Summer Shadows

by Gayle Roper

  Well, who cared! Maybe a few wrinkles would give her character. As she washed her face in the freestanding sink with more vigor than necessary, her elbow collided with her mother’s travel bag of toiletries and cosmetics, resting on one edge of the sink. The flowered bag flew across the little room, struck the far wall, and tumbled to the floor, spilling vials of prescription medications and over-the-counter sinus capsules, little tubes of hand and body cream, tiny squirt bottles of hair spray and sunscreen, a disposable razor, a nail file and a bottle of soft pink polish, a tube of mascara and an eyelash curler, foundation, blusher, and two lipsticks that promptly rolled under the clawfoot tub. The pill vials preferred to hide behind the commode and under the radiator.

  “Rejoice in the Lord always and again I say rejoice,” Abby muttered as she got down on her hands and knees. She rescued her mother’s Premarin and Synthroid from behind the toilet and the lipsticks from under the clawfoot tub. The hair spray and mascara had rolled under the radiator with the Tylenol. She had to lie on her stomach, sticking her hand into the darkness between the radiator and floor. She kept expecting some small but diabolical creature, probably one with eight legs, to grab her fingers, but the only life-form she found was a family of small dust bunnies.

  As she pulled herself painfully to her feet, using the tub as a support, she muttered, “ ‘I will rejoice in the Lord; I will be joyful in God my Savior. This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.’ ” She stuffed everything willy-nilly into the bag, zipped it shut, and stuck it behind the faucets until she finished rinsing her face. Why in the world had the woman left the bag open and on the edge of the sink anyway?

  Abby looked for a better place to put the thing but saw quickly that there wasn’t any. The mirror over the sink was just that, a mirror, not a medicine cabinet. The toilet tank was lined with her own things—her hair dryer and curling wand, her giant bottle of sunscreen, her skin cream, her shampoo, and her collection of pill vials. Her father’s shaving kit was on top of the little radiator.

  Wall shelves. That’s what she needed. Wall shelves hung behind the toilet where the awful picture of sparkly, smiling seashells shimmered. She studied the room as she brushed her teeth. Dark green wicker shelves, she decided, to go with the dark ivy of the wide border at the top of the wall and the green tiles that marched single file around the otherwise white room. Maybe she could find white curtains printed with ivy to replace the dark green ones now on the window. They were too heavy, too dark.

  As she left the bathroom, Abby wasn’t smiling, but much of the grouchiness was gone. The next time Mom and Dad came to visit, she’d have a nice bright bathroom with plenty of space for their things. That was the joy of having her own place. She could fix it up, make improvements and changes as she liked. Living the last three years in her mother’s house had been difficult after years in her own home. No matter how often Mom said, “This is your home, too,” Abby knew it wasn’t.

  But this wonderful, shabby apartment on the beach was hers. She hugged herself. Freedom. She was actually smiling when she reached the table and found her father sitting there reading the Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer. Orange juice sat at three places and she could smell bacon.

  “Pancakes,” Dad said, answering her unasked question.

  Abby made a face. She’d never liked pancakes. In fact, she had told her mother innumerable times, but Mom regularly made them anyway. The only explanation Abby could come up with was that for some reason, pancakes meant love to Mom. Like the dutiful daughter she’d always been, Abby usually forced herself to eat one. At least Dad seemed to genuinely enjoy them. He certainly ate enough.

  “Hey, sweetie.” Mom walked into the dining area with a huge platter of pancakes in one hand and a plate of crispy bacon in the other.

  Abby stared at the mountains of food. “Mom, there are just three of us. You shouldn’t have made so much.”

  “Why not, I’d like to know?” Mom set the pancakes in front of Abby. “Besides, pancakes freeze well. They’ll be a quick breakfast before you rush off to work.”

  Resigned, Abby helped herself to a pancake and two strips of bacon. Maybe when Mom wasn’t looking, she could pop a piece of bread in the toaster.

  “Oh, honey, no wonder you’re so thin!” Mom reached over, putting two more pancakes on Abby’s plate.

  Abby stared malevolently at the pancakes. She didn’t want three pancakes. She didn’t even want one. Always before she’d eaten however many of the wretched things Mom had given her. Always before she’d been the good, cooperative daughter. But not today. She sat up straight, girded for battle. She skewered the top two pancakes and lifted them from her plate.

  “Thank you, but no.” Her voice was flinty. With an exaggerated flourish, she returned the offending food to the serving platter while her mother watched with open mouth.

  “I do not like pancakes.” Abby enunciated each word as she slathered butter on her single remaining cake.

  “But Abby,” Mom began.

  “I repeat: I do not like pancakes. I am twenty-nine years old. If I do not like pancakes, I do not have to eat them.” She grabbed the maple syrup and doused her pancake.

  “I never knew—”

  “Because you didn’t listen,” Abby interrupted in what she knew was a deplorable tone of voice. She just couldn’t seem to help herself. “I have told you for years that I don’t like pancakes.” She took a bite of her cake, forcing herself to swallow. “For years! Just like I’ve told you and told you that walnuts make me feel ill. But did that stop you from putting them in the brownies and chocolate chip cookies? Uh-uh. I also don’t like seafood. I don’t like spinach except raw in salads with lots of bacon dressing. I don’t like jelly or jam on my toast. I can’t abide mushrooms. And I hate being told what I should eat!” She slapped her hand on the table for emphasis.

  Abby shoved another bite of her one pancake into her mouth and chewed in the utter silence that followed her outburst. She shuddered with revulsion as she swallowed.

  “Abby,” her father said mildly, “don’t you think you owe your mother an apol—?”

  Abby put her hand up to silence him. She took a big bite of bacon and the only sound was its crunch-crunch as she chewed. “What I do like are things that crunch, things like toast and crackers and pretzels and potato chips. And crispy bacon!” She waved her bacon strip in the air. “I thank you for the bacon.”

  At that, she got up, walked outside, down the stairs, and onto the beach. Tears poured down her cheeks. Walking on the sand with her blurred vision was difficult and she stumbled. She swayed but stayed upright.

  Oh, Lord, I’m a horrid person! A horrid person!

  “Hey, you’d better watch where you’re going.” A warm hand grasped her elbow. “You’re going to fall on your lovely face.”

  Marsh! Abby ducked her head, embarrassed. Here she was crying again, and she hadn’t brushed her hair or her teeth. “Go away.”

  “Can’t. You’ll kill yourself if I do, lurching along like that.”

  “What do you do?” she asked, sniffing. “Sit there on your porch and wait for me to make a fool of myself so you can gloat?”

  “Am I gloating? Here I thought I was being nice.”

  Abby looked at him, then looked away. She sighed with self-loathing. “I’m sorry. Really I am. I’m usually very nice. It’s just—”

  Marsh glanced back at the house when she didn’t continue. Abby looked too and then wished she hadn’t. Mom and Dad stood at the rail, watching her. Dad had his arm around Mom’s shoulders and even from this distance Abby could tell Mom was crying.

  “Ah,” Marsh said, his voice suffused with great understanding. “The parents.”

  “I’m such a terrible person,” Abby mumbled as new tears fell.

  Marsh pulled his T-shirt out of his shorts, took the hem, and reached up to wipe Abby’s tears. “You may be a little nuts, but you aren’t terrible.”

  Abby sniffed. “Yes, I am. If yo
u only knew how terrible, you wouldn’t be so nice to me.”

  Marsh took her elbow again and began walking toward the water. “Watch your footing, sunshine.”

  She didn’t and staggered again. She grabbed at him, catching a handful of T-shirt to steady herself.

  “It’s okay.” His voice and his hands were gentle. “I’ve got you.”

  “They leave tonight.” She took a long breath, letting it out on a sigh that came all the way from her toes. “I can make it until then.”

  “Of course you can,” Marsh agreed, unclenching her fist finger by finger to reclaim his T-shirt.

  When they reached the firm sand revealed by the receding tide, Marsh dropped her elbow. He turned them north, and they walked for a while in silence “My father comes on Tuesday.”

  Abby nodded. “Is he as nice as you?”

  Marsh blinked. “You think I’m nice?”

  Abby smiled through her tears at his surprise. “At least some of the time. Like now. Like when you gave Karlee the marker. Like when you let me cry all over you at the hospital.”

  “Huh.” Marsh studied the horizon intently, and Abby could have sworn she had just embarrassed him. He cleared his throat. “Well, what I was going to say was that if you think your parents are controlling, you haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen the good senator.”

  “The good senator?” Abby’s mind whirled. Winslow. Senator. “You mean that Senator Marcus Winslow is your father?” Her voice ended on a high screech of disbelief.

  Marsh shrugged. “Well, someone’s got to be his kid.”

  “But you live in Ohio.”

  “Not as an adult. It’s not a requirement that a senator’s adult children live in their parent’s state, you know.”

  Slightly embarrassed at her foolish remark, Abby said, “Boy, would my father flip if he knew.”

  “Good flip or bad flip?”

  “Oh, good. He thinks your father walks on water.”

  “Yeah.” Marsh stuck his hands in his pockets and started walking back the way they’d come. “Most people do. Even those who don’t like his politics like him.”

  Abby turned to him, surprised by the sorrow in his voice. “You don’t like him?”

  “Oh, I love him. No question. It’s just …”

  Abby waited, but he said nothing more. Whatever the difficulties between Marsh and his father, apparently he wasn’t talking about them today.

  “Your mother died several years ago, didn’t she?”

  Marsh nodded. “I still miss her. She was a great lady.” He grinned. “She knew how to manage my father better than anyone I’ve ever seen, including all his political advisors. ‘Now, Marcus,’ she’d say, ‘you just listen to me.’ And she’d tell him how it ought to be done. She was usually right on the money.”

  “How about your dad’s new wife? Is she as adept politically?

  Marsh looked vague. “She’s not Mom.”

  “Will she be coming with him on Tuesday?”

  Marsh took her elbow to lead her over the soft sand to the house. “I hope not. It’ll be easier on all of us.”

  Abby wondered what that comment was supposed to mean.

  An hour later with her hair combed, teeth brushed, lipstick on, and red pantsuit ironed, Abby entered Seaside Chapel with her parents. The chapel was a building of weathered cedar topped with a white steeple. It looked very seashoreish, pleasing Abby’s sense of place.

  Abby didn’t know about her parents, but she wasn’t in a very worshipful mood. Neither Mom nor Dad had mentioned her temper tantrum and unprecedented flight, so she hadn’t broached the subject either. Instead, it hung in the air between them like a drunk’s giant pink elephant, unseen by everyone else but very present to them.

  Oh, God, I’m afraid to talk about it with them! I’ll say things I’ll regret forever with my emotions as raw as they are right now. Please, Lord, show me how to be both independent and loving. Please! I’m so afraid that for us they are mutually exclusive.

  They were barely inside the front door of the chapel when Jess ran to Abby and grabbed her hand.

  “We saved you places,” she said as she pulled Abby toward the door to the sanctuary. “Mommy didn’t want to wait in the lobby with Karlee.”

  Smiling, Abby let herself be pulled along. Her parents followed. It wasn’t until they were seated that she saw Marsh and a friend seated in the row ahead. After their meeting Friday morning, she had been so disappointed that her landlord was such a bear. Then she’d learned that he wasn’t. He was funny and kind and—be honest, girl—sometimes grouchy. But she liked him. He was going to make a wonderful friend to enjoy in her new life.

  Everyone stood to sing a worship chorus, which was followed by a time of greeting one another. Abby watched Marsh turn to her parents.

  “Mr. MacDonald.” He grinned a wide welcome as he stuck out his hand. “Mrs. MacDonald. So nice to have you visiting with us this morning.”

  Her father tried to smile back. Her mother didn’t even make the attempt.

  “Thank you,” she said abruptly, turning to Marsh’s friend.

  With a shrug Marsh turned to Jess and Karlee. “I see a pair of princesses right here in my church,” he said with mock astonishment. “Beautiful princesses.”

  “Oh, Dr. Winslow, we’re not princesses,” Karlee said earnestly. “We’re just Jess and Karlee.”

  Marsh blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Why so you are.” He leaned forward. “But the beautiful part is true.”

  The little girls giggled, happy with the compliment.

  When Marsh reached for Abby’s hand, she saw his eyes were twinkling. “Just who are you this morning, if I may ask? Not a princess, I don’t think. Lydia, the seller of purple cloth who hosted a church in her house? Or maybe Phoebe, the deaconess who cared for those in need? You seem to be feeding the whole world up in your apartment. I’m sure you’re not Sapphira, the liar.”

  Abby folded her arms, trying to look threatening. “How about Jael who put a tent peg through her enemy’s head?”

  Marsh laughed in appreciation as he took his seat, and Abby felt pleased with herself. She made believe she didn’t see her parents’ horrified looks. It was amazing, but in two days, she was more at ease with Marsh the Grump, who wasn’t all that grumpy most of the time, than she’d ever been with Sam.

  A shaft of sorrow pierced her heart, not because she missed Sam but because she and Sam had had so little. She never would have bantered with him about Jael. He’d have been horrified.

  “I love your quiet and gentle spirit,” Sam had said over and over.

  She used to think he was complimenting her, but now she wondered if he hadn’t been programming her. She missed the first part of Pastor Paul Trevelyan’s message as she thought about this new idea. It seemed that the longer she was a widow, the more she realized how unequal their partnership had been. Sam had dominated completely, and she had let him.

  But she was breaking free!

  “Come home with us,” Abby pressed Celia after the service. She needed a buffer to get her through the afternoon with the parents. “Karlee can sleep at my house as well as yours, and Jess can play with Walker and Jordan.”

  Jess wrinkled her nose. “Not those two!” But she was barely out of the car before the boys ran over, and she went running onto the sand with them.

  “Stay away from the water,” Celia called after her.

  Jess nodded and waved.

  When the adults and Karlee reached Abby’s porch, they could see Jess and the two boys digging in the wet sand, building a castle. There weren’t many people on the beach, June not being a month in which Seaside bulged with tourists and guests. It would be easy to keep an eye on the kids.

  “I thought I’d send Dad for some fresh flounder and make us flounder stuffed with crabmeat,” Mom said as she turned from waving to Jess.

  Abby’s hands were fists before she even realized it. “No, Mom. You are my guest.” She forced her hands open. “I’m i
n charge of the meal.”

  “Nonsense, dear.” Mom pulled the sliding door open. “Feeding people is what I do best. Len, go to the seafood place over on Bay. Get me some flounder and crabmeat.”

  Dad nodded, pulling his car keys back out of his pocket.

  “No, Mom.” Abby’s voice was part steel, part desperation. She couldn’t let them take over her home. She couldn’t. She’d never be free if she did. “I am making dinner. You may sit on the porch and read the paper or take a walk on the beach—whatever you want—but you are not making dinner. I am.”

  Mom looked poleaxed. Dad looked angry. “Abby, that’s no way to speak to your mother.”

  Quaking inside, Abby looked him in the eye. “I’m making dinner, Dad.”

  “I’ll just help then,” Mom said, heading for the kitchen.

  “No.” Abby stepped in front of her mother. “Celia will help me. You go find something to do until dinner’s ready.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence, but Abby stood tall and unyielding. Dad broke first.

  “Come on, Hannah. Let’s go take a walk.”

  “Len.” Entreaty laced Mom’s voice.

  He gave a little shake of his head and led the way to the stairs.

  I feel like Alvild, the Swedish princess who defied her parents and ran away to become a successful pirate. Abby rubbed her forehead as she walked into her kitchen. At least I didn’t get even by becoming a pirate. Just a children’s librarian. And all I want to do is cook my own dinner in my own house!

  Nineteen

  HANNAH MACDONALD walked to the car with Len. It was time to go home, back to Scranton, but she had a plan, a plan that Len had agreed to. Her heart beat against her ribs like a wild bird against the bars of a cage as she thought of carrying it out, but she was certain she was doing the right thing.

  Help it work, Lord. Help it work.

  Len turned to her. “You’re sure?”

  Hannah nodded. “We have to do something before it’s too late.”

  “She’s not going to appreciate it.”