by Carole King
“My little . . . family?” asked Cain as they walked arm in arm over the frost-glistened lawn.
“Yes,” answered Autumn hesitantly. They stopped beneath the arcing branches of a tall apple tree. “Yes,” she repeated. “Your family, Cain.”
“There’s to be a baby?”
“Yes, love.”
Cain smiled deeply and brushed her cheek with a gloved forefinger. “That is why you were so anxious to have the matter of our move from Byron Hall settled.”
Autumn nodded. “I could not bear the thought of our babes being reared in that bastion of righteous disapproval. I want them raised in a new environment, fresh and sunlit, and cleared of musty traditions that may stifle and scare them. There is so much pain connected with that house.” She watched Cain sober by degrees.
“Yes,” he said, his response a hoarse whisper. “I know that now. And I have been the cause of so much of that pain.” He placed his fingertips over her lips when she would have spoken. “It’s alright, love. I can talk about it now. I must talk about it. Though I shall never completely forgive myself for carrying on those musty traditions you speak of, I understand now that I must accept what I have done and been. In order to change, Autumn, I must remember. Each time I look at you, I must remember how much I love you and how despairing my life would be without you. I can never forget how fortunate I am to have you in my life—in my arms, Autumn.” He gathered her to him. “Believe me, your courage and your honesty through all of this will not have been in vain. You have taught me so much.”
“And we must teach our children to be honest with themselves and others—especially with those they love. And we must teach them to have courage, Cain. We must make certain they are never afraid to do what they know is right.”
Cain nodded his agreement. “We rail and brawl and make animal noises in our pain, but, optimists that we are, we produce ourselves all over again. I suppose it is because, optimists that we are, we believe we can make the world better.”
“Oh, Cain,” said Autumn earnestly, “we have been given a great responsibility and a most glorious challenge.”
He took her face in his hands, and said, “I believe we’re up to it, Autumn. Don’t you?”
Afterword
CAPE MAY, NEW JERSEY
1905
For the most part, the little whitewashed two-story cottage on a knoll sloping toward the sea is quiet. All about, the world is dark, slumbering in the cricket song and peaceful scents of night. Inside the cottage, a little boy, his eyes heavy with interrupted sleep, pushes open the door to his sister’s bedroom. He stands for a moment in the soft glow of the light from the hallway.
From the toasty nest of her blankets, the sister asks, “What are you doing up, Bobby?”
The lad rubs his eyes. “I had a dream,” he whispers.
“A bad one?” asks the girl.
“It was awful.”
“Want to climb into bed with me?” The boy nods sleepily and shuffles across the room to his sister’s bed. She makes room for him beneath her quilt. When they are cuddled together, she croons their grandmother’s version of a familiar nursery rhyme:
“Bobby Byron went to sea
A golden cat upon his knee.
He found a treasure in the deep
A child fair who would not sleep.
Bobby Byron closed his eyes
Rubbed his cat and heard her sighs.
‘Little friend be kind to me
Take me further out to sea.’”
“Tell me about your dream,” the girl says gently.
“It was about you climbing that tree this afternoon, Isabel,” he says with soft accusation. The little girl laughs, the sound rippling in the darkness. “It’s not funny,” the boy scolds her. “I was scared you’d fall. Pa’s told us a million times not to climb that apple tree.”
“It hasn’t been a million,” the girl corrects him sagely.
“Then . . . a trillion,” the little boy returns with a yawn.
“A trillion is more than a million,” instructs his sister. There is a silence. “I did it, though, Bobby,” she says quietly, with wistful wonder. “I tried to climb that tree all summer, and I finally did it.” The boy nods, his golden curls tousled on the pillow, his thumb tucked firmly in his little bud of a mouth. “Don’t be scared for me,” she says. “It wasn’t that hard, and it was worth it once I got to the top. The world is beautiful from way up there.”
The little boy looks over at his sister. In the dark, her gaze glints indigo. Taking his thumb from his mouth for a breath of a second, he asks, “Can I do it tomorrow?” Isabel shakes her dark curls.
“Maybe you’d better not, Bobby. Pa’d be mad.” The boy accepts her judgment; she is, after all, nearly seven and a half, two years older and far wiser than he.
“But promise me,” he says drowsily, his words muffled by his thumb, “you won’t do it again either.”
“Oh, I won’t climb that tree,” the girl assures him dreamily. “I’ve already done that. Tomorrow, though, I’m going over to visit Grandma Vanessa and Grandpa Robert.” The little boy makes a questioning sound. “I’m going over there, Bobby,” she explains softly, “’cause they’ve got a bigger tree.”