The Life You've Imagined (16 page)

I’m disappointed my hours are cut, but to be honest, the Beckers will pick up any wedding slack. They won’t want their boy married off in anything but high style.

And I’m not Fred, who has three kids to support now. His wife just had twins.

“Lakeshore Realty” I say, with a little less cheer, perhaps, when my phone next rings. It’s one of our Spanish-speaking clients. “
Hola, Señora Martinez, cómo estás?
. . . Sí
,” I say.

Señora Martinez is very worried about not being able to sell her home, which is a cute bungalow. Unfortunately, it’s in an iffy part of town and her adjustable mortgage rate is spiking. I tell her that her agent, Mary, is doing the best she can, and ask, would she like to talk to her? She tells me no in a voice that sags with the weight of those payments.

I call Paul next. “Can we meet for lunch today?”

“Geez, babe, I don’t know . . .”

“Paul, please. I’d like to see you.”

I hold my breath. I never do this: make demands. He’s got enough going on.

“Okay, fine. Sure. Come by when you have lunch and I’ll take a break.”

“Thanks, honey. See you soon.”

He only mumbles into the phone and I would have liked a cheerier send-off, but I’ll take it. Anyway, a lunch will go a long way toward erasing last night’s post-council-meeting unpleasantness.

“What do you want from me?” he’d shouted, actually raising his voice at me. I was curled up on the couch. His face was so red he looked burned. “You want to live like a Mrs. Becker and have this storybook wedding? Then we need to make money. I try to make money and you whine about how I do it! You’re worse than my brother. Damn bleeding hearts. You sure don’t mind the fancy car and the nice house, though, any more than he does.”

“But . . .” was the only word I managed.

“If we only did projects that never bent a blade of grass or displaced a single soul, no one would have any place to live and I’d be a . . . a . . . plumber.”

“Hey, my brother’s a plumber!”

“What’s the . . .” He clapped his hand over his forehead. “Amy, that’s not the point. I could have said gas station attendant—”

“But you didn’t. You said plumber, which now you say is the same thing as a gas station attendant.”

“I just . . . Jesus, stop taking this so personally. You were the one who jumped on me, which, by the way, this was supposed to be my big night, thanks for the support,
darling
.”

And with that, he’d slammed his way out the door.

I sent him a text later to apologize, and he sent one back that said “I love you,” but it’s hard to know how sincere that was.

Yes, lunch is just the thing. I’ll praise him for his accomplishment and we can get back on track.

W
hen I step through the front door of Becker Development and shake out my umbrella, I see Anna standing before the reception desk.

She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, both spotted with rain. Her hair is back in a barrette, but what isn’t pulled tight has frizzed out in the muggy air. She turns to face me, then looks quickly away, her jaw set.

The receptionist, Barbara, waves at me, nods, and buzzes for Paul.

First, Will comes out to greet Anna. His face is grave, and he steps close enough to Anna that I can’t hear them talking. He puts his hand on Anna’s elbow and leads her a couple steps away from Barbara.

Barbara shoots me a look and I shrug back at her.

Paul comes out, his hair mussed from where he must have been messing with it. I reach up to smooth it down and he flinches away, then smooths the hair himself. He then gives me a weak smile and kisses my cheek. “Hi, hon. I’ve only got just an hour. I really shouldn’t even break away, but . . .”

Paul notices Will and Anna in the corner. Will is putting on his trench coat and grabbing an umbrella. Anna hitches her purse up on her shoulder. I see the brothers’ eyes meet, but they don’t say a word.

Paul leads me out into the rain. We have separate umbrellas so it’s hard to get close. I’m glad to get into the warm, breakfasty smell of Doreen’s.

The door opens behind us, and Paul and I both turn to see Anna and Will coming in from huddling under one umbrella.

We all stare at each other for a moment’s surprise, then there are uncomfortable chuckles all around. “Fancy meeting you here,” Will says.

“Four, then?” the hostess asks, and no one disagrees in a moment’s hesitation, so we all follow the hostess to a booth.

Anna and Paul are diagonal across the table, each avoiding the other’s gaze.

Paul clears his throat after we order finally and says, “No hard feelings, eh?”

Anna narrows her eyes and doesn’t respond. Then she exhales deeply and says to me, “So, tell us all about the wedding. You must be very excited.”

Now this is safe ground. So I tell them about my bridal party and the colors and my stunning dress and the reception out at the country club. This gets us halfway through our meal.

While I’m prattling on, I can’t help but think how natural and relaxed Anna and Will are together. They’re not doing anything wrong, really, here. They’re old friends and clearly not sneaking around because they’re having lunch right out in the open with us.

But if I were Samantha, I’d be pissed. And knowing Samantha the little I do, she will be, when she hears of it.

Under the table, Paul strokes my knee with his thumb and I relax. Even though we couldn’t talk privately, now I know: All is forgiven.

I squeeze his hand back.
I forgive you, too.

The check comes and we ask the waitress to split it by pairs. I also ask her to box up the remains of my fresh fruit for my snack later today. I see Anna make a grab for the check, but Will gets to it first, and there’s some whispered debate before he wins, slapping down his Visa.

I start to get up as they do, but Paul gently takes my arm. “Wait a minute, babe?” he asks.

“Sure . . .” I glance at my watch. I’ll have just enough time to get back. Barely.

Anna and Will nod to us, and I notice as they leave that his hand hovers behind her lower back, not quite touching, as if she might fall at any time and he needs to be at the ready. I also notice they make a wrong turn outside the door, walking the opposite direction from their respective workplaces. As they pass the large front window, Anna’s head is down, arms folded, and Will is speaking to her, his posture bent so he can be close to her face.

I turn to Paul in the booth, and my breath catches in my chest because he looks positively gray.

“What? What is it?”

“Amy . . .” He takes my hand in his and it’s like when he proposed, only he’s not on one knee, this place stinks of bacon fat, and he looks like he might throw up. “We may need to postpone the wedding.”

Chapter 23

Cami

I
think this is why Jesus was a carpenter: It’s easy to be serene and turn the other cheek when you can pound nails and saw wood and sand until your biceps turn rubbery.

The mattress set I bought at Salvation Army is propped up on my sunny yellow wall, and the finished floor is smooth under my toes. And now I’m building myself a bed because, why not, yeah?

It’s that or take a bus to an Indian casino and fall right off that cliff again. So, bed it is.

Also, I know Sherry is still asleep in here somewhere, and I’m pounding as loudly as I can so she’ll leave. I haven’t touched her again and don’t plan to. But I never promised her a monastery.

My thumb explodes in fire, only it doesn’t really, that’s just what it feels like when I smash it with a hammer.

I can hardly see through my watery eyes as I fumble out to the kitchen and fill a baggy with ice. This is as good a time as any for a break, I’d say.

I drop the lock-hook into place back in my room and sit cross-legged, cradling my iced thumb, with a photo album on the floor in front of me.

It’s not as old as I’d hoped, this album. It’s from my own youth, not my mom’s, so there aren’t any clues in here as to the identity of the mysterious rich family who called my mother Pammie.

I’m tempted to call my Aunt Clara and ask, but just picturing her pious pout makes me want to spit in her face.

I’m grateful there are no pictures in here of my mom sick. I don’t need to see that. Because she was always the family photographer, when she fell ill, the pictures stopped.

Not that it’s easy to look at pictures of Trent and me gallivanting in a park somewhere, knowing my smiling mother was behind the camera, clicking.

My thumb’s throbbing eases up and I sneak a look under the ice bag. The thumbnail is turning purple.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial.

“Hi, Steve.”

“Oh, Cami.”

“I know you said not to call, but . . . well, since when have I done what I’m told, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There was a smile in his voice, I just know it. “So listen, I’ve been really good so far. Not so much as a poker chip anywhere near me. I’m even staying away from potato chips just to be safe.”

“Well, good. So you’re okay, then.”

“Sort of.” In the pause, my gaze falls on the photo album, on a rare picture of my mom and dad together. Trent must have grabbed the camera. My dad is smiling at my mom, apparently unaware of my brother the paparazzo. “So, keeping my side of the bed warm for me?”

I cringe at myself. I’m not good at needy.

He clears his throat and I clench my eyes shut, wishing I could pull those words back. I should hang up. My good thumb hovers over the “end call” button. I wait for his answer anyway.

“Actually, I’m seeing someone else.”

“You are, yeah? Good for you.” I suck in a breath and move the phone slightly away so he can’t hear the effort this takes to hold it all in.

“I’m sorry, but I did tell you not to call.”

“I know.”

“Cami? Are you there?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“Say something.”

“Something.”

He laughs at this, like he always laughs at my jokes. Always used to, I should say. “C’mon, I want to know you’re okay.”

I put the phone on the floor long enough to let my breath out and pick the phone back up. “I’m fine, yeah? Aren’t I always?”

“That’s my girl. Look, take care, huh?”

“Yeah.”

I hang up and drop the phone on my bed. My door rattles against the hook-lock and I hurriedly shove the photo album into my closet.

I open the door to see Sherry in all her wrinkly, smeared, hung-over glory. “What?”

“What happened to you?” she asks, squinting at my face.

“I hit my thumb with a hammer. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

“A
re you okay?” Maeve asks me as I come in. She’s at the register.

“Allergies,” I answer. “Also, I hit myself with a hammer. See my amazing Technicolor thumb? And where’s Anna?”

Maeve’s jaw clenches briefly before she says, “I sent her out for a break. It was getting a little crowded in here.”

Sally is in the store, restlessly wandering from shelf to shelf, picking things up and putting them down. “You sure you don’t need help, sister dear?” she calls. “I could straighten up some . . . Whoops!” There’s a loud crashing, and in the rear of the store I can see a display of cereal come tumbling down.

“She’s making me crazy,” Maeve hisses. “I’ll pay you a million dollars to take her out of here for the day.”

“Wouldn’t you rather get out somewhere? Let me hold down the fort?”

“I don’t feel like going anywhere. Honestly, I just want her out of my hair.”

“In that case, I’ll do it pro bono. What does she like to do?”

“She likes the Indian casino,” Maeve says. “She’ll sit there at the nickel slots for hours.”

I walk to the back of the store and start setting up the boxes again. “Hey, Sal. You feeling lucky today?”

I
t’s not quite as grand as the Detroit casinos, but none of them are much different. They’re all loud, for one thing, both in decor and volume. Sally zooms right over to the cheapest slots as fast as her skinny legs can go, a plastic cup of coins in her hand.

I’ll wander around a little, I tell her. Just to poke around.

I didn’t bring much cash, on purpose. But I did bring my ATM card. For emergencies.

My wandering brings me past the blackjack table, and all I do is watch, at a distance back. One of the players sees me and gestures to an empty seat. I raise my hand and shake my head: no, thanks.

I can’t believe he just took another card. Imbecile. He groans and I groan inside my head because anyone with brains saw that coming. I shift my weight, tapping my foot. I adjust my glasses and finally rip myself away.

It was Steve who first brought me to the casino. Little did he know.