Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“You let Sam drive?” George cackled like that was the most hilarious tidbit ever.
“Sam’s a better driver,” I said firmly. Marta and Sam weren’t the only ones who could be loyal. And it was true. I relaxed far more when Sam was in control, whether behind the wheel or in other more personal spaces. He was a fluid, competent driver, and not having to worry was more than worth handing over my keys.
“Ha.” George continued to laugh. “Speaking of time off, I’m going to another concert on Saturday. Alone.”
“I need to go check our cup stock.” Marta stalked off toward the supply room.
“How do I get her to a yes?” George asked no one in particular.
“Beats me. I’m the least romantic person on earth. Doomed to be single for eternity.”
“I beg to differ.” Sam bristled like I’d insulted him, not my own meager dating skills. “I’m gonna go check on Marta.”
“Crap. I said something wrong.” I held up my hands, but George simply shook his head.
“Yep, but hell if I know what.” He grinned impishly, clearly eager to see how I got myself out of this mess. But apologizing to Sam would have to wait because the front door of the shop tinkled, announcing a customer. I looked up to see Sam’s mom making her way to the counter. She carried a large, colorful woven purse and had sunglasses perched on her fluffy hair, giving her a much younger air.
“What’ll it be?” I asked, careful to face her so she could read my lips as I used more of my rusty signing skills.
“My regular,” she replied, signing far slower than she would for Sam. She’d been in enough this week that I had her iced caramel chai memorized. I made her drink quickly, putting it in a to-go cup.
“Want me to get Sam?” I spoke slowly as I signed.
“No. You come sit with me.” She could be every bit as convincing as Sam when she wanted to be. I glanced over at George, but he didn’t provide an escape.
“Go on.” He waved toward the bank of empty tables, too helpful for his own good. “We’ve got barely anyone in. And you know Sam would want you to take a break.”
“You win. Let me carry your drink.” I smiled at Mrs. Bookman, following her to a table by the window that faced the patio.
“Oh, look at Cal working on the patio fence.” Keeping her signing slow and simple, she pointed to where Cal had removed all the twisted old and rusted fencing. He’d replaced it with jaunty low wooden fencing that included a working gate and was currently painting it bright white. “You should go talk to him.”
I should have known she’d come on a mission, but I managed to suppress a groan. “Patio looks good. Almost done.”
“Exactly. Good chance to talk to him today.” She gave me the same smiling-but-stern look Sam was so talented at.
“About what?” I wasn’t playing dumb. I honestly wasn’t sure where to start with Cal. We weren’t going to be buddies. That much was certain. And I already had the depression group counselor on me to share. I didn’t need to unload on Cal too.
Mrs. Bookman held up a long, elegant finger for me to wait while she dug out her ever-present notepad and pencil.
When my Sienna died, I didn’t want to talk about her or what happened. Not with anyone. I had so much anger for the whole world. I pushed away many who wanted to help. Cal just wants to help.
“I don’t know what I need,” I admitted in a moment of stark honesty. “More information? Less? I don’t even know anymore. Don’t even know why certain details bug me so much.”
Face kind, she shrugged as she resumed writing. Because they do. Details matter, and they hurt like knives. Does it help if I say your mother deserved far better?
Unable to speak, I gave a tight nod.
She was a good person, and I miss her. Signing, she repeated the phrase, “I miss her.”
I pressed my lips tightly together in a losing bid to keep from tearing up.
“Me too,” I signed without speaking.
“I know.” Nodding, she gave my clasped hands a tight squeeze before picking up her pen again. She gave so much of herself. Church. Clubs. School. You. Whatever mistakes she made didn’t take away from her accomplishments. Good people make mistakes. Finishing up, she stared me down as if willing me to truly believe.
I inhaled sharply, not sure whether I could agree.
Whatever your opinion of her actions, she loved you, and she would want you to be happy, Mrs. Bookman wrote in precise lettering.
“I can’t pretend all the bad stuff didn’t happen.”
Of course it happened, she wrote quickly. But it also doesn’t negate the good memories.
My eyes went from stinging to actively leaking, two big tears rolling down my cheeks. “There are some good ones.”