I wrote to you as Calpurnia was and is true. You’ve made the right choice, the good choice.
Sincerely,
Celia
Chapter Forty-Eight
Oh. Hey, Celia. Is Polly home?”
“She just left for work.”
Trey couldn’t have been all that surprised when I answered the door; it was my house. When I took a second look, I realized his features weren’t registering surprise but something closer to discomfort, the kind of expression people get when thrust into a situation they know they’ll have to deal with eventually but had been hoping to avoid.
Only the day before, much to my own surprise, I’d found myself thinking about him, imagining what I might do or say if, by some strange chance, he did show up at my doorstep. Now he was here and it was awkward, also a little scary. Being vulnerable, opening the door to admit feelings you’ve tried to hide, is always scary. It didn’t look like I was the only one who felt that way.
Trey shuffled his feet and shoved his fists so deep into his jacket pockets, it was a wonder the seams didn’t rip, which might have been an improvement, or at least an incentive to buy a new suit. “Right. Well. I was just in the neighborhood and hoped she might be home. I’ve got good news. The city ruled that your great-grandfather’s old shop is . . . uh . . . grandfathered. You know. I mean for zoning purposes.”
I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that I enjoyed watching him twist in the wind exactly. But until that moment, I’d never seen Trey look anything less than sure of himself. It was kind of endearing. He cleared his throat. “Anyway . . . If Polly is still interested in reopening Sheepish in your great-grandfather’s old shop, she can.”
“Thanks. That’s great, Trey.”
“Yeah. I thought she’d be excited. So. Just wanted to stop by. You know, to tell her.” He bobbed his head with a kind of okay-that’s-all movement. He turned to leave and I felt something sink inside me. But then, as he reached the edge of the piazza, his head lifted and his shoulders squared. The person who turned around to face me was old Trey, the man who is always sure of himself, or at least sure of what he wants to say.
“Sorry. That was a lie.”
“The part about the zoning?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “That’s a done deal. They’re mailing the permits. I meant the part about me wanting to tell Polly face to face. The truth is, I came here because I was hoping I’d find you home and we could talk.”
“About what happened at the shower?”
He nodded. “Yes. Among other things. But let’s start with that.” Trey took a breath, like a swimmer bracing himself for the plunge into frigid water.
“I was way out of line,” he said, “on all kinds of levels. I ruined your party and I’m sorry. There really isn’t an excuse for how I acted but . . . I thought this might help you understand.” He reached into his pocket, took out a piece of paper, and held it out to me.
A note? He was handing me a note? I glanced down at the paper, then up at him, frowning.
“Just read it,” Trey said, flapping his hand as I unfolded the paper.
Dear Celia,
Please excuse my brother for acting like an idiot. It wasn’t all his fault because it had to happen eventually. But I’m really sorry it happened during your party. So is Trey.
Sincerely,
Lorne
I looked up at him. “You brought me an excuse note? From your brother?” Even with my hand pressed to my mouth, I couldn’t quite cover my smile. “Does this mean that you and Lorne are talking again?”
“It’s an ongoing discussion,” Trey said. “There’s a lot to talk about.”
Over the last weeks, I’d drawn a broad outline of the events that caused the break between Trey and Lorne. And when brotherly tensions boiled over and the fistfight broke out, I’d been able to color in the rest of the details. But this was the first time Trey had voluntarily shared the story with me. As he talked, I started to realize what a leap he was taking by doing so, a leap of trust.
“Dad’s business was already shaky,” Trey said. “He’d underbid on a big construction project and lost a lot of money, so the company might have gone under even if Lorne hadn’t embezzled the money to feed his drug habit. And Dad was a lifelong smoker, a two-pack-a-day