Read Online Whole Latte Life by Joanne DeMaio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joanne DeMaio
Tags: Contemporary
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connected, part of only one constellation.
Tom had backed Sara Beth’s car out to the driveway and turned on the overhead light so they could paint in the garage. But not before moving the piecrust tip table he found wedged in the front corner. A web of fine scratches lines the dull finish, but the table is intact. Sara Beth used to bring home old pieces of furniture the way people rescue stray animals. It’s so pretty. It just needs a little shining, then I’ll find it a home.
With the girls settled in for the overnight at their cousin’s, this together stuff will be good for Owen. But he worries as he sets up: Is Owen too young for painting? Will he bore quickly? Should he have his sippy cup out here? A snack? How do you know? And then there are the Sara Beth questions: Will this weekend rejuvenate her? She’s been off, lately. Will she be happier, her old self, when she comes back? Should he leave her alone and not try to call her?
“Paint, Daddy. Paint,” Owen says as Tom fills a bucket with water. He sets it near his own paint can and adds an inky dose of blue food coloring. “Boo.”
“That’s right. Blue. Here, you stir.” Owen takes the paint stick and stirs the water to swirls of blue while Tom lays a piece of plywood down on the garage floor, which he had power washed last weekend. Now he sets up blocks of scrap wood and a plain wooden toy car plucked out of a bin at Stickley’s Furniture. Beside it is a new bookcase for Owen’s room. “Daddy paints and Owen paints.”
Tom’s never done stuff like this alone with his son. He always brought casework home, working in the evenings for a few hours. So the questions keep coming. Do you talk while you paint? Is just being side-by-side enough for a child? The only sound is of wet paint brushes moving over clean wood. When he stops and contemplates the bookcase for a minute, Owen sets down his paint brush and looks from Tom to his car and blocks.
But Owen’s not contemplating what Tom is: He talked to Sara Beth’s sister Melissa when he dropped off the girls there after work. No one’s heard from her. And he told his sister-in-law if he doesn’t hear from her tonight, he’s headed to Manhattan in the morning. Sara’s been distracted for months now, and this is just more of the same. The way he figures, if anything were wrong, Rachel definitely would have called. So he has that. For now.
When he looks up, Owen is sweeping blue paint onto the trunk and back bumper of his car.
Not colored water. Blue paint, just like on his toy car.
“Owen! Hey, hey stop!” He grabs the brush from his son’s hand. “Perfect. Now Daddy has a blue car too, exactly like yours,” he says.
“Owie boo car,” Owen squeals, flapping his arms against his side.
“God damn it.” He throws Owen’s brush into the water bucket. “I don’t need this shit, Sara,” he says, grabbing a clean rag. He wipes off the wet blue paint, his biggest fan wiping along right beside him. They buff it out together with a little paste wax. Finally Tom hoists him up on his hip. “Sorry guy. Daddy’s a little crabby, huh? We’ll let the cars dry now, okay? Let’s get you cleaned up.” His hand brushes through Owen’s mop of hair and he carries him through the door to the kitchen.
Chapter Seven
T he first thing people notice is the dress, black stretch crepe sporting a side slit and halter neckline. Under the elaborate lighting, it makes her long figure look all leg. In keeping the dress central, Teri Alexander wears her dark hair pulled back in a low twist. But it is her voice that hypnotizes. From behind the lone microphone, Teri captures The Metropolitan Room with a string of sultry songs weaving a tender story of love gone wrong.
But Michael’s eyes are on Rachel. What could’ve been, and should’ve been, weighs heavy in the crowded room. Sara Beth’s absence is like a soft pencil, a pastel, shading the hours lightly.
“The crowd loves you,” Rachel
Tom had backed Sara Beth’s car out to the driveway and turned on the overhead light so they could paint in the garage. But not before moving the piecrust tip table he found wedged in the front corner. A web of fine scratches lines the dull finish, but the table is intact. Sara Beth used to bring home old pieces of furniture the way people rescue stray animals. It’s so pretty. It just needs a little shining, then I’ll find it a home.
With the girls settled in for the overnight at their cousin’s, this together stuff will be good for Owen. But he worries as he sets up: Is Owen too young for painting? Will he bore quickly? Should he have his sippy cup out here? A snack? How do you know? And then there are the Sara Beth questions: Will this weekend rejuvenate her? She’s been off, lately. Will she be happier, her old self, when she comes back? Should he leave her alone and not try to call her?
“Paint, Daddy. Paint,” Owen says as Tom fills a bucket with water. He sets it near his own paint can and adds an inky dose of blue food coloring. “Boo.”
“That’s right. Blue. Here, you stir.” Owen takes the paint stick and stirs the water to swirls of blue while Tom lays a piece of plywood down on the garage floor, which he had power washed last weekend. Now he sets up blocks of scrap wood and a plain wooden toy car plucked out of a bin at Stickley’s Furniture. Beside it is a new bookcase for Owen’s room. “Daddy paints and Owen paints.”
Tom’s never done stuff like this alone with his son. He always brought casework home, working in the evenings for a few hours. So the questions keep coming. Do you talk while you paint? Is just being side-by-side enough for a child? The only sound is of wet paint brushes moving over clean wood. When he stops and contemplates the bookcase for a minute, Owen sets down his paint brush and looks from Tom to his car and blocks.
But Owen’s not contemplating what Tom is: He talked to Sara Beth’s sister Melissa when he dropped off the girls there after work. No one’s heard from her. And he told his sister-in-law if he doesn’t hear from her tonight, he’s headed to Manhattan in the morning. Sara’s been distracted for months now, and this is just more of the same. The way he figures, if anything were wrong, Rachel definitely would have called. So he has that. For now.
When he looks up, Owen is sweeping blue paint onto the trunk and back bumper of his car.
Not colored water. Blue paint, just like on his toy car.
“Owen! Hey, hey stop!” He grabs the brush from his son’s hand. “Perfect. Now Daddy has a blue car too, exactly like yours,” he says.
“Owie boo car,” Owen squeals, flapping his arms against his side.
“God damn it.” He throws Owen’s brush into the water bucket. “I don’t need this shit, Sara,” he says, grabbing a clean rag. He wipes off the wet blue paint, his biggest fan wiping along right beside him. They buff it out together with a little paste wax. Finally Tom hoists him up on his hip. “Sorry guy. Daddy’s a little crabby, huh? We’ll let the cars dry now, okay? Let’s get you cleaned up.” His hand brushes through Owen’s mop of hair and he carries him through the door to the kitchen.
Chapter Seven
T he first thing people notice is the dress, black stretch crepe sporting a side slit and halter neckline. Under the elaborate lighting, it makes her long figure look all leg. In keeping the dress central, Teri Alexander wears her dark hair pulled back in a low twist. But it is her voice that hypnotizes. From behind the lone microphone, Teri captures The Metropolitan Room with a string of sultry songs weaving a tender story of love gone wrong.
But Michael’s eyes are on Rachel. What could’ve been, and should’ve been, weighs heavy in the crowded room. Sara Beth’s absence is like a soft pencil, a pastel, shading the hours lightly.
“The crowd loves you,” Rachel
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