Speak From The Heart: a small town romance Read online

  Let’s let the better man take this one. Not better journalist, better man.

  “Anyway, let’s talk Nana,” I say, no longer interested in discussing Jess with my sister. She doesn’t need to know how attractive he is or attracted I am to him. “I think I need to stay the week.”

  I don’t need to see my sister to know her eyebrows just hit her hairline.

  “How will that work with your job?” There might be a touch of sarcasm in her voice. My sister knows my goals and believes I might take them a bit to the extreme.

  “I haven’t taken time off in a year.” I still have all twenty days of vacation allotted to me. “Grace, I can’t even describe this place. I’ve entered a time capsule which has collected dust like it’s been buried.”

  “It’s that dirty? That doesn’t sound like Nana.”

  Okay, so I might be exaggerating a little bit. I’m a writer. I like hyperbole. It’s just everything is faded and worn. Cobwebs hung in corners until I swiped them away with my hand. I shiver with the memory of the spider I didn’t see that climbed up my wrist before I flicked him off me.

  “Do you think she has Alzheimer’s?” Grace asks, her voice shaky with concern. My sister hasn’t been here in years either. With each new birth, travel became more difficult. The expense. The distance. The number of children.

  “I just don’t know, but all this talk of Grandpa really weirds me out.” I’ve gently mentioned that my grandfather is no longer here a few times, hoping to prompt Nana to remember. When I say such a thing her face melts to sadness, and I’ve come to the point of not mentioning it, letting her chatter in her fantasyland. Still, it disturbs me. I’ve even asked her when she last visited a doctor and her response was she’s fit as a fiddle. But it’s obvious she’s not.

  “I’ll just need to stay a week, take her to a doctor, and get this place cleaned up.” It’s easier said than done and even I know I need more than a week. I also need some things from home which I should have considered bringing with me. My laptop. Additional clothing. My notebooks. My weekend away has turned into more than I bargained for, and clearly, I’m not what I said I am to Jess.

  I’m efficient, I’d snapped at his accusation that a week wouldn’t be enough time. What does he know about taking care of a house or another person? Instantly, I’m reminded he’s a father, taking care of a silent child who needs supervision and tenderness. My thoughts flip to Nana. The stove situation. Her car keys. Even the staircase worries me. This house is no longer fit for someone like Nana, but not fitting here will break her.

  This is her place. Her roots. Her home.

  And I need to get things in order for her.

  However, I’m frustrated after a disappointing phone call with my boss, who begrudgingly gave me the week off when I reminded him, I’d earned the time. I’m cleaning up the kitchen when the cold water handle comes off the faucet and water shoots into the sky like the Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park.

  “Oh my God!” I screech, attempting to stop it first with both my hands. Quickly, I realize that isn’t working. I lower and reach into the cabinet beneath the sink. While Grandpa tried to teach Grace and me simple mechanics and home repair, we were helpless with tools. Fortunately, being a homeowner myself—or, at least a condo owner—I’ve learned a thing or two, but there’s no condo association to call for this disaster. I fiddle with the knobs under the sink and manage to shut the water off completely, and then fall back on my ass. Water seeps into my shorts, another old pair of Grandpa’s pants hacked up for my new job as housecleaner. I’d cry if I wasn’t too tired to do so, and instead I laugh, though nothing about this is funny.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” I call out to no one, feeling more alone than ever and wishing Grace was here. She’d expressed her own desire to be with me during our call last night but we both know travel is out. She’s eight months along.

  “Did you say something, dear?” Nana asks. I spin in my wet seat and hold up my hands.

  “Don’t come in here, Nana. I made a mess.” I pick up the cold water tap which I must have dropped on the floor in my rush to stop the waterworks. “We need a plumber.”

  Nana’s eyes travel the length of her kitchen tiles. Like every room, this space is antiquated, with a chrome-edged dining table and four metal chairs with yellow canvas seats. It’s straight out of the fifties and probably worth something. I fixate on the table for a second until Nana says, “I’ll call John.”

  She lifts a foot as if to step into the kitchen from the porch. There’s still a landline on the wall but it’s been disconnected. Nana got a cordless phone once her rotary one no longer worked, but it still hangs in its original place.

  “No, Nana,” I warn. “You’ll slip. Just tell me where I might find the number for a plumber.”

  “The phone book is in the drawer.” She points to the cabinet nearest the wall phone and I crawl on hands and knees to it. I swipe my hands on my makeshift shorts and slowly stand as water dribbles down my shins. After flipping open the traditional paper phone book, I find a business card taped inside the cover. Who uses these anymore? My heart aches at all the antiquity of this house and the woman who owns it. It’s going to break her heart if I need to move her.

  QuickFix, the card reads. Specializing in emergency repairs. Plumbing. Electrical. You name it, we fix it. Quick.

  Goodness. Who came up with that slogan?

  Regardless, I dial the number, thankful my cell phone was on the kitchen table, and my feet tap in the flooded floor, like a kid sloshing through puddles.

  “QuickFix.”

  There’s something familiar about the voice on the other end of the line, but I delve into my situation with the sink and where I’m located. A pause follows my explanation.

  “Hello?” I question as silence fills the line.

  “I’m here,” he says, and the ruggedness gives away who he is.

  Oh hell no.

  “I thought you worked at Sound Advice,” I snap, mortified for some reason.

  “I’m a Jess of all trades,” he teases, his voice almost playful. This is a side of him I’ve not yet seen.

  “Don’t you mean Jack?” I correct.

  “Don’t know who Jack is. My name is Jess. How easily you forget.” His light banter does nothing to settle me. “Give me fifteen and I’ll be there.”

  Fifteen? I don’t have fifteen minutes to clean this mess and myself. Then I reconsider. What do I care if he sees me like this? Jess Carter gets what he gets when he looks at me, which is nothing. He stole my shoes last night, I remind myself, and hung up without a courtesy thank you. Nana would be appalled.

  When I turn back toward the flooded kitchen, the tears still don’t come, only hysteria. I laugh and laugh at the craziness of the universe.

  I’ve hardly encountered this man without looking like a wreck. First when I took the radio to his shop. Then when I made a rain shower in Nana’s garden, and now this.

  He must think I’m a hot mess. And I am.

  Rule 4

  Listen. You might hear more than what’s said.

  [Jess]

  Ten minutes after Emily’s call, I enter her grandmother’s home to a mess. Elizabeth answered the door for me and leads me to the kitchen entrance.

  This house has good bones, and it’s one I’ve always admired. I’d love to own a place like this one day.

  As I enter the kitchen, I can tell the place needs more work than I could ever afford, and from the looks of the sink, there’s a steep bill coming Elizabeth Parrish’s way. The cold water tap is missing. The contents of the cabinet underneath stand outside scattered across the counter. The sink is almost a hundred years old, and I imagine I won’t find a replacement part. It’s not a quick fix after all, and I don’t know why I’m disappointed.

  Because you want to get out of here.

  Because you want to stick around.

  My mind can’t make itself up.

  Emily hasn’t made an appearance, and I consid
er the possibility she isn’t here until I see her in another pair of shorts. They look like men’s pants cut off at the top of the thigh, and she’s wearing another T-shirt that has grandpa written all over it. Is she wearing her grandfather’s old clothes? I stare at her attire and realize she’s soaking wet again.

  “What happened?” I question with a chuckle.

  “That,” she hisses, waving a hand at the sink.

  “I think you won, killer,” I tease, but her face is stern today. She looks tired. She’s out of her element, taking care of this home.

  “Clearly, the faucet is the victor.” She tugs at her shirt, which lowers the neckline and exposes her cleavage to me, repeating the events of yesterday. Only today her bra is red, and I’m seeing more skin than fabric down the front of the stretched V-neck.

  Do not think about her breasts.

  Do not think about her bra.

  Do not consider red your new favorite color.

  Releasing her shirt, she nods toward the sink, dismissive in the way her chin lift to me was last night. “What’s the damage?”

  She’s a haughty thing when she wants to be, acting all prim and proper as if she’s better than others here. She came across as so stuck-up when she brought that radio into Sound Advice. I’m actually loving the challenge that thing has presented, but I’m not going to admit that to her.

  “I don’t know. This might take a while.”

  “Do you have two jobs?” There’s a hint of revulsion in her tone as if it’s not right for a man to work for two places. Not that I owe her an explanation, but I feel the need to defend myself.

  “QuickFix is Tom’s original business. He’s a plumber by trade. He’s out this morning, and you’re in a pickle here.” I tip my head to the sink. “But I can always call him and ask if he can come tomorrow if you don’t think I’m good enough.”

  My voice roughens, and she shakes her head, dismissing a call to my brother. Her eyes shift to the kitchen table.

  “I see you brought a partner with you today.”

  I hate that I have to occasionally drag Katie to some of my appointments. My youngest sister, Tricia, is a teacher and had a summer teacher thing today, and my mother had to work. That left my other sister Pam, who also had to work, and Tom is out today. My brother’s good about me sometimes bringing Katie to the shop or along to odd jobs. He understands.

  Of course, Katie doesn’t respond to Emily’s comment.

  “I know just the thing to keep us busy while your daddy fixes my sink,” Emily says, leaning toward Katie like they are long-lost friends. I don’t get it. Why is she hitching herself to my child? In fact, I need to tell her outright to knock it off. I will as soon as I finish this job and hopefully rid myself of one Emily Post of Chicago.

  Emily disappears after telling Katie she’ll be right back, and Katie doesn’t move from her seat. I always travel with a little bag of markers, paper, and coloring sheets. She’s good about sitting still when I need her to, but I hate needing to ask. I should have found a caregiver—the nanny-type—but I don’t want to put Katie under the supervision of someone I don’t know. It’s already bad enough whatever happened to her happened under her own mother’s care.

  Emily returns and holds out a hand for Katie without even addressing me. Katie doesn’t blink but accepts the offered hand and follows Emily into the living room off the kitchen. They immediately disappear from sight.

  So much for not kidnapping my child.

  It’s strange that I trust Emily when I don’t even know her, but I get to work on the sink, checking the valves and then the connections. My initial eyeball assessment was correct. She needs a new faucet, which means she might need a new sink. I don’t think any modern fixture is going to match the angle needed to fit the ancient basin.

  Suddenly, the voices coming from the porch behind me distract me. It’s actually only one voice that catches my attention. I’ve been in this house before, a long time ago, and I remember it has a weird connection between rooms. From the living room, you can walk under the staircase leading to the second floor and enter the dining room. It’s all encased in dark wood like a secret passageway or something. The dining room opens onto the screened-in porch, which can also be accessed via the kitchen. I look through the opening from the kitchen and see my daughter sitting close to Emily on a faded outdoor couch under three large windows.

  Emily’s voice drifts through the room as she reads to my child, and since I don’t want her to know I can hear her, I tuck into the dining room and press myself against the wall to listen. She calls my daughter Katie bug. It’s too cute, and I can tell Katie loves it. Her voice soothes me as she reads Cinderella to my daughter. Did she just happen to have old fairy-tale books lying around this house? It’s strange how familiar I am now with these stories—and the reality that life does not match them.

  “You know what I love about this tale? In the end she gets a prince and a great pair of shoes,” Emily teases, and I try to imagine what it might sound like to hear Katie giggle. Just a little titter, but there’s no sound.

  “Those are beautiful shoes,” she coos to my daughter, and I recall Katie is wearing flip-flops with a daisy on the bridge by her toes. Speaking of shoes, I still have Emily’s—some strappy things in silver she could twist an ankle in. How she walked to the Tavern in those I have no idea. I’d still like to know what she was doing with Gabe, but it’s not my concern who he fucks.

  The harshness of my thoughts seems like a bit much when I consider Emily as the recipient of his attention. She doesn’t seem like the type to fall for a fool like him, but who knows? I’m certainly not good at predicting what women will go for.

  “She’s extra lucky to have a fairy godmother, don’t you think?” Emily carries on, holding up one side of the conversation as needs to be done with Katie. “Of course, a girl doesn’t need a prince to save her. Cinderella actually saves him because he marries the girl of his dreams instead of following his father’s edict.”

  What the…? Way to ruin a fairy tale, lady.

  “Emily.” I hear her grandmother admonish her. I imagine Emily’s a fiery thing with strong opinions on a woman’s right and a man’s place. Twisting ever so subtly, I hope to catch a glimpse of them without them noticing me. Fortunately, I get a quick look and find Katie practically sitting on Emily’s lap while Emily hugs the book to her chest.

  That is one lucky book to be pressed to one ample set of breasts.

  What am I thinking?

  I scrub two hands down my face and roll back to my covert position.

  A better question is why is my daughter sitting so close to this woman? Someone we hardly know. What’s the appeal here? What am I missing, and why is it bothering me?

  Temporary. The word filters through my head. I don’t need Katie getting attached to someone who will leave.

  “How about one more?” She pauses, and then says, “Do you know this one? Beauty and the Beast? It’s my favorite.” Her voice sounds soft and dreamy, and I wonder if she believes in fairy-tale crap. She doesn’t seem like a woman who would, especially after her comment about not needing saving from a prince.

  I listen as she reads, and when she finishes, her voice rises on the words at the end—happily ever after.

  Emily sighs loud enough I can hear. “I just love the Beast. He’s all rough on the outside but gooey in the center. Do you know anybody like that?”

  She’s asking Katie, who she knows damn well won’t respond, but I reconsider the hitch to her voice. Is she implying she knows someone like that? Could she mean me? How would she have any idea? She doesn’t know me. I am rough on the outside . . .

  And how are you in the middle, Jess?

  I demand my brain shut off.

  “I also love Belle. She’s pretty and smart. She’s tough toward that old Beast and she doesn’t take any of his sh—”

  “Emily.” Her grandmother cuts her off before I need to intervene. I’m no prude when it comes to profanity, but
I try not to swear in front of my child.

  “Stuff, Nana. I was going to say stuff.” She’s teasing. It’s in her voice, and I hate that I recognize it so easily.

  “Okay. Snack.” I hear the book tossed to the glass table before them. “And I should check on the Beast.” I should move. She means me. This is my warning, but I’m frozen in place. She rounds the corner and nearly plows into me against the wall.

  “Jesus, Jess,” she hisses, glancing back at the porch and then stepping before me, both of us now hidden by the wall from the other room.

  “Why are you doing this?” I blurt, trying to keep my voice low.

  “Doing what?” she whispers, leaning toward me. My breath catches. She’s so close. She smells . . . like lemon cleanser and soiled water. It isn’t horrible, but it isn’t sweet either. My eyes lower to the water stains on her clothing, imagining how she must have fought with that water handle before it popped off. Another makeshift rain shower.

  “Why are you being so nice to her?” My voice drips with a harshness I shouldn’t be using because she is being kind to my child.

  “Should I be mean to her?” she mocks, twisting her lips while she addresses me. She shrugs as she crosses her arms. “She’s sweet.”

  “How do you know? She doesn’t speak.” I hate the frustration in my voice and the way it sounds like I think something’s wrong with my child. There’s nothing wrong with her, she just no longer speaks.

  I want to hear her voice again.

  “Does she need to speak with her mouth?” Emily asks, her eyes narrowing on me. “Maybe she just speaks to my heart. Us fairy-tale girls are kindred spirits.” She shrugs again as if it’s nothing. As if she even knew twenty minutes ago whether my child liked fairy tales or not.

  My eyes roam over her face, taking in her soft eyes and pink lips, the ones twisting with concern. Her expression doesn’t give off her hesitation, but the stiffness in her body tells me she fears I’ll insult her.

  “Thank you,” I mouth, swallowing hard on the unspoken words because I’m not certain what I’m thanking her for. It isn’t that Katie doesn’t have female role models in her life—she has my mother and my sisters, my sister-in-law Karyn, and Karyn’s mother—but this random act of kindness from a stranger is doing something to me.