The Chicken Sisters(51)

“Okay,” he said, taking in a deep breath and looking at the ugly wall. “I have an idea. Wait here.” Seeing her face, he smiled a little. “This was stupid, Mae. But I think we can make it better.”

He turned, heading toward the Inn, and Mae sat on the bench in front of Mimi’s. The sign wasn’t all she was upset about. Mimi’s had been around longer than they had, yes. So had Merinac. But if you’d outgrown something, there was no point in pretending otherwise, right? Maybe Kenneth wanted to tie himself to this place again. Good for Kenneth. But for Mae—wasn’t it enough that she was here now? Kenneth had his whole family to come back to—and he’d done what he set out to do when he left. She had a backstabbing sister and a mother who would never really change, a house she’d never enter again, and a whole lot more to lose. He’d understand, if he gave it more thought than he gave his annoying latte art.

She flicked her phone awake. Silence from Jay, which did not make her feel better. Instead of words, she sent him a picture of the kids playing in the car from yesterday, knowing he would assume it was from this morning, and then started the ritual of checking social. Food Wars was tagging her on Instagram and retweeting her. If only she’d done more yesterday. Even as it was, she had more than a thousand new followers—way more than she had ever had in a single day, even with Sparkling. She snapped and shared an image of the flowers in front of the freshly painted Mimi’s (on the side of the building that looked good) before Kenneth returned. She was getting things done.

Kenneth was pushing a dolly with a big white signboard on it, made of four two-by-fours bolted together, with hooks at the top. On the side facing Mae, it read COMING SOON.

Kenneth set down the dolly, then walked the sign around on its corners until it was leaning up against the bench. He gestured to Mae, and the two of them lifted it up.

“I don’t get it,” Mae said. “I mean, yeah, it would cover it—”

“Hush.” They set down the sign again, leaning it on the wall, blank side out. Kenneth pulled a Sharpie out of his pocket. He stepped back from the sign, then, with concentration, stepped forward and started drawing. In less time than Mae would have thought possible, he’d outlined “Mimi’s” in a big, fat cursive, and, underneath, in smaller block letters, “since.” He looked back at Mae.

“Eighteen eighty-six.”

He finished by outlining the date. “I’ll paint this in and hang it,” he said. “You get out of here before you make it worse.”

Mae stared at the sign he’d made. She loved it. It captured everything she wanted to about Mimi’s—the simplicity, the history. Even if they were misunderstanding each other a little, at least—unlike Andy, and sure as hell unlike Amanda—Kenneth really did have her back. Screw Amanda, anyway. This sign was going to be much better. “Oh, but wait,” she said, pointing. “That second eight is uneven. The first one is more straight.”

Kenneth sighed. “Wabi-sabi, Mae. It’s the beauty of the flaw that makes it perfect.”

She looked at him for a minute, then at the lettering. “Yeah, but you made a mistake. You started to write a six and then you changed it.”

“It’s all in how you look at it. Go away. I’m doing you a favor here.”





AMANDA





Gus was hovering, and it was making Amanda crazy. For the second morning in a row, she had woken up to a head full of recrimination and regret, only this time, the hangover wasn’t metaphorical. The coffee she was trying to make wasn’t just coffee. It was medicinal. But at every turn, Gus seemed to be there, between her and the drawer with the coffee scoop, in front of the trash can when she needed to dump yesterday’s filter.

Normally, Amanda’s seventeen-year-old was the most independent person imaginable. He dealt with his own homework and test prep and friends and getting rides wherever he needed to go. On school days he got ready for school and got on the bus (he was saving for a car for senior year), sometimes barely exchanging a word with Amanda, who was not at her best in the morning. Frankie was much the same, a side effect, probably, of growing up with a single parent who often worked a late shift. Amanda tried to at least be up in the morning before they went to school, but she usually wasn’t much help.

This morning, though, Gus was different. He leaned against the counter, watching her while she watched the coffee, waiting for enough to drip down into the pot to fill her mug. He was right behind her as she went to the fridge for the milk. He sat down across from her at the table and fidgeted with his Pop-Tart, when usually he’d have eaten it in two bites while running out the door.

Amanda, who usually drank that first cup of coffee while staring into space and letting her household rush around her, finally set her cup down a little too hard, looked at her son, and said, “What?”

Gus, who was already looking back at her, shrugged and looked down at his Pop-Tart instead. “Nothing. I just thought I’d sit down this morning. For a change.”

Amanda said nothing to that, just lifted her eyebrows slightly. She could hear Frankie banging around in her bedroom, and part of her hoped her daughter would stay put until Gus brought himself to say whatever was on his mind, while another part—the slightly hungover, precoffee part—hoped for a speedy interruption. She wanted Gus to tell her when he had something on his mind. She totally did. Just maybe not today.