The Moon and More(75)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Mine are clean.”

I rolled my eyes, then picked up my brush and gave my hair a few good strokes. “He’s such a good guy.”

“I don’t know about that,” she replied, scraping the bottom of the popcorn bowl for the last few kernels there. “But he’s a very good Morris.”

I smiled at this, bending down to grab my purse. “Don’t leave that bowl in here.”

“Do I ever?”

This I chose to ignore, instead just waving as I headed out myself.

“Have fun with the dater!”

“Thank you,” I called over my shoulder. I figured I’d catch Morris walking down the driveway, give him a lift to wherever he was headed, or at least partway there. But when I got outside, he was nowhere in sight. I looked both ways, drove an extra loop around the neighborhood. No luck. Weird. Someone who normally moved so slowly, this time, for once, was long gone.

*   *   *

When I walked into the Washroom at the appointed time, I was surprised to find that Theo wasn’t there. Instead there was just Clyde, alone, perusing a cookbook in the small booth that doubled as his office.

“Where’s Ivy and Theo?” I asked.

“No idea,” he replied. “They left for lunch, never came back.”

“Lunch?” I glanced at my watch. “When was that?”

He flipped a page. I caught a glimpse of a piecrust, the top woven lattice style. “Two thirty or so.”

I sat down opposite him. “Doesn’t sound like Ivy.”

“Nope. Maybe I scared her off for good.”

I watched him turn another page. The pictures of the pies looked amazing. I realized I was starving. “I’d heard just the opposite, actually.”

Now, I had his attention. He shut the book. “Which means what?”

“Just that you’re being really on board with the whole film thing these days,” I said. “Cooperating more, and now there’s talk about a tour . . .”

I let this last part trail off, thinking he’d dispute it. But, like the night we’d stopped to fix his tire, he didn’t. Instead, he sat back. “Nothing’s definite about a tour yet.”

“Yet? So you are doing it?”

“You sound shocked at the very thought,” he observed.

“Because I am,” I said. He raised his eyebrows. “I mean, at the beginning of the summer, you wouldn’t even talk to them. Now you’re thinking of coming out of retirement and taking your show on the road?”

“I’m not a circus clown, Emaline.”

“You’re not an artist anymore, either,” I said. “At least, I didn’t think you were.”

“This wouldn’t be about new work,” he pointed out. “Just a way of giving my older stuff another chance. I mean, an opportunity to do things differently, with the benefit of hindsight? That’s a hard thing to turn down.”

“A do-over,” I said. He nodded. “I get that. In fact, I was kind of hoping for one of my own, earlier. Didn’t happen, though.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “I’m starting to think, though, that some things never get that. The replay, and all. So at some point you have to make peace with it as it is, not keep waiting for a chance to change it.”

“I don’t know about that.” He looked down at the table, scraping at a spot there. “You’re pretty young to be talking in nevers.”

I thought of my father, back in his kitchen. “Some people would say disappointment is a good thing to learn young.”

“True,” he agreed. “But some people are assholes.”

I smiled. “I seem to remember you calling yourself that, not too long ago.”

“True. So you don’t have to listen to anything I say, either,” he said. “But for what it’s worth, Emaline, I’ll tell you this: Life is long. Just because you don’t get your chance right when you want or expect it doesn’t mean it won’t come. Fate doesn’t punch a time clock or consult a schedule. Look at me. Forty-two and talking about showing my art again. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Which is probably just why it did,” I said.

He pointed at me. “Smart girl.”

So now it was a consensus. Too bad I still felt like a victim of my own dumb luck. Speaking of which, right then, Ivy walked through the door.

“Well, there’s an entire working afternoon shot,” she said, as if she’d been carrying on this conversation without us prior to her arrival. She walked over to the counter, peering across it at the cooler on the other side. “You’d think I would learn. This is what happens when you don’t hire professionals. You sell beer here, right?”

“No,” Clyde said.

“You’re kidding.” She exhaled dramatically. “That is so unfortunate. Because I really need a drink right now.”

I glanced at the door she’d just come through. “Where’s Theo?”

She held up her hand, palm facing me. “Don’t say that name to me right now. Especially if there is truly no beer here.”

“There’s a bar across the street,” Clyde told her. “The margaritas suck. But they are powerfully strong.”

“You had me at margarita,” she replied, turning on her heel. “Let’s go.”

Clyde and I looked at each other, and he got out of the booth. “The woman wants a drink,” he said with a shrug. “As a Southern gentleman, I must oblige.”

Ivy was already halfway out the door, the sun now slanting through into the dark room, making the dust in the air dance.

“Do you need me to lock up or something?” I called after Clyde.

“Nah. Just shut the door tight if you leave,” he replied. Which, in downtown Colby at least, counted as a basic security measure. Add an actual lock or alarm system, and you were in full-on bunker mode, as far as anyone was concerned.

Now, alone, I looked at my watch: it was ten after six. Something was definitely up. I picked up my phone and texted Theo. A moment later, he replied.

Change of plans. Boardwalk and bikes in ten.

Bikes, I thought. Well, that explained the flat shoes. I told him I was on my way and left, giving the door a good yank behind me.

It was still early for the boardwalk, the crowds a mix of people wrapping up a day at the beach—toting bags, umbrellas, floats, and pink-cheeked children—and those out for an early dinner. I picked my way through the crowd, towards Abe’s Bikes. About halfway there, a beefy guy in a tight black T-shirt thrust a piece of bright pink paper at me.