Reunion in October (The Calendar Girls Book 2) (15 page)

“Thanks.” I glanced at the placemat, more out of habit than to figure out what I’d order. Aside from seasonal specials like pumpkin pancakes and apple crisp, which were written on the Dry Erase board mounted on the far wall over the hall leading to the restrooms, the menu hadn’t varied in the last fifteen years. A spark of memory struck me. “Remember when we came here after I graduated med school?”

He seemed to relax again, and a smile tugged up his lips. “I remember we had to rent two buses to bring everyone out to school for the ceremony, then back here for the party afterwards.”

I’d supplemented my college scholarships to pay for tuition by waitressing here. Naturally, most of my regular customers felt they then had an emotional attachment to see me graduate. Those who couldn’t make the trek to SUNY Stony Brook waited here to surprise me with a party that had lasted until the next day. Doing business as a luncheonette, Mama’s was generally open at five a.m. and closed by three p.m., seven days a week. On that particular weekend, even the influx of tourists who showed up the following morning for their normal breakfast fare didn’t dampen the celebration. In fact, at midnight, surrounded by everyone we knew and loved, Michael had first proposed to me, and I had accepted. Six weeks later, he’d proposed again—this time when it was just the two of us, at sunset on the beach, on bended knee, with a perfect pear solitaire.

Recalling that now, I squirmed and fired up my brain to quickly change the topic. I so did not want to travel that particular path of Memory Lane. I glanced down at the menu again. “I think I’ll get the heart-healthy oatmeal. What about you?”

Michael reached across the table and squeezed my fingers in his grasp. “I think you just remembered what happened here that night and don’t want to face it.”

I pulled out of his clasp and busied myself dunking the teabag to steep the hot beverage. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just because I don’t want to talk about our engagement doesn’t mean I can’t face it. I don’t have any reason to feel ashamed. I’m not the one who changed course a month before the wedding.”

He gripped the table edge and shot forward so his face was inches from mine. The table’s unsteady legs wobbled, spilling weak tea all over the placemat. “Don’t you get it yet? I had to change course.”

I grabbed a fistful of napkins from the steel dispenser and mopped up the mess. “Why? I mean, honestly, Michael, of all the issues I had with your sudden announcement, what bothered me most was that you had to be planning that change for months—sending out your résumé, interviewing, meeting with headhunters—and you never said a word to me. To this day, I have no idea why you felt the need to leave and why you didn’t share that need with me before you got that Oregon offer.”

“I couldn’t take living here anymore: the same people, the same conversations, the same routine day in and day out. It got to the point where I couldn’t breathe. I needed room to grow.”

I admit his comment worried me. What exactly did he mean he couldn’t breathe? That he needed room? Room away from me? Had I stifled him? I bit my lip, but the words erupted from me anyway. “And now? Could you truly be happy living here now?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes. For now. But are you going to freak out a year from now and run off again?”

“I don’t know.” He paused and ripped open two sugar packets, pouring the contents into his tea. “Maybe. I mean, come on. Be honest. Don’t you ever get claustrophobic in this place?”

“No.” My senses sharpened while my heart sank. He hadn’t changed. Thank God I hadn’t fallen for his phony I-still-love-you routine. “Why would I?”

He waved the empty sugar packets toward the different diners around us. “How could you not? There are…what? Four hundred residents in this town? And you know them all? Every scar, every freckle?”

Anxiety raised hackles on my nape, but I feigned nonchalance and sipped my tea. “You’ve been gone a while. There are over eight hundred residents now. And I’ve only come in contact with a small percentage of them at the E.R.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled.

Just then, Ruby popped her head between us. “You two ready to order?”

“What’s the rush, Ruby?” Michael snapped, then gestured to the empty tables around them. “It’s not like there’s a crowd clamoring to take our spot. Can you give us five minutes? Jesus, what is it with this place? Bunch of yahoos and morons. The minute we get back to Oregon, I—”

“Michael!” I shot to my feet, my chair screeching against the floor loud enough to pierce eardrums. That was when I realized everyone in the restaurant had been listening to our conversation with keen interest. As I glared at the onlookers, they quickly swerved back to facing the counter. All except Liz Harvey, who stared openly, a feral grin on her face. Ignoring her and everyone else but the players at my table, I turned to Ruby. “I’m sorry.” My hands shook with my rage as I yanked my jacket off the back of my chair and grabbed my purse. I fumbled inside for a ten dollar bill. “Obviously, I won’t be staying for breakfast after all. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

After pushing the ten into a startled Ruby’s hand, I shrugged into my jacket, then whirled on Michael. “I don’t know when you became such a pompous ass, but I want nothing more to do with you. Don’t call me, don’t send me anything. If we happen to run into each other on a sidewalk somewhere, pretend you don’t know me. I don’t care if I’ve just been hit by a bus. Leave me in the street and step over my broken body.”

I didn’t even say goodbye. I simply strode away while the other customers burst into hoots of laughter and applause behind me. Outside, a light mist fell, cooling the heated flush in my cheeks and leveling my temper. Imagine that scum trying to pull one over on me. He had no intention of staying in Snug Harbor. His plan was to swoop in, marry me under false pretenses, then drag me back to Oregon with him. Too bad for him, I hadn’t fallen in with his plans so willingly.

Of course, this rain put me at a disadvantage since Michael had driven me here. So now what? I looked around me, trying to regain my bearings. I bet I could’ve walked back inside and anyone in the place would have offered to drive me home—anyone but Liz Harvey. But I couldn’t call up the nerve to go back inside, to see Michael sitting there, to relive our conversation. So what could I do?

Simple. My friend, Nia Wainwright, owned a gift shop two blocks away. I could walk over there and beg for a ride home or call a cab. Either way, I wasn’t going anywhere near Michael ever again. And if he knew what was good for him, he’d hop the first flight back to Oregon. Flipping up my collar, I ducked my head and headed for Nature’s Bounty at a breakneck pace. I wouldn’t give Michael the opportunity to catch up to me.

When I pushed open the shop door a few wet minutes later, sleigh bells on the interior knob jingled. The scents of candles and nutmeg warmed me. Among the collections of seashells, Christmas ornaments, postcards, and gaily-painted hermit crabs, I felt my equilibrium rouse its sleepy head.

Nia, her back to me while she stocked a shelf with delicate hand-blown glass art, began her usual spiel as she turned around. “Welcome to Nature’s—” She stopped when she spotted me, and her brow etched with concern over her hazel eyes. “Francesca? What’s wrong?”

Okay, so my turmoil obviously showed. I pushed down my collar and sighed. “I needed to see a friendly face.” Friends since junior high, Nia, her twin, Paige, and I didn’t get to spend as much time together as we used to, but we were still close.

“You came to the right place.” Arms open, she strode toward me. Topping me by about five inches, Nia enfolded me in a maternal embrace, despite my wet jacket. “What’s up, babycakes? What happened?”

“Michael’s back,” I said into her apron-clad chest. My throat closed up around whatever else I wanted to say.

“I heard.” She eased her hold and led me toward the stool she stowed behind the counter. “Come sit down. Are you okay?”

I took a deep, shaky breath and fumbled for the stool. “No. I just told him off big-time and left him at Mama’s to the raucous cheers of the crowd.”

Beside me, Nia leaned her elbows on the counter, sucked in a sharp breath, and winced. “Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, it was a disaster.”

“Well, it’s just us right now.” She waved a hand at the empty store. “No customers on rainy October days. Not great for business, but good for you. So, spill your guts. What’d you do?”

I perched one butt cheek on the stool in case Michael showed up and I had to make a quick getaway through the rear entrance. Then I realized this new Michael probably wouldn’t even remember Nia, much less her store. He seemed more fixated on some kind of bizarre recovery mission: Operation Marry Francesca. Relaxing my stance, I began to give her a brief rundown of everything that had happened since the night I came home from my date with Josh to find my former fiancé in my house.

She stopped me within the first three sentences. “Wait. Back up. You went out with Josh Candolero?”

Oh, yeah. I forgot how long it had been since we talked. Nia knew nothing about Josh and me. I sighed. “I know. Ridiculous, right?”

She pulled her strawberry blond hair into a ponytail with her fist, then let it fall behind her back in a tumble of rich curls. “No. Actually, it makes perfect sense.”

“Are you kidding? He’s six years younger than I am.”

She snorted. “Oh, please. When you’re eighteen and he’s twelve, that’s a major league issue. By the time you hit thirty-four, that gap narrows to a minor blip, and when you’re eighty-four and he’s seventy-eight, you’ll wonder what worried you fifty years ago.”

No ready argument came to me. As usual, she made an excellent point. “Maybe. But Josh? He’s like my kid brother.”

“Ohmigod, he is
nothing
like Frankie. And forgive me for saying this, but he’s nothing like Michael, either—which is a good thing, in my book. Michael didn’t deserve you five years ago; he deserves you even less now. Josh, on the other hand, is sexy as sin, hardworking, responsible, and one of the nicest guys in this town. He’s everything the other two clowns aren’t.”

“You know what I mean,” I retorted. “I used to
babysit
him, for God’s sake.”

“You also used to slather yourself in baby oil before lying out in the sun.” She shrugged and flashed an indulgent smile. “Live and learn, right? You grow up, your priorities change. ‘Used to’ doesn’t mean squat. What matters is ‘now.’ Does Josh make you happy right now?”

I thought about that for a long time. “Yeah,” I said at last. “He really does.”

She wrapped me in a hug and squeezed me tight enough to cut off my oxygen. “Then go for it. Nothing matters as much in life as having someone who makes you happy. Believe me, I know.”

****

The E.R. was quiet when I arrived Wednesday night. Too quiet. If I’d wanted a quiet night, I could’ve stayed home and mentally kicked my butt for giving Michael the benefit of the doubt. I still couldn’t believe I’d almost fallen for his lame prodigal lover routine. After spending hours growing angrier and angrier at my stupidity, I came to work to lose my self-loathing in lacerations and ear infections.

Fifteen minutes into my shift, I strolled into Examination Room Three to treat my first patient of the night.  A young man—Jonathan Harris, age twenty according to his admission summary—sat on the edge of the exam table in blue boxers and white athletic low-cut socks. A raw, blistery rash ravaged his skin from ankles and calves to upper thighs. I took one brief glance at the fluid-filled bumps and knew instantly what was wrong. “You didn’t happen to take a walk through a patch of poison ivy, did you?”

“Maybe,” he replied with a shrug. “I was playing Frisbee with some friends the other night and the damn thing sailed into the woods. It was dark, I couldn’t see…”

“And you woke up with this rash all over your legs, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, I knew what it was and I started doing the whole oatmeal bath and calamine lotion routine, but…” He stopped, looked over my shoulder, his body tensing as his fingers white-knuckled the exam table’s edge. “Is there a male doctor I could speak to?”

I understood immediately and leveled a steady gaze on him, keeping my tone all-business. “The rash spread up a little farther, huh?”

“Umm…yeah. Into my…umm…”

I held up a hand. “Got it.” I could make a big deal about the fact that I was just as professional as any man, and if this were a simple case of poison ivy on his legs or face, I probably would. But I also knew how both men and women tended to be more uncomfortable around doctors of the opposite sex when it came to their, well, for lack of a better word
, nether regions
. “Would it be okay if I call the physician’s assistant to take care of you then?
He’s
more than qualified to treat your condition.”

My patient relaxed and eased back on the table, resting his head against the padded top. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

I offered him a smile. “No problem. You’re uncomfortable enough right now. I don’t want to add to your stress.” I left the exam room and gave a nod to my P.A., Gerald Riordan. “Poison ivy on his legs and groin areas. He wants a
male
doctor.”

Gerald nodded. “I’m on it.” Calling to a nurse for prednisone, he headed toward poor Mr. Harris’s room.

Meanwhile, I moved on to Examination Room Four where Mrs. Spinelli had been brought in, complaining of stomach pains.

“I think it’s probably indigestion,” the four-foot-ten, white-haired lady said when I stepped inside and introduced myself.

Mmmm. Maybe. “Okay, let’s take a look, shall we?” I began the exam by palpating her abdomen. “Any back pain?”

“Kinda wraparound,” she replied on a wince. “It starts here.” She placed a palm flat against her right side, directly under her rib cage. “And then it moves around to my
baaaack.
” The last word came out on an enormous belch, and Mrs. Spinelli jerked her hand from her side to her lips. “Oh, excuse me.”

I gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Have you been burping a lot lately? Or have any issues with gas?”