In my previous life at Precision Machine, I used to hate Mondays. That sick Sunday-night feeling would slither into my belly like I was a school kid coming off Christmas vacation. But now, with my own business, I literally can’t wait to go downstairs and start the coffee, put on the music, and greet the customers. I love that I’ve developed regulars...the elderly woman with thick, flowing white hair who sits with her book of Sudoku and likes her marbled rye bagel lightly toasted with scallion cream cheese. The attractively-nerdy college age dude who stumbles in bleary-eyed and half-awake on weekday mornings to order a large Schooner blend. And my favorite, the sweet, elderly couple who come in every Sunday morning at ten a.m. sharp—Lawrence and Betty. They are always nicely dressed: Lawrence in a plaid shirt buttoned to the top and tan pants, his sparse hair neatly combed, and his wife in a pastel blouse and floral skirt with her hair curled around her face. They enter the café the same way, with him slightly hunched over to be nearer her height and with her arm tucked in his. Each time they come in, Betty reacts in exactly the same way: Oh, Lawrence—it smells so delicious in here! And Lawrence will smile and nod, often pointing out the new local artwork I have displayed. It took me a couple of their visits to realize that Betty must have Alzheimer’s, or something similar. There is a vacant expression at times in her eyes, but there is deep love in his. He reads the newspaper to her while they sip their Longfellow Blend coffees and share a muffin, usually raspberry. On the way out, Lawrence always makes sure to tell me my food is “first rate” and my service “top-notch.” I watch them leave, my throat feeling thick and a stinging behind my eyes at how lovely and loving they are.
I think of how I want a lovely, loving relationship. Correction: how I want my lovely, loving relationship to continue.
I haven’t allowed myself to go down that road of imagining any sort of future with Damon. In fact, up until Saturday night, I was planning to put the brakes on once again, even though I dreaded the idea. But after Amanda’s surprise announcement about Portia, and seeing how confident Damon was about his mother accepting our relationship...it’s made me more optimistic than I’ve ever been.
So optimistic, that when the bells on my door jingle just before closing time and in walks Gloria Cavanaugh, the flutter of initial trepidation gives way to hopefulness about the reason she’s here.
She’s looking amazingly cool on this hot, humid day in a sleeveless periwinkle blouse, cream-colored, tailored pants and ivory pumps. I suddenly remember the splotch of whoopie pie filling on me and slip off my apron self-consciously, stepping behind the counter for protection.
The counter that her son fucked me on. This brings me a measure of comfort and victory.
Gloria’s aristocratic nostrils widen slightly, like she’s caught a whiff of something unpleasant. I can’t help but flash back to Betty saying, Oh, Lawrence—it smells so delicious in here! and realize there could not be two more opposite people in the world than Betty and the woman standing before me right now. I marvel at Gloria’s facial structure, her fine bones and contoured makeup. I see a hint of Damon in her face and wish I could unsee it, because I don’t want to associate her with him. I am grudgingly impressed that this woman’s bun is perfect, with not a strand of hair out of place.
Except the one across her ass.
She’s not saying anything, and it’s freaking me out. “Hi, Gloria,” I begin. “How are you?”
“If you have a Closed sign to put on the door, I suggest you do it. I don’t want to be interrupted.”
So apparently, she’s not here for an iced latte. That hopefulness I felt before? Gone.
It strikes me that I should be pissed off she’s telling me what to do, because this is my turf. My life. Yet here I am, walking obediently to the door to do what she says, returning to stand next to the end of the counter. The naughty end.
“I’ll be brief. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear that Damon told me about Portia’s...news. It doesn’t change the way I view her, and it certainly doesn’t change the way I view you.” She takes a step closer to me. I don’t move. “You’ve heard me say it before, and I’ll say it again—I don’t consider you a suitable match for my son. I don’t expect you to understand, given your social status, but there must be certain expectations met in order to become involved with a Cavanaugh. My son is clearly blinded by your looks, and whatever else it is you do for him.” Her nostrils enlarge again as her upper lip twitches. “You are both too young to understand that it can’t just be about attraction, or emotion, which is why I’m stepping in to put a stop to this.”
Gloria’s voice is harsh, steely, and vehement.
I feel myself start to shrink.
“I’m leaving the country tomorrow, but when I return in ten days, I expect you will have ended the relationship. And just to make myself perfectly clear about how dead serious I am, Delaney...if you disregard what I’m saying and continue to see my son, I’ll dismiss him from the company and cut off his inheritance.”
Dread seeps into my veins, clogging my senses and rooting me to the floor. If I was ever questioning the chances of Damon’s and my relationship working, Gloria has just provided the answer. I can’t let her ruin Damon’s career and future.
But I’m not going to let her walk out of here having the last word.
“You don’t need to say any more, Gloria,” I tell her. I am shaking—fucking hate myself for it, but I can’t stop, my feelings are so strong. “I care too much about Damon to jeopardize his future. So you’ve won. I’ll be out of his life, but before I go, there are a few things that need to be said, from me to you.” I swallow. I’m dangerously close to tears, and I reach down deep inside myself to grab the pride that’s cowering in the corner. I will not fucking bawl in front of Gloria Cavanaugh. “You asked me the first night I met you to tell you what I like about your son. Now that I know him much better, I can add to that list.”
I take a deep, shuddery breath, because I know that bringing all his attributes to light is going to make it that much harder to leave him. “Damon is one of the most caring people I know. You probably aren’t even aware that he loves animals and recently adopted the sweetest senior shelter dog. It’s been wonderful, seeing the bond between the two of them, and how much Damon loves him. He’s been so kind and patient with me, because I had some—something happen in the past, and he didn’t push but instead helped me work through it. I hadn’t been able to overcome my insecurities before him, and I’ll always be grateful to him for that. Damon is also very thoughtful—that antique sign out front? He got that for me as a surprise when I opened my café. He wants me to be successful as much as I do. He’s happiest when I’m happy.”
Gloria’s perfectly-plucked eyebrows are pulling together. She is completely silent, completely still, while my emotions are battering me like tidal waves tossing a canoe. I’m fighting like crazy to keep from falling apart, because the last thing I said grabs at my heart: He’s happiest when I’m happy. A single traitorous tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away savagely and continue. “I like how Damon fits in so well with my friends—you’d never know he was wealthy, because he doesn’t flaunt it. He’s tender and sweet and sensitive, and he makes me laugh—so much. He’s clever and witty—no one has ever made me laugh like he has.”
No one has ever made me feel like he has.
“I see all of those things, but you’ve been so fucking controlling and angry, you haven’t. I don’t know why you’re such a bitter woman when you have so much, and when you have such a wonderful son. I am going to lose him, but you don’t have to.”
Gloria’s painted mouth opens slightly. She looks like she’s going to snarl, but she doesn’t make a sound. I can see her sapphire drop earrings vibrating. Her face is a battleground of emotions—outrage, disdain, self-righteousness, and something I can’t identify.
There is a raw, throbbing ache ravaging the inside of me. I need to be done with this. “You may be powerful in your world, Gloria, but I’m not going to let you be powerful in mine any longer. Get out.”
She regards me for a few seconds, like a cat might look after it’s become bored playing with a mouse. Then she raises her chin, turns and walks out the door, the bells on the door jingling merrily.
Now, I can cry. I may have won that last battle, but it’s the hollowest of victories, because I lost the war.
I lost Damon.