Page 15 of The Hampton Beach Café 2
Reading her mom's diary entries had been rough. The three days she'd spent tucked up in bed, unable to tear herself away from them, had felt like weeks. The now familiar feeling of dread creeping up from her stomach and into her chest intensified as she kept reading.
Day 173:I noticed a pattern in the postmarks. For every four letters, the postmark is for Chicago. The one's in between seem to be randomized, but there's always one from Atlanta, New York, Houston, or Memphis. I put them on the map, I think he's traveling between towns, but I can't find a pattern. Why is he doing this to us? Frances is devastated. He didn't even send her anything real for her graduation. He's always been stubborn, but I never thought he could be so cruel. I'm going to Chicago. I don't think I'll find him, but...I have to try.
Day 230:this week, I have a flight. Frances thinks I'm going to visit an old friend––not find her father. She's still so angry with me. I can't stand it. I've tried being honest with her, but she doesn't believe me...maybe one day I can drag him by his ear into her life and make him explain himself.
Day 278:the letters stopped. They stopped a week after I got back from Chicago; not a single one has arrived. I didn't find him but...I think he saw me. Why else would the letters just stop? Di suggested maybe the letters are in invisible ink. I thought she was nuts at first, but he did use to do things like that with Frances when she was small––writing in lemon juice and putting it in the oven to make it show. Maybe it's not completely crazy...
Day 302:If it was lemon juice, it doesn't work anymore. I nearly set the house on fire trying to bake it. Idiot. I think I'm fooling myself.
Each entry had gotten steadily more devastating and desperate as she read on. It seemed that her mom really hadn't known where her father had gone when he left. Frances placed the diary down and unfolded the map she had found tucked into the tome. Just like her mom had written, little colored stickers with numbers on them had been placed over cities and towns where the postmarks had been stamped. He had traveled in and out of Chicago every month for seven months, then the letters stopped. Did he just stop sending them? Did he die? Or maybe he just moved on and stopped caring about sending them...
She didn't know what option made her feel the worst.
The rest of the book was blank. Apparently, her mom had stopped trying after the failed lemon juice experiment. She couldn't remember a time when her father had done anything like that with her, but as her mom often said––her memory was hardly the best when it came to her childhood.
Frances pushed the covers back. She needed to go downstairs and get some work done...Glancing at the pile of books still on the bed, she counted them. Seven books in total. Flipping the first page on all of them open, she saw that the dates didn't necessarily follow on, but the day number system did––the first entry in this next one was Day 303.
She quickly changed out of her pajamas and into some yoga pants and a comfortable t-shirt. She needed to digest all this. She was still turning it over in her mind, debating whether or not she should talk to her mom before she finished reading them all, as she found herself at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hey, feeling ok?” Vince asked.
She looked at him, confused, until she remembered she had told him she had a migraine.
“Oh, yeah, fine,” she said shortly. “How's the gallery?”
“Coming along. I've chosen most of the pieces if you want to see them?”
“No, I trust you,” she said, heading for the kitchen.
Ignoring the slightly hurt look, she made a beeline for the fridge. She needed a grilled cheese. As she fussed in the fridge, she heard whispering, cocking her head to one side. She realized it was Lucinda.
“It's been a week Alex,” she hissed.
“It has been three days, but I don't disagree,” he whispered back.
Oh no, they were worrying about her. Her stomach twisted in guilt, she tried to ignore the low voices, but now she knew they were talking about her...
“If we gang up on her, she'll have to. She needs a break. She won't talk to me about it. A day out will do her good.”
No, no, it wouldn't. She just needed to finish reading the diaries, and she'd be fine...
“And we're getting behind with the café...”
What? It had only been three days. How could they be behind?
“How badly?”
Lucinda sighed before answering.
“We haven't got a name sorted, any of the menus, any of the signage, or the loyalty cards, and only two weeks to go––we still need to plan an opening event and get it advertised.”
Alex sounded worried when he next spoke. “Can we really afford to take a day off for an intervention?”
“It's not an intervention––don't say that word, but yes, I think it's important.”
Why did she hate that word so much? Lucinda sounded angry, which surprised Frances. Lucinda was rarely angry...This realization, coupled with the worry in Alex's voice, settled her mind.
She didn't need to finish the diaries. She needed to work in the café.
