Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (8 page)

It had felt right a moment ago. But what if she had caught up to Veronica? Would she have run up to her, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Uh, hi, my name is Bea Crane. You gave me up for adoption twenty-two years ago.” It was clear Veronica wanted Bea to contact her; otherwise she wouldn’t have updated
the file. But maybe a call would be better, for both of them. A bit of distance, letting them both sit down and digest before actually meeting.

Yes, Bea would call, maybe tomorrow.

As Bea neared the harbor, even more crowded than the main shopping street, Veronica’s features, her warm brown eyes, the straight, almost pointy nose, so like Bea’s own, were all imprinted in her mind. Bea was so lost in thought that she started walking in no particular direction; she felt like she might tip over if she stopped.

Unless Veronica had stayed out of the sun her entire life, she was no more than late thirties. Bea would give her thirty-six or thirty-seven, which meant she’d had Bea as a teenager.

As Bea wound her way through the crowd of tourists, she imagined a very young Veronica walking these same streets, pregnant, scared, unsure what to do. Had Bea’s birth father been supportive? Had he abandoned her? How had Veronica’s mother, her own grandmother, handled it? Had Veronica been able to turn to her? Had she been shunned? Supported?

Bea let herself wander and speculate, until she realized she’d walked around the far side of the bay, away from the hustle of downtown. Up ahead by the side of a pond, she saw a bunch of people setting up huge black lights and huge black cameras, a long, beige trailer behind them. Looked like a film set—she’d come across a few of those in Boston and always hoped for a glimpse of a movie star, but she never saw anyone famous, though people around her claimed they had.

Maybe this was what the Colin Firth shout-out had been about. He must be in town to film a new movie. Bea headed over, needing a distraction from herself.

“Movie set, right?” she asked a tall, lanky guy in wire-rimmed glasses standing in front of the trailer. A laminated pass hanging down from around his neck read:
TYLER ECHOLS, PA.

He was glancing down at a clipboard and either didn’t hear her or chose not to answer.

A pretty teenage girl with long, dark hair sat a few feet away in a folding chair by the trailer. She had a book upside down on her lap, and if Bea wasn’t mistaken, it was
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Bea would recognize that original cover from a mile away.

“I love that book,” Bea said to her. “I wrote my senior thesis on it.”

“I can’t even get past the first paragraph,” the girl said, fluttering the pages. “It’s so boring. How am I supposed to write a paper on this book? It should be called ‘To Kill a Boring Bird.’ ”

She had no idea what she was missing. “
To Kill a Mockingbird
is a brilliant reflection of its time—of the South, of racism, of right and wrong, of injustice, all through the eyes of a girl who learns a lot about life, her father, and herself. It’s one of my top-ten favorite novels of all time.”

The guy with the clipboard glanced at her, leaning one bent foot behind him against the trailer, then went back to checking things off on his clipboard.

The girl looked even more bored, but then brightened. “Could you write my paper?”

“Sorry, no,” Bea said. “But give the novel a chance, okay?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “You sound like my brother,” she said, upping her chin at the guy with the clipboard.

“So is this a movie set?” Bea asked the guy again, glancing at the cameras, then back to him.

He barely looked up. “Do us all a favor and don’t go telling
everyone we’re here. The last thing we need is a huge crowd watching us position lights. There’s no movie star here. That you can share.”

Okay, Grumpy. “What’s the movie? Colin Firth is starring, right?”

He shot her an impatient glare. “You’re trespassing.”

She seemed to be doing that today.

Veronica had four plates, four coffees, four orange juices, and a basket of minibiscuits with apple butter on the heavy tray she carried over to table seven. It was Sunday morning, eight o’clock, and since the diner had opened at six thirty, she’d served what seemed like five hundred plates of eggs—from scrambled to omelets to over easy—home fries, bacon, and toast, maybe a thousand cups of coffee. And folks kept coming. A line had formed by the door, the counter was full, and every table was taken. The Best Little Diner in Boothbay lived up to its name and was one of the most popular eateries in town. Even the fish and chips rivaled the seafood joints, and that was saying something in a harbor town in Maine. And of course, when it came to pie, no one went anywhere else.

Of all the diners she’d worked in over the past twenty-two years, the Best Little Diner in Boothbay was her favorite. She loved how pretty it was, for one. The floors were wide-planked pumpkin originals dating back to the late 1800s, when it used to be a general store. Instead of standard vinyl seats for the booths, the seating was white painted wood (washable, of course) with soothing starfish-printed cushions. And the tables, twenty-five in total, were polished wood and round. When the diner slowed down at off times, she loved checking out the local artists’ work on
the walls. And the back room was a waitress’s paradise of comfy recliners, a nice restroom, and even a lovely back alley to sneak out to for some fresh air. The diner’s owner, Deirdre, had something of a secret flower garden out back, and Veronica often spent her breaks just standing amid the big pots of blue hydrangeas and breathing in the scent of roses.

“I see a table open right there, young lady,” Veronica heard a familiar voice snap to the hostess. Oh no. Mrs. Buffleman, pointing, with her usual scowl, at the table that had just opened up in Veronica’s section. Mrs. Buffleman was Veronica’s old English teacher from junior year. Buffleman retired a few years ago and had breakfast practically every day at the diner; Veronica had long ago told the hostess to seat her in someone else’s section, but sometimes, when it couldn’t be helped, Buffleman ended up in hers, like today.

“Good morning, Mrs. Buffleman, Mr. Buffleman,” Veronica said as she stopped at their table, coffeepot in hand. “Coffee this morning?”

Mrs. Buffleman studied her for a moment with her usual slight shake of her head, the shake of disappointment. When Veronica had had to drop out of high school, all her teachers had received a memo about why and that her last day would be at week’s end. Mrs. Buffleman was the only teacher who’d brought up the subject with her. “Darn shame,” she’d said to Veronica on her last day, when Veronica had been on the verge of tears since walking in the building that morning. Head shake. “What a waste.” More head shaking. And Veronica, who hadn’t thought she could possibly feel worse, had felt worse.

Veronica had never particularly liked Mrs. Buffleman, but the old battle-ax had given Veronica an A on every paper, and
Veronica had earned As on every exam. English had been her best subject, but it wasn’t as if she’d planned on becoming a teacher or an editor of some kind anyway; Veronica had never known what she wanted to do. When she started baking four years ago, she thought about opening her own little pie diner, but that took a lot of money, to invest in it and to keep it up, and though Veronica had a nest egg socked away from twenty-two years of waitressing, low rents, and low overhead, she was afraid to spend it on something that might fail. It wasn’t as though she had anyone else, like a life partner, to rely on for half the bills, half of retirement, and even then, if you did have a husband, you never knew what could happen. That little pie diner was nice to fantasize about, though.

“That’s the gal who dropped out of high school because she got pregnant,” she heard Buffleman whisper to her husband, for at least the hundredth time since Veronica had been back in town.

Veronica rolled her eyes, then groaned at the sight of Penelope Von Blun and her mother sitting at a table for two in Veronica’s section. She’d have to add Penelope to the list of people not to put in her section. Penelope was one of the biggest snobs Veronica had ever met, and unfortunately, she’d signed up for Veronica’s pie class, which started tomorrow night. Veronica was surprised the woman would deign to learn the art of making pies from Veronica, but she was pretty sure there was an ulterior motive involved. Penelope likely wanted to learn the secrets of making her own elixir pie so that she wouldn’t have to give Veronica her business.

Penelope’s whispering to her mother started the moment Veronica began walking over with her coffeepot. Veronica had
no doubt what she was saying.
Remember the slutty girl who got pregnant my junior year and dropped out to go to Hope Home? That’s her. Working at the diner. Guess we see how her life turned out
.

“Veronica!” Penelope said with fake brightness, and Veronica was struck by how different she looked than usual, toned down somehow, the hair less straight-ironed, the outfit more conservative, and just a couple of simple pieces of jewelry instead of gobs. “I’m so excited about pie class tomorrow night.” She turned to her mother and said, “Veronica is known in town for special pies. Have you ever had one?”

“Oh, I don’t go for that nonsense,” her mother said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Pies don’t bring you love or cure cancer. Please.”

The woman was such a stick in the mud that Veronica laughed. “Well, they sure do taste good.”

“I know. I’ve had your pie here,” the woman said without a smile. “Coffee please.”

Veronica poured their coffee and took their orders. Penelope was having the fruit plate. Her mother ordered the most high-maintenance plate of substitutions Veronica had ever had the displeasure of writing down on her order pad. Two eggs, one over easy, the other sunny side up. Rye toast, extra light, but still warm, the butter on and melted. Home fries without a single charred piece of potato, which were Veronica’s favorite kind, when the grill got ahold of the onions and the edges of the potatoes.

Sometimes, when she ran into people like Penelope or Buffleman—especially on the same day at the same time—she felt a small blast of that old shame. Nothing like when she was sixteen, of course, and newly pregnant, with people staring at
her as though she had a sign around her neck. But just a frisson of that feeling that made her feel . . . uncomfortable. As if her life could have gone another way entirely if only she hadn’t gotten knocked up. She’d be married, maybe. With two kids. And she’d have figured out what she wanted to do with her life. Discovered her pie-baking skills a lot earlier because she’d bake for school bake sales for her children. Maybe. Maybe not. Who the heck knew?

She glanced around at the counter, where Officer Nick DeMarco usually sat when he came in, which was pretty often. At least he wasn’t here this morning. Too bad he hadn’t been here yesterday, when she could have sicced him on that nudgy drunk Hugh Fledge, who wouldn’t stop asking her out. She barely remembered Nick from high school, but she knew his face, recalled he was part of Timothy’s crowd. Every time she looked at Nick, she felt exposed, as though he knew all sorts of things about her that weren’t even true. She hated how that felt. And so she avoided him whenever she saw him at the diner or around town. But she wouldn’t be able to avoid him tomorrow night at the class. She’d have to be extra polite too, because of his daughter.

Times like this, she wondered if coming back to Boothbay Harbor was a mistake, after all. If she’d ever really settle in and face anything of her past. Boothbay Harbor still didn’t feel like home again, even a year later. And though she’d made some friends, Shelley, of course, right over there at table nineteen, explaining the difference between a Western omelet and a country omelet, and had a lot of acquaintances, especially her clients, who seemed to rely on her as if she were a fortune-teller, Veronica felt . . . lonely. Lonely for something she wasn’t even
sure of. Was it love? A big group of close girlfriends, something Veronica had never had except for her seven months at Hope Home? Something was missing, that was all she knew.

People will come and go from your life for all kinds of acceptable and crappy reasons
, her grandmother had always said in her saucy, straightforward style.
So you’ve got to be your own best friend, know who you are, and never let anyone tell you you’re something you know you’re not
.

Veronica had been thirteen when her grandmother had said all that, over a girl who’d told Veronica she couldn’t be her friend anymore because her mother thought Veronica looked “too grown-up.” She’d worn a C-cup bra in eighth grade, had a thin, curvy figure, and no matter how conservatively she’d dressed, the boys had come chasing. In ninth grade, girls—including Penelope—had started rumors about Veronica “sleeping around” when she hadn’t so much as French-kissed a boy. The few boys she’d dated had made up stories about how far they’d gone, so Veronica had broken up with them. By sixteen, when she’d started dating Timothy Macintosh, she’d had a reputation when she hadn’t ever let a boy see her bra. Timothy had believed her too, said he thought she was beautiful and interesting and would never say a word about her to his friends. Girls had always kept their distance from her, so Timothy had become her first real best friend. Until a very cold April afternoon when she’d told him she was pregnant.