Whole Latte Life (40 page)

“Forty-four.”

“Ain’t no spring chicken. So what are you waiting for? You got to propose, right away.”

“Whoa. It’s only been a couple of months.”

“Think things’ll change in the next few?” He bends Maggie’s leg and sets the cooled shoe in place.

“Damn straight. Weekend commutes, long distance phone calls. Email.”

“Ain’t nothing like having that warm body close by.” Coach, bent over, pounds a four-inch nail through the shoe holes into Maggie’s hoof. She doesn’t even flinch. “It’s good you got yourself a lady after all you been through. You’re doing all right. So you got to propose, that’s all there is to it.”

“But her life’s in Connecticut. She’s tight with her daughter. Her friends. Her home’s there. I don’t know if she’d leave and I don’t know if she’d have me.”

Coach glances up at him. “Make it special, guy. Treat her right, so she wants to stick around here.”

Around here? It makes him think of Rachel’s rush to get home recently. She spends a few days at the cottage, enjoying the beach, gardening and sketching while Michael works. One day rolls into the next, overlapping into sweet evenings when he goes there after work. They sleep beneath a cottage window open to the sky above the sea.

Then, just as suddenly, she leaves. There is mail to be checked, or yardwork to do, or a dentist appointment. Maybe driving back and forth gets too tiring. He doesn’t think it’s because she finally met Summer this past Sunday. With a vase of silk flowers between them at Max’s, she reached out to his daughter, thanks to a lost baseball wager.

Maybe the summer is too much about him and not enough her. Rachel misses Sara Beth and Ashley. She lost strong connections this year.

“We’ve only got a few weeks,” Michael tells him. “And one of those weeks, Rachel won’t be here. It’s mine and Summer’s week. Our vacation.”

The blacksmith picks up Maggie’s other hind leg and pulls off the shoe with a pair of pliers. “You take care of that daughter of yours. She almost lost you and needs to know you’re here for her. I’m sure your Rachel understands?”

“She’s a good person. Loyal too. If you could’ve seen what she did for her friend a few months back. It’s pretty admirable.”

Coach files the bottom of the hoof. “Good woman’s hard to come by. Been with my old lady thirty years now. Sweetest damn years of my life.” He places a hot shoe on Maggie’s hoof. The fit needs adjusting. “You of all people, being shot and all, don’t you want that?”

“Course I do.”

“Propose on the beach or some crazy thing. Make it special for the two of you.” He pounds the shoe on the anvil. Maggie turns back, watching over her shoulder. “She’ll come around.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Michael pats down his pockets, as though looking for his keys. “I’ll be back for Maggie in a while. You okay here?”

“Oh sure. Maggie’s good company. Go call your lady.” He sets the refitted shoe back on the hoof, holding up her foot and pounding in a nail. “Rachel ought to be arrested for larceny,” he calls after Michael. Michael doesn’t know if he means for him to hear or not, but he does, even though his voice drops for the next part. “Snuck right up and stole your tough old heart but good.”

“Summer,” Rachel says. “When I think of what you did, it scares me.” They walk along the water’s edge, Rachel’s camera hanging around her neck. “Hitchhiking! You could’ve been hurt!”

Summer shuffles her bare feet in the sand, stealing a glance at Rachel. “I couldn’t take it there anymore,” she says. “The kids on my new street are so weird. Like I mean, first they started mixing rum in their coke. Now guess what they’re drinking?”

Rachel crouches down for a low shot of a beached rowboat. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“It’s gross. They sneak their parents’ vodka and fill up their water bottles with it.”

The rowboat is nestled in a bed of sea grass. “Sounds like they’re bored. But you’re getting off the subject. Couldn’t your mother have given you a ride here?”

“She’s at the floor place all the time. It’s like a power trip for her.”

“Well your father will hit the roof when he hears what you did.”

“Oh, I’m so sick of his worrying. And lately he’s getting worse, acting like I don’t know how to leave the house. Next time, maybe I’ll go somewhere else.”

“No you won’t. Next time, call me. If I’m here, I’d rather pick you up then have you get yourself killed. It’s so dangerous! I’ll always worry about it now, that you might do it again.”

“Sorry. Sometimes I really hate my new house.”

“Please promise me you won’t hitch again. Call me, your dad, anyone!”

“Okay, okay, I promise.” She tips her face up to the sun. “But I love it here.”

“I know what you mean. Are you all moved in to your new home yet?”

“Yes. It sucks.” She kicks sand while she walks. “I’m going to have to go to school with these jerks.”

“You’ll meet more friends once you start. Your dad says they have a Marine Studies program.”

“They do. Half the day you go to regular classes, then after lunch you go to the Marine program.” Summer watches her change to a zoom lens.

“I’ll bet they take lots of field trips to the marshes and beaches around here.”

“They even do work on a research vessel. How cool is that?” Summer asks. “But I could never get accepted into it. It’s really competitive. And Dad will never let me go out on a research boat. What if I drown? What if it gets windy? He ruins everything sometimes.”

“From what I’ve heard, you ace your science classes. Your dad’s very proud of you, even if he doesn’t show it. And if you’re accepted, you’ll meet more kids like you. And,” she crouches to focus a long shot of the beach, “you might decide to study it in college.”

“Maybe. But I’m still going to miss Emily. She’s my best friend, you know?”

“I have a friend like that. We’ve been beachcombing all our lives. Walking and talking on the shore.” They reach the stone jetty at the end of the beach. The tide is out and Rachel moves over the exposed rocks. “You’re lucky to have Emily. And with email and cell phones, you’ll stay in touch.”

“Could I take a picture?” Summer asks.

“Here.” Rachel lifts the camera strap over her head. “Do you know how to work it?”

“I think so.” She lifts it to her eye and scans the area. Her blonde hair is braided and fine wisps escape and frame her face. Her feet are bare and she wears madras shorts and a pale yellow halter top, pure summer cool.

“There’s a good one,” she says from behind the camera.

A seagull perches on a nearly submerged rock. Rachel shows her how to control the depth of field, zoom in close, focus and shoot. “Snap a few pictures. Maybe you can use one in the Marine program.”

Summer takes another shot. “Omigosh! Maybe they’ll do marine photography. Wait till I tell Em. Do you mind if I take some more?”

She scrambles out over the rocky jetty, engrossed in the world a camera opens up for her. One without stepparents and new neighborhoods and schools and bored teenagers.

Rachel watches her find beach scenes, feeling like a concerned parent. The poor girl hitchhiked to the cottage sullen and unannounced. She already spent a day or two at the beach with her father, and they all had dinner together, but Rachel doesn’t know her that well. So when Summer showed up at the cottage door, she did what any parent would do. She made her a grilled cheese sandwich before convincing her to walk on the beach. That part came so easy. Summer is definitely her father’s daughter.

“It’s a go,” Tom says that evening. “Done deal, sweetheart. They accepted it.”

Sara Beth cradles the cell phone tightly to her ear. This is
thee
call she’s been waiting for, the one moment that’s been crystal clear in her mind. Okay, for about twenty years, but still. A page just turned in her life.

“Say it again?”

“The house is ours, Sara. They’ve agreed to the price and to the contingency of our house selling.”

“We can start packing?”

“Looks that way. Is the inventory done?”

She glances at the opened tin box of index cards. “I just need to double check some details.” It is safe to imagine now. To mentally arrange the furniture in its new home in a Currier & Ives location. She never dared to before, afraid she would jinx herself.

Melissa pulls into the carriage house driveway, her tires crunching over twigs. Sara Beth watches her sister and is bursting to tell her the news. “In here, Lissa!”

“Hey,” Melissa says.

Sara Beth pulls another ladderback chair up alongside hers. “Here. Sit.”

Melissa takes a seat cautiously. “Uh oh. What’s going on?”

“We did it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Uh huh.”

“No way.”

“Way.” Sara Beth nods briskly.

“You bought the house?”

“We made a low offer, they countered higher this morning, we countered again and they signed off on it. You are now talking to the proud owner of Addison’s as yet unnamed antique shop. And at the new Sara Beth, proprietor extraordinaire.” She stands and curtsies.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Melissa looks around the room. “Tom came around?”

“We’re both
really
trying. And once he saw the house as a significant home for a partner in the local law firm, you know, right off The Green in the historical district, he agreed. It’s perfect for both of us.”

“I’m so happy for you. So when’s this all supposed to happen?”

“In my head, it’s happening right now.” She spins around. “I picture my shop set up with lots of crocheted doilies and small lamps on the furniture. Like this.” She reaches past her index cards and pulls the chain on the brass desk lamp, then walks to the Shaker pine chest, plugs in the cord of a Steuben glass lamp and turns that on too. They cast a glow on the room. “See? Lamps give it warmth. And I’ll have china dishes, and an old mantle clock on a pine shelf. One that chimes. So my clients can picture the furniture in their homes, with their lamps and knick-knacks. Oh, and, and lace curtains! Lots and lots of lace curtains on all the windows. For Mom. So that the sun always shines through.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“It is. Well, it will be anyway. I wish Mom were here.”

Melissa pulls a tissue from her purse and hands it to her. “Oh, she is. I can feel it.”

All around Sara Beth, the deep walnut and mahogany browns and cherry reds shimmer. Tapestry upholstery and brass hinges add richness to the space. The formal paintings contrast with the whimsy of her china pieces. Okay, so maybe one more email wouldn’t hurt. She deserves to know.

Melissa picks up a small frame on her desk. “This is pretty.”

It’s Claude’s dried flower chain, preserved on acid-free paper and custom mounted in an old goldleaf frame. “Thanks. That one’s mine. For decorating only. And the rest, well, I need a mover who specializes in antiques.”

“You’ve got some valuable furniture under this roof. Has it been appraised?”

“Next week. The inventory is done and the appraisal is next. I’m bringing in a specialist.”

“And how. He’s got his work cut out for him.”

“I’ve got a lot of information to help. I’ve been logging details and furniture history for weeks now.” She walks through her space, hugging herself.