CHAPTER ONE
Jamie
My two daughtersbarely let me put the brakes on before they fling open the doors and jump out of the backseat of my Camry with their gym bags in tow. Thankfully, I’m already in a parking space, but I don’t even get to shift the car into park before they’re gone.
“Watch for cars!” I yell, but neither one is paying attention to me.
It’s like this every day when I drive them to gymnastics practice. I appreciate their excitement, especially since their father routinely questions if we should bother continuing this afterschool activity. I just wish the two of them didn’t have to run off like wild animals each time.
I sit for a few minutes, deciding whether or not I should go relax at a coffee shop around the corner or sit and watch the practice. Most of the mothers attend every practice, as I have for the past two years, but now that the girls’ spots on the team are secure, I think I can spare myself one gymnastics practice.
A tap on my driver’s side window tears me from my deliberations, and I jerk my head to the left to see Maris Durante smiling at me. A somewhat attractive woman with nice teeth and big brown eyes, she has the misfortune of being married to a man who is nothing less than a complete jackass. A lawyer, he never fails to offend whenever he attends any of the team’s get-togethers. I don’t know how she puts up with him, to be honest.
I lower the window and smile at her. She really does have the loveliest almost black hair that falls halfway down her back. It’s a little long for my taste, but she’s the one who has to deal with it.
“Hey, Jamie! You going in?” she asks in her perky way.
“I’m thinking I want to go relax and have a coffee at that little shop down the road. Want to join me?” I ask, knowing the answer before I even say the words.
Horror fills her face for a few fleeting moments before she shakes her head and forces a smile. “Oh, no. You know how it is. Tiffanie always feels better when I’m there watching.”
That’s a lie, and Maris knows it. I doubt her kid even notices when she’s there. None of them do. It’s Maris who feels better when she’s there because she knows that’s the only way she can influence the coach.
She doesn’t dare not sit through every minute of practice today. Her daughter Tiffanie has been struggling for the past two months and hasn’t been able to land a single vault in weeks, even though that’s supposedly her best event. If she wants to stay on the team, her mother is going to have to be front and center schmoozing with the coach before the roster for the big meet at the end of the month is set.
That’s how the world of children’s sports works. I don’t like it any more than anyone else. I certainly have better things to do than sit around with other parents and watch little girls jump around for hours, especially since most of their mothers peaked in high school, but if you want your kid to be noticed,then you need to make an appearance so the coach can see how committed you, and by extension, your children are about being on the team.
Not that my Cassandra and Danielle need that anymore. Thank God, they’re gifted at the sport and have already secured their spots.
“Oh, okay,” I say, forcing myself to look disappointed that she can’t join me. “See you later!”
She hurries off to get a good seat on the bottom row of bleachers right in front of the coach. I doubt it’s going to do much good, but I have to give it to her. She does what’s necessary to make sure her daughter has every chance to be on the team.
It’s a beautifully sunny May day, already warm enough to be in the mid-eighties. As I drive over the streets that lead to the coffee shop, I pay attention to the tree line on Park Street. I’ve always loved streets that have a wonderful canopy above. My husband thinks that’s simply a reason for people to want more for their houses, so we never even bothered looking at any with that feature when we were searching for a house to buy.
By the time I pull into the coffee shop’s parking lot, I can feel myself grow irritable. It’s a stupid thing, really. What does it matter if Connor decided all on his own that we couldn’t live on a tree-lined street? Our home is beautiful. Newer than any house with that perk, it’s got virtually everything I wanted in a new home and absolutely everything my husband demanded.
I love my house. I’m just being silly.
Just like Connor always says I am.
Walking into the coffee shop, I look up at the sign and see the first three letters of the word coffee are out on the sign. Well, it’s still right, technically. We all pay a fee for our drinks.
I usually go through the drive-thru after the girls’ practice, so I’m surprised to see the inside of the business is quite homey. A warm brown shade on the walls sets the tone and blends wellwith the dark brown tiles covering the floor. As I wait in line, I study the colorful framed posters of coffees from around the world hung on the walls.
Thankfully, once I finally get my coffee and blueberry scone, I quickly find a seat near the front window of the shop. Taking a deep breath, I relax after the frantic drive to gymnastics. Every day when I pick the girls up from school, they’re wired like someone’s been giving them caffeine and sugar all day. They talk nonstop to one another the whole ride across town to practice, never letting me get a word in edgewise. All I’d ask, if I could, would be how their school day was for them, but I never even get that chance.
I guess it’s a good thing the girls have lots to talk about after a school day. They’re both very popular in their classes, Cassandra having many friends in sixth grade and Danielle always in demand for sleepovers with fellow fifth graders. In fact, now that I think about it, I shouldn’t worry at all. If they were outcasts and had no friends, those would be things to be concerned about, not being the most popular girls in their respective years.
With all of that running through my mind, I break off a piece of scone and pop it into my mouth. It’s unbearably dry, so I quickly gulp down some of my coffee to get the bite of pastry to make its way down to my stomach. I know these things are supposed to be dry, but it’s like this blueberry scone has dust coming off it.
“Those things are like the Sahara desert. They should give customers a warning before selling them.”
I look up to see a woman holding a cup of coffee and a cookie and smiling down at me. Instantly, my attention is drawn to the scars that transect her face. One runs from the corner of her right eye to the outside of her nose, and another cuts the left side of her face in half. Makeup covers them, and it’s a very good job,but the scars are raised, so it’s impossible for her to completely conceal them.
Sure I’m staring at them, I force myself to look up at her eyes. Blue, they show a sadness her smile is trying to obscure. Her light brown hair hangs just below her shoulders, and other than being pin straight, it’s unremarkable.
All of this races through my mind before I say to the woman, “They really are. I think next time I might get a glass of milk instead of coffee if I decide to get a scone.”
