You Have a Match(80)

“I worked there for years. Long after I made up with my parents. Your grandfather started letting me work with local artists. We featured some of their pieces in the shop.”

“You’re the one who started that?” I ask.

My mom nods. “It was more than that. There was Bean Well After Dark, for a little while. Open mic nights and mini art shows. We even had a few poetry slams.”

“It was all very late nineties,” says Pietra, sharing my mom’s smile. “And Maggie had this idea…” She nods over at my mom.

“It was around when I was studying for the LSATs, and interning downtown at the women’s shelter. I knew I was going to be working with families, and I—well, we came up with this idea for a hybrid art gallery café.” My mom’s voice is lower, self-conscious. It occurs to me this is probably the first time she’s talked about this in years. “We’d have classes there. For art and photography. And offer free classes to families in adjustment periods, just so they’d have something fun to focus on, a place they could be together.”

“We were going to call it Magpie.”

A quiet settles over the table. Savvy’s looking over at me, but I can’t quite bring myself to look back. Bean Well isn’t really a part of her history the way it’s part of mine. She didn’t grow up scarfing Marianne’s scones, or letting Mrs. Leary’s dog fall asleep in her lap by the window, or getting free life advice from the string of college-age baristas who came and went and still visited whenever they could. She doesn’t have scratches in the doorframe of the supply closet marking her height every year, or a favorite chair, or a sunny spot in the back she used to tease Poppy for taking naps in. She never called it home.

My mom leans across the table and picks up Savvy’s charm, dangling it so it spins and catches the light. “I didn’t realize you’d kept yours,” she says.

“I didn’t, actually,” says Pietra. She clears her throat. “It was still on my keys to Bean Well when I sent them back to Walt. After everything that happened, I … didn’t feel right having them anymore.”

The table is at once tense enough that it feels like there is something seismic underneath us, something that will either rumble or explode. I watch my mom nod quietly, watch Pietra’s eyes dim. There’s a second when I think this is all going to come unraveled again. But Pietra reaches across the table and takes my charm, holding it up next to Savvy’s.

“About two years after Savvy was born, Walt sent it back to me,” she says softly. “He said he respected that we wanted a clean break, but he wanted Savvy to have something in case we told her the truth. He told me to give it to her. To help explain everything when she was old enough.”

“My dad told me to give my charm to Abby, too.” My mom’s voice is shaking. “He said he thought she should have it, since it was a symbol of how we all brought each other together. But he didn’t say anything about telling her.”

I stare down at the napkin in my lap, fighting the smallest smile. I’m almost certain Poppy knew our parents weren’t going to tell us the truth. This was a seed he planted to bring me and Savvy together. The idea is comforting, and for a moment, it feels like he’s here, listening in, chuckling at handiwork sixteen years in the making.

“He also sent me a picture,” Pietra says quietly. “Of Abby’s birth announcement.”

My mom’s hand grazes her mouth, like she’s trying not to choke up again. “I didn’t know.”

“We were still so angry. But we—we were happy to hear about her. About you,” Pietra amends, shooting me a wry look.

My cheeks flush, embarrassed to have four pairs of adult eyes suddenly on me. I’m relieved when Pietra continues.

“If things had been different…”

Savvy and I might have grown up together. Might have had a lot of dinners like this, ones where we sat back in our chairs and laughed without looking over our shoulders. Might have shared much more than the unexpected things we do now.

“I know I’ve said it before,” says my mom, addressing Dale and Pietra both. “But I really am sorry.”

Pietra’s lips thin into her teeth, like she’ll never be quite ready to accept the words fully, even if she understands them. She sets the charm back down and rests her hand over it. “Love makes you do things you never thought you would.”

Pietra carefully reaches out and puts the magpie charm back in my hand. My fingers curl around it, feeling a new warmth at its edges. “What did you mean before … about you guys bringing each other together?” I ask.

“Oh, he probably meant us,” says Dale, with an exaggerated lean back in his chair.

My dad is also sporting a knowing look. “I wondered if our names were ever going to come up.”

“Really is just like the good ole days, huh? Your wife forgetting you exist, my wife forgetting I exist…”

“Excuse you,” says Pietra. “What Walt meant is that if it weren’t for us, neither of you would be married in the first place.”

I blink at the four of them. “Uh. I mean, isn’t that … how deciding to marry each other works?”

Dale’s eyebrows shoot up, excited to be a part of the conversation. “No, she means—your dad was taking an art class with Pietra—”