CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Hannah, my new best friend, is a darling, and I love being her mentor as well as her friend. She acts like a sponge, taking in everything I say, which is flattering and a little disconcerting at the same time.

I got my mitts on her wardrobe and finally broke up all the beige with colorful tops and shorts and dresses from the town's trendy boutiques. She even was willing to buy scarves and try a bright peachy-pink straw hat I picked out for her, which looks fabulous with her skin tone. We also revamped her makeup—well, added makeup, as she tended not to wear any at all. More defined eyebrows and some mascara is making all the difference in the world.

I'm sure she's going to turn plenty of heads, but she's obviously still not over Marty. I keep telling her to forget him and not let him keep her on a leash with his periodic calls "just to say hi and see how she's doing." When I lecture her about her ex, Hannah gets kind of quiet, and I can tell she'd rather not be having the conversation. Fine—she doesn't have to agree yet, but she'll see I was right soon enough.

Conn is the first individual with a Y chromosome who goes out of his way to compliment Hannah, which is perfect. She needs acknowledgment that the changes she's making are noticeable and positive, and Conn is the master of being friendly and flirty without tipping into creeper territory. A few days after Hannah has perfected her new look, Conn does an exaggerated double take and looks her up and down.

"Wow, Ms. Clement, I almost didn't recognize you there. You look great!"

Hannah blushes to the roots of her hair but manages to reply pretty smoothly, "It's all thanks to Melanie!"

"You don't say."

When Conn glances over at me, I wave a self-deprecating hand, but I don't deny it. Project Hannah has been sort of time consuming, but it's been rewarding in the long run.

"Going into the personal stylist business on the side, M?"

He doesn't sound too impressed.

"Just helping out a friend," I say with a tight smile.

"Right."

With that one skeptical utterance, he's planted a tiny, niggling seed of doubt, making me wonder if I'm really not that generous. Conn has that effect on me—like he can reach down to the bottom of my soul, find unpleasant traits I turn a blind eye to, pluck them out, and hold them up to the light with a triumphant look on his handsome face. Which I now want to punch. I help plenty of people. I'm known for donating to charities and doing fun runs and organizing…well, all sorts of things. How is this any different?

I'll ignore it. Prove I'm the bigger person. I won't poke the bear. I won't. Must…not…poke…oh, forget it.

"Is there a problem?" I challenge him. "Do you think I wouldn't help Hannah?"

"No, no," he protests, hands up in surrender. "Of course you would." Hannah excuses herself to go to the restroom, and as she walks away, he leans down and whispers, "The thing is, I can't help wondering…what's in it for you?"

"Nothing!" I exclaim, drawing back from his warm breath on my ear. "She's my friend. Friends help friends. That's all."

He studies me a moment then mutters, "Okay," before walking away.

When Hannah returns, I drain the last of my coffee and stand up. "Come on," I say, shouldering my purse. Conn is still watching me from across the room as he works, and I'm suddenly ready to go somewhere else—anywhere else, as long as it's away from Connacht Garvey's judgmental eyes. "Let's get your painting supplies."

On the way out I swing closer to the counter, where he's restocking to-go cups, while Hannah goes on ahead. I can't let him have the last word.

"Just what is your problem, exactly?"

"I have no 'problem,'" he answers smoothly. "I do, however, wonder why you're trying to turn Hannah into your Mini-Me. Mini-Mel."

There's no point in his trying to be funny. He's infuriated me too much. In the back of my mind, I know I'm overreacting, but I also know why. Today is not the day to provoke me. It's the worst of the 365 options, to be honest.

"I am not—!"

He braces the heels of his hands on the edge of the bar. "Oh, so it's a coincidence you've been telling her how to act, what to think, and what to wear? I see the difference."

"I'm trying to impart a little class, a little style on the poor girl. And for your information, nimrod, any changes we've been making have been good. Haven't you noticed she's stopped crying at the drop of a hat?"

"You're taking credit for that? Impressive. What I want to know is why she's suddenly adopted your style. Hell, the pair of pants she's wearing—"

"Capris," I correct him.

"Whatever. They look exactly like a pair you own, if I'm not mistaken."

"Okay, first of all," I splutter, "you know specific pieces in my wardrobe?" He doesn't answer, so I continue brusquely, "And they are absolutely not the same. I tailor my recommendations to what would work for Hannah. She could never pull off my look. She's from Dayton, Ohio, for God's sake."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing," I backpedal, realizing I'm sounding like the world's biggest jerk. "I'm sure it's a lovely place. Look…you stick to coffee and leave fashion to me."

"And you," he says, eyeing me significantly, "don't mess with that sweet girl. She's fine the way she is."

"I'm not messing with her. She asked me for help, and I'm giving it to her. What's the harm in that? And another thing: where do you get off asking if there's something in it for me? I help plenty of people without expecting anything in return."

"Yeah, but I've never known you to go so far as to hang out with the peasants."

"How dare you?" My voice is low and heated, fueled by the sudden red-hot lump of rage in my belly. "I am not a snob. I'm friendly with all sorts of people. I even joined the library's old fossil book club, for God's sake!"

"So everyone could bask in your astute interpretations and inspired readings of the latest accessible commercial literature…and admire you even more."

"You suck."

"I'm just observing," he says mildly.

"You're judging. And assuming. Like you always do."

"There's precedence, so I'm pretty sure my opinion is valid."

"You've got nothing."

"Oh? Remember, I was around when you and Taylor were waging your reign of terror around here."

My mouth falls open in what I'm sure is an unflattering manner. "What 'reign of terror'? There was no—"

"Okay."

"And stop using one-word sentences to shut down a conversation!"

Conn starts to respond when Hannah pokes her head back into the coffeehouse. "Melanie? Are you coming? I got two blocks away before I realized I was talking to myself!"

"Sorry, honey," I say as cheerfully as possible then cut Conn a scathing look. "We're going to buy Hannah some art supplies, if it's all right with you. She needs to do something creative to achieve some peace of mind."

"Is it her idea or yours?"

"Why do you think I always push people into things?"

Conn raises one eyebrow and lets me fill in the blanks. God, he's irritating.

"Don't spend too much of her money."

"She's got plenty," I hiss.

"Not as much as you think. Not as much as you. Be careful."

"Didn't we already talk about how you have to start minding your own business and not be judgy?"

"Melanie—"

"Nope." I hold up my hand. "I think you've done enough talking for one day. Stop now, because you're really pissing me off."

When I meet Hannah on the sidewalk, I'm still livid. I'm not out to ruin her or turn her into a "Mini-Mel." Where does Conn come up with this stuff? I'm trying to help her get over a rough patch in her life. I'm sensitive to how it feels to lose a mother. Okay, not to death, but at least when she's removed from your life. I'll do whatever it takes to help her.

"Melanie! Slow down!"

I'm stomping across a side street, my fury at Conn propelling me, and poor Hannah is tottering along behind me, her new wedges not playing nice with the cobbles.

"What's happened? You're upset. Did I say something—?"

"What? No! God, no!" When she catches up to me, I give her a little side-hug as we continue toward the art store. "I'm fine."

"You and Conn were arguing, weren't you?"

"Don't worry about it," I answer breezily. "Happens all the time. He'll get over himself someday."

"But—"

"No, really. I have survived Hurricane Conn many times, honey. This is a mere squall."

Speaking of squalls, I don't know what's gotten into the weather today. It started out promisingly enough, even warm for late May, but by the time we buy Hannah paints and brushes and pads of paper and all the other stuff she needs, clouds have rolled in. Because she and I are relentlessly optimistic, we go to the beach anyway, and she sets up her new easel, cheerfully noting the suddenly blustery weather will make dramatic waves and interesting light.

I settle on a rock nearby and pull out my phone to check my work email. As the wind picks up even more, Hannah stands at her easel defiantly, like a captain at the prow of her ship in a storm. She's really going to make a go of this, I think, while psychically sending a raspberry to Conn. She's trying out her pastels, defining the horizon on her canvas. She looks darn good behind that easel.

And then the easel blows away.

Hannah chases the runaway frame as it tumbles down the beach, and I tackle the rest of her supplies before they make a break for it as well. So it's a bad day for painting a landscape. Big deal. It's a false start, a little bit of bad luck. She can try again tomorrow. Am I mentally arguing with Conn, who I'm now picturing smirking at me with an I-told-you-so look? I certainly hope not. He's not worth it.

We collect all her things just in time. Fat droplets of rain start to fall, punctuated by some unseasonal flashes of lighting. It'll take too long to get back to my house or hers without getting soaked, so I lead her on a new route diagonally across the beach, slogging through the soft sand that's quickly getting saturated with rain.

"Where are we going?" Hannah calls from behind me. "Shouldn't we get away from the water? It's dangerous to be on a beach during a thunderstorm, isn't it?"

It is indeed, but we're almost there. I lead her up some steep wooden steps to a house's wraparound deck. At the side door I tip over an ugly ceramic statue of a frog clutching a flower pot, grope for the hidden key up the amphibian's butt, and unlock the door.

"Oh, this is nice," Hannah exclaims as she drops her easel and tote bag on the kitchen floor.

"You don't have to be polite. It's not mine."

"But I like it! It's homey."

"Homey, homely. Potato, bit of roadkill."

"You don't like it," she says, swiping wet tendrils of hair off her face.

Shrugging, I make my way down the hall to the linen closet and pull out two big beach towels. "It's all right. Could be nicer." I meet Hannah in the living room and toss her one of the towels.

"It 'has potential.' Isn't that what you real estate folks say?"

"There's plenty of potential, absolutely," I agree from under my towel as I try to dry my hair a bit. I pull it down onto my shoulders and look around. "Gut the place to the studs and start over, and you could have something."

"Don't tell me this is a client's house you're selling."

"No. I don't walk right into any of those. I knock first. Usually," I add with a wink.

While Hannah peers out the living room picture window at the storm, I raid the kitchen. The rain is impressive, and I'm not inclined to go anywhere until it passes.

"Snack?" I exit the avocado-countertop, harvest-gold-appliance, walnut-cabinet kitchen of my darkest nightmares carrying a package of Oreos and a bottle of vodka fresh from Conn's freezer.

She's scandalized. "Melanie! It's not even lunchtime!"

"Fine," I groan, putting the vodka on the coffee table and going back into the kitchen for some orange juice and two glasses. "We'll pretend they're mimosas and call the Oreos brunch. Conn will never miss them."

"This is Conn's house?" Hannah frowns as she watches me mix some very pale screwdrivers. I fear she's going to express her disapproval about semi-breaking and entering the Garvey manse, but instead she says, "I don't think Oreos go with orange juice."

"Take it or leave it. I'd suggest keeping the Oreos and drinking the vodka straight, but noooo. You have to mask our sins with orange juice."

Finally she smiles and relaxes. "I'll take my chances." It only takes one bite of an Oreo followed by a sip of screwdriver for her to make a face and give up her cookie. She keeps her drink, however, and stares out the window again. "Wow, look at the sky. I should paint that."

"Or you could finish your drink."

"You corrupt me."

"Good. You could do with some corruption."

Hannah settles into Conn's favorite recliner while I stretch out on the couch. The minute the springs creak in the old chair, a giant gray puffball lands in Hannah's lap.

"Oh! Kitty!" she coos, setting her glass down and going full-on petting machine which, of course, Harvey loves. "She's so fluffy!"

"She's a he. Meet Harvey Garvey."

"Are you named Harvey Garvey?" she asks the cat in a goofy voice, her newly manicured nails the perfect instruments to tickle his cheeks, which he loves. "Are you? You're so handsome. Yes, you are." Harvey immediately starts purring and leaning in to get more of those good pettings. "So," she ventures, once she's bonded with Harvey, "you feel perfectly comfortable letting yourself into Conn's house and drinking his booze, huh? Does this happen often?"

"Pretty much. This is where Conn grew up, and I've been coming here ever since I was little. Our parents were friends."

"You two were friends as kids? That's so cute."

"Not exactly. When we were young, our five-year age gap felt more like a twenty-year chasm. Now we're friends, of course. But back then? It was more like we grew up in the general vicinity of one another."

"What was Conn like as a kid?"

The eager look on her face makes me laugh. "Exactly like he is now, with less facial hair. Too cool for his own good."

"Was he cute?" Hannah leans forward, elbows on her knees, and Harvey, realizing he's lost the new human's attention, jumps down and marches off. Faint crunching sounds come from the kitchen as he has his own midmorning snack.

"See for yourself."

I wave my glass at the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Hannah jumps up, taking her drink with her. I don't follow her. I know what's on those walls—Conn Garvey's Life in Photos. Her giggle means she's discovered his third-grade picture, when he had more gaps than teeth and a ridiculous bowl-shaped haircut. Then she oohs, and I know she's gotten to his football photo. A squeal means she's reached his prom picture with Autumn Rufino, the little tramp. He was too good for her.

"Hey, Melanie?"

"Yep?"

"Why is this space empty?"

"Ah."

I pour myself another drink, and she comes back into the living room, ready for another as well.

Refilling her empty glass, I observe sagely, "You found the Picture Hook of Doom."

"The what?" She laughs as she takes a slug of her fresh drink, wincing at the strength.

I widen my eyes and do my best horror-movie-narrator voice. "Where the wedding photo used to hang. It is no more."

"He was married?" she squeaks.

"Was is definitely the operative word."

"Ohhh," she breathes. "So that's it. What you promised to tell me."

"The saga of What Broke Conn? I suppose you're ready."

The story of Conn's early adult life is simple and complicated at the same time. I make an effort to keep it simple for Hannah, only hitting the highlights: he went off to Harvard for his undergraduate degree and came back with a diploma (simple), an eye for a business career (also simple), and a fiancée. Sasha. Guess what part's complicated.

Hannah's hooked, of course. "Ooh, what was she like?"

I take another large swallow of my drink and study the ugly acoustic-tile drop ceiling. "She was…perfect."

"Looks, or personality, or spirit, or what?"

"All of the above."

"Was she nice?"

Aw, trust Hannah to ask the important question. I try to explain how Sasha was grace personified—impeccable manners, a generous personality—but terrifying. She intimidated the hell out of teenage me. Despite my years of etiquette and comportment classes, I felt like a drunk moose around her. She was a whole different level of aristocracy. Plus she was ridiculously beautiful.

"She was like…this movie star or something. She didn't seem real. All blonde and flawless skin and white teeth and perfect."

"You're blonde with flawless skin and white teeth and perfect."

"No, I'm not," I protest, wondering vaguely if my words are starting to slur. Nah. I finish my second drink and reach for the vodka bottle again, skipping the orange juice this time. It gives me canker sores anyway.

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?" Okay, Hannah's words are definitely slurring. I pour her another drink anyway.

"While my hair may be some shade of yellow, it's not enough to make me comparable to Sasha Carlisle. I mean, this girl was tall and willowy and unreal…Grace Kelly. Like that."

"You're—"

"Don't even. I'm solid." There's no denying it. Nobody is ever going to mistake me for a supermodel. Not with my below-average height, not to mention my thighs, souvenirs from my high school and college track team days. Which, by the way, I know better than to try to whittle down to the circumference of my neck, no matter what the latest fashion trend. "Anyway, nobody could compete with Sasha. She always…blew everyone away."

"Including Conn."

"Including Conn. For a while, anyway."

Conn and Sasha only stayed in Abbott's Bay for a short time before going off to spend a year abroad. The naysayers tutted that too much togetherness in foreign places would kill their relationship, but they came back as solid as ever and ready to get married.

After Conn completed his MBA, they set a date for the wedding. Then he and Sasha dropped the biggest bombshell, at least in the eyes of Abbott's Bay residents: they were moving to Seattle after the wedding. Our neighbors couldn't imagine wanting to live anywhere else but Abbott's Bay. But this was Conn and Sasha, so they just nodded, talked about the job market and opportunities in the Pacific Northwest, and didn't question. When Conn and Sasha left, we all waved our hankies, dabbed away proud tears, and said nothing but good things about them after they were gone.

The marriage lasted about six years. When it was over, Conn moved back to Abbott's Bay, disillusioned and bitter. That was his dark period, but after a while, he rose from his own ashes, dusted himself off, and opened the restaurant. I'm really happy for him. Not that he isn't still a little bitter—okay, a lot bitter—about his failed marriage, but it's obvious he's a survivor.

"Huh," is all Hannah says then falls silent, staring off into the distance as the rain hammers the roof and the deck. After a moment she states definitively, "Sorry, I need visuals."

"What?"

"I'm a visual person, so I want to see Sasha."

"You want to go to Zimbabwe? Because I heard that's where she is now. Doctors Without Borders."

"She's a doctor? Doing third-world charity work? Jesus."

"Told you. Perfect."

"Social media?"

"She doesn't believe in it."

"She is perfect," Hannah breathes. She thinks a moment then declares, "Picture Hook of Doom."

"What about it?"

"Their wedding picture—what did Conn do with it?"

I shrug. "No idea. When Broken Conn moved back in, down came the photo. His parents argued with him because they loved it so much—and they loved Sasha, no matter what happened between her and Conn—but he insisted. He might have had his dad toss it off the deck while he tried his hand at skeet shooting with his old BB gun. Who knows?"

"Conn didn't skeet shoot his wedding picture. He's too nice."

"He's not that nice," I snort into my glass.

"I still think it's around here somewhere. Let's find it."

"You mean go through his stuff?" I'm not necessarily against this. I'm just surprised Hannah is suggesting it.

She's already on her feet, looking around the room, wondering where to start. She also might be hesitating a bit, because helping ourselves to Conn's Oreos is one thing; poking through his stuff is quite another. Looks like I'll have to get the ball rolling.

"You look in the piano bench. I'll take the sideboard."

As Hannah lifts the lid of the seat and sifts through tattered sheet music, she calls, "Does Conn have a girlfriend now?"

"Nope. I told you—he's broken."

"He said he's not."

"He's a guy. What do they know about their own feelings?"

I root through the top drawer of the sideboard and come up with vintage tat: a wall hanging (a macramé owl clutching a real twig in its yarn claws), a bunch of dish towels, and some dusty, abandoned glass ashtrays because hardly anybody smokes anymore, but you can't just throw them away, right? But no wedding photo. I pull open another drawer and shift the neatly folded tablecloths. No photo there. Hannah doesn't have any luck either.

Where else would he hide a framed photo? Kitchen? Doubtful. Well, depending on Conn's mood, maybe the broiler…nah. Not even he would do that. Which only leaves…

We look down the hall toward the shadowy bedrooms then look at each other.

"We can't go through Conn's drawers," Hannah whispers.

"Why not? Plenty of women have tried."

She giggles. "But it sounds like none have succeeded."

"Not since Sasha. Broken, I tell you. Even if the man denies it."

"Do we dare?"

"Hannah, if we do not dare, we have not lived."