I hesitated, considered long and hard. Was my life in England better? To be my own boss, own my own space, serve people the food I’d always dreamed of, create a beautiful experience for them. And to do it in Brighton, England. The dream of living abroad. It was a heady combination. But what of that wan face in the mirror? The six years without a vacation? Colin of the bedroom eyes whom I felt nothing for. And the relational cost—the hostility in Daphne’s voice, the cold indifference. I would gain my dream but lose my family. It was why I had given up Toast in the first place, because I could not give up my family for my own ambitions, no matter how tempting. Was that still true?
“I don’t know,” I said finally. “The cost seems so high.”
Aunt Gert pressed her lips together and resumed scrubbing. “So perhaps you have not yet found your bliss after all. Well, you have two lemon drops left. Use them wisely and see what you discover.”
With a glance at the clock hanging over the door to the kitchen, I stood but lingered for a minute.
“Aunt Gert, what happened to me in Brighton... was it a dream? A hallucination? It couldn’t be real, right?”
Aunt Gert sat back on her heels. Her hair was wisping up in a little tuft at the back of her head like a Kewpie doll. For a moment she looked every bit of her eighty years.
“Let’s just say those little drops transcend our narrow notions of time and space,” she replied.
I struggled to glean a definitive answer from her philosophicalwords. “Is this some quantum physics concept? Parallel universes? Is it a dream, like Scrooge inA Christmas Carol? How does it work?”
She shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know. The woman who gave them to me never explained the mechanics. I just know they do work. Somehow they transcend the confines of our singular choices, our little linear worlds, and they show us higher truths. How do they work? They are in the realm of mystery and revelation. Label it a miracle or magic or string theory, a touch of the Divine, Charles Dickens, or Stephen Hawking, or whatever you like, the important part is not thehow, it’s thewhat. What do those little drops uncover about your life? What truths do they speak to your heart? That is the question you should be asking.”
I nodded, feeling strangely both chastened and inspired.
“I don’t know what to choose for the other two drops,” I told her. “Any tips?”
Aunt Gert tossed her rag into the bucket and straightened, groaning slightly as her joints popped. “That’s not for me to know, Lolly. Choose the things you cannot seem to reconcile in your heart, the losses or regrets you hold so closely you cannot imagine letting them go. The wise Saint Augustine says that we must be emptied of that which fills us that we may be filled with those things which we are lacking. I’m paraphrasing of course. But the point is, what is your heart longing for? What is lacking in your life? Focus on those things. And remember, whatever you do, keep following your bliss. Be honest. Pay attention. Seek joy. That is the key to unlocking your destiny.”
I put my hand into my pocket, feeling the two hard little drops. Two regrets. Two chances. What did my heart yearn for? What would I choose?
14
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO
NOVEMBER
“Hey, Lolly.” Roryrolled his busboy cart past where I was dishing up slices of pie and putting them in the refrigerated pie case, ready to be served. It was a raw November evening, and the dinner rush was finally tapering off after a hectic few hours. He tossed a few bills on the counter in front of me. “Those two salesmen at table five left this for you.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said. I smoothed out the bills and my eyes widened. “This is almost as much as their entire dinner bill.” I gasped.
Rory grinned. “Looks like being cute is paying off for you again, huh?”
I flushed and picked up an old bread roll, tossing it at him. It landed on his cart. “Good thing they’re not tipping you for your aim,” he teased.
“Shut up.” I tucked the money into my apron. I couldn’t meet Rory’s eyes. It had been happening more and more lately. I felt so self-conscious when I was around him, aware of his every movement, as though I had a Rory-seeking radar embedded in my brain. If he was in the vicinity, I knew exactly where he was.
It was my sophomore year of high school and Rory had beenworking as a busboy at the Eatery for the past few months since school started. It was a hard and menial job that didn’t pay well, certainly not as well as his job at the golf course had over the summer. I wasn’t really sure why he’d taken my parents up on their offer of the busboy job, but I was glad. It meant I got to be around him almost every day.
“Okay, back to the salt mines,” Rory said over his shoulder, rolling the cart toward a recently emptied table by the front window. I watched him go.
“You got it bad, girl,” Crystal, the only other waitress at the Eatery, observed, coming up close to me at the pie case. I was holding the pie server in one hand and a dessert plate in the other, doing absolutely nothing except watch Rory walk away.
“What?” I startled at her sudden appearance.
“Don’t blame you. He’s a cutie. That tight ass.” Crystal stood next to me, arms folded, and watched Rory bus a four top. She smelled like mint gum and nicotine because she was trying to quit smoking for the umpteenth time. Thankfully Rory seemed unaware of Crystal’s scrutiny.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I denied primly, though I could feel myself flushing a telltale bright red. I opened the dessert case and slid in a few slices of pie on plates, trying to cool my face down with the refrigerated air. Was I that obvious? Did I light up like an incandescent bulb the moment he walked in the room? I felt like I did. This wasRorywe were talking about. The sweet gangly boy across the street. The one who had taken care of me and bandaged my thumb. My good friend. Except I couldn’t quite seem to see him like that anymore.
At fifteen my awareness of boys was burgeoning, and I had suddenly started to take notice of Rory in a new way. We’d been close ever since our failed New Year’s Day polar plunge. Once a month or so we’d hike down to South Beach to hang out together at our secret beach spot, and we still saw each other on Monday nights for ourparents’ poker night—but this was something different. Okay, the truth was that I’d developed a massive crush on Rory, my first. He’d sprung up over the summer and was now standing a few inches taller than me. For a girl who’d hit five foot nine, a boy who was taller than me was impressive. He was a star player on the high school soccer team, the best striker they had. He played every game, and I was in the stands for each one. I called it school spirit, but I watched only one player on that field. The bright coppery sheen of his hair under the lights, his nimble movements as he quick-footed around the other team’s defense to score, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank deeply from a water bottle at the end of a game.
And then, after he started working at the Eatery, we were around each other almost every day after school. I’d take orders and keep one eye on him, noticing the lean, ropy muscles of his forearms as he stacked dirty dishes, the agile twist of his torso as he wiped down booths. He was a hard worker, and the customers liked him. He had an easy way with people no matter their age. He could crack jokes with white-haired grandpas, impress mothers with his polite “Yes, ma’am,” and charm little boys and girls by pulling pennies from behind their ears, his one and only magic trick. I loved watching him interact with the customers, loved seeing their faces light up like mine did when they spoke to him.
I was proud of him, this boy I couldn’t seem to get out of my thoughts. I wanted the world to see how special he was too. God help me, I’d written “Lolly Shaw” in my unicorn diary in precise cursive script at least a hundred times. It was embarrassing and thrilling all at the same time. I was utterly besotted.
