by Susan Wiggs
While he used a rag to wipe the grease from his hands, she narrowed her eyes, hooked her thumbs into her pockets again. “Good job fixing that motor. You’ve got a lot of hidden talents.”
He checked her out again. She was making no secret of her talents. “You think?” he said.
“Yes, I do.”
“There’s a lot more where that came from.” Like, he thought, I bet I can make you scream when you come. He tossed the rag aside. “I’m lucky to have them.” He gestured at the crate she’d brought. “So what have you got?”
She was all business as she took out a series of sketches she and Freddy called design sheets and handed them over. “We’ve got the bent-willow furniture and the hanging bed for the front porch,” she said, nudging the glider with her foot. “Freddy’s bringing over more of the stuff we bought in Phoenicia.” She stepped inside. The kitchen and living room adjoined each other, with the oversize fireplace at one end and a Vermont Castings woodstove at the other. Light flooded in through picture windows oriented toward the lake, and through the half-round windows that illuminated the sleeping loft above.
In the master bath, there was a claw-foot tub, which was currently strung with cobwebs and furred by sawdust. The adjacent bedroom was nearly bare, except for an old double bed frame of peeled logs. A new mattress and box spring leaned against a wall. “I want this to turn out really well,” Olivia said. “I want it to be luxurious for them.”
“The honeymoon suite,” he said.
She smacked him with her steno pad. “Don’t make my mind go there.”
“Come on,” he teased her. “They’ve been lovebirds for fifty years. You think any couple can go that long without having the hots for each other?”
“It’s much more complicated than that, I’m sure.”
“Are you sure? How do you know it takes anything besides sexual chemistry for a marriage to succeed long-term?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Any couple can conjure up a bit of sexual chemistry.”
Yeah, he thought. Like that night at his place. He should have taken what she’d offered, no more Mr. Nice Guy. She would have slept with him.
“It takes a lot more than that to hold a marriage together for half a century,” she insisted.
“Nope,” he said bluntly. “You’re wrong. You’re overcomplicating the situation. If they can seriously ring each other’s chimes all night long for all those years, then they’ve got everything they need.”
“That’s just plain silly.”
“Yep, that’s me. Silly,” he said, “but I’m not the one turning this place into a palace of lust for a couple of geezers.”
“Screw you, Connor.”
She’d always been easy to tease. “Don’t you worry, Lolly. We’ll get this fixed up just the way you want it.”
“I don’t know how you’re going to deal with this door,” she said. The door to the dressing room looked as though it had been kicked in.
“Not a problem,” he said. “I’m taking it out. You don’t need it.”
“That’s nuts.”
“The hell it is.” He could show her more easily than telling her. “See, let’s say your grandmother—er, the bride—is in here, primping and doing all that stuff women do.” He took Olivia by the shoulders and walked her to the old, pitted mirror above the sink, which was set into an old-fashioned marble-topped washstand.
“And then,” he went on, “the dude gets impatient because she’s taking too long—”
“Wait a minute.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “What is she doing that’s taking so long, brushing her teeth?”
“No clue. I just know she’s taking too long. Chicks always do.”
Her lips twitched a little. “Right.”
“So the dude figures he can start whining and complaining, which is not a turn-on—”
“Finally you got something right,” she said.
“Or he can just grab her and carry her off to bed.” And with that, he scooped Olivia up in his arms.
She gasped in surprise and clung to his neck.
“See, with a wide doorway,” he explained, angling her through, “this would be a snap.” And damn, he thought, standing by the bed, what I wouldn’t give for this to be real. It was the lack of a mattress, and nothing else, that saved her virtue now.
At that moment, Freddy walked in, barely giving them a glance. By now, he seemed resigned to catching them off guard, with lust thick as smoke in the air. “Working hard again, I see. Never seen anyone work as hard as you kids do,” he deadpanned, brushing past them.
The spell broken, Connor set her down.
“Wise guy,” Olivia muttered.
Twenty-Eight
The heat wave continued unabated, shimmering like quicksilver on the roadways and turning the fields and meadows to seas of buff-colored grass. Around Avalon, the fire department set up fire-advisory signs, banning outdoor burning and fireworks. The hardware store sold out of box fans, and vacationers poured into the area from the city, seeking relief in the cool green wilderness of the mountains.
Olivia stood with her father on the porch of a small, clapboard house on Maple Street in Avalon. She thought her father looked pale and tense, though she didn’t know if that was due to the trip he’d made to get here, or the stress of meeting Jenny Majesky for the first time.
He caught her staring at him. “You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said. “I mean, if you’d rather not be here, I can do this alone.”
“Of course I want to be here.” Although she hadn’t created this situation, Olivia had brought it to light. On the way over here, her father insisted that it was his mistake to address, not hers. Yet she was a part of this, and Lord knew, she understood about making mistakes. She punctuated her conviction by knocking smartly on the door.
“Just a sec,” called a voice. The door opened, and there stood Jenny.
There was a moment, just a subtle beat, in which Olivia saw the young woman’s soft brown eyes lock with her father’s. With their father’s. It was so obvious, now that she saw them together. Although Jenny was the image of her mother, the resemblance to Philip Bellamy was there, too, in the innately patrician tilt of her face as she looked up at him, in the subtle press of the dimple in her chin and the elegant shape of her hand on the doorknob.
“I’m Philip Bellamy,” her father said. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“You’re welcome,” said Jenny. “I confess, I was a bit mystified by your phone call. If it’s about the wedding cake, I can assure you—”
“It’s not strictly about that,” he said. “May we come in?”
“Of course. How are you, Olivia?” Jenny stepped aside and held the screen door wide open.
“Fine, thank you.” Olivia tried to decide if the two of them looked like sisters, but the thought was so overwhelming that she couldn’t see Jenny as anything but a pleasant-looking, unsuspecting woman.
A box fan in the window blew fresh air into a room that was crowded with knickknacks and outdated furniture. In a wheelchair sat an old woman wearing a housedress and pink scuffs. Her hair had been carefully done, and a touch of lipstick colored her mouth. On the phone, Jenny had explained that her grandmother, a widow for ten years, was disabled from a stroke and could neither walk nor speak. Olivia’s heart constricted as she thought of her own grandparents—both the Bellamys and the Lightseys—still so vital and happy together. She tried to remember Mrs. Majesky from years past, but could only ever picture the boxy white truck with its hand-painted logo. She wished she’d paid more attention back then. It was sort of eerie to think that, in years past, she and Jenny might have crossed paths, never knowing about their connection.
“Grandma, this is Philip and his daughter, Olivia Bellamy,” Jenny said. “You remember the Bellamys from Camp Kioga.”
The woman’s mouth twisted and she made an inarticulate sound.
“Mrs. Majesky, it’s good to see you,” Philip said.
The old woman�
�s dark eyes seemed to clear with comprehension, as though she was trapped behind soundproof glass. “My grandmother will want to pay you a visit when she comes up next week,” Olivia said, taking Mrs. Majesky’s hand. Her thin skin was dry and cool despite the heat.
“I thought we’d go out on the back porch,” Jenny said. “That’s where we get the best shade this time of day. Grandma, would you like to join us?”
Mrs. Majesky made a sound that Jenny took as a no. Olivia glanced at her father, saw his shoulders ease with relief. Explaining the situation to Jenny would be difficult enough. Doing so in front of her grandmother would be that much more awkward.
“All right.” Jenny picked up a remote control and turned up the volume on Oprah. Then she led the way into an old-fashioned kitchen with Formica countertops and glass-front cabinets stacked with china. She fixed three tall glasses of iced tea and set them on a tray with a platter of cookies. “Lemon bars,” she said. “I brought them from the main bakery in Kingston today.”
A laptop computer and stacks of paper littered the kitchen table. “We must have interrupted your work,” Philip said.
“Oh, it’s not work. Not paying work, anyway.” She ducked her head, as though bashful. “I’ve been doing some writing.”
“You’re a writer?” Philip asked.
“I’m writing a…I’m not sure what it’s called.” She seemed flustered, but in a charming way. “I suppose you’d call it a collection of stories about growing up in my grandparents’ bakery. And recipes. Some of them are so old, they’re written on school paper my grandmother brought from Poland.” She showed them a collection of brittle, yellowed pages covered in a foreign schoolgirl scrawl. “Grandma helped me translate a lot of them, but after the stroke…” Jenny carefully set the handwritten stack aside. “Anyway, it’s one of those projects I’ll probably never finish.”
For no reason she could fathom, Olivia felt a wave of melancholy. Maybe it was the thought of Jenny, this nice, unassuming girl, growing up without a father and then losing her grandfather at such a young age. No wonder she was working to preserve old family memories and recipes.
Olivia watched her father’s face, and she realized there was another reason she felt so unsettled. He had always wanted to be a writer, too, but had chosen a career in law because it was a more practical, stable profession, the sort of thing that was expected of a Bellamy. Now that she knew the real reason he’d married her mother, she understood why he had left his dream behind. And—all right, this was horrible—she felt a subtle sting of resentment, that Jenny unknowingly shared this commonality with their father.
They went to a screened-in porch that was favored by a light breeze, and sat in wicker chairs around a low table. Olivia’s father took a nervous sip of tea and set down his glass. “Thanks,” he said. “I apologize for seeming so mysterious when I asked to pay you a visit. I just didn’t know how to broach the subject. There’s no easy way to say this, Miss Majesky. Jenny.”
Something in his tone must have tipped her off, because she gripped the arms of her chair and gave him her full attention, her head tilted to one side. By now, she had to know perfectly well this meeting had nothing to do with a wedding cake. “Yes?”
“I have no idea how much you know about this situation,” he continued. “I understand your mother, Mariska, has been away.”
Jenny nodded, a frown appearing on her brow. “Since I was about four years old. I barely remember her.”
Oh, God, thought Olivia. “And she’s never been in touch? Never called or written you a letter?”
Jenny shook her head, her eyes immeasurably dark and sad. “I assume there’s a point to these questions.”
“I used to know her,” he said. “Mariska and I were…She was my girlfriend the summer of 1977. Did your grandmother ever tell you that?”
A single bead of sweat trickled down Jenny’s temple. The sadness left her eyes as they narrowed in suspicion. “No. Should she have?”
“I can’t answer that.” He clenched and un-clenched his hands, and he was sweating, too. Olivia couldn’t take her eyes off their faces.
“I…some things have come to light, lately,” Philip continued, “and I—well, I was wondering if anyone’s ever spoken to you about your father. Your biological father.”
The breeze stopped. At least, to Olivia, that was how it felt. Everything stood still—the wind, time, the beating of their hearts. Jenny seemed frozen rather than flustered. Her face turned visibly paler while the suspicion never quite left her eyes. And though she was a stranger, Olivia was seized by an urge to touch Jenny, to take her hand or perhaps pat her on the shoulder. I have a sister, Olivia thought. I have a sister.
Philip said, “I’m sorry to show up like this, out of the blue, and say these things. I didn’t see any other way to introduce myself.”
Jenny set down her glass of tea. She studied Philip, and seemed to be taking inventory, seeking all the ways they resembled each other. “Are you telling me you’re…” The words trickled away, as though Jenny couldn’t bring herself to utter them. “This is absurd. I have no idea why you’re telling me this.”
Philip handed her the photograph of himself and Mariska. “This was recently found among my old camp things. It was taken at the end of summer 1977. That whole summer, we were as happy as it’s possible to be, or so I believed. I loved your mother very much, and planned to marry her.”
Jenny studied the picture, and a look of raw pain shadowed her face. Olivia suspected she’d swiftly done the math in her head. “You didn’t, though,” she pointed out. “You didn’t marry her.”
“No. Just after Labor Day weekend, Mariska broke off with me. Said she wanted to see the world, go find a life for herself—alone. I tried to talk her out of it, but I never saw her again, never spoke to her. I wrote dozens of letters, and they all came back marked Return To Sender. Her mother—your grandmother—told me not to call anymore, so I came here by train.” He paused, his eyes clouded with distant memories. “She was gone. Someone at the jewelry shop where she worked told me she’d left town. Off to see the world, something like that.” He steepled his fingers together and looked at Jenny, but she didn’t look at him. “That was when I gave up on Mariska. I figured she meant what she said when she broke up with me, so I finally accepted it. Then that winter, I married Olivia’s mother, Pamela Lightsey.” Mercifully, he didn’t go into detail about the circumstances of the engagement and hasty wedding. “Pamela and I have been divorced for seventeen years, and I never remarried.”
They never even had a chance, Olivia realized. As a child, she’d searched endlessly and fruitlessly for the reason her parents had split up, never knowing that the reason existed long before she was born.
Jenny said nothing. She held the photograph, absently skimming her thumb over the image of her mother.
“When I came to the bakery that day,” Olivia told Jenny, “I noticed that you have the same picture hanging on the wall, but it’s been cropped.”
“Probably by my grandmother.”
Olivia realized, with a jolt, that Jenny’s mother had been pregnant when the snapshot was taken. Jenny kept staring at the picture. Absently, her hand stole up and she fingered the silver pendant on her necklace.
“I also noticed that pendant you’re wearing,” Olivia added. “Remember, I asked you about it?”
Jenny nodded. “It was my mother’s. My grandparents gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday.”
Philip took out its mate and put it on the table. “It’s from a pair of cuff links I owned. I gave one to Mariska and kept the other.”
A soft gasp escaped from Jenny. Throughout the whole conversation, her reactions had been measured and controlled, but now she seemed to be on the verge of losing it. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the cuff link. “I never knew if there was a story behind this, or behind anything my mother left me. But are you sure this is not some huge coincidence, or—”
“I’m almost positive,” he t
old her. “Of course, we can do a blood test if you choose, but I’m sure it would only confirm what we’ve found out. I took the liberty of hiring a private investigator to verify dates and certain other details.”
Jenny swallowed hard. Her dark eyes held a hunted look. “A private investigator? But that’s so…It’s intrusive.”
“You’re right, but I didn’t know what else to do. Mr. Rasmussen—he does a lot of work for my law firm—only searched public records. I’m sorry, Jenny. I didn’t want to approach you, only to find it’s a huge mistake. I didn’t want to upset you for no reason. God. For all I knew, you believed someone else was your father.”
With excruciating care, she set down the cuff link. “I used to ask all the time, but my grandparents swore she never told them. The father’s name is blank on my birth certificate.” A terrible hope lit her face when she finally looked at him. “So did he—your investigator—did he find out anything about my mother?”
Yes, thought Olivia. Like why she ditched her daughter.
Philip took out a printed copy of an e-mail message. “Probably nothing you haven’t already heard. In late 1977, Mariska Majesky left Avalon. She obtained a passport, traveled frequently, though she had no visible means of support. While in Boca Raton in March 1978, she had a baby, naming her Jennifer Anastasia. In 1982, she and her daughter returned to Avalon to stay with her parents. Mariska continued to travel frequently, though she never took her daughter with her.” He checked the printed page. “In 1983, Mariska left Avalon. This time, she never came back, and there are no further records of her. Her passport expired in 1988 and was never renewed.” He set down the report and looked at Jenny, studying her face with an intense curiosity. “If you want, I can have Rasmussen keep looking.”