The Road She Left Behind

by Nolfi, Christine

  “What a sage observation. You have a great deal of common sense. A rarity these days.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hold fast to your beliefs, dear,” she added with genuine affection. The endearment startled everyone in the room. “You’ll need those rock-solid beliefs once you have a family of your own. Children will chip away at your control like nasty little miners. Don’t let them.”

  “I won’t,” Samson promised.

  “Thank you for weighing in.” With simmering impatience, she regarded Darcy. “Are you planning to eat while standing? Dinner is growing cold.”

  “The jury is still out.” Change was never easy for her mother. Even one so obvious, it should have occurred long ago. “Will you answer my question?”

  “Fine! I’ll answer. I’ve never given much thought to our dining arrangements. Until my retirement, I was rarely home at the dinner hour. I usually worked late.”

  “Emerson had his dinner with me,” Latrice told Darcy. Impish lights flashed through her David Bowie eyes. “In the kitchen.”

  “Wow.” Darcy laughed. “Some things never change.”

  Rosalind fell back in her chair. Her irritation melting away, she regarded Latrice. “If I’ve offended you in any way—”

  “You haven’t,” Latrice cut in. “I work for you. I understand.” The emotionally charged discussion nearly stole her composure. With jittery strokes, she smoothed down her gray dress, the silly maid’s uniform that Darcy despised.

  When the housekeeper spoke again, her voice was hoarse and unsteady.

  “Rosalind, things are changing around here. Most of those changes won’t be easy. I feel awful about that, and want you to know I’m here for you. Through thick and thin. No matter what comes our way, you can always count on me. You’re the prickliest woman in God’s creation, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish all the best for you.”

  In the days to come, Darcy would never know if the heartfelt monologue loosened her mother’s famous hold on propriety. Or perhaps the dignified judge, having made the fleeing Morgan Harbert ram into her SUV, was still privately enjoying the triumph. There really was no telling. Whatever the reason, a welcome change arrived in the Goodridge household as Rosalind, with an air of great occasion, rose from the table.

  She swept a gracious hand toward the chair to her right. The chair that Darcy, her throat now tight with gratitude, had refused to occupy. “Will you join us, Latrice? And please—join us for dinner in the future whenever your schedule permits. We’ll wait while you change into your street clothes.”

  The housekeeper disappeared.

  She returned wearing brown slacks and a yellow blouse. But she didn’t sit to her employer’s right. She gestured for Darcy to sit by her mother. Darcy gladly complied.

  When Latrice’s intent became obvious, Emerson and Samson picked up their plates and moved down the table until they were in the exact center. Latrice sat at the other end, facing Rosalind with a smile.

  By the time the meal commenced, dinner was cold. Nobody cared. They feasted on turkey and all the trimmings like it was Thanksgiving in July.

  When they finished, Latrice reminded Emerson they needed to leave soon. “Pleasant Valley Dentistry has evening hours,” she explained to Darcy. “Your nephew has a cleaning at seven o’clock.”

  Darcy took a last sip from her glass. “Should I take him?”

  “Don’t bother. This is our annual July affair. Mind taking care of the dishes?”

  “No problem.”

  Latrice regarded the boy. “Should we go shopping for new tennis shoes afterward? Your summer pair are getting scruffy.”

  “Can we get ice cream after we shop?”

  “If your teeth don’t hurt too much. But they never seem to.”

  They left the dining room.

  Darcy, feeling adrift, watched them go. The cleaning and shopping was an annual event, long established by the housekeeper and Emerson. It was silly to feel left out.

  Rosalind folded her napkin beside her plate. To her left, Samson trailed a last piece of homemade bread through the gravy on his plate.

  “Do you have plans for the evening?” she asked him.

  “No, ma’am.” Her curiosity pleased him. “Do you?”

  “I haven’t, actually. I was wondering if you would like to learn how to play chess.”

  “I’d like that a lot.”

  “Wonderful.” She rose. “I have a beautiful chess set in my office. Let’s play in the living room. We’ll be more comfortable there.”

  Darcy watched the interchange with her heart in her throat. She hated chess. The game took hours to play, and moved at a snail’s pace. Before her death, Elizabeth had loved playing in the spare hours when Rosalind found the time.

  Chatting quietly, Rosalind and Samson left. In the silence they left behind, Darcy collected up the dishes. The evening was her own.

  For the first time since returning to Ohio, there was nothing but time on her hands.

  The problem with having the evening to herself? It lent too much time to think.

  Chapter 17

  Needing a break, Michael left the barn and headed toward the house. Between frequent afternoons spent with Emerson and the sheer volume of cabinetry needed for the Tinley job, burning the midnight oil tonight wasn’t a bad idea. A shower first; hours of toiling in the shop had left his muscles stiff. He wondered if he could raid the fridge on his way back outside without sparking an argument.

  He slipped past his mother, plucking handfuls of summer lettuce from the garden. The savory aroma of beef stew—one of his grandmother Tippi’s favorite meals—wafted through the house. Warning lights flashed in his brain.

  A quick glance in the dining room confirmed his worst suspicions. Tippi was setting the table while singing Italian ballads off-key. Four place settings, which meant she’d invited one of her prehistoric suitors for date night. Michael hated abandoning his mother to deal with Tippi’s latest romance alone. And missing out on Nella’s mouthwatering stew would be a tragedy. But the prospect of watching Tippi and some old codger gumming food while leering at each other wasn’t a great choice either.

  No contest. Burn the midnight oil.

  Michael went upstairs. When he stepped out of the shower, feeling marginally better, he trailed water across his bedroom. Shrugging into jeans, he decided his mother would forgive him for skipping dinner. Tippi? Not so much.

  Resigned to the decision, he grabbed a T-shirt from the laundry pile he’d left on his unmade bed.

  On the dresser, his smartphone buzzed.

  R U busy?

  He’d given Darcy his number weeks ago. If he took Emerson for an outing, sometimes she checked when they planned to return. The calls were too brief, although the motherly concern she displayed for her nephew was surprising and sweet. Michael hoped her newfound devotion would help her to finally put down roots.

  This was their first text. When they’d dated years ago, they’d owned flip-top phones and used cars.

  No. Why?

  Spring me from prison? Martini bar in 15?

  Flinging down the T-shirt, he strode to the closet. A button-down shirt—definitely. Grabbing a blue oxford, he started back toward the bed. He considered breaking out the cologne, a real date-night move. Immediately he ditched the idea.

  This wasn’t date night. Getting tangled up with Darcy wasn’t on the agenda. There was too much on her plate. Besides, he needed more distance from his passionless marriage and a divorce that had come too easy. Letting Darcy tangle up his emotions yet again made no sense whatsoever.

  Hello? If you’re busy . . .

  Michael nearly fell over his feet. She was waiting for a reply.

  See U there.

  In the center of Chagrin Falls, the martini bar sparkled like a Christmas ornament. The popular venue featured a glass wall facing the cobblestone patio in front, brass fixtures throughout the interior, and subdued lighting in shades of violet, green, and blue. On the patio
, people milled around in small groups. Their animated conversations nearly masked the bluesy notes of the background music.

  Inside, the leather booths and the tables were packed. Behind the long bar, four bartenders raced to fill orders.

  Michael felt a tap on his back.

  “You beat me here.” Darcy appeared at his side.

  “Only by a second.”

  “What are you having?” She squeezed past several women to reach the bar. “My treat. I’m in desperate need of an appletini.”

  “Long day?”

  Darcy toyed with the ribbon of pale-yellow hair falling across her shoulder. “It’s been a long month.” She reconsidered. “Today wasn’t all bad. Latrice joined us for dinner.”

  “Doesn’t she usually?”

  She chuckled. “You’re remembering when Elizabeth and I were kids and we ate with Latrice in the kitchen. Tonight she joined us in the dining room. She’ll continue to do so, from here on out.”

  “Sounds like a good deal.” With the advantage of height, Michael lifted a confident hand. A bartender hurried over. “An appletini for the lady, and a whiskey sour.” He handed over a credit card.

  “Meeting was my idea. Why are you paying?”

  “My treat.” When the bartender returned with their order, he eyed the appletini with curiosity. “A new habit? You were into whiskey sours when we dated.” On their second or third date, he’d turned her on to them. They became her go-to drink—with extra maraschino cherries.

  “Tastes change.” Mirth sparkled in her eyes as she nodded at his glass. “Aren’t you tired of same old, same old?”

  “Not even a little. I’m a man who knows what he likes.”

  Balancing their drinks, they went outside. He led her to a table in the corner of the patio, away from the din. Darcy looked pretty tonight, in a lacy top and jeans, her glossy hair tumbling down her back. She’d even done up her eyes with mascara and a shimmery eye shadow and rimmed her mouth in lipstick.

  After she’d seated herself, he asked, “What’s the occasion?”

  “For tonight’s jailbreak?” Absently, she trailed a finger around the rim of her glass. “Would you believe lilies and parking lot aggression?”

  “Come again?”

  “You don’t want to hear. It’s a long story.”

  One, apparently, she preferred not to share. There was a lot on her mind, surely. A host of new responsibilities—including a seriously ill parent and a young nephew now becoming a permanent fixture in her life. If she felt overwhelmed, it was understandable. Sure, Darcy possessed an adventurous spirit. But underneath lay a fragility she’d never understood—a need to assume burdens no matter the personal cost.

  Searching for a neutral topic, he asked, “What have you been doing to keep busy?” He winced. “Did that sound judgmental? Caring for your mother must be a full-time job.”

  “It’s not, at least not yet. But I am busy. Turns out the house isn’t in as good a shape as I thought. Last week we had a minor catastrophe in Emerson’s bathroom. One of those slow leaks under the sink that turns into a major flood. The mansion is nearly a century old. Most of the plumbing hasn’t been upgraded in years.”

  “Hire a plumber to check the entire house,” he suggested.

  “Already done. There’s also an electrician lined up. I’m also bringing someone in to check the foundation. Remember all the storage rooms in the basement?”

  They’d often played adventure games in the cobwebbed spaces, daring each other to look into dark corners. One particularly embarrassing afternoon, Darcy had snatched away his flashlight. She’d let him howl in the dark for a good ten seconds before flicking it on again.

  Not one to be outplayed, Michael returned the favor later the same week. While they were hunting for salamanders by the riverbank, he snatched her tennis shoes. Darcy was forced to walk all the way home barefoot.

  “There’s dampness in three of the rooms and a weird moldy smell,” she was saying. “I’m worried there’s a crack in the foundation. I can’t find the source of the odor or the dampness. Latrice went down with me last weekend to check. She’s also stumped.”

  “Have you mentioned the problem to Rosalind?”

  “Why bother?” An air of resignation slumped Darcy’s shoulders. She raised her glass and stared absently at the contents. “My mother has enough on her mind. Whatever is going on, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Check for decay in the rafters. Wood rot can lead to lots of headaches. If you need a carpenter, you know who to call.”

  The well-meaning remark put an attractive gleam in her eyes. “I’ve been wondering about your new line of work. Why did you give up banking?”

  “Long story,” he quipped, stealing from her playbook.

  “I’m sure you’re happy. I’m simply curious.”

  They were straying too close to sensitive topics. If Darcy meant to steer the conversation toward a discussion of their ill-fated romance, there was nothing to gain by playing along.

  “The short version? I didn’t like who I’d become. I no longer felt grounded.”

  “You’ve always been grounded. It’s hard to imagine anything throwing you off-balance.” She looked at him fully then, in the way he remembered—boldly and without feminine artifice. “You were so driven back then. You had your whole career planned out. One more year working at an Ohio bank, then you were leaving for New York and Wall Street. You thought the Big Apple was the only place worth living. You nearly had me convinced to follow you there.”

  The admission took something vital from her features.

  “Why bring this up now?” he asked. He was aware of the heat crawling up his spine, prickling across his scalp, quickening his pulse—the automatic responses of a man in the first stages of arousal. This wasn’t about him, or flirting in some pretense to reignite what they’d felt when they were young and untested. Searching for clues, he watched her drain her glass.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me about the lilies.” Despite his discomfort, he grinned. “And the parking lot aggression.”

  “My mother doesn’t want lilies at her funeral. Or gardenias.”

  “She’s planning her funeral?”

  “Complete with a guest list.”

  The news didn’t surprise him. “Can’t the grim conversations wait a few months?” A precise woman like Rosalind would map out every detail.

  “You’d think. I mean, it’s only July. We have lots of time.” A long sigh drifted from her. “I’m not ready to think about planning a funeral or saying goodbye. Dr. Tanaka believes there’s a good chance my mother will celebrate Christmas. One last Christmas with Emerson—it would mean so much to him.”

  Five more months. Given Rosalind’s fierce willpower, she’d likely circumvent death until after the holiday season, if only for her grandson’s sake. Despite his low opinion of her, Michael knew her affection for Emerson was deep and unswaying.

  “Have you begun looking into hospice facilities?” He declined to add that he’d done his own digging regarding congestive heart failure. Late at night, tooling around on the internet when Darcy invaded his thoughts. The end game wasn’t pretty. Feeding tubes and unrelenting pain. “There are several good facilities in Geauga County. One of Tippi’s friends was in hospice at a facility about ten minutes away. Nice woman—they kept her comfortable until the end. I can get the information for you.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “You’ve already begun looking?”

  “I’m not planning on hospice. She’d like to die at home, surrounded by family. I want to give her that gift. It’s the least I can do.”

  He caught the hesitation in her voice, the anxiety. The tiny thread of fear that made him want to protect her.

  “What if Rosalind lingers for weeks? Are you prepared to outfit the house like a hospital?”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Death isn’t pretty—or cheap. It doe
sn’t arrive on a predictable schedule.”

  “Meaning what? Once my mother reaches the lingering stage, I should dump her in a cold, sterile facility?”

  The defiance glossing her features gave him pause. But the decision she’d come to was the wrong one.

  Resting his forearms on the table, he tried to reason with her. “Darcy, I can’t pretend to know what you’ve been up to for the last eight years. I’ll wager your life has been in a holding pattern since the accident, and you’ve never mapped out a way to move on. It’s great you’ve come back. It’s commendable how you’ve tried to convince Rosalind to get on a heart transplant list, even if she won’t listen. If you can build a semblance of a relationship with your mother before her time ends, I hope it will help you get your life back on track. You don’t need more hardship. You’ve had more than your share.”

  “You’re implying I’m weak?”

  “Your family has caused you enough burdens. What sort of toll will this take on you, and Emerson?”

  “I shouldn’t have brought this up.” She splayed her fingers on the table. “Let’s move on. What have Nella and Tippi been up to? Is Tippi still breaking hearts in town? I need to schedule a lunch date with them when my mother isn’t looking.”

  “Stop deflecting. I’m lending good advice.”

  “And I ought to listen? Michael, I know you mean well.” She exhaled a frustrated breath. “Let’s not argue. Can we just enjoy a drink together? I’ve missed you more than I realized.”

  To emphasize the point, she leaned across the table. The curtain of her blonde hair glided forward in an enticing wave.

  “I’m not arguing with you,” he said, hoping to calm her down.

  “Good. I have enough to deal with right now. I need to relax. For just an hour. Then it’s back to the grind and the worry and the million debates I must have with my mother every single day. One hour,” she repeated. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  She rested her hand on his wrist. The gesture startled him, but he’d already noticed her expression growing distant.