Chapter 5
Vivian
I jot down quick notes on my inventory sheet as I go around opening and closing the cupboards.
We’re gonna need to order medium coffee cups and wooden stir sticks...
The iced espressos aren’t selling at all so we might as well discontinue that order…
We need some more cupcake wrappers…
The clock on the wall tells me that it’s only 11:07. This day has been dragging on. A lethargic older couple sits by the front window enjoying their vanilla cupcakes. A young mother is in the corner struggling to keep her active toddler entertained while she breastfeeds her newborn. At the back, there’s a bunch of giggly teens who are obviously skipping school to hang out here. Nothing out of the ordinary. Aside from the loud, thumping music next door, it’s been a pretty uneventful morning…
Until Ernie has the nerve to come strolling through the front door. His Barbie doll of a wife clings to his arm like Saran wrap and I'm pretty sure that their trio of handsome, well-adjusted, private-school-uniform-wearing sons are battery-operated. It’s physiologically impossible for three-year-old boys to naturally be that put-together and well-behaved.
Mandy pauses and looks around the bakery with judgemental eyes before approaching the counter with a phony smile. She is—as always—the epitome of the upper middle class suburban housewife/stay-at-home mom, looking effortlessly posh and well-rested like she just got back from a spa getaway with her girlfriends. “Good morning, Vivian. Congrats on your reopening. I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s a bit garage sale chic for my taste but it’s obvious that your budget was tight and you made the most of what you had.” She gives an elegant, sedate fist pump. “Go, you!”
I blink at her uncomprehendingly. “Rustic-traditional is the look we were going for...”
“In any case, would you mind pointing us in the direction of the washrooms?” Ernie stands in her shadow, completely mute. Of course.
Ernie is not allowed to speak in my presence. Or so it seems. Not that I object, really, because every word that comes out of his mouth, I’m strongly tempted to shove it right back in.
I point toward the huge sign three feet away that clearly says ‘Washrooms.’ “Right around the corner,” I say with a gracious smile.
She throws Ernie a fleeting glance. “Down that way.” She snaps her fingers and shoos him away impatiently. “Take the boys with you. And remember—we wipe from front to back, front to back.”
My ex gives me a longing stare and mumbles, “They’re boys. It doesn’t matter which way they wipe.” Luckily his ultra-controlling wife doesn’t hear his quiet rebellion. He meekly herds his little lambs toward the toilet.
That’s what he gets.
Mandy watches them hawkishly until they disappear around the corner. Then, she turns back to me, and as usual, she goes out of her way to remind me that, in the battle over Ernie's heart, she took home the prize. “Sorry,” she says disingenuously. “You remind them a million times to use the bathroom before leaving home. Yet they need to pee the minute you get in the car. Is that all men, or is it just my husband?”
Her husband...
Ernie was supposed to be my husband. We dated all throughout high school. After graduation, as we went our separate ways to college, he made me promise that I’d wait for him. I held up my end of the deal, remaining faithful as I worked on my business degree at Reyfield Community.
But when he came back to town after nabbing his bachelor’s in finance from some university in Canada, he came back with a wife. A pregnant wife.
I was heartbroken and furious. The man had shattered my world, but when I confronted him about it, all I got by way of explanation was an "Oops! Sorry..." Like he had done something innocuous, like clumsily spilling some coffee on my running shoes or bumping into me at low speed while hastily turning a street corner.
I haven't dated very much since the breakup and my sex life has been non-existent. It's not like I'm jaded or anything. And I'm definitely not pining away over Ernie. It's just that finding someone I'm compatible with is hard. So whenever I see Ernie’s family, all pretty and glossy with their color-coordinated ensembles and their well-managed social calendar, like a walking advertisement for the American Dream, I feel a jealous pang in my gut. Karma is seriously asleep at the wheel.
Mandy daintily snaps open her designer purse and I can’t help but take a quick peek inside to see if that’s where she’s stashed Ernie’s balls.
Oh, there they are!
She pulls out her hand mirror and checks her makeup before carefully re-arranging her sleek blonde hair. The front door opens and her eyes move that way. They light up with counterfeit glee as Ernie’s parents walk in. “Norman! Blythe!” She makes a huge show of rushing over to greet them and give them hugs. She rambles to her in-laws as they move toward me at the counter. The pastor and his wife greet me warmly, sort of shrugging off their pretentious daughter-in-law.
At the brush-off, Mandy harrumphs like a child. “I need five water bottles,” she spits out in my direction. “Caps off. Room temperature.” Without waiting for a response, she heads off to the table where Ernie is getting the kids all settled in. “And no straws or paper cups,” she calls over her shoulder. “Those are bad for the planet.”
Yes—the woman comes to a cupcake shop and orders water. Only water. All the time. I swear the only reason she shows up is to rub her wedded bliss in my face.
Blythe cuts her eyes at Mandy’s back. “I still say that boy should have married you,” she tells me. “Instead of that high-maintenance, low-utility woman.”
Norman whispers out the side of a tight smile. “Honey, we talked about this. You promised you’d stop saying those unchristian things about Mandy.” He tilts his head, motioning at his grandkids. “For the sake of the children.”
“It would be unchristian to lie about the way I feel,” she grumbles. “The girl served us luncheon meat the last time we went over for dinner. Luncheon meat! Can you believe that?”
“Blythe…” he says in warning.
She adjusts the collar of her peach blazer with a firm tug. “It’s not like I’m spilling some big, dark Becker family secret,” she whines and throws her husband a wry look. Shaking his head, he looks away.
I do my best to assure her that I’m fine. “I’m over it, Mrs. Becker. Really. The ship has sailed.”
Blythe sighs sadly. “Oh honey, my poor Ernie’s a write-off. I’d offer you another of my sons but that might be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it?”
That causes me to laugh. She may have devoted her life to serving god and her husband but the woman sure does have a snarky sense of humor.
I really love Blythe and Norman. Ernie always was a bit of a douchebag. But his parents? His parents are lovely. They were, without a doubt, the best part of my relationship with their son. I mean it. They’re great people. They’ve run the local church and the associated women’s shelter for nearly 40 years. They’re so generous and kind. And in love.
It blows my mind that after two decades of marriage and four children, they’re still head over heels for each other. It shines through in the way they look at each other, the words they say about each other, the little identical smiles always painted on each of their faces. I think that their secret is that Blythe is so dedicated to serving her husband’s best interests and Norman devotes his life to being a strong leader, both in his family and in the community. They both stand for something.
I want to find a love like that one day. I spent a long time thinking that I’d have that with their son. I was sure that after Ernie got his degree and worked through his entitlement issues, we’d happily morph into a younger, hipper version of his parents. The prospect really excited me. But things didn’t work out that way. Instead Ernie ended up with a woman who takes pleasure in emasculating him and I ended up alone. I don’t know which of us fared better.
What’s done is done. I need to move on even though it still stings.
While three generations of Beckers enjoy ‘Family Day’, I grab a cup of hibiscus tea and leave Sadie to serve the other customers. I sneak off into the back office for a few minutes of reprieve. I close the door behind me and collapse against it. My eyes fall on the huge calendar hanging on the wall adjacent to the window. “My 30th birthday is close. Too close.”
The office chair spins around and Reese is slumped in the seat. "Oh, I've been counting the days!" she slurs.
Startled, I yelp. Her skin is green, her eyes are weak and she generally looks like something that crawled out of a manhole in a horror movie.
Don't get me wrong—my sister's a beauty, with her dark hair, her bold eyes and her smooth skin, but right now, she looks like she could use an IV drip and a double dose of vitamin D.
"My god, Reese. Are you okay?" I rush over to her side and press the back of my hand to her clammy forehead.
She waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, it's nothing."
"Um, you like a pack of vampires hunted you down, chased you ten blocks and drained your body of half its blood content." I blink several times as panic rises into my chest. "Oh god. Are you pregnant?"
She tries to roll her eyes but she's too bugged out to manage a full 360-degree rotation. She quits halfway through. "Would you stop asking me that every time I get a little sniffle? I'm not pregnant. I live with a preschooler who, in the past six weeks, has brought home every contagious disease known to man."
I grunt with relief. I'm a terrible person. I’ll admit it.
When we were growing up, grandma always told me I was supposed to lead the pack by example. I'm the oldest, after all. That's part of the reason why watching my siblings fall in love has been part exciting, part anxiety-inducing. I’m glad that they’re leading fulfilling lives but I don't want to see my siblings ride off into the sunset with their happily-ever-afters and leave me in the dust. I want my happy ending, too.
In any case, when my eyes fall to the screen of the computer on the desk in front of Reese, I see a shopping cart full of onesies and baby shoes and bouncers seats. She lied to me?! I plant a fist on my cocked hip and shoot her a deadly glare.
She pulls her credit card out of her wallet and giggles. "Oh relax. These are for Sophia." With a weak hand, she scrapes back a clump of matted hair from her forehead. "I figured a little pre-baby shower gifting would cheer her up."
I sit my bum on the edge of the desk and sip on my tea. "Is she still crying?" I ask and my heart twists up in my chest.
Reese nods somberly. "Pretty much all the time."
Sophia is one of my sister's best friends. A few months ago, she was living a fairytale. Engaged to one of Copper Heights’s most eligible bachelors and planning the wedding of the decade. Then, her fiancé unceremoniously stood her up at the alter in Las Vegas. Fast forward eight weeks later, she finds out she's pregnant. Understandably, she’s been a mess ever since.
My sister looks at me with weak eyes. "She’s so sad and depressed…I'm just scared I'll never get my friend back," she whispers.
I reach across the table and grab her hand in a show of support. "Oh hun..."
"Plus, I'm worried about the baby. It can't be healthy for Sophia to be so miserable while she's pregnant. If she doesn't start getting better soon, I won't have a choice, I'm gonna have to call Angie."
Angie is Sophia's sister. She’s just a year older. The girl is a whiz. She graduated from med school at Harvard—academic scholarships all the way—and just started her medical residency at a renowned private hospital in Seattle. She’s all focus and determination. I understand Reese's hesitancy to call and distract her from her life.
"Let me know what I can do to help, okay?" I offer.
My sister nods feebly as I slip off of the table. I drop onto the couch across the room and toe off my three-inch slingbacks, careful not to spill my drink. I stare at my feet and wiggle my achy toes.
Reese flops back in her chair, swiveling it from side to side. "So any special requests for your birthday?"
I groan. "My only request is that you pretend you have no idea it's my birthday."
"You know I can't do that, right? It's thirty. It's a big deal."
I hold out my hand in front of me and stare at it with undivided attention, watching for the slightest twitch or shake. "I'm actually praying that it's uneventful," I say quietly.
My sister gazes at me, and for a long time, she's silent. Then her voice comes out as a quivering whisper, "The chances are really low, Viv. Remember? We asked the doctor. He said that the chances are really low. For both of us."
Doctors don't always know what the hell they're talking about. I keep that thought to myself. No need to worry my sister. She already has enough on her plate. But regardless of what the doctors say, this aging thing sucks. Hard.
I should probably keep this to myself but I can’t help but ask the question that’s been plaguing my mind ever since the day of our grand opening. “Reese?”
“Yes?” She glances over at me with a weak, lethargic expression.
Pushing all hesitancy aside, I blurt it out. “Do you have gray pubes?”
My sister furrows her brows at me. “Excuse me?”
I chew down on the side of my mouth. “Do you have gray pubes?” Repeating the question is almost painful but my sanity demands an answer. “I found a gray pube when I was in the shower the other day and it’s been driving me crazy.”
Reese blinks a dozen times in rapid succession and her nostrils flare. “Gray pubes?”
“No, no, no!” I say quickly. “One gray pube.” It’s important that she get the facts straight.
She presses her eyes shut and purses her lips. The amusement on her face is clear.
“Don’t you dare laugh!” I jab a threatening finger in her direction.
And that’s what causes her cackles to spill out. “I’m sorry.” Her hand flies out in front of her as she tries to get herself under control. “No, please. I’m sorry, Viv. Really.”
“Reese, this is serious!”
She’s still laughing as she shakes her head from left to right. “A brain tumor is serious. A heart condition is serious. A single gray pube is not serious. It’s life.”
I harrumph. “Easy for you to say. You just turned twenty-five.”
She finally stops laughing. “Vivian—you’re a babe. So what if the carpets don’t perfectly match the drapes?”
“Ugh! I shouldn’t have said anything.” I slide my feet back into my shoes and rise.
She rolls her eyes and drops her head to the desk. “I’ll keep you in my prayers, sis. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to get back to the task of not dying from whatever virus this is.”
"I’m gonna get back to work.” I straighten the bow at the neckline of my classic satin blouse. “Can I get you some tea?"
"No, I'm fine." That weak smile is not convincing.
"That is not what ‘fine’ looks like. You should take the rest of the day off. Go to the doctor. Sadie and I have got things covered."
She closes her eyes for a second and rocks back and forth with nausea. “You’re right. I’ll go to the doctor.”
“Good.” I smooth my hand over her sweaty head before walking out of the room.
When I step back behind the cash register, Mandy’s gaze meets mine. Ugh! She’s still here? Her eyes once again fill with a fierce determination to torture me with her family’s unrelenting joy. She puts on a big show of sneaking kisses with Ernie and showering her children with praise and cuddles. Thankfully, that level of showmanship takes energy. Energy that is definitely not supplied by ingesting lukewarm water. Before long, she announces that it’s time to leave and ushers Ernie and the boys out of the shop.
Blythe and Norman are in no rush. They take their time finishing up and once they’re done eating, they order a few dozen cupcakes for the kids at the women's shelter. I tell them it’s on the house but they insist on paying and after a few rounds of push and pull, Sadie snatches their MasterCard and swipes it before throwing me a sheepish look. With a glare in her direction, I box up the treats and walk the older couple out to their car.
As we go, they ask me for an update on my parents. My mom has multiple sclerosis and it's progressively getting worse. There's really no pretty way to paint the picture. My dad is a great man but a bit of a workaholic and my siblings and I have been trying to convince him to resign his seat in the Illinois state senate in Springfield and come back to Copper Heights where we can all be closer to each other. My parents are both stubborn like concrete but happy with their life the way it is so ultimately, my siblings and I have to respect that. I explain that to the Beckers as we linger next to their car.
The loud base of Clinton’s music bleeds out into the parking lot. “I don’t know how you’re able to put up with all this racket all day.” Blythe makes an unpleasant grimace and gestures toward the barbershop. “It’s deafening. I can hardly hear my own thoughts.” She adjusts the Becker for Mayor button on her jacket collar as she speaks.
“I’m slowly becoming used to it,” I say morosely. After Clinton heard me saying all those nasty things the other day, I’ve been kind of embarrassed to approach him about turning the music down. Whenever he looks in my direction, his eyes spell out the word b-i-t-c-h. It’s not that it intimidates me. It’s more that I feel ashamed that I was caught in a moment of tactlessness. I don’t know why I care about Clinton’s opinion of me…but I do. And I can’t bring myself to face him.
“Dear, you don’t have to put up with this discomfort,” Blythe tells me. She turns to her husband. “Surely, she has options? She can file a noise disturbance complaint and have him kicked out?”
I hate the idea of calling the police but I know that eventually, I’ll have no other choice.
Norman nods and balances the cupcake boxes in his arms. “Surely she does.” He hands the cupcakes to Blythe and steps around me, headed in the direction of the barbershop. “But we don't have to jump to the most extreme option. Before we get the authorities involved, let me go talk to the owner. Maybe I can reason with him.”
I try to stop him. “Pastor Becker, you don’t have to do that.”
He sets his hand on my hip. “It’s no problem, Vivian.”
“Oh, you don’t know that guy," I warn as I stumble a step back. "He’s not friendly at all. Actually, he’s downright rude.”
The pastor gives me a smile that’s full of good faith. It sort of reminds me of Santa Clause. “It’s no problem,” he says assuredly. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
I cringe, watching him enter the dangerous mancave where the (undeservingly sexy) savage ogre awaits. My wisdom teeth ache for him. The poor, old man has no idea what he’s stepping into.