“I was. Army. I worked overseas in various capacities for six years, and it felt more like fighting against death than fighting for life. Objectively one could call them the same, but they don’t feel the same. I was worn out when I arrived in Kandahar and wrecked when I left and . . . I wanted to help things grow. Luke found me a job. It’s as simple, or as complex, as that.”
“How did you meet my aunt?”
“I told you about the soup.”
When I said nothing he conceded and backed up further.
“As soon as I hit stateside, I came to visit Luke and Sonia, and I got sick. Doctors couldn’t figure out what it was; I certainly didn’t know. Luke thought it was more psychological and spiritual than physical, and he might be right. But your aunt came over and she listened to me. She brought me soup and books and she shared her life with me. And when I was strong enough to move out of Luke’s place, she brought food every night for a week as I settled in here. Then she got sick and I did the same for her. That’s what was the worst over there. Those young men and women died and their loved ones weren’t near. There was no one to hear their stories, hold their hands, and tell them not to be scared, at least not someone they might believe. So when you didn’t come—”
“I get it. I truly do.”
“I should have listened to Maddie. She said you were loyal, and wonderful. She never faulted you for a second.”
My heart soared, and I almost tipped into him again. One word kept me straight. Sonia.
There was no denying it, and I hadn’t been doing a very good job with denial anyway, but I liked Chris. I really liked Chris. And I wanted to ask . . . I couldn’t help myself. I needed him to tell me something glorious about Sonia so I could walk away and feel no regret, so I could hop in my car and say The best woman won and believe it.
“Will Sonia be okay if you don’t practice again? I mean—” I could not finish with She was dreadful at dinner, so I left it hanging between us.
Chris sent me a wry look, as if I’d said the words aloud. “She wanted what I was, or what she thought I was. We got engaged soon after we met a couple years ago. I was only stateside six months that year, and while I thought letters and emails were good for getting to know each other, they don’t beat face time. Working stuff out side by side matters more than either of us realized. I guess I put on a facade over there and she did the same here . . . We weren’t what either expected when I arrived last year.”
“But . . .” Wanted. Thought. Weren’t. Past tense. I was so tired I wasn’t hearing correctly. “But you are fine now?”
“We will be.” He scrubbed his hands across his eyes. “We called off the engagement a couple weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You are?”
I stared at him.
He blinked, and I got the impression his question surprised him. “You didn’t seem to like her much at dinner.”
“That’s not fair. You have to admit, your date and mine had a much better time together that night than either had with us.”
His eyes shadowed as if he was parsing my words. I wondered if I’d upset him, but I had only pointed out the obvious, and he had broken up with her—or she with him. Still, it had been his fiancée at the table that night. As I now understood, I hadn’t really been on a date. I had no claim to hurt feelings.
I touched his arm, then withdrew my hand. It felt too intimate. Somehow the air charged whenever Chris was near. “Do I need to apologize again?”
“For what?”
“I upset you, saying Drew and Sonia had more fun together. I figured you’d noticed.”
“One would have to be blind to have missed that.” He chuckled, a short exhale laced with relief. “They did have more fun, and that was one of the reasons we ended it. Not because it upset me, but because it should have. And it didn’t bother her either. Did it bother you about Drew?”
“Not at all.” I couldn’t get into Drew. Not tonight.
Chris pushed off with his foot. We started swinging again. The gentle motion rocked me back into his shoulder. Without looking at me, he dropped his arm around me. Soon the electricity I’d felt softened and, tucked warm and tight under the blankets and under his arm, my eyes drifted shut.
Chapter 18
Claire
To Claire it seemed Madeline was swept away by Janet’s fantastic drawing. And why not? All those words, those beautiful words formed into a lithe woman, strong and completely feminine in shape. Madeline was quiet, contemplative the rest of the morning; she’d even left early, saying she needed to take a walk on the beach—a beach walk in icy March winds.
Claire could tell that she saw hope in Janet’s drawing. The hope that Janet must surely have felt as she created it. They both saw a promise for good things ahead.
Her children rise up and call her blessed.
Janet had recited the words twice, adding a significant glance, as if Claire would rejoice in them and savor each one. Instead she had pushed her chair away. Claire saw only failure, and what lay lost behind.
As she pulled into her garage, she wondered if her children would notice she was home, much less rise up to welcome her. The kitchen was dark except for a single light above the small built-in desk in the corner. She laid her bag on the counter and opened the fridge.
“How was work?”
Claire spun. “I didn’t see you. What are you doing studying here?”
Brittany pushed back from the desk. “I wanted to see you when you came home. You don’t call upstairs anymore.”
“It bothered you.”
Brittany nodded slowly as if remembering saying something like that.
“Did you ask me something?” Claire cringed. Her voice sounded like she was addressing a stranger and not her daughter.
“I asked how work’s going.”
Claire grabbed ingredients for dinner from the fridge. “Good. Better, actually. We look better for a prospective buyer, at least. The shop has loyalty and it’s back to making money, which is unbelievable considering where we were, so perhaps someone will keep it as a bookshop. It’d be a loss if it goes.”
“And you’ll lose your job.”
“You don’t need to worry about that. I’m hardly the one keeping us solvent.” Claire stopped and turned. “That kind of lessened it, didn’t it?” She waved a carrot at her daughter. “Don’t ever do that. Don’t diminish what you do. Yes, I will lose a job I love—or, as you called it, a hobby.”
She narrowed her eyes. At herself, not at her daughter, who wouldn’t see her expression in the dim light anyway. The barb was unnecessary, but she still hurt. It hurt that her daughter had diminished her that way, and that she let her.
Claire pulled out a cutting board, half expecting Brittany to decamp. When she didn’t, but instead rose to stand near her, Claire pushed the cutting board, knife, and carrots her daughter’s direction.
Brittany picked up the knife and starting cutting.
Claire opened her mouth, and shut it right before Cut them longer and thinner escaped. She sighed instead. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know you think working at the bookshop is silly, and someday you’ll have this great career and perhaps not understand that I chose to stay home with you and Matt, but I did, and it was a good decision. It was the right choice for me and for all of us. But you two are more independent now, and I . . . I loved that job.”
“I’m sorry.” Brittany laid down the knife. “I’m sorry I said that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Claire pulled her into a hug and smelled lavender in her daughter’s hair. She kissed her forehead, noting she could barely see across the top of Brittany’s head.
“Did the police ever catch the vandals?” Brittany focused on the cutting board.
“They won’t. Whoever trashed the store came from the opposite direction of the bank. The cameras only caught shadow, and canvassing the surrounding shops yielded nothing. I doubt they’ll keep searching much longer.”
“No fingerprints?”
“That was never an option. Too many people come and go, and the vandals left nothing behind other than that bat. I gather the grip on it didn’t keep prints or something. The police also found a lip gloss none of us owned, but it was generic and could’ve been from anyone at any time.”
Brittany picked up the knife as if to resume chopping. She held it loosely in her hand. “So it’s all over?”
“Not over . . . Unfortunately Madeline has to pay for it, though Janet announced today she’s going to try to as well.”
Claire stopped. Brittany never needed to know of Janet’s involvement. No one did.
She rushed on. “Madeline had no insurance for the shop, so she has to cover the loss personally. And she can’t until it sells.”
Claire began scrubbing potatoes. She thought back to the laughter and lightness before Valentine’s Day, to the tension and chill afterward. The atmosphere had warmed today; it felt new. But that was merely the thaw before the end, not the change toward a new beginning.
Brittany stopped slicing the carrot and studied the counter once again. “You were happy there.”
“I’m happy here too, and—” She took in Brittany’s slumped figure. “What is it? What’s going on? You used to talk to me.”
Brittany laid down the knife. “I’ve got a lot of homework.”
Yet half an hour later, she was back. Claire was perched on a stool sorting the mail as Brittany passed in front of her. She pulled down a glass and filled it with water, then circled the kitchen again.
“Have a seat.” Claire kept her eyes trained on the mail. The side-by-side approach hadn’t worked, and Brian’s Then make her idea wasn’t so laughable anymore.
“Why?”
“Something’s up, and if you share it I suspect you’ll feel better.”
“How do you know something’s up?”
“I’m your mom.” Claire straightened. “Okay . . . You haven’t been eating; you’re quieter than usual, which was already very quiet; you haven’t been sleeping, though I commend your expertise with concealer; and now you’re circling the kitchen. And you have a small bald spot on top of your head.”
Brittany gasped. Her hand flew to the top of her head. “Is it bad?”
“About the size of a nickel, so whatever it is that has you stress-pulling out your hair is significant.”
“I didn’t realize.” She rubbed the top of her head as if trying to regrow hair.
“Stop and talk to me.” Claire captured Brittany’s hands with her own. “Now.”
Brittany’s eyes widened at the command. Claire was a little surprised to hear it herself. It was the most forceful single word she’d said—ever. It didn’t hold the almost imperceptible question mark that gave her an emotional out when her children disregarded her requests and orders. It gave Brittany no out—and they both felt it.
She watched her daughter and saw fear. The word floated before Claire as real and tangible as if it had been written within Janet’s word cloud.
Brittany regarded her without protest or complaint. Then she burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it was my fault. I saw the door and—”
“You saw what door?” As Claire asked the question, the entire scene materialized before her. “Brittany?”
“We were driving around when I pointed out the door. I laughed about it. Someone said they wanted to get a book so we went in. It was fine at first, but it got out of control. I tried to stop them.” She wiped the back of her hand across her nose and eyes. She was soaked.
Claire pushed off her stool and grabbed a box of Kleenex. She placed it in front of Brittany and pulled one out for herself. Brittany blew her nose.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Who is ‘them’?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ll take the blame. But I can’t say names. They’ll kill me.”
“Are you scared of your friends?”
Brittany shook her head again.
“You’re not scared?”
“They’re not my friends. I can’t . . . I didn’t know anyone, and . . . Oh, Mom, it’s been so hard, and no one would talk to me and I . . . I just wanted to be liked.”
Claire sat again and pulled Brittany close. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out. Tell me the story from the top.”
Through tissues and tears Brittany replayed the night, starting with skipping last period, driving around, and ending up at the bookshop. Claire suspected a few things had been left out, but what happened from the time Brittany spotted the open door fit with everything the police had found.
“Were you all drinking?”
Brittany remained silent.
“Was the driver drinking?”
Brittany shook her head.
“How many were in the car?”
“There were six of us.” She blew her nose again. “Are you going to tell Dad?”
Claire stifled a laugh. Are you going to tell Dad? It was every child’s greatest worry.
Unbidden, a line floated to Claire. How often it is a small, almost unconscious event that marks a turning point. Claire let the sentence fill her. It had come from a book on Maddie’s list. She had devoured it, page after page, letting Corrie ten Boom’s life and experience fill her senses and imagination. She marveled at how Corrie’s strength grew as her faith and love grew ahead of it, ahead of her.
But could Claire do it? Could she take that next step? It was her daughter, her beloved baby girl.
Claire closed her eyes and leapt.
“I won’t tell your dad. You will. And then you will tell the police.”
Nothing more was said. If Matt noticed that there was even less conversation at the table than usual, he didn’t comment.
Claire suspected Brittany was in shock. Claire was in shock. She also suspected Brittany thought if she said nothing more Claire wouldn’t make good on her threat. It wasn’t an unreasonable thought; it had happened plenty of times before.
But at midnight Claire couldn’t take it anymore. The house felt stifling and sleep distant. She knocked on Brittany’s door. “I’m going to take a walk. Maybe down to the beach.”
Brittany closed her science book. “That’s over a mile away. It’s late.”
“It’s a safe neighborhood, and I need to get out. You finish your homework and get to bed. I’ll be back within an hour.” She turned without waiting for a reply, grabbed her coat, and walked out the door.
Part of her expected the heaviness to lift as the front door closed. Without clouds, without wind, the sky felt vast and wide, magnifying her smallness. She stared at the stars in search of perspective and found none.
She walked the mile to the bluff overlooking the beach and still felt no relief. In the moonlight she could see the waves pounding the shore and hear them dashing across the breaker rocks piled at each end of the beach. They created an endless rhythm that pulled at her as she envisioned what lay ahead of her daughter.
It’s like you live in those classics you love, in some odd third-person narration, as if you aren’t in charge of your own story. Who is, if not you, for goodness’ sake?
Janet’s words flooded back. When would they leave? Why couldn’t they be replaced with other words and other thoughts? And how much was she herself to blame?
It started with a tear, nothing so dramatic as a sob. That would take energy, and she didn’t have any left. She felt her nose stuff and her cheeks freeze with the tears, then like the waves, the crash came. She felt the rip deep within her as she heard a footfall behind her.
“Are you all right?”
She spun, both hands out.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” The man pointed to the house across the street behind her. “I live there. I don’t sleep much and I saw you. I—I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
He stepped into the light.
“Mr. Drummond?”
Only a couple feet from her now, his face creased in a
smile. Slightly bald and slightly stooped, David Drummond stepped closer. “You’re from the Printed Letter.”
“I am.” Claire rubbed her nose across her wool coat sleeve before she could stop herself. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I should go.”
“I think you should stay. Would you like to come sit on my porch?”
“I’m keeping you up.”
“At my age I rarely sleep.” He turned and walked to the porch.
Unable to muster an independent thought, Claire followed.
“Please give me a moment.” Mr. Drummond went into his house to return a moment later engulfed in a down parka. “We used to have tissues. I think I’ve let some things go, but it’s clean. I promise.” He held out a dishcloth.
“Thank you.” Claire hiccupped and rubbed the towel across her entire face.
“What has you out here at this time of night?”
Claire faced the lake. “Failure.”
Claire wasn’t sure what she expected, but his silence surprised her. She swiped the towel across her eyes again and faced him. “I’ve failed at the one thing I had to do because I was too scared to do it.”
“What was that?”
“Be a mom. My daughter—” She couldn’t say it. “She’s in trouble and I don’t know how she got to that place, but she did and it’s my fault. I wasn’t there, not really, not how it mattered. And I hate this. I hate that this has happened and that I didn’t see it coming and I hate that I stood aside when I knew she was in trouble. I knew and I did nothing. I hate that I have no control over any of this now and I hate who I’ve become. I hate—” Claire gasped, frightened at the dam that had broken within her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t— You didn’t need to hear all that.”
“Betty and I raised five children. I expect we’ve been where you are. She was, a few times, for certain.”
“What did you do?”
“The best we could, within each moment we had. Isn’t that all we can? I don’t say this to make you feel better. I have been in the hard places too. We had one son in rehab three times. That’s a dark place and a helpless feeling for any parent.”
“How is he now?”
The Printed Letter Bookshop Page 24