Page 22 of The Fix-Up
“Because…” My voice drifted off as I figured out a way to explain. “Well, that’s just how it is, okay? He’ll be living in the backyard.”
“When is he coming?”
“On Saturday.” In less than forty-eight hours. I bit back a groan. Not for the first time, I wondered what Ollie had been thinking.
Oliver’s eyes sparked with excitement. “Is he your boyfriend now?”
I sat up slowly and faced him. “That would be a no.”
“Oh.” His shoulders slumped. While he knew his dad was a guy somewhere in the world who sent a birthday card (always a week late) and called on the holidays (sometimes), he’d never expressed much concern about not having a father. And he sure hadn’t asked about me getting a boyfriend.
“Do you want me to have a boyfriend?”
“I want for you to have someone who loves you. Mrs. Sullivan said everyone needs to love someone and someone to love them. We talked about it for Balentine’s Day.”
Ah, yes, the most annoying of all the made-up holidays. “I see.”
“She said there are lots of different kinds of loves like how I love you and you love me or when we help a stranger it’s like love, too.”
“That’s all true.”
“But then she said grown-ups love each other too, like so much they be boyfriend and girlfriend and then get married and she said being married is like having your best friend with you all the time and I thought about how you don’t have a boyfriend and then how will you ever get married?”
Mrs. Sullivan had been Miss Everett last year before getting married over the summer. Clearly, the honeymoon was far from over.
“Do you want me to get married?”
“Yes.” He climbed onto my lap and put his hands on my cheeks, turning my face so our foreheads touched. “You need someone who loves you the best. Like me, but a boyfriend.”
My nose stung from the tears welling up. Gah, this boy was all the good things in the world. I covered his hands with mine. “I love you, kid.”
“I know,” he said and climbed off my lap. After he’d snuggled into his blankets, he smiled up at me sleepily. “You promised two chapters.”
I laughed softly and opened the book.
EIGHT
Love is something cheerful. Actually, love is the answer.
—ISAAC J., AGE 16
Saturday showed up overcast and gloomy. Which seemed fair as it was the day Gil would be moving onto Ollie’s property. I got up at five as usual. Oliver and I headed over to the café where we’d be busy from the moment I flipped the lock on the door until we closed.
Opening on Saturdays was one of the few changes I’d made since Ollie’s passing. We started about three months ago and it had been an instant hit. Ollie never, and I mean never, worked weekends. He wasn’t real big on anything that messed with his routine.
I think that’s why the entire town was surprised when Ollie had taken to Oliver and me so quickly. Especially Oliver. The two of them had been inseparable some days—going fishing, watching old cartoons, taking long walks on the twenty acres behind the house. Someone had nicknamed them the Double Os, which delighted Oliver. I even had matching t-shirts made for them and, shockingly, Ollie wore it.
It should have been weird, I guess, a single mom and her son living with the grumpy old man who bordered on antisocial. Maybe others thought that. But Ollie had given me something I had desperately needed—a reason to keep going, a space to learn and grow, a new dream I hadn’t realized. Sure, he hadn’t been eloquent with his words, and he was set in his ways, but he had a heart bigger than anyone realized.
But, boy, oh, boy would he have hated Saturday brunch.
A month ago, the Houston newspaper had started a series about small towns in the area. Ali had campaigned hard to get Two Harts a spot, but she’d made it happen. After the paper had done a review of the Sit-n-Eat (and my chocolate zucchini muffins), business had picked up more than we expected. I was even considering hiring another server.
When we got to the café, Main Street was quiet and still, the dusky-purple early February sky hinting at daybreak. Most of the shops wouldn’t open until later in the morning. I let us in the back door and Oliver took off to turn on all the lights—a task he did every single morning. The clink of the chairs being taken from the tables and set on the floor came next, another of his chores.
After putting on an apron, I pulled out the ingredients to make the pancake and waffle mix in bulk. We’d go through a lot of it today. The kitchen was small and outdated. Not enough counterspace, as Jorge was quick to point out, but it had a small island, a finicky walk-in fridge, a large griddle, and double ovens. Would I like to give it a makeover? One day. But for now, it worked.
The dining room, on the other hand, needed a major overhaul. The once bright-yellow walls were faded and chipped; most of the seven tables wobbled. The booths along the walls were solid but the red vinyl that covered them had seen better days—about forty years ago. The floor was basic linoleum in amuddy (and unappetizing) brown. Tarnished metal stools were tucked under the counter for more seating. It was clean and tidy though, and people didn’t seem to notice the imperfections here. Instead, they found good food and better company.
