Kindred Spirits
Page 26
“Come on, Beth.” Carol nodded to the door. Beth slid off the bed as Drake took her place, enfolding Mary Kay in his arms and bending his head toward hers. They left them like that in their own little world. Drake. Mary Kay. And their baby-to-be.
“You know what this is?” Beth said as they headed down the hall. “This is Lynne working behind the scenes.”
Carol smiled. “Mary Kay’s five weeks pregnant, which means she was pregnant before Lynne died.”
Beth shrugged and twirled her purse. “Details, Carol. You heard what Mary Kay said. This is a miracle. I knew Lynne would pull one sooner or later. I just never expected there’d be three.”
“Three, huh?”
“She saved my father from dying, and from what Jeff tells me, she saved your marriage. And now Mary Kay’s pregnant. All within a twenty-four-hour period. If you don’t think that’s heavenly intervention, then I don’t know what is.”
Epilogue
Mary Kay and Drake’s baby girl was born on a beautiful June morning when the roses came into full bloom. They named her Audrey Lynne, Audrey being the name of Drake’s mother. She came into the world with Mary Kay’s black hair and Drake’s brown eyes.
Mary Kay had never been so filled with joy as the moment when Drake laid that howling baby in her arms.
The week after the ultrasound, she and Drake made it official in a short and sweet City Hall ceremony. But they saved the real celebration for when Audrey was four months old and Mary Kay could fit into a reasonably flattering wedding dress.
That they were married in Mary Kay’s backyard on the anniversary of Lynne’s death was not by happenstance. Sean had suggested it, and they agreed. It was important to send the message that life goes on, and blessedly so.
Fortunately, it turned out to be another classic New England autumn day with bright blue skies and geese flying overhead, a nip in the air to justify the long sleeves of Beth’s dress. Tiffany wore a plum-colored gown and served as Mary Kay’s maid of honor, with Beth and Carol serving as unofficial “matrons of dishonor.”
Mary Kay was resplendent in a pale cream gown that just brushed the tops of her slippers and, in her hair, tea roses from Lynne’s garden. Carol and Beth patted their eyes as Drake took Mary Kay’s hand in hers and pledged his undying love. Holding baby Audrey, Mary Kay promised in return to love and trust him until death did they part, and just when the justice of the peace pronounced them husband and wife, Beth looked up and saw the last of the robins sitting on a branch overhead. It tweeted approval and flew off to join its flock headed south.
Bye-bye, Lynne, she thought to herself.
A bluegrass band struck up the Louis Armstrong classic “What a Wonderful World” as Mary Kay, beaming with abundant happiness, and Drake held up Audrey to thunderous applause.
Elsie kissed Chat, and Marc wrapped Beth in a hug. The next day they were leaving for a six-month world tour, from Scotland to the South of France, to Russia and India and, naturally, Amalfi. A wonderful world, indeed.
Carol hugged Amanda, who’d landed a job in New York, working a mere cab ride away from her mother’s office. Occasionally, when Amanda needed to escape the city, together they’d ride the train back to Marshfield. Jeff, who’d thrown himself into setting up a new clinic in Haiti, would be home for Christmas if all went well. Carol planned to go all out. Best. Christmas. Ever.
Later, after a reception of champagne, foie gras, caviar, Alaskan salmon, roasted autumn vegetables, and a spice wedding cake, the original members of the Ladies Society for the Conservation of Martinis slipped off as the guests danced to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and the Stanley Brothers’ classic, “I Just Came from Your Wedding.” They had the limo take them down to the Old Town Cemetery, martini shaker in tow.
Carol and Beth invented the Absolutely Fabulous Martini together: champagne, Cointreau, a touch of lime juice, and fresh raspberries. It was sufficiently festive to honor Mary Kay’s wedding, though they’d been working with the ingredients since their road trip. Bubbly. Rich. Tart. Sweet. That essentially described each of the four friends, Lynne being the bubbly champagne.
They proceeded through the graveyard to Lynne’s grave by one of the big firs. Grass had overgrown the summer before and now there were fallen leaves. Beth spread a blanket and they sat in a semicircle around Lynne’s headstone, which was only fitting as she was the guest of honor.
Carol poured out three martinis, dropping two fresh raspberries in each.
“This will be the first martini I’ve had since the trip,” said Mary Kay, still in her wedding dress, her bare shoulders protected by a faux mink stole. “I don’t know if I should. I am nursing.”
“My mother had a drink every night when she was nursing, and look how I turned out,” Carol said, replacing the shaker in their basket.
“One or two sips,” Beth said. “This better not be the end of Mary Kay’s fun days.”
“To the Society, then.” Mary Kay held up her glass. “Who knew that a PTA meeting so long ago would end like this?” They each kissed her on the cheek.
“To Lynne,” Beth said. “I don’t know about you guys, but I feel like she’s here, with us.”
“Well, she is.” Carol patted the grave. “At least in spirit.”
They toasted Lynne in silence, their glasses frozen to their lips as a ghostly figure emerged from the woods, her hair cut short, a vibrant copper. She was hesitant, shy about coming closer, which was understandable, as they must have made quite a scene—the bride and her two matrons of dishonor.
“It’s OK,” Beth said, assuming the woman was lost. “You need help?”
She didn’t say anything, just stood there expectantly.
Mary Kay gave Carol a look. “Can we help you?”
The woman pointed. “Is that Lynne Swann’s grave?”
The name. Lynne Swann. No one in Marshfield knew Lynne’s maiden name. Then there was the matter of her hair—red—though shorter than the photos in Don Miller’s house.
Carol reached for Mary Kay’s hand. “Alice,” she whispered. “It’s Alice.”
Beth went white. “By any chance, are you . . . Alice Miller?”
Julia.
Mary Kay, completely forgetting that she was in her wedding dress, got up and tripped on her hem. “Oh my God!” She slapped her cheeks. “It really is you.”
It took some explaining about the wedding and their martinis, but eventually Alice caught on. “Do you like martinis?” Beth asked, stupidly, because at the moment it was the only question that came to mind.
Alice laughed, her eyes flashing like Lynne’s used to. “Are you kidding?”
Of course she did. She was Lynne’s daughter, after all.
Carol led Alice back to Lynne’s grave, where they poured her a glass of her own. Then they sat her between Mary Kay and Beth, who couldn’t stop staring, assessing the similarities and differences. She was Lynne, but she also wasn’t. Alice was a graphic designer in Boston with two kids of her own (Lynne’s grandchildren!), a daughter named Cynthia and a boy named Henry.
There was a picture on her phone. Two curly-headed five-year-olds climbing up a yellow slide, redheads like their mother, their freckled cheeks red from the cold. They were fraternal twins.
“Twins run in the family,” Beth explained, telling her about Kevin and Kyle, Alice’s half brothers.
“So why did you decide to finally come here?” Carol asked out of the blue. “Obviously, you got Lynne’s letter.”
“I did.” Alice reached into her bag and pulled out the white sheet of paper that had been read and reread so often, one of the folds was ripped. “My father gave it to me last Thanksgiving. He was worried it would upset me, since my mother had just passed away, and it did, in a way. Losing Mom was very hard, and I didn’t want to hear from a woman who gave me up for adoption and then didn’t bother to write me until she was terminally ill. So I put it aside and didn’t read it until spring.”
“I’m so glad you did,”
Mary Kay said. “We went through a lot of effort to find you.”
“That’s what Dad told me, said you were downright pests.” She smiled. “Anyway, I looked up her obituary online and, kind of on a whim, decided to drive down here and pay my respects since she died a year ago today.”
What a dutiful daughter, Carol thought. “Do you mind if we read it?”
Alice handed it to her. “That’s one of the reasons I came here, hoping I might bump into one of you. If there was any time you’d be here, I figured it would be today.”
Carol read out loud:
Dear Julia . . .
That’s how I will always think of you, as my Julia, though I’m sure your parents gave you a beautiful name and a beautiful life. I am eternally grateful to them for loving you so much that they welcomed you into their home and made you their daughter. Because, of course, you are their daughter.
Mine, too.
I never stopped loving you from the moment I found out I was pregnant until the night when they took you away. It’s an unpleasant story, and not worth repeating. The important thing is that you’re loved. And love, I’ve learned, is all that matters in this world.
Now, there’s so much I have to say and so little time left for me to say it. I’m very tired and very ill. My heart is weak but my spirit is strong. Therefore, I will leave the duty of our story to the women who brought you this letter—Mary Kay, Carol, and my dear sweet friend, Beth.
If you have not met them in person, I hope you will seek them out. They have been my closest friends and my confidantes. They are strong and wise women who will readily assume the mantle of motherhood, the flower of friendship to guide you down any path you seek. I hope you will turn to them as I have, in joy and sorrow. There are none better and they have quite a tale to tell.
So you see, Julia, you have not two mothers, but five.
Until we meet in a better place, all my love and blessings for your happiness . . .
Your mother, Lynne
Beth blinked away tears while Carol refreshed their martinis. “Well, ladies,” Mary Kay said. “Who wants to start?”
“I will,” Beth said. “It began with a PTA meeting one fall evening years ago. Today, actually. Your mother and I were new to the PTA and there’d been this stressful discussion that had me totally flipped out, so we decided to make martinis.”
“Don’t forget the cookbook,” Carol added. “We owe a lot to the Ladies Society for the Conservation of Marshfield.”
“Martinis,” Mary Kay said. “We changed it to the Ladies Society for the Conservation of Martinis.”
“That was later,” Carol said. “We should start with the original society, DeeDee Patterson’s group.”
“That’s old news, darling.” Mary Kay waved her away. “We’re gonna bore this child to bits if we go back, what, forty years?”
Beth said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two, that’s not important. Can we get off the title? It’s the friendship that counts.”
“Not the drinking?” Carol teased.
“Please. Knock it off!” Beth shouted. “What must Alice think?”
Alice sat back and let them hash it out. How in the world did three so very different women remain friends for so long?
While they argued about how to start the tale, Alice sipped her martini and let her gaze meander past her mother’s grave to the woods beyond where she could have sworn she heard, in the waving pine boughs, a woman singing. Yes, dancing and singing a lilting, happy song.
Something about girls just wanting to have fun.
Acknowledgments
This book owes its appearance to three magical gifts: inspirational friends, a supportive family, and my fabulous editor at Dutton, Erika Imranyi, who expertly kept me on track and pushed me to produce my best possible work. Thank you, Erika, for your detailed critiques in an era when books are rushed to production. You are a rare gem.
Mostly, I am indebted to my neighbor and friend Trish McVeigh, who for years has not only valiantly battled cancer, but has done so with remarkable cheer and often sidesplitting humor—though that is where the similarities between her and Lynne Flannery end. I hope.
Trish is more than an inspiration for this story. She is also an inspiration for how to stare down fear with courage and a healthy shrug. I, like all who know her, am simply in awe.
Thanks, too, to Gail Sullivan, for her medical knowledge, Sara Travis, Caroline Scribner, Sarah Semler, Sarah Barrett, Amy Herrick, Kathy Sweeney, Nancy Martin, Harley Jane Kozak, Hank Ryan, Elaine Viets, Patty McCormick, and, of course, Lisa Sweterlitsch, for being my muses.
Heather Schroder at ICM, my agent for ten years, continues to be a wonder of strength and insight. I am forever grateful to Brian Tart at Dutton for his continued faith.
Finally, thank you to my husband, Charlie; son, Sam; and daughter, Anna, who tolerated my long days and nights behind closed doors rewriting again and again and again.
About the Author
Sarah Strohmeyer is the bestselling author of ten previous novels, including The Cinderella Pact and the popular Bubbles series. She lives with her family outside Montpelier, Vermont.
Also by Sarah Strohmeyer
The Penny Pinchers Club
Sweet Love
The Sleeping Beauty Proposal
The Cinderella Pact
The Secret Lives of Fortunate Wives
Bubbles Betrothed
Bubbles A Broad
Bubbles Ablaze
Bubbles in Trouble
Bubbles Unbound
Bubbles All the Way