The little girl looks to her mother, who smiles and nods, and takes the cupcake.
“Thank you,” The mother says. “She loves that color.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy.”
I watch them go and wipe the frosting off my fingers with my apron. She reminded me a lot of myself when I was younger. Going to bakeries like this with Mom was what made me want to open my own.
“Can I get a coffee?” A customer asks. I snap back to reality and whip up a mocha. When the customer leaves, another steps up to the counter, voice low.
“You give out sweets to kids like that all the time?”
I look up – it’s Lee. Again. It’s like everywhere I go, he’s coincidentally there. I’m about to comment on that when my business professionalism takes over. I have to smile. He’s a customer.
“What can I get you?” I ask. He brushes his dark bangs out of his eyes and looks down at the counter.
“What would you recommend?”
“Personally I like the apple cinnamon strudel.”
“I’ll have that.”
I wrap it up. He hands me the money and for the briefest second, our fingers glance across each other’s. I react instantly – my face heating. All I can think about is how I’ve already seen him pretty much naked. If it was any other guy, one I hadn’t seen au natural, I wouldn’t be acting like this. I’m embarrassed, that’s all. Nothing more.
“That girl seemed happy,” Lee puts the change in the tip jar. “About the cupcake.”
I drop my smile a little. “You saw that, huh? Damn. My secret’s out.”
“What, that the straight-A ice princess is nice to kids?”
I flush harder. “I’m more of a witch than a princess, really.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” He scoffs. “Only princesses give sweets to kids for free like that.”
“How do you know? Maybe I’m a witch planning to fatten her up and eat her.”
“Don’t you know how being evil works? You’re not supposed to tell anyone your plans.”
I mime smacking my forehead. “Oh, right! Remind me to consult you before I plan any evilly heinous deeds in the future.”
Lee’s mouth twists into a smile. I’m smiling too. I flatten it. This is the guy I ran into and called names. This is the guy I found escaping from a girl’s room he just had sex with, who I told to piss off when he found me crying. He probably thinks I’m crazy and immature.
“A-Anyway. Enjoy the strudel,” I stutter.
“I will. Thanks.” He flashes one last smile and leaves. Kory passes him as he comes in from his smoke break. He eyes Lee from behind, up and down.
“Damn,” Kory slides behind the counter again. “Who was that fine filet mignon?” I just give a long sigh. Kory nudges me in the ribs. “What, you like him?”
“He’s not my type,” I mumble.
“Last time I checked, ‘maybe-Spanish-maybe-Romanian-maybe-an-underwear-model’ was everybody’s type.”
I busy myself with making a cappuccino and don’t answer that.
Finally, Friday comes. The bell for last period rings and everyone in the Lit lecture hall shuffles out, laughing and making plans for the fall break that’s now officially happening. Jen gives me a hug, smelling like spicy incense. Her skull rings dig into my back.
“You’ll call me, right?”
“Definitely.”
“If it gets too dreary just, hell, I dunno, drink a lot or something. But, uh, not too much. I keep forgetting you’re a lightweight. Just take it easy, okay?”
“Thanks. You too.”
“If you feel like a pick-me-up, come down to L.A. the day after Thanksgiving. We’re putting on a show at ten in the Blue Eclipse.”
I wave, she waves, and with a jingle of her many earrings, she’s gone through the door.
Chapter Two
In Which Lee Montenegro’s Dad Tries To Get Me To Marry Him
The Greyhound bus is dirty, but there’s something comforting about the way the seats smell the same – lint and old candy and sweat. I take the bus up to San Francisco, and Mom and Dad, every holiday. When I was younger Riley and I would take the bus to visit grandpa. Even though grandpa’s died, these seats are the same. Even though I get older, these seats stay.
Mom picks me up at the station in our ancient Acura. She gets out and wraps me in a hug.
“Oh, Rose. It’s so good to see you.”
“I’m really sorry about Grandpa,” I murmur into her blonde hair. Grandpa was her dad. She breathes out, shakily, and brushes my bangs from my eyes. She has dark circles, and her skin’s more wrinkled than I remember. When did she get so old? I haven’t been gone that long, have I?
“C’mon, let’s get going. Your father’s been fretting over a pot roast all day.”
I laugh. “Him and his crockpot obsession.”
“He’s gotten even more obsessed.” Mom’s weary face cracks with a small smile. “He tried to make a cake in it the other day.”
I laugh harder. Loud. So loud it almost seems like sacrilege in the heavy fog of sadness that permeates the car. Mom turns onto the highway.
“How’s business?” I ask.
“We’ve got some new interest from China, so we’re shipping them a sample product, and a cosmetics company in France wants to look at our catalog.”
Mom and Dad own a small artisan soap company. It’s been struggling since I was in middle school, but we’ve always somehow gotten by.
“And Riley?” I ask.
“Has a new girlfriend he’s bringing over for Thanksgiving.”
“That’ll be interesting.”
“Very,” Mom sighs. “We’ll see how long this one lasts.”
The familiar trees and strip malls of my childhood flash past. My neighborhood hasn’t changed either. There’s a new playground, but that’s about it. Our house – a one-story with warm windows and mottled glass door, looks so inviting. Mom pulls into the driveway and pats my hand.
“Welcome home, sweetie. I’m just sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”
“It’s alright. I’m glad I could be here for you.”
She smiles and we get out. “I’ll tell your father to bring in your bag.”
I watch her go into the house. The frosty twilight air cools my throat. The last leaves are falling from the giant oak tree in our front yard. The tire swing rotates softly in the wind. I sit in it and spin.
Even though I’m older, this swing never changes.
“Hey kiddo,” Dad’s voice. I jump out of the swing and hug him. He’s balding – brown hair a little flyaway – and the same sadness Mom carries around moistens his eyes.
“Hey. I heard we’re having pot roast.”
“It’s the best pot roast in this universe. It better be, anyway. I spent all day on it.” He fishes my duffel bag from the trunk and stops in the front door. “Come in soon, it’s getting cold.”
I twirl until I feel almost sick. The next time the door opens, it’s Riley.
“Get your ass in here,” He yells. “I’m hungry.”
I heft off the swing and ruffle his hair as I pass him in the doorway. It’s blonde and perfectly gelled. Straight B’s, vice captain of the baseball team at his high school, and with more ex-girlfriends than you can count on your hands, Riley’s always adjusted well. He’s the one who’s balanced, not me.
“Wow, you’re so tan,” He snipes, taking in my pale skin. The hall is warm, the same family photos on the walls.
“They teach sarcasm in high school now?” I quirk a brow.
“Learned it from the best.” Riley points at me and grins. We set the table while Dad adds the finishing touches to the roast.
“So, Grandpa,” Riley starts. “Kinda shitty he had to die.”
“Everyone has to die, Rile.”
“Don’t you start getting emo on me, too!” He sighs. “Mom cries all the time. Dad won’t get off the computer unless it’s to moan about the bills or check on the office.”
> “How are the bills?” I ask. “Business wise.”
Riley puts a glass down and leans in. “They won’t let me see, but I heard Dad talking to Betsy the other day. He said something about declaring.”
The pit of my stomach goes cold. “Bankruptcy?”
Riley makes a violent ‘shh’ing motion. Dad comes in with the roast and we eat together in a weird mockery of formality. Dad asks me about classes and I’m honest and Mom asks me about boys and I lie (I’ve been on a few coffee dates with classmates). Riley snorts into his peas. I kick him under the table. He knows me better than anyone and can tell it’s crap.
I don’t eat much, my stomach knotted so tight it feels like I’ll throw everything up. Bankruptcy. They can’t go bankrupt, not with the house mortgage and Riley’s college riding on the company. I burn with anger at myself – if I was smarter I’d be done with college by now, have my own bakery, maybe a chain of them, and make enough money to cover Mom and Dad’s losses. Riley wouldn’t have to stress about school like I did if I was just smarter, faster, better –
“Rose?” Mom touches my forearm. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry, blanked for a second. What was it?”
“Grandpa’s funeral. Do you have something black to wear?”
“Yeah, a dress.”
“Great.” Mom turns to Riley. “And you, bucko – don’t try to talk Rose into giving you rides anywhere. You still have school next week.”
Riley heaves a sigh and dramatically stabs a pea.
After dinner, Riley goes to his room to text his girlfriend. Dad settles in front of the TV with Mom and I head downstairs to the office, sneakily. I have to know if they’re really filing for bankruptcy – there should be papers in the office. The door is unlocked. I check under the glass unicorn statue, where the important documents are usually kept. One name catches my eye as I flip through them - United Shores Bank. I read the fine print. Bankruptcy filing. Just seeing those words is enough to make my stomach plummet. I put the papers back and slip into my old room. The stuffed bunnies still litter my bed, the comforter fluffy as ever. I curl under it and try to push out the thought of Mom and Dad losing the house, the company, and Riley ending up like me – getting good grades for scholarships and focusing on only that until he’s utterly and completely alone.
~~~
Dad drives us to the funeral. Everything is gray. Gray-faced people, gray skies threatening gray rain, gray roads. The church is warm, golden relief. The priest goes on and on and I know if Grandpa were alive he’d be complaining loudly how bored he was. Mom’s sobbing and Dad’s stone-faced, eyes wet. Even Riley’s somber. Aunts and uncles and cousins have flown in from as far as London. It’s an open casket. Mom grips my hand tightly and we go up together. Grandpa’s wild white hair sticks out of the casket. His face is too still, too plastic with makeup and the greasy shine of candles. Dad links his arms around Mom and helps her to her seat when her crying gets so hard she has problems standing. I watch them go with a tiny seed of pride – they really do love each other. Riley and I are so lucky that they’re still together and in love.
“Bye, Grandpa.” I look into the casket. “We’ll take care of your farmhouse and garden, so, you know.” I sniff and bury my face in my sleeves as the tears overwhelm me. “Sleep well? Is that what people say at these things?” I rub my eyes hard. “I’ll miss you. Thank you. S-Sleep well.”
The wake is easier than the hordes of crying people in the church. In the stuffy, potpourri-smelling funeral home there’s punch and cookies and I can put a room, a wall, between myself and Grandpa’s body. Relatives hug me and tell me I look beautiful (a lie, I’ve got permanent dark circles from late night studying and I’ve gotten even flabbier), and ask me about school. I spout the stock-phrases they want to hear (going well, difficult but fun, lots of planning for the future).
A tall, older man walks up to me. He looks comfortable in his well-tailored suit. Salt-and-pepper streaked hair only make his handsome, dignified features stand out.
“Rose Jensen, I presume?” His voice is rich and has a slight accent. We shake hands.
“Yeah. Hi. Thanks for coming.”
“I’m Farlon. My father was a good friend of your grandfather’s. My sincerest condolences.”
“Thanks. Is…your father here, too?”
“No, he passed away last month, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. I was wondering – are you available after this?”
I nod. “But why -?”
“My sincerest apologies.” Farlon snaps his fingers over the heads of the crowd. A short, pudgy man in a suit carrying a briefcase oozes out from the mass of people. “This is my lawyer, Guillermo. He was my father’s lawyer as well. Your grandfather and my father had a joint will agreement.”
“Oh.” I frown.
“I know it’s too soon to talk of such things,” Farlon’s eyes soften. “But your grandfather’s lawyer has agreed to meet us after the wake for a discussion. You are also required there.”
“I don’t understand. Why me?”
“Everything will become clear if you join us at the meeting. Here’s the address.” He fishes a business card out and scribbles on the back with a pen – Gerard’s, a fancy restaurant in town. “We will be waiting for your arrival eagerly.”
“If this is legal will stuff, you should talk to my parents.”
“Ah, senorita.” Farlon’s smile widens. “You are nineteen – the will and the legal system consider you an adult, and all your actions in this sphere are your own. If you feel uncomfortable, however, feel free to bring your parents. My most heartfelt condolences for your loss, again.”
And with a brush of spicy cologne, he and his lawyer are gone.
I turn over Farlon’s words in my head when we get home. Mom rests in her room, and Dad works in the office. Riley meets his girlfriend on the curb and they go for ice cream at the corner store. She’s a cute brunette – short, with big cheeks and an angelic smile. They look good together. My pocket’s stiff with Farlon’s business card. I turn it over in my hands. A will means money. It’s a joint will. I don’t know what that means, but if there’s a possibility I could get a chunk of money, I could use it to help Mom and Dad out of their jam. But they’d never let me do that. They’d insist I save it for myself. I can’t go to the meeting with them – it has to be alone.
I pull off my black dress and put on a blouse and jeans. My old car – Dad’s volvo – sits in the garage, keys in the tray by the door where he always leaves them. I bundle up in my thickest coat against the night cold and back the car out. Gerard’s is a fancy Italian restaurant in town, just across from the bookstore. The parking lot’s nearly empty, and the restaurant itself is all red carpet and dark wood tables and low, flickering candles. The hostess flashes me a smile.
“You must be Rose. This way, please.”
I nervously follow her to the back, where Farlon and his lawyer sit in a booth, sipping wine. Brett, a bespectacled younger man and Grandpa’s lawyer, sits across from them. They talk in low, serious voices. The last guy at the table is familiar, almost too familiar. My eyes widen - Lee. He’s in a suit, tie loose and two buttons undone from the top of his shirt. His face is set and serious. I almost turn around and leave, but Farlon smiles brightly.
“Rose! Please, do sit by Mr. Gregory, here.”
I sit by Brett, who flashes me a strained grin. “Hi. Long time no see. I’m your grandfather’s lawyer, Brett –”
“I know. I remember you from when I was younger,” I murmur. “Nice to see you.”
Lee’s looking at me, hazel eyes glowing gold in the candlelight. His dark hair isn’t messy, back isn’t slouched, and there’s no hint of that signature easy smile. It’s like he’s a completely different person.
“Please, take off your jacket, get comfortable,” Farlon insists. “You are too young to drink, yes? But you can have anything you like on the menu. You must be starv
ing.”
I shoot a look at Lee. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m just confused, why is -”
“My son here?” Farlon finishes for me.
“Your son,” I repeat, my fingertips slowly going cold.
“Mr. Gregory, if you please.” Farlon waves his hand. “Explain things to her.”
Brett pulls out papers from his briefcase and nods. “Right. Rose, your grandfather left you a good sum of money in his will.”
My eyes widen at the figure on the paper. Three hundred thousand dollars.
“W-Where did he get that?”
“He might not have looked it, but James was an avid stock market enthusiast. He and his friend Carlos made it together. They made most of it when you were born and then put it in an IRA, to be released to you when they both died.”
“But the money doesn’t go to my Mom?” I squirm under Lee’s hard gaze. Why is he so serious? Where’s his light, easy smile?
“He left your mother the house.”
“Houses take a long time to sell,” I sigh. I hear people talk about the housing market all the time – it’s in the pits. The chance Mom and Dad will be able to sell it quickly and get the money for the company is slim.
“What was that?”
“N-Nothing.” I shake my head. Farlon and his lawyer are conversing in low, rapid Spanish.
“There’s a letter here, for you. Your grandfather wrote it when he drafted the will a year ago.” Brett hands me it. I open it and read.
Dearest Rose,
If you’re reading this, it means I kicked the bucket. Hah! Don’t be sad, sugarplum. Wherever I am, I’m fine. I want you to be fine, too. That’s why I’ve drafted this new will and given Brett this letter.
I should probably say I love you and Riley equally, and that’s true, but I know you’ll do bigger things with the money than he will. Besides, most of the money was made that March week when you were born, so I kinda see you as the lucky charm that made it all happen. You’re at UCLA now, a freshmen, and goddamn if you aren’t going places. I always knew you would, and I hope this money will help you do the things you want to with your life. Use it for your college, for yourself. Don’t blow it on boys and booze. Hah!