Falling for June: A Novel Page 22

  “I like soft feet. Maybe I’ll pick one up.”

  She laughed. “You sure you grew up in Belfair and not Bellevue? Okay, Mr. Soft Feet. I’ll be back to check on you.”

  As soon as she was gone I was lonelier than ever—even though the bar was crowded with laughing people blowing off a week’s worth of steam. Usually I spent Friday nights at home, watching Seinfeld reruns. Sometimes I’d walk to Pacific Place and see a movie by myself. Very rarely I’d have a date. But tonight I had a lot on my mind, and none of those options sounded any good.

  It seemed like ages ago that I had left Seattle to drive out to Echo Glen, but it had been just that morning. It was less than twenty-four hours ago, in fact, that I had sat in this very seat, watching this very TV, and that silly depression-pill commercial had come on, reminding me of Mr. Hadley’s letter and those crazy bird stamps. Amazing how tiny things like that can really rock your world.

  I wasn’t quite sure whether it was Mr. Hadley himself or his story that had gotten to me most. I was fascinated by his wife. Attracted to her even, in some strange way, and I found myself wishing I had lived the story instead of just having heard it. I guess you could say I was falling for June. I wondered what it felt like to hang glide off of a cliff into the moon. I found myself envisioning a poppy field in Spain. They’re red, right? Isn’t that what he said? Crimson maybe. Anyway, I was all mixed up. And I was sad too. Sad for Mr. Hadley’s losing his property when it meant so much to him; sad that June had passed away, even if she had lived a long and fulfilling life; and sad that I would never find anything like the love those two shared. Not that I was looking or anything.

  As I sat there thinking, I began to hate my job. I knew damn well that somebody had to do it, but did that somebody really need to be me? Some sorry sap works the execution lever too, but that doesn’t make it a job I’d ever do. Who the hell was I to kick these people out of their places with a check from the bank and big fat f-you? Sure, I sometimes helped them move. And I’d absolutely help Mr. Hadley too. I’d do what he had asked at least. I’d cash in every favor I’d stored up to get his quitclaim signed and his short plat pushed through. But what if there was more I could do?

  “Just one minute left, better make your last birthday wish.” Estrella sat down at the empty stool beside me and nodded toward the clock. Then she smiled. “Gee, fella, aren’t you going to offer to buy a girl a drink?”

  “Buy you a drink. But aren’t you working?”

  “You looked like you could use some company so I got Tom to cover for me. He’s closing anyway.”

  “Okay, sure. I’d love to buy you a drink then. What’ll you have?”

  “I’d like a hot chocolate.”

  “One hot chocolate coming up.”

  I raised my arm to get Tom’s attention, but Estrella pulled it back down, biting her lip and shaking her head.

  “We don’t serve hot chocolate at Finnegans, silly.”

  “But I thought you wanted—”

  “And I do. Let’s go to Dilettante on the hill. They’ve got Viennese cocoa to die for and they’re open till two.”

  It was drizzling again outside when we left Finnegans, so we took my car, which I had parked nearby instead of walking.

  “I guess this means you don’t like me,” she said, looking out the window as I drove.

  “Why would it mean that?”

  “Because you only ask out girls you don’t like, remember?”

  “Yeah, but this is different.”

  “How so?”

  “I didn’t ask you; you asked me.”

  She laughed and we rode the rest of the way in silence.

  Dilettante is a trendy late-night dessert spot on Capitol Hill, serving everything from double-sized portions of their famous homemade rice pudding to double chocolate truffle martinis. It’s a great place, but you could easily wake up the next day filled with double regret. We snagged a quiet, candlelit booth in the back and looked over the menus.

  “Oh, aren’t you a cute couple,” our server said, arriving at our booth with such speed he had to check himself on the booth back, as if he were on roller skates.

  “Oh, we’re actually not—”

  He waved my comment away. “I’m not telling, handsome. What happens at Dilettante stays at Dilettante.” Then he turned to Estrella, saying, “This one is a real romantic. You want your usual, sweetie?”

  Estrella nodded. “Extra chocolate shavings, please.”

  “And how about you then, Romeo?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Two dark chocolate Viennese coming up.”

  As soon as he was gone, I turned back to Estrella. “You must come here a lot.”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “I just live a block away.”

  “Ah, I see. So this was a ploy to bum a ride home?”

  She grinned. “Yes, because it’s so hard to hop a bus up the hill I have to seduce a new customer every night for a ride. It’s tough being a poor defenseless woman in the big city.”

  “All right. I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it like that. But you did just say you were seducing me, for the record.”

  “Of course. Dilettante is where I seduce all my men.”

  “Great. That sure explains the ‘This one is a real romantic’ comment from our server.”

  “That’s just Georgie being Georgie. It means he likes you. But let’s get back to you. Tell me about your day. You looked a little down when you came in.”

  “I did? Maybe I was down, I don’t know. I had the strangest birthday. But you don’t want to hear about this.”

  “Yes, I really do,” she said.

  So I began telling her about my day. From my drive out to Echo Glen that morning and meeting Mr. Hadley, to his tale that unfolded throughout the afternoon and into the evening. I was in the middle of his and June’s budding love story at stunt camp when Georgie breezed by to drop off our hot chocolates with a wink, fortunately in too much of a hurry to stay and chat.

  “Oh, this is good,” I said, tasting mine.

  “Isn’t it heaven?” she replied. “I was addicted to them for a while, but I’ve managed to cut back to one or two a week. You must have noticed all the weight I gained, since you come in to Finnegans all the time.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head, “I never noticed. Which is strange since I’ve spent so much time there at the bar counter stealing glances at your ass.”

  She blushed, looking down at the table and biting her lip coquettishly, as she sometimes did. A dab of whipped cream remained on her lip, making it even cuter than usual.

  “I can tell you’re the type of boy my mother always warned me about,” she said. Then she looked up at me with sexy, half-hooded eyes and added, “Fortunately for you, I never listened.”

  I was lost for words, but I know I blushed for sure.

  “Now, get back to the story of David and June,” she said. “I was really enjoying it.”

  So I went on, filling her in on everything Mr. Hadley had told me, although with much less detail and clarity than he had recounted it with. It was strange, but Estrella and I knew very little about each other, and yet here we were bonding over someone else’s love story. By the time I got to the part where Mr. Hadley had left me, with the two of them engaged and in love, despite her Parkinson’s diagnosis, riding off toward Aranda de Duero together on bicycles traded for with June’s ring, Estrella was cradling an empty mug with tears running down her face.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she said, shaking her head. “Everyone should find true love like that. The way he went after her all the way to Spain. It makes my heart ache. What happened?”

  So I told her I hadn’t heard about the wedding yet, but I filled her in on June’s being buried at Echo Glen, and about how Mr. Hadley had asked me to help push the paperwork through so he co
uld dedicate it as a cemetery.

  “He even offered me twenty-five grand.”

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “I know it is.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I know what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to take his money. But I will help him.”

  “See, I knew you were sweet as pie, despite that too-cool-for-school loner attitude you saunter in with all the time.”

  “I do not saunter.”

  “Do too. Three nights a week, same thing: ‘Club soda with lime and a menu, please.’ Even though you always order the chicken Parmesan sandwich.”

  “I love the chicken Parmesan sandwich.”

  “Apparently.”

  “I think we’ve talked enough about me,” I said. “I’d like to hear about you. But first I’m getting us another round.”

  “See,” she said, “now you’re addicted too.”

  I flagged down Georgie and ordered us two more cocoas. Then I settled back in my seat to hear about Estrella.

  “Oh gosh,” she said. “I don’t know where to start. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for the brochure and not the book, since it’s getting late. Let’s see, I already told you I grew up in Bremerton and that my dad was in the navy—they live in Seward Park now. My mother makes quilts. She enters them in contests and wins. She sells them on a website I helped her design. I love cats, but my only pet is a betta fish named Bernie that I’ve had for five years. People think fish don’t return affection, but they do. What else do you want to know?”

  “What’s one thing you couldn’t live without?”

  “Chocolate,” she said, grinning. “And books. Next.”

  “Okay, something you’re good at.”

  “Puzzles. Especially landscapes.”

  “Something you’re bad at.”

  “I’m horrible at caring for houseplants. I kill one a month it seems, but I refuse to give up.”

  “Your favorite thing to do on a Sunday.”

  “Visit my parents for dinner and a game of Scrabble.”

  “Scrabble?”

  “I’m a Scrabble champion. At least against my parents.”

  “So, they’re still married?”

  “Thirty-two years and counting. Theirs is a real love story, not unlike the one you just told me, minus the BASE jumping and hang gliding and all that. My father works on planes, but he says only a fool or a soldier would jump out of one.”

  I blew on my chocolate, mumbling almost to myself. “This is really challenging my worldview.”

  “What is?” she asked. “The cocoa?”

  “These love stories. That’s two today.”

  “That’s right,” she said, nodding. “You’re the guy who doesn’t believe in love. What did you say the other night? It’s fun at the beginning, but bites you in the end. Someone’s been hurt a little, I’d say. Tell me, Elliot, who was she?”

  “Who was who?” I asked.

  “The girl who broke your heart.”

  I shrugged, looking down. “My mother, I guess.”

  As soon as I said it I wished I hadn’t. But something about Estrella’s face made me want to pour out my past, wounds and all. So I told her. I told her about my mother running out on us. I told her about my father’s passing. I even told her about my childhood obsession with moving away to someplace sunny, realizing for the first time as I said it that perhaps I had somehow connected my childhood sadness with the rain that seemed always to fall outside my bedroom window.

  When I finished, her expression was a mix of tenderness and pain. As if my story had hurt her somehow. But she didn’t say anything, which was kind of nice. Sometimes you just want someone to listen because there’s nothing to say.

  “You know what I just now realized?” I said. “I’ve spoken about my childhood exactly twice in my entire life. And the first time was this morning with Mr. Hadley. What a birthday.”

  “I’m glad you chose to share it with me,” she said.

  And she seemed to actually mean it too.

  “And now I understand why you always order club soda, and why you had that glass of wine last night to honor your father’s birthday tradition. He sounds like he was a character.”

  “He sure was. The tree-topping sommelier of Belfair. But he had some funky ideas about life and love.”

  “Well, maybe he did the best he could.”

  “You know what,” I replied, feeling my mood suddenly lighten, “he did do the best he could. And that was enough.”

  We were looking across the table at each other when Georgie swung by with our check, since it was coming up on two and the place was about to close. Estrella reached for her purse, but I beat her to it and handed him enough cash to cover the bill plus a generous tip.

  “This one’s a keeper,” he said when I told him to keep the change. Then he winked at Estrella before taking off on his closing rounds.

  “You could have let me treat since it’s your birthday.”

  “It’s not my birthday any longer,” I said. “And that’s just fine with me. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.”

  “I’m only a block away.”

  “Then I’ll walk you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know. I’m not doing it because you need an escort. I’m doing it because I want the extra time with you.”

  She smiled.

  The rain had quit and the night was clear and cool with just a hint of coming chill in the air. It smelled like fall. We could hear laughter echoing in the empty streets as we walked, other Friday-night celebrants heading for home.

  “So, what are you studying at UW?” I asked.

  “Did I tell you I went there?”

  “I’m a mind reader.”

  “You are? What am I thinking right now?”

  “How incredibly handsome I am.”

  She laughed. “Oh my God, you are a mind reader.”

  “Seriously though, I overheard you talking to the other bartender at work.”

  “Oh, you’ve been eavesdropping too, not just staring at my ass. It’s good to know your interests are more than primal. I’m working toward my master’s in psychology.”

  “Uh-oh, are you one of those women who have a DSM-4 beside your bed all highlighted with your exes’ diagnoses? Wait, is diagnoses even the correct plural of diagnosis? I forgot I’m talking to a Scrabble champion.”

  “It is,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

  “Not bad for a community college kid, eh?”

  “I’m more impressed that you know what the DSM is. But we’re actually on version five now. My plan is to be a high school counselor, not a practicing psychiatrist, so you don’t have to worry. And no, I don’t diagnose the men I date.”

  “Would you ever consider dating a really handsome but slightly neurotic foreclosure counselor from Belfair?”

  We had turned off Broadway by then onto a residential street, and she stopped on the dim sidewalk and looked at me. She cocked her head slightly and smiled. “Even though he’s on his way to Miami?”

  She certainly had a point there, especially after my stupid speech the other day about only dating women I don’t like. I was searching for a response when she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. Just a quick peck, but it caught me by surprise.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But unlike you I only date men I actually like. Thanks for walking me home.”

  She turned and walked away from me, through a gate and up toward an old Victorian house turned apartments. I hadn’t even realized we had arrived—maybe because I didn’t want the night to end.

  “Hey, Elliot,” she said, turning back.

  I was sti
ll standing there, thinking about that kiss. “Yes?”

  “I had a question about the story you told me. About Mr. Hadley. It’s none of my business, but I was thinking since he offered you all that money, maybe there was some way he could use it to save his house instead. It’s such a lovely story between those two. It would be a shame for him to have to move.”

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “I’ll find out.”

  “Okay,” she said, lingering there a moment longer. “Maybe come by the bar and let me know how it goes.”

  “You know I will.”

  “And thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

  I was thankful for being far enough in the shadows that she probably couldn’t see me blush. “I had fun too. Good night, Estrella.”

  Then I turned and walked back to my car alone, kicking leaves and thinking about a hundred million things all at once, but for some reason, still smiling.

  29

  THE PHONE RANG fifty times before I quit counting. What kind of person doesn’t have voice mail, or at least an answering machine? But of course I knew the answer to my own question.

  It wasn’t raining, so I went for a jog. It’s a great way to connect with people in the city. When you’re out walking, no one ever says hello. I think they’re afraid you might stop them to talk or something. And people are way too busy for that. But when you’re running, other runners, and occasionally walkers, will nod at you and smile, sometimes even tossing out a quick greeting as you pass them by. I think they know you won’t slow down and ask them for more than their simple hello.

  After my run I sat on a bench at the waterfront sculpture garden and watched the ferries travel back and forth across the sound. For two hours I sat and thought. I thought a lot about Estrella. I knew the night before had softened me some, but I was still unwilling to change my position and let myself get wrapped up in love. And besides, I didn’t even think she liked me that much. And why would she? What did I have to offer? The only place I was going was Miami. But what I found myself thinking about even more than Estrella was Mr. Hadley and his story.

  I had to know how things had finally come together for him and June. Did they have a happy life together when they returned from Spain? Before things turned too bad, anyway. It sure seemed like it from all the paintings she did. More than anything, though, I didn’t like the idea of his being surprised when he delivered Rosie her daily apple. But then he wasn’t answering his phone.