The Duet (21 page)

“Same.”

“So why do it? Doesn’t it stand to reason that if you focused on fixing what’s wrong instead of avoiding it, that would make more sense?”

“I guess.”

Jay sighed. “Cody. I’m not dismissing your feelings. The pressure you feel is real. The insecurities, the isolation, the uncertainty; all real and all valid. But it’s life. You have to find a way to cope with this shit now, because let me tell you – it only gets harder. And if you continue down this path, pretty soon those pills you take or that joint you smoke won’t be enough. You’ll need more to escape. More to make you forget. More to numb the pain. I’m asking you – not telling you – to be smarter. I know you can do it. You just have to want it bad enough.”

Cody looked down at his shoes.

“Do you want it bad enough, Cody?”

He shrugged. Jay chose to accept that as extreme progress. There wasn’t much more he could do today. This stuff had to sink in for a while, and he hoped what he said gave Cody plenty to think about.

“Listen. While I’m gone this week, I want you to do something for me,” Jay said as he sat back down at his desk.

Cody groaned. “Awww, man. Not another writing thing. How long will you be gone?”

“Just a few days. And yes, it’s a writing thing. I want you to write a letter to the one person in the world who you trust the most. Whether you let this person ever read it, is up to you. But I want this letter to be honest and raw. I want you to pour out your heart on paper.”

“How many words does it have to be?”

“It doesn’t matter. It can be a paragraph or ten pages. I’m not going to look at it or even check that you did it. This is just for you, but I want you to promise me that you’ll take it seriously.”

Cody nodded.

Jay’s lips turned up into a slight smile. “Okay then. Get out of here. I’ll see you next week.”

Jay spent the next hour catching up on emails and typing a few notes on things he needed to follow up with when he got back. He grabbed a few files from his desk and shoved them in with his laptop, then took one look around to make sure he didn’t forget anything.

He was just unlocking his car when his phone rang.

“Hey, handsome. You all ready for tomorrow?”

He smiled. “Yep. I’ll pick you up by six?”

“That’s good. Just don’t be late. I hate rushing and worrying about getting through security in time. My hands get all sweaty and my face breaks out in hives.”

“I won’t be late. Promise.” Jay threw his bag in the backseat and started the car. “Oh, and Trisha? Thanks for talking me in to this. I owe you one.”

Trisha chuckled. “Yeah, we’ll see if you’re thanking me this time tomorrow.”

32

I paced around my bedroom, feeling like a caged lion, as I listened to my washing machine make the same god-awful noise it had been making since I purchased it two weeks ago. I could hear the muttered oaths of the idiot who was attempting to fix the problem.  This was the third idiot in as many days. Why they wouldn’t just replace the lemon with a shiny new machine was beyond me. Obviously when you purchase a brand new state-of-the-art front-loader, you don’t expect the water to gush out the bottom, flooding the entire basement. Nor, after the leak is fixed, do you imagine that your next load of whites will be completely ruined by some sort of foreign black shit that finds its way into the drum – or whatever the hell it’s called.

I didn’t have time for this today. This was the slowest day at the shop and the only day of the week I could carve out free time. I still had fifty errands to run. Plus, I had no clean underwear; hence, the repairman. And I get pretty grouchy when I am forced to go commando against my will.

I heard a loud thud, then several more in secession.  It just took a second to realize that the degenerate downstairs was actually kicking my washing machine.  I tried to take a deep calming breath, but it stuck in my throat.  I tore down the steps, looking gorgeous in one of Uncle Fred’s old stretched out T-shirts that smelled marginally cleaner than any of my own, and a pair of old cut-off shorts with a broken zipper, pinned together at the waist.

It was not my finest hour, fashion-wise. But I had fully expected this jackass to be here six hours earlier, and had figured I’d be caught up on most of my laundry by now.

“What in the name of God do you think you’re doing?”  I said in my best Mommy Dearest voice as I reached the basement floor.

The guy, aptly named Bob, jumped about three feet back when he saw me.  He made a sound, something like “Aaargh”.  Clearly my appearance and demeanor had scared the bejesus out of the poor simple man. I almost took pity on him. Almost.

“Ah, sorry ma’am.  I thought you were outside.”

I took a few steps closer to him.  The space was so tiny, he had nowhere to go. “Oh, okay, so you thought that since I was out of earshot, it was perfectly acceptable for you to open up a can of whoop-ass on my poor defenseless washing machine?”

He gulped and his face turned a fiery red.

“Do you even have any idea how to fix a washing machine?”

He gaped at me.

“Cat got your tongue?”

He cleared his throat and pulled up his pants a little. I was grateful for that small gesture. I’d gotten an eyeful when he bent over before. At least
he
was wearing underwear.

“I think I found your problem, ma’am,” he said in a voice that was far more confident than the look on his face.

I leaned back against a beam, and crossed my arms over my chest. I may or may not have been wearing a bra, and this little pecker-head was certainly not deserving of any kind of reward for kicking my machine. “Is that so? You found the problem, you say?”

“Yep.” He nodded, and it was all I could do not to tackle him to the ground.

“Let me guess,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice, though I knew it would be lost on the likes of Bob. “I need a part, in order for you to fix this problem. And this part that I need must be ordered. Am I doing okay so far?”

Bob just stared at me. I could be intimidating when I was pushed too far.

“And this magical part, that needs to be ordered, must be ordered from overseas which will take several days, possibly more than a week before it comes in. Then, in order to get this hunk of junk to actually wash clothes, I will have to schedule yet another appointment with one of you geniuses. That appointment will be scheduled between the hours of seven in the morning and four in the afternoon, and I will have to spend yet another nine hours of my day, afraid to leave the house, jump in the shower, or take a pee, just in case you ring my doorbell.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Bob, Bob, Bob. Oh, Bob. That is just not going to work for me.”

“Ma’am, I…”

I held up a hand to stop him. Then I whipped out my cell phone and made Bob call his boss.

An hour later, I had a brand spanking new front loader installed in my basement, and I waved to Bob as he drove off – my crappy old machine with the size eleven boot imprints tied securely to the back of his truck.

I checked the time, surprised and annoyed that it was already close to three. School would be letting out, and Miranda would need my help. I walked across the street to the café.

A few years ago, I had purchased the bait and tackle shop from Uncle Fred and transformed it into a coffee shop, which I named Whole Latte Love Café. The shop was inspired by Jo-Jo, my favorite barista on the west coast, who’d been an avid Zeppelin fan. It was part bakery, part coffee shop and part music café. We didn’t sell weed like at Jo-Jo’s, but we had poetry slams and regular open mic nights. It was eclectic and cozy, and my mother’s lemon bars were the tastiest in three counties. We did a good, solid business, and I was quite content with my modest life. God knew there wasn’t a profession I hadn’t tried before that would have been more rewarding. Being a local shop owner was where I belonged.

I walked in through the back entrance and quickly tied on the colorful apron Miranda had gotten me last Christmas, remembering that I still wasn’t exactly dressed. I inhaled nice and deep, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, chocolate and freshly ground coffee filling my nostrils. I would never tire of it. I grinned as I rounded the corner and saw Sydney standing on a stool beside Miranda, helping her put whipped cream and chocolate shavings on a customer’s café mocha.

“Hey, munchkin, you’re home early,” I said, swooping my daughter up in my arms. She giggled and squirmed to get down.

“I ran the whole way, ‘cause Miranda said she’d teach me how to grind beans today.”

“She did, huh? Well, I’m sure that once you learn how to grind beans, you’re going to be awfully busy around here. So I think you should come take a little break first, and maybe have a snack. Whad’ya say?”

Sydney jumped off her stool and ran over to the bakery case where she was allowed to select one item every day after school. “Wash your hands first, young lady!” I yelled after her as she dropped crumbs all across the floor on her way to the break room.

“You’ve created a monster. You know that, right?” I sidled up next to Miranda and helped put the finishing touches on a latte.

“What, showing her how to grind coffee beans? That seems harmless.”

“No, not that. I meant letting her call you Miranda. Now she’s starting calling me Izzy.” I rolled my eyes.

“Well, sweetheart, what did you expect? We’re not exactly a conventional family. Sydney’s the spitting image of you in every way. Besides, you have to choose your battles. Believe me, larger ones are looming straight ahead.”

I shuddered. If that were true, and Sydney was anything like me come the teenage years, we were in big trouble. I was not nearly as patient as my own mother. We were going to butt heads like nobody’s business.

I took a few orders from customers and helped Miranda get through the afternoon rush. Then I restocked the prep area while Sydney sat in one of the lounge areas, coloring.

“You okay?” Miranda said, as she dried over-sized mugs and lined them neatly on the open shelving.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Well, I’m still worked up about the whole washing machine thing, but I can catch up next week.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

I shrugged. “I guess I’m just not looking forward to tomorrow is all.”

Tomorrow was the anniversary of the fire. Seven whole years since I lost my best friend, and my life changed forever. Tomorrow I would wake up and perform the difficult task of calling the O’Donnell’s – first Evelyn, then Michelle in San Francisco. I would listen quietly while they both cried, but my own eyes would be dry; I hadn’t shed a tear for Cooper, or anything from my life in California, since my drive across the country.

It was one of the many ways I coped.

Sometimes I thought it would be better if I just didn’t make those phone calls every year. Maybe both women would be better off if I stopped the silly ritual. It didn’t seem like it helped anyone; it sure left a bigger hole in my heart each year.

There was also one other ritual that I’d prefer to put to rest. It was the one where Jay called me and I simply stared at the phone, knowing I would never answer it, and wondering if this was the year he’d actually leave me a message.

Honestly, I just wished I could sleep through the whole day and not deal with any of it.

Miranda put the last mug on the shelf and turned to face me. “Did you ever think of maybe taking a trip out there? Not on the anniversary, but maybe in a month or so? It might help.”

I rubbed my temples. I had a pressure headache just starting, and I didn’t feel like talking about this right now. “I don’t think it will help. Not even a little bit.” My voice was sharper than I’d intended. I knew she meant well, but it wasn’t the first time she’d suggested it.

Miranda just nodded, and I instantly felt guilty. “Sorry Mom,” I muttered. She kissed me on the cheek and walked over to Sydney.

I swallowed hard, getting slightly choked up. I needed to go for a walk.

“Hey, munchkin,” I said, yanking on one of Sydney’s pigtails. “Be good for Grandma, okay? I’ll be back in a little while.”

I ran upstairs to the abandoned apartment we used for storage, rummaging around until I found a pair of old tattered jeans and my CBGB t-shirt. It was open mic night at the shop and I didn’t have time to do wash before tonight. It would just have to do.

I headed out toward the beach. There was a time when I truly hated the East. I thought for sure I would never return. California was my home, and that was just the way it was. But now I couldn’t remember the reasons I felt that way. Maybe it was Cooper that was home to me and now that he was gone… Well, now this was my home, and I couldn’t imagine living anyplace else. As I walked past the more modest houses of Avalon, I realized I had fallen in love with this town. I loved the fun and quirky shops, the diehard locals, fighting off hurricanes and blizzards every year with solid determination and banding together as a community. I loved the crazy tourist season, and the peaceful quiet months that began right after Labor Day. I didn’t need to go visit California. There was nothing there for me anymore.