Page 24 of The Hampton Beach Café 3
The guilt she felt over even thinking about her mom negatively started to creep in. That was something she had taken years to get over. Her old therapist always told her, less than perfect isn't evil, but when it came to her mom...
"Let's go in," she said suddenly, realizing that Alex hadn't said anything in several moments while she stared into the middle distance and probably looked like she was losing her mind.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "It might not be...what you're looking for."
"I don't think I know what I'm looking for," she replied. "But I don't expect it to be a lottery win or a terminal diagnosis."
By falling back on the examples of a perfect win and a perfect loss that she and Alex had used as kids, Frances was always able to put things in perspective. A lottery win would fix everything––according to their teenage logic––and a one hundred percent terminal diagnosis was the opposite. The oversimplified thought pattern was useless in the majority of adult decision-making. After all, terminally ill people still had to pay mortgages, and lottery winners still went bankrupt, but as a big picture refocus? It worked.
"Okay," he said. "Just check your phone and tell me the time if you want to leave, ok?"
"What time do we actually have to leave here to pick her up at five?"
"Four thirty, to be safe."
"Yeah, sure, let's go."
They crossed the road and entered the little store, she had never been inside before but she knew almost instinctively that it hadn't changed since Mac was a young man. The chairs were leather, a little scratched up but cared for nicely all the same. The scent of the leather conditioner was sweet and a little cloying, mixed with the smells of shampoo and musky cologne. Frances could see why this was a safe haven for many of the grown-up men in her father's age group when she was a child.
Mac entered the room. "Welcome, come on in, take a seat––oh. Hello, you're new?"
Frances closed the door gently behind her. "Yes, I'm Frances and this is Alex."
The elderly Mac stands remarkably straight for a man who has spent probably fifty years bent over clients' chairs and peering closely at things,Frances thought. His keen eyes took them in as he looked them over, which made her feel oddly exposed. She leaned a little closer to Alex and smiled. Mac's face lit up, a broad and welcoming grin taking hold.
"Well, it's a pleasure, but unless you're looking for a short back and sides, I'm not sure I can help you––or are you just keeping your husband company? A lotta wives have real strict rules what their men do with the hair on their heads!"
Both she and Alex tripped over their words. "Oh no, no, we're not. It's not like that," she said.
"We're friends," Alex said, smiling awkwardly through a rapidly flushing face.
"Oh, really?" Mac said. "Alright, my point still stands about the short back and sides––your hair's beautifully cut, and it's really not my forte."
"That's ok," Frances said. "I actually would really like to ask you some questions?"
The welcoming smile wavered. "You some kind of reporter or something?"
"No," Frances said. Though it would be a good cover story, she wanted to be honest with him.
Alex stepped forward, "I'm Alex Lockwood. My dad used to come in here when I was a kid. He brought me here for my first haircut?"
"Did he now? Lockwood...Lockwood, oh yeah! I remember Harold. How's your mom, kiddo?"
"She's doing great, Mac. They live down in Salem now," Alex said. "After what happened with the shop, they didn't really want to stick around and see a new face in the old house every few months."
Mac nodded. "That was a mighty shame. They did alright for themselves, though, better than some of the offers I get on this place now."
"True, luckily though, Frances has just bought it," he continued. "She’s running a coffee shop and art gallery there now. I'm doing most of the baking, though."
"So she doesn't count as a new face?" Mac said with a twinkle of mischief in his eye. "It's a very pretty face, I must admit."
Feeling her face go hot, Frances tried to laugh it off.
"The prettiest, but she's not new," Alex said, expertly turning the conversation. "She grew up here, but you might not have met her. You knew her dad, though, and that's what we wanted to talk to you about actually."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," Frances said. "My dad was Jonathon Lane?"
