Joe

Uber is, of course, not available in Willowdale.

That’s not exactly true. My Uber app knows where I am. It shows me a cute little drawing of the six streets that make up our tiny town. But according to the app, it will take three hours and fourteen minutes to get me a driver.

The tiny little cars don’t even show up on the app. They might as well be on the other side of the world.

Cursing under my breath, I leave my luggage in the hat shop and decide to walk. Frankly, it’s only like four blocks from here. I just didn’t feel like being all out in the open, right in the middle of the day like this.

Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my vintage checked-poplin dress with a matching capelet, I head out onto Main Street, hoping to reach my parents’ house without any distractions. I don’t want to see anybody, or be seen by anybody. I just want to get things done.

Willowdale is simple, like a child’s crayon drawing of a town. We have two stoplights now—which is one more than we had when I left. We have one mail carrier. We have a combination town hall/library/police station in what used to be a bank building.

We have a main street called Main Street, and we have a town square with a rather grandiose gazebo in the middle of it. It’s got spotlights and everything. The town square was renovated our last year in high school as a gift from the outgoing seniors. I remember the girls giggling over who was going to get married in it first.

All along the square are planters filled with overflowing mounds of honeysuckle and trumpet vine. The perfume is almost nauseating, but yet kind of nice too. Kind of a grandmotherly-type smell. Sort of friendly, if a smell can be “friendly.”

Walking with my shoulders hunched, I take the fastest possible steps. We should actually be getting pretty close to dinnertime, I suppose, so most people will be hopefully inside their houses. But as I glance up I see a couple walking toward me. They’re talking to each other, moving their hands in front of them, their eyes shadowed by matching white golf visors.

But just to be safe, I decide to cross the street. I dart between the cars parked at an angle and hurry across out of a Manhattan habit, not because of actual Willowdale traffic. I don’t know if anybody has ever gotten a ticket for jaywalking in Willowdale, but I would hate to be the first.

“JoJo?” comes a voice.

Using my childhood nickname can only mean one thing: this person went to school with me. My skin crawls. I cringe and look for an escape.

“JoJo! I knew that was you! What on earth are you doing here?”

I force myself to turn toward the voice and plant a big old smile on my big old face.

“Dusty!” I sing out as believably as possible. “I didn’t see you there!”

She steps out of the doorway of the general store, flicking a cigarette from between her fingertips into the empty parking space in front of her. She blows a plume of smoke out of the side of her orange-glossed lips as she walks toward me with her arms out. I know I can’t escape, so I take the hug, wondering how many times a person can die inside before they die for real.

“JoJo, you look just amazing! I saw you, and I was like, that’s definitely JoJo! And here you are!”

My cheeks hurt from smiling already. I would have to say that in Manhattan we smile approximately 65 percent less. Wrinkles, you know.

“You look amazing!” I singsong, remembering how people talk around here.

We’re definitely expected to lavish each other with gradually mounting volleys of ridiculous, transparently false compliments. It’s sort of our thing.

She grins, her dimples like thumbprints in her cheeks. I remember she always had perfectly straight teeth, making a perfectly natural movie-star smile. It’s a good thing, too, because her people would never have been able to afford braces. I remember in middle school she was on the free lunch program. Actually, I guess a lot of us were.

“So what are you doing here?” she asks. “Just to visit? Did you come to see your mom?”

“Oh, yeah,” I answer quickly, trying to calculate the fastest way to explain the story and then get out of this conversation. “I’m just here for work. Just trying to fix up the old hat shop. You know it?”

She squints down the street, back the way I came, tipping at the waist. Her chestnut-brown hair spills out of a messy ponytail and cascades halfway down her back. If Dusty was in New York, she would have Hannah-like appeal. She’s a natural beauty, totally wasted on Willowdale.

“The hat shop…” she repeats vaguely. “Oh! That old place? What does anybody want with that?”

“Oh… I work in an art gallery in New York, and we needed to expand, so we were thinking since Willowdale is right next to Naples… right on the ocean… You know, with Naples getting so overcrowded...”

She smiles at me again, absorbing the information without needing to form an opinion, just naturally creating the kind of receptive listener people love to be around.

“Dusty, do you want a job?” I blurt out suddenly.

She looks around, up one side of the sidewalk and then down to the other. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she blinks several times and purses her lips.

“Hell, yes, I want a job. Mr. Tandy thinks he’s gonna marry me off to his son.”

I use this as my chance to back away. “Okay! I’ll be back!” I explain loudly as I hustle down the sidewalk. “You’re gonna be great!”

She waves at me with her fingertips as I rush away, her expression totally trusting and pleasant.

That’s right, because I’m the boss, I tell myself. I’m getting stuff done. I’m making things happen.

* * *

The front porch door closes with a bang as my mother runs across the porch toward me, her arms flung out wide. I brace myself for impact and can’t help smiling as she hurls herself toward me, capturing me in a sweaty, enthusiastic, heartfelt hug.

“What? You’re here? What is going on?” she babbles, her face buried against my neck.

Immediately she starts dragging me toward the house, like she’s afraid I am going to get away.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I chuckle, swept up in her enthusiasm. “You’re going to trip me, Ma.”

“Oh, I forget you New Yorkers expect to have space,” she sighs dramatically as she untangles her body from mine. “I knew you would forget where you came from, Joanna. I just knew it.”

My eyes sweep back and forth over the wide lawn, the queen palms mixed in with the old oak tree bringing back lots of memories. I know it’s only been four, almost five years, but everything seems bigger.

“I’m not a New Yorker,” I object automatically, although I suspect I kind of am. I certainly have been trying nonstop to be one.

“No, you’re not,” she agrees, punctuating her words by lightly slapping the back of my hand that she refuses to let go of. “And you’re here! How are you here?!”

We walk up the wide front steps and onto the front porch and I automatically breathe in deep, filling myself with this familiar old scent. The cedar, the palms, the breeze from the Gulf. Something changes in me right here, I can feel it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” I explain in a hurry. “I didn’t mean to just spring this on you.”

She drags me back toward the kitchen, pointing toward a stool by the counter for me to sit on while she goes through the ritual of bringing out a couple of jelly jar glasses and a pitcher of sweet tea. She presses the cool glass into my palm, her eyes bright with moisture that she blinks away, shrugging apologetically.

“I’m just so happy to see you,” she half whispers in a hurry.

“Aw, Ma, I’m happy to see you too,” I confess.

I feel guilt lapping at the edges of me like floodwaters that want to get in. But I don’t have time for guilt right now. It’ll come later, I know it, but right now I have a mission.

“So what’s the story, morning glory?”

I take a sip of the tea, trying to organize my thoughts. The taste is welcome and refreshing, just like I remember it.

“Well, this is all kind of all screwed up, to be honest. I think I really need your help.”

Her eyebrows go up and she pushes her wild red hair, now shot through with streaks of equally wild silver, behind her ears. Her people are Scottish, stocky and sturdy, pretty and optimistic with flaming red hair. I’m glad those are the things that I picked up from her.

“Anything you need,” she explains to me as she wedges her wide bottom on the other kitchen stool.

“Well… This was all supposed to be Didi’s job. Our boss, Martha, wants to open a gallery in the old hat shop.”

“The old hat shop... Wait, Phyllis’s place? Why, nothing has been in there for years! Gee, it has to be like ten years at least, far as I remember.”

“Yeah, and it smells like it,” I remark sourly.

“Well, you can handle that!” she shrugs, grinning proudly. “They definitely sent the right lady to do the job.”

I place the glass carefully on the counter. “In… nine days?”

She swallows and flares her nostrils. “Nine days for what?” she asks cautiously.

“Well, Didi… she sort of… dropped the ball,” I explain in a rush. “I need the place turned over in nine days, so I can have a big grand opening on the tenth day.”

Mom opens her mouth, then closes it, then raises her eyes to the ceiling and takes a deep breath to suppress what I’m sure is explosive laughter.

“So you’re telling me Didi has not changed?”

I find myself almost laughing too. It’s nice to know that somebody in this world understands what I’m going through.

“Not one little bit!”

“It’s nice to know some things are so reliable! How many times did you have to do her homework for her?”

“Oh jeez,” I sigh. “More than I could count. How did you even know that? I don’t think Didi’s mom ever figured it out.”

Mom purses her lips. “Hmm, I guess she had a lot else on her mind,” she mutters guiltily. “You heard she’s at Harbor Oaks now?”

My eyes go wide. “What?” I gasp. “Holy shit!”

“Joanna!” she barks, aghast.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble, blushing. “I forgot we don’t say those words down here.”

“You’ll just have to leave your Manhattan manners behind, okay?” she scolds me.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” I apologize again. “So… what happened?”

“She just went to rehab and I guess she liked it so much she decided to retire there.”

“Wait… are you joking? I don’t know if that’s funny.”

“I’m being totally serious!” Mom laughs. “She went to rehab after a little fender bender, got out, and decided she liked it better in there, so she checked herself back in. She likes the view. And she likes the food. She never could cook!”

“Oh my God, you are right about the cooking. She was good with a can opener though.”

“Well I guess everybody has a skill,” Mom sniffs. “Anyway, I can’t really judge. I’m glad she’s not alone, right?”

“Long as she’s happy, that’s all that matters.”

Heavy heels on the front porch are followed by the banging of the screen door. In moments my father appears in the doorway, filling it entirely. He looks at both of us, scowling in surprise.

“What are we smiling about?” he asks slowly and carefully.

“Look who’s here!” my mom hoots in response as he crosses the room toward her. “It’s our beautiful daughter, with an impossible project!”

“Now, Maude,” he fusses, burying his lips on the top of her head, “you know nothing is impossible.”

“That’s what I was hoping you would say!” I announce as I leap from the barstool and rush toward him.

My dad opens his arms to catch me, holding me tight like he used to do when I was little. I used to think he was as big as a house, taller than the shed. Even since I’ve grown up, he still feels that way to me. I inhale the smell of sawdust and sweat from his work shirt with relish.

“Whatever you need, baby girl,” he promises me as he swings me back and forth.

Reluctantly, I let him set me down and back away, shrugging. I don’t want this moment to end, even though I put it off for so long. It really is nice to be home. But the overwhelming urgency to get started is impossible for me to ignore.

“You remember the hat shop?”

He nods. “Of course I do. What about it?”

“I need to turn it into an art gallery in nine days.”

He purses his lips. “Square footage?”

“Figure twenty-five hundred.”

He scrubs his wide palm over his face, a gesture I have seen thousand times.

“Yeah, sure. We can do that.”

My mom gathers him in a grateful squeeze.

“My hero!” she exclaims.

“Yeah, you guys are pretty okay,” I smile, watching them embrace each other so naturally, so affectionately.

Again, guilt tries to get in, but I just won’t let it. Have I really been away this long?

“You’ll stay here? With us?” my mom asks hopefully.

“Actually…” I begin carefully, “the cabin? Do you think I could—”

“Oh!” my mom immediately gasps. “My my, of course! It would be nice to get it cleaned up anyway. You haven’t been there in years!”

The cabin is just another tiny house, actually my parents’ first house. It’s only three rooms at the end of one of the few streets in town. It’s where the sidewalk literally ends, just a simple A-frame house that sits on a hill and looks out over the ocean.

We used to go there on vacations when I was a kid, even though it’s really only a few blocks away from here. They just couldn’t let it go for sentimental reasons, even after my dad built this place.

“I really glad you’re home,” my mom whispers, choking back tears.

“Me too,” I answer honestly, though I really shouldn’t tell her it’s only for a few more days.

“Well, get your butt in the truck,” Dad smiles. “Let’s get to work.”