The Caretaker's Son

by Yvonne Lehman

  She hesitated. “Not I. Not right now. I had some relatives in Paris years ago. I want someone to locate them for me. See if any of them might...need me.”

  Her tone and expression told him this was very important to her. She looked out across the green lawn.

  “Yes,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do for you...other than cut your grass,” he said, trying to lighten the tension, “then I will.”

  “There is,” she said. “You can find...my real son.”

  Chapter 25

  POW!

  That was like a rifle shot. Straight into his heart. Truth, and the resounding, echoing sound of the shot, were like a mother abandoning her own flesh and blood.

  Or like lightning striking the cherry tree.

  A door shut in his face. Reality. But he’d learned reality early.

  He was not her son. She had a real son.

  Then she was saying something like, “I mean, biological son. I used the wrong word. I’m uncertain about this. I—”

  He didn’t know what else she was saying. It didn’t matter. Permutations of a word. Synonyms. He didn’t need to check the thesaurus. The word could be biological, natural, birth. They all meant what she’d said. Her real son.

  His face, his eyes, were paralyzed. He was glad she wasn’t looking at him. If she did, she’d see his fantasies dissolve.

  He must tell a lie to himself. A lie that a kind woman had...loved him...like a mom.

  She was waiting for his answer, not looking at him.

  Her chin lifted, like a true born and bred Southern lady of means. She’d put him in his place.

  His mama had just abandoned him again.

  And she knew it. She knew he knew it.

  But she’d just given him another subplot to The Cherry Tree—Where the Truth Lies. Maybe he should forget a book called The Cherry Tree...unless...he wrote the truth—put a killer in it and called it The Bloody Axe, or The Bloody Acts. Yes. The outline was already in his head.

  His own true story.

  Move over, George Washington. If that tree hadn’t already been chopped down, he’d do it himself.

  This was great material for a writer’s mind.

  But what was it for a person’s heart?

  He braced himself against feelings.

  A second ago, he’d said he’d do anything for Miss B.

  He would have.

  Now, he was numb, clinging to that second.

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss B,” he said in the way a caretaker’s son talked to the lady of the big house. “I’ll try to find...” He couldn’t say “your son.” He said, “Him.”

  He didn’t care about details, and after she gave him all the information she had, he made reservations and left on the first possible flight.

  He felt like a toy. Broken.

  On the plane, while thinking, he closed the curtain over the window. The sun made his eyes sting, threaten to water.

  Chapter 26

  “Don’t you like your ring?” Lizzie asked and Annabelle realized she was twisting it.

  “Well, sure. It’s beautiful.”

  “And you’re happy.” Her glance lifted to the ceiling.

  “Of course I’m happy. Just...bothered.”

  “I’ve never seen such an unhappy bride in my life,” Lizzie said. “I’ll be glad to take either one off your hands if they’d have me. Wesley or Syyyyy.” She sighed.

  Megan laughed, and stopped abruptly when Annabelle didn’t and laid the bridal magazine on the coffee table. “You’re not in the wedding planning mood, are you?”

  She slumped. “I’ve made a mess of everything.”

  “Yeah,” Lizzie said with mock sympathy. “You have a ring on your finger from a great guy who loves you. You were kissed by a famous author.”

  “I didn’t know he was that.”

  “That doesn’t erase the kiss.”

  No, that was true. She could relive it, feel it, even though she tried to forget it. It was weird. She’d kissed boys before Wesley. She was supposed to kiss boys back then. She was a woman now and not supposed to kiss men while committed to Wes.

  “And—” Lizzie was poking the envelope “—you got a copy of that letter you told us about.”

  Yes, and the letter was an exact copy. With a note handwritten on another sheet of paper saying this was the requested copy. They were looking forward to a proposal. So, that made two proposals within a few days of each other.

  “I just have to try and make it right. We had a great time together until I fell into the creek.”

  Lizzie shrugged. “That sounds like the best part to me.”

  Annabelle didn’t feel like joking about it or making it sound trivial. “Like you, Megan,” she tried to explain. “You and Michael decided not to go forward with wedding plans until he shakes that tiredness and headaches since he had the flu.” She lifted her hands. “I can’t go forward until I try to get back to a comfortable feeling with Symon. I don’t know what he must think of me.”

  Their expressions seemed to be sympathetic. The sooner she took care of this, the better.

  Upon arriving at Aunt B’s, she didn’t see his car. Good. Maybe she wouldn’t have to chance his showing up.

  “Come on into the kitchen,” Aunt B said, as if consoling, apparently seeing misery on her face. “Let’s have some coffee and talk.”

  Over the steaming cup, Annabelle said, “You saw us....”

  Aunt B’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you want me to have seen you?”

  Annabelle sighed. “I know you did. You both must think I’m...awful.”

  “Frankly,” Aunt B said seriously, “it didn’t look awful.”

  Annabelle tried to smile. “Well, no. That wasn’t awful. Just my doing that. It’s like I’ve been in a different world lately. Like I had forgotten how to have fun or something. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Aunt B said, “Like those little buds on the plants that just open up and blossom?”

  Annabelle looked at her cup and lifted it for a sip. She couldn’t think of a better analogy. As she set the cup down, she realized something. “Aunt B, you too. It’s like you have blossomed around him.”

  “I love him,” Aunt B said with feeling. “Like a son.”

  “His feelings for you are mutual,” Annabelle said without hesitation. But she needed to get back to her own behavior. She didn’t...couldn’t feel about him like a mother and son. She almost laughed at that.

  She tried to explain. “He’s fun. And it’s just that I’d been so tired of waiting for Wesley.” That was no excuse for the kiss. Helplessly, she gazed at her aunt. “I love Wesley. You know that.”

  Aunt B was nodding. “Yes, I do. Because of love, Symon has gone to Paris for me.”

  “Paris?” she squeaked.

  “Yes,” she said. “To do what I’ve wanted done for forty-five years.”

  “Why now?”

  “It couldn’t be spoken of as long as my parents were alive. It was done. Over. Never to be spoken about. Your dad never knew. I couldn’t bring that up to him and your mom. But in the past year or so when I’ve been thinking of retirement, your getting married, all the people I’ve lost. And this is something I have to know.”

  Aunt B looked uncomfortable and fidgeted with the handle of her cup. Then she looked over at her. “It’s time I told you about it.” She got that faraway look of hers and began an incredible story.

  “I had a glorious love affair when I was sixteen,” she began reminiscently. “To love and be loved and just be near the person who is your heart is wonderful, exciting, delightful and you tend to forget anything, or allow yourself to forget anything but the person and the moment.”

  Annabelle loved the idea of Aun
t B having been so in love. But then her aunt’s expression changed and her gaze lowered to the table. “I became pregnant,” she said. “Only then did my lover tell me how irresponsible I was to have allowed that to happen.”

  Aunt B lifted her hands. “I was young and naive. But still, I cannot claim I didn’t know right from wrong. I simply did not want to think of this great love of ours as wrong. Frankly, I didn’t think at all.”

  A great sadness seemed to sweep over Aunt B. “He had a fiancée in Boston. I was just his Paris fling. Anyway,” she said, “my parents forced me to give up the child. Otherwise I would be a disgrace to the family, to their friends, and a possible hindrance to my father’s political ambitions. He was running for senator at the time.”

  Annabelle was astounded. She’d had no idea her aunt had this in her life.

  “While they were campaigning for senator, I was spending the summer in Paris. He was elected. There were photos taken of me, and the private school where I would enter into my senior year. But there was no scandal. After he was elected, there was no interest in me. I was just his teenage daughter who would be studying French in France, if anyone cared to inquire.”

  Annabelle got up to get a tissue for Aunt B and one for herself. Aunt B wiped her eyes and smiled wanly. “It was never mentioned again by my parents. And your dad never knew. But as long as they were alive, I had to keep it to myself. Only through my prayers and the presence of God could I deal with it. Now, I need to know about my little Toby. Oh,” she said, making a sound like a snort, “he’d be in his mid-forties now. For forty-five years I’ve wanted to know how he is.”

  Her eyes brightened. “I might even have grandchildren over there in Paris.”

  “Does he know about you?”

  Aunt B shook her head. “Oh, he might know he was adopted. But he wouldn’t know about me. That was settled forty-five years ago.” She paused. “Symon will know how to find out information without revealing the reason. I just want to know if...anybody...needs anything.”

  Annabelle could stay seated no longer. She rushed over to Aunt B. They hugged and cried. “I don’t even cry about it much,” she said. “It hurts too much, even now.”

  Finally, a question nagged. “Did Symon know?”

  “No. But he does now. But I couldn’t have anyone else do this, then come here and drop in information that would hurt Symon worse.”

  The way Aunt B looked at her melted her heart. It was in her aunt’s eyes. The love. And Annabelle remembered the pictures. The adorable little boy in so many pictures. He’d been Aunt B’s protégé. Her...substitute.

  Oh, my. How must Symon feel?

  Aunt B detected that, as if she read her thoughts. She’d likely thought it herself.

  “I’ve taught him the difference between lies and truth. It’s time I let him know this truth. The secret I’ve kept from us all. I had to prove I could be a good mother. I proved it to him. But I loved that boy as if he were my own. I know, right now, he thinks I just used him.”

  “What will it do to him?”

  “It all depends upon what he does with the information. Only he can answer that. But no one should ever look upon another person as the central figure in their lives. This will do to him what any trial or crisis does to a person. It either breaks, or makes a person. But I had to do it. He has to learn he can’t depend on success, nor on me. Only on the Lord. Even if he hates me, this is a crisis time for him.”

  Annabelle’s heart went out to Aunt B and Symon. It seemed her own concerns were minor in comparison with the magnitude of what they faced.

  Symon must feel like saccharin, instead of the real thing.

  Chapter 27

  Since Aunt B would be keeping an eye on Mudd, Annabelle offered to help. He didn’t need to be let out during the night, but Annabelle could tell he was lonely. After her treadmill exercise she walked with him along the creek and she decided to see what SweetiePie might do. Their creek experience seemed to have helped their relationship rather than hinder it, contrary to her own.

  Aunt B let SweetiePie stay close and Annabelle held Mudd. Then SweetiePie jumped up on top of the fence. Mudd barked. They both got on their stomachs and eyed each other from opposite sides of the fence.

  Apparently SweetiePie wasn’t going to attack and Mudd was standing his ground. Annabelle knew he missed Symon. He’d walk around through the cottage looking for him. She began to spend a little time in the cottage herself, with her laptop, working on the Pretty book, typing in recipes as the editor had asked. It had more meaning now, not just something for her, but a mission that Symon had taken time with.

  She thought of the cottage in a different way. It was a cozy, comfortable, nice place. She liked it. She couldn’t imagine her and Wes living there. He wanted something more contemporary.

  Often she sat in a comfortable recliner, aware that Symon might have sat there, with Mudd at her feet.

  She could imagine...but mustn’t.

  That...wasn’t her talent.

  Wes wasn’t too keen on her time with the dog, as if Mudd were competition or something. Nor did he like it when she cancelled her date with him when Aunt B called on Saturday saying Symon was returning from Paris. Not even a week had gone by since he’d left.

  The three of them settled at the kitchen table. Aunt B seemed anxious, fearful. Annabelle was concerned. A tired-looking Symon focused on the manila envelope he laid on the table with his hand on top of it.

  They waited. Finally he spoke. “Your cousin still lived in the same house. She took me to see Dr. Henri Beauvais. He’s the adoptive father.”

  “Did you see...talk to Toby?”

  Annabelle saw the stiffness on Symon’s face. He shook his head. “Only Dr. Beauvais.”

  “Wh-where were...?” Aunt B breathed out. Annabelle thought her aunt did not breathe in.

  “The second Mrs. Beauvais died four years ago.”

  “Second?”

  “The first, Rosa, Toby’s adoptive mother, died in her early thirties. Cancer. She’d had cancer when she was a teenager. Could not have children.”

  Aunt B’s voice was a whisper. “And you...couldn’t locate...Toby?”

  Symon closed his eyes for a moment. His tongue licked his dry lips. He stared at her and Annabelle knew they both had read his mind.

  Aunt B said bravely, “You don’t have a good ending for this one?”

  “He was not well. He was only eleven when—”

  The edges of her nose flared only slightly with the rise of her chest. “He’s...with God.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I suppose,” she said after a long moment. “This will be closure. But I never got to tell him—”

  “Dr. Beauvais told him.”

  “Oh? But he didn’t know—”

  “He knew you didn’t want to give him up. That you loved him. That was...enough.”

  She looked at the envelope. “He sent pictures?”

  “No. He said those had been put away after his first wife died and he married again. He will get them out, sort them, write to you about Toby and send pictures.”

  “Then the envelope is proof—”

  Symon interrupted. “That he’s with God. Included is a copy of Toby’s baptism certificate.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He pushed back from the table.

  Aunt B looked up at him. “Give me a while,” she said. “Then we must talk.”

  “Mudd and I will be leaving soon.”

  “Symon,” she said and although his back was turned to her he stopped and stood like a stone statue. “You were like a son to me.”

  He looked over his shoulder. Like quiet thunder he said with clouds in his face, “I’m glad I could be a substitute son.”

  “Yes, and
was I not your substitute mother?”

  He turned then and bent to lay the palms of his hands on the table. “When I asked you to adopt me you said no.”

  Her words were like arrows, matching the look in his eyes. “Don’t you know why? If I had adopted you I would have given you everything I had. You would have become like the society people you didn’t like. You would have had everything without working for it. It would have satisfied my heart, but it would have ruined you.”

  “You told me that my daddy needed me.”

  “He did. And you needed him. You needed to experience the difference in people, in life. You needed that challenge.”

  They stared at each other. “Like I said, you were a son to me. You are. Whether you stay or go, the cottage is yours. I don’t mean to live in. I mean it’s willed to you. Now, we must talk.”

  He straightened. “Or?”

  “Or...” Her chin lifted. “Or...I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “If we don’t talk then you’ll—”

  She grinned, weakly.

  He blinked.

  So did she.

  He shook his head and breathed a reply. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll talk.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  Annabelle thought they both looked as if they needed someone to hug them, hold them, comfort them.

  And it seemed to her like an afterthought when he looked at her with tired eyes and said, “Good night, Annabelle.”

  She felt like it was goodbye.

  Chapter 28

  The congregation was singing when he walked into the church. He’d slept like Mudd for the past two nights, like an unmoving log, probably from the stress and long flight from Paris, and the long talk he and Miss B had had far into the evening.

  He’d offered to take her out for dinner the night before, but she’d preferred they sit in rockers on the front porch. Later she fixed a light supper for them. Then they had coffee in the library where he’d spent so many hours in his younger days.