Finding Goodbye Page 5

  “The Crescent Moon place you used to like so much, down town,” she said.

  The Crescent Moon Book & Coffee House had been an all-time favorite of mine. It was a privately owned, quaint coffee shop combined bakery and book store. It was located across the street from the local fishing pier and a diner that had the best view of the ocean in town.

  “I didn’t realize you were baking for anyone. How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

  “Oh, about half a year now I suspect,” she said, twisting the knobs on the wooden antique radio that was sitting on the counter. Static faded in and out over the speakers until finally, oldies music began to play over the frequency. “It’s just a little something I like to do on the side,” she explained. “It brings in a little extra money and it keeps my hands busy. Pass me that wooden spoon there.” She pointed, and I obliged.

  We set to work, listening to music that filled the kitchen as we were quite literally up to our elbows in dough. The simple task was somewhat therapeutic, and it made me feel like I had a sense of purpose again.

  After the accident, life seemed to exist in a seemingly-endless slow tempo. The days dragged on, and the slow, lingering moments were torturous to get through. The pain of missing my brother was like dragging around an invisible anchor, keeping me rooted in my misery. I knew he wouldn’t want that for me, but it was hard to remind myself of that during the moments of sadness that I felt would never end.

  I now realized that I could take that sadness, and mold it into something more productive. I was finding that I appreciated the moments that kept me busy, which in turn was good for my mind.

  “What’s up with all of the heart patterns?” I asked a couple hours later. The pies had all been filled and were just about ready to go into the oven.

  “I like to do themed pies according to the month,” she said, placing an elaborate, quilt-patterned heart in the center of a berry-filled pie.

  “Oh, right, February. Valentine’s Day.” I nodded, carving out yet another heart in the dough. All of Grandma’s pies put mine to shame, but there was something soothing about working with the dough–it was the closest I had been to making art since the accident, and the process was coming back to me in a natural rhythm.

  “You don’t like Valentine’s Day?” she asked, furrowing an eyebrow.

  “I just think it’s a silly money-scamming holiday,” I said.

  Grandma chuckled. “How so?”

  “Well, I just don’t understand what the big deal is.” I shrugged. “Couples spend ridiculous amounts of money for overpriced dinners, flowers, and heart-shaped candies to celebrate their undying love out of obligation to the holiday. I mean, if you really love someone, shouldn’t you celebrate that love every day, in the small ways that really count and not just because some holiday told you to?” I asked. I had never been much of a Valentine’s Day fan, but maybe that was just because I was cynical.

  Grandma laughed again. “I think you might be taking the holiday just a little too seriously. Perhaps you’ll change your mind when Cupid shoots you with his love arrow.”

  For whatever absurd reason, Liam’s face popped to the front of my mind. I felt my face flushing, and pressed the last heart shaped piece of dough onto the crust of my pie. “Finished,” I declared.

  “Good, now we just need to get these in the oven so they can be delivered first thing in the morning.”

  “Do you do this every week?” I asked her.

  “Indeed, I do.” She winked. “The woman who runs the shop, Layla, goes to our church.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m likely to make the delivery before you’ve woken in the morning, so don’t fret if I’m not here when you get up.”

  “Do you want help?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, thank you for offering, but I have a few other errands that need running in the morning.”

  “Maybe I’ll see if Luke wants to meet me for coffee there tomorrow afternoon. It’s been a while since I’ve visited, and I could probably use a good book,” I said aloud, toying with the idea. I liked reading before bed to help calm my mind, and take it off of everything else that lingered in the dark.

  “How is Luke?” Grandma asked, placing the first round of pies into the oven.

  “Good,” I said. “He stays busy.”

  “I’ve always liked that young man,” she said, taking off her apron.

  We chatted a while longer while I helped with kitchen clean up. I was happy to sit down after, elevating my leg up on a stool. It had been a while since I had been on it so consecutively, and the pain throbbed throughout my entire limb. I contemplated sneaking upstairs for one of my painkillers but decided to numb the pain with an ice-pack instead.

  I was sitting in the living room, gazing out the window across the drive to the barn. Grandpa was outside, working with the buckskin horse out in the round pen.

  “Beautiful horse,” Grandma commented, making her way into the living room with a basket of clean laundry. Luna followed behind with her webbed feet making a soft shuffling sound on the hardwood floor. Grandma dropped the basket next to the couch, and stopped to pick up Luna, placing her on the rocking chair next to the window. “She likes to look outside,” Grandma explained.

  “She really is like a dog,” I said, bending to pull a clean towel from the laundry basket. “What’s her story?” I asked.

  “Luna was found wandering close to Hartford pond with a fishing lure stuck in her wing. It was one of those awful, three-pronged barbed types used for ocean fishing. They think she was accidentally hooked, one of those wrong-places-at-the-wrong-time unfortunate cases,” Grandma said. “Someone was able to catch her and bring her to the local veterinary office for inspection. They were able to mend her mostly, but, she’ll never be able to fly again. They sent her here to heal, and after she got better I just couldn’t seem to give her up.”

  I looked over at Luna, who was indeed staring out the window. With her wings gingerly folded against her back, you couldn’t see any visible or lasting damage. But as she shifted her wings, snuggling into the chair, you could see that her right wing was slightly misshapen. Relative to where a human’s shoulder was located, the bend of her wing was crooked and missing feathers. Watching her now, I wondered if she realized all that she was forced to give up. I wondered if she even knew that something was wrong with her–that she wasn’t quite like the other ducks anymore… Did she miss flying, like I did?

  I was thinking that all the broken things seemed to find their way here to seek refuge and heal. It was like an inevitable force of nature; it just happened. I found myself relating to the animals, and wondered if there was in fact some sort of mystical powers that the farm possessed, working its way into the bruised and fractured darkness. I wondered if being here would heal me, too.

  “You know,” Grandma said, jolting me back to the present, “you’re not here to help with all of the chores, Darcy. I don’t want you to feel obligated.” She nodded to the stack of towels I had been folding.

  “I don’t,” I assured her. “It’s nice–having something to do.”

  “I’d feel a lot better if you decided to make better use of your time by going back to school,” she said.

  I sighed, placing the folded towel beside me on the couch. “It’s not like I’m giving up on my future, Grandma. I’m just not ready to go back because I genuinely don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my life.” Some people were born with greatness in their blood–a sense of purpose. For most of my life, I felt like my path had never been carved out ahead of time, like I never knew which direction I was meant to travel. I was just sort of making it up as I went along, and taking a lot of wrong turns along the way.

 
“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” she said, placing the clean towels back inside the basket. “You’ve got a lot of potential; I just don’t want to see you wasting it away.” I watched her go, leaving me to my thoughts as she ascended the staircase.

  Instinctively, I reached up, squeezing the emerald stone in Gabriel’s class ring between my thumb and forefinger. The stone was smooth and soothing as I rolled my thumb over the glossy surface–back and forth–as if I were waiting for a genie to emerge from the lamp. I knew my wish would never come true. The only thing I wanted in this world, more than anything, was the one thing I knew I could never have. If Gabriel were here, he’d have all the answers.

  Chapter Five

  There was a certain scent that belonged solely to the winter air. It was hard to describe it, like ice itself mixed with bitterness. Here on the coast, right next to the ocean, I felt like I could almost taste it–the harsh cold mingling with salt and sea. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with it as I walked up the sidewalk with my hands stuffed in my pockets. I tucked my chin into my bulky scarf and quickened my pace as much as my right leg would allow.

  I rounded a corner and reached for the brass handle of the Crescent Moon Book & Coffee House. Luke had agreed to meet me for coffee, and after baking all of yesterday with Grandma, I was anticipating a slice of pie. I pushed through the door and was greeted with a burst of warm air. I reached up to loosen my scarf, and walked over to the counter to stand in line. There was a guy in front of me who looked to be around college-age wearing a dark green wool coat, red beanie, and yellow gloves. I guessed he probably didn’t have a girlfriend because she wouldn’t have let him leave the house wearing so many odd non-matching colors.

  I glanced above his head at the chalkboard menu items, the bright colors and flowing fonts catching my eye. I noted the metal sculpture shaped like a crescent moon, a coffee mug sitting in its curve with steam rising from the rim. The bronze, copper and gold gleamed above the menu on the espresso colored wall.

  The guy in front of me appeared to be struggling to make up his mind. He was making a series of sounds to signify his pondering like, ‘hmm’ and ‘um’ as he squinted at the menu. The barista looked annoyed. She was leaning against the counter, drumming her black painted fingernails across the surface rhythmically.

  “How’s the blueberry muffin here?” the guy asked.

  “Good, if you like blueberries,” she answered, matter-of-factly.

  “Okay, what about the banana–no, maybe the pecan?”

  “Look,” she said, leaning forward over the counter, “my break starts in five minutes and I’m really craving a cigarette, so if you’re going to order, I’d prefer you do it in this century.”

  I was struck with a sudden outburst of laughter, and quickly brought a hand to my mouth to cut off the sound that had escaped me by surprise. The guy turned, as if he had been completely unaware that I had been standing behind him the entire time. I cleared my throat and gathered my composure. “Sorry,” I said.

  “I’ll just have the blueberry muffin and a hot chocolate,” he said, and then added, “To go.”

  The barista grinned. “We’ll call your number when it’s ready.” She slid a card across the counter without breaking eye-contact or her devilish–yet somehow friendly–smile.

  The guy took the card, and sauntered off toward one of the book aisles. “God,” she said after he was gone, “he had been standing up here for like, five minutes before you came in. I was seriously about to strangle him.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” I chuckled.

  “People like him seriously test my patience,” she said. “Anyway, what can I get you?”

  “Can I have a French vanilla cappuccino and–” I paused, glancing in the display case for a piece of pie. I bent slightly to get a better view, but all I saw was an array of muffins, cookies, and cupcakes.

  “You missed the pie rush this morning,” the girl said, following my gaze. “We only have a few slices of blackberry left, and I don’t recommend it unless you enjoy blackberry seeds sticking between your teeth and staining your lips an unattractive shade of purple. Don’t get me wrong–it will taste amazing, but you’ll spend the rest of the day looking like a character out of a Tim Burton film.”

  “I guess I wouldn’t want that,” I said.

  “It’s best to get here before noon on Tuesday,” the girl added. “You might have to stand in line for a hot minute, but I promise it’s worth the wait.”

  “My grandma makes them,” I explained. “I was looking forward to seeing them all ‘official’ in the display case. It’s silly, really.”

  “Oh, you’re Evelyn MacKenna’s granddaughter, aren’t you?” But before I could respond, the girl was already leaping into another string of chatter. “Your grandmother is basically famous around here. She and my aunt have an arrangement set up. The deal is that your grandma can sell her pies here every Tuesday in exchange for a free baking booth at all of the Havenport County festivals–you know, since your grandma is on the comity. Anyway, the pies are a hit–except for the blackberry, of course.”

  “Of course.” I laughed. “Maybe I can talk to her about that.”

  “Ask her for more of the peach cobbler, it’s my favorite.” The girl smiled brightly. “It’s always the first to sell out.”

  “Duly noted,” I said. “I’ll put in a good word.” I tried to ignore the slight pang of sadness I felt at the mention of the cobbler. “Can I have a chocolate-chip cookie, please?”

  “Good choice,” she said. “Our cookies are to-die-for.” She reached under the counter and pulled out my cookie, along with a blueberry muffin for the other guy. I watched as she bagged up the muffin, and retrieved a plate for my cookie. “If you want to find a seat, I can bring the coffee out to you when it’s ready?” she said. “I just need to slip out the back door for a minute.” She patted her pocket, and I noticed the red Marlboro emblem peeking out from her hip.

  “Sure, thanks.” I paid for my order, and then took my plate with the cookie the size of the saucer it was sitting on, and headed toward the back of the shop. There was a small fireplace on the back wall, (which you’d think would be an occupational hazard, considering.) It did bring a certain ambiance to the atmosphere, a kind of warmth and comfort that had attracted me since I was younger.

  I found an empty spot, wedged between the hearth of the fireplace and window that looked out over the street and surrounding buildings. I sank into a little pink chair, placing my plate on the coffee table in front of me. That was another thing I liked so much about this place–none of the furniture matched. The shop was full of consignment shop items, none of the pieces had anything to do with its neighboring chair or table. I loved the chaos of it–the disarray that somehow worked in complete harmony.

  I broke off a piece of the cookie, chewing it while I pulled out my phone to send Luke a text. I’m inside and ordered, you on your way? I sent.

  Be there in a few minutes, he replied.

  “Here ya’ go.” The barista sat down a mug in front of me; the shape of a leaf had been sculpted into the top layer of froth.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “How’s that cookie?” she asked, standing with her hands on her hips.

  “It’s really good,” I said. It wasn’t meant to be the knee-jerk response of just saying what she wanted to hear either. It was pleasantly chewy, and the chocolate chips were more like chocolate chunks that didn’t knock you over with a sickening sweetness. “It’s perfect.”

  “Layla will be happy to hear that. Her baked goods have been taking prizes at State Fair for like, a decade or something. Of course, she’s been gunning for that first prize ribbon that your grandma takes home every year.�
�� She rolled her eyes.

  “I guess if you can’t beat the competition you join them, right?” I grinned.

  “Yeah I guess.” She laughed. “I’m Beck, by the way, Beck Russo.”

  “Darcy Bell,” I said around another mouthful of my cookie.

  The name Beck had an edgy ring to it, I thought, which was seemingly appropriate for her appearance and verbose tendencies. Beck was pretty, but not your typical polished and manicured kind of pretty that a lot of girls worked for. Beck was pretty in the sense that she didn’t use clothes or makeup to her advantage.

  She was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans with an over-sized gray sweater that hung below her hips. She was small–petite–probably just around five-foot-four with choppy layered black hair that fell to her shoulders in length. Her blue-gray eyes were outlined in smoky colors and dramatic eyeliner–a major contrast to her ivory colored skin.

  I looked up as a figure came into view at the door. I smiled and waved Luke over to the table. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a navy blue pea coat that fit nicely against his frame.

  “Hey Darcy,” he said, taking a seat in the chair opposite of me as he worked a pair of gloves from his hands.

  “Hey Luke.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Beck asked, turning to face him.

  “Uh, just a coffee please, sugar and cream.” He smiled at her, and for a minute I thought there was something else there–a small spark in the air before she turned to go fill his order, but then it was gone–burned out just as quickly as it had ignited.

  “What did you order?” He jerked his head in the direction of my plate, and then reached over to break off a piece of my cookie.

  “Get your own,” I said, pulling my plate closer to my side of the table.

  Luke just chuckled. He could turn any situation into a lighthearted good time. “How’s your grandparents?” he asked me.