Page 42 of Call It Serendipity

“And now?” Mom sits on the stool beside me and tugs over the mixing bowl from across the island. She tosses in the sugar and begins to stir as she waits for my reply.

I reach for another bunch of chocolate chips, but she slides them away from me. “Now,” I say as she puts a whisk in my hand instead. “I think I know what I’m meant to be painting.”

“What changed?”

My mind conjures the image of dark eyes and a crooked smile and vulnerable conversations out front of my house.

“I’m not sure,” I lie.

Mom lifts the ball of dough from the bowl and sets it on a pastry board. Then she pulls a rolling pin from a nearby drawer and hands it to me.

“You start flattening our crust while I get going on the filling.”

I jump from my seat and walk over to accept the wooden tool. As soon as I do, she hurries to her next task.

“I have to say, it’s nice to hear a bit of positive news these days.” Her words are muffled by the fact that she is speaking into the refrigerator. “Considering everyone is so worried about this nasty hotel business.”

Familiar guilt flares in my gut, reminding me that I’m consorting with the enemy.

“Have there been any updates on all of that?” I ask innocently.

“Officially, no.” She turns, setting a carton of cream on the counter. “But Alice did say that the representative staying in town certainly came prepared. He’s been one step ahead of anything the board requests of him.”

“How so?”

“He’s dotted his i’s, crossed his t’s, started the process for the proper surveys, and had some information already on hand when the board tried to challenge him on things. A real sharp man, they say.”

Jake is smart, there is no doubt about that. But describing him as sharp feels wrong.

He’s solid, and warm. He’s been my safe place to land when my life has felt threatened—truly threatened by a motorcycle and only the perception of threat in a cornfield—but he’s not hard city edges and cold, sharp actions. He’s patient. And kind. Especially when I’ve been vulnerable about my art with him.

And I can’t tell my mom any of this. Because while he seems to be the reason I’m pulling myself back up on my feet, he’s also the reason so many others might get knocked off theirs.

“Wow,” I say instead. “I wonder what is going to happen.”

To the town, and my heart.

24

Istayed for dinner, as planned. Dad walked over from the shelter to eat with us, and Mom met him at the door for a kiss—same as always. They have managed to make love look effortless my whole life. Together since middle school, my parents give credence to the idea of meant to be.

And they created in me an expectation for true love. It’s something I’ve yet to stop believing in.

Even when I stopped believing in myself.

I always wanted a Sunday kind of love—one of comfort and focused on the simple pleasures like someone to have coffee with in the mornings and a day spent doing nothing at all other than being together.

Kind of like a man who is content with only dessert at the end of your night, simply because it means seeing you. The thought comes on forcefully as I head for the quaint two-story brick building with a Monroe Books sign out front.

The light overhanging the shop’s front door glows against the twilight sky. But there’s a soft orange coming from around the side of the building as well.

I turn the corner, my Tupperware in hand, and feel a jolt of surprise when I come face to face with Jake.

I didn’t expect him to be outside waiting for me. But here he is. Sitting with his ankle resting on his knee at the black café table set on the concrete pad outside his door. He’s a dream in brown corduroy pants, that NYU sweatshirt, and his glasses set on the bridge of his nose.

He abandons his pen and looks up from a crossword puzzle. A charming smile hooks the corner of his mouth. “Hey, you.”

“Hi.” I drop down in the seat he pushes out for me.