The Road She Left Behind

by Nolfi, Christine

  The sound of a car’s engine purred up the drive. Stepping past the trees framing the property line, Nella watched the Mercedes’s leisurely ascent toward the grand brick house.

  Adrenaline spiked through her. Rosalind, her hands gripping the steering wheel, leaned sideways. She peered out the passenger-side window. At Nella.

  By sheer luck, the trees obscured most of the fence. Rosalind couldn’t see the boys lingering to the side, or Darcy.

  Not yet.

  The Mercedes came to a jerky halt. Rigid with fury, Rosalind climbed out. In her haste, she spilled the contents of her purse across the pavement. For a heart-stopping moment, she disappeared from view. In seconds, she’d reappear.

  Nella pushed the boys toward the house. “Get going,” she barked. Samson had also spotted the car, and he nudged Emerson forward. The boys darted between the maple trees. They dashed around the side of the house undetected.

  At the engine’s low rumble, Darcy tensed. Twenty feet away, her mother’s car idled.

  Rosalind, still scooping up the contents of her purse, remained hidden from view.

  “Go inside, Darcy. I’ll take care of this.”

  “Did she see you?” When Nella gave a stiff nod, Darcy planted her feet. “You’re not facing her alone. I’m staying.”

  There wasn’t time to argue. “Please go. I need to talk to your mother.”

  “Nella, you can’t be serious. When was the last time you talked to her? When I was a kid? No way will she listen to you.”

  “Stop arguing. What I need to settle with her doesn’t involve you.” Nella made a motion as if to shoo her. “Let me handle this.”

  Relenting, Darcy pivoted away. She disappeared through the trees without a moment to spare. Nella’s stomach pitched as Rosalind popped back into view. The car door slammed shut.

  Despite the confines of her pencil-thin black skirt, she came around the hood of the Mercedes at an impressive clip. She had paired the skirt with a peach blazer, a matching silk blouse, and a long strand of pearls that swung wildly as she halted at the edge of the pavement. The grass was soggy from last night’s rain. The issue was of no concern to Nella, dressed in jeans and tennis shoes, but Rosalind cared mightily about her expensive clothes.

  Her thunderous gaze latched on Nella. She tugged off her heels.

  She plunked them down on the hood of her car, then marched to the fence. “Why are you lurking near my house?” She pointed a finger due south. “Go home.”

  “In a moment.” Anxiety buzzed around in Nella’s stomach like a hive of bees. “We need to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “Rosalind, it’s been nearly two decades since we’ve had a civil conversation. For once, can’t you withhold judgment and listen?”

  “There’s no reason I should.” She turned back toward the drive.

  “For the love of all that is holy—will you please let me finish?”

  The shrill comment rocketed across the grounds. From the cluster of maple trees, a robin shot out into the sky.

  Rosalind’s back stiffened. She turned around. Lips compressed, she stalked back to the fence.

  Her acquiescence was a stunning reversal. She would listen—for a moment, at least.

  The moisture fled Nella’s mouth. “After my husband died, I wasn’t myself.” She struggled to maintain her composure. “Joseph was so much older, already middle-aged when we fell in love. I should have considered the possibility that he might die long before I was ready to lose him. Even so, I wasn’t prepared for him to die at a conference halfway across the country.”

  The barest glimmer of sympathy flickered in Rosalind’s gaze. “Joseph’s death was a shock for all of us,” she murmured. “He was a good man.”

  “I miss him every day.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Rosalind agreed.

  The tiny softening of her stance gave Nella the courage to hurry on. “Losing him was like having the foundation of my life torn away. He took care of everything for us. I was frightened about managing our finances, caring for our home without his assistance or advice. I was frightened by the prospect of raising our son alone. Michael was only thirteen—too young to lose a father.” Hesitating, she lowered her eyes. The millstone of remorse stole her ability to look at Rosalind. “I’m not making excuses. What happened afterward . . . it was a mistake. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

  Rosalind bristled. “Your immorality is the only subject upon which we agree.”

  The retort blistered Nella’s face with heat. “I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you,” she said with all the good grace she possessed. “I never allow myself to forget how much I’ve hurt you.”

  “I’m glad you can’t forget. I certainly haven’t.”

  “Rosalind, I pray constantly to become a better woman. One moment of weakness can alter the lives of so many people. Friends and family—people I love and should never have caused so much pain.” A black wave of shame rolled over her. “It was the worst mistake of my life. I never should have allowed it.”

  “Allowed it? You act as if you made one stumble on the road to sainthood. Stop twisting the facts. You welcomed the affair.”

  The accusation nearly dissolved her precarious hold on her emotions.

  Is it true? Did I seek comfort after Joseph’s death without understanding where it would lead? Or did grief drive me to welcome the moments of lust, to trade my honor and my self-respect for a mindless night of sex?

  An unsolvable mystery. The truth laid buried with her younger self, with a woman she no longer recognized. A weaker version of the pragmatic adult molded from the wreckage of one impulsive act.

  Unable to argue the point, she stared blankly at her feet. “I betrayed you in the most fundamental way. You were my closest friend. I wish I had the power to repair our friendship.”

  “You don’t.”

  A harsh verdict, and one she readily accepted. “I understand. But this is no longer about us. There’s Emerson to consider.”

  “This has nothing to do with my grandson.”

  “Yes, it does.” She shut her eyes against the shame. “The breach I caused between our families . . . it’s wrong to make him pay the price. He’s such a good little boy, lonely and sweet. I can’t bear to watch him suffer.”

  She heard Rosalind expel a mirthless laugh. “I can’t imagine where you’re going with this.”

  Nella had never earned a college degree. She couldn’t point to the successes her opponent took for granted. But the sarcasm gave her the fortitude to lift her chin and look at Rosalind. To study her with the assessing eye that all women hone if they have raised a child well.

  The signs of physical decline were apparent. Beneath the carefully applied cosmetics, Rosalind’s skin resembled onionskin paper growing brittle in the sun. Tiny capillaries were visible, like a patchwork of delicate and artfully concealed bruises. She didn’t look well. As if to demonstrate her frailty, she lowered a hand to grip the fence. She seemed unsteady on her feet.

  Searching for other clues, Nella heard herself say, “Your grandson has been coming over to my house for over a year now. I’m sorry to tell you like this. I should have alerted you when the visits began.”

  In her mind, Emerson’s worrisome question floated unbound: What is the average expiration date for old people?

  “Now, wait one minute. My grandson has gone to your house repeatedly?”

  “That’s why Michael has been trying to contact you. He’s struck up a friendship with Emerson. He understands how difficult it is for him, growing up without a father. No matter what you think of me, can’t we find a way to allow their relationship to continue?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Snatching her hand from the fence, Rosalind stood blinking at the sun. Taking in all she’d learned, digesting the news with shallow breaths. When she spoke again, her eyes were dull with venom.

  “I’m astonished you have th
e gall to mention Michael.” Her fingers curled into fists. “I’m curious, Nella. The second time, when you started up again—the year after Michael finished college. Did you ever stop to think how he’d react if he’d learned the truth?”

  Bewildered, Nella tried to make sense of the accusation. The second time? A full ten seconds passed before she processed the meaning.

  When she did, the implication washed acid through her stomach. Rosalind believes I carried on with Jack—for years? Appalled, she readied a defense.

  Too late—Rosalind cut her off.

  “I’m not sure what to call a woman like you,” she said. “After your son graduated, why did you and Jack continue meeting at your house? Wouldn’t it have been more dignified to call my husband at his practice and set up a time to meet at a hotel? Or were you afraid someone on his staff would inform me? Ten years after our falling out, everyone knew how much I loathed you. Or was it more thrilling to set up the trysts at your house—and risk Michael finding out? Then again, he is your son. Perhaps he’s amoral like you, and wouldn’t have cared about your sexual exploits.” When Nella backed away from the fence, repulsed, an awful sort of victory flashed in Rosalind’s gaze. Then she frowned, adding, “Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t. There was only the one time with Jack. Just once. Right after I lost Joseph.”

  “Stop lying. Two weeks before Elizabeth and Jack were killed, I came home early from a benefit. Jack assumed I wouldn’t return home until midnight. I went upstairs expecting to find him getting ready for bed. When I looked out the bedroom window, I saw him walking across the backyard, to your house.”

  “No—you’re mistaken.” Nella shook her head in fierce denial. “I don’t know what Jack was doing, but he wasn’t on his way over.”

  “Stop pretending. He was coming over for one simple reason. You’d resumed the affair.” Rosalind paused long enough for hatred to glaze her features. “As for my grandson, he’ll have nothing to do with any member of your family.”

  Chapter 12

  Michael tugged off his work boots. A quick appraisal of the kitchen warned that something was wrong.

  Breakfast dishes were heaped in the sink. On the counter, a puddle of condensation surrounded a jug of orange juice. At the table, his grandmother sorted tomatoes with the enthusiasm of a child trapped inside on a rainy day. Tippi had plucked a whole basket of tomatoes from the garden. Many were bright green and nowhere near ripe.

  Worried, he patted her shoulder. “Where’s Mom? Did she go out?”

  “She was nosing around in the liquor cabinet.”

  “You mean dusting?” Her obsession with cleanliness was legendary.

  “I mean drinking. Boozing it up. Getting snockered.”

  “Tippi, are you having an episode? Mom never gets drunk. Other than the occasional glass of wine, she rarely drinks.”

  A rumble of discontent rose from his grandmother. “There’s nothing wrong with my faculties.” Stabbing the air, she pointed toward the living room. “If Nella ran off with my Hennessy, she’s in big trouble. Go check, Michael. Make sure she didn’t take my brandy.”

  “Take it where?”

  With moody disinterest, Tippi plucked another tomato from the basket. “She’s out in the barn, skulking inside Emerson’s loft. Getting toasted in a boy’s playroom—who does that? I raised her to have more sense.”

  “Emerson isn’t with her, is he?” Michael peered under the table, grabbed his tennis shoes.

  “She made him go home.”

  “When?”

  “Right before lunchtime. He came over with his new friend.”

  “Great. Emerson broke himself out of prison again. Just what I need.”

  Michael laced up his shoes in record time. He’d promised to call Emerson later. He should’ve laid down the law, told the kid not to leave his grandmother’s property under any circumstance. There wasn’t much point of trying to make his case before the ill-tempered judge if Emerson kept mucking up the works.

  A minor concern at the moment. How a child’s penchant for getting into trouble factored into Nella’s drinking spree, Michael refused to guess.

  Taking long strides past the vegetable garden, he wondered what could have upset his mother enough to explain the break from her normal behavior. He couldn’t wrap his brain around the idea of her getting drunk.

  In the small barn behind the riding arena, Jasper was panting near the ladder to the loft. The loyal mutt, keyed into Nella’s distress, would guard his post until she came back down.

  “It’s okay, boy.” Michael patted the dog. “I’m on it.”

  In the annals of strange sights, Michael had witnessed his share. The girl he dated in college, who once laughed so hard a trickle of pee ran down her leg. The surly boss at his first job in banking, who picked his nose during meetings. Tippi on the living room couch, getting handsy with one of her beaus.

  This was something new. His mother sat against a wall with her legs flung out like a rag doll’s. An endearing sight—if you ignored the plastic cup and the bottle of Ketel One propped against her hip.

  Ducking the low rafters, he came across. “Doing shots?” Joining her, Michael examined the empty cup. “How many?”

  “Three.”

  “Planning on more?”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  He tossed the cup across the floor. “What is your opinion regarding friendly advice?”

  “Not good.” Blinking slowly, she frowned. “You’re my son, not my spiritual advisor. I’m beyond redemption.”

  The pitiful remark made him smile. His mother attended church regularly. She let the local Girl Scout troop camp in the back forty every spring. During northeast Ohio’s bitter winters, she dumped fifty-pound bags of corn near the forest to feed the deer. Once, during his senior year of high school, he found her seated on the back deck in tundra attire, cradling a sparrow between her thick mittens. She’d found the bird, which had flown into the living room window, stunned in a snowdrift. Michael would never forget the sight of the bird trembling back to wakefulness, then rocketing out of her hands.

  He said, “I doubt you’re beyond redemption, although it wouldn’t hurt to deal with whatever is bothering you. A better choice than getting drunk. Speaking of which, Tippi will be pleased you didn’t walk off with her brandy.”

  “I hate brandy. It makes my nose stuffy.”

  “Since when do you like vodka? Hard liquor isn’t your thing.”

  “That isn’t entirely accurate.” With jerky movements, she brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “I drank my first vodka martini at the grand old age of eighteen.”

  “You did not.”

  “Did too,” she assured him. “Such a sophisticated adult drink. How could I resist? They went down so easily, I’d have two or three before the night was out.”

  He tried to form a mental image of his practical mother throwing back martinis. A daunting task. Michael prided himself on his ability to read people. Yet maturity didn’t equip a man with the skills to apprehend the full nature of his own mother, especially not of the young woman she’d been long ago.

  “It’s hard to believe you were into martinis. Half a glass of wine, and you’re tipsy.”

  “I got more than tipsy on the martinis. After your dad and I married, I switched to wine. It didn’t leave me feeling smashed, but still made me feel all grown up. Not that I ever drank while pregnant.”

  He knew those first years of marriage were marked by a series of miscarriages. Michael wasn’t sure of the sum total she’d endured in her desire to bring him into the world. He’d never had the stomach to ask.

  “Those were difficult years,” she murmured. “By the time I finally got pregnant with you, I’d lost the taste for vodka.”

  “Not the worst outcome.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  He felt helpless, unable to quell the pain sifting through her features. Wishing to
lighten the moment, he said, “If I ever have a daughter, remind me to watch her like a hawk. I don’t want her wolfing down martinis like her grandmother. Not at a tender age.”

  “Don’t blame Tippi and your late grandfather for my habits. They would’ve been horrified if they’d known.”

  “Dad turned you on to hard liquor?”

  Her eyes were slightly glassy as she regarded him with amusement. “In your father’s defense, he didn’t expect to fall in love with the new girl in the secretarial pool. He was already in his forties, past the age when most people marry. One of Cleveland’s most successful architects, but completely wrapped up in his career. It’s a toss-up which one of us was more besotted.”

  “Is this about Dad? You’re drinking because you miss him?”

  She picked up the Ketel One, hesitated. Setting the bottle down, she folded her hands in her lap. “I saw Rosalind.”

  “When you walked Emerson and his friend back to the fence?” She gave him a questioning look, and he added, “Tippi gave me the rundown.”

  “Rosalind was pulling in when I walked the kids back. She didn’t see them. I hate to imagine the sort of punishment she’d devise for Emerson if she had.”

  “You spoke with her?”

  “And Darcy, but only for a minute. I sent her inside with the boys before the fireworks started.”

  Mention of Darcy sparked his interest. An inconvenient reaction he quickly suppressed. Aside from the brief moment on the day they’d brought Emerson home, he hadn’t seen her. Michael wasn’t sure how he’d react when they did finally come face-to-face. They had enough unfinished business for an hours-long conversation.

  He said, “Tell me about the fireworks with Rosalind.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I stood there while she railed at me.” Wearily, Nella rubbed her face. “Son, I need to ask you something.”

  The worry threaded through the remark put him on alert. “Anything.”

  “When you and Darcy began dating, I assumed you only told me. There’d been no communication between our family and the Goodridges for ten years. I assumed you knew the wisest course was to keep your relationship with Darcy secret, at least until you were sure of your intentions.”