Chapter Four

 

JESSIE

 

I arrive at Mr. and Mrs. Parkers’ home in the mid-afternoon. My new boss put me in touch with them after learning they were looking to rent out one of their townhouses. I’ve spoken with Rose several times arranging my arrival, and she seems even nicer in person when she meets me at the door of their family home.

“Oh, Jessie!” She drapes her arms around my shoulders, squeezing me like a long lost relative. She smells like a grandma, a blend of sweet perfume and fresh baked cookies.

“Hi, Mrs. Rose,” I sing like a child.

“We’re so glad you made it safely,” says Mr. Parker, who has asked me to call him Thomas, but it seems a bit too informal for a man of his stature. He stands at least six foot, five inches, and his perfect posture makes him appear even taller. He’s got the type of stance that lets you know he was in the military for an extended period at some point in his life.

“Thank you so much,” I smile so deeply my jaws hurt while following them into their living room.

 

“We’ve just got to have you sign the lease, darling,” Mrs. Rose explains, motioning towards the coffee table, which has documents spread about with little yellow arrow shaped stickers marking where I should sign.

“Thank you for preparing this all for me,” I settle into the floral loveseat, which reminds me of the home I left behind.

“Here’s a pen, dear,” Mr. Parker extends a clear plastic Bic pen towards me and I smile while accepting it.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t send it to you over in California,” Mrs. Rose begins in her deep accent that sounds very country to me. “We were trying to scan it on a computer down at the shop, and they said you could sign it and even scan it back to us,” she explains like she’s describing how a flying car functions.

“Oh, this is just fine,” I assure her while reading through the short contract before signing and initialing where necessary. “And there you are,” I gather up all the papers and hand them to Mrs. Rose, who then hands them to her husband.

“Let’s have some tea,” she excitedly suggests and I follow her into the kitchen as she prepares a pot of Earl Grey tea, my favorite.

Taking in her home, I’m a bit shocked by how many knickknacks she has tucked away in her kitchen. I imagine they must have lived here for decades; it’s such a cozy space. Most homes in LA are modern and over-designed, nothing like this.

When she finally brings the tea to the table, I’m entranced by the colorful tea pot, which she informs me was hand-painted by a local artist at a craft show many moons ago.

“So why don’t you have a boyfriend?” Mrs. Rose asks out of the blue, causing me to choke on my tea as she giggles like a school girl.

“Well, ummm,” I stammer, completely caught off guard by her prying. When she bats her eyes, I know she won’t let me off without answering, so I just tell the truth. “My fiancé and I called off our wedding a few months back and I’ve just been trying to figure it all out.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” she nods her head as if putting together a mental puzzle piece.

“How so?” I ask, sipping my tea and she looks shocked as if I wasn’t supposed to hear her admission. Choosing to now put her in the hot seat, I stare on in anticipation as she twists her lips in embarrassment.

“Well, you know, when I talked to you on the phone I figured you must be a bit frumpy or boring, you know, coming from Hollywood on out here to Danville. I expected someone older, or maybe wider, or even a little less pretty,” she goes on and I feel myself begin to blush.

“Don’t get all bashful on me, you know you’re as cute as a button! When you showed up at our door I was a little shocked. But now it makes sense, you’ve gotten your heart broken and you needed to regroup. Well, I’ll tell you, you’ve come to the perfect place because there ain’t much more for a young person to do in a place like this,” she giggles before sipping her tea.

We chat for a few more minutes before she invites me out to see her garden, which is impeccable. There’s an assortment of flowers and an entire bed of herbs, which I’m sure she cooks with regularly. As we make our way to the back of the garden, that childlike giggle escapes her once more as she introduces me to her beloved rose garden, which Mr. Parker surprised her with one spring. She’s built the entire backyard around it, with a rock path leading on to a small pond at the furthest point of the yard.

Mrs. Rose tells me all about her and Mr. Parker, who have been married for 44-years. With immense pride, she recounts their wedding story in great detail as I smile on in admiration. Together they have two daughters, who’ve each moved on to ‘the big city’, as she puts it. When I later allude to their living in New York she appears to have no idea where I’ve gotten that notion while correcting me. They live in Louisville; and I’m reminded just how small Danville is for a city I’ve never heard of to be so openly referred to as ‘the big city’.

Just when we’ve worked our way back to the front of the garden, I see movement in the living room, but it’s too swift to be Mr. Parker. Squinting, I get a glimpse of a slight smirk and instantly recognize that well defined jawline, it’s Daryl from the repair shop.

“Mrs. Rose,” I gather her attention as she picks around in her herb garden. “That man inside; what do you know about him?”

She looks up to the large glass window and a smile spreads across her face. “Oh, that’s Daryl,” she beams glancing over in my direction.

“Yes, I met him at the repair shop yesterday. He helped me to my hotel, but he seemed a bit… I don’t know, reserved?” I struggle not to offend her in case he’s her relative.

“Oh, Daryl is a good guy. As sweet as apple pie! He comes by and just helps out. I think he must have brought my groceries by. I usually pick them up in the evening, but if he sees an order for me while he’s shopping he’ll just bring them by. He’s handy too, he can fix anything,” she waves up at the house and he waves back before catching a glimpse of me, his smile fading into a frown. I wave quickly and return my attention to Mrs. Rose who seems oblivious to the awkward exchange.

“Yeah, I saw him fixing an old motorcycle,” I reveal and she shakes her head as if I’ve got it mixed up.

“No, I mean he can fix things around the house. You know, if the refrigerator is broken or something like that. Now, what he does with those motorcycles is a whole ‘nother thing! He’s been fixing them since he was a little bitty thing, ya know. He can take spare parts and build a whole bike from scratch!” She snaps her fingers as she speaks the last word.

When I don’t find the words to respond her eyebrows rise like a lightbulb has gone off in her head. “I can introduce you,” she smirks and I quickly shake my head.

“No, no, we’ve already met. I was just curious about him,” I hold my hands up in surrender.

“Well, he’s a great guy. Soft spoken, but he’s just the kindest young man. If my girls were still here, I’d play matchmaker,” she teases before giggling again.

After thanking her for all of her help we head back inside and I find myself hoping that Daryl will pop out from around a corner, but he never does. Maybe he bolted when he saw I was there, I can’t be sure. The town is too small not to see him again, hell as it seems it’s too small not to see him every day. Mrs. Rose kisses both of my cheeks after Mr. Parker gives me to keys to my new home, which I move into tomorrow morning.

The next day I wake late again. After checking out of McClarens Inn, I decide to venture out. Stepping into the summer air, I feel it’s time for a big lunch. So I decide to walk over to Donna’s Diner, denying that I’m hoping to catch another glimpse of Daryl in the process.

When I finally make it into the diner I’m drenched in sweat, clearly underestimating the Midwest humidity. There are a few patrons scattered throughout the small diner, and a red headed waitress calls out to me from the bar seating, encouraging me to sit anywhere. Hoping it’s not rude, I opt for a small booth in the corner of the diner, which allows me to people watch in the new town that’s fascinating me more and more with each passing day.

There’s a menu tucked behind the salt and pepper holder at the edge of the table and the first thing I see when I flip it open is a picture of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. My mouth waters looking at the picture, so when the red head arrives at my table, I’m praying they’re still serving breakfast.

“Is it too late to order pancakes?” I worry aloud and she pops her chewing gum while scrunching her pudgy nose in confusion.

“Whatchu mean is it too late?” She asks in the thickest accent I’ve ever heard in real life. She sounds like a character from a movie or something.

“Are you still serving breakfast?” I clarify, and her face relaxes as if I’m finally speaking her language.

“Baby girl, you can order anything on that menu at any time. Gary gonna make what you fixin’ to have. So, is it pancakes?” She asks with a hand on her hip.

“Yes, please,” I smile and hand her the menu.

“Just put that back there,” she points to the salt and pepper holder before adding, “I’m gon’ have him make you the works, honey.”

Roxanne, which I don’t entirely think is her real name, has really relaxed me, so by the time she brings me a mug of coffee I feel at home in the small diner. There are two graying old men sitting in a booth together, as well as a younger couple sitting at the bar. Just when Roxanne brings my huge breakfast a small family of four walks in and takes the booth two tables in front of me.

Looking over my plate I think my belly just might be as big as my eyes today. There’s a stack of three buttermilk pancakes on one plate, a big square of butter melting away at the top. On another plate there’s three fried eggs, hash browns, and five strips of bacon. Moving from one plate to the next, I tear through the food like I haven’t eaten in weeks. Roxanne doubles over in laughter because I’m unable to speak due to a mouthful of food when she returns to refill my coffee.

After fixing my second cup of coffee just the way I like, with a little cream and a lot of sugar, two more groups of people come into the diner and I begin to wonder if it’s a late lunch rush, hoping I can finish before all of the booths are taken. The last thing I want is to be the solo person in a booth while a group is forced to sit at the bar.

“Don’t go rushing, they’ll be just fine,” Roxanne scolds me when she sees me trying to scarf the rest of my breakfast down.

“Aww shit!” She grumbles looking out the windows that line the diner.

“What’s wrong?” I ask while following her eyes to the parking lot.

A stream of motorcycles pull into the lot, revving their engines loudly to announce themselves before each stepping off their bike with that rebellious arrogance the gang members in LA wear with pride.

“The gotdamn Marauders,” Roxanne grumbles and then turns, returning to the kitchen before I can respond.

Unsure of what she meant, I look between the black leather clad group and see ‘Danville Marauders” written in white on the back of one middle aged man’s jacket. As they assemble outside, the mother in the small family sitting close to me begins to rush her children, anxious to leave.

“Come on, Danny! Eat up or we can take it home,” she urges the young boy and I’m upset by her need to escape. Everything was going so perfect in the diner and now the tension is so thick you could cut it.

The door swings open and a buff guy walks in wearing a military buzz cut, a leather jacket over a white t-shirt, and destroyed denim jeans. He’s sporting a mischievous smile and Roxanne looks anything but happy to see him.

“Red!” He yells, raising his arms in the air. “I’m back, baby!” He says in a joking tone and I watch as she rolls her eyes in his direction. About eight guys follow him in, all looking a bit menacing and intimidating. The mom again tries to rush her son and this time he throws a fit, wailing in frustration.

“Hey! Shut that kid up!” The leader yells and all of the other men laugh like it was the funniest joke in the world. The mother looks absolutely horrified as she scrambles to throw some money on the table and rush from her booth.

 

“Caleb, don’t yell at the baby!” Roxanne sneers at the leader and I make a mental note of his name; Caleb.

“Well, if Josie would just invite me over while Gabe is at work, I could teach that boy some manners,” says Caleb while glancing in the mother’s direction before puckering his lips. The disgust is apparent on her face is saddening.

“Go ahead, Josie! I’ll get it later,” Roxanne waves her on as she tries to escape the humiliation, the entire crew laughing and watching her scramble out of the door.

Following her with my eyes, I see the door open before she gets there, though I can’t see who is outside holding it for her. She looks happy and relieved to see whoever it is, so I assume that’s a good thing. Once she finally makes her way out I stare waiting to see who walks through.