by Laura Alden
“One sentence doth not a play make.”
“Ooo, good one. What I meant was two down, two to go, with your family for Thanksgiving. At least you don’t have to buy as much food.”
“I suppose.”
She slid me a glance. “Methinks I detect a smidgen of downcast spirits.”
I was pretty sure “smidgen” wasn’t a word in the vicinity of 1600, but I didn’t feel like calling her on it. “Maybe a smidge.”
“You’re taking this personally, aren’t you?”
“No.” But I was. How could I not? “Kathy and Tim have good reasons for canceling. If I were either of them I’d do the same thing.”
“Oh, you would not.” Marina signaled and pulled into my driveway. “You’d move heaven and earth to keep a commitment. Especially a Thanksgiving commitment, even with that dysfunctional unit you call your family.” She jammed the gearshift to Park. “You have a thing about Thanksgiving, don’t you? Why?”
“Not sure.”
“Bet you a hundred bucks you just don’t want to tell me.”
I casually reached for my earlobes, trying to feel if they were hot. Ever since I could remember, my ears turned red when I lied.
Marina was looking at me expectantly, doing the oneeyebrow thing.
“Everyone has a favorite holiday,” I said.
“Sure. Mine’s Flag Day.”
“It is?”
“Yup. All you have to do is put out the American flag. No presents, no cards, no family get-togethers. Put out the flag at dawn, take it in at sunset, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance in there somewhere. Can’t get much simpler than that.”
Was she making that up, or telling the truth? With Marina it was hard to know.
“So what’s your deal with Thanksgiving?” she asked. “Cook a bunch of food, invite a bunch of people. Who cares if they’re blood relations?”
Straightening the strap of my purse suddenly became a huge priority. I fiddled with the leather. “It’s because of Norman Rockwell.”
“That guy who painted all those magazine covers?”
“Saturday Evening Post. Remember the painting of the mom putting the big turkey down on the table? She’s wearing a white apron over her dress and Dad is in a dark suit and tie. He’s standing at the head of the table and the rest of the family is leaning forward, all smiles and anticipation and happiness.”
“Sure, I remember.” Marina looked thoughtful. “It’s one of those pictures that make you wistful for the perfect family Thanksgiving.”
Exactly.
“It’s impossible, of course.” She squinted at me. “You know that, right?”
“That magazine cover was printed in March. The painting isn’t really about Thanksgiving.”
“Which makes it about every family Sunday dinner. Even worse.”
“How’s that?”
She made a face. “Please. Talk about setting yourself up for failure. Cooking a meal the volume of a Thanksgiving dinner every Sunday is the definition of insanity. Can you imagine eating with my in-laws once a week?” Her face scrunched so hard it looked inside out.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” She patted my arm. “It’s the hope that gets you,” she said. “The hope that one day things will be better, that we’ll grow out of our anger and drop all the baggage and just be.”
For all her poking and prodding, I knew she understood. “First time I saw that Norman Rockwell picture,” I said, “was right after my Grandma Chittenden died. Once she was gone the family fell apart. Without her, there wasn’t any pull to get together. Everyone went their separate ways and it hasn’t been the same since. That picture reminds me of the way things once were.”
Silence ticked away between us.
“Well, maybe someday things will be that way again.” Marina grinned. “Say, how do you feel about a white apron for Christmas?”
I was laughing as I got out of her car, but by the time I got to the house my laughter was gone. Tomorrow’s appointment with Rachel was already starting to sit in my stomach like an undigested ball of dough, and I had a feeling that the closer tomorrow came, the larger the ball was going to grow.
If tomorrow didn’t come soon I might need surgery.
Evan and I sat on the couch in front of my fireplace, flames flickering, coals glowing. The radio was playing quiet classical music, and Evan’s arms were around me. He was talking about the Thanksgiving plans he’d been making with his daughters, and, as I listened, I was enjoying how my house looked in the dancing firelight.
Here in the dark I couldn’t see the dirty windows, or the dusty surfaces, or the baseboards that hadn’t been cleaned since . . . well, I didn’t want to think that the last time I could remember cleaning them was soon after Oliver was born, so I went back to paying full attention to Evan.
“. . . but they’re both concerned about another murder in Rynwood,” he said. “How are Jenna and Oliver taking it?”
I’d almost become used to Evan’s questions about my children. He’d been carefully casual the first few times he’d spent time with the three of us, never holding my hand, never telling them what to do, never once acting as if he had any right to be part of our group. Ever so slowly, he’d spent more and more time with us, and now his presence most weekends and occasional weeknights was a given.
The whole situation still felt strange, though, and I still wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing in seeing him. The kids were polite and seemed to enjoy his company, but every time I pressed either one about how they really felt, all I got was “I dunno” or “Okay, I guess.”
“How are they taking Sam’s death?” I asked. “As you might expect. Jenna won’t talk about it and Oliver won’t stop talking about it.” Gender reversal had nothing on my children.
Evan brushed his hand against my cheek. “And how are you taking it?”
“Me?” This was something I hadn’t considered. “Um, okay, I guess.”
“Like mother, like daughter,” he murmured. “Any ideas about who killed Sam?”
I hesitated. Was this a trick question? Last year our relationship almost ended before it began, thanks to my amateur investigations and Evan’s inclination to dispense unwanted advice.
But even if he was trying to ferret out my intentions, the question was simple enough to answer. “No ideas,” I said sadly, watching the fading fire. “No ideas at all.”
Yet.
Chapter 8
I knocked on the Helmstetters’ front door. Rynwood on a Sunday afternoon in November was never an active time, but this portion of this particular neighborhood was quieter than any neighborhood should be. There were no cars driving down the street and not a single kid was riding her bike in the semiwarm sunshine. Not a single home owner was out raking leaves.
Eerie.
I turned away from the sight. It was creeping me out. I knocked again and harbored a shameful hope that Rachel had forgotten I was coming over.
Just then the dead bolt slid back, the knob turned, and the door creaked open.
A young girl stared up at me, thick blond hair frizzed in all directions. “Hi,” she said. “Are you Mrs. Kennedy?”
“Yes, I am. Are you Mia?”
She nodded solemnly. “My brother Blake is in his room and won’t come out, so Mommy said I should answer the door.”
The urge to flee grew strong enough to overpower social obligations. “I’ll come back later.” Or not. Not would be excellent. “Can you tell your mom—”
“Mommy said to sit in the living room.” Mia abandoned the doorway and I was left with the choices of trailing in her wake, stay standing at the front door, or turning tail and rushing home to the comforts of hot chocolate and a good book. I sighed and went after Mia.
The house was a simple two-story: living room, kitchen, and family room on the main level, bedrooms upstairs. It had probably started as a plain builder box (“All neutral colors, folks!”), but the Helmstetters had created a cozy
atmosphere with a judicious use of color, textures, patterns, and accessories. An antique quilt hung on a large expanse of wall, and a lamp was decorated with seashells. In the far corner, an upright piano had a bright red ceramic cat perched on top and Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag” on its music rack.
When I turned to face Mia, I spied a set of bifold doors next to the entrance, doors that could only be a closet. In there would be the answers to my questions about Sam’s scarf-wearing habits. If I peeked in there, I’d know at a glance if Sam always wore scarves. If I opened those closet doors I’d see the coats of this girl’s father . . . and so would she.
I looked down at Mia and my investigative urge vanished. There was no way I’d push more hurt on this child. Her vacant face was telling me too much about her pain, about her bewilderment, and about the problems she’d be facing for much too long.
“You can sit down here, I guess.” Mia stood in front of a tweedy brown sofa, the best possible color for hiding kid dirt.
“Thank you.” I smoothed the back of my skirt and sat down. “Would you like to sit with me?”
“Um . . .” Mia reached up for a tendril of hair. “Mommy said I should make sure you’re comfortable.” The word was a hard one for her and it stretched out into more syllables than it normally had.
“I’d be better if I had some company.” I patted the seat beside me.
Mia continued to pull and twist her hair, and I continued to sit. After a long silence I asked, “Do you play the piano?”
“Sometimes Blake does. Mommy tries, but she gets mad and hits the keys.” Mia released her hair and held her hands out, making crashing motions. “The piano makes a big noise and sometimes”—she lowered her voice—“sometimes she says a bad word. Once it was a very bad word.”
“She probably felt sorry afterward,” I said.
“Maybe.” Mia looked doubtful. “Daddy came in and asked what key that was in and she started laughing. Then he sat down and they both started playing some song about a colored boat.”
“Submarine.”
I looked up. Rachel was standing at the bottom of the stairway, wearing a sad, sad smile. “Yellow?” I asked.
“The very one.” She came down the last two stairs, her left hand white-knuckled on the railing. “Mia, honey, your brother is on my bed watching a movie. Do you want to watch it with him?”
Mia, still fiddling with her hair, walked to the stairway. Her mother dropped a kiss on top of her head. “I’ll bring up some snacks in a little bit.”
“Okay.” Up the stairs the girl went, one slow tread at a time.
Rachel sighed. “At least she’s talking. She didn’t say a word for two days afterward.”
“How’s Blake?”
She shook her head and came into the living room. Two large armchairs flanked the sofa, and she sat in the closer one, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet underneath her. “I have an appointment with the new school psychologist tomorrow. Have you met her?”
“I didn’t know they’d made a final selection.” Clearly, the PTA was the last to know.
“Last week,” she said. “Or was it the week before?” She rubbed her forehead. “It’s been hard to keep track.”
Rachel was a few years younger than my forty-one, but today she looked a decade older. Grief tugged at the lines of her face and she’d moved with the stiffness of old age. Our circles of friends didn’t overlap much; we knew each other only through PTA. I’d often wanted to ask her to lunch, but the busy-busy of my days kept me from reaching out. What was it someone had once said, that what we most often regretted wasn’t the things we did do, but the things we didn’t.
Smart lady, whoever came up with that one.
“It’s hard enough,” I said, “to keep track of days normally, let alone after what you’ve gone through. I am so sorry, Rachel.”
Her gaze drifted to the piano. “My minister says someday it’ll get easier, and I’m sure he’s right, but I almost don’t want it to, because that’ll mean I’m forgetting Sam.”
“Not forgetting,” I said gently. “You’ll never do that.”
“How do you know? Your husband wasn’t murdered.” Her words were harsh, and as soon as she’d said them she looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize. Please.”
She put her knuckles to her mouth. “It’s so hard. Every day, it’s so hard. To have Sam dead is bad enough, but murdered? Mia is scared the bad guy is coming after her next.” Her attempt at a laugh turned into a weak sob. “I keep telling the kids they’re fine, they’re safe, but how do I know?”
Her eyes beseeched me for help, and I had no idea what to do.
Tears trickled down onto Rachel’s fist. I got up, sat on the arm of Rachel’s chair, and took her free hand between mine. Her bones felt so brittle beneath the skin that I didn’t dare squeeze, so I simply sat and stroked the back of her hand as she wept for her dead husband.
The sobs that wracked her body traveled down her arm and into me. I imagined her sorrow as a gray river, and, as I caressed her hand, I prayed that the griefswollen water would lose its power and ease to a thread of a creek, then dry up from drought. I stroked, praying for her, wishing there was something else I could do, and knowing there wasn’t.
Finally, she squeezed my hand. “Thanks, Beth,” she said in a voice colored raw and red.
“You’re welcome.” I hesitated, then gave her shoulders a quick hug.
“I needed to cry.” Still hanging on to me, she rubbed at her face with her tear-soaked hand. “I hadn’t yet, can you believe it? Mom stayed until this morning, and every time I started crying she’d give me the stiff-upper-lip talk. You know, be strong for the kids, they can’t see you crying, they need to know you’re strong.”
It seemed to me they also needed to see their mom grieving for their father. “Anytime you want to cry, just let me know.”
She half smiled, and I gave her another hug. “Studies have shown,” I said, “that crying releases all sorts of endorphins and toxins and antioxidants and who knows what else, so right now there’s only one thing to do.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Eat.”
Fifteen minutes later we were sitting at the round table in their kitchen. Rachel had taken a tray of snacks up to the kids—carrots, crackers, and grapes—while I’d examined the offerings in the garage’s chest freezer. Church ladies had dropped off so much food that Rachel wouldn’t need to cook for weeks.
I selected a medium-sized container of chicken soup and a loaf of homemade bread and carried them inside. By the time Rachel came downstairs, the microwave had dinged and I was almost done with the creation of two salads.
“Oh, goodness, Beth, you didn’t need to do all that.”
“I know. And I’m going to be bossy for a while. Sit. No, no protests. Sit.”
We sat, sipping soup, crunching on toast, and adding too many croutons to our salads.
“This single-mom thing,” she said, drenching her salad with French dressing. “How do you do it?”
Easy answer. “Not very well.”
“Oh, come on. Your kids are great, you run that wonderful bookstore, you have a beautiful house; you even have time to be secretary of the PTA. And you make it look so easy.”
My spoon halted halfway to my mouth. “I do?”
“Well, sure.”
The notion was so ludicrous that I couldn’t think of an appropriate reaction. Rachel went on, concentrating on grinding pepper onto her salad. “You have this air of competency. You always seem to know what to say and do. If you want to know the truth, I’ve always been a little jealous of you.”
A snort snuck out of my throat. Rachel looked up in surprise. “No, I mean it. I wish I was more like you. You’re smart and funny and brave and—”
It was the brave comment that did it. I dropped the spoon back into the bowl, threw my head back, and howled with laughter.
Rachel starte
d giggling; then, as I kept going, her giggle turned into an outright laugh.
“I’m the least brave person in the world,” I said, wiping my eyes with a napkin. “At least I hope so.”
Rachel popped a crouton into her mouth. “Last year you saved your kids from Agnes Mephisto’s killer. You’re very courageous.”
She was making me sound like a Boy Scout. “It wasn’t like that. Honest. My children were being threatened. I just reacted. I didn’t have time to stop and think about the danger.” If I had, things might have turned out very differently, and I didn’t want to think about that, so I didn’t. “Any mother would have done the same.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t look convinced.
It suddenly seemed very important to make her understand. “Rachel, on the inside I’m a mess. Almost every minute of the day I’m sure I’m doing the wrong thing.”
“You are?”
“Even today, I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing by coming over here. I couldn’t decide if I was coming over too soon after the funeral, or if I was coming over too late after . . . well, after. Either way, I was bound to be wrong.”
“You really thought that?”
“The only thing I know for certain is that I love my children.” My voice was low and husky. “I would do anything, anything, to keep them safe and sound and whole and happy.”
Rachel’s gaze met mine. The look that passed between us was one of complete understanding and, in that moment, our relationship moved from acquaintanceship to solid friendship.
“Amen,” she said softly.
I wanted to reach across the table and grip her hand, but I wasn’t sure I could pull it off at all naturally. Then her fingers twitched in my direction. Hand outstretched, I leaned toward her, glad beyond belief that I hadn’t poked around in the front closet. She met me halfway and our shared grip promised support and understanding and love.
We released at the same time and went back to slurping soup. One can maintain strong emotion for only so long.
“The problem,” Rachel said between sips, “is how to do that. How do I keep them whole and happy? Love that phrase, by the way.”