CHAPTER SIX

 

I slap down the rental agreement on my father's desk the next morning, drawing his attention away from his WebMD research on suspicious rashes. "South End Close, rented."

He glances at the paper then goes back to Hypochondriacs "R" Us. "I don't see a signature."

"Hannah's coming in later to sign and get the keys. Then I'm going to help her move in."

"I didn't know we were such a full-service agency."

"She's a friend of mine."

Dad looks at me curiously. "Hannah? Am I supposed to know you know a Hannah?"

"She's new in town."

"Well, then I'm looking forward to meeting her. She'll make a good tenant?"

"A very good tenant. Don't terrorize her."

"Me?" My dad draws back, shocked—shocked!—that I would dare suggest such a thing.

"You can be a little…particular."

"Don't stereotype."

"It's got nothing to do with your sexual orientation, old man, and you know it. I'm talking about you being type A. Just leave the poor girl alone. Trust her to keep her bathtub scrubbed, her front stoop clear, and the backyard tidy, and don't…do what you did last time."

"I was perfectly within my rights. I didn't enter the home without prior permission from the tenant."

"Peering in the window was not a fair tradeoff."

"How was I supposed to know the woman had a tendency to do nude yoga in her living room?" he roars.

"Well, she did. One downward dog later, and you were practically a resident of the Graybar Hotel."

"I was more traumatized than she was," he sniffs.

"Trust," I admonish him. "Stop worrying about your precious properties. Focus on your reelection campaign. Or try to reconcile with Jerome."

"I'm not interested," Dad says, entirely unconvincingly. "I have you," he adds, patting my hand affectionately.

Great. He and his boyfriend have been broken up for three months, leaving Dad with way too much time on his hands, which makes him do suspect things like stalk tenants and google his latest imaginary affliction. I refrain from rolling my eyes as I take the contract off his desk.

"Reelection campaign," I repeat, not sure he heard me the first time, because he hasn't looked up from his computer. "Focus."

"I could say the same to you. How about my platform?"

"'Chickens reclining in a sunbeam on a gleaming oak floor and a kitten in every pot.' There."

"Will you take this seriously, please?"

"You first." He waves me away, but I hang back in the doorway. "Um, Dad?"

"Hm?"

"Did you know Conn wants to sell his house?"

"Mm."

"Is that a yes?"

"He may have mentioned something about it when I ran into him the other day. Says you won't list it."

"Of course not! It's the Garvey homestead!"

"What have I always told you? There's no room for sentimentality in real estate."

"I'm not being sentimental." …Much. "I just think he's making a mistake."

Finally my dad looks at me over his monitor. "Do what the client says. Ignore your history with him."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Touchy. It means you two pretty much grew up together, so you have…feelings."

"Dad!"

"What? I meant you have feelings for the house. Conn too, eh?"

"Okay, I think we're done here."

"You were the one who brought it up."

"And I deeply regret it."

While I wait for Hannah, I work on my dad's campaign schedule. It's not too hard: I check his agenda from two years ago and update it with the new dates and times for the same old functions—the Memorial Day parade, the Fourth of July parade, the Labor Day parade. In between we've got the town carnival, the arts and crafts festival, the Symphony on the Pier, the town-wide flea market, and the Up All Night festival where all the businesses in the historic district stay open, well, all night. With the summer portion of the schedule filled, I relax. It'll tide Dad over for a while.

When Hannah arrives, I introduce her to Laura, expecting afraid-of-her-shadow Bates to barely make a peep, but within minutes they're gabbing away like old friends who haven't seen one another in a year. I don't think Laura said that much to me in the first six months of her employment with Abbott Realty. I have to admit there is something about Hannah that makes you want to open up. She even snookered me, and here I am, her new best friend.

After a while I break up their bonding session and have Hannah sign the lease so we can move her in. She only has some essentials—pretty much whatever would fit in her car—so it doesn't take long to unload her stuff at her new house. Abbott Realty has a storage space full of staging items we use to make a vacant house more appealing. We could spare a sofa and a couple of tables—and certainly a bed—for a few months, so I've arranged to have them delivered. Some suitcases and a few boxes later we're done, with enough time left over to put Hannah's clothes away in the wardrobe. Yep, all beige. Shopping will definitely be on the agenda soon.

First I take Hannah on a walking tour of Abbott's Bay, pointing out the landmarks, best places to eat, and best places to shop. Hannah stops at a lot of gallery windows—we're heavy on the arts and crafts around here—to admire the work on display.

"Do you create or just appreciate?" I ask her, seeing a particular light in her eye that denotes more than a passing interest in the visual arts.

"Oh, I don't know," she says shyly. "I've taken some classes, and my teachers have said I have talent. I was thinking maybe I could work on my painting this summer."

"So I was right? You are going to hunker down and lick your wounds, and you need something to focus on, so you don't spend all your time sleeping and eating ice cream by the pint?"

"Is that what I'm supposed to do to get over Marty?" she asks with a laugh. "Become a cliché?"

"I heartily discourage clichés of any kind."

"I'll skip the ice cream binges, then."

"Good choice."

"Wait. Does that mean MooMoo's is out?"

"MooMoo's is never out," I assure her.

On the way to the ice cream stand on the pier, I point out the marina and the glut of houses clustered around the bay to the south, then the landmark lighthouse to the north. In between, on a shallow crescent of beach, lie the most majestic houses in town (and, admittedly, some old crapholes like Conn's), several of which Hannah rejected in favor of an old, narrow townhome built in 1830. Go figure.

Hannah's certainly a puzzle, but as we walk back up toward town, giant ice creams in hand, I sneak a peek at my new friend and note that for the first time since I've met her, she seems genuinely happy—or at least at ease. There's still a bit of sadness in her eyes, but when she's out in the sun, catching drips down the side of her cone, a bit of gravitas works to her advantage. I decide then and there that I enjoyed being roped into being her friend.

Okay, I walked into it willingly. I admit it.

 

*   *   *

 

"I am never going to remember all that."

Hannah and I collapse into the wingback chairs at Deep Brew C late in the afternoon, too walked-out and shopped-out to even stop at the counter for a drinks order.

"It's easy," I answer, slipping off my shoes and wiggling my toes. "Always be nice to Pauline so you'll have a better chance of getting out of a parking ticket later. And never call her a meter maid. The Little Brown Jug is the best package store in the area. Tell Natasha I sent you, and she'll hook you up with some great wine. Only shop at Henry's Grocery for essentials. Filling your fridge there will require a bank loan. Make the trip to a supermarket outside of town instead. I hear we might be getting a Wegmans soon, but don't mention it to Henry or you'll make him cry. It's his worst nightmare. No, seriously—he actually dreams that a Wegmans comes to town and he's forced to close up shop because they have a better cheese selection than he does. Oh—and speaking of large chains, never, ever mention the double-D in this place."

"How dare you."

I knew even a shorthand reference to Dunkin' Donuts would bring Conn around. I beam up at him from my unladylike slouch and flutter my eyelashes. "Sorry, darling."

Before he can read me the riot act, Hannah says in a winsome voice, "Melanie was giving me a list of dos and don'ts for living in Abbott's Bay. Dunkin' Donuts was on the 'don't' list."

Conn's expression clears. "So you're living here now?"

Hannah tells him about her new residence and what we've been up to all day, and he responds enthusiastically. Now that the bear has been sedated, I reach out and touch his wrist.

"Conn, honey, would you be a doll and bring us some coffee? We've been on our feet all day, and we're pooped."

"Really? You're that helpless?" He knows he doesn't have to turn on the charm with me. He's also not falling for my Southern belle impersonation. He doesn't say no, however.

"Please?"

"Good grief."

"Love you!" I call after him sweetly. I turn back to Hannah, only to find her studying me closely.

"Are you sure you two—?"

"Completely."

"Not even—?"

"Not even anything. Not a past relationship, not a one-night stand, not an unrequited thingamabob. Nada."

My protests fall on deaf ears, as Hannah's attention is focused on the beautiful ballet Conn performs behind the bar when he's making up drinks. I don't blame her. Stronger women than Hannah have succumbed to the Power of the Conn. I've seen fiercely independent females swoon at the mere sight of his muscular forearms. But if she's still moping about that Marty guy, she doesn't need to complicate matters with a crush.

I drag her attention back by snapping my fingers at her. "Hey now, woman."

"What?"

"Not for you, do you hear me?"

"He's gay, isn't he? The perfect ones always are."

"No, he's not gay. He's broken."

"I am not broken!" Conn bellows from across the room. "Stop telling people that!"

I swear he's part bat. The things that man can hear from an alarming distance…it's not natural.

"Mind your own business, Garvey."

He stalks over carrying two cappuccinos. In his hands the enormous mugs look like teacups. He places them on the table between our chairs and grumbles, "How is this not my business when you're gossiping about my private life?"

"I wasn't going to tell her anything everyone doesn't already know," I murmur, picking up my mug and taking a sip.

"You know, not everybody needs to know my personal…"

"Heartbreak?"

"Quit it," he growls.

"Fine." I sigh, rolling my eyes. When his back is turned, I mouth silently to Hannah, Later.

"Okay then," Hannah ventures when we're alone once more, "if not Conn, is there some other special someone?"

I raise one eyebrow at her, but I can't maintain the illusion of mystery for long. I answer honestly, "Nope. Nobody."

"Huh." She props one elbow on each armrest, holding her mug under her chin. "That's really surprising."

"Why?"

"You've got everything else in your life. Why not a guy? Or…girl?"

"Your inclusiveness is admirable, but I'm not gay either. Dad's got that covered."

"Wow. Do you have two dads, like Heather's two mommies?"

I know which kids' book she's talking about, but that wasn't my childhood experience. "No. Just one. Mom's not in the picture anymore."

I don't want to get into the drama of my thirteenth year, which was filled with declarations and turmoil and confrontations and tears…and all those were from me. Just kidding. I was a typical freshly minted teenager, at my most self-involved that year, but the drama was coming from all three of us in the house. Once the dust settled, there was me (sad and stunned) and Dad (also sad but relieved) and a big vacant space where Mom had been.

Hannah's waiting quietly for more information, so I give her the executive summary. "Dad's happy. He now has Jerome, an art dealer. Very nice guy. Travels a lot, but he brings great souvenirs when he comes back. Well, they're having a little bit of a rough patch, but I'm sure they'll get through it. Mom's in the Berkshires, working as a stage manager for a theater company. She's happy too."

"What about you?"

"I," I declare with finality, "am fabulous. Simply too busy for a man in my life right now." I decide to turn this into a teaching moment. "Hannah, you're making the mistake of assuming 'having everything' has to include a 'special someone.' When you have a full life, you don't have time to go sniffing around for a guy, trying to shoehorn in someone just because it's expected. That's what this summer should be all about for you." I lean forward, warming to my subject. "Go ahead and wallow and reassess for a while, but by the end of the season, I want to see you independent with a full life all on your own. I want you to be able to stand tall and tell the world you don't need a man—not Marty or anybody else. It's not necessary. I mean, look at me! I don't have a man, and I'm fine."

Hannah is less enthusiastic about all this. "Well, sure, but…"

"But nothing! Be independent!" She gets that timid, skittish look, so I dial it back. "But what?"

"Don't you kind of want a special someone?"

"Listen to me." I shift in my seat and put on my game face. "You said you admired me. Did you mean that?"

"Yes."

"Then try it my way for a while. Take a break from men. Live your life for you and you alone. Can you do that?"

"I guess."

"A little stronger there, Clement."

"Yes!" she yips. "I can."

"And you will?"

"I…I'll try."

It's a start.