The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  “Okay then.”

  “No explanation?” He straightened—and that’s when I realized how close we’d come together over my question. “Why’d you ask?”

  “I could tell you I didn’t know she was sick, which is true, but it goes deeper than that. And I still don’t know the whole story. I thought I did, but nothing fits like I thought . . . Did Janet and Claire feel the same about me?”

  “We never talked about it, but why wouldn’t they?”

  “Because until you know the truth, you shouldn’t judge people.” I blurted out the words and felt five years old again.

  He smiled, as if placating a child, and that made it worse. “You are right. None of us should have judged you.”

  All afternoon I busied myself with customers as I played his words over and over in my head. During our short moment at Mirabella’s they still dwelt in the background. Now as I drove south to my apartment after leaving Janet in search of her romance novel, I acted. I tapped my steering wheel to bring up my phone and tapped again on Mom.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. Do you have fun plans tonight?”

  “Not really. I had fries with Claire and Janet from the bookshop, but Drew won’t drop by till late if he does at all.”

  “Fries?”

  “Never mind. It’s a long story . . . Do you have a sec?”

  I heard her shift and suspected she was easing deeper into her favorite brown velvet armchair. “Sure. We just got back from Eleven Madison Park.”

  “Are you kidding? Go Dad.”

  “It was the most opulent and longest dinner I’ve ever had, and every bite was perfection. It was incredibly romantic. Now your father has fallen asleep in front of the TV. What’s up?”

  I heard the affection and adoration in Mom’s voice and wondered when that happened. I remember when it left. Summer of 2000. That summer affected far more than stocks. But its return . . . I hadn’t registered it until now.

  “I need to know what happened between Dad and Aunt Maddie. I know his fund lost most of her and Uncle Pete’s retirement, but why didn’t she ever forgive him?”

  “What?” I heard shuffling and surmised Mom was now climbing out of the brown velvet chair and crossing to her office or to the kitchen—somewhere out of Dad’s earshot. “What made you think of that?”

  “I’m here, Mom, in Winsome every day, and she’s all around me and she seems pretty great. That’s how I remember her too. Those few weeks here were the best of my life, then Dad hauled me home and . . . It was horrible, if you want to know the truth. We never talked about it, but nothing was the same after that. The girls at school, some never forgave me that their families lost money with Dad, and we weren’t the same either. You two never laughed. We were barely ever in the same room. It was like the crash ruined us all, and it never got better; at least I didn’t feel it did before I left for college.”

  “Is that why you never came home for a summer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wondered. You always had some school program or internship. I thought it was us, that you were bored with us.”

  “Not you, not exactly, but New York. High school was tough, Mom.”

  “New York can be a tough place.” A softness to her voice told me she understood.

  I didn’t speak into the pause. Eventually she did.

  “It wasn’t the fund, Madeline, ever. Maddie never cared about the money, and your father is and always has been a responsible manager. It was about a woman. Your father had an affair.”

  My breath hitched.

  “It had been going on for about a year by that trip, and if it hadn’t been for you, I believe he would have left. I’d known from day one; your father is horrible about keeping secrets. He thought he was clever, but . . . You know him.”

  A small laugh escaped because it was true. Dad lived in the world of high finance and he had mastered it. We lived in the real world, and that was a place he knew very little about.

  “She was in San Francisco, and when he decided to take you with him, I suspected it was the beginning of the end. He was taking you to meet her. Then he left you in Chicago and that, oddly, made it worse. I called Maddie and I vented . . . Oh, the things I told your aunt.” Mom paused. “And that was my mistake. Whatever was between me and your father should have stayed between us, but I hadn’t talked to anyone in a year and I was drowning. New York is a very small town about these things, and you’re right that spring had already worn me down and . . . Well, your aunt always was a good listener.” Mom drifted away.

  I assumed she was reliving the day or the years that followed. “Then what happened?”

  “Whatever she hit him with when he came back to Winsome got him on a plane home and ended the affair.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She never told me and I never asked. Part of me was ashamed I’d told her at all, and another part of me was embarrassed that his big sister could send him home while I could only whine and cry. I was so humiliated about all I’d told, all that she might have repeated, that I didn’t confront your father either.”

  “You talked about the affair. You confronted him about that at least.” They were statements; the answers were too obvious. No one could keep silent.

  “I didn’t say a word. You both came home and I thought I could forget. But I was so angry. I tried to work through it, but I couldn’t get there. I couldn’t forgive him . . . That’s what made life so rough, not the tech crash. I’m sorry about the kids at school, but no adult blamed your dad. I had no idea you were feeling all that.”

  “I thought that’s what made life tough for you too.” I felt a tear run down my cheek. I swiped it away.

  “It was never that. I’m so sorry I didn’t confront him or forgive him. I let my anger taint everything . . . Finally, a few days after you left for Cornell, I started to move out. It was like we had this demon living with us, and once you were out from under it, I wanted out too. Have you ever read the book Rebecca?”

  “No.”

  “When you do, you’ll understand. Even dead and gone, a person or an event can affect lives, for good or for bad . . . Anyway, your father caught me. He was supposed to be on a trip, but instead he walked in right amidst all the boxes and the moving men, and we had it out. Not much was salvageable in the living room after that fight.”

  “That’s why you redecorated.” It felt as if a lightbulb switched on. I always thought that was a cliché, but when it happened, light flooded the dark places within me. My teenage years twisted as if in a kaleidoscope and began to make sense.

  “I had to. I threw most of it.”

  That was something I never expected. Mom didn’t throw an insult, much less a chair. The image of her pitching books and lamps and glass figurines was almost comical—if not so sad.

  “But you didn’t leave.” I dropped the next bread crumb for her.

  “No . . . I scared your father. I scared me. By the end, we were heaped together on the living room floor sobbing. We started counseling that very afternoon.”

  “But what about Aunt Maddie?” I took the Ohio Street exit off I-94 and headed east.

  “Oh . . . honey . . . He was so ashamed. Pride is a terrible thing, and, despite everything, it still has a good grasp on your dad in some respects. That’s what it comes down to. Something broke within him when she confronted him. He adored her and felt exposed more than he could handle. Nothing she said or I said could change that. She tried for a while, and then she told me she needed to respect his decision. She didn’t reach out again until last November.”

  “And now?”

  “And now his ulcers are back . . . Her call changed everything. He talked about going to see her, flying out to Chicago to see you, then driving north, and then—” She stopped. Our connection was so clear I could almost see the tears. I could certainly hear them. I felt my own eyes fill, then spill.

  “She died.” I supplied the answer and turned down my street. “But all those yea
rs, Mom, I thought I was being loyal to him. I thought she blamed him and had cut him off. Do you know how many times I hurt her feelings? I didn’t want to betray Dad . . . and I had it wrong. All of it.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I’m the kid, Mom. I didn’t know I had to say anything. And I thought I understood.” Nineteen years vanished and it was eighth grade all over again, and I was young, confused, and angry.

  “You’re right. You’re right and I’m sorry.”

  A deep breath pulled me back together as I turned into my building’s parking garage. It was over now. Yelling at Mom wouldn’t turn back the clock and couldn’t change how I had treated my aunt. “How is Dad doing?”

  “Dinner tonight was fun. He’s beginning to smile again. This has been really hard on him. He’s carrying some very heavy regrets right now, and in this life he can’t make them right. Neither of us can.”

  “I’m right there with you.” I turned off my car and leaned back against the headrest. “I’m home now . . . Thanks for being honest, Mom.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t sooner.”

  I pressed my palms against my eyes. “Can we talk more later?” My head pounded.

  “Anytime. And if you want to ask your father about it, you may. I know he’ll talk to you.”

  Her voice held such confidence, such surety, I believed her. For the first time I understood the two Moms in my memory. The first was kind and loving and attentive, then silent and sad, but the second held a determination and definition I admired. She had come on the scene during college, but I hadn’t recognized it. I had always viewed my world as pivoting around the spring and summer of my eighth-grade year. I missed the more seismic shifts during college.

  “I might, someday.” I offered the words, but knew I would never follow through. The thought of chatting with my dad about his affair was horrific.

  “It’s up to you. But you and me? We can talk anytime, about anything.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I love you.” I reached to my steering wheel to click off. “Wait. What changed, Mom? I mean, you did—I see it now and wonder how I never did before—but what did it?”

  I felt change happening within myself and wanted a road map, needed one, if such a thing existed.

  “God, forgiveness, and a good therapist. I also made the decision to trust your dad again. It makes you vulnerable, without a doubt, but every relationship has to have it.”

  “Thanks for the honesty, Mom. I love you.”

  “I love you too. Why don’t I fly out and we spend a few days together?”

  I felt my head shake before I replied. I didn’t want her to see the shop. I didn’t want her to see the mess I’d made of Aunt Maddie’s legacy, my empty apartment, and the tenuous hold I had on my world.

  “I’m pretty busy right now. Can we schedule something later?”

  “Of course. We’ll talk soon.”

  I tapped off as guilt rushed over me. For years I had pushed her away. I didn’t mean to, but I hadn’t understood our family. I’d misunderstood and misjudged so much in my world and hurt my aunt and my parents in the process. I’d just done it again.

  I opened my apartment door as a text from Drew pinged my phone.

  Still working. Won’t make it by tonight. Hope you had a good day. Talk soon.

  I dropped my keys and phone into the china bowl by the door. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Chapter 13

  Janet

  “Happy Valentine’s Day. Is it wonderful with Rosie? Did you buy her something girly and pink? I remember—”

  “Mom, it’s late. They’ve gone to bed.”

  “It’s not that late.” I hear the desperation in my voice. No one likes desperation, so I try again. “I just wanted to say hi and hear how you all are doing.”

  “We’re good, but tired. She’s growing a lot. We had her six-week checkup last week and she’s in the ninety-fifth percentile for height and weight. Laura’s beat with all the feedings.”

  “Have you tried formula?”

  His pause feels heavy. He clears his throat. I’ve heard that before. He is trying to be diplomatic—with me. My son is trying to be diplomatic with me.

  “Laura would like to breastfeed for the first six months. We got a pump. She may give that a try next week, but these are the early days, Mom. She’s loving being with Rosie.”

  “Of course . . . It’s a beautiful time, and I don’t mean to bother her. Or you. I just . . . I’d love to see Rosie.”

  Indianapolis is so close I can almost smell my granddaughter’s downy hair. But to drive down and arrive unannounced, to be coldly invited in and asked How long do you plan to stay? . . . Call it pride. Call it self-preservation. I won’t do it. I need an invitation.

  “When things calm down we’ll work something out.”

  An invitation is not on offer.

  “Of course.” I repeat the words again like a parrot. “I understand. Give her a kiss for me.”

  “Will do . . . Thanks for calling, Mom.”

  “Sure. I love—” He taps off. “. . . You.”

  I drop my phone back into my bag and wander into the shop. There is no one left to call. No one left at all. And the rhyme only makes it worse.

  The clouds above and snow below send a soft purplish light through the windows. It’s enough light for me to find a romance I haven’t read and enough light for me to find that bottle of wine in the office fridge no one has drunk.

  I uncork an indifferent Pinot, look for a glass, and, finding only a stainless steel water bottle, decide drinking from the bottle is good enough for me.

  Good enough for me.

  What an interesting phrase . . . And what a fool I’ve been . . .

  Seth was good enough for me.

  Alyssa and Chase were good enough for me.

  Our life together was good enough for me.

  And in one night I threw it all away—and with it the life I’d known and all the friendships we’d constructed together. After almost thirty years living in one town, I belonged. I was part of the town’s fiber as it was a part of me—only fibers can break.

  He’d been so encouraging and attentive. Men have no idea how seductive those two things are. I wanted to believe I still had it. I wanted to believe I was still an artist and more than a middle-aged wife, mom, and sometime volunteer, that I could still feel those same highs and lows and bring them to life on canvas. He said I could. He said such talent rarely came through the community center’s adult classes. He said that some of his students down at the Art Institute didn’t display my innate understanding of form and texture on their best days.

  It started with the art. One class. Then another. Seth wondered. I balked. I gave up a lot to be a mom. You never had to make those sacrifices and now I want to do this for me. My self-righteous indignation filled me, satisfied me—and I believed it too.

  It started with the art, but it was fed by a touch on my shoulder, a finger trailing down my arm to the brush in my hand. He guided my fingers, gliding the brush along the line of cheek on the canvas. Press here for more definition. Create shadow. Create play between the darkness and the light.

  And it moved fast. Stay for a drink tonight . . . And then . . . Must you rush home? The two of us perched on stools drinking good Cabernet. He brought the bottles from his private collection and they were always rich, heady, full of dirt, earth, and life. His knees touched mine when he swung them side to side getting lost in his descriptions of life, travel, and art—his world, his passions. Our knees intertwined as he locked eyes on me and listened. He listened to stories of my world, my passions—my hopes and dreams.

  It’s all in front of you. Art is never lost. A finger trailed up my cheek and created shadow. Dark played against light. You’re exquisite . . .

  And then there was Seth’s face the moment I walked in the door, that very night. He’d waited up, which was unusual, as if he, too, felt the shift in our world. Anger didn’t fill his eyes. Ange
r came later. That night he was empty, disoriented, as if everything he’d held to be true had flipped so fast he’d missed the motion and was left unbalanced, unable to stand.

  In my mind I see him dropping limp into a chair, but I wonder now if I’ve created that image and rewritten that scene.

  I do remember that his resignation ignited my anger. Anger always comes first for me. Anger keeps embarrassment, humiliation, shame, all manner of painful emotions at bay—for a time. But it requires so much fuel. And while it burned hot that night, and for a couple weeks after, it soon flickered out. Shame replaced it, and shame doesn’t need much fuel to thrive. It can live on tiny nibbles for years, possibly for a lifetime.

  I didn’t apologize that night. I had quipped for years that I never apologize. It had become our joke. We played with that light so often we long ignored the darker aspect of this trait. Only now do I see the truth of it. Back then, not to apologize was a weapon. Why capitulate when a good dinner, a gentle joke, a back rub, tears, or sex always worked?

  I did try crying. I recall that. The tears were real—and ineffective. I never got close enough to try the back rub or the sex. Seth packed a bag and left that first night.

  And when the tears failed to bring him home, I tried yelling—in the lawyers’ offices, in the house when he first came to pack his things, in the parking lot of the grocery store. I yelled and I yelled and I yelled—until there was no one left to listen.

  And that’s how I landed here . . .

  Maddie—Seth’s friend first, and my last friend—gave me a job and a reason to climb out of bed each day.

  I tap my fingers along the book spines. I need something scintillating and scandalous tonight. I need to forget today and remember what it was like to be touched and loved. Isn’t that what Maddie always said—good, fully dimensional characters let us live their lives vicariously, and bad ones tell us about the authors? I could use a good character right now. I need someone else to become. I need another life to live. I need people to put these books back straight. Why can no one do that? This entire section is askew . . .