Spinning Forward

by Terri DuLong

  When we arrived at the hotel, we were seated in the dining room at a table for four. For the first time since Stephen’s death, I felt out of place. Like that proverbial fifth wheel. After ordering a glass of cabernet, I asked Paul if he was enjoying his visit.

  “Very much so. I love coming here to the island. I only wish my job allowed me to get here more often.”

  I caught the squeeze he gave Alison’s hand resting on the table.

  “You’ve been coming for quite a while, so you’ve made some friends here?”

  Paul nodded. “Yeah, there’s a group of fellows I enjoy fishing with. We always get together while I’m here.” He lifted his hand in greeting over my head and beckoned somebody to the table.

  I turned around to see Noah Hale approaching, his face lit up with a smile. Oh, God, that’s right. Ali said they knew each other.

  Paul stood up to shake Noah’s hand. “Good to see you again. You know Alison,” he said, and then gesturing toward me, he said, “This is Ali’s friend, Sydney Webster. She’ll be opening a yarn shop here in town.”

  Alison cast a furtive glance at me as she nodded to Noah. “Nice to see you.”

  “Same here,” Noah replied.

  I neglected to acknowledge the introduction, making no attempt to speak.

  “Sydney and I have met,” Noah said. “On a number of occasions actually.”

  “Yes, we have,” I mumbled.

  “Well, that’s great. Noah, if you haven’t had dinner yet, why don’t you join us?” Paul asked.

  I couldn’t believe what Paul had just done. Bad enough to have Noah standing there, staring down at me, but to sit beside him through an entire meal?

  Pulling out the chair next to me, Noah smiled. “If you guys don’t mind, thanks. I’d like that.”

  I glared across the table at Alison, who raised her eyebrows in apology. A trace of exotic spices floated in the air as Noah settled in beside me. Squirming in my chair, I desperately wished I were anywhere rather than a few inches from Noah Hale.

  The waitress returned to take Noah’s drink order and I stole a sideways glance at him. Was that smugness in his expression? How dare he horn in on our dinner and sit there looking like the Cheshire cat.

  “I purchased one of Noah’s paintings over twenty years ago at a showing in Chicago,” Paul told us. “It was great to actually meet the artist face-to-face a couple years ago here on the island.”

  Alison nodded and took a sip of her wine. “Which piece was that?”

  “The Parisian street scene that hangs over my sofa.”

  “One of my favorites,” she said. “Guess I’ll have to stop by your gallery, Noah.”

  I shot her a glance that clearly yelled, you traitor.

  “I’m having my opening next week. I’d like to extend a personal invitation for you both to attend.” Turning his head sideways, he grinned at me. “That includes you too.”

  Three faces waited for my answer. Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I said, “I’m not sure what my plans are.” The waitress arrived for our dinner order and saved me from further comment.

  “How’s your mother doing, Noah? I heard she had bronchitis a few weeks ago.”

  He nodded. “The doctor put her on an antibiotic and she’s now as feisty as ever. Bounced right back.”

  “Nellie is another native of the island that never left,” Alison said. “Her family has been living in the Hale-Johnson house for generations. It’s such a lovely place. Do you use that widow’s walk very much?”

  “I do,” Noah said. “It’s great to sit up there on a summer evening sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the sunset. The view from that vantage point is spectacular.”

  “How’d that remodeling go last year?” Paul questioned.

  “They did a great job, but my mother was happy to see the last of the workmen leave. I’ve been tossing around the idea of using a couple of the rooms upstairs for teaching art. The lighting up there is perfect for painting.” Looking directly at me, he said, “Lighting is very important for an artist.”

  “So I’d heard,” I mumbled, not bothering to conceal the edge in my tone.

  Paul looked sharply from Noah to me, probably picking up on the tension. Not sure what was going on, he said, “I heard you were looking for a boat.”

  Noah nodded. “Yeah, I had one years ago and sold it. Might be nice to just take off on the water again when the mood strikes me and do some fishing.”

  Glancing at Noah’s hand on the wineglass, I saw it was large, with carefully groomed nails—a masculine hand that made me briefly wonder what it was capable of. The waitress arrived with our dinners, preventing me from further thought.

  “Syd, you’ve got a birthday coming up next month,” Ali said, in an obvious attempt to keep the conversation going. “We’ll have to plan something special.”

  I felt Noah’s eyes on me and wished Alison would just eliminate me from the conversation. “Now that I’m over fifty, I was thinking of just skipping birthdays.”

  “So you’re a Pisces like me,” Noah said, reaching for the salt at the same time I did.

  In the process of doing so, I hit Noah’s wineglass sending the red liquid onto his lap. Jumping up, he began dabbing his tan slacks with a napkin.

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry,” I stammered, standing up with a napkin in my hand. I was about to assist him with the wipe up until I realized that the wine had landed perfectly on his crotch area. Whipping my hand back as heat floated into my face, I said, “I really am so sorry.”

  Noah threw his head back laughing at my obvious discomfiture. “It’s quite alright. Really. I’d been meaning to toss out these slacks and now you’ve given me a good reason.”

  I felt like a teenager on my first date. What was it about this guy that brought out my clumsy, awkward side?

  Alison and Paul had sat mutely observing our scene. Paul now cleared his throat. “How about some club soda? They say that removes red wine stains.”

  Noah raised a palm in the air, grinning. “No, no. It’s fine. Nothing to be concerned about.” Proving the incident was forgotten, he picked up his fork to begin eating.

  Alison buttered a roll and glanced across the table at me. “So what date is your birthday?” she asked Noah.

  “I’m March eighteenth. How about you, Sydney?”

  “Mine is March nineteenth.”

  “Well, it seems like you have something in common,” Paul replied with a grin.

  The rest of the dinner conversation was between Noah and Paul. All of us passed on dessert. Noah reached for the check, insisting it was his treat.

  Paul concurred, saying, “We’ll do this again soon and next time it’s on me. Thank you.”

  Yeah, right. When pigs fly, I thought. But I also thanked Noah.

  We stood in front of the hotel as I reached into my handbag for a cigarette. Lighting up, I realized I was the only smoker and caught a disapproving look on Noah’s face. Challenging him, I said, “Something wrong?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Nothing at all.”

  I didn’t miss the smirk on his face. Damn him. What business is it of his if I smoke? Longing to be away from his company, I mustered up my most priggish tone. “Thanks again for dinner.” Then turning toward Ali, I said, “I’m going to pass on going to Frogs with you guys for a drink. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Turning on my heel, I headed up Second Street at a brisk pace.

  Settling into bed, thoughts and concerns swirled in my mind. I wondered how it would go with Monica and me living in the same space together. Would Saren’s letters provide me with any information about Sybile and the possibility she could be my birth mother? My mail orders for spun yarn were doing fairly well, but how would my sales be once I opened my shop? And throughout all of these thoughts one image kept jumping to the surface—Noah Hale’s handsome face.

  13

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do this, Miss Sydney,” Saren exclaimed, taking the plate of
blueberry muffins from me.

  “Alison insisted,” I said, stepping into the living room.

  “Well, they sure will go good with the tea I’m about to brew. Let’s go in the kitchen while I get that ready. Then we’ll go through those letters I found.”

  After setting out the tea and muffins, Saren sat opposite me at the old Formica table. “Heard some talk that Miss Syblile isn’t feeling so well,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

  “Really? I don’t know her that well, but Dora hasn’t mentioned anything. Maybe she has a cold that’s turned into bronchitis. I heard Nellie Hale recently had that.”

  “Hmm, could be,” Saren replied thoughtfully.

  Finishing up the tea and muffins, I helped to clear the table.

  “Okay, now let’s get to those letters,” he said, leading the way to the living room.

  Saren settled himself in a chair while reaching for an old wooden box. Lifting the hinged cover, he drew out a packet of letters held together with rubber bands.

  “These were the first ones she sent,” he said and proceeded to read aloud about a young and dream-filled Sybile Bowden arriving in Manhattan to stay at the Barbizon Hotel for Women. “Yup, June of 1953, that’s when she left.”

  “Do those letters cover all the years she was there?” I questioned.

  Picking up another stack, he nodded. “Yeah, pretty much they do.” He hesitated. “But ya know, something always had me wondering. There was a period of time that Sybile left the Barbizon. Said she had a chance to share an apartment with another girl she’d met. Those letters should be in here too, but she didn’t write much during that time and then shortly after that she went back to the Barbizon.” Peering closely at the postmarks, he held up another bundle. “Ah, here they are,” he said, removing the first one. “Maybe you’d like to read through these and I’ll read some others.”

  I reached for the packet with sweaty palms. I knew Sybile certainly hadn’t shared her pregnancy with Saren, so it was doubtful they’d contain any evidence of my birth.

  Removing a thin, parchment sheet from the envelope, I began reading.

  August 18, 1954

  Dear Saren,

  As you’ll see from the new address, I’m no longer residing at the Barbizon so please send your letters here. I’m living in an apartment on the Lower East Side with another model that I met. The rules aren’t as strict as the hotel and it allows me more freedom to enjoy the city.

  I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather recently, and therefore, I’m not able to work quite as much. So Molly has been very generous in allowing me to stay with her. I hope all is well with you in Paris. Such an exciting place to be. Maybe someday I’ll visit you there. Please keep in touch.

  Fondly,

  Sybile

  I replaced the letter into the envelope. Under the weather? Could she have been experiencing bouts of morning sickness? The dates would add up, but other than that no concrete evidence that Sybile was pregnant with me. Glancing over at Saren, I saw he was lost in time reading the words of the woman he loved. Searching through the bundle I found the year 1955. Saren had meticulously organized the letters according to years and months. Finding March, I was surprised to see that the packet contained only one letter. Removing the rubber band from the envelope, I began reading.

  March 5, 1955

  Dear Saren,

  I have the most marvelous news. My friend Molly has invited me to her family home in the Hamptons for an entire month. After so much work, she feels we both need a rest and I’m very much looking forward to being there.

  So please don’t write me again until I’m in touch with you, as I’m not sure exactly when I’ll return, and I’d hate to see your letters get lost.

  Spring has arrived in New York and it’s a delightful time to be here. I hope all is well with you and I’ll be in touch sometime next month.

  Fondly,

  Sybile

  Interesting, I thought. The month that I was born Sybile refrained from corresponding with Saren. Could it be because my birth was approaching that she wanted no contact with him during that time? Possibly. And possibly this is all pure speculation on my part.

  “Ah, these letters are from when she was dating her husband,” Saren said, interrupting my thoughts.

  “What year was that?”

  “Nineteen fifty-seven and then six years later, the marriage was over and she was back here on the island. She sure did make out alright in that divorce settlement though. It allowed her to live here all these years.”

  “What kind of work did her husband do that provided for her so well?”

  “He was her agent for modeling. Not long into the marriage Sybile had told me he had a rovin’ eye, if ya know what I mean. So I think he wandered once too often and that was when she called it quits.”

  I got up and stretched, glancing at the time on the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “Oh, gosh, I really need to get going, Saren. I have to meet the carpenters at the shop. I’m hoping they’ve finished up all the work over there.”

  “I sure do thank you for coming here this morning. I think I needed a bit of encouragement to take these letters out again.”

  “It was my pleasure. And thank you for sharing them with me.”

  Walking me to the door, that faraway look returned to his eyes. “I think I’ll just spend a bit more time reading through some more of these.”

  I was thrilled to arrive at the shop to find the workmen finishing up my cubbyholes. “Oh, they look great,” I said, standing just inside the door to admire the holes that could now be filled with rainbow colors of yarn.

  Within twenty minutes they were finished and I had written them the check. Well, this is it, kid. There’re no more excuses. You’re ready to open in a couple days and begin doing business.

  I was surprised to glance toward the door and see both Dora and Sybile coming in.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Dora said. “I just wanted to check and see when you might be opening.”

  “My carpentry is finished.” I gestured toward the empty holes against the wall. “So I’d say probably this Thursday.”

  I stifled a giggle as I saw that Sybile was clad in skin-tight hot pink capris and a fuzzy crimson jacket, with a most unusual hat. The exact shade as the pants, the toque tightly hugged Sybile’s head showing only a few wisps of red hair on the forehead. I couldn’t help but wonder where Sybile purchased these outrageous head coverings.

  “Oh, that’s great. I hope you don’t think I’m a pest, but I’m so happy we’ll be having a yarn shop here on the island. We have a nice shop in Gainesville, but I don’t relish the drive, and many times I do order from companies online, but the shipping costs are high.”

  “Well, I hope many others will feel the way you do.”

  It didn’t escape me that Sybile had remained silent.

  “How’re you doing today?” I asked.

  Replacing her sunglasses, she said, “Just fine. Well, at least I was until I got dragged out of my house to go to lunch with my sister. I was watching a good movie when she called.”

  Before I could respond, Dora said, “Oh, for goodness sake. Wouldn’t hurt you once in a while to get away from that TV set. You spend entirely too much time watching those old fifties movies.”

  “That’s right, I’d heard you were a model,” I said, hoping to entice the woman into a conversation. “I would think you’d enjoy seeing the fashions of that era.”

  For the first time since I’d met her, Sybile seemed to perk up and become animated. “I was pretty near a top fashion model in New York City during the fifties and early sixties. It was the most exciting time of my life and then those hideous mod fashions appeared. That wasn’t for me. They called that style—they had no idea what style was.”

  Based on Sybile’s current mode of dress, I was at a loss for words and merely nodded in agreement.

  “I could have gone on to be like those other top models. But Twiggy hit the s
cene and everything changed in modeling.” She flung her large leather bag over her shoulder. “That was a lifetime ago. Are you coming for dinner this evening?” she asked her sister.

  Dora nodded. “Yes, I’ll be there about six and don’t forget to call your doctor.”

  Flashing Dora a deadly look, she retorted, “You need to worry about yourself, Dora.” And without even a good-bye, she left the shop.

  Unsure what to say, I remained silent.

  “That sister of mine is a handful,” Dora said, shaking her head.

  “She’s had that cough for quite a while, hasn’t she? I hope it’s not serious.”

  “She’d kill me for saying anything, but I’m afraid it is serious.” She paused for a moment. “The doctor suspects lung cancer.”

  “And she’s not doing anything about it?” I gasped.

  “Not yet. But her coughing is getting worse and now she’s getting short of breath, so I don’t think she has a choice. She promised me she’d call for an appointment this week.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “As I’m sure you’ve gathered, Sybile has always been her own person. Does what she wants, when she wants. So illness is no different. She’s in control. All I can do is try to steer her in the right direction.”

  “Since she has no children or other family, she’s fortunate to have you.”

  Dora laughed. “I’d bet she wouldn’t always think that. But I try to look out for her.”

  “I’m sure you missed her years ago when she left the island.”

  “Yeah, she’s only eighteen months older than me so we were pretty close growing up. It took a while to get used to her not being here.”

  “I’ve been talking to Saren Ghetti. I guess he was pretty fond of her back then too.”

  A look of surprise crossed Dora’s face. “Did he tell you that?”

  “Yeah, he did actually. Told me he and Sybile exchanged letters the entire time she was gone. Then when she came back here she pretty much ignored him.”

  Dora smiled. “That’s Sybile. Never did know what was good for her. She would have had a nice life with Saren, but no, she wanted those bright lights of New York. Got herself into a situation and now she’s left alone.”