No, I didn’t want to do most things like girls my age. I’d grown up dramatically different.
Anyway,there goes that. Apparently, I’d been saving myself for a grade-A prime asshole.
After turning over every clue I had so far on my mom, I accidentally struck gold in an upscale bakery on the Upper West Side. By chance, I’d gone in for a cookie and came out with the whole damn cake.
Sweaty and tired, I went to the counter and ordered an iced mocha and a peanut butter and jelly cookie. I didn’t know what that was, but I wanted to try one—who knew when I would see a PB&J cookie again?
A cool painting hung on the wall behind the counter. I squinted at the design, painted in slashes of blues and creams and greens, and realized it was an abstract of a coffee cup, steam swirling around it, then funneling into small crescent-shaped cookies.
“I like the painting,” I said to the girl at the counter while I waited for my drink.
She glanced back to see what I was looking at. “Oh, that? My mom’s friend did that ... not that she wanted to, but we begged.”
“Oh yeah, it’s good. Seems like there should be one in every bakery and coffee shop in town.”
“Could’ve been, but the artist doesn’t paint anymore. She used to do these big, uppity, abstract things until depression hit big-time. She’s one of these upper-class, high-strung, everything-has-to-go-their-way types. Aack, I didn’t say that, ’kay?” She pushed an errant dark blond strand of hair behind her ear, her half-moon-shaped earring glinting in the light.
“Your secret’s safe with me. I never met anyone like that, but I gotta imagine it’s a pain.”
“Ha! It is. You got that right, but this is New York, so those types are everywhere. Anyway, the painting is fine. It’s only coffee and cookies.”
“Too bad, I love it. For the first time since I left home, I actually miss it ... the ocean air. Something about that painting makes me think of the little beach town I’m from. Maybe the colors, or the way the cookies are floating like clouds above the water.”
“She was obsessed with the beach. Paula, the artist, I mean. She was forever going on and on about the sea and wanting to be near water.”
She made eye contact with me, but I couldn’t focus on her. I didn’t know if it was the name she said or the weird itchy feeling on the back of my neck. It felt like a mosquito had gotten caught between my shirt and my neck. Oddly, the urge to get closer to the painting froze me for a second, like I was wearing ankle weights. I couldn’t or wouldn’t, but then my feet moved on their own, taking me toward the painting. I had to see it for myself.
“You want your drink?” The bakery chick rounded the bar and set it at the end where I was leaning over the counter, trying to get a closer look at the painting.
“Geez, do you want to come back here?” The girl poked my arm with her blue-painted fingernail.
“What?”
“Obsess much? Do you want to come back here? See it up close?”
“Can I?”
She lifted the counter and I slipped through, my gaze never leaving the swirling crescents.
“I’m Bev, by the way, Bev Brantley. You an artist or something?” She leaned against the giant espresso machine.
“No, but I like art. I’m supposed to be studying biology in the fall, but I’m not. I may take a gap year or whatever.”
“Oh?” Bev raised an eyebrow at me. It popped over her navy-blue eyeglass frames, and I took a moment to study her. She must be around my age. Green eyes, dark blond hair tied tight in a bun, glasses, and long tanned legs. She looked like a misplaced beach bum, and for the briefest second, I ached for my dad.
My gaze traveled back to the painting, and I reached out a finger to air-trace the first name of the artist’s signature—Paula. Then I blinked at the Dubois that followed it, fully convinced I was imagining it.
“My mom’s friend Paula ... they’ve known each other their whole lives. Except my mom married some broke musician from Brooklyn, and Paula got a fancy art degree and married up, if that’s what you call new money when you come from old money.” Bev waved a hand in the air. “Jeez, I don’t even know your name, and here I am rambling on and on.”
“Emerson. It’s Emerson.”
“Oh, cool name. Bev is so blah. Of course, my mom wanted to be a librarian a long time ago. She loved books ... Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, and I forget the other one ... Roald Dahl.” She snapped her fingers when the right name came to mind. “But she became a baker when my dad left on tour and never came back. Someone had to pay the bills. This is her shop. And that’s my life story.” She waved her hand like Miss America underneath the sign.
Lucky Artist Bakery
“She named it for all the artists who actually made it. The ones in the MOMA and performing at Carnegie Hall. My dad always thought it was about him, wishing him luck. Idiot. Thank God he’s long gone. Who the heck has patience for that?”
I slipped out from behind the counter, picked up my drink, and took a sip, desperate for something to do with my hands. Otherwise, I’d grab the painting and run. Where? No clue.
