by Nan Rossiter
Beryl explained loudly, “Micah offered to mow.”
“That’s great!” Isak said. “It needs it!”
“I know, Charlotte thinks we live on a dandelion farm.”
“She’s such a honey,” Isak said.
“So is Micah …” Rumer added with a grin.
“Yeah, Ber, he definitely has potential—and he obviously likes you; otherwise, he wouldn’t be helping so much.”
“Maybe he’s just being a good neighbor,” Beryl countered, but Isak and Rumer both shook their heads.
The mower started to move away from the house and the sweet scent of freshly mown grass drifted in the windows. Beryl told them about the box Mr. Coleman had offered to make, from the fallen oak, and they agreed it was a wonderful gesture—and very serendipitous if it was the same tree!
“Okay,” Beryl said, changing the subject. “So, what’s on the menu?”
Isak glanced at the clock above the kitchen sink and realized it was after five. She reached into the drawer for a bottle opener, and answered, “Angel hair with asparagus and tomato.” Then she held the bottles out at arm’s length and squinted. “Red or white?”
“Red,” Rumer said.
“None for me yet,” Beryl answered. “I’m waiting for Micah—and besides, I really could use a cup of tea.”
Isak opened the red while Rumer set out glasses and Beryl filled the kettle with fresh water.
“Can you fill the pasta pot too?” Isak asked.
Beryl pulled the heavy pot from under the counter.
Rumer took a sip from her glass. “Do you have a job for me?”
Isak slid out three cutting boards, explained the recipe, and they all set to work rinsing, trimming, and chopping vegetables, and when Micah was finally far enough away from the house so they could hear, Beryl slipped Ol’ Blue Eyes on the turntable again.
Isak took a sip of her wine and, holding a wooden spoon to her lips, joined in as Frank sang “Someone to Watch over Me.” Rumer and Beryl both grinned, held up their own utensil microphones, and sang along dramatically.
They were so caught up in the song, they didn’t notice when the mower grew quiet or when Micah pulled open the screen and leaned against the door frame, but when the song ended, he started to clap. “You guys should take it on the road!” he teased. They looked up in embarrassment and laughed.
“Dinner smells good!” he said, dropping into one of the chairs. Flannery moseyed over to say hello and he scratched her behind her ears and then took off his glasses to wipe them with his shirt.
“Thanks for mowing,” Beryl said.
“Yeah, thanks, Micah!” Isak and Rumer chimed in.
“Want somethin’ to drink?”
“Water’d be great.”
“Lemon?”
“Please.”
Beryl filled a tall glass with ice, squeezed lemon over it, filled it with cold water, and dropped the lemon in.
“Let me know when you’re ready for something stronger,” Isak said with a wink.
Beryl rolled her eyes and then slid the manuscript in front of him. She wasn’t sure why she was eager for him to read it when they didn’t even know what was in it, but she knew he was genuinely interested … and she really wanted him to have a reason to stay.
“Why don’t you take this out on the porch where it’s quiet,” she said. “Then you don’t have to listen to us sing.”
Micah looked wounded. “But I love your singing.”
Beryl laughed and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Twenty minutes later, Rumer scooped fresh spinach, strawberries, and almonds tossed in sweet homemade vinaigrette onto the four blue Staffordshire plates that were lined up on the kitchen counter; and Beryl, using a pasta spoon, followed, heaping a bed of fresh angel hair next to the salad. Isak was right behind her, ladling generous portions of buttery garlic, asparagus, and tomatoes on top.
Micah looked up from his reading and watched them. “You guys really have this supper thing down to a science.”
Isak filled wineglasses and lit candles. “Yup, it’s taken years, but we finally have a system … and it usually includes some form of pasta because pasta, as our mother used to say, is Mother Nature’s answer to Prozac.”
Micah laughed and quickly gathered up the papers as Beryl and Rumer carried steaming plates to the table.
“Ber, did you feed Flan?” Rumer asked, eyeing the string of drool hanging from the dog’s jowls.
Beryl made a funny face.
“How ’bout Thoreau?”
This time she just shook her head. “I forgot, but I’ll do it now.”
“You know what they say,” Rumer teased, “your memory is the first to go.”
“That’s not funny,” Beryl said, frowning as she measured kibble into Flan’s bowl.
“I’m just kidding,” Rumer said, standing next to her, out of earshot of the others.
“Well, I’m not,” Beryl shot back. “I’m really worried about it.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Rumer consoled, dumping cat food into Thoreau’s bowl. “You worry too much.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Rumer ignored her. “Maybe you should start eating more berries—they’re supposed to be great for your memory, especially blueberries.”
Beryl set Flan’s bowl down and gave her some fresh water too. “Maybe,” she mumbled.
“C’mon, you two,” Isak called impatiently.
Rumer and Beryl eased into their seats and Beryl said, “You know, we really should say grace—we didn’t say it last night and I think Mum would be disappointed.”
Isak took a sip of her wine. “Go to it.”
They bowed their heads and Beryl quietly said the prayer Mia had taught them when they were little and, when she finished, a comforting peace seemed to settle over the table.
20
“Did you get to the part where he promised to write to her?” Beryl asked, turning to Micah, who was sitting across from her on the porch, cradling a bowl of apple crisp and vanilla ice cream.
He nodded, licking his spoon. “Yup, I’m where he’s trying to convince her to model for him.”
They all looked at him with raised eyebrows and he realized they hadn’t gotten that far. “Hmm … I guess you didn’t read that part yet, but she did say no—at least so far …” he added, as if the additional information might save him.
Beryl laughed. “You’ve just piqued our interest even more!”
Micah took a bite of his apple crisp. “This is very good.”
“Which?” Isak teased, taking a sip of her drink. “The apple crisp or the story?”
“Both,” he said with a grin.
Beryl smiled, scanned the page, and began to read….
After David left, I was surprised by how much I missed the sweet anticipation of seeing him standing on the porch, waiting for me—and how much I missed being teased about being late. Work became mundane again, and an older woman moved into his cabin; her name was Jean and she was writing a novel—her third. Unlike David, she kept to herself and rarely ventured outside, but I could hear her busily tapping away on her typewriter when I dropped off her lunch. The autumn leaves swirled around my car as I made my daily rounds, but in my mind the grayness of the bare limbs was only a depressing harbinger of the cold, snowy winter to come.
Life was busy. Between working, being Mum to three little women—all with wonderfully different personalities—and single-handedly running our household, I was exhausted by the end of the day, and was even known to fall asleep on the clean laundry spread out on the bed, waiting to be folded. Looking back, my weariness was a blessing, though, as my nightmares, for the most part, subsided.
Every day after work and picking up the girls, I pulled up in front of our rusty, snowplow-battered mailbox, my heart full of hope, only to be disappointed. What was I hoping for? David was married and I was foolish to give him a second thought; at the same time, I couldn’t forget the way it felt to be held in
his arms. The weeks went by and I decided I was never going to hear from him again when—on what would have been Tom’s and my sixth wedding anniversary—a tissue paper–thin envelope was tucked between the bills. I stared at the elegant handwriting and my heart skipped a beat. I wanted to tear it open right then and there and devour its contents; but at the same time, I wanted to sit quietly and savor every word. The girls were restless in the backseat, anxious to get home, so I tucked the envelope back between the bills and turned down the driveway.
Twenty minutes later, with the little women in my charge all sitting on blankets, watching Sesame Street and contentedly munching on Cheerios, I slipped outside with a steaming mug of Darjeeling tea. Cuddled into my new cozy L.L. Bean jacket that my parents had given me for my birthday, I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs, centered my mug on the wide-board arm of the chair, and slowly unfolded the crisp, white paper.
Beryl looked up, and with a broad smile, pointed down at the arm of her chair and the mug of tea.
“You go, girl!” Isak said with an approving nod.
Beryl laughed and continued.
I read his words slowly, savoring each one. He opened by saying he was sorry for not writing sooner (for which he was immediately forgiven!) and went on to say he was coming from London to New York for an opening in December and was hoping we could meet for dinner. My mind raced—did he mean dinner in New Hampshire or in New York? I continued to read and he talked about going to see the Christmas tree together, which clarified that he meant New York. He also said he’d applied for another residency at MacDowell and he asked if I’d still be his lunch lady. I laughed out loud—of course I’d be his lunch lady! My heart grew lighter as I read—now I had something to look forward to as I trudged through the long New England winter. Not that I didn’t look forward to all the things the girls and I would do together—from celebrating Christmas to sledding in the falling snow—I looked forward to every minute! But this was something for me—something special—even if it was just a friendship. He closed by saying he missed my smile, which made me smile, and he said that he’d call when he reached New York. It was signed: Always, David.
I ran my fingers lightly over his words, rereading them carefully, then wrapped my hands around my warm mug and gazed out at the gray November clouds hanging over the windswept amber fields. I already knew—even though I’d love to—that I couldn’t, in good conscience, justify running off to New York City to have dinner with a married man.
If he wanted to see me, he’d just have to come to New Hampshire.
“Jeez-Louise!” Isak said, shaking her head in disbelief. “This happened on their anniversary? On the first anniversary of the accident?!”
Beryl shrugged. “Maybe it was God’s way of getting Mum through the day—it would’ve been awful otherwise.”
“Oh, right!” Isak said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “So now God’s plan is to bring a married man into Mum’s life to help her get through the difficult anniversary of the loss of her husband—that makes sense!”
“Hey,” Rumer interjected. “You never know—everything happens for a reason.”
“Yeah, I believe that one too,” Isak said skeptically, standing up to stretch her legs. “Does anyone need a refill?” she said, picking up her glass. Rumer shook her head; she still had some tea in her mug, and Micah had just downed a large glass of milk with his apple crisp.
“I’m all set,” Beryl said, nodding to her mug. “But you go ahead—we’ll wait.”
When Isak returned, Beryl continued.
“Mum! Isak changed the channel,” I heard a small voice shout. I groaned—so much for my moment of peace and quiet! I folded the letter, slid it back in its envelope, picked up my mug, and hurried inside to find Isak with her hand over the TV knob, and All My Children on the screen; Rumer was practically in tears, trying to pull her hand away and turn the knob back; and Beryl, blissfully unaware of the ruckus in which her big sisters were engaged, sat in the middle of the blanket happily feeding Hemingway—one Cheerio at a time.
“Hemingway was such a great dog,” Isak said sadly. Rumer nodded and caught Beryl’s eye; they each knew what the other was thinking—having often reflected on the effect their beloved pet’s death had had on Isak—and ultimately deciding it had been his tragic death and her discovery of his lifeless body that had triggered her guarded reluctance to show emotion.
Rumer quickly changed the subject. “Even at the tender age of five, Isak,” she teased, “you preferred soap operas over cartoons.”
Isak laughed, knowing she was right.
In the weeks that followed, I must’ve changed my mind a hundred times—I would go to New York. I’d make up an excuse and leave the girls with my parents—it wasn’t too much to ask—dinner, the tree, the bustle and bright lights of the city, seeing David—it all seemed so exciting—how could I say no? After all I’d been through, I deserved to go! This was my argument as I lay in bed late at night; but in the morning, as I braided hair, made oatmeal, washed dishes, and cleaned up after little people, I knew I wouldn’t go—but, believe me, in my mind, it was an ongoing battle!
Thankfully, on the night David called, the weather forecast usurped all further argument. It was early December and I’d just tucked the girls into bed, when the phone rang. No one ever called that late, so my heart was pounding when I picked up the receiver. I could hardly believe my ears—on the other end was the unmistakable voice I’d been longing to hear! I could hardly catch my breath as I excitedly peppered him with questions. His answers were measured and calm. Yes, he’d been granted another residency; yes, he’d be coming to MacDowell late that spring; yes, he was in New York—it was beautiful in the snow—and … he couldn’t wait to see me.
I was silent. Oh, how I wanted to see him! Finally, I stammered, “David, I-I can’t come. The snowstorm you’re having in New York is headed our way. We’re expecting eighteen to twenty-four inches in the next couple of days and I hate traveling in the snow. I can’t just think about myself, I have to think about the girls.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice as he spoke and I asked him if he might be able to venture north instead.
He was quiet, then answered softly, “If it’s supposed to be that bad, Mia, I don’t think it would be wise for me to come either. If something happened, I’d have trouble explaining …”
“Yes, of course,” I said quickly. “I completely understand.”
I should have known right then and there—I could hear the alarm bells going off in my head; I could feel the sting of his words at the mention of having to consider someone else; and I could feel a heavy, dull ache in my heart because there was someone else—but, for some reason, I ignored all the signs. I just didn’t care.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly.
“Me too,” he said.
I went to bed that night feeling confused and sad, and lay awake for a long time, second-guessing my decision. The next morning, however, the girls and I woke up to a good old-fashioned blizzard, and I couldn’t help but wonder if God’s hand had played a part in saving me from my own weakness.
“There!” Isak declared, her voice unexpectedly loud. “That makes more sense,” she blurted. “God working to foil their plans—that’s more like it!”
Rumer eyed her. “Isak, aren’t you the one who said Mum should’ve ‘lived a little’?”
“I did—but I didn’t mean this… .”
Then Rumer caught Beryl’s eye and they both wondered at Isak’s sudden, strong sense of moral indignation.
My mother, whose family hailed from southern Italy, always said it takes fortitude and endurance to be a New Englander—an observation that’s especially true when the power goes out, as it did that weekend. It was the first time the girls had experienced life with no electricity or running water—which meant no TV, flushing toilets, or heat—and the novelty of pioneer life wore off quickly. I brought in armloads of firewood and we huddled near the woodstove, playing Candy Land, roasting
hot dogs, making s’mores, and trying to keep warm; and later in the day, as the house grew dark, I rooted around in the drawers, looking for candles. I found Tom’s old Coleman lantern at the bottom of a jumbled closet and a down sleeping bag from his Boy Scout days. With Isak and Rumer curled up in the sleeping bag and Beryl sound asleep under a wool blanket, I pulled out a worn copy of one of my favorite books and began to read out loud; the girls were immediately captivated by the lyrical story of Mary Lennox and the hidden garden she discovered.
I read until they fell asleep; then I added more wood to the stove and heated up water for tea. With my hands wrapped around the warm mug, I gazed at my three little sleepyheads—their faces softly lit by Tom’s lantern—and I was amazed by how much they looked like him. Listening to the wind howl around the house and the snow rattle against the windows, I remembered how much he’d loved snowstorms. He would’ve called this an adventure and he would’ve kept the porch swept off, brought in more firewood than we could possibly use, regaled the girls with Boy Scout stories, and made it fun for all of us—especially me. As I sat there, remembering him, a warm peace filled my heart … it was almost as if he was near.
The winter that followed on the heels of that blizzard was the harshest I’d ever known—but we hearty New England girls survived! I’d never shoveled more snow or brought in more firewood than I did that year. My dad, a true New Englander whose roots could be traced back to the Revolution, always said, “Hard work builds character”—and there was plenty of character building going on during those cold months! There was also plenty of time to think—and even though David’s letters were warm and funny and caring—my new-found fortitude triggered a surprising resolve to keep our relationship platonic.
The long, snowy winter finally eased and, as the days grew warmer, the girls and I spent more and more time outside. Rumer—my blossoming horticulturist, inspired by The Secret Garden—loved to help in the yard and kept careful watch as each flower—from snowdrop and crocus to black-eyed Susan and lily—and, later on, to chrysanthemum and aster—enjoyed its proud moment in the sun. Our winter reading choice had had a profoundly different effect on Isak, however; she was deeply saddened and frightened by the realization that a young girl could lose both of her parents, as Mary had. For months afterward, tears welled up in her eyes in the evening at bedtime. “Mum, please don’t die,” she’d whisper. “I just couldn’t live without you.” Oh, how my heart ached for my little girl—I knew all too well the paralyzing fear that could grip a heart. “Don’t worry, honeybee,” I’d say softly, brushing back her strawberry-blond wisps of hair. “I’ll be around for a very, very long time. I won’t leave you alone—I promise.”