Stork (29 page)

I had already waved my dad away from the curb and was just holding my key to the lock when Stanley came bustling out. He murmured a very terse greeting and made an all-business beeline to his car. I knew something was wrong. I walked through to the family room. My mom was on the couch with her head in her hands. I could tell she was crying.

“Is everything all right? What’s up with Stanley? Did you guys fight or something?”

She looked at me quickly, wiping away tears. I thought for a moment I’d get the type of denial all parents give their kids in tough moments, the kind of denial I got when the marriage first started to crumble, but then something in my mom’s eyes changed. “He’s disappointed.”

I dropped my things on the floor and sat down next to her. “Do you want to tell me?”

She took a big breath. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.” She looked away, obviously embarrassed. “I’m pregnant. Thirty-eight, divorced, and pregnant.”

“Oh.” I tried to act surprised. “How do you know?”

“I took one of those tests,” she said. “Technically, three of them.” She shook her head from side to side. “What you must think of me.”

“It’s OK, Mom. Why would I judge?”

Tears welled at the outside corners of her eyes. She let them roll down her cheek. “Because I made a big mistake. A very big mistake.”

I scooted a little closer to her. “You and Stanley will work it out. He’s probably a bit surprised. He just needs some time.”

Big glugs of tears streamed down my mom’s face. “Except I’m not completely sure it’s Stanley’s.”

No need to feign surprise now. “What?”

“It’s just your father and I . . . when I went to San Francisco to sign the papers . . .” She waved away some imaginary foe. “It’s his fault. I should have just signed them and left. But he had champagne, and a really nice suite with a view, and one thing led to another.”

“You and Dad?”

She dropped her head back into her hands. “It was so stupid. And I was already seeing Stanley, so really terrible of me.”

“You and Dad?” I couldn’t help myself. I was stuck on this point.

She straightened. Big black drips of mascara now stained her cheeks. “Please don’t read too much into this. There is no ‘me and Dad.’”

“But you just said . . .”

“That it was a big mistake.”

“So is it Dad’s?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

“It could be Stanley’s?”

“Yes.”

“Mom!” How many teenagers got to have this moment? A reverse
Juno
.

Her head sank farther. “It’s terrible, I know.”

“Did you tell Stanley?”

“Yes.” The reply was muffled by her palms.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He was very quiet. And then he left.”

I put my arm around my pregnant mother. “It’s all right, Mom. I know it probably doesn’t feel like it, but it will be OK. You’ll make it OK. Because you’re a great mother. And you always wanted another baby, right?”

“Not like this,” she sobbed.

“Stanley will be back. He’s that kind of guy. He’ll be back. And then he’ll be excited about the baby.”

“What if it’s not his?” She looked at me with fear in her eyes.

“It’s his,” I said.

“How could you possibly know that?”

There had been the briefest of moments when I’d been filled with the hope it was my dad’s. My full sister. It had passed quickly. I knew too much about this baby: a nature lover, like Stanley, and destined to live in a cold climate. And that floral wreath of bright orange marigolds — Stanley was a redhead.

“Because you and Dad tried forever. It just wasn’t in the cards for you two.”

“I hope you’re right. Your dad never wanted more kids. We tried, but he’d gone along unwillingly.” She obviously saw the alarm in my face. “Not that he doesn’t love you, doesn’t love being your dad, but that’s enough for him.”

“Are you going to tell Dad?”

“I suppose I’ll have to.”

“Did Stanley say anything at all before he left?”

“That he needed to be alone.”

“Do you love him?”

She picked at a bit of fluff on the arm of the couch. “I think so. We were getting there, anyway.”

“You need to tell him that.”

My mom squeezed my knee. “Look at you. When did you get so wise?”

“I guess a lot has happened to me lately.”

“What have I done?” She shook her head. “First the divorce, then the move, plus the skating ordeal.”

Heaping onto that Stork duties, the stupid night with Wade, my developing feelings for Jack, and my newest affliction — blackbirdophobia — I supposed it was the kind of load that’d either break you or make you. I looked down. I appeared to be in one piece. “I’m OK, Mom. Keeping busy. Adjusting to the new place, new kids.” It was true. I was finally adjusting.

Saturday morning, I tugged the last few stitches into the hem of my dress, tied it off, and trimmed the thread. After sailing it over the dress form next to my sewing machine, I stood back and watched the gathered tulle skirt float back into place. It was a great dress for dancing. It was a great dress
period
. I sat on the edge of my bed contemplating the way it differed from its backdrop: a huge bulletin board of elaborate sketches, magazine-clipped couture photos, and fabric swatches. Glancing up, I saw my mom leaning against the doorjamb.

“It’s beautiful, honey,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“You know, I think I remember that dress of Amma’s.” She stepped into the room.

“You do?”

“She wore it to a New Year’s party,” she said, fingering its beaded bodice.

“She wore a lot of red, didn’t she?”

“Sure,” my mom said. “It was her favorite color.”

“I think it’s mine, too, now.”

“You two always were a lot alike.”

Birds of a feather,
I said to myself.

“You did a great job on the dress,” my mom said. “Amma would be very proud.” She dropped her hand to her tummy. It seemed unintentional, but still, a kind of head count of everyone there — my mom, me, my sister, and even my
amma
.

It had been my idea to work at the store that day. I was too nervous and excited to sit around the house. Driving down Main, I noticed that downtown was hopping. I saw a couple of girls with updos coming out of the Mousse Head Salon, and Paulina, the owner of the used bookstore, waved to me as she rolled a cart of half-price books out to the sidewalk. Just as I was pulling into a parking spot in front of Afi’s, some movement across the street caught my eye. Hulda was replacing the For Sale sign with a Sold sign. Huh? I bolted across the two lanes, not even looking for cars, and bustled into her store. She stood near the entry with her arms crossed and a sly look on her face.

“You sold the store?”

“Yes.”

“To the developers? Afi didn’t say anything.”

“Not to the developers.”

“What?”

“I got a very interesting offer. Something different. I think you’ll be pleased.”

“What? Why me?”

“Is sign of the mermaid. Just as you saw it.”

“What mermaid?”

“Split tail. Bearing crown. Just as you saw her.”

“Fru Hulda. You’ve lost me.”

“The coffee place. The Starbucks.”

“Starbucks bought your store?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“A man came in here lost. Was Thursday after meeting with you and your father.”

“Oh, yeah. I saw him. He asked me for directions.”

“He was needing to find some fancy lodge up north. His GPS not working. Anyway, he took a good look around this little town. It reminded him of northern Michigan, where he used to pass his summers as a boy.”

“So who is he?”

“He’s some big-shot with the coffee. Big enough to place a store.”

“Just like that?”

“Oh, no. Took a few calls. Lawyers talking to lawyers. Another team coming next week. Hulda knows, though. I make them very good offer. Tell them of new important business coming to Norse Falls, new jobs.” She winked at me. “Hulda can be very persuasive.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Katla, you’re the one who had the vision.”

“Uh, right, but I didn’t think it meant Starbucks.” Technically I didn’t think it meant anything, because I made it up. And then I wondered what Hulda meant by persuasive. Was the guy back home somewhere wondering what hit him? Having to explain his spontaneous and illogical decision to a boardroom full of angry executives? At this point, I put nothing past Hulda.

“Is good news, yes?”

And it was. Not only was my dad coming to town; so were nonfat caramel macchiatos. “Yeah. Great for me, but what about the rest of the stores?”

“This is good for everyone. New jobs. New prosperity. Some old stores stay. Some new come in. Is mixing of past and present. Compromise. Winds of change.”

“Wait till I tell my dad.” And Afi. And my mom. And Jack. Holy cow. What would he think?

Hulda continued to look at me with an odd expression. “So. Tonight is big dance.”

“Yep.”

“Red is a good color for you. Red is a warm color. Red is color of the heart. Red is the breast of the robin.”

“The robin?” This sparked my interest.

“The harbinger of spring.”

So I was the sign of change. How appropriate. And red was my
amma
’s color, and now my color, too. “The dress came out great. I love the color.”

“Not just for special occasions. Red is color of the heart all the time.”

Yeah. Sure. I filed that one away. Knowing Hulda, it’d come up somewhere, sometime.

The last half hour before Jack arrived was straight-up torture. I was so nervous. And I felt I was forgetting something — like half my outfit. Dress, shawl, shoes, that was it. I hadn’t realized how hard it would be for me to keep it simple. I looked in the mirror, turning one way and then another. What was missing? What could I add? A few bangles on my bare arms? A big cross or a couple strands of beads at my white throat? A silky tank under the sleeveless bodice? Ankle bracelet? Hair jewelry? Body glitter? I realized, with a start, that I normally presented quite the façade.

I heard the doorbell ring, and my confidence spilled to my toes with a splash. After a big calming gulp of air, I padded cautiously down the stairs. My mom and Jack were sitting in the living room, chatting calmly. It probably wasn’t easy for her. She’d had a rough day. She’d phoned Stanley, but he hadn’t called her back. Plus she wasn’t feeling well. She was nauseous and tired. Still, she was the one who’d remembered to run out and get Jack a boutonniere. It was sitting on the kitchen table in a little plastic sleeve. And she was the one maintaining the conversation with Jack, who I could see, on closer inspection, was as keyed up as I was. His knee was jostling up and down in the leather club chair by the fireplace. He stood as soon as I came into view, and instantly all my nerves melted away. He looked so happy to see me.

“This is for you.” He held out a red-rose wrist corsage.

“Thank you.” My mom ran to get his boutonniere, giving us a moment to just kind of stand there and stare at each other with dopey looks on our faces.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“You look pretty fly yourself.” The suit was old, and a little large for him in the waist and through the shoulders, but clearly of good quality and classic design. The starched white shirt and red tie were a nice contrast against the charcoal of the pants and jacket.