Page 39 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
“You know,” Iris says with a sigh, “there was a guy I was with once, before I met my husband. Handsome, came from one of the better families in town. I thought I loved him and would give up anything for him. I spent three years trying to be what his family wanted. Straightened my hair and stopped dyeing it. Packed away my Dead Kennedy and Black Flag shirts. Took tennis lessons. Started shopping for my clothes at those fancy department stores.” She shakes her head. “One day I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. That’s when I knew I had to go.”
I nod, surprised at how closely her experience mirrors mine. “What did he say when you left?”
“That I’d regret it. That I’d never find anyone who loved me like he did.” She smiles, a genuine one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “He was right about one thing; I never found anyone who loved me like he did. I found someone who loved me better, right up to the last day of his life.”
She reaches across the desk and squeezes my hand. “When are you planning to leave?”
“Couple of weeks. Just before Thanksgiving, I think.” The timeline is suddenly becoming real.
“I’ll be sorry to lose you,” she says. “You’re the best cook I’ve had in this kitchen in years. But I’d rather see you happy back home than miserable here. Take whatever time you need off to arrange things.”
“I can’t ask for that—”
“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” Iris stands up. “And one more piece of advice? When a man shows you who he really is, believe him the first time. Saves a lot of heartache down the road.”
I rise too, moved by her kindness. “Thank you, Iris.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says, waving me off. “Just send me a postcard. And when you open that restaurant of your own someday, remember I believed in you.”
As I walk back through the restaurant and out to the parking lot, I feel a weight lifting off my shoulders. For the first time in months, I’m not waiting, hoping Adam will choose me. I’m choosing myself.
12
Chapter 12
Caitlin
Grandma Louise’s farmhouse is crowded with mourners. I’ve been keeping myself busy helping serve the funeral luncheon, trying not to think about the fact that she really is gone. I’m refilling the coffee urn when I hear–
“Caitlin.”
I turn at the sound of my name. My mother, Leslie, stands there, staring at me. She looks older and harder than the mother of my memories. Her face is lined, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe knot at the back of her head. She’s painfully thin, her black dress hanging off of her. I hadn’t even realized she was here before this. Nobody expected her to come.
“Mom.”
She looks me up and down, her expression unreadable. “It’s been a long time.”
Her voice is raspier than I remember, scratched by years of cigarettes. I turn slowly, coffee pot still in hand.
“Twelve years,” I say flatly. “Give or take a few months.”
She ignores the edge in my voice. “You grew up pretty enough.”
I set down the coffeepot carefully, resisting the urge to throw it. “Thank you for coming. Grandma would have appreciated it.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“So,” she says, crossing her arms. “You going to college in the fall?”
The question catches me off guard. Such a normal, maternal thing to ask. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m enjoying working at the restaurant, and—”
“God, you’re just like me at your age,” she interrupts, her mouth twisting. “Thinking you can just float along, waiting for life to happen to you. Let me tell you how that story ends — knocked up and abandoned, just like I was.”
Heat rushes to my face. “I’m not even dating anyone right now.”
But Mom isn’t listening. Her eyes have a faraway look, like she’s seeing ghosts. “Your father was supposed to be my ticket out of this town. College boy, visiting his grandparents for the summer. Instead, he got me pregnant and disappeared back to California.” She gives a harsh laugh. “Men always leave, Caitlin. Remember that.”
I shift uncomfortably, aware of curious glances from nearby mourners. “Look, this isn’t really the time or place—”
“You know, I always felt guilty,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken, her voice dropping lower. “Burdening my mother with my mistake.”
