Midnight Valentine(10)
I’m starting to get that Suzanne has no filter.
“Megan, this is Sunday, Mike’s mom.” She points at the woman with the bangles, and we nod and smile at each other. “And this is Chris—Sunday’s husband—Tina, who owns the best beauty salon in town, and Colleen, who teaches at Seaside Elementary.”
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you all. Sorry for crashing your party, Sunday, but Suzanne didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
Sunday tosses her hair over her shoulder and laughs. “No worries. I know how excited Suze gets when she has the opportunity to be a matchmaker. Has she already told you about Doug?”
I look sideways at Suzanne. “If Doug is the short building inspector, then yes.”
Everyone laughs. I notice Sunday and Tina looking at my wedding band. They share a glance, and it’s obvious I’ve been a topic of conversation in this town long before I ever arrived. I wonder how long they’ll wait before they try to pry the story out of me.
“Oh, you brought wine! Thank you so much, you didn’t have to do that!”
Sunday takes the bottle of wine from my hands while Suzanne stares sourly at my profile, and I try not to smile. “I didn’t want to walk in empty-handed.”
“That was really thoughtful. Let me introduce you around.”
Sunday takes one of my arms, and Suzanne takes the other. Then I’m paraded around like a prize hog and introduced to approximately fifty people whose names I promptly forget. My face starts to hurt from forcing a smile for so long.
Doug, the building inspector, turns out to be the kind of guy who tries to make up for his lack of height by being aggressively obnoxious. He talks too loud, interrupts everyone, and stares at my chest the entire time I’m standing in front of him. I can tell Suzanne thinks it’s hilarious. I decide to get myself invited over to her house so I can replace all her shampoo with hair remover.
I extricate myself by asking where the restroom is. I hide in there for as long as I can without it being weird, then head into the kitchen, avoiding eye contact as I go.
The kitchen is as cheerful and bright as the rest of the house, and blissfully empty. Coolers overflow with sodas and beers on ice, and a selection of wines and liquor stands ready on the island beside rows of glasses. It’s obviously a self-serve setup, which suits me since I won’t have to interact with anyone for a few moments.
I find parties draining. Socializing in general is draining now, after so many years of self-imposed solitude.
I grab a Coke and lean against the counter as I drink it, watching the rain fall outside through the sliding glass doors that lead to a covered patio.
It was ninety-eight degrees the day I left Phoenix. The only time it ever rained there was during the monsoon season, and then it was thunderstorms and lightning, nothing like this gentle, melancholy mist, scented of the ocean.
Seaside was Cass’s idea. It was his dream to open a B&B near the beach when we retired, and this was the town he decided it should be in. We spent hours hunting the internet for weather stats and demographics, real estate prices and tourism information, until we winnowed down the choices of cities.
We knew the moment we saw the pictures on the internet that the Buttercup was what we’d been looking for. Decrepit yet hauntingly beautiful, it spoke to us on a visceral level. We flew out one weekend to look at it and fell in love even more. Our plan was to buy it and spend every holiday and vacation coming out to work on it, a little at a time, until all the work it needed was finished, then move here and open it up as a B&B again.
He loved to plan things in advance like that. He was always looking toward the future.
We were so young. We didn’t know yet that the future isn’t guaranteed.
After Cass was gone, the dream seemed pointless. I figured the Buttercup would sell to someone else, but it never did. I’d check on the listing every few months, and, sure enough, it was always available.
Some part of me felt like it was waiting for me. One day, I decided I’d made it wait long enough.
I hear people approaching from the living room and know I won’t be able to make conversation because of the damn rock in my throat. I leave the can of soda on the counter, cross to the sliding glass doors, and slip outside into the night.
The patio is covered, its roof supported by several large brick columns. There’s a wrought iron table and chairs in the center, a built-in barbeque off to one side, and terra-cotta flower boxes overflowing with hot pink and red geraniums all around the perimeter. The backyard lawn stretches into darkness past the low lights that line the patio edge.
After the warmth of the house, the rain beckons to me. I cross the patio and step out on to the grass. It’s springy beneath my feet, pleasant to walk on. I go about ten yards out, past the reach of the lights, then stop, close my eyes, and lift my face to the rain.