The Victorian (Lavender Shores Book 9), page 18
“Crazy is part of being human, right?”
“Maybe.”
I gave in to the temptation I’d had since we’d sat. I reached across the short distance and laid my hand on his arm. He glanced down at it but didn’t pull away. “You really do feel like it’s helping?”
Still staring at where we touched, Charley nodded.
“Are you numb, feel like you’re not really there, like before when you were on meds?”
His gaze flicked up then, but he still didn’t pull away. “No… I feel like me. Just…” He squinted. “Actually I feel like I can finally be me. Kinda decide if I need to go off when I’m angry or if I don’t. I didn’t really have that option before.”
“I’m glad.” Man, how I meant that. I couldn’t even understand why I meant it so deeply.
Charley studied me, then looked to where our skin met. After a bit, he placed his hand over mine. “Is what we’re feeling crazy?” His voice took on a little panic. “Are you actually feeling shit, or are you just being nice, trying to rescue me or something equally fucked-up?”
“It’s definitely crazy.” I was surprised when he looked up at me, a little wounded. I smiled. “But didn’t we just agree that’s okay?”
“Sure. Right.” He considered, then gave a slow nod. “I’m not making any promises, Seth.”
“I’m not asking for any.”
Another nod.
It felt like he was going to say something, or… maybe I was going to say something. I wasn’t sure. It felt like someone was going to say something, right or wrong.
“Charley?” We broke apart and turned at the voice and found a young woman behind us holding a covered tray. “Sorry, but things got a little busy in the kitchen. It took me longer than I thought.”
“That’s okay, Amy. Thank you.” Charley stood partially and took the tray. “I appreciate it.” As she left, he set the tray on the small crowded table between us beside the dirty dishes. Then with a nervous grin he removed the silver lid.
When I looked down, it didn’t click at first, then it did. The chocolate cake was a small square with white icing. A blue S piped in the center surrounded by a pink heart. I looked up at him in surprise.
Charley just shrugged. “They won’t give us candles or matches.” He grinned. “Crazy, remember?”
I sucked in a laugh, and even at that, my voice caught.
Charley studied the cake, then his eyes widened. “I, ah… told them your name was Seth, but I… didn’t ask for the heart.”
I laughed again and touched his arm once more. “Thank you for the cake.”
Another shrug. “Thanks for spending your birthday with me.”
FIFTEEN
CHARLEY
MY BREATH froze, as surely as my feet, as I stepped into the kitchen. Some part of me had expected it to stay exactly how it had been the last time I’d seen it. Ridiculous, as that had been over three weeks ago—considering the seventy-two-hour hold before the treatment facility, more like three and a half weeks, which was basically a month.
I’d been gone a month.
At that thought, my breath froze again.
The kitchen was in perfect order, everything in place and spotless. From my cursory glance around, it looked like all the pots and pans I’d broken had been replaced, as well as the dishes and glasses.
What did it say that my restaurant could operate so smoothly when I wasn’t present?
That thought ushered in another one—chances were, it operated more smoothly when I wasn’t present.
All right, Perez. None of that. No need to usher in the darkness. Find the bright. Find the bright.
I supposed the kitchen itself was the bright. Charley’s Tavern had barely missed a few days, hardly a glitch, and then kept on chugging along.
There was a large scratch down the door of the stainless steel refrigerator. Huh, so not completely covered up. Had that been the cast-iron skillet? No, probably not. That would’ve dented. Maybe a metal spatula.
I’d not heard the front door unlock, or her footsteps, and suddenly Brenda waltzed into the kitchen, then froze at the sight of me. Apparently freezing feet were contagious. “Oh. Hi, you’re back.” And didn’t that hesitant, almost disappointed tone say it all?
“I am.” I swallowed. I’d practiced this conversation with the therapist. God, who was I? Practicing conversations with therapists! But now that I was in front of Brenda, I couldn’t apologize. Maybe that was for the best. Doing so would probably cause her a heart attack. “The… Uhm… kitchen looks great.”
“Thanks.” She shrugged. “I didn’t have much to do with it. Mabel and Sapphire took care of the ordering of supplies and such. They just had Lonnie and me go through what needed replacing, and then we put it away. That’s all.” She cleared her throat. “I hope it’s… satisfactory.”
Maybe I couldn’t apologize—who knew, perhaps I’d learn how to do that better at some point—but I could say thanks, in a manner. “The fact that the tavern has been doing so well since I’ve been gone says that things are much more than satisfactory. And that’s thanks to you, and Lonnie, I’m sure.” I gestured toward the front of the house, as if the other servers and staff were out there. “Thanks to everyone that this place is up to snuff.” I could do better. I could. “Plus, I imagine there was quite a bit more laughter while I was gone too.”
She started to nod, then seemed to catch herself, her eyes widening.
I laughed, just a little, and then, knowing the truth of it, a little harder. And then, just because it had been so long since I’d laughed, I really, really laughed. I laughed even harder, just for the sheer amazement of it.
Brenda stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, and considering where I’d been the past month, I couldn’t blame her.
And that thought had me nearly in tears as I doubled over, having to grip my knees from laughing.
After an uncomfortable bit, Brenda began to chuckle as well, and then she too was laughing.
I wasn’t sure how much time passed before we got control. But we went back and forth for a while. One of us sobering and then getting caught up in the other’s laughter.
Finally, wiping her eyes, Brenda studied me. I could feel the question. Are you okay? Are you still Charley? Is all this laughter going to lead to you ripping my head off? Instead she went professional. “Do you have a certain agenda you’d like me to get started on this morning?”
“No. You’ve clearly been handling things just fine. How about you keep doing that.” I nearly left it there, then remembered another conversation I’d had with my therapist. Goddammit. “My therapist”—there it was, transparency with people in my life, yuck—“didn’t want me to return to work at all for another week or so. And if he knew I was in the restaurant the day after I got home, he’d probably pull me back down there. So for the sake of compromise, or whatever, how about I just be a ghost for a couple of days. Get my grounding. Maybe I’ll learn a thing or two from you guys.”
Again with the speechless rooting, and then finally she nodded. “Sure, you bet.” She took a few steps toward me.
She’s going to hug me. She’s going to hug me. Goddammit, she’s going to hug me. It took all my strength not to move away. At the last second, with a hitch in her step, she veered off. “Glad you’re back, Chef.”
Relieved, I headed out of the kitchen before she could reconsider. “That’s the kind of lie I like to hear, Brenda. Keep it up.” As I stepped into the dining room, I heard her chuckle.
Brenda had turned on the lights when she’d come in, and all the bright colors glowed. For a second, past and present collided. Made it almost to where I could hear Abuela humming as she cooked. Almost. Charley’s Tavern wasn’t her home, wasn’t the dream homage to her I’d pictured decades before. But the tavern was here. If anything, that was miracle enough. How it had survived, how I’d survived, through it all, through myself, I didn’t have a clue.
As the other staff started to filter in, I took refuge in my office. After so long away, after how I’d left everything, it was all too much. I marveled that I had the capacity to be embarrassed, especially considering how many tirades I’d given over the years. That night had hardly been the first time I’d broken some dishes. Though never before to that extent. It was different for people to see my anger, to hear me yell and scream, hear me stand up for myself and demand what I thought I deserved, whether I did or not. To have them see me broken and weak, have them know what they knew, was a very different thing.
Dr. Braswell and the other staff claimed that I’d find freedom in that, peace. The more open and transparent I could be, the less anger and anxiety and rushing thoughts I’d feel, compounding the effects of the medication cocktail. I was skeptical. But at the moment, it most definitely didn’t feel like it.
THE BREAKFAST rush had ended and preparations for the lunch rush had begun, and I had yet to leave the office. A couple of people had the bravery, audacity, or stupidity—I wasn’t sure which one—to poke their heads in and check on me. I managed to smile and give an I’m fine, thank you to most of them. I’d been authentic with Brenda. I figured that met my quota for the day. I spent the hours going over the books, and all the assorted paperwork and reports that I’d missed during my time away. Things truly had gone smoothly, and once more, I wasn’t exactly sure what that said.
Finally, when I could think of no more excuses, I reached for the packet that had been in the center of my desk when I’d walked in, but I’d moved it to the corner, as far out of view as I could manage. The stack of the food-and-wine celebration paraphernalia was the size of a couple of Harry Potter novels shoved together. I had no doubt what Dr. Braswell’s advice would be on those. Let them be, no need to rush, recognize what’s in your control and what isn’t.
Considering the first day of the food-and-wine celebration was the next day, none of it was in my control. I looked anyway. If I didn’t, it would just keep mocking me from across the room.
My name was written on a folded note on the top of the stack. I opened it, my breath catching at the signature. Seth. Part of me felt I should’ve recognized his handwriting, but why would I? We’d hardly been pen pals, and mortal enemies rarely wrote each other love notes.
Charley,
Hey. I know we agreed to give things some space when you got back, but if you change your mind and want me to stop by, please let me know. There’s no pressure on that. Anyway, here’s all the stuff you’ve missed, to help you get caught up on the food and wine events, if you want to. I know you said, when I saw you the other day, to let the menu stay as it is, but if you change your mind, tell me. Or, you can simply contact Debbra, if you’d rather. I’ve cleared it with her. We can do a handout with the changes pertaining to events. Whatever you want.
There was a spot of ink on the next word as if Seth had held his pen there for several moments, trying to decide what to write, or probably trying to decide if he should write anything else at all.
I hope things aren’t too overwhelming being home. I’m sure it’s quite a change. If you need to talk, and I honestly mean talk, I can just listen. I’m here. I know you have Mabel and Sapphire, but you’re not alone, if you don’t want to be.
Seth
My eyes burned. Not alone. That too was beyond my capabilities of determining if it was true or not. Though, judging from the collected paperwork for the event and the note, not to mention him coming to see me on his fucking birthday, maybe I really wasn’t alone. Hell, maybe the tavern running smoothly said the same thing. Who the fuck knew?
Proving that Dr. Braswell was more than a pretty face and had earned the letters behind his name, going through the brochures, advertisements and schedules for the event proved to be overwhelming. Meds or not, every page I turned made things a little more janky in my brain.
Debbra and the committees had done a stellar job, not that I was surprised. Everything was glossy, beautiful, and as professional as if it was the centennial celebration of the event instead of the inaugural one. The booklet containing the portraits taken by Tyler and the stories of the restaurants and businesses was truly spectacular. As I looked at Seth’s, though, I had a sense of loss. I didn’t feel anger as I stared at his handsome face as he stood behind his ornate bar. When I came to my own page, that didn’t hold true. Anger rose, as well as loss. Doubly so when I looked at the menu. Back to fucking quesadillas, chimichangas, and fajitas. The typical watered-down Mexican food Charley’s always served—as if Abuela’s influence had never even touched me.
I shoved the pile away from me, harder than I’d intended, and it fell off the desk, scattering over the floor. I started to stand to pick it up, but didn’t, instead remembering one of the coping mechanisms we’d worked on. Controlled breathing.
Motherfucker and goddammit. Controlled fucking breathing. Like I was a kid stuck in one of those moronic therapist’s offices again.
But I did it. Breathed in, breathed out.
Then I did it again.
And again.
And again.
And fucking again.
Until the clatter of my brain slowed a little.
Until the anger quieted just enough that I could do another fucking technique and label what lay beneath. Loss, humiliation, regret. My one chance to really honor Soona Perez, and I’d let it slip through my fingers.
I thought about Seth’s note. It could still be changed. It was in my control. He’d somehow managed to get Debbra to agree to a fucking handout. And if that wasn’t proof of miracles right there.
And then what? Me scurrying around trying to gather the correct ingredients at the last minute. Raising holy hell at the Green Violin when they couldn’t magically grow the produce I required at a second’s notice. Trying to prep and cook for the main event in three days, less than that really, all I’d need to serve the hundreds that were expected to descend on Lavender Shores?
No. That wasn’t the answer.
I shoved another pile of papers off my desk, watched them fan out like an oil spill.
That plan was exactly what I would’ve done before. And I would’ve set the world around me on fire.
Some more breathing. And the thoughts slowed a little further.
Ten or fifteen minutes later found me picking up the papers from all over the floor, trying to get them back in order—when it hit me. Maybe it worked. The meds, the time away, the therapy, maybe it had really worked. Maybe it would really work.
There was a knock on the door, then a pause.
I stared at it in irritation, then had to laugh. Somewhere over the past month I’d gotten used to a knock simply meaning someone was about to stick their head in uninvited.
“Yeah?”
The door opened slowly, and Brenda started to step in, then noticed the strewn papers. She had her mouth open to speak but froze where she was.
That flash of irritation, but it was instantly followed by a moment of clarity. She was scared shitless of me. Which had been exactly what I’d wanted her to be. “It’s okay. The papers fell and”—transparency, dammit—“I had a moment. But nothing that can’t be cleaned up. No need to order new dishes.”
She flinched a bit, her eyes widening as they met mine, and to what was probably both of our shocks, she gave a partial smile. “Would you like me to help you?”
I looked away instantly, focusing on the papers. Holy shit. Maybe the meds weren’t working if such an offer threatened tears. “No, I’ve got it.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you, though. Do you need something?”
“I…” She sounded nervous and pulled my attention back to her. “Maybe this isn’t the best time.”
No, it probably wasn’t. “It’s okay. What do you need?”
She winced, and then as if lifting a gun, she held up her cell phone. “When you… left… I started looking at the Yelp reviews, only once a day, as I know they’re important to you.”
It’d been a month, nearly, since I’d looked at Yelp. Since I’d read a review. Even though the app was no longer loaded on my phone, I could feel the cell burn in my pocket at the thought. That compulsion had been the subject of more than one session with Dr. Braswell.
Maybe interpreting my silence as telling her to hurry up, Brenda continued. “There’s another negative review. And I get the idea that they know what happened because there’s some… insults about…”
“Me being crazy?”
“More or less.” She nodded, but then forced brightness into her tone. “But I think it’s the same person as last time and… uh… this review mentioned we use lard instead of butter to fry our tortillas.”
I met her gaze. “Paul.” The insubordinate, mouthy, arrogant little fuck.
She nodded again. “That’s my guess.”
I’d fired Paul in a fit of rage the week before Christmas. Over an argument about the best way to fry tortillas.
Looking back, I’d been right. Tortillas fried in lard were much better than in butter. Though the names I’d called him had probably not been fair, nor had me throwing a stick of butter across the kitchen. I considered for a moment. I wanted life to be different. I wanted to be different. I supposed I could start by offering him his job back?
Fuck that. Paul was a bitch.
“Brenda?” As I stood, I deposited half the papers on the desk. “Do me a favor, okay?”
“Sure.” Less than heartfelt, not that I could blame her. She probably thought I was going to ask her to take a hit out on Paul, which was kind of a fun idea.
“Would you check Yelp on the tavern once a week, no more than that. If there are negative reviews that let us know we’re doing something wrong, bring them to my attention and we’ll try to fix things. If they’re just bitter or blowing off steam, let’s ignore them.” Even as I spoke, my phone continued to burn hotter in my pocket. But if I wanted the noise in my brain to stay quieter, it would just have to burn.
