The Season of Silver Linings

by Christine Nolfi

  Long before tragedy cut a groove in his life, she convinced him that any wish—no matter how outrageous or impossible—was sure to grace his life if he ventured outside on a night when shooting stars streaked the skies, and he prayed with all his might. He’d believed the canard all the way to tenth grade, when a meteor shower burst over the town in racing pinstripes of silver. The following morning, a red Corvette did not appear in his parents’ driveway.

  Philip had suffered actual remorse.

  He shifted his large body in the chair where he was imprisoned before the principal’s desk. The skinny and high-strung Geneva Sauls hadn’t arrived, and he welcomed the chance to compose himself. Seated next to him, Penelope continued to dab at her head with paper towels. On a normal day, the streaks of white sprouting from her auburn hair gave her the look of a mad scientist. Today, orange finger paint dripped from the wispy strands.

  How any of this had happened was beyond his grasp. Principal Sauls had called while he was up to his knees in dirt, helping his men position the first sandstone pavers for the Wayfair’s patio installation. Compounding his embarrassment over his daughter’s infraction at school, he’d trailed clumps of dirt all the way from the lobby to Sauls’s office.

  A roll of paper towels leaned against Penelope’s calves. Tearing off a sheet, he said, “Penelope, I am sorry. I don’t know what got into her.” He took a hasty swipe at the paint dripping from her chin.

  “Oh, stop. You’ve apologized repeatedly.”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  Blots of orange speckled her eyeglasses. Tearing off another sheet, he dabbed the mess away. Behind the thick glass, her rheumy eyes sparkled with affection. She leaned closer.

  “Fancy was fine when we started the project,” Penelope confided. “The teachers always let me devise my own projects when I volunteer, and all the children were working with the finger paints like busy little bees. We’re making a panorama—it’s nearly fifteen feet long. We had to push desks out of the way to make room on the floor.”

  There seemed no limits to the Siren’s imagination. Landscapes crafted from papier-mâché, under-the-sea dioramas built from discarded boxes—recently, the children had begun collecting plastic bottles around town for a project she was planning for later in the spring. It didn’t escape the notice of Philip and the other parents that Penelope was teaching the children how to recycle items usually tossed into the garbage.

  “The panorama you were doing with the kids . . . ,” he said. “What was the subject of the painting?”

  “Linnie and your brother’s wedding.”

  Philip arched a brow. “Not a topic I’d expect a bunch of first graders to choose.” Usually the girls went for fairy-tale themes. The boys preferred superheroes or anything related to sports.

  “The children couldn’t agree on what to paint. I made the suggestion. Talk about a heated debate! The boys put up a fuss, booing down the idea as too lovey-dovey. They relented once I explained they could paint the scenery, including the Wayfair and the new patio you’re installing.”

  “And the girls?”

  “They cheered when I assigned them the task of painting the wedding party. At least they all seemed pleased,” Penelope explained. Distress whispered across her features. It disappeared beneath the excitement brightening her gaze as she added, “Several of Fancy’s girlfriends asked to paint her leading the wedding party. They were very enthusiastic.”

  “What did you assign my daughter?”

  Penelope gave him a meaningful look. “She volunteered to paint Jada. I knew she would.”

  The remark made him feel foolish. Of course his daughter would elect to paint Jada—she’d become a daily fixture in their lives. Initially the situation had been awkward, because Philip knew Jada had only started coming around at Linnie’s behest. He was put off by the thinly veiled intervention, as if he couldn’t manage without his brother Daniel’s help and home-cooked meals. But he’d quickly revised his opinion—Fancy welcomed the feminine attention. Much as he’d worked to give his daughter a normal childhood, she’d missed out on motherly love.

  Philip lowered his gaze to his work boots, shedding dirt on the floor.

  Last night, Fancy had turned her nose up at the dress Linnie wanted her to wear for the wedding. Why, he wasn’t sure. She’d stomped off to her bedroom in little-girl fury. After Linnie departed, he tried to enter his daughter’s bedroom to get a fix on the problem. Fancy’s stuffed animals were barricading the door.

  The situation should’ve been funny, but he hated the idea of disappointing Linnie and Daniel if his kid put a kink in their wedding plans.

  “You’re sure Fancy liked the idea of painting the wedding scene?” he asked doubtfully.

  “She seemed eager,” Penelope said. “I hope I didn’t misread her. All the girls in her class are so excited about Fancy being the flower girl. Isn’t she excited?”

  “I thought so. Now I’m not sure.” Philip realized his feet were tapping a nervous rhythm, showering more dirt on the floor. He stilled them. “I should’ve run the idea by her before telling Linnie and Daniel she’d participate. All things considered, I’m wondering why I didn’t. Fancy is in a big-girl phase. She insists on making her own decisions.”

  The door to the principal’s office squeaked open, then shut with a bang. Startled by the noise she’d created, Geneva Sauls flinched. Muttering apologies, she trotted to her desk.

  “Philip, hello.” The principal landed her skinny arms on the desk. Her elbow nicked a mason jar brimming with pens. The jar rolled toward Philip, then toppled to the floor.

  Pens skittered in all directions. Retrieving all within reach, Philip skipped the pleasantries. “Where’s Fancy? I thought I was taking her home.”

  The principal smiled too brightly. “Let’s talk alone first.”

  Straining nearly out of his chair, he caught the mason jar before it rolled into the dots of paint by Penelope’s loafers. “She’s still in her classroom?” A chunk of the jar’s rim had broken off; he found it beneath his chair.

  “I asked the school nurse to take her to the infirmary to calm down,” Geneva said. “She refused to go back to class.”

  The concern shading the principal’s words slowed his movements. Carefully, Philip returned the jar to the desk. “Fancy refused to go back to her classroom?” Usually she was obedient, especially at school. Always at school.

  Or so he’d assumed.

  Principal Sauls seemed incapable of meeting his eyes. “Frankly, she’s been . . . unruly,” she elaborated. “Quite a bit lately. I’m concerned.”

  “I wouldn’t describe Fancy as unruly,” he said.

  “She wasn’t, earlier in the academic year.”

  “Are you implying my kid has become a troublemaker?”

  A challenge, and Sauls appeared ready to leap from her chair. “She has seemed troubled. Lashing out may be her means of expressing emotions she can’t process well.”

  “Fancy processes her emotions just fine,” Philip shot back, and the fierce, protective love he reserved for his daughter put him on the defensive. “Listen, I can’t explain why she dumped paint on Penelope in the middle of an art project. The behavior is totally out of character, especially when you take into account how much she loves Penelope. All I’m asking is for you to go easy on my daughter. I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Penelope rested her hand on his wrist. The touch of her fingers made him aware of the erratic beat of his pulse. He felt off-balance, a reaction he usually suffered on the thirteenth of March. The problems with his daughter managed to amplify his unsettled emotions.

  “Philip,” Penelope murmured, and the pressure of her hand increased until he lifted his eyes to hers. “Geneva has no intention of punishing Fancy. Your daughter is a joy in every class, one of the best students.”

  “Then what is the problem?” he asked.

  “She’s wondering—we’re both wondering—if Fancy chose to act out this aftern
oon. This is an upsetting day. You and Jada are very stoic, grieving in your own ways. Both of you carry your sorrow admirably, as you’ve done every year. However, Fancy is older now. Children are like sponges.”

  The comment knotted the muscles in Philip’s back. “I’m not following.” Nor did he wish to follow the conversation’s dangerous turn. “Why don’t you spell out what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Children absorb the emotional climate of the adults around them. They sense grief, sorrow, even anger.”

  “Penelope, be realistic. Fancy isn’t picking up bad vibes. Jada would never discuss the anniversary with her. I wouldn’t either. We both know she’s too young.”

  She patted his hand. “Calm down,” she murmured, with a quick glance at the principal. Sauls was sitting stock-still on the other side of the desk, apparently glad to let them hash this out without her intervention. “Philip, I’m not implying you or Jada would discuss today’s significance with Fancy. You’re both responsible adults. Jada loves your daughter as much as you do. There’s another issue to consider.”

  “Which is?”

  “Every year, the anniversary brings heartache. For you, and Jada too. Which is a problem because Fancy is old enough now to sense something amiss.”

  “No, she’s not,” he said, mortified when his voice nearly broke. Fancy didn’t have the slightest inkling of the day’s significance. The possibility was ludicrous. He had every intention of steering her through the precious years of childhood—and all the way through the dangerous teenage years—before being forced to explain the loss marked by March 13. He refused to share the excruciating details before Fancy was mature enough to hear them.

  At six, she understood nothing of the world’s ugliness. She didn’t understand the sorrow that drove an unbalanced soul to the edge of an emotional precipice, as if self-inflicted suffering were an irresistible lure. Nor did Philip grasp the motivation—and he’d spent years rehashing the memories of his short marriage with grim precision.

  Stiffly, Philip rose. “Are we done here?” He searched for a pleasant tone sure to mask his unease. “I appreciate your concern. I’ll talk to Fancy, spell out my expectations for her behavior at school. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take her home.”

  When the school nurse materialized with Fancy, he was pacing in the reception area with ill-suppressed frustration. Smudges of paint covered the bodice of the green-and-pink plaid dress his daughter had chosen that morning for school. Wisps of lemon-colored hair fell around her face. At the sound of his approaching footsteps, she hung her head.

  Sadness washed through him. Whatever impulse had driven Fancy to act out, she regretted it now.

  Taking her by the hand, he led her past the office staff.

  In the parking lot, he lifted her into the passenger side of his pickup and latched the seat belt. Warily, her cornflower-blue eyes followed him around the hood of the truck. She looked small and defenseless on the passenger seat, a delicate wisp of a girl awaiting her daddy’s reaction to her bad behavior. Philip slid in behind the wheel and brought the engine to life.

  “Daddy?”

  He drove out of the lot, turned right on Orchard Lane. “What, sugarplum?”

  “Are you mad?”

  Houses streamed past. Stopping at the light in Sweet Lake Circle, Philip regarded her. She twirled a lock of her long hair around her fingertips.

  His heart lurched as she stopped twirling and began sucking on the strands. “I’m not mad,” he assured her. Removing the strands from her mouth, he rested his fingers against her cheek. “Worried is more like it. Why did you dump paint on Penelope?”

  The light changed. Fancy scooted out of reach. She looked out the window.

  She began swinging her legs up and down. “Penelope showed my class,” she muttered.

  “Showed them what?”

  “A picture of the dress.”

  “Your dress for the wedding?” He couldn’t imagine why it mattered.

  “She showed everyone. She even showed Andy McFee.”

  The boldly freckled Andy McFee had a crush on Fancy of major proportions. With typical male finesse, he expressed his devotion by growling like an ape when he chased her across the playground. In the lunchroom, Andy threatened to put worms in Fancy’s PB&J. Last September, the lovesick boy stuck a marble in his nose for the shock value of hearing Fancy scream. The stunt didn’t amuse his parents; it took a visit to the pediatrician to extract the marble.

  Fancy despised him.

  Philip pitied the kid. He hadn’t been much older than Andy when his first stealthy stirrings of love for Jada caught him in a stranglehold. He recalled the twigs he’d buried in Jada’s corona of dark curls during his shrimp years. Gum wrappers followed, and then a paper airplane he constructed in sixth grade study hall and aimed perfectly at her head. A sensation like triumph swam through his veins every time her chestnut-colored eyes locked onto him in a death-stare. Jada never put up with his shit. It didn’t matter if they were on the playground or, later, stuck inside a classroom going cross-eyed over algebra—he’d always possessed a special talent for drilling through her composure.

  Later still, in high school, he lived for the days when she forgot to subdue her undisciplined curls. If he made the bull’s-eye, she’d launch after him in furious pursuit.

  Thank God, he’d always been faster.

  Dismissing the reverie, he told his daughter, “I don’t care if Penelope showed Andy a photo of all your baby dolls and your stuffed animals. You’re a big girl now. Big girls restrain their anger.”

  “What’s restrain?”

  He steered the pickup into the driveway of their compact brick house. “It means you can’t dump paint on a grown-up. Not even if you’re angry.”

  “I didn’t mean to get mad.”

  He helped her climb down. “Tomorrow, we’re stopping by Gift of Garb. You’ll march into Penelope’s store and apologize to her.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you draw a picture for Penelope to show you’re really sorry? She loves your drawings.” A clutter of Fancy’s artwork hung behind the cash register of Penelope’s consignment shop. “You’ll tell her you’ll never be mean again.”

  “Okay!” Slipping from his grasp, Fancy trudged up the drive. “My tummy is rumbly. Can we go to Uncle Daniel’s house?”

  Dinner. That afternoon, he’d meant to break from work at the inn for a trip to the grocery store. The call from the school derailed the plan.

  Philip scraped the hair from his brow. “No can do, sugarplum. Uncle Daniel went out with Linnie to hear bands play. They have to pick a band for the wedding. He isn’t cooking tonight.”

  His daughter stared at him accusingly. “We don’t have food in the house,” Fancy informed him, as if he needed the reminder. “We never have food around.”

  “Let me grab a quick shower. I’ll root through the freezer and scare up some good eats.”

  Disbelief scuttled across his daughter’s face. “You’ll make good eats? Daddy, you don’t know how.”

  In her office, Jada dialed Philip’s number again.

  It was past six o’clock. Why wasn’t he picking up? She’d already walked outside to check with the landscape crew on his whereabouts. The men were finishing up a section of the patio, setting in the heavy sandstone with sweat-streaked faces before knocking off for the night. According to the foreman, Philip had left the site during the afternoon without explanation.

  The phone continued to ring. Impatient for Philip to answer, Jada gazed absently at the paperwork on her desk. The note with Cat’s distinctive handwriting lay beneath the desk lamp. With reservation, she picked it up. She’d promised to call the historian from Chicago tomorrow, although she still had no idea why the task was necessary. The woman’s suite was already booked. She was scheduled to arrive later in the week.

  More pressing concerns occupied Jada’s thoughts. Philip wasn’t in the habit of disappearing without notice, not with
a daughter who required dinner at a normal hour and a bath afterward.

  Worried now, Jada considered driving over.

  The idea held no appeal. Too often lately, she found herself coming to Philip’s rescue, spending pleasant hours ensconced in his home playing with Fancy or whipping up dinner. So much time together only increased the uncomfortable mix of emotion brewing between her and Philip. She wasn’t sure how to cool things down.

  The obvious solution? Stop visiting so often. Jada would’ve already followed the plan if she hadn’t grown close to his daughter. When she’d first begun dropping by last winter after Linnie and Daniel got engaged, she hadn’t bargained on how quickly her relationship with Fancy would grow. The first grader still missed the constant interaction with her beloved Uncle Daniel, but she’d taken quickly to Jada.

  Fancy came on the line. “Hello?”

  “Fancy, it’s Jada. I’ve been trying to reach your daddy. Is everything okay?”

  A breathy silence, then, “No.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The smoke is making my nose itchy.”

  Smoke?

  Apprehension pulled Jada to her feet. “Sweetie, where are you? Is your daddy with you?”

  “He’s in the kitchen, burning dinner.” Fancy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Come save me. He’s making smelly food.”

  “I’m on my way.” Jada tossed the note back onto her desk. “Tell your daddy I’m bringing dinner.”

  Waitstaff streamed in and out of the kitchen, placing orders and ferrying meals to the guests in the Sunshine Room. The evening’s special of chicken with rosemary scented the air with a savory aroma. Jada filled three carryout boxes with generous portions, adding mashed potatoes and green beans on the side. She was placing the boxes in a bag when the connection struck her.

  Rosemary.

  According to the Sirens, the pungent herb factored into their dreams about Jada. They believed the handmade sachet they’d given her would resolve a burden from the past. The odd gift was still tucked away in her office. Jingling the keys from her purse, she released a nervous laugh.