Who would have freaking thought?
* * *
I arrive at a cute brick cottage located in an old subdivision surrounded by two acres of lavish land just outside of Connellsville, Pennsylvania, about twenty minutes from the gym. Tall trees and rolling hills surround it, copious amounts of yard decorations filling the front, carefully arranged flowers accentuating the scene. The garden has a vibrancy that only a green thumb could cultivate.
There’s even a small greenhouse off her kitchen for where I imagine she might grow some herbs.
When I get out of my car, Dolores is on her front porch, wind chimes singing an unwritten song. I avoid the cracks of her stone pathway after leaving my car, breathing in the cooler air under the shade. “Sorry if I am early.”
Dolores waves a hand. “Nonsense. Tiff said she might be late, so go ahead and come inside.”
She greets me with a hug, patting my back like she’s actually happy to see me. Not even Mom greets me this warmly. Especially since Jeremy died.
Thinking about her is something I avoid, if I can help it. I refuse to let her sour my life, even in memory—I only make the small efforts that I do for Jeremy’s sake.
We enter the cottage, the home smelling like a bakery and incense. It’s more modern than I expected, with a lot of renovated touches, although the dark wood looks original. On the walls are images of Dolores and a young woman who is the elder’s spitting image. Hardly any of a husband.
“How was the cookout?” she asks, shutting her large front door that’s painted mint green.
I want to lay out everything, but decide to start small. “Good. Short-lived for me. The guys are all talking about Warlord, and I started to blend into the background. So, I decided to come here.”
“What is Warlord again?” Dolores leads me to a small but well-stocked kitchen.
The backsplash is a gray subway tile, the cabinets white, and the island painted the same mint green, all topped with wooden countertops. Large, paned windows cover the walls to let in inordinate amounts of sunlight. Plants bloom in every free space that Dolores could find. It’s like a greenhouse that doubles as a kitchen.
I couldn’t feel more at home.
“It’s a competition for MMA fighters. Big money to win. Its first rounds starts soon, and will last for a few months,” I explain, sitting down at an old wooden table.
A fresh pile of scones are stacked on a plate in the middle. Dolores places a green kettle on the old gas stove that clicks three times before it ignites.
“Do you have any good fighters? Other than the hot head?”
I groan with a giant grin, thinking of the car ride, remembering his cologne… “Nope, we just have our hot head to enter. He really shouldn’t even be at our gym, to be honest. He’s almost too out of our league. But he won’t say why he’s tied to the area, which is the only reason he’s with us at all,” I muse, realizing now why this place is so homelike. It reminds me of my grandmother’s from years ago, especially once I eye the backyard through the windows. “Thanks for inviting me in while Tiff isn’t here yet.”
“Of course. My house is always open to friendly faces.”
I manage only a gentle expression in return, my mind eager to spill out every detail over the past twenty-four hours. I try to find a cordial place to start, but nothing comes to mind.It’s his stupid cologne. I can’t believe how much I love it. And how I’m completely failing to ignore him.
Dolores fills a watering pot as she asks, “Something on your mind, dear? You don’t seem as chipper.”
I glance at her, the sunlight catching dust through the air. Or perhaps it’s flour. “Oh, uh—nothing, really.”
Dolores chuckles, watering the many plants, a few of them bonsais. “You’re acting like my daughter did when she wanted to tell me something.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Idid. She died five years ago from cervical cancer.” A sadness in her voice mixes with a pained acceptance. “When I moved here, Tiff and I got along well, since we’d both lost someone important. I’m sorry that Tiff’s important person was also your brother.”
My brows furrow as a recognizable—although not as horrendous—grief hums at the familiar company. “I’msosorry for your loss. That’s terrible.”
“It’s alright—well, it’s notalright, but it’s my life now. It’s why I like new young faces. I have a lot of mothering left in me, so I figure I should just spread it… Sharon would want that, you know. I’m certain of it.” Her smile bittersweetly reaches her eyes; a depth carved out that only misery can manage.
I drop my gaze to the scones on the dining table, spotting blueberries in them. If there’s anything I learned from Jer’s death, it’s that I like when the conversation moves forward, otherwise it makes me feel bad for bringing it up at all. “She had an incredible mother, then. And she’s not wrong—there are plenty in this world that could use someone like you… These scones look amazing, by the way. Do you need help with anything?”
“No, please, just sit,” she replies, reaching up high to water a hanging plant.
“I really appreciate this. My mom doesn’t call, so this is nice for me to chat with you. I miss having someone around that’s not a bunch of sweaty men.”
