Just One of Those Things, page 8
Joyce shook her head, her knitting now forgotten. “He barely saw poor Susan and the baby.”
“Saw enough of her that young Matthew had a brother three years later,” Dolores corrected tartly.
Joyce accepted the correction with equanimity. “By the time Jonathan was born, David worked in the front office. He made it home for dinner then. Got to see all the firsts he’d missed with young Matthew—first steps, first loose teeth, first…everything. He was so proud when that boy followed in his footsteps. So proud when Jonathan signed up for the Army.”
“At least one of his sons understood the value of hard work,” Dolores said. “Instead of going off to play games.”
That wasn’t fair. Matt had played professional ball. He hadn’t been scraping around sandlots, staying out after curfew. He’d been part of an elite group, one of the best pitchers in the world.
But Emily didn’t say that. She didn’t like how it felt to defend Matt. She didn’t like saying anything good about him.
Instead, she dove back into her knitting, letting the familiar rhythm soothe the jagged feelings stirred up by the Horton sisters’ story. She allowed the yarn to slip through her fingers, stitch by stitch, building something new, something stronger, something that became better from the sheer force of repetition.
In the end, she promised the Horton sisters she’d be back the following week. They’d work more on their sweaters. They could sit here in the sun room if the weather held, or by the fire in the living room if the temperatures started to dip.
As Emily drove home, she realized why the Horton sisters’ story seemed so strange. Jon had never told her any of it. Not a word about how hard his father had worked. Not a hint of how his father had dreamed. It was like Dave Dawson had never existed before he settled into his boring office job at Baked Rite.
People got trapped. And family, babies, could build the strongest traps of all.
By the time she got home, Emily had made up her mind. The itch she’d felt the week before, the hint that it was time to move on from Harmony Skeins—that wasn’t just a momentary flicker. She needed something new in her life. She needed something different.
It was time to start asking around town, to find out who was hiring. With the economy still rough, it might take her a while to land her next job. But with eighteen months under her belt at Harmony Skeins, she had no doubt it was time to move on. She could always knit for fun after she found a new place to work.
She had to park her car a block away from the store and her apartment, but she didn’t mind the walk down the sunlit street. For the first time in weeks, she felt light. She felt comfortable. Just deciding to start her job hunt had quelled the nagging feeling that had haunted her since her birthday.
It was enough. For now.
CHAPTER 7
Matt leaned against his truck, arms crossed over his chest as he studied the American Discount storefront. His suit jacket was barely enough of a barrier against the chilly autumn evening. A breeze poked its fingers through the open neck of his shirt, and he almost—almost—thought it might be worthwhile to knot his necktie once again.
He was exhausted.
This wasn’t the bone-weariness of pitching a complete game. It wasn’t even the body ache of playing extra innings on get-away day, only to fly all the way across the country for the start of a ten-day road trip. This fatigue had nothing to do with pushing his body, with demanding the utmost his training could deliver.
This feeling came from knowing he’d tested his mind to its very limit. He’d built a strategy and executed it to the best of his ability. He’d survived the Grand Opening of American Discount.
That’s what the store banner shouted above the door: Grand Opening! Step Inside For Savings. The sign was printed in American Discount’s trademark green and white, with each letter S turned into a dollar sign. The banner was part of his launch day packet from Corporate. Individually owned and operated, said the decal in the front window, but trademarks were trademarks. Logos were logos. And Corporate had final say on all of it.
In fact, Corporate never shut up. They’d sent him more launch day materials than he’d ever imagined needing. He’d started out reading everything—primers on how to configure the aisles in his store, which materials to put near the registers to encourage impulse buys, how to rotate stock for holidays. He’d begun to skim when they told him how to target “reluctant buyers,” how to get kids to spend allowance money, how to focus sales on the days when government disability checks arrived. He’d shit-canned the stack when they told him about laying out his parking lot, about streamlining traffic to handle five hundred cars a day.
Corporate knew how to maximize resources. But Corporate didn’t have a clue about Harmony Springs.
And Matt was beginning to worry he didn’t have a clue either.
He’d made it through his Grand Opening and earned enough to pay both of his cashiers, to cover their benefits even. But he’d seen nowhere near the level of business his careful models had predicted.
Plenty of folks had driven by, even slowed down to get a good look at the parking lot. But he could count on one hand the number of people he knew who had walked through the front door. Mom, of course, flustered and making excuses for Dad, just like she always did. Coach. Joe Henderson, which proved the guy was really a class act, because the convenience store attached to his gas station had the potential to lose out on a lot of business once the Discount was fully up and running.
But that was it. Not the guys from the back table at The Corner Bar. Not the folks he’d gone to high school with. Not the hordes he’d expected to see, the people who should have been lured in by curiosity, who should have made real purchases once they saw the bargains he offered.
Matt hadn’t understood what went wrong until he’d locked up and crossed the lot to his truck. That’s when he saw it—a neon pink flyer tucked under his windshield wiper. Save Our Stores, it said, in the same font as the banner across the front of his store, sprinkled with the same aggressive dollar signs. United We Stand, it said beneath the group’s name. And in smaller type: Shop the Harmony Springs Central Business District, where the merchants are your friends.
The paper hadn’t been there at noon, when he’d come out to grab some files from the cab of the truck. It wasn’t there at five, when he’d returned a bunch of documents, things he had to work on that night. Someone had waited until after dark to approach his truck, to place the flyer in the very shadow of the store’s fluorescent lights.
He had no doubt the announcement was Emily Barton’s work. She was the one who’d worked in half the stores on Main Street. She had the contacts to bring all of Harmony Springs together.
She was the one who hated him.
Shit. He could hardly blame her. She’d had every right to hate his guts, ever since that day by Harmony Run. He’d taken advantage of her, even though he’d never meant to. Not when Jon had called him, voice shaking, saying he’d fucked up and didn’t know what Emily would do. Not when he’d found her sitting beneath the apple tree. Not even when she’d kissed him, when he’d tasted the champagne on her lips and realized just how much she’d had to drink.
He’d only gone out there in the first place to clean up Jon’s mess, to let her know there wasn’t anything wrong with her, that his idiot brother was the one who was nuts.
But he’d let things go too far. And he’d ended up hurting her all the same when he finally stopped thinking with his dick, when he realized he had to stop her, had to keep her from finishing what she’d started.
The really fucked up thing? Even now, standing in an empty parking lot, holding a limp deposit bag that barely covered five hundred bucks, his gut freezing at the thought that his American Discount really might fail, he didn’t blame her.
In fact, he actually sort of admired her.
Because she was a competitor. She came out fighting and she didn’t back down, no matter what. He’d pitched against guys like that. Young bucks with great stuff who threw fire for nine innings, never losing more than a mile an hour from first pitch to last. Old veterans who got by on guile and guts, finding the corners of the plate, sneaking ball after ball past the best hitters in the league.
Matt had pitched his share of blow-outs. But he always felt better about the games where he had to fight the opposing pitcher. Where the competition was mano a mano. Where he worked hard for what he won.
Matt was halfway into his truck when he caught a flicker of movement at the entrance to the parking lot. “Hey!” he called out, even as his brain translated the motion into a person on a bicycle.
The person stopped.
Matt strode across the lot, the heels of his dress shoes rifling off the freshly poured asphalt. “You!” he said, when he was close enough to make out the face of the kid on the bike. Because it was a kid. The boy who’d sat in the back booth at the diner, the one who Emily was tutoring in biology. What was his name? Calder? Haden?
Matt loomed over the kid. “Did you put that flyer under my windshield?
“N—no, sir.” The kid’s voice cracked like he was halfway through puberty.
“Then what are you doing here at eight thirty at night?”
“Please, Mr. Dawson. I thought you’d still be open. I came by after I finished my homework, after I ate dinner. I couldn’t skip going to the diner because I didn’t want Miss Anne to worry about me.”
Matt forced his shoulders to relax. The boy looked like he was about to pee his pants. He wasn’t exactly parking lot ninja material. Matt softened his voice when he repeated, “Then what are you doing here?”
The kid threw back his shoulders and raised his chin. “I want to apply for a job.”
Matt barked out a harsh laugh. Another few days like today, and he’d be firing one of his cashiers, maybe both. He’d be a solo act, manning the stockroom, ringing the register, counting out the cash drawer. Hell, he could shove a broom up his ass and sweep the store clean each night, too.
But the kid didn’t know that. The kid didn’t care. He still stood at attention, like his entire future depended on whatever Matt said next.
“What’s your name again?”
“Caden. Caden Harper.”
“And what type of job do you want, Caden Harper?”
“Anything,” the kid said too quickly.
“What are you good at?”
“I can memorize a lot of stuff.”
“Like what?”
The boy stared at a point somewhere over Matt’s right shoulder. “Your career ERA was 3.37. The first season you played with Minnesota, you won ten, lost three. Your career record was 130 and 104, and you pitched a total of 2125.1 innings.”
Matt listened to the numbers, to the familiar rhythm of the stats that had ruled his life for ten long years in the majors. When he’d come up, he’d memorized other guys’ numbers. He’d been able to recite career lines, just like Caden did.
But Matt said, “I don’t need a lot of things memorized around here. I have computers. My phone.”
The kid deflated. But he didn’t turn away. “I can clean up at the end of the day. Sweep the aisles. Straighten up behind the counter.”
“And how much do you want to be paid?”
“Paid?” Caden sounded like he’d never heard the word before. “Nothing, Mr. Dawson. I’d do it for free, just to work for you.”
Matt shook his head, fighting the urge to smile. He knew he’d been fourteen once. But he didn’t think he’d ever been quite that naive. “Okay, Caden. Lesson Number One. Don’t sell yourself short. If you’re good enough for me to hire, then you’re good enough for me to pay. If you don’t value your own work, why should I?” The kid nodded, like Matt was some wise man, sitting on a mountain up above the clouds. “Let’s try it again. How much do you want to be paid?”
Caden’s eyes roamed around the parking lot, like he might find the answer painted there. “Um, twenty dollars an hour?”
“That’s a little steep for a stockboy,” Matt said. “How about five?”
“Okay,” the kid said, fast.
Matt shook his head again. “Nope. Don’t be afraid to negotiate. You’re worth more than five bucks. What’s a fair wage?”
“Ten?”
“Are you asking me, or telling me?”
“I’d like ten dollars an hour,” Caden said. And then, with an appalled little gasp he remembered to add, “Sir.”
“Ten dollars,” Matt said. “Done. When can you start?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Is that a question?” Matt prodded.
“Tomorrow,” Caden said, injecting a little certainty into the word.
“Can you be here by four, and put in an hour every weekday afternoon?”
“Four o’clock,” Caden said. “Yes, sir.”
“And two hours on Sunday? Starting at three?”
“Yes, sir!”
Matt held out his hand. For a moment, he thought Caden wouldn’t figure out what to do with it. But the kid got over his hero worship enough to shake. He even had a decent grip.
Matt watched as Caden climbed onto his bike and rode away. He’d have to scare up something for the kid to do, something to fill an hour or two, at least for the next few weeks.
It wasn’t until Matt was halfway home that he realized he had the perfect first assignment for Caden. The store might have only been open for twenty-four hours, but Matt could already see some things that needed to be tweaked. He had to put some goods on clearance to make room for new stock, items he’d order for overnight delivery, so it was ready for sale by the weekend.
Because Emily Barton had fired the first shot, printing up those flyers. And Matt had built his career on being a competitive guy, on being the guy who wanted to win more than anyone else did.
Caden’s first job would be preparing a display of yarn and knitting supplies for American Discount’s newly created arts and crafts section. Matt bet the kid could have it ready by Friday.
CHAPTER 8
Emily parked on the street in front of her mother’s house. A quick glance at the driveway confirmed that her siblings had already arrived. Emily was late. As always.
From long force of habit, she kicked off her shoes as she entered the front door, automatically depositing her coat in the hall closet. She didn’t bother calling out a greeting; chaos already reigned in the large sunroom at the back of the house. Instead, she slipped into the kitchen and checked out the contents of the fridge. Yep, there was that horrible cab franc Charlie insisted was fine wine. A six-pack of the black mud Bran said was beer sat on the bottom shelf, already one man down. Half a lime leaked sticky juice onto the counter, crowded by bottles of triple sec and vodka: Mom had already made Anne a cosmo.
Of course there wasn’t any hard cider.
Consequences of being a middle child: Emily was often overlooked in the crush. Of course, middle child syndrome came with benefits as well. Emily had learned to tie her shoes by herself. Same with riding her bike, with working her junior high locker combination, with solving for X. She was able to take care of herself.
For tonight’s dinner, that meant a side trip down to the basement. She’d stashed a few bottles of Woodchuck in the ancient auxiliary fridge last week. Sure enough, they were still there, rolling around in the vegetable crisper. Now that all the kids were old enough to be out on their own, her mother no longer had any reason to hide champagne in the drawer.
Emily was not going to think about champagne.
Instead, she pasted a smile on her face as she climbed the stairs, following the scream of banshees into the sunroom.
Okay, no actual banshees were harmed in the making of Friday night family dinner. No wonder none of her siblings was married. An outsider could never survive in the maelstrom that was the Barton household. Bran had come the closest, with a marriage that lasted for three whole years. His ex-wife probably still thanked her lucky stars she’d escaped the zoo.
Noah was running around the sofa, tugging on her brother’s arm each time he zoomed past, saying, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
But Bran had his professor look on, his eyebrows knit, his entire body tense as he said to Charlie, “But that’s just it! Faulkner’s non-teleological vision is made explicit in As I Lay Dying!”
Charlie frowned and sipped her tannic poison. “Using a word with seven syllables doesn’t prove your point.”
Bran sighed with exasperation. “Sorry, sister dearest. Sometimes it takes seven syllables to say exactly what I mean. Just because great literature doesn’t fit into your strategic plan of how the world should work…”
“Daddy! Daddy!”
“What do you know about my strategic plan?”
Emily shook her head. They’d be at it until Mom sent them to separate corners. In fact, Mom was already looking up from her craft table across the room, her maternal radar zeroing in on the increasingly heated tones of her two oldest children. She might have intervened then, if Anne hadn’t distracted her by picking up a partially finished gourd figurine. “Mommy? What’s this one going to be?”
Mommy. Anne was the only one who got away with calling their mother that. Charlie had called her “Maria” from the first time she discovered that her mother’s given name got more of a response in a crowded room of needy toddlers. Early on, Bran had gone for a cheeky “Ma.” Emily had found that a normal, everyday “Mom” worked just fine. She suspected that Anne would have given up the “Mommy” years ago, if she didn’t see such fine results.
Even now, Maria Barton beamed at her youngest child’s attention. She picked up the gourd and said, “I’m thinking of painting an endangered species series. This one feels like a giant panda, don’t you think?”
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
“Strategic plans can actually be applied to any field of endeavor, Bran. Even academia.”
Bran was quoting his hero, William Faulkner, at the same time Charlie spoke: “My mother is a fish. You can’t get more non-teleological than that.”
