“What? Why?” he asked in mid-bite of his steak.
“I told you I wanted to grow the business, Derek. That is why,” she responded with a raised brow.
“I know that, but I thought you were using the money your dad left you. Why do you need to take out a loan?”
“Because Mom won't let me have it. I'm out of options,” she explained.
“Why not wait, then? Until she changes her mind, that is,” he suggested.
“I could, but who knows when that'll be,” she asked.
Derek sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't think you should do this,” he finally breathed out. She waited for him to continue. “Look, I think it's great that your little business is growing, but let's be realistic here. If it ends up flopping, you'll be in a lot of debt,” he expressed. Then he added, “We'll be in a lot of debt,” pointing from himself to her.
“Don't worry. I'm taking the loan out under my name. It'll only affect my credit score,” she retorted with a serious look. “It’s clear you have no confidence in my business sense. You're already preparing for the bistro to fail.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“Diane, that's not what I'm trying to insinuate. But we have to be realistic here. Having a business is hard work, and more often than not, they never last and leave you bankrupt. The only thing we can genuinely bank on in this economy is having a degree, a career that allows us to live a comfortable life, and someone to share it with.”
Trepidation filled her stomach like the flu at how much he sounded like her mother.
She regretted him leaving Seattle to take her on this date. She regretted being at this high-end restaurant with no appetite, staring at the man she would soon be walking down the aisle toward, and questioning as she had been for a while if she was making the right decision.
ChapterEleven
Beverly
Bev sat in the living room unmoving. She stared at the photo as silent tears streaked her face. The sadness she felt held her in a tight embrace, refusing to let go as it wrapped its icy tentacles around her heart and seeped into her bones like rot.
“Oh, Troy, I wish you were here. I can't do this without you. I just can't.” She shook her head and reached for the picture frame. She tenderly ran her finger over her husband's smiling face in full ski gear on the beautiful snow-covered terrains of the San Juan Mountains of Telluride in Colorado.
They'd celebrated their fortieth anniversary there just over three years ago and had loved it very much. The town was a scenic wonderland lined with exciting stores, restaurants, and coffee shops. She especially loved sipping from a large mug of hot cocoa with tiny little marshmallows floating on top of the brown beverage while she held his hand across the table. They had planned to go back, but then sickness struck.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she softly breathed and bent her head until her lips delicately brushed the image of his face. She placed it on the coffee table, then slowly rose to her feet and went outside. Crouching in the dirt with the scissors, she cut a few stems of white orchids from her garden, then rose to her feet and returned inside. She went to the kitchen sink and rinsed the cut stems under running water before placing them in a vase filled with water. She then got into her truck and drove down E Whidbey Avenue before turning right onto N Oak Harbor Street. She drove up to the Pioneer Burial Park, parked in the designated lot, took what she needed from the back seat, then walked along the paved pathway toward her destination.
Her steps became heavier as she got closer, and her stomach became a coil of nerves. As she passed, a couple smiled at her, and she managed to return it. A minute later, she crossed the grassy area and walked up the slight incline to her husband's tombstone. As her heart clambered up her throat, her breathing became heavy. When she finally stood in front of it, she ran her palm over the smooth, tiled surface, brushing away the bramble.
She carefully removed the vase of dried flowers from the tomb's base and replaced it with a new vase of orchids. She sat down on the grass and took a bottle of scotch and a tumbler from the satchel she was carrying.
“Happy birthday, my love,” she said with a bittersweet smile while running her fingers over the tombstone's lettering. “I brought your favorite for us to celebrate,” she said, raising the scotch bottle. She unscrewed the cap and poured an ample amount into the glass. “I'd pour you one, but I'd still end up drinking alone.” She chuckled before her face became solemn.
“To you, my love.” She raised the glass to her lips and downed the brown liquid. The burn as it passed her throat and ran to her stomach caused her to cough.
“Now I remember why I never participated in this tradition of having a drink of this with you on your birthday...It is god awful,” she said sourly. “However, I wish you were here to have more… What I wouldn't give to have you here with me.” She sighed, her lips turning down. Moisture pooled in her eyes, but she pressed her palms against them tightly to keep the tears at bay.
“Goodbye, for now, my love.”
Bev reluctantly rose to her feet after an hour of visiting her husband's grave. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, nearly collapsing from the pain that shot up the side of her leg and radiated around her pelvis and lower back. She slowly eased herself back into a standing position, taking deep breaths to relieve the agonizing pain. She walked slowly to the parking lot. After getting into the truck, she drove toward downtown, stopping in front of the doctor's office.
“Hello, dear. I don’t have an appointment, but is Dr. Panton in? It’s an emergency,” Bev inquired of the petite brunette behind the reception desk she’d met on her last visit.
“Hello. Yes, Dr. Panton is in, but all appointment slots to see her are full. I’m sorry about that,” the woman replied apologetically.
“That’s okay. I just need a refill of the pain medication she gave me and to check on the results of the tests conducted a week and a half ago,” Bev informed the woman.
“Please have a seat.”
Bev inclined her head in acknowledgment before taking a seat. An hour later, she left the doctor’s office with a new prescription and a promise to be called in by the end of the week concerning her diagnosis.
Spotting the sign for Java Bistro across the parking lot, she decided to head there. The young woman who owned it—Diane, she believed she said her name was—had been quite welcoming the last time she’d visited. They hadn’t spoken much, but she had taken a strong liking to her, and it felt like she’d known her a long time even though they’d just met.
