by Davis Bunn
“I would love that.”
“What about some wine?”
“Just a glass, please.”
Sylvie went to the bar and returned with something, she had no idea what, a glass of the first open white she had seen. She then stepped back as Rick stopped by Estelle’s table. Sylvie returned to her hostess station and watched Aubrey go over and shake Estelle’s hand. Then Marcela returned with a starter. The three of them laughed over something.
Sylvie’s resentment grew steadily as the night progressed. Why did Estelle have to come to Miramar, now of all times? Sylvie had spent her entire life building a home for herself here. And now these people all assumed she would make room for the woman who had abandoned her? This was her decision. Not theirs. And certainly not Estelle’s.
Sylvie did her best to suppress the evening’s hidden tempest. Every time Sylvie returned to Estelle’s table, Rick or Marcela or Aubrey was already there, chatting away like old friends. This was good in a way, as it allowed Sylvie to stand beside them, poised and smiling, humming little notes in response to a conversation she could not hear over the noise in her head.
As closing hour approached, Estelle rose from her table. Sylvie walked over and asked, “Are you sure you won’t have dessert?”
“No, thank you. I’m not one for sweets.” She turned and surveyed the restaurant. “Sylvie, this place of yours is simply marvelous.”
“You’re very kind.” As Estelle was granted a final round of farewells from her staff and the few remaining customers, Sylvie held to her smile and waited. Finally she walked Estelle through the main doors and out into the night. When they were alone, Sylvie asked, “So what are your plans?”
The night shattered.
Sylvie could almost hear the sound of crystal breaking. She saw the broken shards appear in Estelle’s gaze. “I just meant . . .”
“I know what you meant.” Estelle’s voice had resumed the soft sorrow it had held on that first awful meeting. “I’ll leave Tuesday. In four days. If that’s acceptable.”
“Stay as long as you like,” Sylvie said feebly.
“Thank you. That is very kind. I think Tuesday.” Estelle’s voice strengthened with each word. Only now it carried a flat, metallic note. “That way you have one less distraction going into the trial, yes?”
“Whatever you think is best.”
“Good night, Sylvie.”
She stood and watched Estelle climb the hill. Logic told Sylvie she’d done the right thing at the right time. But she was chased back inside by an echoing refrain. How much she wished she could take back what she had said.
Only when she locked up for the night did Sylvie realize that she was the only person Estelle had not embraced in farewell.
CHAPTER 48
Two hours later, Sylvie carried her turmoil upstairs. She had a dozen perfectly good reasons to let the situation with Estelle remain as it was. A hundred. The days were already too full. She needed to focus on getting through this crisis and finding some way to pull her life back on track. Maybe then, she could reconnect with the woman who had abandoned her. Right now, the only thing she really needed . . .
Sylvie seated herself in front of the painting. She missed her father with a visceral longing. He rarely had offered any answer to the problems they had faced. And there had been a lot of problems. But he had always made her feel better. His painting glowed softly in the room’s lights, a gentle communication passed through all the years and experiences that separated him. Sylvie knew he would want her to make peace with Estelle. This made her feel even worse about how the night had gone.
As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she found herself wishing yet again for the chance to talk things over with Connor. The sheer impossibility of the yearnings did not free her from the simple fact that she missed him. Despite everything. She wondered what it would be like to rely on a man’s strength again. She had been alone for so long, faced so much on her own, gone so far. Sylvie tried to tell herself that it was ridiculous to wonder about such things with Connor. The man who had lied to her about almost everything. The man who could not be trusted. Especially now.
* * *
But that night Sylvie found no peace in sleep.
She dreamed that she was downstairs in the restaurant. Once or twice each week, she had a nightmare where she stood at the hostess station and searched for a reservation that she herself had taken and then forgotten to write in the book. Sylvie would start to tell the group of eight or ten or even an entire wedding party that she had made a mistake, and there was no room for them. Then she’d glance down and realize she had forgotten to put on pants.
Tonight’s dream was very different indeed.
To start, the restaurant was almost empty. For another, she stood by the long table and stared at the stage. Her mother was seated in a chair by the tall bay windows. She smiled as Connor played the piano and sang.
Sylvie almost recognized the melody, but she could not place it. Estelle nodded her head and tapped her fingers in time to the song. They were so wrapped up in the moment they did not even notice Sylvie. It was just the two of them, and they were happy.
Abruptly Sylvie became lanced by the conviction that they both knew she was there, but chose to ignore her.
There was nothing she wanted quite so much as to join them. As she started forward, another person leapt in between her and the stage.
Sylvie faced herself. She was an angry, vindictive, bitter woman who looked thirty years older. Aged and desiccated and filled with a lonely, burning rage. The fury left no room for any goodness. Or love.
The second Sylvie fought with vicious ferocity. The harder they struggled, the more Sylvie wanted to be up there. With the two of them. However, she could not break through. She could not . . .
When Sylvie woke up, she was standing in the middle of her bedroom floor.
CHAPTER 49
A brisk wind blew from the northwest when Sylvie emerged Saturday morning. Normally, these were her favorite days. The air carried a special bite that was only found along the Pacific Northwest. The cloudless sky was a piercing blue, the sunlight strong enough to defy the day’s chill. Sylvie loved taking a few indulgent hours where she could revel in a place that was, for her, unique in all the world.
But after such a fitful night, Sylvie rose to a breakfast of regrets. She knew she had to act. She walked up the main road to the guesthouse and found her mother seated on a bench, reading the newspaper. Estelle started at her daughter’s appearance and hid the paper away, like she had been discovered doing something wrong.
Sylvie said, “I’ve come to apologize.”
“There’s no need.”
“I shouldn’t have spoken like I did. I . . .”
Estelle studied her for a long moment, then asked quietly, “Would you like to sit down?”
Sylvie settled onto the bench and searched for something more to say. But now that she had apologized, she felt deflated.
“I was sitting here, wishing I could speak with my Jack,” Estelle said. “I need to tell him he was right to make me come and find you.”
Sylvie opened her mouth to shape words, which she would probably never speak, about wishing to know a man she had not even been aware existed.
Estelle turned to her. “My darling daughter, you never need to apologize to me for anything. And certainly not for last night. The very thought is, well, it’s absurd is what it is. I abandoned you.”
Sylvie watched as Estelle swung about and aimed her face at the sun, as though drawing in enough strength to maintain control. Sylvie wished she knew how to reach across the impossible distance and offer comfort. But all she could manage was, “There’s so much in my life right now.”
Somehow, for once, she had said the right thing. Estelle calmed enough to say, “And the very last thing I want to do is add to your burdens.”
“You’re not,” Sylvie said. And only as she shaped the words did she realize they were true. “Really. I’
m fighting against . . .”
When Sylvie could not find the proper word, Estelle offered, “Shadows?”
Sylvie could not think of a better word, so she nodded agreement. It wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind, but somehow the word fit comfortably in the space between them.
They settled back and sat through a most uncommon time. The sun warmed the silence, and even knitted together the wounds, at least enough for Sylvie to say, “Would you like to take a drive with me?”
* * *
The journey to Paso Robles took just under an hour. Sylvie spent much of the time regaling Estelle with stories from her teenage years. Back then, the regional farmers’ markets had been a highlight of Sylvie’s week. San Luis Obispo, Santa Maria, even occasionally Santa Cruz, all of these had shaped her knowledge of the region she called home. Her favorite was Paso Robles, an inland town with two very distinct faces. The old section dated from the same era as Miramar’s founding. Back then, Paso Robles had been a center for the state’s cattle and sheep industries. Nowadays the local agriculture was dominated by grapes. The central coast was California’s second-largest wine producer after Napa.
The region was also home now to thriving organic farms; as a result, Paso Robles held a prosperous, go-ahead air. The central coast had not been quite so hard hit by the drought as farther inland or to the south. The result was a lingering trace of the easy high-octane life that had characterized Californian farming communities until the reservoirs dried up. Shopping at these markets had been Sylvie’s introduction both to the region’s oldest families and to healthy cuisine. She had obtained her first waitressing job from a chef she had met here in the Paso Robles market. From that experience, she had been drawn into the artistry of food.
Her father had painted any number of the markets. Many old-timers still held on to sketches and pastels Gareth had traded for produce. Nowadays their children greeted Sylvie as one of their own.
Sylvie’s ride of choice was a Ford F-150, with a covered rear compartment and two oversized coolers. As she parked in the market’s overflow lot, she asked, “Is it bad, my talking about times with Pop?”
“I doubt very much that a rule book has ever been written to cover this situation,” Estelle assured her.
“I mean, do you mind?”
“It hurts,” Estelle confessed. “A little. But I also like it very much. You’re filling the empty spaces.”
The oddest things seemed to impact Sylvie these days. She needed several minutes to swallow down the emotional burn. They were almost at the market’s periphery when she managed to say, “I want you to stay.”
Estelle stopped, causing the foot traffic to veer around them.
“Don’t leave on Tuesday,” Sylvie told her. “Even if you were really planning to. I mean, before I said what I did. Leaving now would only make it worse, going into the trial.” She gave herself a mental kick. “That sounds so selfish.”
“No, Sylvie. It sounds so human,” Estelle replied. “You are facing one of the worst episodes of your adult life. You are absolutely justified in being selfish.”
“Then you’ll stay?”
Estelle said slowly, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“Let’s wait until we’ve enjoyed this outing a little. Please. It’s such a special moment for us both.”
“So . . . it’s bad, what you are going to tell me?”
Estelle bobbed her head from side to side. “It’s hard for me to say. But it needs to be discussed. Afterward, if you ask me again, I’ll be here with you through the trial.”
“But I have to tell you a second time that I want you to stay,” Sylvie said, wanting to get it right. “After you tell me your secret.”
“Right.”
“Which you won’t say now.”
“Right again.”
“What if I insist?”
“Don’t,” Estelle pleaded. “This is a dream come true for me. Just let’s enjoy this time together, all right?”
In truth, Sylvie was grateful for the chance this offered to leave the painting in the truck’s rear compartment and pretend the day did not hold such a hollow ache. As they started walking toward the market, Sylvie said, “I hate knowing a secret is out there worse than anything.”
“Of course you do.” Estelle slipped her arm through Sylvie’s. “It’s part of being a woman.”
CHAPTER 50
Everyone in the Paso Robles market, traders and customers alike, seemed to know about Sylvie’s problems. She and Estelle were stopped every few steps by yet another person who assured Sylvie of his or her support. Sylvie had no idea how to respond, especially when these folks included Estelle in their greetings. Word had spread so fast, she assumed it had something to do with the secret Estelle insisted upon putting off.
They passed the art gallery that formed the horrid purpose for this journey. The owner was a regular at Castaways and had repeatedly offered to buy the painting in Sylvie’s truck. Sylvie’s step turned leaden at the thought of carrying the oil inside. Then they were past it, and another couple greeted them, and Sylvie found herself in no great hurry to do anything more than enjoy an hour with Estelle.
At the market’s heart was a makeshift food court, with over a dozen food trucks offering everything from Szechuan to Honduran specialties. From a family that remembered serving Sylvie as a child, they selected tortillas of spicy pulled chicken and coriander. They had found a table somewhat removed from the others and ate in companionable silence. Then Estelle bundled up the waste and said, “Thank you for sharing this with me. It means more than I can say.”
Sylvie took that as her signal. “Will you tell me whatever it is you’ve been holding back?”
“I’ll do better than that,” Estelle replied. “I will show you.”
It seemed to Sylvie as though Estelle moved with exaggerated care. Every gesture carried a sense of dramatic tension. Sylvie realized Estelle was struggling against her own anxieties as she drew a newspaper from her purse, unfolded it, and set it on the table between them.
On the front page of the San Luis Obispo Tribune, Connor Larkin stared up at her from four different photos. One showed a terrible scar covering almost half his face. Then she read the caption, though the words seemed scrambled in her brain. Something about a starring role in the new James Bond film.
Even more surprising than being confronted by Connor, and realizing that Estelle not just knew but had participated, was Sylvie’s internal reaction. She was not nearly so shocked as she might have expected. All the smiles and furtive discussions made sense now.
So, too, did the dream.
She stared down at Connor’s pictures and read how he was backing a regional appeal to cover her legal costs. She read the response from Sol Feinnes, who declared the entire court proceedings a travesty, as bad a case as he had ever seen in his three decades as a trial lawyer. Then there was the paragraph quoting Estelle, who expressed an unqualified confidence that with the support of Sylvie’s friends along the central coast, her daughter would emerge triumphant.
She lifted her gaze and watched the market crowds stream past their table.
For one incredible, impossible moment, it felt as though her father was seated there with them. Sylvie stared across the table at Estelle, the woman whose efforts meant she might just possibly be able to rehang the painting back on the restaurant wall.
Sylvie confessed, “I had a secret reason of my own for this trip. I have one of Pop’s paintings back in the truck. My favorite. A gallery owner here in Paso Robles offered me forty thousand dollars—”
Estelle said sharply, “Don’t you dare.”
“I thought I didn’t have any choice.”
“Well, you do.” Estelle reached across the table. “You have faced so much. You have done so well. Now you need to let others help you.”
“That’s very hard for me,” Sylvie said, “letting others be strong.”
“Well, of cours
e it is. You had no one else to count on for so long except yourself.” Estelle’s face crimped tight. “And I am largely to blame for that.”
It would have been so easy to remain silent, to allow the harsh truth to punish Estelle for abandoning her. But just then, in that sunlit moment with her father so close she could almost hear his voice, Sylvie found it easy to say, “But now you’re here.”
Estelle squeezed her hand once, then let go, leaned back, and used her napkin to clear her eyes.
Sylvie lingered there, knowing all along that there was a fourth person who needed to join in their moment. Finally she spoke the word aloud. The name she had vowed never to utter. “Connor.”
“He’s a good man,” Estelle said. “Yes, he’s made mistakes. A lot of them. But he’s trying to make amends.”
Sylvie found a delicious pleasure in fashioning the name again. “Connor. He lied to me.”
Estelle nodded. “Yes. He did.”
“I hate liars worse—”
“Worse than living alone?”
Sylvie took a long breath. “There was a man . . .”
“I know. Bradley. That wretch.”
“Who told you?”
“Rick and Marcela. I’m so sorry.”
“The two of them are in on this?”
“Up to their eyeballs.” Estelle smiled. “They are wonderful.”
“Yes, they are.” She resisted the urge to speak his name again. Instead, she said, “I don’t know what to think.”
“I understand.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Do I?” Estelle toyed with her cup. “My late husband Jack was a very good man. He helped me see that the first thing that I had to do, if I was ever going to know any sort of happiness, was to forgive myself.”
“That must have been hard.”
“Very.”
“I’m sorry. That sounded terrible. I didn’t mean you . . . Actually, I don’t know what I meant.”
Estelle’s smile was mostly sad, but not entirely. “You don’t know, you can’t imagine, how wonderful it is to be sitting here and talking to you.”