Chapter 4

Kennedy

 

“Maybe part of your problem with finding a job had to do with how late you sleep.” Dad stirs his coffee while looking over a newspaper spread in front of him on the kitchen table. It’s a familiar scene, one I grew up witnessing.

I stop the frown that wants to curve in his direction and look at the clock above the stove, which reads 6:55 a.m. “Is Mom here?”

He turns the page as Mom enters the kitchen wearing a pair of capri pants and a shirt covered with embroidered butterflies, her brown hair tied back into the same customary french roll she’s worn it in for years. “Don’t act ugly, Tom.” She swats his shoulder. “Kennedy just got in last night.”

Dad keeps his eyes trained on the paper. “It’s Saturday morning and Jackson’s at the store alone. We need to get a move on.”

The fact they’re still here insinuates we includes me. I was hoping to spend the weekend getting my things unpacked and in order, but I don’t mention this. “I’ll get showered.”

My dad’s been bald for as long as I can recall, but when I hit my early teens, his eyebrows and beard began to gray, and he’s now fully silver. Without looking at me, he nods and takes a drink of his coffee, proving this is his expectation.

“What time is Grace supposed to get in?” I ask, hesitating in the doorway to the hall that leads to my sister’s and my bedrooms and shared bathroom.

Mom smiles, her affection clear. “This afternoon.”

My older sister has been living with my parents for a couple of years, which made my decision to come stay here far easier. To my surprise, she’s been in Rhode Island all week, visiting a friend from college.

Entering the bathroom feels like a time warp. The first eighteen years of my life hit me like a freight train as I close the door. The walls are still painted the same sea-foam green, flecked with hot-pink nail polish near the vanity. The lights that border the mirror have the bulbs protruding from the wooden panels they’re mounted to. Years ago, I stood here trying to create the perfect Jennifer Aniston hairstyle, complete with bounce, body, and chicness.

I tug one of the white knobbed drawers of the vanity open and find the contents of my childhood. Half-filled containers of drug store makeup, cheap body sprays that time has tinted brown, large plastic barrettes, wide scrunchies, banana clips, and a handful of hair bobbles that still have strands of my hair stuck in them are all tangled together in heaps. I slide the drawer closed and stare at my reflection. My hair was always cut above my shoulders for ease while growing up and now reaches my chest. It is no longer highlighted by the sun but by hues of blonde my hairdresser added. My large black-rimmed glasses are more distinct and artistic than the ones I opted for when I was younger, which I then chose to be discreet and minimal. Still, there are more similarities than differences, including the freckles that pepper my cheekbones and nose. So little has changed in the past ten years since I left this house to pursue adulthood that I find myself wondering what other people from my class are doing now. Are they still battling with acne each month? Do they still have to remind themselves they don’t shop in the junior’s department? Have others found themselves living in their childhood bedrooms because they’re buried in debt and can’t find a job?

“Kennedy!” Dad booms, making me jump and return to the present. “You’ve got ten minutes! Hurry it up!”

I rush through a shower and getting dressed to allot a solid couple of minutes to applying a thin layer of concealer and blush. Before leaving, I add some bright-red lipstick that I know will make my dad stare with judgment but makes me feel slightly more empowered over my decision—or lack thereof—to be back here.

In the kitchen, Dad is leaning against the white Formica countertop, waiting for me with his arms crossed over his chest. Bushy silver eyebrows rise as he looks me over, stopping on my red lips for the briefest of seconds before focusing on my feet. “You’re going to wear those shoes to work?”

I look down at my red wedge sandals that tie around my ankles. I was certain he’d comment on my lipstick rather than my shoes, which don’t seem nearly as inappropriate as his tone suggests.

Before I can tell him how many hours of retail I’ve worked while wearing three-inch heels that my employers required, Mom appears. “You won’t believe how big the hardware store looks now with that wall taken down between us and that ol’ tackle shop.” She places her hand on my shoulder as we follow my dad out the front door, stopping at his truck. Unlike most of their house and possessions, it’s new since I moved.

Thoughts of the hardware store my parents have owned and operated for the past thirty-five years dissipate as the heat steals my breath and makes my skin itch with sweat. “Wow,” I remark. “It’s already really hot out.” With a latch of my seat belt, I lean back, draping myself against the seats that I’m grateful aren’t made of leather.

Dad changes several dials, then his icy-blue eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. “It’s summertime.”

I push my glasses higher on my nose, attempting to once again read my father’s remark, to determine if his words are intended to be snarky or benign. Twenty-seven years later, the struggle to understand him is still lost on me. “I’m anxious to see the store,” I say instead of questioning why he has to be so difficult to make small talk with.

Dad shrugs. “Looks the same. Just bigger.”

Mom turns in her seat to face him. “It doesn’t!” she cries. “There’s way more natural light, and we’ve been able to add another entire aisle to the painting section and another for lawn care, and we now even carry some riding lawn mowers.”

His serious demeanor is fractured with a smile. The love he holds for Mom is his weakness and also our common ground.

“And your mom finally got to replace the old carpet and get some tile since she insisted the flooring match,” he says.

“Which you agree makes it look a thousand times better.” Though the seat impedes my view, her tone reveals the pointed look she’s giving my dad.

He chuckles and lifts their joined hands, kissing the back of her wrist. “Ten thousand times better.” His voice is teasing and light.

The carpet was as old as I am, and it always looked awful and out of place in the store—bare concrete likely would have looked far better.

Conversation ends as we pull into the graveled parking lot of Wallace Hardware. Dad drives around to the side, parking next to Jackson’s car.

Butterflies are stretching in my stomach, making their presence more noticeable with each step. I’ve been back dozens of times since leaving Haven Point, but this isn’t a vacation. I’m not here for a long weekend or holiday. Admitting to myself that I had to leave Boston and move back into my parents’ house has been difficult; admitting it to the people who watched me grow up and leave will be humiliating.

Dad leads us to a door that was once the entrance to the bait-and-tackle shop that was next door to them for two decades. It takes us into an office with neat stacks of papers and files—my father’s work. The walls are lined with achievements and recognition from the town, previous little league teams the store has sponsored, and framed pictures of Grace and me—my mom’s work.

“This is our new office.” Though Mom’s introduction is a bit redundant, it’s nice to have the silence broken. “The old one is now used for shipments, so we don’t have to put all that junk in here and sit around boxes all the time.” She makes a sweeping motion with her hand. “Come on,” she continues, “I’ll show you the rest of the expansion.” Her fingers are warm as they link with mine, leading me in the direction of a large wooden door that has a rectangular window beside it.

I catch the reflection of my red lipstick as we pass, and suddenly I’m regretting my choice to wear it. Standing out is not what I need.

Mom pulls open the door for me. I knew the place would look different, yet somehow I still don’t think I had fully convinced myself of the fact. The old gray carpets have been replaced with bright white tiles, swirled with shades of gray to give them a marbled look, and the once-quaint store looks vast in comparison.

“It looks amazing,” I tell her, looking at the walls, which have also received a face-lift and a few coats of fresh white paint.

Mom drops my hand and weaves her fingers together before lifting them to her chin in a pose that looks like a prayer. “I’m so glad you like it! I thought you would, but it’s all just so new!”

I nod. “No. I do. It’s really great!” I turn, taking in the new shelves, the added merchandise—and the small personal touches, like framed pictures of my grandfather Wallace, who originally opened the store.

“Could you see this place on the streets of Boston?” she asks, smiling widely.

I nod. “You and Dad just need to start saying wicked and dropping your Rs.”

She laughs. It’s a sound I’ve missed in my time away, and it eases some of my restless emotions. “That’s wicked cool.”

I smile at her terrible Bostonian accent.

“Hey, Jelly Bean!” Jackson walks toward my mom and me, his shoulders in a subtle bow, though he’s smiling. Back in high school, Jackson was one of my closest friends, but time and distance were burdens to our friendship, and we’ve barely kept in touch.

I reach forward and hug him. His muscles are rigid beneath my grasp, but his grip is firm. “How have you been?”

He pulls back and nods, making the mass of light-brown curls on his head bounce. “Good. Busy.”

I can’t imagine anything in Haven Point keeping someone busy for long, especially working here at my parents’ hardware store, but I keep that thought to myself and smile.

“It’s great to have you back home,” Jackson says. “Everyone’s really excited to see you.”

I glance in Mom’s direction, wondering how far and fast the news of my return has traveled, but she’s already distracted, taking notes on a sheet of paper about some merchandise that is running low.

“Kennedy, you can man the cash register today since it’s going to be difficult for you to know where anything is,” says Dad. “We’ve got some unloading and restocking we have to get done.”

“Sure. If you guys need help, just let me know.”

Dad’s eyebrows jump. “I think we can handle it.”

Once again, I don’t reply. Twenty-seven years of knowing him and eighteen years of living with him, and my dad is practically a stranger to me still. I understand Mom’s humor, am able to predict what she likes and doesn’t, and I know she’ll always extend a shoulder for me to cry on—even about things she might not understand. But my dad and his cryptic statements and expressions is the hardest person for me to read.

They disappear into the back, and I head to the checkout counter that’s been extended by several feet, grateful to see the same old antique cash register my grandparents used. I itch for a customer so I can ring something up and hear the same bells and dings I loved so much as a child.

When the buzzer above the door chimes, I turn to see Mrs. Marteen. She’s lived here forever, and as a child she never seemed to change or age. However, her wrinkles are now deeper, her cheeks verging on being sallow, and her gait is less confident.

“Kennedy!” she calls with familiarity. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m well,” I say, smiling widely. “How are you?”

She nods, her lips curving northward. “You know me—another day, another smile.”

“That’s still my favorite philosophy.”

Mrs. Marteen pauses in front of the counter. “Can you believe how much this place has changed?”

I follow her gaze, noting things I hadn’t with my first pass through the store. It still has a classic charm, but something has changed. Maybe it’s the additional space or added lighting, but there’s a distinct difference aside from those obvious factors that’s difficult for me to name.

Warmth travels up my arm as she wraps her fingers around my wrist. “I liked it better before, too,” she whispers, patting the same spot on my hand and continuing past me before I can object.

It looks a million times better now. Bigger. Cleaner. More professional. But before I can continue my personal assessment of the space, the door chimes again, drawing my attention to Kip, a local handyman and longtime family friend.

“Jelly Bean!” He calls my name like there’s a football field between us, his face splitting with a grin that’s so wide, his eyes become thin creases. “I was so glad to hear my favorite girl’s back in town.”

I think of my old apartment and what I’d be doing this morning if I were in Boston, and my thoughts fall into a vortex of memories: My updated bathroom that wasn’t filled with cobwebs of memories. How no one would’ve given my lipstick a second glance. And how my best friend is likely eating Belgian waffles with freshly picked strawberries and whipped cream at the small farm-to-table restaurant we discovered a couple of years ago and have made our weekend tradition.

Because the counter is situated just feet from the door, Kip stops in front of me just as Mrs. Marteen had and drops a clear bag of jelly beans on the counter. “Got all your favorite kinds,” he tells me, nodding toward the brightly colored candies.

I crack a smile. “I haven’t had a jelly bean since Christmas.”

“You’re kidding?”

I shake my head.

“Well, I’ll keep you stocked.” He smiles again, persuading my own lips to follow suit. “Are your parents in the back? I need to ask them about an order I placed.”

“Yeah. They’re unloading a pallet.”

With a nod, Kip heads to the back of the store.

More stream in, greeting me with welcoming arms. My shoulders relax, and my smile becomes a permanent fixture as I take the time to talk to each of them, including a few who moved to town in my absence and are quick to introduce themselves, telling me how much they like my parents and the store. Many comment on my hair and my lipstick and how glad they are to see me. Thankfully, not one asks why I’m back.

“Hey Kennedy Wallace.”

I finish wrapping up with a customer and turn to the door to see Billy Porter.

“No sheep?” I ask.

He smirks.

Beside me, the phone rings, and with a single wave I turn my attention to it as Billy salutes me and then leaves.

“Wallace Hardware,” I answer. The call is quick, and thankfully something I’m able to answer without having to get help.

“What is this place?”

The cold words and colder tone are both out of place compared with all the warm receptions I’ve received. Two unfamiliar men stand in the middle of the DIY aisle. They look related, with jet-black hair, wide shoulders, and olive-toned skin. Even their expressions hint at similarity, except the one who is a hair taller and wears a black T-shirt looks angry, while the one wearing a blue T-shirt looks annoyed and slightly embarrassed.

“The town of Mayberry apparently doesn’t carry what we’re looking for,” the angry one quips.

I sweep over the store, searching for either of my parents or Jackson so I can cue them to speak with the men. Unfortunately, they’re still in the back, where customers continue filing back in groups to chat with them.

“Excuse me.” His tone is gruff, filled with impatience, as he stares at me.

I expel a short breath and make my way around the counter, heading toward the two. “Good morning,” I say out of habit. Working retail thankfully prepared me for the sour attitude of this man.

“We’re looking for insulation. Is that something we need to drive into the big city to find?” The irate man’s hands rise and his dark eyes round, clearly making fun of Haven Point and me for living here.

“What kind of insulation are you looking for?” He stares at me, somehow looking more annoyed with my question, prompting me to continue. “Loose fill and blow in? Reflective system? Foam board? Spray foam? Blanket insulation?”

“I think we’ll have to do blanket downstairs and loose fill or spray foam upstairs, don’t you?” The friendlier of the two men turns to look at the other, who I’m assuming is his brother.

“You bought a money pit is what I think. And does it matter? This place doesn’t carry anything. It’s the size of a damn shoebox,” Mr. Grouchy Pants says.

My spine straightens with his accusation. Somehow I even find his comment about the house being a money pit offensive, as if it’s a personal blow to my hometown. “Head north about forty miles, and you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Narrowed eyes rake over me. “What does that mean?”

“Clearly you’re not happy with our selection, so I’m giving you directions to the big box store you’re wanting.”

“Thank God.”

“No. We’re good here. He’s just . . .” The man in the blue shirt shakes his head. “This place is great. If you can just point us in the direction of the insulation, I think we’ll be set.”

I shake my head. “We don’t carry insulation in-house. You’ll have to order it.”

The man wearing the black shirt tips his head back and laughs. “Of course you don’t.”

The man wearing blue takes a deep breath and places a hand on his chest. “I’m sorry this introduction isn’t going well,” he says. “I’m Coen, and this is my brother, Joey.”

I shake Coen’s proffered hand, but Joey doesn’t make a move to offer his.

“I moved to town a couple of months ago with my family,” Coen continues. “We bought the old farmhouse off Sunset Lake, and a few days ago, we discovered we weren’t the only tenants. An entire city of mice has apparently been living within the walls of the house.” He looks tired of trying to remain positive, his eyes pinched at the corners.

Joey looks at his brother and then to me, his dark eyes narrowed. “The place is a fire hazard. He’s going to have to rewire it, reinsulate it, re-Sheetrock it.” He shakes his head. “It’s a mess.”

“Getting all those mice out will be a battle all in itself.” I turn to see Dad a few feet behind me, brushing his hands on his jeans.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Coen admits.

“Well, if you need help, just let us know. We can get a crew of people over to your house and get the insulation and drywall up in a matter of days. As for the mice, you’re going to want to call Jeff.” Dad always wears button-down shirts with breast pockets, where he keeps all the referral cards he’s currently rifling through. “He’ll be able to get rid of them all for you, but it’ll take a few days.” He finds the card and hands it to Coen. “You guys are Joey and Coen DeLuca, right?” While I struggle to interpret most of my father’s moods, his respect and admiration is apparent as he reaches forward to shake their hands.

Surprisingly, Joey takes his hand first and nods once. Then Coen shakes his hand.

“I’m Tom Wallace. My wife, Christine, and I own this place, and this is our youngest daughter, Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you. The whole town’s happy to have you both here.”

“I’m not here for work this time,” Joey says. “I’m just helping Coen get situated in his new house.”

Coen flashes a quick smile. “The place kind of threw us a curveball.”

With raised eyebrows, Dad shakes his head. “I’ll bet. You want to look at some insulation samples I have in the back?”

Coen’s shoulders fall, and he smiles. “That would be great.” He looks to Joey. “You want to grab some stuff to cut the rest of the drywall out?” He doesn’t wait for him to reply before following my dad to the back room.

A deep scowl tugs at Joey’s lips as he turns his attention to me.