Chapter 34: The beginnings of a backbone.
A text from Dutch appears on my phone screen when I’m almost back to Soul Mountain.
Sorry. I was out of line
it reads.
“Goddamned straight you were,” I mutter, but I don’t slide the message to reply because, you know, texting and driving and all that shit. Besides, I’d rather make her stew on it a while.
In all, it’s very typical Dutch behavior. When she gets freaked out about something, especially if said “something” might be just a teensy-weensy bit her fault, she tends to revert to blaming other people. I’m not angry about it, not really. It’s just Dutch. Just like running off to the basketball court until I calm back down is just me.
The good thing about Dutch is that, while most of the time she’s high-strung and loud-mouthed and bossy like our mother, she has just enough of our father in her that she can eventually be made to see reason. Which is why I’ll be able to get her to hear out my plan.
I get another text right as I’m walking into the restaurant, this one from Amy.
Dammit. I cracked my coffee grinder.
It’s pretty much useless now.
#1stworldproblems
I grin like a giddy schoolgirl, because it’s the first time Amy’s texted me something like this. And by “something like this,” I mean the kind of silly, mundane little details of daily life that friends and significant others send to each other. They are the details that, in and of themselves, don’t carry any weight, but when taken as a whole, form the glue that binds two people’s lives together.
I know it sounds like a minor fucking thing, but the text about the cracked coffee grinder lights me up from the inside out, like it’s the best news I’ve heard all day. And given how my day has played out so far, it’s kind of true.
You traveled all the way from Europe
with your own coffee grinder?
I text back.
Doesn’t everyone?
Amy asks.
Umm… no.
Why are you making coffee now? It’s
almost 5. You won’t sleep 2nite.
I’m hoping I won’t. ;-)
The grin on my face gets a little bigger as I shoulder open the door into the foyer. Just to mess with her, I write:
Cuz you have big plans to help Grace
decorate the church until the wee hours
of the morning?
No. Try again.
Cuz you have a work conference call
that starts at 5am GMT?
Work? You blaspheme.
I laugh to myself. Katie, the teenage hostess, is standing behind the podium when I walk in, a spray bottle in one hand and a damp, white-grey rag in the other. I lift a hand in greeting.
“What do you think?” I ask her. “We gonna have another busy night tonight?”
She blows out a breath between pursed lips. “I hope not. You missed it last night. We literally had forty-minute wait times at one point.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What was the problem?”
She shrugs. “Nothing. We were just really, really busy. People kept coming and coming. Gerry had to call your dad in to come help. And even with your Dad and Becker both on hot prep, it was still slammed until almost closing time.”
I wince inwardly, guilt flashing briefly through my chest. I’d come back to Ohio to help, but I’d spent the busiest night of the restaurant week getting my rocks off at Grace Adler’s bachelorette party.
My phone dings, and I glance down at it.
I should probably hang onto that guilt, but it gets slippery when I see Amy’s text, which reads:
Should I come by around 10 ish?
Sounds good.
Course, I might be tired at 10.
I insert a sleepy-face emoji, followed by a wink.
I’m sure I can find a way to wake you up.
By which I mean I’ll grab a coffee for you
on my way. :-)
Like I said before. You’re a tease.
She replies with a winking emoji.
Gotta run. Seeya in a few hours.
Oh hey — are you any good with
business plans?
Business plans?
You sure know the way to a girl’s heart.
It’s a long story. Maybe we can talk
about it when you get here?
’K
I hesitate a moment, and reply with a heart and kissy face emoji. Amy replies with a heart of her own, and I chuckle at the two of us, because we’re both acting like a couple of sappy fucking teenage girls.
I head to the office. After I tie my apron on, I fire off a string of text messages to various people.
(1) To Dutch: Yes. You were out of line. But I know I haven’t exactly been the best sister in a while, either. I’m trying to change that. I swear that’s why I’m here.
(2) To my property manager in Phoenix: Pls call me on Monday when you get a chance. Something important to discuss.
(3) To Jenny: Can we meet on Monday? There’s something I need to talk to you about.
I’m finger-combing damp hair into a fresh pony tail when my phone dings with the first reply. I’m expecting Dutch but get Jenny, instead.
What if I just come by tonight?
she says.
Maybe around the time you guys close.
The kids will be asleep by then. I can slip
out for a few.
I shake my head, despite the fact that she can’t see me do it, and pick up my phone from the desk, thumbs hovering above the keys. Even if it weren’t for the fact that Amy’s supposed to be by tonight at closing, I still wouldn’t want Jenny coming by. She probably thinks it has something to do with what she said to me at the cabin the night before, and that’s not the impression I want to give her.
Not tonight. Monday works.
Will you be at Grace’s wedding
tomorrow? We could talk then.
Shit. I hadn’t really thought about the fact that she’ll be at the wedding tomorrow.
Yes, but I don’t want to talk there.
Monday.
Okay then. Monday.
See you at the wedding. :-)
I don’t reply.
The janitor who lives inside my brain strolls down an interior corridor, pushing a cart overflowing with cleaning supplies and whistling Celine Dion under her breath.
“That’s a lot of spray bottles and mop heads and paper towels,” I remark. “What’s it all for?”
“Oh, this?” she asks, waving a hand at her cart of supplies. “It’s for the inevitable mess you’re going to make at that wedding tomorrow.”
“Mess? Why do you think the wedding’s going to lead to a mess?”
She shrugs instead of replying, goes back to whistling and pushing her cart.
#
After exchanging a few texts towards the end of our busy Saturday night, Amy arrives at Soul Mountain at ten-thirty on the dot. I give her a light squeeze and drop a kiss onto her cheek when she walks through the door.
Her lips twitch up into a shy smile, the one that always surprises me and makes my heart skip a beat when it appears. Usually, Amy’s so carefully badass — all shrewd intelligence and calculation mixed with just the right amount of aloof sarcasm. I haven’t told her so yet, but as much as I like Badass Amy, I think I like Shy Amy even better. There’s something about Shy Amy that’s endearing, and when she shows up, I get this feeling like I’ve stumbled through a gate and into a secret garden, saturated with bright flowers and babbling water.
She looks me up and down, shy smile fading fast. “You look exhausted.”
The words trigger an automatic reliving of my day, from the goodbye kiss I gave her this morning at the lakeside cabin, to my frank talk with Alex and Graham about my love life, to fighting with Dutch, hearing Gerry’s speech, playing basketball for an hour, working through the dinner rush.
I shrug. “It’s been a long day.”
“Tell me about it over a drink?”
“Absolutely. But I need to help Gerry finish closing first.”
Amy refuses my suggestion that she sit down and relax while we finish up odds and ends in the kitchen. She jumps in the way she did before, first helping Katie and Kiersten to clean the dining room, then tying on a full-length apron and snapping on yellow rubber gloves to help with the dishes. She speaks to Emir in easy, fluent Spanish as they scrub pots together; she trades good-natured barbs with Becker over her shoulder. All in all, it’s hard for me to focus on what I’m supposed to be doing because I’m having so much fun watching her.
“I like this one,” Becker tells me with a grin when I’m pulling out the trash bag on the hot prep side of the kitchen. “She’s got more backbone than the other one.”
He doesn’t need to explain who he means by “the other one,” nor do I need to ask.
“You might be right,” I say.
“Oh, I know I’m right.” He winks at me.