Barefoot in the Sand

by Holly Chamberlin

  “We could prove it if we have to. You could take a DNA test.”

  “Then what? They might still want nothing to do with either of us.” Laura sighed. “Still, we owe it to my father’s relatives—to my relatives—to tell them that I exist.”

  “And once the Smiths know, it’s inevitable that my parents will learn that I’m still alive. That their scheme to keep me apart from my child failed in the end.”

  “They might attempt to contact you. Or me, for that matter.”

  Arden shook her head thoughtfully. “Even if my father was the one behind that threatening letter you received earlier this summer, even if he’s the one who had you followed, I doubt he’ll continue to be a bother to us if he sees we’ve stopped trying to find out the truth behind Rob’s disappearance. But if he does make contact—”

  “I’ll protect you from your parents,” Laura said fiercely. “You’ll never again be at their mercy. I know you’ve done a fine job of taking care of yourself all these years, but now that we’ve found one another, you have me to rely on.”

  “I don’t want to be a burden on you, Laura. I—”

  “You’re not a burden. I choose to be here. You’ve chosen to let me stay while we travel this journey together. This relationship is mutual.” Laura swallowed hard. “Isn’t it?”

  Arden opened her arms and Laura went to her. “It is. We’re here for one another for the rest of our lives.”

  Laura had never felt happier.

  Chapter 74

  Deborah was poking around the shop on the hunt for a birthday present for the administrative assistant in her office. Phil exclusively read nonfiction, specifically histories of war, a topic about which Deborah admitted she knew next to nothing. “I know we won the war against the British back in the eighteenth century,” she had told Arden earlier. “And I know that the Allies won World War Two and that all war is terrible. Beyond that . . .”

  To make Deborah’s search more difficult, she had no idea what books Phil already owned. Arden, who had sold so many tomes to Phil over the years she had lost track of their titles, suggested Deborah give her colleague a gift certificate, but Deborah was determined to make an effort.

  While she fretted over biographies of Wellington and comprehensive surveys of the Vietnam War, Arden was silently suffering agonies of guilt—something she had been dealing with since telling Laura what she had witnessed in the gazebo that night back in June of 1985.

  There was no doubt in Arden’s mind that she should have stopped that man from completing his attack, but the thought—even in retrospect—of shy, dominated, beaten-down Victoria Aldridge having the nerve to shout, to scream, to pull on the arm of that disgusting man, to face the exposure that would follow, to have her story denied—as it would have been—or spun entirely out of recognition . . . It was impossible to fathom.

  For all Arden knew, her mother might have been in the habit of having affairs with the husbands of her friends—with Herbert’s colleagues. If you could call what had happened in the gazebo an affair. Those men might have known that Florence Aldridge could be taken advantage of when she had had a lot to drink. Having sex with a friend’s wife behind his back was exactly the sort of power play that group would relish. Or, what Arden—what Victoria—had seen that evening might have been an isolated incident. Come morning, Florence probably wouldn’t have remembered what had been done to her.

  Which didn’t change that she had been violated, and that her own daughter had let it happen. The whole thing was enough to make Arden feel sick to her stomach. She was still surprised that she had told Laura, her child, not only the horror she had witnessed that night, but also, more important, her failure to take action. Yet, Laura hadn’t accused her mother of neglect, hadn’t pointed a finger of blame, hadn’t berated her for her lack of courage. Laura had accepted everything Arden had told her this summer with compassion and understanding.

  Still, Arden thought, her daughter’s generosity didn’t erase that Victoria—that Arden—had walked away from her mother, a woman in distress. No one else must ever, ever know about that moral crime. The shame would be unbearable.

  Deborah reemerged from the stacks, a frown on her face. “I give up. I’ll get Phil a gift certificate after all. I mean, I don’t even know which war is his favorite, if you can have a favorite war. Does he like the old ones better than the contemporary ones? Knights in battle armor or soldiers in tanks? Ugh.”

  Arden was glad that her friend had stopped by. Deborah’s dilemma was a nice distraction from her own dark thoughts. “How much do you want to spend?” she asked, reaching below the counter for a new box of gift certificates.

  Deborah shrugged. “Let’s say twenty-five dollars. Oh, I love these,” she exclaimed, taking up a suede-bound notebook from the spinner rack closest to the counter. “Especially this purple one. Too bad I only use my phone to keep track of my life.”

  “You could change that.”

  “I’m not so sure. Since going all keyboard and screen, my handwriting has really deteriorated. Every time I have to sign my name I panic. Hey, what’s on your mind?” Deborah asked suddenly. “You look, I don’t know, down or something. Are you still disappointed by the fact that the guy who worked for your father didn’t have something more concrete to share?”

  “No. I really didn’t expect he would be able to help us.”

  “So, what then?”

  Arden took a box cutter from a mug of pens and pencils—it was a new one; Brent had insisted they toss the old one that was always jamming—and sliced open the box of gift certificates. “It’s just work stuff,” she lied.

  Deborah groaned. “Oh, come on, how long have we been friends?”

  “Okay,” Arden said after a moment. “I’ll tell you what’s on my mind.” If not all of what’s there, she added silently. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother. I’ve often felt bad for what my leaving home the way I did might have done to her already-fragile mental state. Remember I told you how she felt responsible for the death of her first child? Well, I can’t help but wonder if she also felt responsible for my running off and suffered because of it.”

  “She was responsible for you leaving. At least partly.”

  “Yes, but I don’t like to think that my actions punished her unduly.”

  Deborah was silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Be honest,” she said finally. “Wasn’t there an element of revenge in leaving home like you did, without even a note? Or did you really believe that neither of your parents would care that you were gone?”

  Arden put a hand to her head; she felt deeply troubled. “Honestly,” she said after a moment, “I didn’t run away to punish my parents, not consciously at least. I did it to save my sanity. I didn’t give any thought at all to what my parents might feel when I was gone.” Arden sighed. “But my running away must have had enormous emotional and psychological consequences for my parents. It had to have. It was totally selfish of me.”

  “Your act was one of self-preservation. There’s a difference. Besides,” Deborah went on matter-of-factly, “there’s nothing you can do about it now. What’s done is done. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but it’s not in the least bit productive to take on a load of guilt so long after the fact. And don’t forget that you were provoked. I could go on if you need more reassurance.”

  Arden managed a smile and began to fill out Deborah’s gift certificate. “Thanks. Enough about me. What’s happening with the Coyne property?”

  Deborah’s face lit up. “There’s been a turnaround! The deal is almost locked up. Almost. I don’t want to jinx myself by getting too excited.”

  “We’ll have to celebrate after the closing.”

  “Don’t make assumptions!” Deborah scolded. “I’m superstitious!”

  “Sorry.” Arden passed the gift certificate across the counter for her friend to sign. “But I have a good feeling about this.” Arden paused. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, after the fa
ct, but Gordon offered to loan me the money for the roof repair.”

  Deborah’s eyes widened. “Whoa. And?”

  “And I turned him down. I didn’t want to complicate our relationship.”

  “Because your relationship is more than a friendship, or could be if you let it. Don’t look so surprised. It’s no secret.”

  “Yes.” Arden was oddly glad that Laura wasn’t the only one who had sensed Gordon’s interest. “Do you think I did the right thing?”

  “Don’t ask me. With my relationship track record? As long as you feel good about your decision, that’s all that counts. Anyway, Gordon’s not the type to pout and feel all rejected. So, how are you going to pay for the roof repair? Has the loan been approved?”

  “It has, but I haven’t signed the papers yet.”

  “What are you waiting for? A big fat check to appear out of nowhere?”

  “Of course not. I’ll call the bank first thing Monday morning.”

  Deborah nodded. “Good. Hey, how about you, me, and Laura—and Gordon, if you want to ask him along—take a picnic out to Eliot’s Field tomorrow evening. Take advantage of the warm weather while we can.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Arden agreed enthusiastically. “I’ll make crabmeat sandwiches. But let’s keep it we three women.”

  “Greater freedom of conversation! I’ll bake a dozen of my infamous chocolate cupcakes with caramel icing and we’ll go wild.”

  “A dozen?” Arden asked, eyes wide. “For the three of us?”

  “Yeah. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Arden laughed. “Not at all!”

  Chapter 75

  Laura winced. Guilt was perhaps too strong a word to describe what she felt at the moment. Still, she had been neglectful. This text from her friend Sara confirmed that.

  She had met Sara in graduate school. They were studying different disciplines—Sara’s focus was art history, particularly American art of the nineteenth century—but they shared much else, such as a love of nachos (well, of anything with melted cheese) and an abhorrence of reality television.

  Sara had been maid of honor at Laura’s wedding. Soon after, she had left the East Coast for a teaching position in Oregon. That lasted for a little over three years before Sara missed her native soil and came home to Connecticut, where she met and married a man twenty years her senior, a renowned illustrator of children’s books. Laura liked Oliver a lot. Jared had disliked Sara and had downright loathed Oliver.

  Sara had been 100 percent supportive of Laura’s desire to seek out her birth mother and had promised not to hound her with questions on her progress or lack thereof. But that promise had been made weeks and weeks ago. Laura didn’t blame her friend for wanting to know what was going on.

  I can’t stand it any longer. What’s been going on? Did you find your mother? Your father? When are you coming back? Are you coming back? This enquiring mind wants to know!

  Laura, who was sitting on a bench outside Eliot’s Corner’s tiny library, briefly filled Sara in with a promise for the full story at another time. Sara’s last two questions she left unanswered. Not that they weren’t fair questions, just difficult ones to answer. When would she be ready to let go of the search for the truth of what had happened to her birth father? Maybe never, not entirely, but she couldn’t stay on in Eliot’s Corner forever, not with a career to revive. Laura considered herself a reasonable person. As much as she wanted to see a culprit—if one existed—brought to justice, she was not ready to abandon the possibility of a fulfilling future just to satisfy what some might call a grudge. Maybe if her mother hadn’t recovered from the trauma she had endured and hadn’t been able to make a good life for herself, Laura might feel more of a do-or-die attitude about her quest.

  The better question to ask might be, When would she be ready to say farewell to the mother she had only just found? It wouldn’t be a farewell forever, only a temporary goodbye. She and Arden would continue their relationship; hopefully, it would deepen over time and bring them joy and a sense of security as they grew old. But it would be a long-distance relationship, as were so many family relationships these days.

  Dismissing the mood of melancholy that threatened to descend upon her, Laura got up from the bench and continued her amble through the town she had come to love this summer. From across Main Street, Ben and Marla Swenson waved, and Laura returned their greeting. She stopped to examine the display in the window of Re-Turned, the vintage-clothing boutique; Michael Brooks, the owner, had a knack for the whimsical, and this week’s display featured a trio of teddy bears wearing vintage hats and costume jewelry while enjoying a tea party. A few minutes later, Laura ran into Jeanie Shardlake and Martha Benbow, coming out of Chez Claudine. Both women had been at the “Star-Crossed Lovers” event at Arden Forest. The three neighbors chatted pleasantly for a while and then took their leave.

  Finally, Laura turned toward home. She was already fairly well known in Eliot’s Corner, Arden Bell’s daughter, who had miraculously returned from wherever she had been all those years to reunite with her mother. Laura had been accepted without prejudice, and while a few famous busybodies were no doubt still itching to know every gory detail of Arden and Laura’s past, the majority of people in town seemed content (at least, on the surface) to let Laura Huntington and Arden Bell be.

  Yes, she would be sorry to leave Eliot’s Corner, this charming little town that in so many ways time seemed to have kindly forgotten. She would visit, but visiting wasn’t the same as inhabiting, just as meeting on FaceTime or Zoom was a poor (but sometimes needed) substitute for meeting in the flesh.

  Laura turned onto Juniper Road. Juniper End waited, just ahead. And there was Arden, standing in the tiny front garden, waving to her daughter. Laura hurried her pace and once again gave thanks to Cynthia Huntington, the woman who had made this miraculous development in Laura’s life possible.

  Chapter 76

  The evening picnic in Eliot’s Field had been a highlight of the summer for Arden. Her sandwiches had been a hit. She had eaten two of Deborah’s decadent cupcakes, and Laura had scarfed three. The bottle of prosecco was gone not long after the three women had settled on Deborah’s colorful picnic blanket. They hadn’t seen another soul in the park, and by seven o’clock the breeze had taken on a slight hint of autumn, so that by the time Arden and Laura reached Juniper End they were pleasantly chilled.

  It truly had been a perfect evening, Arden decided. As if by silent agreement, the conversation had remained light with almost no mention of Deborah’s impending sale or Laura’s search for the truth about what had become of her father, a brief respite from the woes and challenges of life.

  “Gosh, I’m so bad at this,” Laura muttered. It was the following day and mother and daughter were attempting to make headway with a puzzle Arden had found at a yard sale. “I haven’t done a jigsaw puzzle since I was a kid, and I wasn’t very good then.”

  Arden, who had an uncanny skill with jigsaws, smiled. “Relax. It’s not a contest and you’ll improve over time, I promise.”

  Laura didn’t look convinced. “I’m surprised you can manage working on a puzzle with three cats leaping around.” She eyed Prospero, who was standing at attention not far away.

  “People say you can’t train a cat. I’ve found the way to do just that with these three. If they leave the puzzle pieces alone, they get a bit of fresh ham when I’m done.”

  Laura smiled. “I congratulate you! Oh, wait! I got one!”

  As Laura was placing a piece of the puzzle—an image of a flower-filled English garden—Arden became aware of a weak knock on the door of the cottage.

  “Who could that be?” she said, rising from her chair.

  “I got another one!” Laura cried, just as Arden opened the door.

  The automatic smile of welcome and inquiry that had come to her face fell.

  “Mother.”

  The woman nodded.

  Physically, Florence Aldridge had deteriorated
badly. She was noticeably frail, very thin, and her skin was slack and heavily lined. She looked almost clown-like, overly made-up, and wearing a big-shouldered cobalt-blue silk dress Arden remembered from the summer of 1985. It was, in fact, the dress Florence had worn at the party where Victoria had come across her drunken mother in the arms of a friend’s husband. The dress hung off her. Around her neck was a thick gold chain, and on her earlobes were large gold disks, also vintage 1980s. Her hair was pure Joan Collins circa Dallas, but pathetically thin, with roots that were a dusty gray.

  Arden continued to hold on to the edge of the door. She felt slightly sick to her stomach. It was as if her mother had been stuck in a time warp, as if she had stopped participating in the world outside her big house on the hill once her daughter had left Port George.

  The large black car Arden remembered so well sat in the drive like a physical threat. Someone was behind the wheel. Arden could tell that it was a woman but not much more.

  “May I come in?” Florence’s voice was as weak as her knock had been.

  Silently, Arden stepped back and gestured for her mother to enter. Arden had almost forgotten that Laura was there but now turned to her daughter. Laura stood abruptly, knocking over the glass of water from which she had been drinking. Water spread across the partially completed puzzle.

  “Does Father know you’re here?” Arden asked, looking back to her mother. Was Florence Aldridge in Eliot’s Corner to plead on Herbert’s behalf? To threaten Arden and Laura to give up their search for the truth, to keep their mouths shut?

  “I came here on my own.” Florence’s eyes shifted to Laura. “I’ve followed your daughter’s—progress—in the past weeks. It wasn’t difficult to trace her to Eliot’s Corner.”

  “Who drove you?” Arden asked. “Who is it in the car?”

  “Clarice Brown. My companion. My friend.” Florence’s tone was almost defiant.

  Laura had not yet said a word. Her expression seemed a terrible combination of shock and fury.