Slow Dancing on Price's Pier Read online

  But now that she and Jonathan were separating, her relationship with Sue was in real jeopardy. The Sorensens were the closest family she had since her own parents had moved back to their home country shortly after her high school graduation. If and when Thea signed on the dotted line to divorce her husband, would she divorce his family too? Could a woman get visitation rights to see her in-laws?

  Irina screeched when Sue pushed through the coffee shop door, and she ran to give her grandmother an awkward tomboy’s hug. Sue was dressed beautifully—as always: a blue boatneck sweater, freshly pressed capris, and pearls at her ears and throat. Her thinning blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  Thea met her in the center of the room. This was normally the point when Sue leaned in, kissed her on the cheek. Instead, she just nodded and held tight to Irina’s hand. “Hello.”

  “Sue! How are you? Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea?”

  “No, I’m fine thanks. Just fine. How’s things?”

  “Not terrible,” Thea said. “Thanks.”

  Sue nodded. A moment passed. “Well …”

  “Are you okay with keeping her for dinner?”

  “Oh, that’s no problem. Not a problem at all.”

  Thea smiled. She wasn’t sure what else to say. Years of Sunday shopping trips and drinking white wine spritzers into the wee hours of the morning with this woman—and she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Well, we’ve got a lot to do this afternoon,” Sue said brightly.

  “Oh, all right. Call if you need anything.”

  Sue gave Irina’s hand a shake. “Ready?”

  “Yeppers!” Irina bounced on her light-up sneakers.

  Sue nodded once, and her blue eyes were as somber as a cold morning mist. After they left, Thea was no longer in the coffee shop. She was remembering. She was sixteen years old, sitting at the edge of Sue’s flowered bedspread, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Her parents had been talking about moving back to Turkey. It was just talk, but it was enough to scare her. She’d gone running across town to the Sorensens’ house in the Bellevue neighborhood, seeking refuge in the most perfect place she knew. Garret and Jonathan weren’t home, but that didn’t matter. Thea was always welcome.

  Sue had listened patiently to Thea’s plight—her fear that her parents would take her with them and her fear that they would not. As Thea spilled her guts, Sue sat patiently brushing Thea’s long hair. You know, she’d said. I always wanted a daughter. And if God had seen fit to give me one, I would have wanted her to be just like you.

  The moment was such a meaningful part of their past, a precursor of things to follow. But the divorce would likely rewrite what that moment had portended. Thea picked up a rag to wipe down the counter. She loved the Sorensens—all of them. Love did not bloom one day and die the next. It couldn’t be neatly severed or cut cleanly out of the heart. (At least, not for most people—though Garret might have been the exception.)

  She would do what she could to remain a part of the Sorensen family—regardless of what had happened or what might yet happen with Jonathan. She just had to give herself over, to trust in their kindness—and to hope that Garret would not succeed in poisoning his family against her once and for all.

  The morning after the divorce party, Garret woke hungover and wretched. He’d kicked his covers to the foot of the bed in the middle of the night, so they were in a great black heap on his warm toes while the rest of him pebbled in goose bumps. He pulled on his boxers and dragged himself to the bathroom, his face bearing a sandy blond stubble, his fair hair going this way and that.

  After a certain point, he couldn’t remember much of last night. Drinks, laughs, cigars—the memories were smeared and blurry as a dream. There was the toast, of course. He’d botched it. And a ninety-dollar bottle of champagne that Jonathan wouldn’t let him buy. But after that, just blur.

  He hoped he hadn’t done anything too outlandish. He’d wanted the divorce party not to feel like a divorce party at all—no games of “pin the blame on the ex” or faux voodoo dolls. Instead, he’d hoped that it would become the bachelor party he’d never gotten to throw, that his toast would become the best man speech he’d never gotten to make, that he could finally show support for his brother without any awkwardness or rage.

  Instead, what was meant to be a coming-out party had felt like a pity party, and just who was being pitied it was hard to say.

  Garret bent down and washed his face in mint cleanser and ice-cold water. He rinsed the sleep from his eyes. For a moment he leaned his weight on his forearms and watched the water go sluicing down the drain.

  It’s her, he thought. Always her.

  His brother’s decision to separate from Thea had put her front and center in Garret’s mind. For years Garret had practiced the delicate art of not thinking about her. Of avoiding any thought that might jog a memory or trigger a flash of feelings long gone. But when he got his brother back a week ago, he got his memories of Thea back too. As it turned out, the mental wall he’d constructed to block her from his consciousness had been no stronger than a tower of cards.

  He pulled on an undershirt and walked down the hallway, his body feeling heavy and clumsy. Jonathan was already in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and reading in the bright, midmorning light. Jonathan was dark where Garret was fair, lanky where Garret was stocky. He peered up at Garret over the top edge of a novel—dragons and craggy mountains on the front cover. His dark eyes were alert and friendly.

  “Morning.” Garret went to the counter to pour himself a cup of black coffee.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Like a million bucks that just got washed down a sewer.”

  Jonathan laughed. “It was a good night.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on that,” Garret said, joking. He leaned against the counter and blew the steam of his coffee into the sunlight. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows was the steeland-glass heart of Providence, with its tall buildings and busy thoroughfares.

  He loved his kitchen in the morning. He’d had it redesigned last year to include brand-new matching stainless steel appliances, a backsplash of imported blue glass tiles made by Venetian artisans, and Brazilian cherry cabinets. Garret thought they should fire up the built-in grill one of these days (since he’d yet to use it). But his brother had little interest in much of anything. Mostly Jonathan worked late at the office—where he was an accountant and bookkeeper for investment firms—and then he came home to watch sitcoms or read science fiction novels until he passed out.

  Garret walked barefoot to the table and sat down. “Hey. You doing all right?”

  “Not bad.” Jonathan nodded and put down the novel. “It’s just so different here.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Jonathan looked around, and Garret knew he was no longer seeing the cabinetry or recessed lighting but instead was imagining his own house, Thea’s house—the inside of which Garret hadn’t seen since he was a kid. “It’s just really quiet here in the mornings,” Jonathan said. “I’m not used to it.”

  Garret nodded. “You miss your daughter.”

  “She usually sings show tunes in the hallway until I get out of bed.”

  Garret set down his coffee cup. “It’s only been a week. And you just talked to her yesterday.”

  “I know. But it’s different on the phone.”

  “So why not go see her?”

  “Honestly? Because I’m just not ready to see Thea in person yet.”

  “Why? It’s not like you meant for this to happen. I mean, look at you. You’re not the type of guy who sleeps around.”

  Jonathan gave him a mean, sidelong glare.

  “Well, yes, you did pull a one-nighter.” Garret ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. “But I’m sure that whatever went down, Thea must have driven you to it.”

  “Careful,” Jonathan said.

  Garret rubbed his face with his hand, trying to clear his head. He felt the t
ug of memories between them; they were both thinking of her in their different ways.

  “Ask me if she told Mom and Dad what I did,” Jonathan said.

  “Did she?”

  “No. They don’t know a thing about it. She could have ratted me out, made things really messy. But she didn’t.”

  “At least not yet,” Garret said. “She’s just waiting for the right time.”

  Jonathan stood and dumped the remains of his coffee in the sink. “I understand what you’re trying to do,” he said. “But Thea’s not the bad guy here.”

  “Why don’t you write her an e-mail?” Garret suggested. “Or I’ll do it for you, if you want.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure,” Garret said lightly, but he was already doubting himself. To write Thea an e-mail was to acknowledge her. Since Jonathan had married her he hadn’t opened that door—not even a crack. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to do it, even now. But his brother needed his help, and Garret was so grateful for the opportunity to prove himself that he would have jumped before a bullet if Jonathan was in its way. “Sure, I’ll e-mail her for you. As long as you’ll promise never to let me do that many shots again.”

  “Which reminds me. I wanted to thank you. For the party. It was just what I needed.”

  “No it wasn’t,” Garret said gently. “But you’re a good man to say that. And you’re welcome any time.”

  On Thursday morning, after Thea had dropped a very tired Irina off at the babysitter’s but before Thea fired up the espresso machine at the Dancing Goat, she stood alone at the edge of Price’s Pier, watching the sunrise. She blew on her convenience-store coffee, sending threads of steam rippling against the heavy morning air. The brew was salty and bitter—cheap robusta that never failed to make her jittery, broken up by flecks of coffee grinds. But she relished it—stubbornly—if only for the fact that it was a cup of coffee that she herself did not make.

  If her mother were here, she would insist on squinting into the wreckage of coffee beans in the bottom of her cup to discern Thea’s future. Her mother always saw the same shapes; she saw them so often that Thea suspected they were the only symbols she knew. The fish meant luck and good fortune. The bird meant someone will come to you with good news. The heart meant—what else?—you will have love.

  But what would her mother say now? she wondered. She drained the last of her coffee and waited a moment—as she’d been taught—for what few grinds there were to dry a little and stick to the sides. But when she looked into the bottom of the cup only a thin line of brown spots greeted her, scalloped as the wrack line at low tide.

  What will I do with myself? she thought.

  She’d gotten married when she was practically still a schoolgirl. The structure of her life had been blocked out into three massive cornerstones: (1) she was the owner of a coffee shop, (2) she was a mother, and (3) she was a wife. Each role was precarious at times, her strengths always shifting. But remove one support entirely, and the whole trivet of her life would come tumbling down.

  From far away she heard the sound of a cart rattling over the boards of the old pier, probably Khalid staking out territory for his hot dog stand. And in the distance, Xavier and the other lobstermen were shouting loudly, laughing occasionally, and punctuating their Spanish with English swears. Even this early in the morning, when the city’s rich vacationers weren’t even dreaming of waking up, Price’s Pier was busy, striving, hurried …

  Perhaps that was the message she was supposed to take from the coffee grinds—that she should get to work—just keep doing what she’d been doing her whole life, and that would get her through.

  When the coffee shop was up and running, and the summer hires had arrived to tackle the morning rush, Thea ducked into her office to catch up on paperwork. Her heart dropped out of her chest when she saw Garret’s e-mail address in her in-box. She thought for a moment that he was e-mailing her to tell her off—to rant and say all the things to her that he hadn’t said all those years ago. Instead, his message was simple, curt.

  Jonathan wants to see Irina tomorrow. He plans to pick her up from school and keep her for the weekend. Please let her know she should expect her father then.

  G

  She leaned back in her chair, considering the computer screen with the feeling that she was sitting before a chess board and preparing to make her next move. Was this how it was going to be, then? Jonathan wanted to pick up his daughter, and Garret was to broker the deal?

  She looked for long moments at his signature line, which was not a signature line at all—not even a name. She had the feeling that if his message had been delivered over a phone line rather than a computer screen, she would have heard him trying not to gag. Did he sign every e-mail that way? So impersonally? Or just e-mails to her?

  Dear G,

  Irina’s school has ended for the year. I’m sure she’ll be very excited about staying at your place for the weekend. But is it suitable for a ten-year-old girl? She gets hungry at the most unpredictable times (beer and pretzels will not suffice). She needs a night-light to fall asleep. And she’s probably going to break something—though it’s hard to predict what.

  From,

  Thea

  To her surprise, the reply was nearly instantaneous:Thea,

  Men too get hungry at unpredictable times (there will be plenty of kid food on hand). I can leave the hall light on for her at night. And there’s nothing here she can break that I can’t afford to replace ten times over.

  Garret Maxwell Sorensen

  Sorensen Consulting, President

  Providence, RI

  Sent from my mobile phone

  Thea sat back against the wooden slats of her chair; there was no reason to keep Irina from going to Garret’s for the weekend. Irina wanted to see her father, and Jonathan no doubt was longing to see Irina too. But Thea worried. She didn’t know Garret anymore. Was he still so angry at her? So bitter?

  She hated that Garret hated her. She meant to live her life as a good person. She told the truth—even when it made her look bad. She deferred to other people’s wishes graciously. Some days, she felt her heart was full to bursting with love—for her family, for her customers at the coffee shop, for the coffee shop itself. She was not perfect, but she tried. She suspected that most people generally thought she was nice, even when she couldn’t connect with them on a personal level.

  But Garret hated her—despised her so deeply he’d split his family in two over her. It pained her, some days, the ache coming on when she least expected it, like an old injury that flares up days before the rain. To everyone she met she was a good person—to him she was a monster. From his absence at birthday parties and holidays, Thea could feel his indignant fury, an unrelenting, stubborn rage. And now she felt that sending her daughter off to Garret’s house was like putting her in a rowboat and shoving her out into a stormy sea.

  She covered her face with her hands and leaned on the desk before her. She’d been working on her newspaper column the night before, and her scribbled notes were strewn across the surface of the desk—along with Irina’s crayon drawings of horses and bears. Irina was a smart kid, bold and strong. Thea was a hundred times more nervous about sending her daughter away than Irina ever would be about going. Thea just had to trust that Jonathan would defend her—if Garret started filling her daughter’s head with his hate. She wouldn’t let Garret drive yet another wedge between the members of her family.

  Dear Garret,

  All right. I’ll have her packed up and ready to go on Friday afternoon. Jonathan can pick her up outside the coffee shop, if he prefers. I’ll send her out if he texts me when he gets there. I’ll also send her with a quarter pound of Guatemalan Huehuetenango, since he’s probably running out.

  Thea

  Again, the reply came lightning fast. Thea thought: So he’s the plugged-in type. Life at the speed of light. Her heart gave a little cry to think of him compulsively watching his phone.

  Don’t need
coffee. Just the kid. I’ll pick her up, not J. Will text you to send her out.

  Garret Maxwell Sorensen

  Sorensen Consulting, President

  Providence, RI

  Sent from my mobile phone

  The kid, she thought. My kid.

  She would be sending Jonathan his coffee anyway.

  From “The Coffee Diaries” by Thea Celik

  The Newport Examiner

  Coffee is the official and unofficial drink of friendship in many cultures.

  In Ethiopia, the coffee ceremony is a fundamental rite of friendship. To be invited to a coffee ceremony is a sign of honor and respect. Guests drink three cups with their hosts and by the third cup, it’s said they are friends.

  Coffee plays such a big part in that country that it has infiltrated the language. “I don’t have someone to have coffee with” means “I don’t have close friends.” Mothers warn their children, “Don’t let your name be mentioned at coffee time.”

  Sometimes the age of coffee corporations and flavor crystals can make it feel like coffee has lost its connotations of friendship. But the connection between coffee and friendship persists.

  Look around and you’ll see old men drinking coffee and talking shop at the countertops of sleepy diners. Women smiling and pausing for coffee between errands, chatting with a friend in the line.

  Coffee has been bringing people together for centuries. And as the coffee business grows, so too do our conversations over coffee, whether they are meaningless and silly or the most important moments in our lives.