Coming Home (Pierpoint View #1)

Chapter Six - Summer

CHAPTER SIX

Summer

Since getting here a week ago, the amount of people around town has grown exponentially, Fred says its the summer tourists coming in. He says it with so much disdain, but I know he relies on those summer tourists and he loves them just as much as he hates them.

In fact, as I wade my way through the hoard of beach goers out the front of his shop deciding on which beach ball to get, I can hear him cursing inside.

“Goddamn it. Stupid John. ‘Get a card machine, you need a card machine’. I don’t need shit. What happened to good ol’ fashioned cash. If you wanna buy something, you should have cash,” he rants.

“Got to get with the times Fred, we’ll be a cashless society soon, you’ll see,” I joke. I know secretly he appreciates John’s — and anyone else’s — advice when it comes to the business, he’s knows he’s a man stuck in his ways.

Fred’s holding a corded phone to his ear while hammering the buttons on said card machine where none of the buttons seem to be responding.

“Over my dead body, girl,” he says with a grin. I hope the grin is in response to my presence and it makes my little heart happy knowing that he finds joy in my being here even if he looks like he’s fighting for his life over there.

There’s a small queue forming at the counter but Fred is tied to the wall by his phone mere feet away from where he needs to be to serve the customers.

Knowing he won’t ask for help, I make my way behind the counter, dropping my purse on an unopened box and get to work. Luckily for me, and for Fred, his POS system is just a calculator and money box right now with stickers on every item stating how much it costs.

I make my way through the customers with only a few minor hiccups, talking extra loud when Fred finally gets through to what I assume is customer service and starts swearing like a sailor so that his customers don’t hear but I think some parents end up rushing their kids away and out of earshot anyway.

He eventually slams the phone back on to the hook but with so much force it falls straight back off, the only thing catching it’s fall is the cord. Even my Gran upgraded to wireless about 10 years back.

“They don’t know nothin’ Summer, tryin’ to tell me its ‘user error’. I’m 66 years young and you’re tellin’ me I don’t know what I’m doin’.” I’ve noticed that when Fred gets riled up, which is often, his accents starts to show a little more. I’m still not entirely sure where the accents from, although I’m sure it’s still somewhere in North America.

“I’m not telling you anything, Fred.”

He gives me a derisive look I know he doesn’t mean. “You know what I mean, girl.”

“Let me help, what’s wrong with it?” I ask, grabbing the card machine from him, turning it on and off again, that usually helps to start with .

“You just helped enough, and I ain’t paying ya’.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I’ve seen Fred almost everyday, and his abrasive demeanor has grown on me. Not that he’s rude, but he’s no holds barred and he’s unapologetic about it and I actually think it’s his way of showing affection and making conversation or at least that’s what I like to believe.

“The buttons aint workin’,” he huffs, dumping my purse on the floor and unceremoniously dropping himself down on to the box. “I press them and nothin’ happens.” He’s acting like a petulant child and if it were anyone else, I know it would drive me insane, but I can’t blame the guy for not knowing. This day and age technology moves quickly and if you don’t have someone to keep you up-to-date, you’re lost.

I play around with the machine a little bit more, checking the settings.

“The WIFI is off, Fred.”

“Now what in the hell is WIFI?” he asks.

“Did they not tell you that you needed WIFI for this to work?” Surely they would’ve got this set up for him when he bought it.

“I bought it off a friend o’ mine, he didn’t tell me nothin’.”

I look at him, not shocked or surprised. Just a little… flabbergasted, if that’s the right word.

“Fred you need WIFI, do you have that? Do you have internet access?” I ask, mentally crossing all my fingers and toes, because that is something I do not want to have to set up with him. I don’t think he has the patience. And honestly, I don’t think I have it in me either.

“Internet? Yes, It’s not the nineties, Summer.” He’s frowning at me, making the wrinkles on his face look worse than they are. “I have wee fee.”

“WIFI,” I clarify.

“No, wee fee.”

I raise my eyebrows, my lips pressing together, knowing this is not a fight I want to have with him. The little amount of patience he has, is sure made up for with the amount of stubbornness he has.

“Okay… wee fee. We just need to connect this to it and it will work. Where’s your router?” I ask, and I knew I shouldn’t have opened that can of worms but I did and now he’s looking at me like he’s going to murder me because he sure as shit doesn’t know what a router is if he doesn’t even know how to pronounce WIFI.

After 30 minutes of near arguments, I figured everything out with no help from Fred. I can’t blame the guy. John and Stevie helped him install what little electronics he had here in the shop and I assume Fred never paid much attention to their explanations because as I said; the man’s stubborn. He definitely thought he could do this all himself without any help. But I’m glad I could be here to help.

I feel for Fred and in a way he reminds me of my Gran. She would not approve of that statement if she knew him, but their personalities are awfully similar.

Fred fixes me a cup of tea, we’ve had lengthy discussions almost daily about how he believes you shouldn’t drink coffee after midday and he has me on the same regimen.

After a couple sips Fred speaks. “Thanks for helpin’ me out, Summer.” His voice is begrudging but his light grey eyes, wrinkled at the corner, say another story and there’s more appreciation in that one look than anyone has shown me in a good long while.

“No problem, Fred.” I place my cup of tea down on the dusty counter. “I actually came here to ask you something.”

Fred feigns a hurt gasp. “You mean you didn’t just come here to see me. That hurts, Summer,” he says, chuckling at the end and gesturing for me to carry on. This man is always laughing at his own jokes.

“I’ve been speaking to Alex about my job prospects and we figured the best thing for me right now is to work in a coffee shop, based on my experience.”

He goes to say something and cuts himself short with a frown, “But we don’t have one here.”

“Exactly, which is why I wanted to talk to you.” I wring my hands together. I’m sure Fred would be okay with this; I hope he’d be okay with this and I’m nervous about his answer because I respect the guy and we’ve become friends in my short time here.

“How would you feel about me leasing the shop under my apartment?” I ask. It comes out in one big rush of words and I can see the wheels turning in Fred’s head, trying to decipher what I’ve said. I can see the moment the realization sets in.

“Alex told you that it was my wife’s store before, didn’t she?” He shakes his head, “Just ‘cause it was my wife’s doesn’t mean that I care ‘bout what happens to it now.”

“So you’d be okay with it? I’d want to keep it pretty much the same, and I’d want your input too?” I say, wondering why I framed that as a question.

He looks at me sincerely for a moment, taking a thoughtful sip of his tea. “We can do whatever you want, sweetheart,” he says, a small smile pulling at his lips.

I’m glad I asked him, even though he barely talks about I know he misses his kids and I want to assume he’s grateful for me considering his feelings in this and asking for his help, even if he doesn’t outright say it .

John and Stevie were easy to persuade into letting me lease the space and with a little more small talk, I hang up the phone with them putting away the pages I’d ripped out of Alex’s notebook with my plans on it, Fred had been leafing through them while I spoke to John and Stevie.

“All this looks great, girl but I have one request.” Fred says and before I can answer he stands and turns, walking into the back storage cupboard. He reappears holding a big canvas with an old sheet covering the front.

“This was in my wife’s shop, I would like it if you could put it here,” He says, pointing to a space on one of the pages of plans I’d left out for him to keep. It’s a floor plan, mapping out where I’d put furniture and the like, and on one wall I’d written ‘Artwork by local artist’.

This is the first time I’m serving Fred… nervous? No. Uncertain. He’s always so self assured, to a fault, really.

“Can I see it?” I ask, pointing to the canvas, treading carefully, knowing this is obviously not a comfy topic for Fred.

He nods and turns the canvas around, taking the sheet off. It’s a painting of a ballerina, tutu and all, pirouetting in the middle of what seems be a grand library. It looks like its been painted with oil paints but could very well be acrylic for all I know, the ballerina is painted with soft, pale colors, where as the background is dark, blurred, making the ballerina stand out even more.

Its beautiful. Haunting, almost.

“Chrissy — my wife — painted it. It was for my little girl’s room, she did it when she started dance, girl quit a year later, so we took it down. But I kept it.”

I love it .

“Fred, I’d be honored to put this up!” I breathe, without taking my eyes off the painting.

“Thanks, I’ll keep it here ‘til you need it.” Fred covers the painting back up and leans it against the wall behind the counter. He takes a while to get it situated and makes sure it’s steady before letting go of it, as if he’s imagining the fragile painting is actually his wife. Or maybe even daughter. I can only imagine the loss he feels and how devastating it must be to love something so dearly that you can’t have.

About an hour later, I’m back in the store beneath my apartment. This place will be mine soon and it fills me with so much hope and joy and the first thing I do is rip down the newspaper covering the windows so I can see the space in all its glory.

Mine. I’ve not really had much thats entirely mine, especially not in the later years of my life. Maybe spending that money isn’t so bad, I went through a lot to get it, I guess.

God knows how much I need this for myself.

I’m owed this. He owed me this.

I spin in a slow circle, taking in the entire space and imagining the space once I’ve filled it up, ending at the wall where Chrissy’s painting will be hanging proudly.