Chapter 28
Grace
I put off starting work at Café Allegro until after my opening day at the Saturday Market. The only way for me to have enough dresses ready in time for that first day of sale was to sew from daylight to midnight, seven days a week. But when Alex qualified for the regional finals in cross-country, I took a couple hours off to go to the meet and cheer him on. Nan came too. Unfortunately Monica got caught in traffic and missed the start of the race.
“Where is he?” she puffed, winded and a little frantic-sounding after jogging from the parking lot.
“There,” Nan said, pointing to a brownish head in a sea of other heads on the far side of the field. “In the middle of the pack.”
Monica squinted in the same direction as Nan’s finger, then swung her fist over her head and shouted, “Go, Alex! Woot-woot! You can do it!”
When he rounded a corner and disappeared she turned toward us. “He looked good, don’t you think?”
“Really good,” I said.
“I couldn’t run that fast even if something was chasing me,” Nan said.
Monica, still winded, laughed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. He’s had a really good season, but only the top three will qualify for state, so it’d basically be a miracle if he made it. But you never know.”
Bob and the other coaches, who had been standing a few yards down the course, cheering their runners on, started trotting toward a grove of trees on the opposite end of the field, where, presumably, the runners would reappear in a few minutes. Spotting Monica, he swept his arm over his head and waved. She waved back.
“Bob has a strategy,” she informed us. “He wants Alex to lay low in the middle of the pack, reserve his energy, and then break hard in the last half kilometer. Alex has a heck of a kick. The tricky part is figuring out when to use it. Anyway, thanks for coming. This is kind of a big deal for Alex.”
We sat down on a nearby bank of bleachers and Monica’s smile faded.
“I can’t believe I missed the start of the race,” she said, rubbing her forehead as if she were trying to scrub the furrows from her brow. “I left the restaurant half an hour early to make sure I was here in plenty of time. Everything was going fine until I got to the tunnel and then—bam! Dead stop. How did you two manage to get here on time?”
“I took the light rail,” Nan said.
“And I took surface streets instead of the highway, drove over the hill. It’s faster from my neighborhood.”
Monica sighed. “I should have done that. I was just sure that there’d be enough time.”
“Will you quit beating yourself up?” I said. “It’s not like he didn’t have a cheering section. The two of us made a ton of noise. We were actually kind of obnoxious. Did you know that Nan can do that thing where you stick your fingers in your mouth and whistle super loud?”
Monica’s eyebrows popped up as she turned to look at Nan.
“Very helpful for calling dogs,” Nan said.
“I don’t believe it. Prove it,” Monica demanded.
“Not now,” Nan said self-consciously, glancing around at the other spectators. “Not until he’s getting close to the finish line.”
“How long will that be?” I asked, staring toward the clump of coaches on the far edge of the field.
Monica glanced at her phone. “About eleven minutes, give or take. So, let’s get to it. Tell me everything. I feel like I haven’t talked to you two in forever.”
Eleven minutes divided by three friends isn’t much time, so we all tried to do a sort of bullet-point version of our usual conversation, just hitting the highlights.
Nan was thrilled that seventy-two Dogmother’s Ball tickets had been sold so far and that three college kids from the neighborhood had offered to help park cars for the event. With the advent of spring, the chickens were laying more eggs, and she was down to only three dogs. Mildred and Morgan, the black Labs, as well as Peaches and Cream, the basset hounds, had all been adopted.
“I miss them,” she said, “but they went to very good homes.”
“So that just leaves Lovey and Nelson. Poor Nelson,” Monica said. “Isn’t anybody ever going to adopt him?”
“He’s already spoken for,” Nan said. “I called Donna on Tuesday and told her I wanted to keep him. He’s such a sweet boy. I just couldn’t give him up.”
“With only three dogs is Malcolm still coming to help?”
“Oh, yes,” Nan replied. “Every morning and evening.”
“So you’re adopting him too?”
“Very funny. Your turn,” Nan said.
“Same old, same old,” Monica replied.
The restaurant business was busy, Alex was still rotten, her sous-chef was acting like a prima donna, and the mothers of the bride and groom at the wedding she was to cater the following weekend couldn’t agree on the salad course.
“And,” Monica said wearily, “Zoe got sent home from school for wearing a T-shirt with an inappropriate slogan.”
“What did it say?” I asked.
Monica closed her eyes and moved her head from side to side. “Let’s not even go there. The shirt has been burned and now, every morning, I check Zoe’s backpack for contraband. But there’s at least a little good news. Guess who dropped by the restaurant yesterday?”
“Hmm . . .” I tapped my chin with my finger, pretending to think, but Monica’s smug little smile was a dead giveaway. “Could it be . . . Dr. Dreamboat?”
“Bingo! And he is still so, so dreamy.” She sighed and clapped her hand to her heart. “He showed up just before closing, we shared a plate of linguini and a bottle of Chianti. He’s got another late shift on Thursday and is going to drop by after to take me to a movie.”
“Oh.” Nan, who had been watching the grove of trees for sight of the returning runners, turned to look at Monica. “Really?”
Monica tipped her head to one side. “Yes, really. Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Oh, no reason,” Nan replied.
“Nan,” Monica said flatly. “You’re a terrible liar. What is it?”
“It’s nothing, only that I thought . . .” Nan looked toward the grove of trees again and the cluster of coaches who stood nearby, waiting to cheer their runners to the finish line. “You know . . . Bob.”
“Bob?” Monica’s eyes widened. “Bob is a nice guy and everything, but . . . he’s Bob. He’s good to Alex. And good to me, too, I guess. But I don’t think about him like that. He’s just a friend. He’s . . . Bob.”
“You said that before,” Nan reminded her. “Fine. If you’re happy, I’m happy. Forget I mentioned it.”
Nan turned her attention back to the trees. Monica looked at me and rolled her eyes, shooting me a sort of can-you-believe-her glance before changing the subject.
“So, Grace? What’ve you been up to?”
“Besides sewing?” I laughed. “Not much, including sleeping. But Luke . . .”
They already knew about the amazing sewing table and the adjustments he’d helped me make to my business plan, but they didn’t know about the accounting software he’d recommended to help me keep track of my expenses, or the great, inexpensive website design company he’d steered me to, or how he’d helped walk me through the process of finding and buying a domain name.
Most importantly, he got me thinking about how to speed up my production. Even though I was running a factory with only one worker, I had to start thinking in terms of an assembly line.
Now I spent every morning cutting, making only one size that day—small, medium, large, or extra large—and layering fabric so I could cut two garments at once. Also, I cut all the individual pieces at the same time—the sleeves, then the yokes, then the skirts. Working that way enabled me to have six garments ready for sewing by lunchtime. Sewing took longer and by chain stitching all six pieces, one after the other, I’d cut hours off my garment production time. Luke was the one who’d pointed me in the right direction, gotten me to think like a businesswoman instead of a hobbyist. Without him, I’d never have been able to do it.
“My, my,” Monica said, batting her eyelids. “Isn’t he helpful? Sounds like Luke is trying to worm his way into your affections.”
“Stop,” I said, batting away her insinuation. “I feel about Luke the way you feel about Bob. He’s a friend.”
Nan looked like she wanted to say something, but a distant whoop from the cluster of coaches interrupted the thought and had us all on our feet, eyes glued to the trees as we waited for the first of the runners to emerge. We didn’t have to wait long. A boy with impossibly long legs, wearing a blue and white jersey, sprinted toward the finish line. Several moments passed before two more racers appeared, another boy in blue and the other in green, running almost neck and neck. Alex wasn’t among them.
Monica jumped up and stood on top of the bleachers, craning her neck and yelling, “Come on, Alex!” even though she couldn’t see him. The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh racers came into view. The boy in blue crossed the line, taking first. Still no Alex. But then, all of a sudden, there he was—dashing through the trees and pounding across the field. By this time all the spectators, including me, were on their feet, yelling and cheering or, in Nan’s case, whistling.
Monica leapt off the bleachers and jogged toward the finish line clapping her hands and screaming, “Go, Alex, go!” as Alex, his face red and contorted, seemed to find another gear. Legs and arms pumping like pistons, he passed the seventh racer and then the sixth. The battle for fifth place was intense and the crowd was cheering on both boys as they sprinted toward the finish. If the course had been twenty yards longer, Alex might have pulled it off. As it was, he crossed the finish line three paces behind his competitor.
“Woot! Way to go!” Monica hollered, and hugged me when the race announcer gave out Alex’s time. “A personal record!”
The remaining racers were crossing the line so quickly and thickly now that the announcer couldn’t keep up. Monica jogged over to congratulate Alex, who was standing off to one side of the course, bent over and with his hands on his knees, shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
She bent down near him. “Did you see your time? It was amazing, Alex! Way to go!”
Beaming with pride, Monica patted Alex on the back. He didn’t say anything, just lifted his right arm and stretched it out, pushing her away.
“Hey,” she said, moving in closer, “I know you wanted to go to state, but you’ve improved so much this season. You’ll make it next year, Alex. You’ll see. Really, honey, you should be proud.”
With the last of his racers coming in, Bob was walking toward Alex, presumably to congratulate him. As he approached, Alex straightened up, glared at Monica, and said, “Shut up.”
Monica’s jaw slackened a little. I could see she was surprised, and hurt, but she reached out to put a hand on his shoulder anyway, saying, “Alex. It’s okay. I know you’re disappointed.”
“Shut up!” he snapped, shaking her off. “I’m not your honey and I don’t need your advice!”
“Hey!” Monica protested. “I was just trying to be supportive.”
“When I need your support, I’ll ask for it, okay? And if you’re so interested in supporting me, maybe start by showing up on time.”
Bob arrived on the scene.
“Alex! Knock it off! That’s no way to talk to your mom.”
Glowering and still red in the face, Alex turned on his coach. “She’s not my mom. Just because my dad was sleeping with her—” Alex shouted, except he didn’t say “sleeping with,” resorting instead to a more vulgar and wounding vernacular that brought tears to Monica’s eyes.
“Alex!” Bob boomed. “That’s enough! You are way, way out of line!”
I didn’t really know Bob, but I’d been under the impression that he was an affable, mild-mannered sort. So when his face contorted with fury and his voice thundered, I was taken by surprise.
Alex’s face turned even redder. It looked like he, too, was fighting back tears.
“But, Coach!”
Bob shook his head, raised his arm, and pointed toward the field.
“Take a lap, Alex. You need to cool down.”
By this time everyone was staring, including Alex’s teammates. Shamefaced, Alex swallowed hard but didn’t budge. Neither did Bob. He stabbed his finger toward the field a second time.
“I am serious, Alex. Take a lap. Now. Otherwise, you’re off this team—and I mean forever. It’ll be the end of your running career.”
Alex hesitated a moment longer, then dipped his head low, and finally jogged off toward the far edge of the field. When he was out of earshot, Bob placed his hand on Monica’s shoulder, seeking out her eyes.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just another day in the life of an Evil Stepmother,” she said, pretending to laugh as she swiped at her eyes.
“You sure?” Monica sniffled and nodded. “Don’t let this get to you, okay? Teenagers are idiots—big, colliding bags of hormones held together by skin and self-absorption. I ought to get hazard pay for the crap I put up with from these guys.”
Monica smiled a little.
“Listen,” he said gently. “I got this. After Alex finishes his lap and takes a shower, I’ll chew him out, buy him a hamburger, and drop him at the house. You go on back to work, okay?”
“Okay,” Monica said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Bob went off to check in with the rest of his runners. Nan and I walked Monica to her car. When we got to the parking lot, Nan said, “That’s a very nice friend you’ve got there, Monica.”
“He is,” Monica said. “He really is.”