Lillian leaned forward and hugged Gabriel. “I’m not going anywhere, Sweetheart. You know that, don’t you? I’m going to stay right here with you. Even after I get married.”
Gabriel smiled up at her again. He tidied the smallest bundle, and wrapped some string around it. “There. He’s going to give them to his brother.”
“Tiny has a brother? Well, that’s nice for him.” She heard the bath water draining and stood up. “I bet he reads to Tiny, doesn’t he?”
“He used to,” said Gabriel.
Lillian wondered if Tommy’s pushing Gabriel aside made him sadder than she had realized. Did an imaginary friend fill in the gap?
Tommy soon jumped into bed, taking his comic book with him.
Lillian kissed Gabriel on the head. “Finish up. I’ll come in and read to you after my bath.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
Lillian brushed back Tommy’s wet hair and put a hand on his cheek.
“I can read by myself, Mom,” said Tommy.
“All right,” she said, giving his nose a tweak.
Lillian left the room, wondering why she had never given Annabelle a sister. She smiled, thinking that she probably had wanted her all to herself. Much as she wanted Charles.
She turned on the water, reached for the slender indigo bottle with its intricate silver stopper, and poured out a few drops of lavender oil into the water. So much had changed in just a few days. Her small rituals, and the history that imbued them, seemed even more important now; she would need them to help keep her grounded in the coming months.
As she sank into the hot, fragrant water, she gave a deep sigh of pleasure. One by one, the worries and tension that had been clenched inside her released and dissolved away. Her shoulders unknotted, her arms and legs lightened.
The perfume of the bath oil stirred up memories of dusky flower gardens and lavender-scented sheets. She had made the lavender oil with Kate and her daughters over the summer. They had gathered bunches and bunches of the purple flowers in the early morning, before the bumblebees were active, and dried them in the heat of the day. Then in the evenings, they gathered around the large, wooden kitchen table, talking and laughing, and making lavender oil and sachets. They let the flowers steep in jars of oil for a few days before straining and adding fresh flowers, repeating this until the scent became strong. And they took tiny bits of silk and sewed small sachets of lavender to tuck inside drawers and linen cupboards. By the end of the trip, Lillian had a bottle of lavender oil to take home with her, along with several sachets. About a week after their return to New York, Charles had surprised her one day with the beautiful indigo bottle to store the oil in. It was one of her prized possessions, reminding her of the gentle summer.
Lillian let her mind wander back to the two weeks they had spent on Kate’s farm in Illinois. It was the first time she and Charles had taken a trip together, and it had helped to seal their relationship.
The trip had been wonderful in so many ways. Tommy and Gabriel were thrilled to be in the country, running through the corn fields, jumping from the hay loft. And she loved the tranquility of the farm, the crickets at night, the breathtaking sunsets over the fields, and the rhythms of the day that were so closely connected to the land.
After just a few days, Lillian found herself developing her own routines. Every evening, just after the sun dipped into the cornfield, and every morning, when the world was still soft with dew, she strolled around the farmhouse yard, admiring the flowers that grew in abundance. Kate identified many of them as old plantings that had been there since the farm was first established: spirea, wild roses, hydrangeas, and climbing jasmine that nearly covered one side of the house and chimney, scenting the whole yard with lush sweetness in the afternoon heat. To these Kate had added flowers that would grow on their own, with little need of tending: daylilies, white and yellow daisies, hollyhock of all colors reaching up alongside the barn, and near the herb garden, mounds of lavender. These flowers were planted in good black soil, with no promise other than sunshine and water – and they had thrived on the freedom of being left on their own.
Kate often joined Lillian in her early morning walks, and together they clipped flowers to make simple bouquets for the kitchen table and for Lillian’s bedroom.
These simple pleasures reminded Lillian of her girlhood in upstate New York, where she, too, lived close to the land, the abundance and beauty of nature a part of her daily life. In some ways, the trip had made her homesick – she missed the pleasure of female company that she used to have with her sister and mother, the small details they wove into the day that made it richer: something as simple as arranging flowers in a glass jar, preparing a special dessert, or just sitting on the porch and talking. Being with Kate and her daughters was like going back in time, and Lillian had loved it.
But she most loved the trip because of how good it had been for Charles. He and Kate had a chance to catch up on all the years he had stayed away, and Kate’s children adored him. They had always heard about their uncle, and hung on his every word. The boys wanted to hear about his years in the Navy; the girls wanted to hear all about New York City.
Lillian wondered why she was thinking so much about the trip lately. For some reason, a persistent image kept surfacing in her mind, unbidden, stubborn – ever since Charles had suggested postponing their wedding. She wasn’t sure why she was linking the two.
The image was sharp, fresh – as if it had just happened; or perhaps it was the replaying of it again and again in her mind that kept it so. It was on one of their last days there, the afternoon when they were visited by Charles’s childhood sweetheart, Rachel. Her husband and sons were away at the State Fair, so it was just Rachel and her daughter who had driven over and stayed the day.
In the afternoon, Kate’s two daughters and Rachel’s daughter decided to gather hickory nuts. There was a pasture full of the tall trees down the country road, not far from the farm. Lillian and Kate were busy hanging laundry on the clothesline, but the girls had convinced Charles and Rachel to join them. The girls were in their early teens, and frolicked with all the energy and light-heartedness of youth, alternately whispering, and then bursting into laughter.
Lillian helped Kate finish the laundry, and then sat with her on the front porch, shucking corn for dinner. A beautiful August day surrounded them in all its fullness and simple charm. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves high in the pin oaks, and fluttered the laundry on the clothes line, causing the white billowing sheets to snap softly now and then. The wide porch surrounded them with views of the corn and soybean fields stretching to the horizon. To the east stood a cluster of tall trees, their leaves a dark, dusty, late-summer green, with some leaves already edged in brown. And before them, Kate’s flowers along the lane – a tall tangle of orange, yellow, white, and blues – tiger lilies and daisies, cornflowers and asters.
Lillian lifted her face to catch the afternoon breeze, and caught the scent of honeysuckle that covered the fence along the lane. The wind alternately muffled and then sharpened the sounds of Tommy and Gabriel playing horseshoes with Kate’s sons: dull thuds as the horseshoes fell on the earth, clinks of metal as they hit their mark or landed on each other, mixed with clapping, laughing, good-natured disputing. Lillian had felt suffused with a sense of well-being, surrounded by an earthy loveliness.
She had an ear of corn in her hand, and with a few quick downward pulls, the stiff, rough husk skirted the juicy cob. She snapped off the husk and tossed it into the pail at her feet, and then pulled off the brown tassel. Then she stopped a moment as she pulled away the delicate corn silk, admiring the pale gold color, and thinking – in each ear of corn this silky beauty, something so fine and delicate that just gets tossed away. And yet it must serve some purpose, she mused. She let her eyes sweep the wide cornfields that lay to the west of the farm; the dry brown stalks shuddered lightly in the breeze, their rough husks full of the silky beauty inside. She looked down at the pale green-gold, gliding it be
tween her fingers.
Kate straightened and put her hands to her lower back. “There they are now.”
Lillian lifted her head and saw the girls coming down the dirt road, their summer dresses and long hair flying, as they ran ahead of Charles and Rachel.
Kate gave a sudden look at Lillian. “You’re very like Rachel, now that I think of it.”
Lillian shaded her eyes, watching them as they neared the farm. From the dirt road, the girls took a short cut and squeezed between a break in the fence, laughing as they got tangled up in the old weeping willow branches that swayed in the breeze.
Charles stepped ahead of Rachel and held the branches aside for her to pass, almost like parting a curtain. They walked up the lane, Charles with his hands clasped behind, strolling with an ease Lillian had never seen in him before. Something about that image of him walking with his old sweetheart, and the delicacy of the corn silk between her fingers, had stayed with her. Buried tenderness, memories of youth. It had both moved and pained her.
It wasn’t jealousy that she felt. She had sincerely liked Rachel, and had so enjoyed that evening with her and Kate’s family. Rachel was a lovely woman, with a deep rich laugh, and a quick smile. Still beautiful. Charles had seemed protective of her.
When Lillian had later asked him about their outing, and what he and Rachel had talked about, he had shrugged and dismissed it.
“Nothing, really. Mostly about now. The threat of war, her brother Caleb and his family.” A shadow of sorrow crossed his face only once. “And I apologized. For my behavior back then. I hurt her – and everyone. She loved the twins, too. She was there at the accident. It must have been so difficult for her, but at the time I couldn’t see anyone’s pain but my own. It was selfish of me. But she had only kind, gentle words for me. No blame.”
Lillian knew that Charles had needed to hear those words, and she was appreciative of Rachel’s tenderness. The entire visit had helped Charles to heal from the haunting memories. A kind of transformation had taken place in him, and it seemed that he had finally made peace with his past. She knew that he had always blamed himself for having dallied with Rachel while his little brother and sister were falling through the ice. Lillian was grateful that his time with Rachel had served as balm to his old wound.
But Lillian also had to admit to another feeling. She had the impression that the old love, that budding young love between two twelve-year-olds, had lain dormant under the cold earth these long years, buried, along with the twins – and had now, years later, blossomed. The petals could finally unfurl and drink in the sun’s warmth, not in this world, but in that past, in that world of his youth.
At the time, Lillian had felt that it had somehow come between her and Charles. And yet, she thought, didn’t she have that same sweetness of memory with her first love, with Tom, and their early years of courting? Like a bit of corn silk inside of us – the tender sweetness of youth, first love, the promise of days ahead – a silky beauty that pads our youth and protects the early dreams, so that they may develop into fruitfulness.
She wouldn’t want Charles to be without anything that helped him. And for that reason, she had a sort of love for Rachel. Along with the unreasonable regret that she herself was not the source of all sweetness and balm in his life.
Chapter 4
*
For two days and two nights, Mrs. Murphy went over and over her behavior in the department store, thoroughly ashamed of herself. After fretting all day, she decided that she must make amends that very night. The encounter with Brendan Sullivan had been so completely unexpected, that she had lost her nerve, and simply ran away from him rather than confront the past she had so definitively shelved away. It was so long ago that she had moved from Boston to New York. Full forty years had passed since then. She had found a career, and had eventually made a life for herself. Drooms Accounting had been the core of her world for over twenty years now. And she was happy.
She had been living her life in the clear, crystal water of her own making. She knew what was what, and where her life was going, exactly what to expect. Seeing Brendan had been a convulsive stirring up of all the old sediment, clouding everything up again. She felt confused, sad, and ashamed of her behavior. It was not the behavior of the woman she thought she had become. She would go back to the department store and apologize. At least that way she could look herself in the eye again.
After leaving work, she went to the ladies’ room and stood before the mirror to check her appearance. She tidied her hair and powdered her nose. Yes, she thought, scanning her reflection, all in all, she was happy. She snapped her compact closed, returned it to her purse, and then put on her hat and gloves, and looked again. Well, content, anyway. Satisfied. Her posture sank ever so slightly. Wasn’t she? She thought she had been. But seeing Brendan had pulled back the cover of an old empty drawer inside herself.
What must he think of me? Running away like that. She squared her shoulders again and lifted her chin. You were a coward once, but you were young then. You’re a grown woman now, and you’ll face up to things as you have ever since. She gave her reflection a quick nod, as if all had been settled.
She left the building, and boarded the bus back down to the department store. Her only thought as she stared out the window, was that the poor man at least deserved the common courtesy she showed to everyone else. He’s just an old friend, she told herself.
She got off the bus, crossed the avenue, and stood in front of the department store. Just an old friend. She rode the escalator up to the North Pole and hung back awhile, not wanting to interfere with his work a second time. When there was a lull in the line, she stepped forward and faced him. She put on a practiced smile and waited for Santa to turn. But when he did, her smile dropped to the floor and shattered. It was a different man. Not Brendan.
It was some other Santa altogether, with a ridiculous looking beard and moustache. No child would be fooled by that, she thought indignantly as she walked up to the sales clerk.
“Excuse me, sir. I was here the other night, and there was a different Santa.”
“We have four or five of them,” replied the frazzled clerk, taking a train set from a customer to ring up.
“Well, there was one with a real beard – so authentic. I wanted to bring my nephew in to see him. Might you know when –”
“Sorry, ma’am. They rotate their schedules. I can’t keep track of them all. Why don’t you check back tomorrow?”
Mrs. Murphy nodded and stepped back. She had worked herself up to seeing Brendan again, had rehearsed her lines over and over. Was prepared. Would she come back night after night and try to find him? What if he didn’t return?
She tried to ignore her disappointment and walked through several departments, thinking that perhaps he would be somewhere else in the store. She walked through the men’s department, and inspected a few shirts, and glanced over the ties, before moving on. Then she went to the housewares department, feeling silly as she pretended to be interested in a set of canisters. Then down to the first floor, where she absent-mindedly unfolded and then folded a few scarves on display. She kept replaying the way she had fled from the store, and worried what Brendan must think of her, how he must feel.
Her attention was caught by an arrangement of Christmas snow globes on the counter, each with a little world of its own inside: children building a snowman, St. Nicholas carrying a bag of toys, a snowy village, a Christmas tree. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to try to put things right, and was terribly disappointed that Brendan wasn’t there. She picked up the snow globe with the Christmas tree inside, and shook it, telling herself that she would leave when the last tiny flakes sifted to the bottom. She set it on the counter and watched the snowy world inside calm and settle itself. Then she took a deep breath, and turned to leave the store. It was no use. Brendan clearly wasn’t there.
She walked through the crowded first floor, surprised at the heavy feeling of regret inside her. Was it because s
he was denied the chance to redeem herself? Or was it because she had looked forward to seeing Brendan again?
The merry shoppers streamed around her as she made her way out of the store. She was almost to the front door when she felt a light touch on her arm. She turned.
And there he was. A surge of joy shot through her and turned her cheeks pink; she hoped he wouldn’t notice.
“I was hoping you might come back,” Brendan said. “I flatter myself you’ve been looking for me.” He spoke in a light playful tone, but a sad hopefulness hung about his eyes.
Mrs. Murphy thought she had been prepared. But now that Brendan was before her, she found herself stumbling around the truth again.
“Oh, goodness me, I was just doing a little holiday shopping. Though I am glad to see you again. I wanted to apologize for the other night. I intended to wait, but I suddenly remembered –” Impossible. Nothing but the truth would answer to his gentle, trusting eyes.
“I’m sorry, Brendan. I’m afraid I have no excuse for my behavior.”
“No matter. I didn’t mean to surprise you so. Or upset you.”
They stepped aside to make room for the passing shoppers laden with bags. A few children lifted their curious faces to Brendan. Though he was dressed in a blue and gray tweed coat and cap, his resemblance to Santa Claus was unmistakable.
Mrs. Murphy laughed at the children’s curiosity. “Even out of your costume, you still look like Santa.”
He gave a light tug at his beard. “It’s this. To be trimmed after the holiday. Where are you off to now? Could I prevail on you to have a cup of tea with me? Just for old time’s sake.”
“The truth is Brendan, that’s the only reason I came. I was hoping you would be here. I would love to have tea with you.”
He became all smiles and twinkly blue eyes again. “That’d be grand! Come. There’s a little place just around the corner.”
Just as they were about to leave, Mr. Mason from the accounting firm walked in through the revolving doors, and nearly bumped into them.
Christmastime 1941 Page 5