Wilby fic: What's Important, Part Two: In The Doughnut Hole, by kuonji (PG-13)
This is readable as a standalone, though you might get more out of it if you've read "Points In Common" first. :)
Title: What's Important, Part Two: In The Doughnut Hole
Series: Points In Common
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Characters: Carol French, OCs, Buddy French
Pairings: Carol/OMCs, Carol/Buddy, Duck/Dan mentioned
Category: character study, romance, drama, backstory
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~4250
Summary: It seemed utterly ridiculous, but... she decided she was willing, one last time, to close her eyes and leap, and see where this took her.
A/N: Carol gets two stories from me because a) I love her, and b) her personality is so frenetic that I thought it only fitting to tell her story in fragments, too. :)
What's Important, Part Two: In The Doughnut Hole
by kuonji
"But why?" she asked again.
"For goodness sake! I told you we can't afford it."
"But Joey--"
"Are you making money? Are you?"
"No..."
"When you can pay for your own lessons, let us know."
"But, Mum--"
"Carol. Stop it right now."
"But--"
The slap was quick, over in an instant and leaving spreading heat behind. She shut up immediately, knowing she'd crossed the line.
"Carol, you're a big girl now. Do you want to act like a child forever?"
She shook her head miserably, the rebuke hurting worse than any ten slaps across the face ever could. She'd always been praised before for being mature.
"Then do as I say."
"Yes, Mum."
When she reached her room, which she shared with her little brother Joey, she pulled out her music books and the folder of sheet music her mother had copied for her from the library. She ordered them by size, then put the whole pile on Joey's desk.
Joey watched her the whole time, quietly pouting.
"I don't want to take piano lessons," he said petulantly.
"Oh, shut up!" she screamed and threw herself onto her bed to cry.
( ( (
She has Liszt playing on the stereo. She taps the fingers of her right hand on the steering wheel along with the music, pretending that she can keep up. It's a good soundtrack for how she's feeling -- like a bomb had gone off inside her and she's still sorting out what goes where in a bewilderment of rattling sound.
Laughing suddenly, she begins to fling her loosened hair around to a series of heavy chords in fortissimo, as the famously dramatic pianist would have done. She doesn't care at all if anyone sees her.
) ) )
"You're so pretty. And smart."
She laughed to cover her blushing pleasure. "You're smarter than I am. I don't get A+'s."
Alan was sweet and a bit of a nerd. She would go out with him if he asked. But he never asked.
If he were Korean, she might have asked him, though. Maybe. But he wasn't, so she didn't, and he never did, so they never did, and after high school they never saw each other again.
( ( (
She begins shredding the last of the cigarettes she's hidden in the garage as soon as she gets home. The motion is soothing: Pick at the bottom edge. Strip off a line of the almost fabric-soft paper. Rip around the sides. Crumble the tobacco inside. Watch it drift away. Toss the filter. Repeat.
It only takes ten minutes to finish the remnants of the crumpled pack. She brushes off her hands and her clothes with brisk movements and heads into the house.
) ) )
Carol got into the real estate business because her Uncle George said she'd be great at it. He was right. She was stellar at exams of all sorts, so the agent license exam was easy for her. She found, after joining her uncle's brokerage, that she also had a real knack for negotiating and making everyone feel like they'd gotten the best deal. It was a fantastic game, and she was a pro at it.
Pretty soon, she'd studied for and gotten her associate broker's license as well. Uncle George was dropping some heavy hints about making her a partner once she was older. His son, who had gone into architecture instead, gave her put-upon sighs whenever they met, but even he thought it seemed the natural thing to do.
She realized one day that the course of her future was set -- and that was a pretty good thing, really. Lots of people didn't have that kind of stability to rely on. She was glad that she did. She was.
( ( (
Steak, she decides. Buddy likes it, and the doctor told her she needs to build up her red cell count. She takes out the emergency T-bones she has in the freezer for when they have guests on short notice. They can defrost while she cuts some broccoli to go in the steamer. Corn soup for later would be nice as well. She has green onion for garnish.
Cooking is dependable in its regularity yet exciting in its variability as well, and so satisfying when she can create something good with raw materials and her own two hands. Carol wonders what kinds of meals she should be making a year from now. Soft blended foods shouldn't be too difficult. Betty Pearce raised her three children on homemade baby food. It's early, yet, but Carol could ask her for her recipes, just to be prepared.
) ) )
"You haven't met anyone special?"
"Mum! Women nowadays have careers to think about."
"I know that, but you have to have priorities. I don't want you to become an old maid like your cousin Marilyn and regret it."
"Marilyn's only thirty, and anyway, I'm pretty sure she's settled down with Grace."
"Carol! Don't say such things."
"Oh my god, Mum. Join the twentieth century. Lesbians are cool now."
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain."
"Yes, Mum."
She didn't tell her mother about Jack, who had dumped her two months ago for Lori from Manitoba. She still had one of his sweatshirts in the trunk of her car. She kept meaning to drop it off at the church, but even wrapped in a paper market bag, just looking at it made her want to cry or something. It was stupid and embarrassing.
She would get rid of it today. For sure.
( ( (
With a rueful sigh, she pulls out the five bottles of wine they have stored on the bottom shelf. She pauses for a moment, hands under the moderately heavy wood case, but then she dismisses her worries with a scoffing laugh. The way her mother tells it, Carol's great-grandmother had worked in the fields until two days before she had her firstborn, and gone back out a week after.
She carries the wine to the garage and places it in the back of her car, with a bunched towel to insulate them against breakage. It's a shame to give them away, but she doesn't want the temptation around. Buddy will understand.
) ) )
She met Andrew in a bar. Clichéd, maybe, but he was handsome and smart and bought her a drink without being sleazy about it.
"I'm Andrew. I'm here on business from Hong Kong." His English was impeccable, with a distinct British accent that made him sound refined and made his loose collar look extra rakish.
"Carol."
"It's nice to meet a fellow countrywoman."
"Who's your countrywoman?" she demanded, annoyed. He'd hit on her just because of her skin color. Figured.
"We're all part of the Commonwealth, aren't we?" he said, not even pausing. She couldn't tell if it was a spectacular save or if he actually meant it.
"Not for long," she retorted coyly. "In three years, you're going to be Chinese again."
"I've never been Chinese. I don't plan to become one." He frowned and pulled back slightly.
That surprised her. She'd been born in Canada, but she always thought of herself as Korean Canadian. "What are you, then, British?"
"Hong Kong-ese, of course."
It wasn't even a joke. She held up her glass, thinking, And I'm Canadian, aren't I? It was a revelation of sorts. She never thought you could have one of those at her mature age of twenty-three. "To the Queen, then."
His smile returned to full power. "To ol' Lizzie, may she live a long and prosperous life."
( ( (
She pauses halfway up the stairs and frowns down at the suddenly very steep-looking steps. They would need one of those temporary gates, she decides. She's seen them in stores. They make good trendy ones now of faux wood that would match their furniture.
Speaking of which, they might have to pad the corners of the coffee table and some other things. And get covers for the electric outlets. There are a million ways for a child to hurt itself in their home.
She will take care of everything, she promises fiercely, already making lists in her head. She's the most organized and hard-working person she knows. Everyone says so. She's learned, finally, that there will always be some things that won't turn out perfect.
But there's never any harm in trying.
) ) )
Her father always found himself the most entertaining when drunk. Luckily, most other people agreed.
Joey was coming the other way as Carol entered the living room with more snacks for the guests. "He's giving the doughnut hole spiel again," he whispered to her, and they both groaned.
"You don't want to be in the doughnut hole," her father was saying, his left hand forming a ring and his right forefinger sketching circles in the air. Carol refrained from rolling her eyes as she set down the tray on the coffee table and transferred dishes of cookies and peanuts and salted fish over.
"You see, you might think it's great to be in the middle of everything. Oh, look at me! I'm so special!" He made a wide, double-handed gesture that caused Carol's mother to have to lean out of the way. She gave Carol a long-suffering look that was so exactly like Joey's earlier one that Carol had to smile.
"But guess what?" her father continued. "There's nothing there. Just empty. You think you're so important, but really, you have nothing." The guests, depending on their state of inebriation, either nodded sagely in agreement or stared in confusion.
"That's very interesting, James," Andrew said in an exaggerated tone of amazement. He shot Carol a mocking look, as if enjoining her to share in the joke.
Carol faked a smile. She'd used to think it was progressive and cool of Andrew to call her parents by their first names and treat them like his equals, or even his inferiors. She'd used to like that it drove her parents crazy. Lately, though, it'd started to wear on her. Lately, lots of things about him did. The small diamond ring on her left ring finger was starting to feel wrong.
( ( (
She stands in the middle of the second guest room and turns around slowly, cataloguing all the tasks that need to be done. The crib can go there. The sofa can be pushed to the opposite corner. The bed can stay, but the dresser will have to go. They can get a lower one that will double as a changing table.
The room will need a coat of fresh paint. Maybe they could get something bright and cheerful, like sky blue. She could even paint clouds and a sun over it. It wouldn't be the same as working in front of an easel, but it's only the scale that's different. She's sure she can manage. She'll start sketching some designs tonight.
) ) )
"What does that even mean? So are you still engaged or not?"
"We don't know, Mum. That's why it's called a 'trial' period."
"It sounds like he dumped you."
"Mum--"
"Well, you just forget about him. Your father and I never liked him, anyway, that shifty-eyed weasel."
"Mum!"
"I'm just saying, you never should have dated him in the first place. If you had brought him home first thing and let me and your father take a look at him, we would have been able to tell you right away he was no good."
"He's got his good traits."
"Oh, he has money. I'll give you that."
"That's not what I meant. He's confident, and he's really smart. He's thoughtful about, you know, women's things. He's knowledgeable about the world--"
"Right, right. He knows how to play with women and string them along. Oh. Oh, no. Carol, have you slept with that rat?"
"Oh, God..."
"Have you?"
"Mum, that's not important."
"You...! How could you? Do you want people to think you're easy? Some, some... slut?"
"Jesus, Mum."
"Language! Okay, no, no. I'm sorry, baby. It's not your fault. That horrible man tricked you. Just like a rotten, low-class Chinese."
"God. What the hell does that matter?"
"Carol, language."
"Shut up, Mum."
"How-- How dare you! You are not too old to beat, my daughter."
"Oh, yes, I am. And I've been old enough to make my own mistakes for a long time. You just weren't paying attention."
"You had better apologize for that, or you can leave this roof."
"You know what? That's totally fine."
"Wh- What?"
"I'll move out."
"No! Carol. Honey, I didn't mean..."
"You said the words, Mum."
"Don't be so unreasonable. You were always too headstrong for a girl. Stop this nonsense."
"I'm moving, Mum. Just as soon as I find a place."
( ( (
Humming to herself, she goes back to the master bedroom at the end of the hall and begins to put on her casual house clothes -- a comfortable blouse followed by a pair of linen pants. She stops, however, with one foot raised to step into them, and looks sideways at her profile in the mirror of the closet door.
It's silly, but she's only just realized that she herself will be changing in the next few months. Even though the first one usually doesn't show as much, she's been told, she knows that she won't be able to fit into most of her wardrobe anymore pretty shortly.
She slides the closet all the way open and looks at the rows of tight skirts and matching jackets. Most of them had been purchased in Richmond and brought here when she moved. Each one had been chosen for quality and style and then professionally fitted to her petite body type. She vows that she will be able to wear them again a year from now.
For now, though... Carol smiles as she snags a shimmery silver cocktail dress from the back. It's been ages since she's worn this. She can't wait to see Buddy's eyes pop when he comes home.
) ) )
The coffee shop was full of people. The newspaper was full of rental ads. Her notepad was full of notes.
Her mind was completely empty.
She laid her head down across her arms and groaned, letting the sound be absorbed by the bustle around her. Where was she going to go? All of them looked equally good and equally terrible. She may as well close her eyes and point. She had to choose someplace, anyway. If she didn't, she would just be proving her parents right about being a silly, hotheaded child.
Which maybe she was, inside. But she was a grownup woman on the outside and darned if she was going to go back on her word.
"--sailing!"
"Did you get to drive it?"
"You don't drive a boat. You steer it. And no, my uncle wouldn't let me. But it was fantastic. Once you're on the water, it's like there's nobody else in the world."
"Not so surprising. Only four thousand people in the entire town? That must have been so bizarre. That's like the size of... I dunno, my city block, maybe."
"Yeah. One police station. One movie theater. Give me a break. How do people live like that?"
"It must have been the complete opposite of Richmond."
"That's for sure."
Neck vertebrae snapping audibly, she lifted her head to find the source of the conversation. Without letting herself think about it, she stood up and walked over.
"Excuse me." The two male occupants of the neighboring table -- high school students, probably -- looked up at her, startled by the intrusion. "Could you tell me what place you're talking about?"
By the next day -- after numerous phone calls and hours of research online and a whole other notebook of notes -- she was, if not entirely sure of the wisdom of what she was doing, at least ready to do it.
Wilby Island, here I come.
( ( (
She almost doesn't find the red nail polish. That's also something she hasn't put on in much too long, and the bottle is wedged sideways in the back of her makeup drawer. It's a little dried out, but not too much to still wear in a pinch. She just has to be careful with it so it doesn't lump.
She's blowing on her fingertips to dry them when she looks down and remembers.
Smiling, she perches herself on the edge of a chair and begins with the big toe of her left foot.
) ) )
"Fifteen items or less, ma'am."
"What do you mean? I only have ten items."
The cashier tsked. "This is six right here," he said, holding up the bag of apples. It was such a ridiculous thing to say that she couldn't find a reply.
"Cut her some slack, Lou," said the bagger, a man in his thirties who'd probably never had a real job in his life. "She doesn't know how to count. Instead of 'one, two, three', they teach their kids that 'ching, chang, tong' shit."
Coming to Wilby had been a series of difficult necessities. She'd had to find a place to live. She'd had to move her things. She'd had to inform all her friends she was going to live on some tiny island thousands of miles away. She'd had to get used to a new city, with different geography and weather and people. She'd had to retest her license for Nova Scotia and set up her new real estate agency. She had had confidence in herself for all that.
This, though. Maybe she had been hopelessly naive, but she hadn't expected this at all.
She straightened her shoulders and collected her things. Ignoring the chasing laughter coming from the two men, she took her groceries to the next aisle over. The old man with thick spectacles there rang up her purchases without looking at her. She couldn't decide if that was any better, but at least she got out of the store with what she'd come to buy.
( ( (
"Welcome home, Officer."
Buddy stares at her when she meets him at the front door, first at her face, then slowly down her body, ending at her bare feet. He does an elaborate double-take and makes a show of leaning back out to check the house number over the porch eave. When he returns, he holds out his arms and says, "Wow."
It's all very flattering, if very silly.
"Did I forget something?" he asks as she steps aside to let him in.
"No," she answers. "I just felt like dressing up today."
"Any particular reason why?" He grabs her around the waist and yanks her to him before she can reply.
"Buddy!" she scolds him, wincing against the various corners and edges of his equipment -- his police equipment, that is. The best solution to that, of course, is to lead him upstairs and help him take it all off.
) ) )
The stupid looking cop wasn't so bad, just taking notes patiently and asking her questions like from a careful script. The other one, though. He was just standing there, staring at her. Hadn't he ever seen an Asian woman before? What was wrong with all these island people?
But it wasn't the usual curious or disdainful look that he was giving her. It was more like... Oh.
She pulled the front of her cardigan closed irritably. "Are you here to do your job or not?" she demanded.
Officer Lastman glanced between them. "Uh, yeah," he said, obviously confused.
The taller one, French, had the good grace to look embarrassed. He dragged his eyes back to his notepad and began scribbling quick notes. "We'll question the neighbors and also the people you mentioned and see what we can turn up. We'll keep you informed."
Officer Lastman nodded along. "Thank you for calling us. Sorry about all this," he said, sympathetically. "I know a good handyman if you want his number." Carol didn't need the reminder. Her landlord was going to charge her for the repair work, she was sure.
"I could do it, if you'd like," Officer French cut in quickly. "You'd have to get new windows, but I can put them in. And fix up your door there."
She regarded him skeptically. "You'd do that?"
"Sure. Civic duty."
"Uh-huh."
"If you'd like," he repeated. He ducked his head in an honestly kind of charming way.
Carol figured, what the hell? It wasn't as if she would let him inside. "Sure, whatever. Come by tomorrow morning around nine."
"You got it."
( ( (
"Buddy," she calls softly, stroking his hair.
He opens his eyes and smiles up at her. "Is that steak I smell?" he asks.
"You're a pig," she tells him, and he doesn't disagree.
"Buddy," she says again, as he's getting dressed. "I met Duck today, coming out of my appointment with Dr. Graham."
"Uh-huh?" He pulls a T-shirt over his head, and then sits down to roll on a pair of socks, before putting on his underwear. She'd always found that endearingly funny. She calls him an exhibitionist sometimes, and, depending on his mood, he blushes or scowls at her.
"I told him I'm not planning their reception anymore."
He straightens and looks at her in surprise, his sweater only half-on. She watches as he frowns and she waits for him to start one of those annoying lectures he likes to get into. But instead, he quickly tugs his sweater all the way down and comes to her on the bed. "What's wrong?" he asks her, sitting down beside her and touching her arm, his eyes dark but steady. "Did the doctor say something?"
A thrill of pleasure shoots through her at the worry in his tone. Suddenly, though, she feels bad for playing with him like this. Testing him.
"Nothing's wrong," she says. She moves his hand until she feels the warmth from his palm spreading over her abdomen. Then she leans her head on his shoulder. "One and a half months," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "It's due first week of August."
) ) )
The next day, Buddy French did indeed show up with a box full of tools, a can of paint, and a pile of boards. He'd even gotten her a set of plastic pots for her plants.
"These are temporary," he said. "You had nice ones before, looks like. So I thought you'd want to pick out any new ones for yourself."
"I made them in high school art class," she told him, wistfully, and then mentally kicked herself for it.
He nodded vigorously. "Yeah, you look like you're really good with your hands." He blushed bright red even before she gave him a disgusted look. "I didn't-- That's not what I meant," he protested quickly. "I saw you at the Watch, painting." He bit his bottom lip. "Not like-- I was out there on patrol. I wasn't following you or anything. I didn't even know you existed until-- Uh, I mean--"
She rolled her eyes. "Stop," she said, holding up her hand. "It's okay. I believe you." She didn't, really. Not entirely, anyway. But if he could really help her clean up the front of her house without her having to pay her landlord extra, then she would take it. "Let's just get to work, okay?"
He cleared his throat and smiled at her. "Yes, of course."
Somewhat to her surprise, he knew what he was doing. While she repotted her plants, he started with the door, protecting the hinge-side frame with masking tape, and then painting the outside face with smooth strokes of the brush. She couldn't help noticing that he looked mighty fine doing it, too, in his T-shirt and old jeans. His skin tone was gorgeous, and his slightly curly hair made him look young and exotic. His eyes, she noticed whenever he turned to dart a look at her, were a beautiful deep blue, framed by long, dark lashes.
It'd been too long since she'd been with a man, she decided sourly, even as she enjoyed the view.
Boarding up the windows took longer, but even so, it was only a couple of hours later before Buddy was done. When everything was packed back up in the trunk of his car, he turned to her and wiped the sweat off of his forehead. The work seemed to have relaxed him. He didn't look nervous anymore, and the look in his eyes made her stiffen suddenly with wariness.
"Carol," he said, with only the slightest hesitance. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"
She couldn't believe it, even though she had been half-expecting the words. What gall the man had!
( ( (
"Carol. I love you. So much." He whispers softly in between kisses to her neck, her shoulder, her face, her hands. He enfolds her in his big arms and bears her down -- but gently -- back onto the bed.
She kisses him back, whispering endearments into his skin, stroking his hair. Neither of them can properly hear what the other is saying but they both understand the meaning just the same.
) ) )
Maybe this was what Wilby Island did to you. It made you crazy. Because Carol closed her mouth on the "Are you insane?" she had been about to answer and said, instead--
"Is six o' clock all right?"
It seemed utterly ridiculous, but... she decided she was willing, one last time, to close her eyes and leap, and see where this took her.
END.
"And if you can see where you came from, you can remember what you wanted."
Back to Points In Common Story Index
If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:
Combat Boots (Stargate Atlantis), by kuonji
A Place To Be From (Wilby Wonderful), by deborah_judge
Double Happiness (1994 movie)
Title: What's Important, Part Two: In The Doughnut Hole
Series: Points In Common
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Characters: Carol French, OCs, Buddy French
Pairings: Carol/OMCs, Carol/Buddy, Duck/Dan mentioned
Category: character study, romance, drama, backstory
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~4250
Summary: It seemed utterly ridiculous, but... she decided she was willing, one last time, to close her eyes and leap, and see where this took her.
A/N: Carol gets two stories from me because a) I love her, and b) her personality is so frenetic that I thought it only fitting to tell her story in fragments, too. :)
What's Important, Part Two: In The Doughnut Hole
by kuonji
"But why?" she asked again.
"For goodness sake! I told you we can't afford it."
"But Joey--"
"Are you making money? Are you?"
"No..."
"When you can pay for your own lessons, let us know."
"But, Mum--"
"Carol. Stop it right now."
"But--"
The slap was quick, over in an instant and leaving spreading heat behind. She shut up immediately, knowing she'd crossed the line.
"Carol, you're a big girl now. Do you want to act like a child forever?"
She shook her head miserably, the rebuke hurting worse than any ten slaps across the face ever could. She'd always been praised before for being mature.
"Then do as I say."
"Yes, Mum."
When she reached her room, which she shared with her little brother Joey, she pulled out her music books and the folder of sheet music her mother had copied for her from the library. She ordered them by size, then put the whole pile on Joey's desk.
Joey watched her the whole time, quietly pouting.
"I don't want to take piano lessons," he said petulantly.
"Oh, shut up!" she screamed and threw herself onto her bed to cry.
( ( (
She has Liszt playing on the stereo. She taps the fingers of her right hand on the steering wheel along with the music, pretending that she can keep up. It's a good soundtrack for how she's feeling -- like a bomb had gone off inside her and she's still sorting out what goes where in a bewilderment of rattling sound.
Laughing suddenly, she begins to fling her loosened hair around to a series of heavy chords in fortissimo, as the famously dramatic pianist would have done. She doesn't care at all if anyone sees her.
) ) )
"You're so pretty. And smart."
She laughed to cover her blushing pleasure. "You're smarter than I am. I don't get A+'s."
Alan was sweet and a bit of a nerd. She would go out with him if he asked. But he never asked.
If he were Korean, she might have asked him, though. Maybe. But he wasn't, so she didn't, and he never did, so they never did, and after high school they never saw each other again.
( ( (
She begins shredding the last of the cigarettes she's hidden in the garage as soon as she gets home. The motion is soothing: Pick at the bottom edge. Strip off a line of the almost fabric-soft paper. Rip around the sides. Crumble the tobacco inside. Watch it drift away. Toss the filter. Repeat.
It only takes ten minutes to finish the remnants of the crumpled pack. She brushes off her hands and her clothes with brisk movements and heads into the house.
) ) )
Carol got into the real estate business because her Uncle George said she'd be great at it. He was right. She was stellar at exams of all sorts, so the agent license exam was easy for her. She found, after joining her uncle's brokerage, that she also had a real knack for negotiating and making everyone feel like they'd gotten the best deal. It was a fantastic game, and she was a pro at it.
Pretty soon, she'd studied for and gotten her associate broker's license as well. Uncle George was dropping some heavy hints about making her a partner once she was older. His son, who had gone into architecture instead, gave her put-upon sighs whenever they met, but even he thought it seemed the natural thing to do.
She realized one day that the course of her future was set -- and that was a pretty good thing, really. Lots of people didn't have that kind of stability to rely on. She was glad that she did. She was.
( ( (
Steak, she decides. Buddy likes it, and the doctor told her she needs to build up her red cell count. She takes out the emergency T-bones she has in the freezer for when they have guests on short notice. They can defrost while she cuts some broccoli to go in the steamer. Corn soup for later would be nice as well. She has green onion for garnish.
Cooking is dependable in its regularity yet exciting in its variability as well, and so satisfying when she can create something good with raw materials and her own two hands. Carol wonders what kinds of meals she should be making a year from now. Soft blended foods shouldn't be too difficult. Betty Pearce raised her three children on homemade baby food. It's early, yet, but Carol could ask her for her recipes, just to be prepared.
) ) )
"You haven't met anyone special?"
"Mum! Women nowadays have careers to think about."
"I know that, but you have to have priorities. I don't want you to become an old maid like your cousin Marilyn and regret it."
"Marilyn's only thirty, and anyway, I'm pretty sure she's settled down with Grace."
"Carol! Don't say such things."
"Oh my god, Mum. Join the twentieth century. Lesbians are cool now."
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain."
"Yes, Mum."
She didn't tell her mother about Jack, who had dumped her two months ago for Lori from Manitoba. She still had one of his sweatshirts in the trunk of her car. She kept meaning to drop it off at the church, but even wrapped in a paper market bag, just looking at it made her want to cry or something. It was stupid and embarrassing.
She would get rid of it today. For sure.
( ( (
With a rueful sigh, she pulls out the five bottles of wine they have stored on the bottom shelf. She pauses for a moment, hands under the moderately heavy wood case, but then she dismisses her worries with a scoffing laugh. The way her mother tells it, Carol's great-grandmother had worked in the fields until two days before she had her firstborn, and gone back out a week after.
She carries the wine to the garage and places it in the back of her car, with a bunched towel to insulate them against breakage. It's a shame to give them away, but she doesn't want the temptation around. Buddy will understand.
) ) )
She met Andrew in a bar. Clichéd, maybe, but he was handsome and smart and bought her a drink without being sleazy about it.
"I'm Andrew. I'm here on business from Hong Kong." His English was impeccable, with a distinct British accent that made him sound refined and made his loose collar look extra rakish.
"Carol."
"It's nice to meet a fellow countrywoman."
"Who's your countrywoman?" she demanded, annoyed. He'd hit on her just because of her skin color. Figured.
"We're all part of the Commonwealth, aren't we?" he said, not even pausing. She couldn't tell if it was a spectacular save or if he actually meant it.
"Not for long," she retorted coyly. "In three years, you're going to be Chinese again."
"I've never been Chinese. I don't plan to become one." He frowned and pulled back slightly.
That surprised her. She'd been born in Canada, but she always thought of herself as Korean Canadian. "What are you, then, British?"
"Hong Kong-ese, of course."
It wasn't even a joke. She held up her glass, thinking, And I'm Canadian, aren't I? It was a revelation of sorts. She never thought you could have one of those at her mature age of twenty-three. "To the Queen, then."
His smile returned to full power. "To ol' Lizzie, may she live a long and prosperous life."
( ( (
She pauses halfway up the stairs and frowns down at the suddenly very steep-looking steps. They would need one of those temporary gates, she decides. She's seen them in stores. They make good trendy ones now of faux wood that would match their furniture.
Speaking of which, they might have to pad the corners of the coffee table and some other things. And get covers for the electric outlets. There are a million ways for a child to hurt itself in their home.
She will take care of everything, she promises fiercely, already making lists in her head. She's the most organized and hard-working person she knows. Everyone says so. She's learned, finally, that there will always be some things that won't turn out perfect.
But there's never any harm in trying.
) ) )
Her father always found himself the most entertaining when drunk. Luckily, most other people agreed.
Joey was coming the other way as Carol entered the living room with more snacks for the guests. "He's giving the doughnut hole spiel again," he whispered to her, and they both groaned.
"You don't want to be in the doughnut hole," her father was saying, his left hand forming a ring and his right forefinger sketching circles in the air. Carol refrained from rolling her eyes as she set down the tray on the coffee table and transferred dishes of cookies and peanuts and salted fish over.
"You see, you might think it's great to be in the middle of everything. Oh, look at me! I'm so special!" He made a wide, double-handed gesture that caused Carol's mother to have to lean out of the way. She gave Carol a long-suffering look that was so exactly like Joey's earlier one that Carol had to smile.
"But guess what?" her father continued. "There's nothing there. Just empty. You think you're so important, but really, you have nothing." The guests, depending on their state of inebriation, either nodded sagely in agreement or stared in confusion.
"That's very interesting, James," Andrew said in an exaggerated tone of amazement. He shot Carol a mocking look, as if enjoining her to share in the joke.
Carol faked a smile. She'd used to think it was progressive and cool of Andrew to call her parents by their first names and treat them like his equals, or even his inferiors. She'd used to like that it drove her parents crazy. Lately, though, it'd started to wear on her. Lately, lots of things about him did. The small diamond ring on her left ring finger was starting to feel wrong.
( ( (
She stands in the middle of the second guest room and turns around slowly, cataloguing all the tasks that need to be done. The crib can go there. The sofa can be pushed to the opposite corner. The bed can stay, but the dresser will have to go. They can get a lower one that will double as a changing table.
The room will need a coat of fresh paint. Maybe they could get something bright and cheerful, like sky blue. She could even paint clouds and a sun over it. It wouldn't be the same as working in front of an easel, but it's only the scale that's different. She's sure she can manage. She'll start sketching some designs tonight.
) ) )
"What does that even mean? So are you still engaged or not?"
"We don't know, Mum. That's why it's called a 'trial' period."
"It sounds like he dumped you."
"Mum--"
"Well, you just forget about him. Your father and I never liked him, anyway, that shifty-eyed weasel."
"Mum!"
"I'm just saying, you never should have dated him in the first place. If you had brought him home first thing and let me and your father take a look at him, we would have been able to tell you right away he was no good."
"He's got his good traits."
"Oh, he has money. I'll give you that."
"That's not what I meant. He's confident, and he's really smart. He's thoughtful about, you know, women's things. He's knowledgeable about the world--"
"Right, right. He knows how to play with women and string them along. Oh. Oh, no. Carol, have you slept with that rat?"
"Oh, God..."
"Have you?"
"Mum, that's not important."
"You...! How could you? Do you want people to think you're easy? Some, some... slut?"
"Jesus, Mum."
"Language! Okay, no, no. I'm sorry, baby. It's not your fault. That horrible man tricked you. Just like a rotten, low-class Chinese."
"God. What the hell does that matter?"
"Carol, language."
"Shut up, Mum."
"How-- How dare you! You are not too old to beat, my daughter."
"Oh, yes, I am. And I've been old enough to make my own mistakes for a long time. You just weren't paying attention."
"You had better apologize for that, or you can leave this roof."
"You know what? That's totally fine."
"Wh- What?"
"I'll move out."
"No! Carol. Honey, I didn't mean..."
"You said the words, Mum."
"Don't be so unreasonable. You were always too headstrong for a girl. Stop this nonsense."
"I'm moving, Mum. Just as soon as I find a place."
( ( (
Humming to herself, she goes back to the master bedroom at the end of the hall and begins to put on her casual house clothes -- a comfortable blouse followed by a pair of linen pants. She stops, however, with one foot raised to step into them, and looks sideways at her profile in the mirror of the closet door.
It's silly, but she's only just realized that she herself will be changing in the next few months. Even though the first one usually doesn't show as much, she's been told, she knows that she won't be able to fit into most of her wardrobe anymore pretty shortly.
She slides the closet all the way open and looks at the rows of tight skirts and matching jackets. Most of them had been purchased in Richmond and brought here when she moved. Each one had been chosen for quality and style and then professionally fitted to her petite body type. She vows that she will be able to wear them again a year from now.
For now, though... Carol smiles as she snags a shimmery silver cocktail dress from the back. It's been ages since she's worn this. She can't wait to see Buddy's eyes pop when he comes home.
) ) )
The coffee shop was full of people. The newspaper was full of rental ads. Her notepad was full of notes.
Her mind was completely empty.
She laid her head down across her arms and groaned, letting the sound be absorbed by the bustle around her. Where was she going to go? All of them looked equally good and equally terrible. She may as well close her eyes and point. She had to choose someplace, anyway. If she didn't, she would just be proving her parents right about being a silly, hotheaded child.
Which maybe she was, inside. But she was a grownup woman on the outside and darned if she was going to go back on her word.
"--sailing!"
"Did you get to drive it?"
"You don't drive a boat. You steer it. And no, my uncle wouldn't let me. But it was fantastic. Once you're on the water, it's like there's nobody else in the world."
"Not so surprising. Only four thousand people in the entire town? That must have been so bizarre. That's like the size of... I dunno, my city block, maybe."
"Yeah. One police station. One movie theater. Give me a break. How do people live like that?"
"It must have been the complete opposite of Richmond."
"That's for sure."
Neck vertebrae snapping audibly, she lifted her head to find the source of the conversation. Without letting herself think about it, she stood up and walked over.
"Excuse me." The two male occupants of the neighboring table -- high school students, probably -- looked up at her, startled by the intrusion. "Could you tell me what place you're talking about?"
By the next day -- after numerous phone calls and hours of research online and a whole other notebook of notes -- she was, if not entirely sure of the wisdom of what she was doing, at least ready to do it.
Wilby Island, here I come.
( ( (
She almost doesn't find the red nail polish. That's also something she hasn't put on in much too long, and the bottle is wedged sideways in the back of her makeup drawer. It's a little dried out, but not too much to still wear in a pinch. She just has to be careful with it so it doesn't lump.
She's blowing on her fingertips to dry them when she looks down and remembers.
Smiling, she perches herself on the edge of a chair and begins with the big toe of her left foot.
) ) )
"Fifteen items or less, ma'am."
"What do you mean? I only have ten items."
The cashier tsked. "This is six right here," he said, holding up the bag of apples. It was such a ridiculous thing to say that she couldn't find a reply.
"Cut her some slack, Lou," said the bagger, a man in his thirties who'd probably never had a real job in his life. "She doesn't know how to count. Instead of 'one, two, three', they teach their kids that 'ching, chang, tong' shit."
Coming to Wilby had been a series of difficult necessities. She'd had to find a place to live. She'd had to move her things. She'd had to inform all her friends she was going to live on some tiny island thousands of miles away. She'd had to get used to a new city, with different geography and weather and people. She'd had to retest her license for Nova Scotia and set up her new real estate agency. She had had confidence in herself for all that.
This, though. Maybe she had been hopelessly naive, but she hadn't expected this at all.
She straightened her shoulders and collected her things. Ignoring the chasing laughter coming from the two men, she took her groceries to the next aisle over. The old man with thick spectacles there rang up her purchases without looking at her. She couldn't decide if that was any better, but at least she got out of the store with what she'd come to buy.
( ( (
"Welcome home, Officer."
Buddy stares at her when she meets him at the front door, first at her face, then slowly down her body, ending at her bare feet. He does an elaborate double-take and makes a show of leaning back out to check the house number over the porch eave. When he returns, he holds out his arms and says, "Wow."
It's all very flattering, if very silly.
"Did I forget something?" he asks as she steps aside to let him in.
"No," she answers. "I just felt like dressing up today."
"Any particular reason why?" He grabs her around the waist and yanks her to him before she can reply.
"Buddy!" she scolds him, wincing against the various corners and edges of his equipment -- his police equipment, that is. The best solution to that, of course, is to lead him upstairs and help him take it all off.
) ) )
The stupid looking cop wasn't so bad, just taking notes patiently and asking her questions like from a careful script. The other one, though. He was just standing there, staring at her. Hadn't he ever seen an Asian woman before? What was wrong with all these island people?
But it wasn't the usual curious or disdainful look that he was giving her. It was more like... Oh.
She pulled the front of her cardigan closed irritably. "Are you here to do your job or not?" she demanded.
Officer Lastman glanced between them. "Uh, yeah," he said, obviously confused.
The taller one, French, had the good grace to look embarrassed. He dragged his eyes back to his notepad and began scribbling quick notes. "We'll question the neighbors and also the people you mentioned and see what we can turn up. We'll keep you informed."
Officer Lastman nodded along. "Thank you for calling us. Sorry about all this," he said, sympathetically. "I know a good handyman if you want his number." Carol didn't need the reminder. Her landlord was going to charge her for the repair work, she was sure.
"I could do it, if you'd like," Officer French cut in quickly. "You'd have to get new windows, but I can put them in. And fix up your door there."
She regarded him skeptically. "You'd do that?"
"Sure. Civic duty."
"Uh-huh."
"If you'd like," he repeated. He ducked his head in an honestly kind of charming way.
Carol figured, what the hell? It wasn't as if she would let him inside. "Sure, whatever. Come by tomorrow morning around nine."
"You got it."
( ( (
"Buddy," she calls softly, stroking his hair.
He opens his eyes and smiles up at her. "Is that steak I smell?" he asks.
"You're a pig," she tells him, and he doesn't disagree.
"Buddy," she says again, as he's getting dressed. "I met Duck today, coming out of my appointment with Dr. Graham."
"Uh-huh?" He pulls a T-shirt over his head, and then sits down to roll on a pair of socks, before putting on his underwear. She'd always found that endearingly funny. She calls him an exhibitionist sometimes, and, depending on his mood, he blushes or scowls at her.
"I told him I'm not planning their reception anymore."
He straightens and looks at her in surprise, his sweater only half-on. She watches as he frowns and she waits for him to start one of those annoying lectures he likes to get into. But instead, he quickly tugs his sweater all the way down and comes to her on the bed. "What's wrong?" he asks her, sitting down beside her and touching her arm, his eyes dark but steady. "Did the doctor say something?"
A thrill of pleasure shoots through her at the worry in his tone. Suddenly, though, she feels bad for playing with him like this. Testing him.
"Nothing's wrong," she says. She moves his hand until she feels the warmth from his palm spreading over her abdomen. Then she leans her head on his shoulder. "One and a half months," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "It's due first week of August."
) ) )
The next day, Buddy French did indeed show up with a box full of tools, a can of paint, and a pile of boards. He'd even gotten her a set of plastic pots for her plants.
"These are temporary," he said. "You had nice ones before, looks like. So I thought you'd want to pick out any new ones for yourself."
"I made them in high school art class," she told him, wistfully, and then mentally kicked herself for it.
He nodded vigorously. "Yeah, you look like you're really good with your hands." He blushed bright red even before she gave him a disgusted look. "I didn't-- That's not what I meant," he protested quickly. "I saw you at the Watch, painting." He bit his bottom lip. "Not like-- I was out there on patrol. I wasn't following you or anything. I didn't even know you existed until-- Uh, I mean--"
She rolled her eyes. "Stop," she said, holding up her hand. "It's okay. I believe you." She didn't, really. Not entirely, anyway. But if he could really help her clean up the front of her house without her having to pay her landlord extra, then she would take it. "Let's just get to work, okay?"
He cleared his throat and smiled at her. "Yes, of course."
Somewhat to her surprise, he knew what he was doing. While she repotted her plants, he started with the door, protecting the hinge-side frame with masking tape, and then painting the outside face with smooth strokes of the brush. She couldn't help noticing that he looked mighty fine doing it, too, in his T-shirt and old jeans. His skin tone was gorgeous, and his slightly curly hair made him look young and exotic. His eyes, she noticed whenever he turned to dart a look at her, were a beautiful deep blue, framed by long, dark lashes.
It'd been too long since she'd been with a man, she decided sourly, even as she enjoyed the view.
Boarding up the windows took longer, but even so, it was only a couple of hours later before Buddy was done. When everything was packed back up in the trunk of his car, he turned to her and wiped the sweat off of his forehead. The work seemed to have relaxed him. He didn't look nervous anymore, and the look in his eyes made her stiffen suddenly with wariness.
"Carol," he said, with only the slightest hesitance. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"
She couldn't believe it, even though she had been half-expecting the words. What gall the man had!
( ( (
"Carol. I love you. So much." He whispers softly in between kisses to her neck, her shoulder, her face, her hands. He enfolds her in his big arms and bears her down -- but gently -- back onto the bed.
She kisses him back, whispering endearments into his skin, stroking his hair. Neither of them can properly hear what the other is saying but they both understand the meaning just the same.
) ) )
Maybe this was what Wilby Island did to you. It made you crazy. Because Carol closed her mouth on the "Are you insane?" she had been about to answer and said, instead--
"Is six o' clock all right?"
It seemed utterly ridiculous, but... she decided she was willing, one last time, to close her eyes and leap, and see where this took her.
END.
"And if you can see where you came from, you can remember what you wanted."
Back to Points In Common Story Index
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