Christmas on Honeysuckle Lane

by Mary McDonough

  “Grandma wore a tiara?” Sophia asked, eyes wide.

  “She did indeed,” Andie said. “When I was about seven she and Grandpa went to a costume ball at the country club. They dressed as British royalty, no one specific as I remember, but their costumes were definitely early nineteenth century in style, and your grandmother wore a tiara.”

  “There must be a picture around here somewhere,” Emma said. “Mom and Dad documented everything. We’ll probably find it when we go through all the old albums.”

  Rumi abruptly turned to face the group again. “What did you do with your wedding dress, Mom?” she asked.

  Andie thought a moment. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Mom might have kept it. I suppose it might be in the attic.”

  “That figures,” Rumi said with an unpleasant laugh. “Don’t you have any sentimentality?”

  Andie flinched. “Of course I do,” she said. “Of course I have sentimentality.”

  “I doubt it! Is that why you didn’t come home for my twentieth birthday?” Rumi challenged. “Because you just don’t care?”

  Here it is, Andie thought. She had half expected a showdown was coming. She just wished it wasn’t happening in front of other family members. She kept her eyes on her daughter as she spoke, but she was all too aware of their audience.

  “I told you I’m sorry for missing your birthday,” she said. “I really am. You know I was on a book-signing tour. I’d made a commitment.”

  Rumi folded her arms across her chest. “I guess for some people career is more important than family.”

  “Work,” Andie said calmly. “Good work. That’s important to me. Not more important than family, but important.”

  “If family is more important than work why did you move so far away from Dad and me all those years ago?” Rumi demanded.

  Andie chose not to respond to that question, not now. She reached out to take her daughter’s hand, but Rumi, arms still folded, took a step aside. “I sent a card for your birthday,” Andie went on. “I sent you a gift. I called, and when you didn’t answer your phone I left a message. Again, I’m sorry.” She knew that she must sound pathetic, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from apologizing. And with every passing moment she was more aware of the silent witnesses to this upsetting exchange—Emma watching, her lips tight, Anna Maria staring fixedly at the wedding dress laid out on the bed, Sophia looking confusedly from her aunt to her cousin and back again.

  “You knew it was my first birthday without Grandma,” Rumi said. “You should have put my needs before your own, for once in your life. Even Rita called me and sent me a present. My ex-stepmother made more of an effort than you did!”

  Andie felt her heart sink. Did Rumi really think she had shuffled her aside as unimportant or irrelevant? All those years of phone calls and visits and long handwritten letters, had they all been forgotten? “I’m sorry my absence caused you pain, Rumi,” she said carefully. “I truly am.”

  Rumi’s eyes blazed. “But you’d do it again, wouldn’t you?” she challenged. “If something important was happening for me and some stranger begged you for help, you’d see it as your duty to help him rather than me.”

  “Rumi, that’s not—”

  “I don’t want to hear any more excuses for your . . . for your neglect. I’m out of here.”

  Rumi grabbed her cloth bag from where she had tossed it onto a chair and stormed out of the room. The sound of her feet thudding down the stairs, the sound of the front door slamming behind her, tore at Andie’s heart. It was the sound of loss, the sound of the impossible actually happening, her daughter rejecting her once and for all.

  Anna Maria sighed. “She’s just upset, Andie,” she said. “She’ll calm down.”

  Andie smiled weakly. “Will she?”

  Sophia looked on the verge of tears. “Why is Rumi so mad at Aunt Andie, Mom?”

  Anna Maria put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “She’s got a lot on her mind, Sophia. That’s all.”

  “I’m okay, Sophia,” Andie said. “Really.” But her niece hung her head and wouldn’t meet her eye.

  Emma’s expression was grim. “You didn’t deserve that,” she said. “Do you want me to talk to her? She can’t be allowed to be abusive to her mother.”

  But at that moment Andie didn’t know what she did or did not deserve from Rumi. “No,” she told her sister. “But thanks. I’ll talk to Bob about . . . about the situation.”

  “So,” Anna Maria said briskly. “The wedding dress. Obviously it can’t stay here if we’re selling the house. Why don’t I bring it to my place? I suppose I should bring the chest, too. It’s kept the dress safe for all these years.... I’ll ask Daniel to hire one of our young waiters to help move it.”

  Andie smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Anna Maria. I’d appreciate that.”

  Emma nodded. “Me, too. And I’ll finish going through the rest of the clothes and take them to that good thrift shop in Lawrenceville. I think it’s called Style Revisited. Now,” she said, “why don’t we have some lunch? And maybe a glass of wine with it, for medicinal purposes.”

  Andie slipped her arm through her sister’s. “A glass of wine would be very welcome,” she said.

  Emma nodded. “Good. And a cupcake for Sophia. I think I can manage to whip up a batch pretty quickly.”

  “All right, Sophia?” Andie asked gently. The girl finally raised her head and gave her aunt a shy smile.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Darn.” Daniel shook his head and jiggled the on/off switch of the standing mixer. With a grating sound the mixer came back to life. It had been acting up since the end of summer and really should have been replaced before now, but not until his parents’ house was finally sold and he received his part of the estate could Daniel finally afford an upgraded model.

  “Can I help?” Bob asked. “I’ve been known to coax a dead blender back from the grave.”

  “Sadly, no,” Daniel told him. “But thanks.”

  Daniel was trying out a new recipe for dinner rolls, that ubiquitous but so often bland and tasteless accompaniment to a meal, and Bob, who had an excellent palate for everything from exotic spices to good basic breads, was acting as his taster. Already they had rejected two recipes—one as too crispy; the other not crispy enough—but Daniel had tweaked this and adjusted that and was now feeling more confident of success in spite of the wonky mixer.

  “Did you hear what happened at the house this morning?” he asked, scraping the current dough mixture onto the floured work surface. Anna Maria had reported the incident after lunch, and though she had sworn Rumi’s attack had been unprovoked, Daniel didn’t really believe it.

  “If you mean the argument between Andie and Rumi,” Bob said, “yes, I heard.”

  “My sister has become so selfish,” Daniel said forcefully as he began to knead his dough. “So single minded, as if only she matters.”

  Bob shook his head. “Well, I heard Rumi’s version of the tussle, and let me tell you, I took it with a grain of salt. If Rumi’s got a problem with her mother she needs to talk it through one on one, not drag other people into her drama. She knows better, Daniel. Andie and I have taught her better.”

  “You taught her, Bob. You were here, Andie wasn’t.”

  “Daniel,” Bob said, “you might find this hard to understand, but Andie and I both actively parented our daughter. Maybe we’re not the most conventional family, but we’re a family.”

  “You’re right,” Daniel said. “I don’t understand. Not really.”

  “It’s to everyone’s benefit if Rumi and her mother reconcile,” Bob went on. “It’s only a bump in the road, but if we all don’t support the idea of peace it might become something bigger and more destructive.”

  Daniel shrugged. “Well, of course it would be nice if Andie and Rumi got along again, but do you really think my sister has anything to offer Rumi at this point in their lives?”

  “Yes,” Bob said firmly. “I do. And for
give me if I’m frank, but family harmony seems to matter an awful lot to you, Daniel, and I think that’s really great, but when it comes to Andie you seem unwilling to keep that in mind. You weren’t always so harsh with her. What’s going on?”

  Daniel opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but closed it again. How could he deny the truth? He had been unwilling to entertain his sister’s point of view on much of anything for some time now. And he thought about his close attachment to his children and how horrible it would be if one or both turned against him. He experienced a moment of pity for his sister.... But just a moment.

  “Okay, Bob,” he said finally. “I’ll give it a rest.” He knew he would try—he was a man of his word—but he wasn’t at all sure that he would succeed.

  “Good. Well, I’d better be off. That is, unless you still need my taste buds.”

  “No, I think I’m closing in on perfection.”

  Bob smiled. “I’d be careful reaching after perfection,” he said. “I hear it’s pretty elusive.”

  When Bob was gone, Daniel found himself wondering what Emma had made of that morning’s tussle between Rumi and her mother. He felt almost certain that Emma would side with him. After all, she had cared enough to ask about the final moments of their mother’s life and to express her sympathy and her thanks for all her brother had done. And yet, Daniel thought, a frown coming to his face, Emma still hadn’t chosen a real estate agent to handle the sale of the house. Words were all well and good, but deeds were what mattered in the end. And neither sister had finished going through the books in the den and neither had given an opinion on whether the family should hire an auction house to handle an estate sale or tackle it on their own.

  It will all come down to me, Daniel thought, setting the dough aside to rise. I’ll be stuck with all the work, just like I always am. He was aware he was being a bit self-pitying, but he felt so very strongly that achieving this closure for the family was vital, and that it would lead the Reynoldses into the next phase of their life as a happy family.

  Family cohesiveness. That was the priority his parents had established and the goal they had largely achieved; it was why, Daniel thought, they had been so rattled by his sisters’ choices, each girl seeming to want to break apart the family unit, to separate out from the rest, to forge an entirely independent life.

  Daniel looked around at the kitchen he and Anna Maria had worked so hard to afford. He thought about the business they had struggled to build, a business that served the community his parents had served. He thought about how he and his wife had chosen to raise their children right here in Oliver’s Well. And thinking about all these things, Daniel felt proud. At least, he thought, one of us didn’t let Mom and Dad down.

  CHAPTER 34

  Emma steered her car onto Market Street. Morgan Shelby had called a little while earlier to say that he had completed the appraisal of the silver serving platters and that she could retrieve them at any time.

  But her mind wasn’t entirely on the task at hand. She couldn’t get Rumi’s words to her mother out of her mind. She had accused Andie of neglect; she seemed to have become so unfair and ungenerous. And if Emma was worried about her niece she was even more worried about her sister. After lunch, when Anna Maria and Sophia had gone home, Andie had grown even more dejected, and as far as Emma knew, that was not a mood common to Andie Reynolds.

  Emma slowed at a crosswalk to let a young woman pushing a stroller and gripping the hand of a child about the age of four cross the street. And she wondered if Rumi knew anything about her mother’s postpartum depression; if she did know, Emma wondered if she felt an ounce of compassion for what her mother had suffered and sacrificed. Rumi needed to get past the fact of Andie’s missing the birthday and deal with whatever issue was really feeding her anger.

  And suddenly, with a blinding flash of memory Emma recalled a time when she had been completely unwilling to forgive her mother for a perceived failure. She had been in sixth grade, old enough to be conscious of her family’s standing in the town, old enough to feel she had something to prove or to uphold. She remembered, too, that it was a sensitive stage in her life, a time she had spent seeking her mother’s attention with more than usual persistence.

  The Oliver’s Well Historical Society had announced its first ever Mother-Daughter Luncheon, an event that hadn’t proved to have much staying power over time. The meal was to be served at the Wilson House, with fine china and good flatware and food delivered from what was then Oliver’s Well’s premier restaurant. Emma had asked her mother if they could attend. Maureen and her mother were going, she had told Caro. “Everyone will be there. And we can get dressed up and maybe there’ll even be champagne!” Emma remembered her mother laughing. “Of course we’ll go,” she said. “But no champagne for you!”

  But then, two days before the luncheon, Caroline had gotten a bad stomach virus and no amount of moping and tears and questions—“Are you sure you’re not better, Mom?”—could make her well enough to attend. “I’m sorry, Emma,” her mother had told her, sweat standing out on her pale brow as she lay in bed. “Maybe we can go next year.”

  “Next year’s not good enough!”

  Emma cringed at the memory of her stomping out of her parents’ bedroom. It had been incredibly stupid to get angry about something her mother couldn’t have prevented if she had tried. Oh, she thought, the impossible standards a child sets for a parent!

  She parked once again in the municipal lot and made her way toward the Shelby Gallery, passing another of the real estate agencies she should already have visited. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow.

  Morgan greeted her as she came through the door. “Well, hello,” he said. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I saw you at the concert the other night,” Emma told him, walking over to the counter. “At the Church of the Immaculate Conception.”

  “You were there?” Morgan smiled. “I’m sorry we missed each other. It was quite the turnout.” He reached below the counter, retrieved a stapled sheaf of papers, and handed it to Emma. “The appraisal,” he said. “So, what’s next on your agenda? I mean, in terms of settling your mother’s estate.”

  “Oh, there’s a lot still to do. And we’ll be selling the house, of course. As it is the three of us who own it equally, Danny, Andie, and I.”

  “I’ve always liked the house,” Morgan told her. “Most of the houses on Honeysuckle Lane, in fact. There’s something solid yet graceful about those old homes. It all comes down to proportion.”

  Emma nodded. “I’ve always felt that, too.” She looked down at the papers Morgan had given her. “Thanks again for doing the appraisal. I have to say your fee seems very reasonable.”

  Morgan smiled. “Friends and family discount.”

  Before Emma could respond to this interesting remark—did Morgan genuinely consider her a friend?—the bell over the door to the gallery rang. Emma turned to see a middle-aged couple coming through. “Hello,” Morgan said to them. “Welcome back.”

  “We’ve decided on the dining set,” the woman said excitedly.

  Emma smiled at Morgan. “You’re busy,” she said quietly. “I’ll be on my way.”

  She left Morgan attending to his customers and walked back to her car. As she was stowing the box of the silver serving platters in the trunk her cell phone rang. Distracted by thoughts of her latest conversation with Morgan, as well as by a passing UPS truck that was rattling alarmingly, Emma answered before realizing that what she had heard was Ian’s particular ring tone.

  “Emma, at last.” Ian laughed. “I thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth. Have you gotten my messages?”

  Emma cringed. Damn, she thought. She didn’t want to be having a conversation with him on a sidewalk. She didn’t want to be having a conversation with him at all. “Hello, Ian,” she said. “I’ve been busy.”

  “How are things going?” Ian asked. “Any progress on the sale of your mom’s house? You guys are going t
o sell, aren’t you?”

  “Things are fine,” Emma said. And she thought: why should he care about the sale of her mother’s home? He was no longer a part of this family. He was no longer a part of her.

  “And how’s your brother doing?” Ian went on. “You said before you—”

  Emma cut him off. “Ian,” she said, “I’ve got to go. I have an appointment with a real estate agent in a few minutes.” She hated to lie, but there were times when it seemed harmless enough, and more importantly, expedient.

  “Call me later?” he asked.

  Emma hesitated and then ended the call without a reply. Maybe now, she thought, he would understand. Hanging up on Ian was rude, but frankly, his persistence, his stubbornness, his cheery denial of what had happened between them a few nights back was starting to feel like too heavy a burden for her to bear. There were other people that mattered more to her at the moment, like Andie and Daniel.

  Like Morgan Shelby?

  No. Not yet, anyway.

  CHAPTER 35

  “I wish the bartender wouldn’t keep refilling this dish of nuts,” Emma said to Daniel, frowning at the salted cashew between her fingers. “When it comes to mixed nuts I have no self control.”

  Getting together with her brother at the Angry Squire that evening had been Emma’s idea; she wanted to talk to him again, but this time away from “the family house.” The place seemed to have a hold on Daniel in some unhappy way. When Daniel had asked why they couldn’t talk at number 32 Honeysuckle Lane, Emma had shrugged and said, “I’m in the mood for a festive environment.”

  The bar was busy and Emma had immediately recognized the old geezer sitting at the very end; she remembered seeing him around town when she was a kid.

  “Mr. Hazan,” Daniel whispered. “He’s rumored to be closing in on one hundred.”

  Emma raised an eyebrow. “Good for him,” she said. “He’s a regular?”

  Daniel grinned. “He comes in every day around this time for a shot of whiskey and then takes himself off. Hey, did I ever tell you that Richard Armstrong approached me a few years back about coming on board as his head chef?”