The Season of Silver Linings

by Christine Nolfi

  “She did,” Jada agreed. She thought of something else. “Penelope, the sachet you gave me, in March—how did you know to put rosemary inside?”

  “Why, every time a Siren dreamt about you, rosemary appeared in the dream.”

  “Talk about a strange coincidence.” Jada had never been entirely sure the dreams weren’t an invention by the Sirens—a convenient excuse to meddle in her life. Dismissing the thought, she added, “What is the significance? It’s strange for anyone to have a strong opinion about a common herb. Why did Bodi hate rosemary, yet Millicent loves it?”

  Behind the bar, Silvia drummed her fingers. “Jada, there isn’t a Siren in this room who wouldn’t like to solve that puzzle.”

  “Help me out here, little brother. Do you want advice on dealing with Fancy’s potential relatives, or patching up your relationship with Jada?”

  Seated behind the desk in his office, Daniel Kettering waited patiently. Broad-shouldered, with sandy-brown hair, Daniel was the only legal counsel in a thirty-mile radius. He was also Philip’s most trusted friend.

  “Both,” Philip admitted, pacing a tight circle before the desk.

  “Things are still frosty between you and Jada?”

  “She’s fine when I see her. Polite, if distant. Like we’re back in friend territory.”

  “Then things have cooled off.”

  Philip stopped moving long enough to send his brother a frustrated glance.

  “What did you expect?” Smoothly, Daniel stated the facts. “Jada shared her suspicions regarding Mrs. Earhardt. You made it plain you’d have no contact with Bodi’s relatives. You gave her no choice but to lie. How did you want Jada to handle the situation when Mrs. Earhardt did ask about her acquaintance with Bodi?”

  Miserable, Philip resumed pacing. There was no sidestepping the facts. He’d put Jada in an untenable situation. He’d given no thought to how difficult it was for a woman of her caliber to use subterfuge to comply with his wishes. The only consideration? His need to protect Fancy—and his injured pride. Sharing the blistering memory of Bodi’s infidelity had scraped his ego raw. Ashamed, he recalled what he’d told Jada.

  Lie to Millicent if you must. Pretend you’ve never heard of Bodi. I forbid you to tell her that Bodi married and had a child.

  His heart lurched. “I’ve really screwed up. I made it clear to Jada she couldn’t mention Fancy.” He grimaced. “I made her lie to Millicent.”

  “Not your best move.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Are you reconsidering your position?” When his nervous gaze lifted, Daniel added, “Ohio law allows for visitation by grandparents and other extended relatives. For argument’s sake, let’s assume Mrs. Earhardt is Fancy’s great-grandmother. She’s within her rights to petition the court for visitation. This doesn’t mean a judge won’t take into consideration other relevant factors—including your concerns as Fancy’s sole surviving parent.”

  “What about Bodi’s parents, wherever they are?” To Philip’s mind, they posed the real problem. Just thinking about them washed apprehension through him. “Bodi wasn’t in good shape when she came to Sweet Lake. A gash on her forehead, bruises on her shoulders and rib cage—someone had beaten her. She implied it was her parents. Jada will back me up on this. She also had the impression Bodi’s parents were abusive.”

  “Did Bodi tell you directly she’d been abused by her parents?”

  Philip searched his memories, an unpleasant task. Thinking about those years left him sick-hearted and queasy. “Not directly. She’d insinuate, mostly. Didn’t matter—she knew the conclusion I’d draw.” He came to a standstill. “During one of their baking lessons, Millicent told Jada she didn’t marry until middle age. She mentioned a stepdaughter with mental health issues. Bipolar disorder.”

  “The stepdaughter is Bodi’s mother?”

  “It seems likely, right?”

  Daniel chewed this around for a moment. Then he asked, “Where is Bodi’s father?”

  “I have no idea. I can’t even tell you if Bodi’s parents are together. Millicent never mentioned the father.”

  Daniel fell into a contemplative silence to weigh the information in his levelheaded way. As he did, Philip’s love for him shook past the worry he harbored about protecting Fancy from unknown elements—from unstable relatives who might possess more than a passing similarity to the mother Fancy had never known. Throughout Philip’s life, he’d always relied on his big brother. He couldn’t recall a time when Daniel’s quiet protection wasn’t available to him. The awareness rolled gratitude through him so quickly, his eyes watered.

  His brother wouldn’t fail him now.

  “First off,” Daniel said, organizing his thoughts, “I see no reason why the courts won’t grant Mrs. Earhardt and her husband visitation. She’s a retired college professor and, to all outward appearances, an upstanding woman. For argument’s sake, let’s assume her husband is Bodi’s grandfather—and Fancy’s direct blood relative. Assuming his daughter, the one with mental health issues, is Bodi’s mother, her rights as Fancy’s grandmother are well protected.” Daniel rubbed his jaw, his expression growing taut. “You need to understand, Philip. Once the courts grant Mrs. Earhardt visitation, they won’t be inclined to refuse Fancy’s grandmother those same rights. Not even if the woman’s mental health struggles are well documented.”

  “Even if she raised Bodi in an abusive household?”

  “Supposition. Where’s the proof?”

  “Daniel, I saw the proof—the gash on Bodi’s forehead, the bruises.”

  “You documented this abuse?”

  Philip bristled. “Right. I asked Bodi to hold still while I grabbed my phone and took a picture.”

  “Calm down. I’m merely asking.”

  Philip resumed pacing. “You know what she was like. Moody, argumentative—I had enough trouble convincing her that we ought to marry. Hell, she blew up when I broached the subject. She would’ve gone through with the abortion, you know. She’d already made the appointment when she dropped by my apartment to announce she was pregnant. Like I’d gladly drive her to the clinic to undo the mess we’d made of our lives.” He swiped at his eyes. “She never wanted Fancy. She bitched and complained all through the pregnancy.”

  A fraught period in his life, and the comment stamped pity in Daniel’s eyes. No, it wasn’t necessary to remind Daniel. On the night when Philip learned of the pregnancy, Daniel stayed up until morning sent ribbons of light beneath the curtains of Philip’s apartment, convincing a troubled girl he didn’t know to choose marriage. Back then Daniel was nearing his thirties—a level, patient man with an unspoken passion for Linnie Wayfair and the life he hoped they’d one day share. He’d make a good father, the best kind.

  During Bodi’s arduous, twenty-hour labor, he never left Philip’s side. When the nurses swaddled Fancy, red-cheeked and squalling, in a soft pink blanket, Daniel readily took the fragile bundle and stepped away from the bed where Bodi lay in sullen gloom, refusing to look at her child. Rooted in a corner of the hospital room, Philip scrambled to comprehend the radical change sweeping into his life. The onerous responsibilities that lay ahead with an unpredictable wife. A baby to love and protect, and somehow support. The future terrified him.

  Daniel gave him a loving glance as he strode into the corridor, humming sweet nothings to the infant cradled to his chest.

  In the following months, everything Philip learned about fatherhood came through his brother’s gentle example.

  Breaking into his thoughts, Daniel said, “Should I contact Mrs. Earhardt? Given the circumstances, I’m sure Linnie will share her number.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “What about Jada? I suggest you find a way to gain her forgiveness. Let this go too long, and it’ll only get harder.”

  “I’m not sure how to patch things up.” Philip lifted his head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry to dump all this on you one week before your wedding. Like you need a downer r
ight before getting your life on track.”

  Daniel grinned. “Get your story straight. My life has always been on track.” His eyes softened. “Your life will get there too. Give it time.”

  An optimistic conclusion, one Philip couldn’t imagine. If he found a way to turn things around with Jada, he’d revise his opinion.

  Steering the conversation to happier topics, Daniel said, “Linnie wheedled the surprise about the honeymoon out of me.”

  “Is she still griping about taking time off from work?”

  “I’m not listening.” Triumph glossed Daniel’s features. “She did go shopping for beachwear. She also dragged a suitcase down from the attic. A waste of time—several of the Sirens pooled their cash for new luggage. The bridal shower starts at one o’clock tomorrow.”

  “I know. Penelope is picking up Fancy.”

  “They invited the munchkin?”

  “It’s more accurate to say Fancy announced her interest in going.” According to Penelope, his daughter had been lobbying for days. Attending a bridal shower with a bunch of women represented another item on Fancy’s list of big-girl achievements.

  “Why not drop by the inn tomorrow and talk to Jada?” Daniel suggested. “Tell her you’re still on the fence about contacting Millicent, but are giving the idea serious thought. She may be less frosty once she’s aware you’re considering bringing Millicent into Fancy’s life. And don’t forget to apologize to Jada for putting her in a bad situation.” He sent a warning glance. “Actually, I’d start with the apology.”

  The suggestion held merit. “What’s your opinion on groveling? Think it’ll make Jada budge?”

  Daniel chuckled. “Don’t worry about groveling—unless you can’t get her to thaw.”

  Chapter 18

  A funereal gloom hung over the mansion.

  All we’re missing are white lilies and matrons in black, Vasily Pruszynski mused, slapping the book shut.

  Since Millicent’s return from Ohio, Vasily felt like the sole occupant of the grand house. No longer did he confine the studies for his dissertation to his private quarters in the basement. The deserted living room was nearly large enough to land a small aircraft; the neglected library was comparable in length to a bowling lane. If the mansion’s unhappy couple chose to avoid each other and the bulk of their luxurious nest, he saw no reason not to branch out. Today he’d given the dining room a whirl, commandeering the mahogany table with dog-eared books, his laptop, and several notepads filled with his indecipherable scrawl.

  In the foyer, the housekeeper muttered in Spanish as she yanked her coat on. The broad-faced woman had dusted every room on the first floor, and then spent a good hour in the kitchen dealing with the plates Millicent left heaped in the sink, and the greasy pans crowding the stove. The housekeeper was still rattled by her experience outside the master suite upstairs. Around one o’clock, when she’d foolishly steered the vacuum toward the suite, the foul-tempered occupant had thrown open the door to deliver a verbal lashing that sent the poor woman scurrying to the stairwell.

  Outside, the landscapers were finishing up, laying mulch on the sleeping flower beds. They’d surrendered the gardens at the back of the estate after Millicent ran them off.

  Pushing away his research, Vasily tapped his pen against his teeth. The idea, stealthy and rewarding, took shape yet again. He’d been mulling it over for days. Was it madness to intervene? Tossing the pen down, he flipped open his laptop.

  Navigating to the American Airlines site, he located the flight and punched in the reservations. Satisfied with the bold move, he grabbed his coat and went to find Millicent.

  With the last of Chicago’s winter gone, the grey scenery was entering the time of year Vasily thought of as “mud season.” Slogging across the sodden ground, he yearned for Arizona’s purple-streaked sunsets and blistering heat.

  At the south end of the garden, Millicent wielded loppers with the ungainly movements of a woman who knew exactly zip about gardening.

  He groaned as she swung the loppers to shoulder height and took aim at a sleeping cherry tree. The implement seized a defenseless branch.

  “Millicent, those pruners are sharp as knives. Are you trying to draw blood?”

  She got the tool into position, sheared through the branch. “Trees don’t bleed, you simpleton.”

  “I was talking about you.”

  “Go inside, Vasily. I’m blowing off steam. Some people drink when they’re upset. I thought I’d garden.”

  The branch flopped to the ground. On a growl, she swung the loppers back into the tree. Colorful oaths sprang from her lips as the tree fought back, tugging at the implement and nearly pulling her off her feet.

  With long strides, Vasily came across the grass. They tussled like energetic schoolboys, and he finally wrenched the loppers away. Fury rolled off her as she craned her neck to glare at him.

  He tossed the implement down. “I need to talk to you. Now. Before you hack off your leg or deforest the grounds.”

  “Then talk.”

  “It’s been five days. You’ve done nothing but sulk like a great beast with a thorn stuck in its paw. When you’re not sniping at me, you’re picking fights with the only person who loves you—and I’m not referring to myself.” Leaning forward, he assessed the mud spattered across her brow. A glob of muck inched toward her eyebrows. With the sleeve of his coat, he took a hasty swipe, adding, “Enough is enough.”

  “How do you expect me to react? It’s over. I need to sort myself out.”

  A shovel angled out of the nearest flower bed. A garden bed, he realized, she’d gone through like a vicious mole. Dormant rose bushes were clawed from the ground, leaving behind a series of muddy holes. Across the lawn, she’d thrown the roses in a crazy arc.

  Yanking the shovel free, he gestured at the holes. “What’s this? Digging your way to China?”

  “I’m rearranging.”

  “This isn’t furniture, Millicent. It’s plant stock. Did you intend to transplant after you destroyed the entire bed?”

  In response, she picked up the loppers and tossed them into the wheelbarrow. “I’m asking you nicely,” she said from between her teeth. “Go away. Let me deal with this in my own way.”

  “You’re not dealing with anything. You’re giving up.”

  “Oh, and you have a better idea?”

  “I do, in fact. Return to the Wayfair. Reason with Jada.”

  “You aren’t serious. She informed me quite plainly she’s never heard of Bodi.”

  “And you didn’t believe her,” Vasily reminded her. “You said so after you flew home. You dropped your bags in the foyer, let me pour you a drink, and shared your conclusions. You were positive she lied, although you didn’t know why.”

  “I’m still sure.”

  “Precisely why you must go back.”

  “Vasily, what do you expect me to do? Jada Brooks is a pastry chef, not a felon. I can’t interrogate her.”

  “She may have lied out of fear. Or to protect something. Or someone—perhaps Bodi doesn’t want to be found. If she keeps in touch with Jada, she may have asked her to lie.”

  The hypothesis ejected a small, sputtering sound from her lips. Stalking across the grass, Millicent grabbed up a rose bush. “You’re grasping at straws.” She flung the plant into the wheelbarrow. “It’s over, Vasily. There’s nothing more I can do.”

  “I can’t help but wonder. Are you glad there’s nothing else you can do? We’re both convinced you’ve found the trail. You got close, then you ran away. Like you ran away from a stellar career when your love affair became common knowledge at the university. Isn’t that the reason you retired?”

  The muscles in her throat worked. “I don’t like your implication,” she growled.

  “You won’t like this either. You’re scared, Millicent. You hide in the country on your fabulous estate because your colleagues have discovered what you are, and you’re ashamed. You’ve bought into their stupid, poisonous conv
entions and you’ve let them cripple you.” He swung his attention to a window on the second floor of the house, to the soft glow emanating from the master suite. When her eyes followed his on a painful trajectory, he added, “You’ve let those conventions cripple you both.”

  Tortured, she balled her fists. “How dare you tell me how I feel?”

  His heart went out to her. Shivering in the frigid air with her eyes wavering and her pride no more substantial than mist. But he didn’t let up.

  “Are you afraid once you find Bodi, she won’t accept your marriage?” he demanded, needing to steer her battered heart to reason. “Millicent, she was a kid when she ran off. I doubt she remembers any of the hurtful remarks she flung at you after the car accident.”

  Mention of the accident snuffed out her fury. Millicent pressed her eyes shut. She tipped her face down with the resignation of a woman praying over the dead remains of her once-beautiful life. She looked beaten and resigned, an old woman pushed beyond her reserves. Beyond her ability to forgive an unforgiving world.

  On impulse, Vasily reached for her. He’d meant to lead her to reason, not tax her aging heart.

  Warding him off, she scooped up another rose bush. “I have no idea how Bodi will react if we find her.” She hesitated long enough for pride to rearrange the sorrow on her face. “Which doesn’t change the facts. I can’t force Jada to reveal her whereabouts. It’s clear she won’t.”

  “With enough persuasion, Jada will crack. I’m sure of it.”

  She gave him a look that implied he was a dunce. “Poor boy,” she murmured. “You’ve been hanging around with me for too long. I’ve infected you with the malignant disease. Forgive me. I had no idea it was contagious.”

  “Hope isn’t a disease. It’s ennobling.”

  “You’ll feel differently once life bangs you around enough.” She dropped the plant into the wheelbarrow. Then she rubbed her palms across her face with plaintive strokes, as if the gesture might erase the folly of her wasted dreams. When she regarded him again, the surrender hollowing out her eyes filled him with pity. “Find a cure, young man. Hope only brings disappointment. Which is why I’m giving up.”