower shelf of Macomb's display.

Eventually Hannah whispers, "I wish I were more like you."

Dragging my attention away from the siren song of the lollipop, I laugh and say, "The only person you should want to be is you."

"But you always know what to do! You never hesitate. About anything. Ever!"

"That's not entirely true." But it isn't entirely untrue either. What can I say? I always know what I want. Like the lollipop. Which I'll probably buy tomorrow when I don't need to worry about where to find a glass cutter.

"I'll bet when you get proposed to, you won't have even one doubt."

"Probably not, but since nothing like that is happening in the near future, I don't have to worry about it."

"Oh, I don't know." She flashes me a small smile and starts walking again. "I figured Conn would be getting around to it pretty soon."

I'm rooted in place, flabbergasted. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"You. And Conn. Perfect proposal, perfect wedding, perfect marriage. It's so obvious."

I close the gap between us, grasp her by the upper arms, and look her in the eye to make sure she absorbs what I'm about to say next. "Hannah. Conn and I are not together."

Her pale eyebrows come together in a peak over her nose. "Sure you are."

"I swear to you, we're not. He's just an old family friend. He always has been."

Hannah chews on this for a moment, mutters, "Huh," and wanders off.

"Hey—"

"Where does this go?" she asks suddenly.

I want her to repeat back to me that she understands the situation between me and Conn—or rather, that there isn't one—but she's come upon one of the most picturesque streets in Abbott's Bay, a narrow lane that's barely a legitimate street by modern standards.

"Down to the beach, eventually."

"It's cute."

That's an understatement. South End Close is lined with tall, narrow houses butted right up against the sidewalks, giving the impression they're leaning over to gossip with the ones on the opposite side of the road. Some sport artfully-weather-beaten-to-dove-gray clapboards. The rest are painted dark brown or a muted blue or even, in some cases, the near black you can only seem to get away with in old seaside towns like this one. Almost all of them have bright flowers in their window boxes and in large, painted ceramic pots on their front stoops.

She's already halfway down the sidewalk, looking from one side of the street to the other, eventually stopping in front of a familiar dwelling. "Melanie, this house is for rent. There's a sign in the window."

"I know."

"Why didn't you show it to me before? It's adorable."

"No, it isn't. It's small. And it backs up to the shopping district. Believe me, once the tourists got here, you wouldn't be able to hear yourself think."

"I don't know. This street seems pretty peaceful to me."

"But the house isn't big and airy and on the beach, like you want."

"Who said I want big and airy and on the beach?"

"Everybody wants big and airy and on the beach!"

"Beach air makes my hair frizzy. Can you get us in to look at it first thing tomorrow? I really want to, Melanie. Please."

Wow, she expressed herself decisively. I can't shoot her down now. "What time is it?"

She checks her phone. "Midnight."

"Really?"

"One minute past, to be exact. Why does it matter?"

With a sigh, I climb the front steps. "Because it's apparently first thing in the morning, now."

Hannah gapes as I punch in the code on the lock box hanging on the door and pull out a key. "How did you…? Are you psychic?"

Dear God. I should be in bed—asleep, comfortable, oblivious. Instead I'm showing houses in downtown Abbott's Bay at midnight. "No, crazy person. My dad owns the house."

"Why didn't you show it to me before?"

"My dad owns the house," I repeat. That is the explanation. Hannah doesn't get it, so I add, "I love my dad, but you don't want him as your landlord. Trust me."

"Is it the money—?"

"No, it's…you know what? Never mind. Let's take a look around."

I push open the front door and step inside to turn on the lights. Hannah walks past me into the narrow entryway, taking in the ornate ceiling, hardwood floors, plaster walls, and elaborate trim around the doorways. I've seen that look before: she's a goner. Totally hooked. The place could have four feet of water in the basement and a colony of fruit bats living in the bedroom closet, and she'd take it. For the record, this house has neither. It's actually quite nice, if you like small spaces. Hannah apparently does. She dashes through the rest of the rooms, upstairs, downstairs. When she returns to me, the look on her face only confirms what I already know.

"You want it, don't you?"

Hannah nods eagerly, eyes shining.

"Well when it's right, it's right. Congratulations on knowing what you want."

"In houses, anyway."

"You mean 'if only you applied this kind of decisiveness to the Marty situation'?"

Hannah nods again, her eagerness subsiding. She stares at the blank fireplace, saying nothing.

"Oh, come on." I try desperately to jolly her out of her sudden funk. "Today a rental, tomorrow the world! Get yourself a backbone, woman—I know it's in there somewhere."

"I know. But…I screwed up things with Marty, maybe for good. I feel like I'm…hopeless. Am I hopeless, Melanie? What should I do?"

"You have got to stop asking me that."

"I really need advice."

"Not from me, you don't."

"But…you're so…put together! And confident! And…I don't know…you seem to know what to do in any situation."

"Well," I demur, "that may be true, but all this is your business! Well, yours and your therapist's. Why don't you give her a call in the morning?"

"I think I'm going to fire Dr. McCrory. She never actually gives me advice. She says all she should do is help me come to my own conclusions. I get that, but don't we all need someone to point us in the right direction sometimes? I know a lot of people who would pay good money for that." She slumps against the wall and heaves a sigh. "I wish I had someone to tell me the truth, even if it's ugly. Like…'Hannah. Babe. That color does not work with your complexion.' Or 'Nut up and leave that no-good idiot in your past.' You know, like you do."

"Hannah. Babe. What you're describing is called a friend."

She smiles warmly. "That's what I need."

I smile back in spite of myself. "Okay. You've got one of those." Over her chipper little "yay," I add, "And if you want frank talk about colors and complexions, I can tell you right now you have way too much beige in your wardrobe. It washes you right out."

"Oh." I'm afraid she's going to be upset, but she just nods. "It's my funky skin tone. When you have parents of different races, sometimes you have a gorgeous, rich color, but mine ended up kind of…weak."

"I think you should stop calling yourself weak anything. Your skin tone is unique, not funky. Wearing the right colors will make all the difference in the world, so when it's daylight, we're going shopping."

"Oh, shopping! That's the perfect friend thing. What's your hourly rate?"

"A professional friend? Interesting business prospect. I'm not sure about fees yet. I'll have to assess the market."