Whole Latte Life (9 page)

The box was square and slim, and she guessed while untying the ribbon that it might be jewelry, a special keepsake. But she was wrong. Nestled deep in tissue was a lone brass skeleton key. It was polished to a dull shine, seeming nearly liquid. Sara Beth lifted it, turned it, then opened the card.

Dear Sara Beth,

Happy birthday, hon! It’s the first day of your whole new life and I wanted to be a part of that moment, that celebration. This key is like the tiniest stacking doll nestled deep inside, and will open a wonderful door for you in more ways than one…Please try the key, which is my gift, before the day is over. 1438 Old Willow Road. It unlocks the carriage house around back. Have fun!

Love you,

Mom

Old Willow Road was down by the river, nowhere near her mother’s old house. Sara Beth showered and changed into a pair of jeans and long sleeved tee before pulling her cropped vest on over it to ward off the morning damp. She couldn’t imagine what her mother had arranged, or how. After dropping Owen at playgroup, for the ten minute ride to the carriage house she wanted nothing more than to call her to break the suspense, if only she could.

The driveway snaked around the side of the farmhouse. There were lots of trees in the yard and a silver ribbon of river curved off in the distance. Sara Beth sat in her car and considered the white planked carriage house, the dark green beams crisscrossing the doors. A gold balloon bobbed from the door, curled streamers on the string blowing in the breeze.

“Oh Mom,” she said to herself as she got out of the car. “What have you done?” The note hadn’t said anything about going to the main house, just to go to the carriage house. And there was that balloon, so this was all somehow planned. But how? Leaves and twigs crunched beneath her feet. She slipped the key into the old lock on the right hand side door. It turned easily, so she lifted the cross beam and pulled it opened.

First there were only colors. Browns that never shimmered as beautiful as they did through tears. Beneath the mahogany, oak, cherry and pine antiques spread a sea of gold and burgundy in an oriental carpet. A vase of fresh dahlias graced an heirloom hand-stitched lace runner atop a long dark table.

There wasn’t as much furniture as it seemed at first, what with the surprise of it all. Just enough antiques to start organizing a shop. But that her mother accomplished this much alone was amazing. And that she believed eternally in Sara’s dream, even more so. Brass candlesticks were artfully arranged on a Queen Anne mahogany drop-leaf table. What caught her eye though was the gold swirled velvet and the oak arms of the child’s Morris chair from her mother’s house. The kids loved that little chair, sitting in it in front of her television set when they were little. It was a valuable antique.

“Why?” Sara Beth asked, brushing tears from her face. “How can this be?”

“Is something wrong, miss?” an older fellow asks, touching her elbow.

“No. Thank you, I’m fine,” she tells him, turning around at the antique shop on East 60
^th
. But she doesn’t move, instead picking up an intricately painted navy and gold Matrioshka doll from the table, opening the nesting dolls until she gets to the tiniest inside.
It’s like the place where a mother keeps her love,
her mother told her once.
It’s the tiniest Matrioshka doll, nestled deep within.
Just like the brass key nestled in that tissue. And she decides to buy this doll for her mother. She’ll give it to her for a special occasion, this New York souvenir. And what Sara Beth knows, holding this rare collectible, is this: Sometimes her life feels like an intricate constellation, a collection of feelings and people and dreams and events spinning through her universe. And though the stars may be light-years apart, they are still all connected, part of only one constellation.

Tom had backed Sara Beth’s car out to the driveway and turned on the overhead light so they could paint in the garage. But not before moving the piecrust tip table he found wedged in the front corner. A web of fine scratches lines the dull finish, but the table is intact. Sara Beth used to bring home old pieces of furniture the way people rescue stray animals.
It’s so pretty. It just needs a little shining, then I’ll find it a home.

With the girls settled in for the overnight at their cousin’s, this together stuff will be good for Owen. But he worries as he sets up: Is Owen too young for painting? Will he bore quickly? Should he have his sippy cup out here? A snack? How do you know? And then there are the Sara Beth questions: Will this weekend rejuvenate her? She’s been off, lately. Will she be happier, her old self, when she comes back? Should he leave her alone and not try to call her?

“Paint, Daddy. Paint,” Owen says as Tom fills a bucket with water. He sets it near his own paint can and adds an inky dose of blue food coloring. “Boo.”

“That’s right. Blue. Here, you stir.” Owen takes the paint stick and stirs the water to swirls of blue while Tom lays a piece of plywood down on the garage floor, which he had power washed last weekend. Now he sets up blocks of scrap wood and a plain wooden toy car plucked out of a bin at Stickley’s Furniture. Beside it is a new bookcase for Owen’s room. “Daddy paints and Owen paints.”

Tom’s never done stuff like this alone with his son. He always brought casework home, working in the evenings for a few hours. So the questions keep coming. Do you talk while you paint? Is just being side-by-side enough for a child? The only sound is of wet paint brushes moving over clean wood. When he stops and contemplates the bookcase for a minute, Owen sets down his paint brush and looks from Tom to his car and blocks.

But Owen’s not contemplating what Tom is: He talked to Sara Beth’s sister Melissa when he dropped off the girls there after work. No one’s heard from her. And he told his sister-in-law if he doesn’t hear from her tonight, he’s headed to Manhattan in the morning. Sara’s been distracted for months now, and this is just more of the same. The way he figures, if anything were wrong, Rachel definitely would have called. So he has that. For now.

When he looks up, Owen is sweeping blue paint onto the trunk and back bumper of his car.

Not colored water. Blue paint, just like on his toy car.

“Owen! Hey, hey stop!” He grabs the brush from his son’s hand. “Perfect. Now Daddy has a blue car too, exactly like yours,” he says.

“Owie boo car,” Owen squeals, flapping his arms against his side.

“God damn it.” He throws Owen’s brush into the water bucket. “I don’t need this shit, Sara,” he says, grabbing a clean rag. He wipes off the wet blue paint, his biggest fan wiping along right beside him. They buff it out together with a little paste wax. Finally Tom hoists him up on his hip. “Sorry guy. Daddy’s a little crabby, huh? We’ll let the cars dry now, okay? Let’s get you cleaned up.” His hand brushes through Owen’s mop of hair and he carries him through the door to the kitchen.

Chapter Seven

T
he first thing people notice is the dress, black stretch crepe sporting a side slit and halter neckline. Under the elaborate lighting, it makes her long figure look all leg. In keeping the dress central, Teri Alexander wears her dark hair pulled back in a low twist. But it is her voice that hypnotizes. From behind the lone microphone, Teri captures The Metropolitan Room with a string of sultry songs weaving a tender story of love gone wrong.

But Michael’s eyes are on Rachel. What could’ve been, and should’ve been, weighs heavy in the crowded room. Sara Beth’s absence is like a soft pencil, a pastel, shading the hours lightly.

“The crowd loves you,” Rachel says with a proud smile. “And this dress! What is it? Valentino or vintage?”

“The secret is to leave them wondering.” Teri stands after spending her break at their table. “I am so glad you made it tonight. Tell Sara I missed her?” She turns to Michael. “And it was nice to meet you,” she says, reaching for his hand.

“The pleasure was mine. Wonderful show.”

“I’ll email you,” Rachel tells her.

Michael notices, all night, the details Rachel decided to tell, to not tell. She hadn’t mentioned the disappearance to Teri, saying only that Sara Beth wasn’t feeling well. He waits for Rachel to say goodbye before guiding her through the crowd to the damp night outside. A fine sheen of moisture reflects off the city streets.

“How could Sara Beth have missed this? Teri’s our old friend. This is what life’s about, celebrating the milestones.”

“Maybe she’s having a milestone of her own.”

Rachel looks up at him, slowing her step.

“To disappear here? With just enough communication to buy her freedom? A breakdown can be a milestone.” He turns up the collar of his overcoat as the rain gets heavier. “Let’s get a cab. I know a little place not too far from here.”

It takes a few minutes in the wet weather to find an empty taxi. “Why don’t you call her husband now?” Michael asks when they settle into the back seat.

The rain-streaked window distorts the city lights, playing tricks on their eyes. Rachel looks out at the few passersby. “I’m going to wait a little longer. Maybe she’ll come around.”

“What exactly are you waiting for? Her body showing up in a dumpster? I’m sorry if it sounds harsh, but it does happen. Maybe you should call before you regret it.”

“Listen, Sara Beth is an adult. This was her decision and I’m not going to chase her down. She told me
specifically
she needed this time.”

“If you’re sure.”

“This must be what she wants,” Rachel answers as she pulls her cell phone from her purse. There are no messages. “You know, this night really meant a lot to me. But she walked away from it.” She gives in to a small smile, giving Sara Beth the benefit of the doubt. “I guess she has her reasons, but I’ve had this evening planned for months. And you have been wonderful, taking me to Bobo’s and to see Teri. I really don’t want it to end yet. Thank you for asking about Sara, but I’d rather go to the club you mentioned.”

He doesn’t push Rachel to change her mind. Lights reflect on the wet street in glistening ribbons. Leaning forward in the dark cab, he gives the driver the address. Once inside the club, he checks their coats and the host leads them to a booth along a side wall. A three-piece jazz combo holds the floor, the lighting low.

Before they settle in the booth, Rachel scans the patrons, looking for Sara Beth’s face. Behind a drink, in the shadows, lost in a crowd, she searches for even a silhouette. It makes Michael wonder why Sara Beth bothered to plan this trip with Rachel. It
should
have been perfect. As time passes, this friend has to feel Rachel’s disappointment. She has to think of Rachel, doesn’t she? Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe the situation is that bad, because Rachel seems too nice to hurt otherwise.

“What a difference a day makes,” he thinks out loud.

“What do you mean?”

His gaze moves around the club. “One day, two lifelong friends arrive for this posh birthday weekend at The Plaza? And the next day, one friend falls into some midlife crisis? It’s crazy.”

“And the other friend?”

He touches his champagne glass to hers, looking at her eyes, fully aware of the long charcoal gray slim skirt, fitted top and unconstructed black velvet jacket specially selected for this evening. Her blonde hair is down and the jewelry of choice is all sterling.

“She looks gorgeous, in case anyone hasn’t told you recently.”