I opened the newspaper and held it up in front of me, a simple shield against the daily grind of my life. I didn’t mind engaging in conversation with anyone; but a few moments of isolation would be good for me, a kind of anonymity I sought in times of despair. Even though many of the folks here were familiar, if anonymity could be found anywhere, it would be at Walloon Lake, where the people respected you, your life, and your desires.
As I sipped the hot coffee, my thoughts drifted to life back in Ohio. I had no idea what was going on there or anywhere else in the world; keeping up on the news hadn’t been on my to-do list when connected to the internet at the library. It was my way of hiding in the sand. Or it was that damn pillow again. My laughter bubbled at the expense of my mother.
I tilted the newspaper to watch customers stream into and go out of the popular bakery. A few stopped to say a short hello while others moved on their way after a quick nod. Here, so many miles from home, my network still existed—friends, those I enjoyed spending time with, even if I was in a foul mood. A network of support. My mind leapt to my Mom, who didn’t have that same group of people. And while Dad was with her, he didn’t have that either. For a few moments on a sunny autumn day, these strangers helped me appreciate my life and what I had—not what I didn’t—and that was something my parents never had. I grabbed a tissue from my purse before the tears started to course down my face. The paper would blot away the traces of sadness, and I sat there for a moment or two, gathering my wits and blinking my eyelids.
A gentle hand grazed my back, and I looked up: Andrew. He silently took the seat across from me, sipped from his cup of coffee, and waited for me to speak. Pulling my gaze from his, I tried to come to terms with what I wanted to say, what I needed to say, to articulate what was wrong. This time, it wasn’t about him though.
“I seem to cry each time I’m in your company,” I said, my eyes still brimming with tears.
“What does that say about us?” Andrew teased and then continued. “I wanted to help, but...Perhaps I should go. I thought you might be here—it’s one of your favorite places, but I’m not trying to stalk you or—”
My personal alone-time moment had changed for me with Andrew’s presence. Instead of the craved isolation from minutes before, I didn’t want to be alone. The company of someone I knew more than the folks who wandered in and said hello sounded heavenly. Oh, who the hell was I kidding? I wanted the company of Andrew.
“No, please don’t.” I reached out to cover his hand with mine. The coffee mug had warmed his fingers, and while I didn’t want to let go of them, I did.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice held concern, and a realization hit me: I’d turned into someone needy. How was he attracted to a needy woman? What did he see in me?
“If you can believe it, this has nothing to do with you and me. Sort of. I came here for a bit of peace and time to be alone, and my always-churning mind began to work overtime. Looking at all these people I care about, even here, far from home, I began to think about them.”
“This place is like that, isn’t it?” Andrew glanced around the bustling bakery and beamed. “They care about you. About me. About people in general.”
“They do. And if I wanted to, I’d unburden myself to them. They’d take my troubles and help me walk in my shoes. I know that.” A rogue tear escaped down my cheek, and I swiped at it with my finger. “I have all these friends, the people I turn to, to help me make it, day by day. My parents didn’t have those people. They took care of me, and we had what we needed, but Mom and Dad never took care of themselves.” I thought about what else I wanted to say. “Well, I guess my dad did when he left. But my mom will say she tried to take care of herself and make friends, when in reality, she didn’t. She never stepped out of her comfort zone to meet people and cultivate friendships. And if she had friends, she didn’t try to keep them. You need to meet with people regularly, give of yourself and take in what they say. Listen to them and let them listen to you. Neither one of them did that.”
“That’s why you’re crying? For your parents and what they didn’t do?” Try as he might to hold it back, the confusion appeared in his furrowed brow.
“Women are complicated, aren’t we?”
“You have no idea.” The look on his face indicated he stunned himself with the statement, as if he hadn’t meant to be so honest in his reply.
I chuckled. “But no, I’m not crying for my parents. It’s that I don’t want to end up the way they did.” A fresh round of tears began its trek down my already warm and tight cheeks.
Andrew passed me another tissue, a soft smile warming his face. “But you said it, Sadie. You won’t. You have friends and are willing to make more.”
“Yes, except my mind doesn’t stop at that juncture. I always go the extra mile. And so,
