Whole Latte Life (8 page)
She’d looked at him over a steaming coffee cup. “Paris in the springtime? I’ll bet it’s beautiful.”
“Paris or London. It doesn’t matter. Any birthday ending in zero is a big one. Let’s do forty up big.” But he never made it, to her forty or his fifty. He died at forty-eight.
This is the spring when Carl planned on taking her to Paris.
So she needed that sense of travel, of being away and returning home from a trip. Because what she knows is this: Intentions don’t die with the body. They are of the spirit. And fulfilling Carl’s intentions enables her to let go, leaving no unfinished matters in their marriage.
She slips into her robe. Sara Beth might very well be in the next room, sitting on the tapestry sofa, a mug of coffee cupped in her hands, her face wearing an apologetic smile. They can still salvage the weekend. So Rachel puts on the right expectant face and opens her bedroom door. But there is no friend on the other side, only diffused sunlight bathing the fine furniture in a golden glow.
Standing alone, she’s not sure who her damn tears are for: Sara or Carl. “Couldn’t you have held on?” she asks, turning around. “I don’t know what to do.”
As previously arranged, Room Service arrives with breakfast. She and Sara Beth had it all planned out. First, a pot of coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, warm muffins, New York newspapers. Okay, okay. Then a stop at The Today Show, it’s totally tourist, but they’d have loved it, leaning against the railing, hoping the camera panned them, waving for Sara’s kids. Then a walk in Central Park before having their nails done for tonight. Teri Alexander, their high school classmate, had a singing engagement at The Metropolitan Room. Tonight is the big planned celebration of both their fortieth birthdays.
She checks her voicemail then pours herself a cup of coffee. Doesn’t Sara Beth remember this? Isn’t she thinking of her as the day begins? Sara specifically ordered the apple crumb muffins. Rachel curls up on the sofa and through the large window she sees not New York, but home in Addison, and the coffee shop at the corner of Main and Brookside.
Whole Latte Life. It’s a tiny place, like a delicate china cup tucked snug on the corner and facing the town Green. A place to sit and mull over their lives. Its windowed front looks out on a manicured lawn and clusters of maple trees. There are wooden benches and barrels of flowers. Locals ride their horses around the perimeter. A whole latte perfection.
They call it their salvation, meeting for coffee twice a week after Sara gets the kids off to school. Because there is always something behind the talking, some pulse being taken.
How’s your life?
it says.
Let me press a vein, take a look at your heart.
They circle tag sale ads for antiques while considering going back to college; they plan early bird stops at the farmers’ market for baby tomato plants and impatiens and herbs while debating daycare for Owen. It’s like they’re quilters weaving pieces of their lives into a patchwork quilt, their everyday stories a different patch stitched with the telling, the listening, the tears and laughter.
She sips her coffee now and looks out at Manhattan. Did Sara Beth sleep last night? Or eat? Is she still in New York? She picks up the remote and finds The Today Show on the television. Finally the cameras pan out on the Plaza, showing throngs of women holding signs, talking, arms linked. Friends, everywhere she looks there are friends. She pictures the sign she should have made.
Sara Beth! Call me!
The camera moves along the crowd as she watches for that auburn hair falling across Sara’s forehead, tucked behind an ear. There are so many signs today! Is one from Sara? Does it say she’s okay, don’t worry? Tom planned to tape this so the kids could look for them after school.
If it wasn’t for her note, for that
Please don’t call Tom
,
please Rachel
, that call would’ve already been made. But she decides to give Sara Beth what she wants, for now. That privacy. While Sara Beth does…what?
Which makes Rachel go straight for her cell phone. Sara Beth is at risk, because, really, this is proof enough, this imagining desperate signs at The Today Show pleading for contact, and her husband should know. She checks her watch, then her phone.
A knock at the door interrupts her and when she rushes to open it, hoping to see Sara Beth standing on the other side, there is only this: the same Room Service Porter. “Excuse me again. This should have been delivered with your breakfast.” He hands her a small package. “Sorry for the mix-up.”
“Thank you,” she tells him, her heart beating fast enough to get her attention. The package is four inches square and neatly addressed in Ashley’s handwriting. Rachel closes the door and unwraps it right there to find a book inside. Her finger trails the inscription.
Dear Mom,
I know we had dinner on your birthday last month. But consider this a surprise party. I didn’t want you thinking I forgot about you and Sara Beth. Happy B-Day! Enjoy the book and the city!
XOXO,
Ashley
Brief verses and sweet anecdotes fill the tiny book about mothers. She skims Ashley’s margin notes written on dogeared pages. It’s like her daughter reads over her shoulder, pointing,
Oh look!
Her words do that, her
Sounds like us, Mom.
Or
remember that café we went to, at the beach?
They reach over her shoulder.
And that is exactly when Rachel decides she
will
celebrate her birthday today. Ashley had arrived in spirit, and maybe thoughts of their planned evening on the town will lure Sara Beth back to The Plaza, to her life. That’ll be her plan. She’ll give her friend until tonight.
After a shower, she brushes her hair back, touches up her makeup, grabs her jacket and steps in front of the mirror. Her hands slide flat along the black skinny jeans hugging her hips, considering a single forty-year-old woman unexpectedly alone in Manhattan for a long weekend.
The thing is, she’s not really sure how to be single again. And is she even ready to leave Carl’s memory this way? After all, she went bowling with a stranger last night. Her guilt brings on that gosh darn twinge in her heart. The one telling her how much she’d
love
to tell that bowling story to her missing friend, sharing details between sips of espresso. And getting a second opinion.
She slips into her jacket, walks through the living room and locks the door behind her. There are things to do, after all, things that keep her from picturing Sara Beth right now, in memory or imagination. Memory feels too sad and imagination is just too scary.
Now Michael knows what Rachel felt like yesterday searching for her friend. He’s been scanning faces all morning, hoping to see her walking down the avenue or stepping out of a cab. It gets to be maddening. Did Sara Beth return? Is Rachel still in the city?
Traffic jams up a couple blocks away and by the time he gets to the heart of the congestion, the obstacle is gone but drivers are backed up. He turns Maggie and she nods hard, like she’s telling him
I know, look how they drive.
So he scans the pedestrians for Rachel, or Sara Beth, then motions for the cars on 53
rd
to start moving, eyeing back Sixth Avenue drivers. The one limousine trying to slip through stops with a verbal warning. One more inch and he’s writing a ticket.
When the traffic flow eases, Michael moves in the direction of Joe and Lena’s delicatessen. The precinct radioed him a message to stop by the deli and Lena steps outside with a coffee and doughnut, bribing him with food, so he knows something’s wrong. Apparently Lena saw Summer on her way to school and his daughter was upset. The news is that his ex-wife wants to move her out of Queens.
Now, a few blocks further, freshly painted crosswalks spook Maggie and she balks, sidestepping the lines. No amount of clicking, neck rubbing or stern commands budge her over the lines. He finally has to dismount and walk the big brown horse back a block to a street vendor they passed. Maggie begrudgingly nibbles at the hot dog cart umbrella as though this is
his
fault, snorting and waiting for a piece of bread. “You could win an Oscar,” he tells her. The vendor gives him a roll which he breaks in half. They both need the break.
After downing a hot dog and a bottled water, he rolls a kink out of his neck then holds out his flat hand for Maggie. In one swoop, her velvet lips lift the second chunk of bread before he mounts her. They make their way back down Sixth Avenue, this time stepping over the freshly painted crosswalk with ease.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he asks the horse, and her ears tip back to his voice. He pats her neck and moves into traffic, checking his cell for messages as he does. No sooner does the driver of a van ask about city parking does Maggie nod hard and slip in a sidestep prance. He pulls sharp on the reins and decides to end his tension, which his horse is obviously feeding off of. Maneuvering her over to the curb, he checks his cell again and dials Rachel’s.
“Mrs. DeMartino,” he says, surprised at the noise wherever she is. “It’s me, Michael. NYPD? I wondered if you had any word from your friend.”
Rachel pauses, then, “No. Nothing.”
Maggie fidgets, turning into the traffic until he pulls on her reins and turns her back. “Where are you? It’s really noisy.”
“Okay, hear me out. You’ll probably think it’s really dumb, you know, what a tourist. But I’m at The Today Show. It’s just that we—”
“You’re out searching for her then,” he interrupts.
“Yes, I am.”
“Why don’t you call her husband? It’s probably time.”
“No. Not till after tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
“We had plans, and I’m thinking she might show up there.”
“You feel like company? I don’t know, maybe you want to cash in that dinner bet?”
She’s quiet first, then says, “You know, company would be great. I really don’t feel like doing this thing alone. We’re seeing a friend at The Metropolitan Room. She’s got a gig there.”
“Okay. That’s decent. I’ll pick you up early and pay up the wager. We’ll eat at Bobo’s. Little place in the West Village. It’s a little better than bowling, if you know what I mean. And listen, Rockefeller Plaza
is
a real central thoroughfare. If you sit on a bench and watch the people, maybe she’ll pass by.” He digs in a heel against the horse’s side when she starts another sidestep into traffic, pulling her back hard. “But be aware of who’s around you. And leave your cell on, okay?”
N
o present could ever match what her mother had given her. The package arrived by courier on her fortieth birthday, shortly after the kids were on the school bus and Tom had left for work. It was a complete surprise, getting a present delivered like that months after her death.
She set it on the kitchen table, sunlight streaming in through the window, the wrapping paper shimmering. They had talked about this birthday a lot. Forty was one of the biggest. Forty meant you could take chances; the kids were older, your home was settled, risk wasn’t as risky. She and her mother had planned on opening their antique shop during her fortieth year. That had been her dream until she woke up to a new reality: pregnant at thirty-eight with Owen. New babies and bottles and schedules and diapers leave little room for new businesses. And then her mother died.
So she poured herself a cup of coffee on the morning of her fortieth, sat herself down and wondered how her mother sent something to salvage a birthday started with disappointment. That the gift would be special went without saying. That it might break open Sara Beth’s heart with the weight of its love never crossed her mind.