Millie
I WAS GOING THROUGH THE motions.
I’d been working on autopilot since Jackson walked out of my apartment. Wake up, shower, shuffle downstairs, cook, bake, clean, sleep, repeat. Luckily, we were fully staffed and Claire had become my right hand, so we hadn’t missed any deadlines, and when I’d made chicken and dumplings instead of chicken pot pie, Claire had fixed things in time for the event.
Dru had come to me only seconds after Jackson left, saying her twin vibes had been tingling and she’d known that I needed her. Soon after, Tasha’d shown up, and the two of them had been my shadows ever since. Even going so far as to sleep in my apartment each night.
I’d felt heartbreak when my dad left, but nothing like what I was feeling with the absence of Jackson in my life. Never pain so acute. And the worse part was that I knew I’d caused Jackson the same amount of pain. Even if I felt like I was doing it for the right reasons, I still hated the thought of him hurting.
I’d never been so emotionally invested in someone other than my family, but Dru kept assuring me that things would get better, although the look on Tasha’s face when Dru said that had me thinking that Tasha still felt the pain of losing Jericho . . . and that had been years ago.
I’m screwed. Left to stew in the misery of my own making.
“I’m running to meet with a new prospective client,” Tasha said as she came up behind me and hugged my back.
I kept whipping my meringue, but acknowledged her with a nod.
“And I have that interview with the radio station in an hour, so I’m going to go get ready,” Dru added, before kissing my cheek.
“Go, keep expanding our business,” I ordered, starting to feel suffocated by their hovering. “I’ll be fine here. I’ve got plenty to keep my busy all day, and well into the night.”
“Okay, but call us if you need anything,” Tasha said.
I rolled my eyes and bit back the, yes, mother, that was threatening to come out. Instead, I just nodded again, then held my breath until they left.
Once they were gone, I could breathe again and proceeded to lose myself in my work, thankful for the menial task of whipping meringue. It didn’t take a genius to make the delicious topping that would adorn my lemon meringue pie, just a few simple ingredients, some patience, and a strong wrist.
I opted to make the meringue by hand instead of with a mixer, for this very reason. So I could lose myself in the creation.
“Hey, Millie.”
It took me a moment to register my name being called and pull myself out of the numbness. After a few seconds, I turned my head toward the sound and blinked at Claire.
“Yes?”
“You have a woman out here asking for you.”
Claire was manning the storefront this morning, as she had for the last five mornings, allowing me to hide in the back.
I blinked again, then looked down at my meringue, still whisking, and said, “About two more minutes.”
“I’ll let her know,” Claire replied, and I focused back on the task at hand.
Once the meringue was finished, I put it aside with the intention of finishing the pie once I was done talking to whomever was waiting out front, washed my whisk, then finally my hands, before checking my apron for stains and heading out of the kitchen.
I glanced at Claire, who tilted her head to her right. I started toward the older woman who was standing by the display case. She was well-dressed, with her hair and makeup done. She had a kind, open face, but I’d never seen her before.
Thinking she was here to put in an order or see about booking a party, I tried my best to put my professional face on as I approached.
“Yes, ma’am, how can I help you today?”
Her gaze swung away from the pastries before her and locked on my face, assessing, before her lips parted and she said, “Hello, Millie, right?”
“Yes, I’m Millie,” I stated, holding my hand out.
She placed her well-manicured hand in mine and said, “Nice to meet you, I’m Rhonda Heeler.”
Her last name slapped me in the face so hard that I flinched and started to pull my hand from her grasp, but for a small woman, she was strong, and tightened her grip.
“My granddaughter asked me to bring her here today.” At the mention of Kayla, I started to survey the dining area, then noticed movement behind Mrs. Heeler and watched as Kayla stepped out from behind her. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Ah, yes, of course, please, follow me,” I managed, finally getting my hand back and turning to lead them through the kitchen and to the stairs up to my apartment. I didn’t look back to make sure they followed, rude of me, I know, but I needed the time to compose myself.
To say I was shocked would be an understatement. Not only that Kayla had sought me out, but this was not the way I saw my first meeting with Jackson’s mother going. Being here with Kayla, she had to know what had happened between Jackson and me, at least the gist of it. What must she think of me?
I motioned to my kitchen table. It was small, but probably the best setting for whatever this was.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked automatically, my mother’s insistence on hospitality shining through. “Water, coffee, some cookies?”
“No thank you,” Mrs. Heeler said, at the same time Kayla requested, “Cookies.”
I couldn’t stop my small smile at Kayla. Even thought our last encounter had been disastrous, I really did empathize with her.
I put the chocolate macadamia nut cookies on a small serving plate and placed it in the center of the round table, then with nothing left to do, I sat. My chair made a loud scraping sound as I tried to get comfortable, then I breathed a cleansing breath in through my nose, folded my hands on the table in front of me, and tried to look poised.
From the smile on Mrs. Heeler’s face, she could see right through me, but was too polite to comment on it.
I was looking to Mrs. Heeler to start the conversation, but it was Kayla who said, “I’m sorry, Millie.”
I blinked back a rush of tears as my throat burned at the sadness in her voice.
Turning my attention to Jackson’s daughter, I could see she had a lot weighing on her young mind, so I bit my tongue and waited for her to finish what she wanted to say.
Kayla took a deep, exaggerated breath, and blew it out. She picked up a cookie and broke a piece off, but didn’t put it in her mouth. Finally, she tore her eyes from the table and looked at me.
When she didn’t speak right away, Mrs. Heeler put her hand on her grandaughter’s shoulder, then looked at me and explained, “Kayla and I had a long talk about her feelings and the way she’s been behaving. It was her idea to come here to talk to you, so she could apologize.”
With that said, she gave Kayla a nod of encouragement.
“I was awful to you,” Kayla began, her eyes holding mine bravely. “Rude and mean, and running away that day was in-un-ah . . .” She looked to her grandmother for guidance.
“Unforgivable,” Mrs. Heeler coached, her tone firm, but her eyes gentle.
“Yeah, unforgivable. I never should have broken your flowers or yelled at you. It wasn’t really even you I was mad at.” Kayla looked to her grandmother once more, and when she nodded, finished with, “It was my mother. It is my mother . . . that I’m mad at, not you.”
Needing to ease her burden, I reached my hand out and placed it on her forearm.
“I understand, and I promise, I’m not mad at you, Kayla. I was really worried when I couldn’t find you,” I amended. “But, I’m not angry with you, and I do understand how you’re feeling. When I was little, my dad left us, and although it’s not exactly the same as what you’re going through, I do understand why you were upset.”
“You’re not mad at me?” she asked softly, her eyes on my hand on her arm.
“No.”
“And, your dad left?”
“Yes.”
“But, you’re mad at my dad?”
Her question made my heart skip a beat.
“No, honey, I’m not mad at him.”
Kayla lifted her head, bringing those eyes that were so much like Jackson’s to mine and holding.
“Then why aren’t you talking to him? If you’re not mad at me, and you’re not mad at him, what’s going on? He’s very sad, and he misses you. You should call him.”
Unsure of how to react, and having the distinct feeling that I was being played, I looked to Jackson’s mother like she could be my lifeline. She wasn’t.
“I’ve never seen him so upset,” Mrs. Heeler said pointedly, and I knew she was referring to Julie, but didn’t want to bring up the other woman in front of Kayla.
I looked from grandmother to granddaughter, then back again, unsure of how to proceed. What to do. How to feel.
“I don’t know if the timing is right . . .” I began, but Mrs. Heeler held and got right to the point.
“Do you love him?”
I gulped, unsure of how truthful I should be.
“My daddy says, either you love someone or you don’t. I heard him in class one time, and he said the characters in his books spend so much time being ob-ob . . . What’s the word for dumb?” she asked.
Mrs. Heeler and I both said, “Obtuse.”
“Yeah, obtuse. The characters spend so much time being obtuse, that they miss out on all kinds of good times with the person they love. That if you’re in love, you should tell the person, and you’ll both be happier.”
“Ah . . .” I croaked, unable to get words to come out of my mouth.
“It’s okay,” Mrs. Heeler said as she rose, pausing to pat my hand gently. “We came here to say what we needed to say, what you do with it, is up to you.”
They crossed the room to my front door, leaving me sitting at my table, gaping. Then, with one hand on the door handle, Mrs. Heeler looked over her shoulder at me and added, “You look like a smart woman, Millie. I hope my instincts about you are correct.”
And with that, they swept out of my apartment, leaving me staring after them, wondering what the heck just happened, and what I’m going to do about it?