The Reasons to Stay - Laura Drake

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in Santa Maria. Why don’t we look into it?”

      “And leave Widow’s Grove? I’ve lived here all my life. Besides, can you see me getting on one of those odious little buses to go for a rousing night of bingo?”

      Not without a partial lobotomy, he couldn’t. She’d been a professor of philosophy at UC Santa Barbara for thirty years. “But, Mom, above the store?” The only reason this was remotely possible was the elevator that survived the renovation when his father bought the two-story Ben Franklin dime store, back in the ’60s.

      “If I can’t stay in the bedroom Tom and I shared, I’d rather be in our old apartment. That way I’ll still have his memories around me.”

      His dad had died six years ago but you’d never know it, hearing his mother talk. He was proud of how she’d soldiered on afterward—not that there’d been any doubt. His mother was a strong woman. Maybe too strong. Because this was a crazy idea. Adam had moved into one of the apartments over the family drugstore when he’d returned from college with his degree and pharmacist’s license. “You’d be all alone up there.”

      “You’ll be working right beneath me. Besides, if you hadn’t broken that sweet little schoolteacher’s heart she’d still be living in the apartment across the hall.”

      He dropped the box on the growing pile. “Mom, let’s not start that again.”

      “Why else would she have left in the middle of the school year if not because of a broken heart? I hate to point it out, but you’re not getting any younger and neither am I. I’d like to meet my grandchildren before I move on to whatever is next. But if you keep being so darned picky—”

      “Mom. I didn’t break her heart.” He looked at the ceiling and blew out a breath. “She was gay, okay? She said that dating me made her sure that she wasn’t interested in men. She moved to Carmel and in with her ex-girlfriend.”

      Mother winced. “Ouch.”

      “And thanks for reminding me of the lowest point in my love life, to date.”

      “Well, then, you need to pick yourself up and get on with your life, Adam.” She patted his hand. “Jesse at the café gave me a couple of names of nice girls you can call.”

      He had to get out of here before his head exploded. “I’ve got to get to softball practice, Mom. I’ll stop by on my way home with a load of my stuff.” He walked out, shaking his head. His mother discussing his love life, or lack thereof, with the town matchmaker? How pathetic was he? He bounded down the stairs to his midsize sedan, the backseat loaded with bats, bases, and dirty laundry.

      So maybe pharmacist wasn’t on the “top ten sexiest careers” list. But he wasn’t hideous looking. He was neat, led a quiet life, and—

      And arguing your good points with yourself is even more pathetic.

      Mom was wrong. He waved to Burt Hanks, who drove past, then unlocked the car and sank into it. But lately, the safe life he’d put on like a Teflon suit so many years ago had started to chafe—as if it were made of wet wool.

      But just the same, the thought of stepping out of it made his stomach muscles clench to guard his guts.

       CHAPTER TWO

      A WEEK AFTER her mom’s funeral, Priss walked down Hollister, Widow’s Grove’s main drag, trying not to sweat. It had been chilly when she left the hotel this morning, so she’d worn a turtleneck with her pencil skirt and heels. But the day had turned warm, especially downtown, where the buildings blocked the breeze.

      She paused at the display window of Hollister Drugs, more to rest her feet than to window-shop. Toeing out of one shoe, she rubbed her toes on the back of the other calf while glancing at the merchandise.

      It had taken some convincing but Ms. Barnes had finally agreed to a temporary custody hearing with the Family Services Court. She didn’t seem to trust Priss or her intentions but didn’t have much choice since Priss was Nacho’s only unincarcerated kin.

      The judge seemed wary as well, in spite of Priss dressing up and being on her best behavior. Though to be fair, her lack of a job and spiky hair probably had something to do with it. She hated looking so young. People often guessed her ten years younger than her twenty-nine years and assumed her maturity level matched her youthful face. They had no way of knowing that she’d gained her street smarts at a younger age than Nacho was now.

      But the judge did grant Priss temporary custody, with strings. That meant home visits and interviews, and the judge had left the timeline open-ended. Priss would have to prove herself as a parent to Ms. Barnes’s satisfaction before she and Nacho could leave Widow’s Grove.

      Priss had agreed to their terms. This would be as good a place as any to settle, at least in the short term. If she didn’t like it down the road, she’d make a different choice. What worried her more was the fact that she hadn’t a clue about how to be a parent. After all, she’d never been exposed to a good one.

      But the worry about screwing up Nacho’s psyche had to take a backseat. They had to eat in the meantime. She needed a job.

      The lady at the temp agency had no openings for office workers. Turned out tourist towns weren’t big on office management. And the few jobs they did have wouldn’t support Priss, much less her and Nacho. She had to find something soon. The hotel was expensive, and Ms. Barnes wouldn’t release Nacho into Priss’s care until she had a job, and a proper place to live in. The apartments she’d looked at on the outskirts of town were way too expensive, and too far from Nacho’s school.

      So here she was, footsore and sweating, walking the streets looking for work. She’d stopped in The Gift of Words bookstore, a trendy clothing store for kids and an antique boutique. She’d never been a store clerk, but if it paid enough she’d find a way to become the best damned clerk they’d ever hired. But none of the shops needed help.

      God, she was thirsty. She leaned in, cupping her hand around her eyes to see past the window’s glare into the drugstore, but still couldn’t make out much. Surely they sold cold soda. She slipped back into her shoe, stepped to the door and opened it.

      Her heels tapped hollow on the wooden floor. A wall of blessedly cool air bathed her face, bringing with it the smell of coffee, French fries and old building. Two checkout counters faced her and beyond that, several shoppers wandered aisles that led to the pharmacy counter against the back wall.

      But it was the area along the left wall that snagged her attention. An old soda-fountain counter stood on a black-and-white-checkerboard tiled area with a huge mirror behind it, reflecting stacked parfait glasses and sundae boats. Several of the frilly white wrought-iron tables were occupied by early lunchers. The whole area was bathed in light streaming through the huge front window, making it look like an oasis in the desert—or heaven.

      Her feet led her without conscious direction around the tables and chairs, straight to the counter where she collapsed on the red vinyl stool farthest from the sun.

      A girl stood behind the counter, flipping burgers and snapping gum.

      “Could I have some water?”

      Snap, snap, snap. “Okay, but you gotta order something. You know, something that costs money.” She didn’t move to get a glass.

      Probably just out of high school, the girl wore a pink, sixties-throwback A-line dress, with a white frilled apron and a pink pillbox cap perched on hot-magenta shoulder-length hair. The rims of both ears were encrusted with stud earrings, and her lipstick and short nails were both painted black.

      Rising irritation only made Priss hotter. “You’re going to lecture me on manners?”

      The girl rolled her eyes to the back of the store. “Hey, it’s not me. I could give a crap. It’s the boss’s rule.”

      “Okay. After you bring me water...”

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