Whole Latte Life (11 page)

He switches off the lamp and lies in bed, listening to the rain drum against the dormered window. It comes steady now.

They had a piano when she was growing up. It sat there for the longest time, unused, until she finally started taking piano lessons. It was in the den, set beneath a window where the sun fell on it, and she liked sitting there, tinkering with the keys. But then her parents added the addition on to the house for her father’s veterinary practice, using the den space, and that was that. Somewhere along the line, the piano was sold to make room for the animals. So what happened to that part of her? To the part that journeyed through music.

“Ready to order? Care for a coffee, miss?”

“Oh. Yes. How late are you open?”

“The Skylight Diner’s opened round the clock, hon.”

Rain streaks the diner window, warping the city lights. “You mean I can sit here all night if I want to?”

“So long as you’re a paying customer.” The waitress sets down the pot of coffee. “But don’t you have somewhere to go? Keeping a handsome fella waiting out there?”

She smiles politely and shakes her head. Her hand reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear, it’s such a habit, the way she tips her head with a smile and does that. Having worn it long forever, she is surprised again. There is nothing to tuck. Busy, confident New York hands snipped and layered and brushed her hair back off her face. She didn’t know where else to turn when she left Rachel yesterday. It seemed so natural to change your appearance after you run away. Except the hair spray’s fading now and her hair falls in unkempt, short layers. She pulls her hand back down and holds it in the other. “Could I have a slice of pie please? Apple pie? A scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side?”

She doesn’t even know where this Skylight Diner is, paying more attention to restoring her self than to street signs since she left the wedding reception at the hotel. The grand piano playing a beautiful love song got her attention. It was easy to slip in and steal a back seat while the bride and groom danced in the solo spotlight. The piano made her think of who she lost all those years ago when her piano lessons stopped. Then she wondered if the bride would ever cry. Would she miss who she put away today?

Forty feels like a chameleon in this big city where she can easily change the skin of mother, wife, sister. Volunteer, carpool driver, PTA President. Where she might find herself different through the eyes of unfamiliar people.

And so where did she end up today, after a little shopping, distractedly picking up a white knit beret, gold skinny scarf and wide leg trousers? It didn’t register at the time that it was the perfect outfit to board a jet to Paris. To Claude, after all these years. So was her subconscious trying to tell her something? Maybe she only needed the same
je ne sais quoi
as in that outfit.

Even her destination paralleled Paris…East 60
^th
, antique alley, in an exquisite French antique shop. It was as close as she could get to Claude, to a time before all this sad loss, when there was nothing but love and freedom. Her palms ran along old chair arms polished smooth by long ago grasps of hands. She studied the patina of wooden pieces. Subtle variations in color signify a sundry of uses. Did a chest sit near a sunny window or in a dusty attic? Were the people around it happy? Was Claude happy?

Her mother used to say while restoring their farmhouse that restoring is all about finding the original story. About getting to the heart of the structure. You have to see it, the heart, she’d said as she stripped woodwork and took down walls. Today Sara’s fingers traced desk tops stained with ink. Who wrote there? She bought herself an old leather-embossed journal and wondered if the letters were passionate.

But how do you hold on to passion? She’d left one behind in France a lifetime ago.

She looks down the length of the diner counter, wondering what’s keeping her pie, then pulls the antique journal from her handbag. Everything happens for a reason, and here’s the reason for the leather journal. It’ll be all about restoring, about refurbishing her own structure and taking down personal walls. She opens it to the first page. This’ll be her guide to restoration, the place she can turn to for consultations with the expert.

Dear Mom,

Maybe this will help, a journal with you as my guide. I’m not sure, but it feels worth a try. You loved restoring that old farmhouse, and really? That’s what I feel like I have to do. Restore me! Somehow, maybe this will help me get inside your thoughts.

It feels good just writing it, using her mother’s words about restoration. It all ties in to her antiques, and connecting to people, restoring beautiful furniture for others’ homes, restoring a happiness she’d lost recently and couldn’t find. Maybe a journal can help define her role in life now.

But one role is friend, and she left her best one stranded at lunch. Sara Beth nudges the creamer alongside the sugar dispenser, sets her journal to the side. She’ll let Rach know she’s all right, so she won’t worry. She pulls out her cell to send a text. Talking won’t work; too much would have to be said, back and forth. But a reassuring message would be the right thing to do. She enters Rachel’s cell phone number and types in:

“Here you go,” the waitress says. She sets the pie down on the counter right as Sara Beth’s about to Send. “More coffee too?”

“Hm?”

“Coffee hon?”

“Oh, coffee.” She looks up from her phone, distracted with the question. “Yes. Please.”

She slips the phone back into her purse. That’s better.
The message, wait, did she hit Send?
But then her food catches her eye. The vanilla ice cream is drizzled with warm peach sauce. Mom’s favorite. According to her, it’s the only way to eat vanilla ice cream. She spins around in her seat, looking. The vibes are so strong, like her mother’s right there. Did she sense the journal message? Oh wouldn’t she love to tell her these funny coincidences. Dial her up, hear the phone ring, the voice, “Hello? Sara!” And settle in for a chat, their two voices all that matter, the inflections, the assurances.

But there’s that breathing thing again, her lungs just won’t fill, so she counts in her mind, slowly, to ten. She has to do this now, get her life back under her control. Alone, with an antique black leather journal.

So I think I’m going to. Wait, scratch that. I am going to begin by restoring an old passion. Another one that I lost a long time ago. When I get back home, I’m going to start piano lessons.

Chapter Eight

M
aybe Holly Golightly has the answer. Rachel planned on giving Sara Beth the
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
DVD for a birthday gift. They practically had the movie memorized, including Holly’s thoughts about those dreaded mean reds leaving her so afraid. Last night she lifted off the pale blue wrapping paper she’d specially found, peeled off the large white bow like on a Tiffany package and watched the movie way too late into the night, pausing and repeating certain scenes over and over again.

When Holly had the mean reds, she headed to Tiffany’s to calm down, finding a certain peace from the essence of the grand store. So what about Sara Beth? Where would she go in this city to calm down?

Maybe Sara Beth has the mean reds too, when you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Because she never said anything, never told Rachel
Oh my gosh. I’m so afraid. What if? or Do you think?
It could be the mean reds, then. It is enough of a possibility to get Rachel up at the crack of dawn, donning her dark sunglasses like they had planned and hiking over to 727 Fifth Avenue. She even buys a croissant and coffee along the way and stops in front of the jewelry store. Her eyes look up at the name, Tiffany & Co., before she walks to a window and pulls the pastry from a bag. But darn it! Sara Beth is supposed to be here. They were going to walk Holly’s footsteps, looking in at the chandeliers together while drinking hot coffee. If Sara Beth has the mean reds, she knows this is the place to be. It’ll calm her down.

Rachel looks down the street. It really is peaceful this early. Okay. So maybe she’s here for herself. Maybe she needs to believe Holly Golightly to keep hope alive for Sara Beth. Really, there’s nowhere else to find it. Hope. Nowhere but here.

“Shit!” Michael says, dropping a spoon when Summer slams her bedroom door upstairs. “I told you not to slam doors,” he tells her when she walks into the kitchen. Funny how she’s grown into her name, tall and willowy as August’s marsh grasses, her long flyaway hair the color of the sand on Anchor Beach. But what he notices is how she doesn’t look him in the eye.

“Did you hear me?” he asks.

“Yes. And good morning to you too.” She slides into a chair and waits at the table.

“Did your mother drive you here last night?”

“No.”

“You took the bus? Jesus, it’s dangerous at night. Anything could happen. And you should’ve called. If I knew, I’d have some decent breakfast food. The kitchen’s empty.”

She scoops her hair back off her face and tightens her robe. “I’ll just have coffee.”

“Since when do you drink coffee?” He sets a plate in front of her. “We’ll split the last muffin. How’s that?”

“Fine.”

He pours himself a mug of black coffee, then evenly spreads butter on the blueberry muffin before warming it in the microwave. “Have some orange juice.” He sits down with his hot coffee and the muffin neatly sliced in half.

Summer takes a glass from the cupboard and shakes the orange juice carton vigorously before pouring a glass. She reaches for a second glass and fills it for him.

“So are you going to tell me why you came here in the middle of the night, or do I call your mother?”

“Well how come you weren’t home?”

“This isn’t about me, it’s about you, darling. Start talking.”

“You don’t know?” Summer asks between bites of the buttery muffin.

“Know what?”

She takes a quick indignant breath, the kind meant to sway him to her side. “Know that Mom and that jerk she married are making me move to Long Island this summer? So they can live closer to his stinking flooring business? And now I’m going to have to change schools and leave my friends and you and Queens and go live there?” She picks up her muffin piece and sets it back down.