“My mom left us,” I said, my hip resting against the counter. I didn’t dare share that she might be the same Paula who grew up with Bev’s mom.
Bev rolled her eyes, still leaning on the expensive machine. “Well, they suck. My dad and your mom.”
I stared at this girl who had been dealt a shitty hand, just like me. How could she have it so together? I was falling apart at the seams, and she was the picture of togetherness, going on and on to me, some stranger, like it was no big deal.
“I never really knew her. My dad’s a bit protective. I actually flew the coop this summer because I couldn’t take it anymore. All his rules. This is good, by the way,” I told her, lifting the drink in my hand.
“Thanks. Sounds dreamy. Flying the coop, that is. My mom got the big BC.” Bev pointed at her chest. “Well, I couldn’t stand to leave. So I teach dance and work here, running things for her when she’s at chemo.”
“I’ve been bartending and waitressing, doing okay, but I need to look for something more permanent.”
“Hey, that’s about as permanent as you’re going to get in this town without a fancy diploma. And even then, it may be your best bet. Where you from?”
“Sea Isle City, New Jersey. Beach town. I guess you could say I’m a small-town girl. That was the appeal of your shop. Had a homey feel to it.”
“My mom will be so glad to hear you said that.”
“So, the painting. You have more?” I tilted my head toward the only connection I’d ever had with my mother.
Bev shook her head. “No. Paula did this one as a favor to my mom, when she still went by her maiden name. Later, she named herself something fancier—Paula Phillip. But, really, she mostly curated for the museum and then she got into teaching. In the big leagues, not elementary art or anything like that, but at the college, you know what I mean? Last I heard, she was on an extended sabbatical. I don’t know what for or what she was doing. She and my mom were fighting a lot over the last few years, but my mom wouldn’t tell me over what either. Pretty much, I run the bakery and dance ... and mind my own business.”
“I’m sure your mom didn’t want to trouble you. That’s how my dad is.”
“Prob,” she said, turning her gaze toward the door and the bells chiming as it opened.
“I guess you’ve got to go,” I said.
My pulse quickened at the thought of googling my mom again. I wasn’t sure why her art never came up, though. Maybe because she had a new name?
As I turned away, I said, “Hey, you said Paula married up. She still married?”
Bev looked at me, her brow wrinkling in confusion. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t know what happened. She hitched herself to some high-society prick, and it pretty much changed her for the worse. My mom never felt the same about her—it’s really sad. I always guessed that’s why they fought. I think they lost touch.”
I nodded like I understood this type of stuff.
“Supposedly, a lot of shit went down,” Bev said with a shrug. “I guess they weren’t meant to be or something. And her work signed with her old name wasn’t worth what it should’ve been or whatever. Hence that painting on the wall.”
I waved at Bev in thanks, and she grinned back and then took the orders from the couple who’d just walked in and were drooling over the bakery cases.
Excited to have a new lead—a really good lead—I pulled out my phone. According to Google, Paula Phillip was a part-time art professor at a well-established college in the Village.
Price
College had never really been a possibility for me. Financially, my mom couldn’t swing it, and my stepdad needed help on the farm. Not to mention, I didn’t really care about it. I was all too thrilled to oblige my stepdad after he’d put up with my shit for so many years.
Sophomoric, yes. By the way, I knew that word long before moving to New York. I might be a country guy, but I’m no idiot.
A littleFootloose-ish, you betcha. And, yes, I’ve seen that movie—both versions—with Moira in my lap, under a blanket, her hands wandering.
Bottom line, it was hard to see myself doing anything else but dairy farming alongside Bruce until he retired. I’d always pictured marrying Moira. We’d have a few kids, buy the farm from my mom and Bruce, and live the way I’d grown up. Quiet. Peaceful.
Except, my kids would have their biological dad.
I’d grown up just fine on that farm until my sperm donor showed up, dust blowing around the tires of his chauffeur-driven town car while he tossed around bribes. I imagined money burning as the driver left the car running.
Now, here I was sitting in a classroom, listening to some highbrow professor drone on about macroeconomics, Apple versus Dell computers specifically, while nineteen- and twenty-year-old girls whispered all around me. Not in the mood for it, I stood to go, packing up my shit in my backpack.
“Hey, one sec,” a redheaded beauty with a set of fake tits called to me. “Here.”
