“I get that, believe me.”
“But I feel like I abandoned you and Abby and my parents. And I’m sorry. Things are going to be different from now on.”
“Last night after you left, Abby asked me if I was sure you weren’t Drew,” Hannah blurted.
It felt like a punch in the stomach. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. None of this is your fault.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I just don’t want her to be confused. It’s…it’s confusing to see you. For her, I mean. I think we shouldn’t come over today.”
“But don’t you think that’s exactly why you should come over?”
“What do you mean?”
“The best way to clear up confusion would be to get to know me as her uncle, right? She needs to see me as myself, not as a substitute for Drew.”
“Maybe,” Hannah hedged.
“And I think talking about Drew would help, too. To clearly differentiate us in her mind. After all, we were pretty different in a lot of ways.”
A little smile. “Yes.”
I wrapped my hand around her wrist on the table. “Come today. Please. Bring Abby and we’ll have fun and tell her about her dad when he was a kid and celebrate life. I need that.” Until I voiced the sentiment to her, I hadn’t even realized it was the truth.
She stared at my hand on her skin, but I didn’t let go. “Okay. We’ll come. Can I bring something?”
“Just you and Abby.”
“Come on. Let me contribute. Potato salad?”
Remembering what I’d told my mother, I hesitated. But I didn’t want to say no to Hannah. “Sure.”
She’d seen my hesitation. “You don’t like potato salad?”
“No, I do.”
“Do you like curry? Drew hated it, but I have this recipe for curried potato salad that I really like.”
“I love curry.”
She smiled, looking genuinely happy for the first time this morning.
The door to the kitchen swung open and Georgia peeked out. Immediately I retracted my hand. “Hey, Wes. Heard you were here.”
I stood up and we met halfway across the room, exchanging a hug. “Good to see you, Georgia.”
She patted me on the back. “I’m so glad you came in.”
“Me too.” We let go and I glanced at Hannah, who had stood and was refilling my coffee cup. “I heard about the breakfast here and couldn’t resist.”
“Oh, you won’t regret it. She’s making champagne waffles this morning.”
I cocked a brow at Hannah. “Champagne, huh?”
She blushed as she set the pitcher down. “They sound fancier than they are.”
“Ready, Han?” Georgia asked. “Waffle irons getting hot. Want to mix up the batter?”
“Yes.” Hannah gave me a smile before heading for the kitchen. “Hope you enjoy your breakfast.”
“I know I will.”
The table filled quickly—with guests, with locals hoping to get in for breakfast, with regulars who talked nonstop about how much they loved coming here since there was no menu. You got what was fresh and available, and that was that.
Pete hadn’t lied, the waffles were akin to a religious experience. Light and fluffy, a little crunchy, a little soft, topped with real blackberries and cream. Several times I found myself closing my eyes just to savor the bite in my mouth. And it wasn’t just the food—being home again felt good. Reconnecting with my roots felt good. Spending time with people from my past felt good. Until my mother called and asked me to please consider coming home and relieving the professional burden on my father, I hadn’t really planned on coming back. But now I realized how much I’d needed this.
I kept glancing at the door to the kitchen, but Hannah never appeared again. Margot brought out the dining room meals alongside another server who worked the front rooms as well. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I wanted today to be perfect, and I was going to do everything I could to make her and Abby feel comfortable, safe, and welcome. I owed it to my brother.
Didn’t I?
Five
HANNAH
“So how did it go last night?” Georgia asked as we worked alongside each other in the inn’s kitchen.
“Good, I guess.” I poured waffle batter into the two irons on the counter and closed the lids. “But it was strange for Abby, I think. She asked me later if I was sure he wasn’t her dad.”
“Awww, that had to be hard.”
“It was,” I admitted. “It felt like telling her Drew was gone all over again.”
“Do you think she understands?” Georgia went to the fridge and took out more eggs.
“Yes.” I sighed. “But I think she also hoped for a different answer.” I lifted the lids to check on the waffles, but they needed about thirty more seconds. “Wes thinks the best way to clear up any confusion is to spend more time with him.”
“He’s probably right.” Georgia dropped a few eggs into the frying pan and stirred her Hollandaise. “Don’t you think?”
“He has me mostly convinced. We’re supposed to go over to his mom’s this afternoon and I tried to get out of it, for Abby’s sake. But he says it would be better to come.”
“I think he’s right,” Georgia said confidently. “You should go. It will be fun for Abby and for you. When’s the last time you spent an afternoon at the beach?”
“I can’t even remember.” Carefully, I took the waffles from the irons, plated them, and added the blackberry compote and crème fraîche. Margot breezed in and scooped up both plates for serving.
“Two minutes on the eggs Benedict,” Georgia told her.
Margot nodded and hustled back out the door.
“So what about you? Georgia asked, pouring sauce on top of the eggs. “Was seeing him as painful as you thought? Did you have a seismic emotional meltdown?”
“No. More like a mini emotional quake. But we handled it. Actually, it sort of helped to talk to him. I felt like he understood.” And then I pretended he was Drew while he rubbed my back.
“See? This could be a healing relationship for both of you.”
“Maybe.”
Margot and the other servers swung into the kitchen again, and we got busy with new orders, which left us less time to talk. But what she’d said made sense—as did what Wes said. Maybe the best way to drive home that Wes was not Drew was to let him in, not shut him out. Maybe keeping him at a distance would only feed Abby’s hopeful confusion. Maybe what we really needed was more time together, not less.
But just to make sure, I called Tess on my way home from work. Of all the women in my widow support group, I felt the closest to her, maybe because our journeys were the most similar. We also shared a therapist, which was how both of us found the group, and we often called each other to agonize or celebrate a particularly difficult session.
Tess listened to my side of the story, murmuring sympathetically and assuring me my reactions were totally understandable.
“Even wanting to pretend he was Drew just to feel his arms around me?” I asked doubtfully.
“Totally. It would be understandable even if you didn’t want to pretend he was Drew, and just wanted to feel a man’s arms around you!” she cried. “My God, look what I did with the tree man. Sometimes you just want that. Not love, not a relationship, not a date, but arms. Chest. Shoulders. Skin. Stubble. Muscle. The smell of a man. The solidity of him. Remember how those things used to make us feel?”
Did I? “Vaguely.”
“Well, it’s okay to want them again. To want to feel that way again—taken care of. That’s all you needed. It had nothing to do with him being Drew’s brother.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but I went with it. “Right.”
“And I think he’s right about letting him into your lives,” she went on. “It’s like Exposure Therapy. Remember that shit?
“Ugh, yes. It was so hard.” Exposure therapy involved us sort of deconstructing the event of our husbands’
deaths, facing all of our fears and anxieties about it. It was excruciatingly painful, and I wasn’t entirely sure it had worked for me, since I still had boatloads of anxiety, but after those sessions, I’d at least been able to get off the pills I’d been taking to cope.
“So I think this could be like that for you and Abby. Stare that fucker down. Look him in the eye and tell yourself, ‘This is not my husband because my husband is gone. This is his brother and he is going to be part of our lives from now on.’”
“Okay. I’ll try. Thanks, Tess.”
“You’re welcome. Of course, fuck if I really have any answers, I’m feeling my way just like you are.”
“I know you are. How’s the weekend going for you?” Weekends were always tough for widowed people. If we got invitations at all, we felt like the fifth wheel, the odd man out, the third person on a bicycle built for two. It’s one of the reasons I liked my job—it kept me busy on weekends.
“It’s okay. Kids will be back tomorrow, so I’m doing all the laundry and cleaning. Boring stuff.”
“Want to come to the beach with us this afternoon? I’m sure it would be okay.”
“No, no. I’m fine, really. I’m getting to the point where I can enjoy a little solitude again.”
“Good. Call if you need anything.”
“Same. Have fun today.”
We hung up, and I took a quick detour to the grocery store to get the ingredients I’d need for the potato salad. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed today, although sometimes with Lenore it was hard to tell if she was more put out when I brought something for the table or when I didn’t. Inside the store, I filled a small hand-held basket with what I needed along with a bottle of wine, and got in one of the long lines to check out. Holiday weekends were always busy.
“Hannah? Is that you, dear?”
I turned and saw my mother-in-law behind me. “Oh hi, Lenore.” Dutifully, I left my place in line and went to kiss her cheek.
“Is Abby with you?” she asked, looking around.
“No, she’s with the sitter. I just got off work, and I wanted to pick up a few things to bring to the house later.”
Lenore clucked her tongue. “You don’t have to bring a thing, dear! We’re just so glad you and Abby are coming over.”
“It’s just a curried potato salad,” I said, shrugging it off.
“My, that sounds exotic. I’ve never cared for curry myself.”
I forced a smile. “No?”
“No, my family always preferred good old-fashioned American potato salad.”
My fingers tightened around the handle of my basket. “I mentioned it to Wes this morning, and he said he liked curry.”
“Yes, he told me about breakfast.” She sighed dramatically. “Guess his mother’s waffles aren’t good enough for him anymore.”
“I’m sure it’s not that,” I said. “Oh, I just remembered one more thing I need. I’ll see you in a little while. About four?”
“Perfect, dear. See you then.”
I made a beeline for the wine aisle and added another bottle to my basket. I had a feeling I might need it.
At a few minutes to four, Abby and I knocked on the screen door of my in-laws’ house. I’d never forget the first time Drew had brought me here—I’d been bug-eyed at how big and beautiful their place was. Expansive green lawn, gorgeous flower gardens, golden sandy beach, the view of the lake from almost every room in the house. The place had six bedrooms!
I’d grown up in a tiny, two-bedroom bungalow with a view of a Rite Aid parking lot, daughter of a single mother who worked her fingers to the bone at her family’s tailoring business but still found time to put a home-cooked meal on the table every night. We hadn’t had a lot, but it was a happy enough childhood. Although I’d never known my father (my mother said I was better off), she was part of a big Italian family and I had lots of cousins to play with at big, noisy, extended-family Sunday dinners. I wished Abby could experience something like that, but the Parks family was very different from what I was used to. We’d probably have linen napkins and crystal glassware on the beach for this cookout. Back when Drew was alive, we used to laugh about his mother’s insistence on formality and her not-always-subtle digs at my humble upbringing. Dealing with her had been so much easier when he was there.
Wes came to the door and opened it with a warm smile on his face. His smile was slightly different than Drew’s, I was beginning to notice. A little less crooked and rakish, a little more straightforward. “Hey, guys. So glad you’re here.” He held the door as we passed through, then reached for the bowl of potato salad I’d brought and the bag containing the bottles of wine. “Let me take those.”
“Thanks.” As soon as my hands were empty, I began twisting my ring around my finger.
“There she is!” Lenore came barreling around the corner and scooped Abby up, setting her on her hip, even though she was really too big for that. “I’m so happy to see you. And do you know what? I heard you wanted to see some pictures of your daddy when he was a boy and I’ve got just hundreds of them! Would you like to see them?”
“Yes,” said Abby happily, her feet swinging. She also clutched the little stuffed elephant Wes had given her yesterday.
Lenore glanced at me. “Hello, dear.”
“Hi, Lenore.”
“Make yourself at home. There’s lemonade and sweet tea if you’d like it, and I’ve set out some snacks on the island.”
“Thank you.”
She carried Abby off into the great room, sat on the couch with her, and opened a photo album on her lap, one of a stack of albums on the coffee table.
Wes appeared with both bottles of wine I’d brought in his hands. “Which one would you like?”
“The sauvignon blanc would be great.” Thank God for Wes. I did not want sweet tea right now.
“You can look at the pictures with them if you want. I’ll bring it out to you.”
I glanced at Lenore and Abby, who seemed thoroughly engrossed in the album, and decided it was a moment best left to grandmother and granddaughter. If I went over there, Abby would likely have climbed onto my lap, and as satisfying as that might have been, I decided against it. “You know what? I think I’ll let your mom spend a little time alone with Abby talking about Drew. I think it would be good for both of them.”
Wes nodded. “I think you’re right. How about the deck? Or we could head down to the beach?”
“Beach sounds wonderful.” I followed him into the kitchen.
While Wes opened the wine, I perched on a bar stool at the marble-topped island. “Where’s your dad?” I asked. Dr. Parks was wonderful, and I had a soft spot for him. I liked to think he had one for me, too.
“He got a call from his answering service and made a house call.”
“I love that he still does that. It’s so old-fashioned.”
Wes poured two glasses of pale amber wine. “It is. Although I’m kind of used to the idea that a physician should go where he’s needed.”
“So will you do that too?” I asked. “Make house calls?”
“Sure,” he said, sliding a glass toward me. “That’s one of the best parts about being a doctor in a semi-rural area. More flexibility to go where people need you.”
“Drew didn’t make house calls very often.” I shrugged. “But I don’t know if that’s because he didn’t want to or because your dad really liked doing it.”
“I don’t know either,” he admitted.
We were silent, both of us taking a sip of wine.
“Do you ever feel guilty about those things?” Wes asked. “Like the things you didn’t ask him that aren’t really that important big picture, but things you wonder about?”
“All the time,” I said. “For example, I’m not even sure what his favorite color was. Is that horrible?”
Wes cocked his head. “Was it blue?”
I threw my hands up. “I don’t know. I don’t think I ever asked. He had a lot of blue shirts, so maybe?”<
br />
“Maybe.”
“What’s yours?” I asked.
“I like blue. It reminds me of the lake.”
Both of us glanced out the windows toward the water. “Did you miss it?”
“I did. Africa is beautiful, though.”
I sighed and took another sip of wine. “I’d like to go there someday. I’ve never been anywhere.”
Wes took another drink too, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve never been anywhere far.” I lifted my shoulders. “Drew and I never quite made it to Europe like we planned, and I didn’t have the money growing up. The farthest I’ve been is probably Florida.”
“Where would you go? If you could go anywhere.”
“Hmmm. Maybe Italy? My mother is Italian and I really do love Italian food and culture. I think it would be cool to explore my roots. Or something.” I laughed, a little embarrassed. “That sounds silly.”
“No, it doesn’t. Not at all. I’ve been having those same kinds of feelings lately. Maybe because I’ve been away from home for so long. And even though it was by choice, there’s still something to be said for that feeling you get when you come back.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
A whoop of laughter made us both look toward the great room. Wes spoke softly. “This is so great for my mom. She loves Abby so much.”
“I know.” I stared into my wine. “I haven’t been that good about making Abby…available to her. I don’t know why.”
Wes didn’t reply, but his silence didn’t feel at all judgmental. I remembered that about him. His silences, and the way they invited confidence.
“My therapist said I might be punishing her.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean? Punishing who?”
I took a deep breath and another gulp of wine. I’d never talked about this with anyone outside therapy, not even Tess. “My therapist thinks that I might be unconsciously trying to punish Lenore by keeping Abby from her, because I never felt fully accepted by her when Drew was alive. It always seemed like we were in this, I don’t know, competition for his affection. It sounds stupid and he always said I was crazy, but it was how I felt.” I met his eyes. “Do you think I could be doing that?”
From This Moment Page 6