Waiting for You Page 2

  Brooke gave her a playful shove, then put an arm around her. Lindsay knew enough to enjoy the lighthearted moment while it lasted.

  They stood side by side and stared at the painting. Lindsay was a good five foot eight, but Brooke’s recent growth spurt meant she would forever look up to her daughter. If Brooke felt the balance of power shift, Lindsay did not. At five foot nine and a half, Brooke towered over most of her friends, including the boy she had a crush on. She hated her long legs, but one day she’d appreciate them. Lindsay was sure of that much.

  They had the same dirty blond hair and dark blue eyes, and most days, they shared the same hairstyle, a messy bun or ponytail. A thousand years from now, when aliens excavated their house, they’d find hundreds of hair ties and wonder why these people hoarded them under sofas, behind clothes dryers, and on doorknobs.

  Up until this year, they’d shared clothes and makeup, enjoyed the same food, liked the same TV shows and movies. They’d been mother and daughter, but they could hang out together like friends. Lindsay missed that. She wondered if Brooke did too, but she was afraid to ask.

  Lindsay wanted to believe it was only teenage hormones that had driven a wedge between them, but she knew the truth. It was also the divorce. Brooke hadn’t seen it coming. They’d done a good job of keeping their problems from her. No reason for her to worry about their marriage. But it hadn’t been good for a long time, and although they’d never want Brooke to know it, she was the reason they’d stayed together for so long.

  It wasn’t like that was a conscious choice. They didn’t sit at the kitchen table one day and say, “Let’s continue this charade for Brooke’s sake.” It was more that it just happened. Brooke kept them busy and distracted, particularly since they both doted on their only child.

  When Brooke started asserting her teenage independence, Lindsay found herself with more time to think about what her life would have been like in a different time with a different person. It was easy to see that the late nights spent in her studio had become an excuse to avoid going to bed until Ben fell asleep.

  Now they’d been separated for two years and divorced for one. Brooke seemed hell-bent on doing anything and everything to piss off both of them. Take the recent shaving of the sides of her head. It was called a side cut, but Lindsay preferred to call it a gutless attempt at rebellion. Why not a neon pink mohawk with spikes? Or just shave it all?

  Ben had made a fuss. Yes, some of the soccer team had done it, but that didn’t matter to him. Lindsay didn’t see the point in giving Brooke what she was looking for: another reason to yell and slam doors.

  Truth be told, she found Brooke’s rebellion slightly charming. She wanted to yell, “Come on, kid. Commit!” If Lindsay had to do it all over again, she would have rebelled the same way. Stupid side cut and all. Okay, fine. She might have thrown in some black or bleach-out white to make things interesting. But when Lindsay was in school, punk still existed. She consoled herself. At least Brooke didn’t color it gray.

  They’d tried to keep things as normal as possible after the divorce. Brooke was still sleeping in the same room she’d had since she was eight years old. Ben still took her to school every morning before his shift. They both made every effort to attend all of her volleyball games. Together. Lindsay wanted her daughter to stay young and carefree for as long as possible.

  At seventeen, Brooke might have been far from the best self Oprah intended, but Lindsay had never had the luxury of pointless, unearned teen angst. She’d be damned if she’d deny her daughter the opportunity to be a complete pain in the ass.

  Lindsay put her arm around her waist while they continued to stare at the painting. “There might be a yogurt in the minifridge, and there’s some trail mix in my purse.”

  “Mother of the year.” Brooke took a step closer to the painting. “She’s intense. Who is she?”

  Fuck.

  Lindsay desperately wanted to tell Brooke that the woman in the painting was a paying client, but she hated lying to her daughter. Brooke wasn’t a surface info kind of girl. She’d want names and places of residence and social media accounts. Maybe a background check and a quick image search. Nosy kid. She’d always shown interest in the people Lindsay painted. When she was younger, she’d sit by Lindsay’s side and make up stories about them as they came to life on the canvas.

  That was how the boy became Timmy. The name was perfect. But that was all Lindsay said. Brooke would talk about his family. How his name was Timothy, but they called him Timmy. He was a precocious only child who longed for siblings. His parents weren’t around. Not together, anyway. Brooke seemed to feel he was missing something. “He’s so lonely,” she’d say, not knowing it broke Lindsay’s heart to hear it.

  When Brooke was very little, she’d leave her teddy in front of Timmy. Once, she’d left her little blanket, the one with the soft silky edge she called her na-na. Clearly a big deal. But Brooke didn’t last more than an hour before she and Teddy shuffled across the backyard and into the studio and lay down next to the blanket in front of the painting. Lindsay smiled as she remembered watching the scene from a cracked door.

  As Brooke grew older, she wanted to know the actual story behind the real faces. Paying clients. So they would spend hours in front of the computer researching. Brooke’s interest had never waned.

  “Mom?”

  Lindsay stepped up to the painting, then turned and folded her arms. “I don’t know who she is, honey.” Not entirely true, but she wasn’t ready to talk about it with Brooke.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” She thought she knew everything about everything, another teenage trait she had in spades.

  “Honey, it’s not a big deal.”

  “Not a big deal?” She jabbed her finger at the stack of paintings. “You refuse to sell Timmy, and now you’re painting another stranger? How are we supposed to live? How am I supposed to go to college?” She tilted her head. “You were up all night, weren’t you?”

  Lindsay stayed quiet while Brooke stomped to the minifridge and grabbed the yogurt. It was pointless to say they had plenty of money for college, and Brooke had never gone without in her entire life. Okay, fine. They might have scraped by on ramen a few times during the early years, but Brooke never lacked the necessities.

  All details that would be lost on Brooke at the moment. Sometimes silence was the best option. Brooke was almost out the door when she turned and grabbed Lindsay’s purse. She dug through it, then held up the trail mix along with a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks for the hearty breakfast, Mother. At least now I can have some lunch.”

  The door slammed shut as Lindsay shouted, “Love you, honey!” She made a mental note to subtract twenty dollars from Brooke’s lunch fund. She might have her guilty moments, but she’d be damned if her purse would be up for the taking.

  She turned back to the painting and promised herself it wouldn’t be like before. Lindsay wouldn’t lose her ability to paint anything but this woman for weeks on end like she had with Timmy. No. That would definitely not happen again. In fact, she’d march right over to the gallery and sell it. Not the woman she’d just painted, of course. It would need time to dry. And Lindsay needed time with her. She’d sell a painting of the boy. Right after she took a nap.

  Chapter Two

  Ren pulled over to the side of the two-lane highway and lowered the top on her convertible Mercedes E450. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and took in the fresh, familiar air. Salt Creek held a special place in her heart. The first time she’d visited the small town in the Berkshires, she was nineteen. Deb, her college roommate, had brought her home for a long weekend, and from the moment she stepped out of the car, she felt a strong sense of belonging. She wasn’t sure if it was the mountains and rivers, the slow pace of life, or the fact that she could escape her parents’ never-ending arguments. Whatever it was, something drew her back year after year. It helped that Deb always seemed thrilled to have her visit, even with little or no notic
e.

  She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t a surprise she’d made better time than planned. Driving the speed limit wasn’t a strong character trait, as evidenced by the state trooper—a statie, as Deb would call him—getting out of his car behind her. She got her driver’s license out of her purse and the insurance card from the glove box.

  The officer took off his sunglasses. “Ma’am.”

  “Officer.” Ren tried for a sincere smile. “Is there a problem?”

  “Oh, nothing too serious. Just the fact that you were driving twenty-two miles over the speed limit. May I have your license and proof of insurance?”

  Ren took a deep breath. After a long week of exhausting negotiations, the last thing she needed was another one. But it looked as if she was going to have no choice in the matter since another speeding ticket would make her insurance rates skyrocket. She handed him her information and said, “Medical emergency? No? How about, I’m carrying a live organ in the trunk, and if I don’t get there in time—”

  “A small child will die?” He chuckled. “No, really, what’s the big rush?” He looked at her license. “Miss…oh, I see. You’re from New York. Let me guess. All the gridlock keeps you from experiencing the true joys of driving this nice car? Or how about, you recently ended a relationship and needed to experience the freedom of the wide-open road.” He wiggled his fingers by his ears. “Feel the wind rush through your hair.”

  Okay, that last one wasn’t far off, but she wasn’t about to let Officer I Do Standup on the Weekends know he’d hit his mark. “You’re using up all of my excuses, Officer.”

  “I know. I could go on all day.” He grinned.

  Dare we dream? Ren gave him a slight smile and said, “I’m sure you could.”

  “Yup, I’ve heard ’em all, Miss Christopher.” He leaned down and looked her in the eye. “Or is it Mrs.?”

  Oh God. He was flirting. And not particularly well, either. If Ren had to guess, she’d say he was short on practice. She found herself at the edge of a fine line. Be polite enough to keep from pissing off Officer McFlirtFace while letting him know in no uncertain terms that his efforts were misplaced. Wildly.

  “It’s sweet of you to ask,” she peered at his name tag, “Officer Hall, but I’m afraid I haven’t met the right girl yet. Unfortunately, the last one was a bit too…” She paused, trying to think of the best way to describe her brief association with Kerry, the Drama Queen. “A bit too out of touch with reality to be marriage material.”

  “I’m not here to judge.” He laughed. “I’m divorced myself. Here’s to getting out.” He held up his ticket pad as if he was going to toast with it.

  “Glad to know someone can commiserate. And Officer, next time you want to know if a woman is single, well, first, try to pick a straight one. But then look for a ring. It’s a bit more subtle.”

  “You thought I was flirting with you?” He stepped back in mock horror, then put his hands up in a show of innocence. “I was just trying to be inclusive. Ask you your pronouns and stuff.”

  Ren wasn’t sure if he was serious. Did he really think Miss and Mrs. were pronouns? God, she hoped not. “Well, excellent. And she and her will do just fine.” Just in case it was indeed a teaching moment.

  “Good to know, but I hope you know I was kidding about the pronoun thing.” He smiled. “And I still need to know where you’re headed in such a hurry.”

  She took it as a good sign that he hadn’t opened his ticket pad or pulled out a pen. “I’m going to see a friend in Salt Creek.”

  “I see. Well, we are a friendly place.” He winked and gave her a quick once-over. “You forget Bruiser at home?”

  “Who?”

  “The car. The suit. You look like a character in that movie.” He paused and cleared his throat. “You know, Legally Blonde.”

  Ren glanced at her pink silk blouse and matching skirt. Good thing he couldn’t see her three-inch nude Blahniks. Her hair was more of a golden brown than blond, but she’d take a comparison to Reese Witherspoon all day long. “Touché. I’d have guessed you were more a John McClane guy than Elle Woods.”

  “What can I say? I’m comfortable with my masculinity.” He grinned. “Actually, my ex loves that movie. So does my daughter. Seen it more times than I’d like to admit.”

  “Aw, you’re a good dad.”

  “I do my best.” He leaned on her car with both hands. “I’m from Salt Creek, by the way.”

  “Is that so? Do you know Deb Stewart?”

  “Of course.” He patted his stomach. “I’ve probably put on five pounds since she opened that new coffee place. Her baked goods are out of this world.”

  Ren pointed at him. “That’s the one. She made the best sugar cookies back in our college days.”

  “Still does.” He looked at her driver’s license again. “Okay, Ms. Christopher.” He handed it back to her. “I don’t want Deb spiking my coffee with something horrible, so I’m going to forget I ever met you, okay?”

  “You’re a nice guy, Officer.”

  “Nah, I just love my coffee and pastry. Have a good day, Ms. Christopher, and slow down.”

  She saluted. “Will do.” She put her license back in her wallet and grabbed a hair tie. She’d drive the last few miles with the top down. And just under the speed limit as a thank you to Officer Hall.

  * * *

  Change had always been slow to come to Salt Creek. For years, whenever Ren visited, she saw the same people doing the same things. Shirley and her husband ran the hardware store. Becky waited tables at the pizza place. She could rely on this place. She always loved that.

  But change was inevitable, and Salt Creek wasn’t a sleepy town anymore. Ren was appalled to see a Taco Bell where the walk-up soft serve place used to stand. She was still ranting about it in her head when she passed a shiny new garage and a modern convenience store with a neon sign announcing the jackpots for Powerball and Mass Millions. She groaned when she saw the sign announcing the availability of Keno.

  It wasn’t that she couldn’t deal with change. She simply had a low tolerance for it. And besides, the Sooper Dooper Quik Mart and Package Store lacked the charm of its predecessor, Gene’s Auto. Gene’s place had two gas pumps outfitted with the latest in 1970s technology. They had analog meters and didn’t take credit cards. But that didn’t matter. If he wasn’t working on a car, Gene pumped the gas for people anyway. Ren wondered if he had retired. She hoped he hadn’t been pushed out…or worse.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the Merrill’s Hardware sign. At least that was still there. She’d stop in at some point and buy a jar of Shirley’s famous honey. Was it a small-town cliché? Yes. And that was exactly what Ren had always loved about Salt Creek. It was as clichéd as small towns came. Or at least it used to be.

  She looked out her window at what used to be Stewart’s Pharmacy before a big box store popped up in the next town over and put Deb’s parents out of business. She pulled into an empty spot and stared in disbelief at the carved wooden sign hanging above the door.

  You Mocha Me Crazy.

  Now she knew why Deb had refused to tell her the name of the new shop. She was too embarrassed. Ren mumbled, “Deb Stewart, you have got to be kidding me.”

  Ren and Deb couldn’t have been more different. In fact, the first time they were introduced, their mutual friend had said, “Uptown, meet Small Town.” But somehow, their friendship had stood the test of time. This sign could be a deal breaker. Was she serious? You. Mocha. Me. Crazy? She got out of the car and put her hands on her hips. “WTF, Deb?”

  Deb burst out the door. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  Ren pulled her sunglasses down her nose. “I doubt it.”

  “You’re going to say it’s the best damned name anybody ever came up with for a coffee shop. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  Ren tilted her head again. “It’s…”

  “Where’s your luggage? Never mind. Get ove
r here, Ren Christopher. Let me hug that smug look off your face.”

  Ren stepped onto the sidewalk and opened her arms. “We’ve been over this, Deb. The smug look actually is my face. It’s here to stay.” She fell into Deb’s arms and stayed there for a moment. Deb gave the best hugs, and Ren always found them comforting. She was warmth and love and laughter. And most important of all, a safe place for Ren to be herself. “It’s good to be here,” she said.

  Deb hugged her tighter. “Took you long enough.”

  Ren pulled back and got a good look at Deb. There were a few lines around her pretty blue eyes, but not any gray in her brown hair, and in Ren’s estimation, they both carried their thirty-eight years pretty well. “Still running?”

  Deb grinned. “I try to get in twenty miles a week.”

  “It shows,” Ren said with a shrug.

  “Still have the hots for me, Soda Pop?” Deb’s nickname for her came the first day of college. As soon as she realized her initials were RC, Deb decided the matter was settled. It stuck even though RC Cola wasn’t widely available anymore. The more she thought about it, the more she realized the ridiculous name of the coffee shop shouldn’t have surprised her.

  “The hots for you? Absolutely,” Ren joked. “And guess what?”

  “You’re about to say, ‘If only you were gay, Deb Stewart,’ and then I’ll pretend to get all embarrassed except that we both know I love it because Ren Christopher is a goddamned catch if ever there was one.”

  Ren shook her head. “No. Actually, I was going to tell you that they don’t need me in Paris until the fifteenth, which means I can stay an extra week if you’ll have me.” She actually couldn’t believe her luck. She loved Paris and was thrilled to take on a new challenge running the estates business for Christie’s in Europe. Even so, an extra week in Salt Creek, decompressing and hanging out with her favorite person, felt like the perfect break between her old life in New York and her new one.

  “Oh.” Deb looked away. “So you don’t wish I was gay anymore?”