For All She Knows

by Beck, Jamie

  EPILOGUE

  GRACE

  July 4

  Deep Creek Lake

  While rinsing the lettuce, I glanced through the window to the dock, where Sam and Rodri were fishing with the boys and Kim.

  “I want to make candied pecans for the salad. If we chop grapes and throw in this goat cheese with a soy-lemon dressing, it’s terrific.” Mimi tossed two fistfuls of pecans into a bowl of sugar water before dumping them into a hot sauté pan.

  “Think they’ve caught anything, or will it be burgers for dinner?” I grinned.

  “I’m starving, so let’s cook burgers. If they caught anything worth eating, we’ll have surf and turf. That way no one gets offended, but no one goes hungry, either.” She shook the pan to keep the nuts from burning.

  I pumped the salad spinner to dry the lettuce, pausing to sip my iced tea. “It’s a beautiful evening. Clear skies should make for a great fireworks display.”

  “Remember how Kim hated that noise when she was a baby?”

  I laughed. “One of the few things she was afraid of as a toddler.”

  Mimi turned off the stove and came to stand beside me and peer down on our families. “Everyone’s growing up so fast now.”

  “Rowan seems to get along well with Rodri,” I said, happy for her to have a good man who seemed to want to make her happy.

  “Rodri’s easy, like I’ve told you.” Mimi looked at me. “I worry, though, about the age difference. He’s only thirty-two, and he’d be a great dad. He’s still got time for that, you know? But I’m forty next month and have a kid who’ll be driving soon.”

  My heart went out to her. Nothing she’d ever earned had come easy, including love. “Does Rodri even want kids?”

  “He’s from a big family, so I assume he does, but he hasn’t said that. We haven’t talked about it, actually. I’m afraid to broach it because I enjoy his company and am not ready for it to end.” She poured herself an iced tea, seeming lost in her thoughts.

  It healed me to be trusted with her worries this way. When she set the pitcher down, I reached for her hand. “You know, you could have another baby if you wanted. Who knows, maybe you’d finally get the daughter you’ve always dreamed of.”

  She smiled broadly, her eyes glistening. “You don’t think it’d be too risky? Too . . . weird?”

  “You’d have to ask your doctor about the risks, but it wouldn’t be weird. You’re a good mother. Besides, there is more than one way to build a family—assuming you want that, and that you could see doing it with Rodri.”

  “Thanks, Grace. It’s been nice the way you and Sam have made Rodri feel part of us so easily.” She glanced out the window at the boys. “Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid to talk to him about the future.”

  “Since when have you been afraid of anything?” I teased, bumping our hips.

  “Well, I’m afraid of the time when we’ll have to say goodbye to the boys. I can’t believe they’ll be upperclassmen in September.”

  I nodded. “Soon they’ll be off to college.”

  The idea of it sent competing waves of excitement and sorrow through me. My son would invest in his education and make us proud, but the thought of him leaving tugged at my heart.

  “I sure hope so. The University of Maryland coach has his eye on Rowan. Same with University of South Carolina. Don’t tell anyone, but I wish those teams had better names. ‘Terrapin’ and ‘Gamecock’ aren’t fun to scream. If only Clemson would come calling, we could still say ‘Tigers!’”

  “Be patient.” Ironic that I would counsel that, considering I’d learned patience only since Carter’s accident taught me how little control I had over most things.

  “I know.” Mimi took the bowl of lettuce and added nuts, grapes, and goat cheese, then whisked together her soy-lemon dressing. “I love eating on the screened porch. This rental rocks. Imagine having a second home on a lake.”

  “When Rowan becomes an NFL star, maybe he’ll buy you one,” I teased.

  “I like that dream.” Mimi winked. It had taken a few weeks for us to find our natural rhythm again, but now life seemed better than before. I certainly felt stronger and less haunted by my past.

  I gathered plates and flatware, and Mimi brought the salad with napkins out to the screened porch. We set the table, then she whistled—a shrill sound that pierced the air and echoed across the lake. “How’s it going down there? Should we fire up the grill?”

  Sam waved and called, “Hold up. We need to clean the fish—bass and perch!” Behind him, the top of the lake glittered with golden-orange light. The sun hung low in the sky, casting pink and orange swaths along the horizon.

  “Well, hurry up! We need to eat and get rolling over to the Wisp Resort before all the best spots are taken,” Mimi hollered back, then tipped her head. “Life’s pretty great now, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” I hugged my friend.

  Down below, the dock crew began packing up their things. Rowan and Carter were laughing about something as they carried the rods and tackle box up the stairs to the house. It was too soon for Carter to wakeboard or water-ski, but he could walk and swim and dive off the dock without risking injury. By next summer he should be able to attempt other water sports. My nightmares had become infrequent as his physical and mental health were restored. His accident made me grateful for so many things and made me more present, two unexpected blessings.

  My mother came to the porch door. “Should I make brownies to take with us to the fireworks?”

  “Heck yeah. I’ve got leftover pecans if you want to add those,” Mimi offered, making her way back inside.

  I remained on the porch, watching my family and Mimi enjoy the evening while listening to her and my mother chatting in the kitchen. Despite all that had happened, I’d never felt more content, or more certain of what and who mattered most to me. The only thing about life’s ups and downs that I would ever try to control again was how well I’d enjoy the ride.

  AN EXCERPT FROM

  THE HAPPY ACCIDENTS

  EDITOR’S NOTE: THIS IS AN EARLY EXCERPT AND MAY NOT REFLECT THE FINISHED BOOK.

  PROLOGUE

  Late October, thirty years ago

  Brandman’s Funeral Home

  Norwalk, Connecticut

  This is already the worst day and it’s not even lunchtime. Our mother takes Lizzie and me by the hands after Richard, our driver, drops us in front of the funeral home. I’m not afraid to see Marta’s dead body because I’ve seen one before, when Grandfather died three years ago. That time was different, though, for lots of reasons.

  First of all, Dad isn’t coming today. This morning he told Mom he had a “conflict,” his code for some important meeting. He always has them, even on the weekends. I don’t really know what a hedge fund is except that it has nothing to do with actual hedges. Those are shaped like eggs and tall swirlies by a group of men who come every week with their giant lawn mowers and shears. Whatever my dad does at his job, he doesn’t seem to like it very much. He complains a lot about the SEC—whatever that is—and red tape. I’ve seen clear, brown, and blue tape, but even when I snoop in his office, I never find any red tape.

  Another difference is that Grandfather’s funeral happened in our town, Greenwich, in a three-story brick building that looks like other houses in our neighborhood except for its small front yard. Marta’s funeral home is only half as big (although it’s a sunny yellow color), has no yard at all, and is on a street crowded with stinky buses. Thinking about her here makes my stomach hurt because she would rather be in our garden than here.

  A breeze blows a bunch of red leaves across the sidewalk. That’s something else that’s different today. Grandfather died in July right after my fourth birthday, but Mom made me wear a navy blue dress, a matching hat, and white gloves to his funeral. Those gloves made my hands sweaty, so I’d taken them off when she wasn’t looking. Later that day I got in trouble because I’d lost one of them. Today is much colder, but Mom didn’t make us wear
gloves or hats, although we are all wearing navy blue. Navy blue is an unhappy color, so I guess it makes sense, because I am very unhappy that Marta won’t ever hug me again.

  When Grandfather died, Lizzie had been only two, so she’d stayed at home with Marta. Back then I felt grown-up going to the funeral, but also jealous that Lizzie got to be with Marta. Marta had been our nanny only a little while at that point, but she’d already become my favorite person. Every night when she left our house after dinner, I’d secretly wished I could go home with her. Now I will never be able to live with her.

  My chest suddenly feels like it did that time Sandra Scott whacked it with a softball. Breathing hurts so much more than when Grandfather died, and I liked Grandfather. He smelled like sweet smoke and cinnamon, and always sneaked me ten-dollar bills. Grandfather was sixty-eight when he died, with gray hair and wrinkles, but Marta was only thirty-six. Still pretty old, but younger than my mom.

  Could my mom die soon? I look up at her pretty face, frowning. Could I?

  When we go inside, there are a lot of strangers standing or sitting and talking. Some kids are even playing hide-and-seek or something in and around the rows of chairs. I hold my mom’s hand tight, surprised by all the confusion. Grandfather’s wake was hushed, and I’d stood beside my parents while they’d shaken everyone’s hands.

  Now people are looking at us the same way Lizzie and I stared at that peacock at the zoo. We don’t look like we belong here, with our white-blonde hair and fancy shoes, but I love Marta, so I know I belong. She would want me to come say goodbye. Lizzie’s eyes are like giant circles as she looks all around. She’s five, and this is her first dead body.

  Somehow my mother figures out which person is Marta’s mother even though there are lots of older ladies with teary eyes sitting together in a group. Marta told me stories about her six aunts and dozens of cousins. I can’t imagine that, because I have only one aunt, two uncles, and four cousins, all of whom live in California, where my mom was born. Dad doesn’t have siblings, but I don’t think he minds.

  My mom offers Mrs. Sanchez her “condolences.” I don’t like that word. It’s too cold to match the hot pit of sadness in my stomach. Mom doesn’t look too sad, but she’s used to death because she’s a heart surgeon who even operates on babies with bad hearts. Talk about unfair. Her job sounds terrible, but she smiles more than my dad, although not as much as Marta did.

  Mrs. Sanchez’s bright lips wobble when she smiles at Lizzie and me. “You must be Elizabeth and Jessica.”

  Our names sound prettier the way she pronounces them. She sounds a lot like Marta, which makes my eyes sting. We hadn’t seen Marta for a few months because she was too sick. I miss her laughing and telling me that I’m funny, and how she never minded sitting on the back veranda with all my crayons and paints, or helping me clean everything up.

  She always smiled and patted my head and wiped up spills without complaining about how much the patio furniture cost or how I’d stained another outfit. “You’re a little talent, Jessie. When you grow up, I will come to your gallery and buy a painting for my house.” I frown thinking of it.

  Our new nanny, Bridget, doesn’t cook as well. She is pretty patient, but she never makes me feel special.

  Mom steps back, pushing us forward. Lizzie has better manners than I, so she sticks out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sanchez. I’m sorry about Marta.”

  All of a sudden, my throat squeezes tight. This is real, not a movie or a story or anything like Grandfather’s funeral. This is the end. Marta didn’t beat cancer and will never come to our house and play with me again.

  I burst into tears, but crying only makes my throat hurt more.

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Sanchez throws her chubby arms around me and gives me a hug, just like Marta used to do. I feel safe snuggled in there, so I let her hold me even though she’s a stranger and my mom is probably embarrassed by my behavior. Then I remember the scroll in my hand, so I ease away.

  I look up at Mrs. Sanchez and my words come out in a rush. “I painted this picture of Marta surfing because she told me that when she was my age, her favorite thing was visiting her grandparents in Costa Rica and surfing in Tamarindo. Can I put it in her casket?”

  All the ladies start crying and speaking Spanish. Lizzie probably understands them better than me because I never pay as close attention to those lessons as I should.

  With tears shining in her eyes, Mrs. Sanchez says, “That’s very sweet of you. Marta will be happy to have it with her.”

  “Thank you.” Relief sweeps through me as my mother says something else and then scoots us away so that others can talk to Marta’s family.

  Lizzie lags behind, almost on purpose, as we approach the casket. My mother makes us all kneel on the padded bench in front of Marta and make the sign of the cross before bowing our heads to say a prayer.

  I don’t pray, though, because I’m peeking at Marta. She looks like she’s sleeping but has a lot more makeup than usual. She’s there, but not there. While Lizzie has her eyes squeezed shut, I lay the scrolled painting across Marta’s belly and then put my hand on top of hers. It’s cold and hard, so I snatch mine away, sorry that I now can’t count our final hug as the last time we touched.

  I close my eyes, making myself remember what she told me when she was leaving our house on her last day with us.

  “Every day is a blessing, chiquitina. Do not waste a single one.” She’d hugged me tight in our foyer and kissed my head.

  I know she meant for me to listen to my parents and “make the most of my potential.” But if babies and thirty-six-year-olds can die any old time—so I can die anytime—then I don’t want to be like my parents, who don’t laugh out loud and always take everything seriously.

  Kneeling in front of Marta’s casket while listening to her family’s sniffles, I decide “Do not waste a single one” was a warning. As long as I’m alive, I will never settle for a boring day.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are so many people to thank for helping me bring this book to all of you—not the least of whom are my family and friends for their continued love, encouragement, and support.

  Thanks, also, to my agent, Jill Marsal, as well as to my patient editors, Chris Werner and Tiffany Yates Martin, who take the lumps of coal I submit and help me turn them into diamonds. In this case, their insight helped me stay on track with the story I wanted to tell. And none of my work would find its way to readers without the entire Montlake family working so hard on my behalf. I’m indebted to the PR and marketing staff, the art department, the editorial staff, and the sales team for playing an invaluable role in my career.

  And then there are the many people who gave their time to help me research various aspects of this story. For the sake of dramatizing the story, I took some liberties with the medical and legal research timelines, but cannot thank enough Jason Nascone, MD, of the University of Maryland Medical System in Baltimore for his help in crafting a plausible injury and recovery for Carter. Attorneys Herb Cohen and Karen Hardwick generously shared their expertise so that I could understand the legal options and obstacles the Phillips family faced in bringing a personal injury lawsuit against the others. I also am grateful to Dionna Carlson, a local friend and board of education member, for sharing her insight about how that body makes budget decisions. And last but not least, a big thank-you to Bill Scrima, a New York police officer who answered my questions regarding the actions and arrests that might follow in the wake of a party like Rowan’s.

  I also want to thank my critique partners, Linda Avellar, Barbara Josselsohn, and Ginger McKnight, for their guidance. Additionally, a big thanks to my beta reader, Jane Haertel, for her feedback on the early draft, as well as hugs for my Fiction From the Heart sisters (Tracy Brogan, Sonali Dev, Kwana Jackson, Virginia Kantra, Donna Kauffman, Sally Kilpatrick, Falguni Kothari, Priscilla Oliveras, Barbara O’Neal, Hope Ramsay, and Liz Talley), who inspire me on a daily basis and who are always there to talk through p
lot knots and provide feedback on a chapter or two. Every book I write really is a group project!

  I couldn’t produce any of my work without the MTBs (Regina Kyle, Gail Chianese, Jane Haertel, Jamie K. Schmidt, and Megan Ryder), who help me plot and keep my spirits up when doubt grabs hold.

  And I can’t leave out the wonderful members of my CTRWA chapter. Year after year, all the CTRWA members provide endless hours of support, feedback, and guidance. I love and thank them for that.

  Finally, and most importantly, thank you, readers, for making my work worthwhile. Considering all your options, I’m honored by your choice to spend your time with me.

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  Teen drinking is an issue in most communities. Which parental position do you more closely identify with: Grace’s or Mimi’s? Why?

  Each year kids in high school and college get gravely injured or killed during underage drinking parties. Do you think parenting has any impact on these outcomes? Do you think the legal drinking age should be changed, and if so, why?

  Have you found yourself on the opposite side of a good friend on an important issue? Did it affect your friendship?

  Have you and your significant other ever clashed when it came to a parenting issue? How did you handle that?

  Exclusion and bullying continue to be issues in middle and high schools across the country. Did you ever feel excluded or bullied? Did any of your children? How did you handle that?

  Grace and her mother share a tricky relationship. Have you let childhood resentments affect your adult relationship with a parent or sibling? Why do you think it is so hard to apologize for and forgive old injuries?

  School budgets are increasingly squeezed these days, and examples of our country’s public school shortcomings abound. Do you feel your children or grandchildren are getting a better or worse education than you did? Do you have any thoughts on how the system could be improved?