The first one had a bright yellow border around it with a simple blue bottle in the right corner. In the center was printed, “I could have sat down on the spot and cried heartily, if I had not learned the wisdom of bottling up one’s tears for leisure moments.”
Genevieve chuckled. “Who wrote that?”
“Louisa May Alcott. See? It says so on the back. And this other one is also hers.”
Genevieve read the second postcard, which was ornately decorated with Victorian-style Valentine hearts. “These faulty hearts of ours cannot turn perfect in a night; but need frost and fire, wind and rain, to ripen and make them ready for the great harvest-home.”
“You have a wonderful talent, Anna. These are darling postcards.”
Anna seemed to soak up Genevieve’s praise. She flitted over to the refrigerator as graceful as a butterfly. Pouring herself a glass of orange juice, she said, “Mom, do you save up all your tears?”
“Save up my tears? Oh, you mean like in your quote?”
Anna nodded. “Do you ever save up your tears for a leisure moment?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I never see you cry.” Anna tilted her head. “At least I don’t remember seeing you cry for a really long time.”
Genevieve shrugged. “I suppose I don’t have much to cry about. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Anna didn’t respond. Genevieve picked up a sponge and automatically wiped off the kitchen counters.
“Mom?” Anna lowered herself to a kitchen stool, as if preparing for a long answer. “Do you love Dad?”
“Of course I love him,” Genevieve said quickly. “We’ve been married for twenty-six years. Why do you ask such a question?”
Anna’s tenderness and intense perception seemed to increase the older she became. Genevieve wondered if Anna had discerned the aloofness that had been growing between Genevieve and Steven over the last few years.
“I just wondered.” Anna stayed put, as Genevieve cleaned around her. “Mom, would you and Dad ever divorce?”
“No, we’re committed to each other.”
“Do you know Tanya in my class?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She’s moving next week because her parents are divorcing. She and her mom are going to live in Idaho with her aunt. Tanya doesn’t like Idaho. She doesn’t like her aunt or her cousins, either.”
“Are you afraid that’s what might happen to you someday?” Genevieve tried to make her voice sound sure and comforting.
“I just think that divorce happens to people you don’t expect it to happen to.”
“That’s true.” Genevieve tossed the sponge into the sink and gave Anna what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “I don’t think that will ever happen with your father and me.”
“Are you sure?”
Genevieve ignored the uncertain feelings that were dashing about inside her. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Even if Dad decided to live with another woman the way Tanya’s dad did?”
Genevieve’s pulse pounded in her ears. “Anna, I don’t know what happened with Tanya and her family, but that’s her family, not ours. Your father and I have been through a lot over the years, and we’re still together. We plan to stay together for the rest of our lives.”
“That’s what I hoped you would say.” Anna finished the last of her orange juice. “I don’t want to move again, and I really don’t ever want to have to decide between living with you or Dad. I want us always to be together.”
“That’s what we want, too.”
After Anna went to bed, Genevieve lowered herself into her mother’s antique rocking chair by the window. The shades were up, and the world beyond her cozy corner was illuminated with moonlight, the blessing of a clear night. No streetlights were near the backyard to compete with the shimmering moon. She loved the solitude that surrounded their Glenbrooke home.
With a sigh, Genevieve thought about Anna’s questions. She wondered where Steven was right now. Was he flying over the Pacific Ocean? Or was he about to land a plane on a runway somewhere across the world where the sun had not yet set?
He’s been a wonderful father to the girls. And he loves me. I know he loves me. The problem with our marriage is me. I’m the one who has grown cold.
An image of her mother came to mind. Most evenings while Genevieve was growing up, her mother sat in this same rocking chair with her glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose. She was always working on something. If she wasn’t knitting a cap for the little shop in Zurich where she sold her handmade wares, she was crocheting a baby blanket. Genevieve still had the baby blankets her mother had made for each of Genevieve’s daughters. Those three blankets and a blue-and-red ski sweater from when Genevieve was eight years old were the only bits of her mother’s handiwork she still had.
When Genevieve’s parents had passed away, her relationship with both of them was strong and close, even though it hadn’t always been that way. Her father was nearly fifty when she was born, and her mother was forty-two. Genevieve was their only child, and she had grown up hearing often that she was “the nicest surprise” they ever had.
It occurred to Genevieve that she had never doubted her parent’s love and admiration for her even though the words “I love you” were rarely spoken. She didn’t remember ever asking her parents if they were considering a divorce even though their marriage never displayed much evidence that they loved each other. They were simply together all the time. Their demeanor was courteous, and their conversations were brief and cordial.
Genevieve stared out the window at the moonlight on the lawn. The backyard needed so much work. The rain had caused the weeds to sprout with zeal. Clearly no one had put much time into the backyard for years before Steven and Genevieve had moved in. When they bought the house, she thought she would enjoy creating a special garden, as she had in Pasadena. But then the catering business became too demanding, and she found it easier to ignore the massive amount of work the yard needed.
She thought about her father and how he had praised her Pasadena garden the two times he had visited the family in California. The garden was in its earliest stages when he had plucked a tall Shasta daisy and twirled it between his long fingers. If he had been wearing a suit at that moment, Genevieve was certain he would have tucked the daisy into his lapel buttonhole and worn it all day.
In most of her memories of him, Genevieve’s father wore a dark suit. He had worked for a bank in Zurich for almost forty years. He spoke three languages fluently and insisted that English be spoken in the home.
She remembered the way her papa walked her to school every morning, drilling her on English verbs as her short legs hurried to keep up with his vigorous stride. He would deposit her at the front gate of her school with a courteous half-bow and a phrase in German that loosely translated meant, “Make something of your life that will shine brightly.” Then, without looking back, he would turn on his heels to catch the tram to the downtown financial district.
Genevieve smiled to herself when she thought of how her mother’s life was more of a gentle glow than a “bright shine.” She was an at-home mom whose mission in life, it seemed, was to keep their small city apartment extra clean, as if they were expecting important company at any minute. Yet they almost never entertained.
It was a good life. A simple one.
The memories of her quiet childhood were partially what had drawn Genevieve to Glenbrooke. She had wanted a slower pace than the life she had in southern California. Somehow she had convinced herself long ago that her marriage wouldn’t be solid until she and her husband spent evenings together in their rocking chairs, with Steven reading the paper and Genevieve busy with handiwork in her lap.
The image caused Genevieve to shake her head. Where did I come up with that? I don’t even like to knit.
It occurred to Genevieve that in one way she was following her parents’ example in her own marriage. She was courteous and satisfied with being cordia
l and brief with her husband while curtailing any outward expression of her love for him. Perhaps Anna had to ask if Genevieve loved Steven because her actions didn’t make it obvious.
Is that so unusual? Genevieve asked herself. Don’t all couples our age settle into such a routine? What’s wrong with living in a state of courteous companionship?
Genevieve thought about how she had come to be in this “cordial” season of their marriage. She knew the exact moment when it began. It was the day after her forty-third birthday, a cloudy afternoon almost three years ago. Steven had met her in the garden of their Pasadena home with his captain’s hat in his hand. He lowered his head and made a solemn apology to her in front of the snapdragons.
Genevieve didn’t cry. She didn’t tell him what she really thought. Instead, she stopped weeding and took off her gardening gloves. In a calm, cordial tone she stated, “It’s okay. I understand, Steven. The stock market is risky. We both knew that. It may turn around in the next few weeks.”
However, their investments didn’t turn around that week or any week after that. More than half of the inheritance Genevieve had received from her parents’ estate had been lost on a high risk stock that Steven had felt sure was going to triple. All her father’s hard-earned money was gone, just like that.
And she felt horribly guilty.
A long-repressed tear slipped out and trailed down Genevieve’s cheek as she stared out the window at the dark shadows stretching across the lawn. I know it wasn’t Steven’s fault. We both agreed on where the money should be invested. It’s not as if it was all lost. We still had enough to buy the café.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Genevieve rocked and wished Steven were there to hold her. He never was home when she needed him most. Like the night she had received the phone call that her mother had passed away. Or the afternoon she went into labor with Mallory, three weeks before the due date.
Steven has simply not been there for me.
A stream of tears came, blurring her vision of the world beyond the familiar rocking chair. With her tears came a rush of criticism toward herself for being so overwhelmed. Snap out of it, Genevieve! You have no reason to feel so sorry for yourself. It’s not as if Steven is moving in with another woman and leaving you forever. He has been a good father. He has provided for you and your daughters in a generous way over the years. Your inheritance money wasn’t something you needed to survive.
The tears didn’t respond to her logic. The hurt was very real to her heart. With the moonlight as her only witness, Genevieve rocked in her mother’s chair and cried out all the bottled-up tears she had saved, without realizing it, for such a leisure moment.
Chapter Four
The only conclusion Genevieve came to after her night of swimming in her tears by moonlight was that the Wildflower Café was now the embodiment of all her dreams and expectations. It was her one chance to make good on what had remained of the inheritance money, a chance to “make something of her life that will shine brightly.”
Genevieve spent the next few days focusing on her redecorating efforts. She decided to put more work into fixing up the front of the Wildflower while the weather was nice.
Steven called a few days before he came home, and Anna answered the phone. She bubbled over with descriptions for her father about her involvement in sprucing up the café. She described the four wooden frames she had salvaged from the shed and how they were all freshly painted, decorated, and ready for pictures worthy of their charm.
Then she told him about how she had spent the weekend cleaning up the old bicycle, painting the fenders deep red and artistically positioning it in front of the café.
“Seth wired the bike to the wall,” Anna told him. “Not because we’re afraid that anyone would want to steal it. It’s because it’s such a relic. Seth said the bike is being held together with fresh paint on top of the rust and the wire we used to connect it to the wall.”
Genevieve stopped in the middle of helping Mallory with a math problem and listened to the delight in her middle daughter’s voice. Anna was telling her father customers’ comments about the café’s front. Then she asked a favor that Genevieve knew Steven would be happy to fulfill.
“Dad, when you get home Thursday, will you pick me up after school and come see the front of the café with me?”
The spring rains returned on Thursday, and so did Steven.
He picked up Anna after school. Genevieve joined them in front of the café and held a wide umbrella so Steven could conduct his own shower of praise on Anna.
Genevieve couldn’t hide her pride and enthusiasm for her daughter and for the café. The inside still needed a lot of attention, but the entrance was 1000 percent more appealing than it had been.
“I heard some people say they think it looks like a European café now,” Anna said. “Is that what you think, Dad?”
Steven’s arm encompassed Anna’s shoulders. He was out of his pilot’s uniform and wearing jeans and his favorite shirt, a long-sleeved, oatmeal-colored knit shirt Genevieve had ordered for him from a catalog at Christmas. It made him look cuddly and tender, which was how Anna was responding to him now.
“Definitely.” Steven drew Anna close. “European all the way. Nice work, Anna.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
From the way Anna was beaming, Genevieve could tell his simple words of praise sunk deeper into Anna’s heart than the days of praise Genevieve had given her. Once again she felt like the one who did all the work, only to watch Steven step in at the time of harvest and scoop up the best of the crop.
“I think when I grow up I want to be an exterior decorator, if there is such a thing,” Anna said. “I want to help people make the outside of their homes beautiful.”
Genevieve watched Steven smile at Anna. They were the romantics in the family. The two artistic spirits who conversed in their own special language. This wasn’t the first time Genevieve had felt like an outsider when Steven and Anna were having a meeting of the minds.
“Are either of you interested in some soup?” Genevieve asked.
Steven and Anna both turned and looked at her as if they couldn’t imagine anyone thinking of her stomach at a time like this. They were admiring art. Such a moment shouldn’t be rushed.
“I’m going inside,” Genevieve said quietly. She handed the umbrella to Steven and made her way through the café to the kitchen, feeling chilled in her cotton sweater and jeans skirt. “It would be so nice to have a fireplace in here,” she muttered to herself.
“Did you say something?” Leah stood in the middle of the kitchen holding a large, long box.
“I was just saying that a fireplace in here would sure be nice.”
“Wow! That’s really expanding your vision,” Leah said. “I don’t know if we can get a fireplace in here, but look at what Mack just brought over from the hardware store. I traded him for this.”
Leah slit open the end of the box. “Mack was in here the other day and said he had been getting requests for flowerboxes ever since you put up yours. He doesn’t have any ready-made ones and most people don’t want to make theirs. I told him that Seth and I would make twenty flowerboxes from the scrap lumber left over from our cabin if we could trade them for an awning.”
“An awning?”
Leah pulled the long, royal blue canvas awning from the box. “For the front door. Didn’t you say you wanted an awning to cover the front?”
“Yes, but Leah you didn’t have to do this.”
“I know. I wanted to. It matches the flowerboxes. With the bicycle and flowers out front, this awning is going to make the Wildflower Café the best looking storefront on Main Street. Oh, and Mack said he would sand the door for you if you decide you want to paint it. But he agreed with me when I said I think it looks good the way it is, especially with the original, beveled glass at the top and the original brass handle. It’s classic Glenbrooke.”
“Leah, this is so kind of you.” Genevieve felt the blue canvas. “T
hank you.”
“You’re welcome. I need to get that turkey sandwich to table two.” Leah slipped out with the serving plate in her hand just as Steven and Anna entered the kitchen. Over her shoulder Leah said, “Don’t forget to ask Steven what he thinks about our idea of selling the tables.”
“What idea is that?” Steven headed for the refrigerator and pulled out the cheesecake, counting the precut slices. “Mind if I have one? It looks like three slices are left.”
“Sure, help yourself. Did you see the strawberries? They should be in a bowl behind the ham.”
“Found it.” Steven prepared the afternoon dessert while Genevieve served up the last portion of vegetable lasagna.
Leah swished in, picked up the lasagna and a plate with a Caesar salad and returned to the dining room.
The good thing about the kitchen being blocked off from the customers was that no one could see her husband perched on the counter eating strawberry cheesecake or her daughter using the telephone on the back wall.
“What was the idea about the tables?” Steven asked again.
“Shelly and Jonathan out at Camp Heather Brook want to buy all the tables and chairs from the café and use them at the camp. They told us this morning and asked if we could deliver them before Shelly’s May Day event in two weeks.”
Steven looked confused. “Why would you sell the tables?”
“They’re too big. Most of our diners are couples or groups of four. The tables are so large people have to raise their voices to have conversations. The other problem is that the chairs are uncomfortable.”
Steven nodded and licked the back of his fork. “I noticed that.”
Genevieve looked at her husband. “Did you say anything about it to me before?”
“No. I thought it would be pointless since you had just bought them.”
“I think that’s what everybody thought. I didn’t make a good choice on the tables and chairs. Selling them to Shelly and Jonathan would give me enough money to start over.”
“Are you going to install booths like they had here before?” Steven asked.
Wildflowers Page 4