Summer Shadows

by Gayle Roper

  “What I really don’t like,” Nan said, “is the fact that the letter’s anonymous. Someone’s a coward, willing to throw dirt but unwilling to face the accused.”

  Abby felt sick at the thought of someone purposely writing a nasty letter about her. What possible motive was there to attack her? She was such a Goody Two-shoes that no one had ever accused her of doing anything wrong in her whole life. Except Marsh, of course. She smiled. He thought she was an idiot whose sole purpose in life was to make him miserable.

  For some reason, thinking of him made her feel better. It also made her want to discuss the letter with him. He had such a practical mind. “May I have a copy of the letter?”

  Nan nodded. “I’m sorry about this, Abby. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t want you to worry. I’ve had at least three people seek me out today to tell me how much they like the new children’s librarian.”

  Abby left Nan’s office feeling somewhat better, but there was a definite prickling of unease every time she glanced at her copy of the hateful letter.

  Who?

  And why?

  Lord, what’s going on here? I feel like Anne Boleyn, accused over something that was way beyond her control. She had the audacity to birth a girl to Henry VIII and I to mourn over my family and seek help coping with the soul-deep pain. She gave a wry smile. At least I’m not about to be beheaded.

  When she reached her desk, she unlocked the bottom drawer, pulling out her purse. She folded the letter carefully and slid it into the inside zipper pouch. She glanced at her watch. 5:20. Time to start for home.

  Home. Her stomach cramped again. She knew her attitude was silly, maybe even sinful. Still, she felt that her mother had taken over her home. The apartment was such an overwhelming symbol to her of her need to stand by herself, to establish her own life based on her own desires and the leading of the Lord, not on her parents’ wishes, not on Sam’s. Homeless, that’s what she was, figuratively if not literally.

  At this moment Abby didn’t much like her mother.

  Marching side by side with the resentment was guilt. Abby knew better than anyone—except maybe her father—all that her mother had done for her since the accident. She had held her when Abby cried, had cried with her, had sat with her hour after hour both in the hospital and at home, reading to her, talking to her, encouraging her, had transported her to appointment after appointment week after week, month after month. That Abby should feel so angry at that person revealed the true nastiness of her heart.

  How was it possible to love and resent the same person with equal intensity? If things kept going like this, maybe she’d end up at that psychiatrist’s office yet!

  Stop stalling, girl. Go home.

  The trouble was that tonight she wouldn’t have Celia and the girls as buffers. It’d be just her and Mom, who would undoubtedly want to talk “girl talk” for hours. It was more than she could deal with, especially with that letter burning a hole in her purse. With her nose for trouble both real and imagined, Mom would ferret out the letter in no time. The last thing Abby wanted was for her to have additional ammunition in the fight against Seaside.

  With a sigh, Abby left the library and climbed into her car. Instead of turning toward home, however, she drove downtown. The new Kmart was just what she needed to distance herself for another hour or so. It could also give her a project to fill the night.

  In the bath department Abby found exactly what she wanted, a wicker wall unit of two shelves. The only trouble was that it came only in white, and she wanted forest green. So she’d paint it. She smiled. Something else to fill the evening.

  As she climbed back into her car with the wicker shelves, the green paint, and all the accompanying paraphernalia, guilt again seized her. She sat for a minute with her eyes closed, praying.

  Lord, I don’t know how to handle this. Most people rebel in their teens, and their outlook at that time is so self-centered that they think little of the parents they may be hurting. Leave it to me to wait until almost thirty. She sighed at her own folly. All I keep thinking is how I’d feel if Maddie had grown up and turned against me. Not that I’ve actually turned against Mom.

  Oh, no? seemed to thunder from on high. “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

  She sighed again. All those verses memorized as a kid to earn free weeks at camp leaped to her mind at the most inopportune moments. How pointed they often were. How they could pierce her heart.

  Okay, Lord, I get it. She reached in her purse for her cell phone. She may be wrong, but that’s no reason for me to be nasty in return. Abby punched in the apartment number. I just don’t know a nice way to separate myself from her interference. She listened to the ringing at the other end. I mean, if I’m kind, won’t she think that’s an invitation to be more controlling? Won’t she think I’m giving in again?

  “Mom, it’s me,” she said when the receiver was picked up. “I had to run an errand. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

  “Where are you, Abby? Did something happen? Did you fall? I’ve been so worried! You’re late.”

  Abby closed her eyes as she listened to the concern and the reprimands. The unhealthy combination made her skin crawl. She glanced at her watch. “It’s not that late, Mom. It isn’t even six-fifteen yet.”

  “You finish work at five. Your drive takes less than five minutes. You’re late.”

  Abby leaned her head against the rest, aware that her back hurt, her hip ached, and she had a killer headache. “Is there anything I can pick up at the grocery store for us?” She forced her voice to sound neutral.

  “Not now, thank you. I plan for us to go to the store tonight to stock up big-time. You have hardly anything here.”

  Abby bit her lip. She felt like she was five and Mom had just said, “Leave your dolls, dear. We have to go to the grocery store.” In a voice as calm as she could make it, Abby said, “I can’t go to the store tonight, Mom. I have a project planned.”

  There was a short silence. “You never told me.”

  You never told me either. “Sorry.”

  “Well, just get home before dinner’s ruined.”

  Abby hung up, picturing Mom’s compressed lips and stony expression. The only thing that Mom hated more than having her plans messed up was having her carefully cooked meals ruined.

  Maybe she’ll be mad enough for the silent treatment! Hope bubbled. Just as quickly, remorse kicked in. Oh, Lord, how awful of me. Help me. I’m going nuts here.

  When Abby pulled into the drive, there was barely enough room for her, given the presence of a stretch limo with U.S. government plates.

  Marsh’s father! How had she forgotten?

  Oh, Marsh, how’s it going? Are you surviving?

  She climbed out of the car, reaching into the backseat to gather her purchases. With the wall shelving unit tucked under one arm, the paint can and bag with the brushes and solvent in the other, she walked to the steps. She could hear voices coming from Marsh’s living room through the open sliding door.

  She couldn’t help looking over. She’d never seen a real live senator before, and she’d love a little glimpse of Senator Winslow. No luck. The black screen in the door effectively blocked even the most cursory glimpse.

  She turned to the steps and realized that she wouldn’t be able to carry everything up in one trip. She still needed the banister for stability, though she felt she was getting better at this climbing bit every day. By Labor Day she should be running up, hands waving over her head in victory à la Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

  She bent to put the paint and bag on the ground when a hand reached out, taking them from her.

  “Let me.”

  She jumped. “Marsh!” She smiled. “Where did you come from so quickly?”

  He took her elbow in the now familiar grip. “I saw you through the open door. You’re my chance to escape for a minute.” The first sentence was spok
en at a normal level, but the second was sotto voce.

  She glanced at the door herself. “That bad?”

  “Worse.”

  She studied him. His shoulders were tense, his eyes desperate. “It’s only for a day,” she offered as comfort.

  “Yeah, but he brought his wife with him.”

  “Your stepmom? I take it you don’t like her?”

  He rolled his eyes. “She makes your mom look like Mother Teresa.”

  Abby grinned. “Well, come on up and say hi to the sainted woman.”

  “That’ll make her evening.” His voice was dry.

  “I could use the protection, and you could make believe you’re Sir Galahad.”

  He looked a question and she confided, “I’m late.” He was appropriately scandalized.

  “Marshall,” a voice purred from behind them. “Who do we have here?”

  “Uh-oh,” Marsh breathed. He turned, a false smile plastered on his face. “This is Abby Patterson. She lives upstairs.”

  Abby turned and found herself staring at a beautiful young woman standing at the edge of Marsh’s porch. Her hair, a sleek, sophisticated pageboy of a lovely ash-blond shade, was perfect even after a day in the high humidity of the Jersey shore. Abby looked in vain for a freckle, a mole, a sunburned nose, anything to mar the perfection of her face. She looked like she had just slipped into her blue silk shirt and white linen slacks.

  How has she worn linen all day and not gotten wrinkled, Abby wondered, feeling every one of the wrinkles she knew creased her poplin slacks. Then there was the spot of baby vomit on her shoulder from when she’d held an infant so its young mom could help the three-year-old brother pick out some books. As for makeup, perfect or otherwise, Abby knew hers had long ago worn off, and her red nose undoubtedly shone like a beacon on a dark night.

  “Abby,” Marsh continued. “This is Lane Winslow, my father’s wife.”

  “Hello, Lane, it’s nice to meet you.” Because her first response to Lane had been so catty, Abby put extra graciousness into her greeting. Then her brain clicked.

  Lane? As in Marsh’s ex-fiancée? Had she heard correctly? Certainly there weren’t many women with that name, and to have two connected to the same family seemed too much. But married to his father? Only by supreme effort did she keep her jaw from dropping all the way to her knees.

  “Lane? Marshall? Where are you?” A commanding voice boomed from the living room.

  “Out here, darling,” Lane purred over her shoulder. “Meeting Marshall’s neighbor.”

  How did she do it, Abby wondered, putting such an ugly, suggestive spin on her ordinary comment? Marsh stiffened beside her, the hand he still had on her elbow tightening painfully. She poked him discreetly in the ribs, and while he loosened his hold, he didn’t let go.

  The sliding door flew open and out stepped Senator Winslow. He looked just like all the pictures Abby had seen of him: confident, charismatic, and handsome. He carried his authority with ease and his age with distinction. He joined them, sliding an arm around his wife. Lane glanced at him over her shoulder, giving him a lovely smile.

  What was it like for the senator to know that his wife had first chosen his son and he was second choice?

  What was it like for Lane to be married to a man nearly twice her age? Of course power was a strong aphrodisiac, and the senator possessed that attribute in spades.

  Marsh introduced Abby. “I’m just going to help her upstairs with her packages.”

  “How sweet,” Lane purred.

  Marsh started up the steps, paint can and bag in hand, towing Abby behind him. She flashed a brief smile over her shoulder at the senator, then at Lane.

  “Nice to meet you,” she called as, shelves held awkwardly under her free arm, she grasped the banister. Feeling Lane’s eyes on her, it was all she could do not to twitch her shoulders. She gritted her teeth and tried not to let her limp show. Not that Marsh was any help in that department. He practically dragged her up the stairs, accenting rather than disguising her disability.

  “Oh, Marsh,” she whispered as they neared the landing and she thought it safe to speak without being overheard. “Lane? The Lane?”

  He nodded, lips compressed.

  “Your poor father!”

  Marsh halted, one foot on the top step, one foot on the landing, a look of utter disbelief on his face. “Poor Dad?”

  Abby nodded. “And lucky you!”

  He looked at her, shaking his head. Then he grinned. “You never cease to amaze me. You’re right, of course. Poor Dad.” He set the paint and bag on the nearest chair. “I’ve got to go.”

  Abby nodded. She wished she could ask him to stay for a few minutes to look at the nasty letter. She’d love his opinion, but she knew now wasn’t the time. Besides, Mom would undoubtedly walk out as she showed it, demanding to see it too.

  She balanced the shelves on the edge of the porch rail. “Just remember,” she said softly. “Lucky you.”

  He was grinning as he loped down the stairs, and she felt pleased to have relieved a bit of his tension even if only for a minute or two.

  She had just turned to go inside when Lane spoke.

  “How kind of you to help the cripple, Marshall. But aren’t you slumming a bit?”

  Twenty-six

  ABBY FELL BACK as if she’d been slapped, coming to rest when she bumped into the apartment wall. Mortification washed over her, burning her cheeks, chilling her spirit. Never in the three years since the accident had anyone called her a cripple.

  Oh, she’d seen plenty of looks of pity, especially when she was first learning to walk again. She’d been asked plenty of questions from the politely curious to the downright nosey. But cripple, especially used in so pejorative a manner? Never.

  And slumming! How thoroughly demeaning.

  She heard Senator Winslow’s horrified, “Lane!” and Marsh’s low, fierce, “Shut up, Lane.”

  Then she heard Lane’s merry, if slightly strained laugh. “Easy, gentlemen. Can’t you take a joke?”

  Some joke.

  Honesty forced Abby to admit that much of the hurt came because Lane was the source. Beautiful Lane. Elegant Lane. She was probably the toast of Washington, the glamorous, savvy young wife of a powerful political force. Invitations to her parties were doubtless A-list treasures in the status-conscious city. No one wrote notes about her being a bad influence on children.

  Hardest to think about was that Marsh had loved her.

  Pushing away from the wall and walking to the rail to look out at the vast, calming sea, Abby admitted that last thought was the one that bothered her most. Marsh had loved Lane.

  With a sigh she acknowledged that she’d never stand a chance with him. After beauty like that, why would he settle for someone like her? After the sleekness of blond Lane, how could he like her unruly mass of black curls that went every which way in the humid shore air no matter how much extra-extra-extra ultrahold hair spray she used? How could he be attracted to her skinny face with its sun-reddened nose and dark, strong brows after Lane’s movie star perfection. She glanced down at herself and shuddered. Body shape didn’t even bear thinking of.

  “Well, you’re here. Finally.”

  Mom. Abby scrunched her face at the acerbic tone, pasting on a smile as she turned. “Hello, Mom.”

  “You should have told me you were home.”

  “I just got here.” Abby tried to keep her voice devoid of emotion, but she wasn’t certain she succeeded.

  “Yes, well, come on. Dinner gets more rubbery by the moment.”

  The meal was an exercise in exquisite torture for Abby and, she suspected, her mother. Conversation was awkward and sporadic with Mom giving rundowns on people from home as if Abby had been away for a year instead of less than a week. Finally Mom asked the question Abby had been dreading.

  “What’s wrong, Abby? Tell me what’s wrong.” She leaned back in her chair, planning to settle in until she had her answer.

  In the past,
Abby would have poured out her heart, sharing what bothered her with relief. Even when she was married, she and her mother had talked about her problems, analyzing them, dissecting them, finding solutions for them. Always she had been proud of the relationship she had with Mom, the openness.

  A sudden thought hit Abby. Had they ever talked about any of Mom’s problems, looked for alternatives for her, wondered about what were her best steps to take, her wisest course to follow? Not that she expected Mom to tell her about problems with Dad, though she herself had blurted out enough about Sam. But what about work? Church? Neighbors?

  With a grim smile, Abby realized Mom had never once asked for her input, her advice. Mom willingly gave, but she didn’t take, not even after Abby was a woman grown.

  Therein lay the problem. Abby was a woman, yet Mom still expected their relationship to be like it was when she was growing up. When they conversed, they weren’t two women friends, peers. They had never made that adjustment. They were still mother and daughter, authority and wisdom facing need and ignorance.

  In a strange way, the accident was responsible for bringing all that inequity to a head. For a time Mom had been needed, desperately needed. She had met that need with love and a willing spirit. She had given above and beyond what could be expected of her, and Abby had accepted the help without question out of both habit and necessity.

  Now Abby was healed. She was no longer needy. In fact, she was no longer anything like the woman she’d been the day she had ridden into that intersection with Sam. How could she be, going through what she had? She had passed through the fire, been tempered, been matured. She’d pushed through far more than her physical therapy, emerging a woman who wanted—what? What did she want?

  She’d thought she wanted independence, the freedom and space to stand alone. That was why she came to Seaside. After a lifetime of people telling her what to do, she wanted to be responsible to no one but God, to be on her own. Not that she wanted to be like Amalsuntha, who back in the 500s ruled the Roman Empire for years all by herself, ending up banished and strangled for all her fine work. A craving for power wasn’t in Abby’s makeup.