The Sweetness of Forgetting (6)

The doorbell rings, startling me, and I run my brush through my hair once more, then, on second thought, I run a hand through it to mess it up again. I don’t want to look like I’ve made an effort tonight. I don’t want Matt to think this is going anywhere.

A moment later, I open the front door, and when Matt leans in to kiss me, I turn slightly so that his lips land on my right cheek. I can smell the cologne on his neck, musky and dark. He’s dressed in crisp khakis, a pale blue button-down with an expensive-looking insignia I don’t recognize, and slick brown loafers.

“I can go change,” I say. I feel suddenly dowdy, plain.

He looks me up and down and shrugs. “You look pretty in that sweater,” he says. “You’re fine as you are.”

He takes me to Fratanelli’s, an upscale Italian place on the marsh. I try to ignore it when the ma?tre d’ gives my outfit a not-so-subtle once-over before leading us to a candlelit table by the window.

“This is too nice, Matt,” I say once we’re alone. I glance out the window into the darkness, and as I do, I catch our reflection in the glass. We look like a couple, a nice one, and that thought makes me look quickly away.

“I know you like this place,” Matt says. “Remember? It’s where we went before senior prom.”

I laugh and shake my head. “I’d forgotten.” I’ve forgotten lots of things, actually. I’ve tried for a long time to outrun the past, but what does it say about me that nearly twenty years later, I’m sitting in the same dining room with the same guy? Apparently, one’s history can only vanish for so long. I shake the thought off and look at Matt. “You said you wanted to talk about something.”

He looks down at his menu. “Let’s order first.”

We choose our meals in silence; Matt picks the lobster, and I choose the spaghetti Bolognese, the least expensive item on the menu. Later, I’ll offer to pay for my own dinner, and if Matt refuses, I don’t want to cost him a fortune. I don’t want to feel obligated to him. After we’ve ordered, Matt takes a deep breath and looks at me. He’s about to speak, but I cut him off before he can embarrass himself.

“Matt, you know I think the world of you,” I begin.

“Hope—” He cuts me off, but I hold up a hand.

“Let me finish,” I blurt out, gaining speed as I go. “I know we have so much in common, and of course we have all this history together, which means a lot to me, but what I was trying to tell you this afternoon was that I don’t think I’m ready to date anyone right now. I don’t think I will be until Annie goes off to college, and that’s a really long time from now.”

“Hope—”

I ignore him, because I need to get the words out. “Matt, it’s not you; I swear. But for now, if we could just be friends, that would be so much better, I think. I don’t know what will happen down the line, but right now, Annie needs me focused on her, and—”

“Hope, this isn’t about me and you,” Matt interrupts. “This is about the bakery, and your loan. Would you let me talk?”

I stare at him as the waiter brings us a basket of bread and a little plate of olive oil. Red wine is poured for each of us—an expensive cabernet Matt selected without consulting me—and then the waiter disappears and Matt and I are alone again.

“What about my bakery?” I ask slowly.

“I have some bad news,” he says. He avoids my gaze, swirls a piece of bread in the olive oil, and takes a bite.

“Okay . . .” I prompt. It feels as if all the air is vanishing from the room.

“Your loan,” he says, his mouth full. “The bank is calling it in.”

My heart stops. “What?” I stare at him. “Since when?”

Matt looks down. “Since yesterday. Hope, you’ve been late on several payments, and with the market as it is, the bank has been forced to call in a number of loans with irregular payment records. I’m afraid yours was one of them.”

I take a deep breath. This can’t be happening. “But I’ve made every payment this year so far. Yeah, I had some rough months a few years ago when the economy collapsed, but we’re a tourist town.”

“I know.”

“Who didn’t have problems then?”

“A lot of people did,” Matt agrees. “Unfortunately, you were among them. And with your credit score . . .”

I close my eyes for a moment. I don’t even want to think about my credit score. It wasn’t exactly helped by my divorce, taking over my mother’s mortgage payment after her death, or juggling a large revolving balance between several credit cards just to keep the bakery stocked.

“What can I do to fix this?” I finally ask.

“Not a lot, I’m afraid,” Matt says. “You can try other lenders, of course, but the market’s tough right now. I can guarantee that you won’t get anywhere with another bank. And with your payment history and the fact that a Bingham’s just opened down the street . . .”

“Bingham’s,” I mutter. “Of course.” They’ve been the bane of my existence for the past year. A small New England doughnut chain based in Rhode Island, they’ve been steadily expanding across the region in an attempt to go head-to-head with Dunkin’ Donuts. They opened their sixteenth regional location a half mile from my bakery nine months ago, just when I was climbing out of the financial hole I’d found myself in after the recession.