by Jean Stone
Andrew said he owed him dinner the next time he was in Miami.
It all, of course, had been good news. But unsure if his pastels and his Birkenstocks were panache-y enough, Andrew added a few pair of jeans that Cassie had seen advertised in the Sunday Styles section of The New York Times. And he began to wear a copper magnetic bracelet because Cassie saw it in the window of a tourist shop and the salesclerk told her it would keep his chakras in balance.
Andrew didn't know if he was, in fact, balanced. He only knew he was a few dollars poorer and he might look good to a gay guy, but he was tired.
Consequently, the most challenging part was staying awake, alert, and sharp enough to rise to the demands at Second Chances. Because, though Andrew might be there on a ruse, the work he was doing was real. He was beginning to wonder, however, if Jo—Jacquelin—Lyons was a real woman or part-man/part-machine from a sci-fi thriller.
“It's all about using your head,” she'd exclaimed that afternoon as she paced the storefront, as she exercised her fingers by ticking off a laundry list of possibilities inspired either by the trip for gowns the day before or by her visit with Elaine to a potential caterer that morning. Whatever the inspiration, Jo's mood certainly had surged. “Think of each opportunity,” she instructed crisply, “then think of opportunities that can come from those opportunities, and on and on.”
She'd yakked to Andrew as if she'd forgotten he'd been hired only as a receptionist. Maybe it was because no one else was around: Lily was in New York and Sarah with her man and Elaine, after all, was a customer not a boss. Andrew had pretended to listen because that was his job, but the next thing he knew, Jo was firing off instructions and he was making furious notes like the administrative assistant he pretended to be.
All this for a lousy magazine column, he'd thought more than once.
Cassie had fixed hot dogs and beans for his supper, and some kind of brown bread that she said came from a can. He would have teased her about bread coming out of a can, but Andrew was too tired for teasing and Cassie seemed tired, too. She sat with him while he ate, then asked to please be excused, that she had a headache and wanted to go to bed early.
Mood swings, he thought. As far as he knew, Cassie hadn't yet started getting her period, and from things that he'd read, Andrew wished she never would, that she'd be frozen forever at age eleven, old enough to be a pal, still young enough to worship her dad.
The computer screen beeped, then went dark. Too many minutes untended, too many minutes without Andrew typing a word.
He shut the thing off. “Forget it,” he said. He might as well go to bed, too, and rest up for another day with that crazy, drop-dead gorgeous, sci-fi of a woman.
He climbed the narrow stairs of the cottage, pausing at the top. Had he heard a sound? He stood still; he listened. It almost sounded as if someone had been crying.
He tiptoed to the doorway of Cassie's room. It was ajar, as always, letting in enough light so she wouldn't be lonely. Or scared.
“Honey?” he asked, but Cassie didn't answer. She wouldn't, of course, because she'd long been asleep.
He stepped inside her room and moved close to her bed. She breathed steadily; she did not cry. Perhaps she'd been dreaming. Because Cassie had nothing to cry about, not at her age. Andrew had done everything possible to see to that.
“How are the appointments coming along?” Jo asked Andrew the next morning, before he'd barely taken a sip of his morning coffee and right after he'd realized he'd forgotten his lunch that Cassie so painstakingly made each day. If she was having bad dreams, it was probably his fault for being such a lousy father.
“Two next week, three the following,” Andrew said now, scanning the scheduling software he'd bought for the shop. Among his other duties, he'd been arranging appointments for Jo and Sarah to visit possible locations for weddings and receptions. They wanted unique places that could showcase their talents, not ordinary settings like the Knights of Columbus or the American Legion Hall.
“Good,” she said. “Keep going. The more information we have to work with, the greater our chances of success.”
She was driven now, almost obsessed.
And so, he couldn't help it. Maybe it was because of how he was feeling about Cassie, maybe it was because he was a man. Whatever the reason, Andrew couldn't help it. He twisted the copper bracelet on his thick wrist and said, “There's more to life than success, Jo.”
As soon as he'd said it, he wished he hadn't. He wished he could pretend those words hadn't been uttered, that she must have been hearing things, because he was immersed in his work and he hadn't spoken.
“Excuse me?” Jo asked.
He shook his head. “Sorry. Just thinking out loud.” He turned back to his computer, Mr. Sensitive that he was.
“I heard you. You said there's more to life than success. Maybe you're right, Andrew. But maybe you're not.”
She moved to the desk adjacent to Andrew's that she'd insisted on buying because she needed her own space. She yanked open a drawer. She jerked out a file and quickly flipped through it. She shoved it back inside the drawer, then jerked out another.
“Sorry,” he repeated and went back to his work, unsure which was worse: Jo's barking commands or the silence that now lingered.
After a few minutes, Jo spoke again. This time, her voice was quiet. “It's important to me, Andrew. Without success, without goals to go after, I'm afraid my life wouldn't have much purpose.”
He wanted to write it down. He wanted to log in to the “Real Women” file on his laptop and copy her thoughts word for word. Lesson #3, he'd write. Sometimes women feel as useless as men do.
Instead he said, “Well, that's pretty much bullshit.”
Jo laughed. “You're in rare form today, Andrew.”
He shrugged. “Not really. But it's just such a . . .” Did he dare say it? “. . . it's just such a man thing to say.”
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. It wasn't the first time that Andrew had to force himself not to stare at those legs, those long, lovely legs. “When, Andrew?” she asked. “When did you know you were gay?” She smiled with kindness. “Is that something people always ask?”
He was grateful that Cassie wasn't around. Or John Benson. Or Patty. He wasn't sure which of them would be laughing the hardest.
“Well,” he said carefully, “let's say it's something I never thought about very often.”
“Do you have a lover?” she asked.
He smiled. “No. Not right now.” Well, at least that part was true. He turned back to his work, hoping the questioning was finished for the moment.
Then Jo added, “You're better off without a lover,” she said. “Men have a way of screwing up lives.”
Andrew could have said he was surprised that the gorgeous Ms. Josephine had problems with a man, but he knew that must be the reason she was so career-minded. Why else would she look so inviting, yet remain so unattached?
This was, of course, a perfect opportunity to glean more information from this very real woman. This very real woman who was willing to talk.
But as he had in fifth grade when the bases were loaded and there were two outs and he was at bat, Andrew, quite simply, choked.
“Strike three,” the umpire called, and Andrew had become like Casey at the bat, losing the game for his team.
So instead of seizing the moment, Andrew picked up the phone to make another appointment, hoping that noon would come quickly that day and he could honestly say he had to run home and pick up his lunch. And he could get out of the shop and away from Jo's presence and the stirring he felt when they were alone, breathing the same air in the same room.
Cassie didn't answer when he called out her name. She'd left no note on the kitchen table, of course: She hadn't expected he'd be there in the middle of the day. Andrew would be glad when summer was over and Cassie was back in school and he'd know where she was and that she was okay, especially since she'd declared their neighbor, Mrs.
Connor, was no longer needed on a daily basis because Cassie was capable of looking out for herself. Not that she wasn't. She was too capable sometimes, he thought. Most times.
Still, he skipped up the stairs to the bedrooms: He wouldn't mind a hug in the middle of the day.
“Cass?” he called from the doorway of her room, but there was no reply.
He looked inside: The bed was made, because, unlike her father, Cassie always made her bed and straightened her room. He liked to tease her by saying it was such a girlie thing.
As Andrew turned to head back down the stairs, a piece of white paper caught his eye. It was on the floor by her bed. Without a second thought he went in to retrieve it; Cassie would no more want trash on her floor than rumpled sheets on her bed.
But the paper wasn't trash, it was an envelope. Andrew frowned and turned it over. It was addressed to Cassie. The postmark was Australia. Return address: P. O'Shay.
The next breath Andrew tried to take got stuck in his throat, somewhere between “Holy shit!” and “OhMyGod, no.” His hand trembled as he raised it close to check out the date stamp: eight days ago. It wasn't Cassie's birthday. It wasn't Christmas. Not that her mother always remembered when those events were.
The top of the envelope had been torn open: He could see that something was still inside.
He knew that he shouldn't, really he did. With every bone in Andrew's now-middle-aged body, he knew it was wrong to read Cassie's mail. The envelope, after all, had been addressed only to her. The fact that she hadn't told him about it meant that it wasn't for his ears, or his eyes, or what was left of his head.
Then he remembered hearing what he'd thought had been Cassie crying. What if it hadn't been a bad dream? What if Patty wrote something that Cassie had been too upset to share with her father, something that upset her? What could Patty have written, to do that to his daughter, his tough, “I can handle it, Dad” daughter?
Quickly, he ripped the rest of the envelope and pulled out the contents. It was a card, with a picture of the famous amphitheater in Sydney on the front. He opened the card. He ignored another paper that fell to the floor.
Dear Cassie, Patty's unmistakable, oversize handwriting had written, I hope you're okay and that you're having fun living up there in the mountains.
Mountains? Andrew thought. Did she think he'd taken Cassie to the middle of nowhere?
You must be getting quite big now. It's been a long time since I've seen you. I bet you're getting ready for another school year—what grade now, is it fourth?
Of course it's not fourth, you idiot, Andrew wanted to shout. It's sixth grade! Your daughter is entering sixth grade, no thanks to you.
His eyes burned as he read on.
Don't forget to look for school clothes that the boys will love! Stick with designers and you should be fine.
Andrew felt a twinge. School clothes. Shit. They'd been so busy shopping for his new image he hadn't thought about that.
Speaking of boys, the note continued, I'm enclosing a picture of your new little brother!
Someone, at that point, must have stepped on his lungs and squeezed out the last bit of air. He faltered a little, then dropped down on the bed. His eyes fell to what must be the photo that now was positioned upside down on the floor. He didn't have to look at it. He could pick it up, slip it back into the card, and return everything right where he'd found it. He could wait for Cassie to bring up the subject, which sooner or later she would.
He didn't have to look at it.
Did he?
“Dad!”
Oh.
Shit.
He grabbed the photo, shoved it into the card, shoved the card back into the envelope, and tried to place it on the floor where he'd found it.
He sneaked back to the hall. “Up here, honey,” he called. “I'll be right down.”
He closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, cleared his throat, and descended the stairs, hoping his guilt wasn't spelled out on his face and that he wouldn't blow the lunch he hadn't yet eaten, all over the hardwood floor.
“Andrew?” Jo asked later that afternoon when it seemed that the two of them could use a break. “I just wanted to tell you I think you're doing a great job. And I'm sorry for what I said earlier about men screwing up our lives. I didn't intend to lump you in with the lot of them.”
He looked up from his schedule. “No offense taken.”
He had such a nice smile. And that wonderful dimple. It was true, Jo had learned, that gay men were often the greatest-looking guys on the planet. And the nicest.
“May I ask you a personal question?” Andrew said suddenly. “What do you know about buying school clothes? For sixth-grade girls?”
Jo grinned. “Your niece,” she said, and Andrew seemed to frown for a second before he said, “Yeah, how'd you guess?”
“I've never had kids, Andrew, so I wouldn't be much help. Elaine has three, though. Two of them are girls.”
“No offense again, but I can't picture Cassie in stenciled sweatshirts and Dockers and sensible shoes.”
Andrew was a smart man. They were lucky to have him, lucky he had chosen to stop teaching while working on his doctoral dissertation, which she thought he'd said had something to do with history and journalism, or something like that. She felt ashamed for a moment that she'd not listened more closely, that, once again, Jo Lyons had been too immersed in her own interests, in trying to find her own route to success to pay attention to others.
Life is about more than success, Andrew had said.
Why had he said that? Wasn't he trying to succeed? Wasn't that why he was working full-time plus writing his dissertation?
Jo put down her papers. “Would you like me to take Cassie shopping, Andrew?”
Andrew looked up. He blinked.
“At her age, I'm sure she knows what she likes. If you give me an idea of some of the things you wouldn't want her to buy . . . like low-rise pants or tops that stop short of pierced belly buttons . . .”
Andrew dropped his head onto his desk and moaned. “Sometimes I hate having a girl.”
Jo laughed. It would be fun, she thought, to spend time with a young girl. “I'll take her to the outlets, Andrew. Just tell me when. After all, you're the one who controls my schedule now.” She smiled at the look of gratitude that crossed Andrew's face, just as a bell chimed and the front door opened. Jo turned, half-expecting to see a salesperson or tourist or maybe even a client, never expecting to see Frank Forbes standing there.
20
DO
Invite only the people that YOU want, not the friends of your parents who haven't seen you since you were five, or the neighbors from the block where you were raised.
Jo had no idea why that thought ran through her mind as she stood and stared at the man who'd been the brother to the man she'd loved.
“Lily isn't here,” she managed to say. Then she quickly turned back to Andrew as if Frank might not recognize her. Fat chance of that.
“Jo,” Frank said. “How are you?”
If only Andrew was as good at reading minds as he was at securing appointments, he would now understand that her piercing stare and pleading eyes meant, “Help me get out of this.”
But Andrew apparently could not read her mind, for all he did was stare back as if wondering why she was being rude to the man in the doorway.
“I'm fine, thank you,” she said without looking back. “I'm sorry, but we're very busy right now. Lily is out of town.”
“I wasn't looking for Lily. I was looking for you.”
So the “later” of the “sooner or” had arrived. She gave Andrew one last, cryptic look, then gave up and faced Frank.
When they had been young they had not resembled each other, Brian with his shock of blond hair that hung over his collar; Frank, two years older, with a crew cut that had been so out of style. Brian had been taller, more athletic; Frank had been quieter, more serious, dependable. The voices, however, had been the same, with the sa
me deep timbre and hint of a Boston accent passed down from their parents who'd been born and bred there.
Pahk the cahr.
Drink the watah.
Eat the yellow bananer.
Jo's heart slowly thumped as she studied Frank. With the passage of time, the brothers looked alike now: same receding hairline, same softened jowl.
“I understand,” Frank said, “that my brother is missing.”
Jo felt the color leave her face, as if the slow drain of life was being siphoned from her heart.
Andrew quickly stood up and steadied her. He slid his chair over and made her sit down. “Jo,” he said crouching in front of her, “do you want me to get rid of him?”
He acted so brave, it almost made Jo smile. As if Andrew could evict their landlord with a threat or a punch. As if sweet, gentle Andrew could do anything normally spurred by testosterone.
“She needs to answer a few questions,” Frank explained in that voice that was Brian's.
“Jo?” Andrew asked. “I don't care who he is. I could call the police.”
Then all of West Hope would know.
Jo shook her head. “It's all right, Andrew. Frank is right. He deserves to know what's going on.”
Andrew looked toward Frank, then back to Jo. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” she said. “Please.” She touched his hand. “Please. Stay.” She supposed she'd have to tell Frank everything now. Did it really matter if Andrew heard, too? She could trust him, couldn't she, not to tell the world?
She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “Brian is missing.”
For a moment Frank was silent. When Jo opened her eyes she saw him walk to the group of navy chairs, run his hand over the top of his thinning hair, and sit down.
“How?” he asked.
She told him what had happened that night at McNally's. Her words came quickly, which was no surprise—she'd repeated them so often to herself in an effort to believe the unbelievable.