Left to Chance Page 2

  It was as if Chance had turned its back on itself.

  I stared at the storefronts. I had never noticed the marble arches between the businesses, or how the ivy trailed across the bricks and along the bottom of the windows. I snapped a few pictures with my phone so I could study them later, before coming back with my camera.

  “I’d love to see Shay tonight. Just a quick visit? I want to go to sleep early, but…”

  “It’s Gallery Night for her summer art class. That’s why she had to stay back, to set up her sculpture. She wants you to come, of course. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Tonight? Really?”

  “You can’t say no, Ted. She’s over the moon that you’ll be there.”

  “Right. Of course. Of course I’ll go.”

  Crap.

  That didn’t give me much time to check in with Annie, unpack, shower, change clothes, apply a little makeup. It gave me no time to just be in Chance without seeing people I knew. People I’d left behind. Exhaustion swept through me. Was that what accounted for my hallucination? As Miles cruised past the alley where Celia and I had hidden to smoke cigarettes the summer before we’d started high school, I could swear I saw her standing with her back against the brick wall, a grown-out perm (an ill-fated attempt to have hair like mine) pulled up in a ragged ponytail. And there I was, sitting cross-legged on the ground with pack of Parliaments in my lap. We’d thought no one knew what we were doing, but we were grounded. Twice.

  My arms and legs tingled, almost itched. Curls crept across my forehead like spiders. The air from the A/C burned my eyes, and the vibrations from Miles tapping the steering wheel pricked my nerves. I felt the ripples and stitching in the leather seatback through my no-wrinkle dress.

  Since when was I the goddamn Princess and the Pea?

  Chapter 2

  NETTIE’S ON LARK, ITS official name, had been a boarding house until the 1950s, at which point it shifted into a trendier-sounding bed-and-breakfast. After that it was an inn, which meant: no breakfast. Now, rooms were listed on vacation rental sites and described as vintage, charming, and cozy. Painted in whimsical pale blue and yellow, the house mimicked the sky and the sun in a child’s drawing. The turret had made Nettie’s on Lark the castle of my childhood daydreams. In college, I had cleaned the room at the top of the spiral staircase and found there was nothing royal about it, except that it was a royal pain in the ass. Celia and I had dubbed it the “Rapunzel room” and each week we’d flip a coin. The loser was the one to clean it.

  “Thanks again for the ride. I know it was a hassle.”

  “You took two flights to get here. It was the least I could do.”

  “What time tonight?”

  “Seven-fifteen. I promised Shay we’d be early.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  The trunk popped. “You sure you’ll be okay here alone? There’s no room service, you know.”

  “No one waits on me at the hotels,” I said. “That’s not who I am.” That wasn’t completely true. The staff did wait on me when I was with Simon, and they would have when I was alone, if I’d let them.

  “You don’t even have a car to get around.”

  “I don’t have a car anywhere. I walk.” Or drive golf carts, or take cabs, Uber, or limos.

  Miles fiddled with his keys. His voice softened. “I still miss her, Ted. Every day. Every single day. I still can’t believe she’s really gone.” Then he looked at me. “But you should also know, Violet’s an angel. I love her very much.”

  After high school Violet went off to Kent State or Kenyon or maybe Kentucky and stayed or moved somewhere else. I had no idea. She hadn’t even been a peripheral person in my life until she and Miles had connected a few years ago after she’d returned for a reason I’d never asked about. At first, Shay had mentioned that she’d gone somewhere with her dad and Violet. A picnic, I think. Or maybe it was a ball game. Then it had been that her dad and Violet were dating. Shay’s texts were full of “we,” and “they,” and “all of us.” Then it had been the bombshell that they’d gotten engaged. It didn’t matter. Not really. I wasn’t here to disrupt anything, change anything, or offer my opinion. I was here to take pictures and spend time with Shay, catch up with old friends, and then go back to my real life. “I’m happy for you. And for Shay. I’m sure Violet is lovely.”

  “I know you’re thinking about Cee. It’s harder to forget about her when you’re not on the other side of the country.”

  “You think I’ve forgotten her?”

  “Not completely, no.”

  Miles had no idea when or how or what I thought about Celia. He never asked; I never told. I didn’t infringe on his grief or his time or his privacy and I didn’t invite him into mine. I tempered my breathing, moved my hair off my neck so the sweat would evaporate.

  “Do you really want to talk about this now?”

  “Not really, but Shay’s asking a lot of questions lately, more than ever before. I want you to be honest with her, tell her whatever she wants to know. Within reason. She’s twelve. And whatever you do or don’t do while you’re here, do not leave without saying good-bye to Shay.”

  “I would never—”

  “You mean never again.”

  I wished my phone would buzz or my hair would catch fire.

  “So, seven-fifteen?”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything to upset her.”

  “Of course I won’t. What aren’t you telling me? I know I only see her once a year, but she asked me to come back, and I’m here.” I thought that would count for something.

  “A fancy weekend once a year doesn’t take the place of being there day after day for a kid. No matter how much she likes your shopping sprees on Michigan Avenue.”

  “I know that.”

  Miles’s tone was so calm that he sounded rehearsed. “Shay’s not a baby anymore, but she’s still dazzled by you. You’re the fancy one, the one who got away, the one who spoils her and lets her leave her life behind for a weekend. And I’m glad. But now you’re here, and this is our world. Shay’s world. Everything here is very real. Including her mother.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do to her? I’m here because of Shay, Miles. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here taking pictures at your wedding unless she’d asked me. She made an excellent case for me coming back and doing this; she only used about a third of the guilt she could have. That kid should be a lawyer.”

  “She wants to be an artist.”

  “Of course she does.” I looked down. “It’s not easy for me to be here.”

  Miles stared out the windshield again. “I realize that.”

  “So let’s agree I’m here because Shay asked me to be here. Whatever else I’ve done or haven’t done, can we just table it for now? Please?”

  Miles nodded and I opened the car door before I inhaled all the oxygen.

  “Hey Ted,” Miles said as I stepped out. “Don’t you wonder what Celia would have thought of your leaving? I mean, I think she’d be very proud of your success, but—”

  “No, I don’t wonder.” I shut the door, careful not to slam it.

  I didn’t have to wonder.

  I knew.

  * * *

  The door was unlocked, but there was no one to greet me: no registration desk, no sleek computerized check-in, no key card or concierge. This was Nettie’s on Lark, which meant that I was met by an envelope propped up on the walnut mantel in what had once been the parlor. It was still a parlor of sorts, with a mauve velvet settee and chair that looked decidedly uncomfortable. A key tied to a grosgrain ribbon dangled from a coat tree on hiatus for summer.

  Welcome, Teddi Lerner.

  The wireless code is Nettie6.

  You have the house e-mail and phone number.

  Texting or e-mail is the best way to reach me.

  Welcome back to Chance,

  Nettie

  Anyone who owned Nettie’s was called Nettie. According to the booking site, the current owner lived in
Columbus, but wanted a reminder of an uncomplicated, small-town childhood. Chance was definitely small town. “Uncomplicated” was subjective. The new owner would have learned before his (her?) purchase that Chance residents, committed to maintaining town history, had the inn proclaimed a historic landmark in 1952. The name couldn’t be changed.

  It was just a town tradition to call the owner Nettie.

  The Garden Suite was at the end of the hall. It was as if I’d entered a champagne cave—the color, not the bubbly wine. The tacky brass bed I remembered had been replaced by a four-poster draped with an ivory lace canopy. The fringed pillows and bedspread shimmered with shades of iridescent pink. A small oval table flanked by two wing chairs had been positioned between the floor-to-ceiling windows. One dresser had drawers, but its mate had been repurposed to hold a marble sink. Underneath the sink, on a shelf, sat a small black refrigerator, as if this were a dorm room in a time-travel novel. A bookcase held well-read versions of classics, as it had when I’d borrowed them in college, reading the books I’d pretended to read in high school. I skimmed the spines for my favorites: Austen, Hemingway, Bronte, Orwell. I didn’t look in the bathroom but imagined no new owner would have removed a claw-foot tub. I held on to hope that something here had remained the same.

  My visit felt like a layover in an alternate universe. Perhaps unpacking would ground me. One by one I removed my dresses from my suitcase, smoothed the skirts, adjusted the shoulders and necklines, and slipped each one onto a wooden hanger in the small, not-renovated closet. I stored my almost-empty suitcase under the bed, and placed my camera bag on top. I plopped next to it and fell back.

  I pulled out my phone and Bluetooth headset.

  “Hey,” Annie said. “How were your flights?”

  “Fine. They’re always fine. Tell me what’s going on there.”

  “Nothing. How’s your homecoming so far?”

  “Come on, tell me. What have I missed?”

  “You’ve been gone less than twenty-four hours. We are still standing tall without you.”

  “What about the Thomas retreat? Do they want full coverage and social media shots?”

  “Two days.”

  “Two days? That’s not enough. Who talked to them?”

  “Devereaux.”

  “Are you kidding me? He couldn’t upsell his own grandmother.”

  “Calm down. I’m kidding. I told them you were out of town and that I’d get the info together and call them tomorrow.”

  “Don’t do that to me! E-mail me all the information. I can put together a proposal tonight—oh, no I can’t. I have plans.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “It’s a local, um, art show.”

  “Oh, now they produce art in Mayberry!”

  “It did produce me, you know.”

  “Touché!”

  “Someone very important to me is one of the artists, so I have to go. I mean, I want to go. I’m excited to go.”

  Annie and I were coworkers, and buddies based on work. I didn’t lie to her. I never lied. I just left things out—like my entire personal life before I’d arrived in San Francisco. All she knew—all anyone knew—was that I grew up in a tiny Ohio town and that my parents traveled around the country in a Winnebago, the latter being a distracting bit of family trivia that had nothing to do with me. As far as I could tell, no one who met me in Chicago (my first stop after leaving Chance) or San Francisco or any city I’d worked in was interested in my past. They were only interested in my present. And in my pictures. Simon had met my parents during their swing through Petaluma, but that was the only time.

  “When you get back we need to talk. I have a proposition for you that will change your life,” he’d said, as he handed me a bowl of steel-cut oats with organic dried cherries and maple syrup he’d brought back from Vermont and now had on a regular monthly shipment. “Just don’t get too distracted while you’re gone. Keep your eye on the prize.”

  “More weddings.”

  “You never know where you’ll meet our next happy couple.”

  When I’d opened my mouth to reply he just kissed me, essence of oatmeal and all.

  Annie’s voice faded as I noticed a basket in the corner of the room by the door, looking as if Little Red Riding Hood had skipped through.

  “Did you send me something?”

  “No, I don’t even know where you’re staying, remember? You wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Right.” I knelt by the basket and opened the lid to find a bottle wrapped in a blue cotton kitchen towel. Pinot Noir from a local winery.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. I mean, I’ll call Mr. Thomas tomorrow.”

  “He wants you to call him Henry. Don’t forget.”

  “Right. E-mail me everything. And, Annie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  I yanked the Bluetooth and held the bottle against my warm cheek, the smooth, cool glass as soothing as finding the cold spot on my favorite pillow. Only one person knew my penchant for this particular red. And only one person knew what I did after drinking too much of it the night Celia was diagnosed.

  Three months, the doctors had said.

  For as much as they knew, they’d known nothing.

  Celia had stayed with us for six. Fighting, laughing, dying.

  I opened the wine with the waiting corkscrew. I filled a glass. This was just a bottle of wine, which happened to be from an Ohio winery. Nothing more than a nice gesture. A welcome gift. It had to be, because I was not ready to think it was a reminder, an ultimatum, or even a long-distance peace offering.

  I opened a drawer where somehow I knew I’d find snacks, and pulled out a sleeve of Ritz crackers. I opened the mini fridge and saw the block of cream cheese. Someone had told the new owner about this classic Chance hors d’oeuvre. I lifted the basket to the table and something rattled. I reached inside and pulled out a small, unwrapped box and removed the lid. It didn’t occur to me that I might not like what was inside until the lid was off. I shut my eyes. Celia had always loved my enthusiasm, so I opened one eye. Then the other.

  A wispy silver chain lay on a pillow of cotton. A brightly polished charm. Half a heart. A zigzag edge. The word “Best.”

  Celia and I had exchanged necklaces like this for Hanukkah when we were in sixth grade, except we’d had ours engraved at a mall kiosk. I looked at the heart, remembering my first “real” jewelry.

  We hadn’t wasted a moment that day. We tried on the necklaces right there and admired each other, and ourselves, in the mall’s mirrored columns, before we set our necklaces back into their boxes so they could be properly wrapped and exchanged.

  This necklace. The one in the basket. It couldn’t be the necklace. Could it?

  One. Two. Three.

  I flipped over the charm and stared at the engraved letter T.

  For Teddi.

  My fingers trembled. Before now I’d chosen my reminders. I wasn’t used to having them presented to me, in a picnic basket no less.

  Obviously that was changing.

  This was Celia’s necklace. I shut my eyes and traced the engraving with my finger, then peered inside the basket, ran my hand along the lining. No note. No clue. Nothing. Celia and I hadn’t worn those necklaces since eighth grade, but it didn’t surprise me that she would have kept hers. It had to be Miles who left it. An unsung good deed, or something to exacerbate the guilt he believed I should feel for staying away.

  I dug into the front pocket of my camera bag and pulled out a small black pouch I always carried but hadn’t opened in years. I poured out my necklace, which had tarnished.

  Friends. I flipped it over. C.

  I clasped both chains around my neck and the halves fell together, a heart complete, though the necklaces were never meant to be worn by one person. The charms overlapped and the delicate chains tangled. I looked into the mirror over the dresser. I closed my eyes and the necklaces felt just right. Their temperature on my décol
letage, cool and soothing; their weight, light but present.

  I poured more wine and stood to the side of the window in case the neighbors could see in, which I knew they could. I had looked in these windows many times, although never as a half-dressed traveler.

  Townie.

  The garden on the east side of the house, like the one at the house I grew up in, was filled this time of year with hundreds of black-eyed Susans and petunias. My mother hadn’t been an inventive gardener, but she was always passionate, except when she wasn’t. But in this garden were lilac bushes and zinnias, delphiniums, lilies, and rosebushes—so many rosebushes—all of them more lush than when I’d been in my teens and twenties and had looked out this window, counting the minutes until Celia and I would grab our pay (cash, under the table) and decide what to do next.

  The stepping-stones placed through the garden led nowhere except back to one another. That had always frustrated me, but it had never seemed to bother Celia. She’d been happy to walk the stones and turn around and walk back. I was the one who had wanted to keep going.

  I could see the corner of the inn’s garage to the west, its side covered with purple clematis. I looked at the rooftops nearby, now knowing what stretched beyond the garden, beyond Chance, beyond Ohio. That was where my adventures were born, the ones I hadn’t imagined existed for me.

  I rubbed the charms as if they were Aladdin’s lamp. I held up my glass for so long that my arm hurt. A drink sealed the deal, even when you were alone.

  “I’m back,” I said aloud, willing the words through the white blanket of clouds to whatever heaven existed.