Ruby smiled. “You’re my family. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter 3
It was after eleven and Bella had been up since seven that morning, but as tired as she was, she just couldn’t sleep. At the moment she was sitting on the edge of her bed, lights off, staring at the closed door of the room with the rosy pink walls. She knew this room so well. The whole house, really. It was welcoming, almost like a friend.
Unlike the new house back in Warden where she and her mother had lived since the previous August. There was a sense of anonymity about the place; it almost felt as if they were living in a hotel room, that the house wasn’t really theirs and might never be. Her mother had sold some of their furniture; other pieces were in storage. Only a few photos of Bella’s father and sister were on display in the living room. In Bella’s room there were no photos at all. And nowhere were there signs of the Braithwaites as they had been: no scuff marks from the times Bella would forget to take off her soccer cleats before going into the house; no horizontal pencil marks on the wall next to the fridge where her father had charted Bella’s and Ariel’s growth; no bit of kitchen counter stained yellow, evidence of the time her mother had spilled ajar of curry sauce; no strands of Ariel’s long red hair in the brush on the bathroom sink. The odd thing was that Bella found some comfort in the anonymity of the new house. At least, she found it more tolerable than she had found living in their old house, where the memories were loud and painful and constant.
It was odd, Bella thought, but here, at another house so full of the past, she was okay with staying in the room she had once shared with Ariel. She could easily have moved into the smallest bedroom. There was a couch there that folded out to a bed and a closet where she could hang her clothes when she remembered to hang them.
Bella glanced over her shoulder at the empty bed by the window and then turned back to face the door. Maybe she could ask her grandmother if Phil or George could move the bed out of the room. Or maybe she could just do it herself. There was a screwdriver in the junk drawer in the kitchen. She could take apart the frame and . . . Then what? How was she supposed to get the mattress and box spring down the stairs without disaster?
Whatever. The bed could stay. She would try not to look at it. Maybe she would just pile all of her clothes and stuff on top of it. That might prevent her from seeing in her mind’s eye Ariel’s gorgeous red hair spread out on the pillow, her knees tucked up against her chest, her hands folded under her cheek in her sleep.
Bella sighed. It had been so much fun sharing this room with her sister. Sometimes at night, with the rest of the house asleep, they would sneak out to the Jernigans’ property, on which there was a natural spring. Ariel had liked the sound of the spring bubbling in the dark. Bella remembered her sister telling her how the early Christians often built shrines to saints on sites that had been sacred to the pagans, so that the sites—like natural springs—remained incredible sources of spiritual power and belief through the centuries.
“You really find this interesting?” Bella would ask when Ariel went on about old stuff, which she often did.
“Yeah,” Ariel would say. “It’s fascinating. It’s our history.”
“Whose history?”
“Ours. Human beings.”
Sometimes Bella had wondered how Ariel had put up with her sister being so stupid. But the answer to that question was easy. It was love, pure and simple. The love shared by siblings, which could be far stronger than even the greatest love between friends. On some level Bella had always known that, but it had taken Ariel’s dying to fully open her eyes to the depth of the bond they had shared. You don’t know what you have till it’s gone. Whoever had first said that was so very right. Bella had lost not only a sister. She had lost the other half of herself.
Bella got up from her bed and went to the window. There was little to see by the one small light near the door to the mudroom and the sky was moonless. She leaned her head against the cool glass, closed her eyes, and remembered those final days with her sister. Even though Ariel hadn’t gone with Bella to the resort’s disco or to play beach volleyball—Ariel hadn’t liked dance music and she was hopelessly bad at sports—they had had such a good time together. One night they tried curried goat. “Could use more Scotch bonnets,” Ariel calmly noted as Bella wiped sweat from her face and reached for her water. They went shopping together. They went to a reggae concert one afternoon. They took long walks on the beach during which they talked about all sorts of stuff.
In short, they had been as they always had, the very best of friends. Then, Bella thought for possibly the millionth time, I had to go and ruin everything at the last minute by calling Ariel a dork for wanting to poke around in a dusty old museum. It was only a joke, but words hurt, no matter how innocent the intention behind them. So why had she said it? What was wrong with her?
And worse, even though Ariel hadn’t been there to hear it, Bella had told her mother she would kill her sister if she was the cause of the family having to take a later flight home. It was a horrible thing to have said, even in jest—you would kill someone because they made you miss a television show?—and the words haunted Bella. Since the anniversary of the accident those damning words had never been far from her mind.
Bella turned from the window. Wearily, she lay down on her bed and pulled the fresh cotton sheet over her legs. Her mother seemed to think it would be helpful in some way if they lived with her mother for the summer, but in what way it would be helpful Bella had no idea. What was going to happen or not happen here at her grandmother’s house in Yorktide that could or could not happen back in Warden? Bella turned on her side and tucked her hands under her cheek as Ariel used to do. She guessed that only time would reveal the answer to that question.
Chapter 4
The house was profoundly quiet, but through the open window Frieda could hear the mournful hooting of an owl. She hadn’t turned off the light yet. It was comforting somehow to look at the colorful bits of sea glass arranged on the windowsill. It was one of the simple pleasures of being at home with her mother. And some feeling deep down made Frieda believe that if healing and happiness were ever to be found again it would be at the house on Kinders Lane.
Frieda would never forget the housewarming party her mother had given not long after she had settled in. Ruby had been downright jubilant that afternoon, leading tours of the house, bragging about the bargains she had gotten on various bits of furniture, offering endless platters of appetizers to her guests. After all the years of hard work, self-sacrifice, and sometimes frighteningly real financial struggle, Ruby Hitchens had heroically achieved her goal of owning her own home.
And it wasn’t the first time that home was acting as a refuge for family, Frieda thought. Last Christmas without Aaron and Ariel back in Warden had been awful; around every metaphorical corner there was a memory of happy holidays spent as a family of four. And being in the new, much smaller house had added to the sense of loss and desolation.
“Let’s get out of here, Mom,” Bella had said fiercely one afternoon. “I can’t stand it in this place.”
Neither, Frieda had thought, can I. So on Christmas Eve they had packed up the car and made their escape to Yorktide for the remainder of the school break. If the days under Ruby Hitchens’s roof hadn’t been joyful, they had at least offered some degree of peace. And if memories of past Christmases had followed Frieda to Maine, at least they were happy memories.
Unlike other memories that were tinged with regret. Frieda turned from the window and walked over to her bed. How oblivious we are to the potential tragedies just around the corner, she thought as she lay down. How blithely we waste our lives. What haunted Frieda most about that last morning of her husband’s life was the missed opportunity for a last real kiss with the person she loved best in the world. Why had she given Aaron her cheek? He wouldn’t have minded if there was a crumb on her lip. But it was too late now.
There would be no more kisses. Ther
e would be no more shared meals. Aaron would never again bring his wife a cup of coffee in bed. Who knew that after the death of a loved one, simple daily activities such as making coffee could cause such confusion and disorientation? That first morning back in Warden after the accident Frieda had found herself staring at the jar of coffee beans and the grinder, momentarily stymied. How to begin? How many ground beans made how many cups of coffee?
It had taken real strength of will to brew that pot of coffee, the first of many reminders that focusing on real-world tasks was a very important part of dealing with death. You might want to retreat to your bed and pull the covers over your head, but you couldn’t, not for long, not when there were decisions to be made, bills to be paid, a child to comfort, and your own health to maintain. All on your own.
Frieda shifted under the cool cotton sheets. She never thought she would be a single parent as her mother had been. Frieda was well aware of all Ruby had sacrificed to raise a child with virtually no financial support from the child’s father. Steve Hitchens. The man who defined ne’er-do-well more precisely than anyone else Frieda had ever known.
Ironically, the situation in which Frieda found herself, raising a child on her own, was all her fault. She had been the one to push for the idea of a big family vacation during spring break. Aaron had been reluctant to take the time off from the architecture firm where he had recently become a junior partner, but he had good-naturedly given in to Frieda’s persuasions. “Sure,” he had said. “Let’s do it.”
And that had been that. Decision made. Lives irrevocably altered.
Frieda yawned and turned out the light on her bedside table. She was so very tired. Though she knew it was a futile gesture, she patted the empty space next to her in the crazy hope that she would find her husband by her side.
Chapter 5
“I took one look at Bella this afternoon,” Ruby told George over the phone that evening, “at her sad eyes and wan complexion, and I felt furious all over again with my ex-husband for failing our family. Not once has he been there for us when we needed him, like now, when his daughter and his granddaughter are suffering. Where is he now? Who knows! He’s never even met either of his granddaughters! And it isn’t because Frieda’s withheld the girls from him. It’s his choice to be absent.”
“And his loss in the end,” George reminded her.
Ruby sighed. And yet, she thought, I continue to take Steve’s calls. And I continue to love him somewhere deep down inside. “George,” she said, “thank you for listening.”
“You’re in mourning and grief is hard work. I’m glad I can be here for you. Still, I don’t have to remind you that dredging up old hurts doesn’t accomplish anything of value.”
“I know. All it does is wear me out.”
“Try to get some sleep,” George advised. “I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Your appointment with the eye doctor is at eight thirty, right?”
“Yes. He said it would take about twenty minutes for the pupils to dilate. Bring a book to read.”
George laughed. “I’ll have my iPhone. I’ll keep plenty occupied.”
“You and that iPhone! You’re an addict, George. Good night.”
“Good night, Ruby,” he said. “Sleep tight.”
Ruby changed into her pajamas, brushed out her thick shoulder-length hair, only sparsely threaded with gray, and crawled into bed. She was very lucky to have George Hastings in her life. For years after Steve had left Ruby and their eleven-year-old daughter she had been totally focused on raising Frieda, getting her nursing degree, and building a career. There had been no time for men—at least, that’s what Ruby had told herself. In reality her heart had been so badly broken by Steve’s infidelities and eventual defection that she simply refused to risk having it broken again. Mostly she was fine being on her own and when periods of loneliness arose, like, for example, when Frieda became a teen and began to spend more time with her friends and then when Frieda married and moved to Massachusetts, Ruby had managed to do a very good job of quashing the loneliness with extra shifts at the hospital and a renewed dedication to her beloved book group, The Page Turners.
Then, not long after Ruby had turned sixty, along came George Hastings. They met one afternoon in the hospital cafeteria shortly after George had started working in administration; he had moved from New Hampshire to Yorktide to take care of his ageing widowed father. Being divorced with no children, George was perfectly placed to be Walter’s caregiver. “I’m just returning the favor,” George had explained. “Dad’s been a good father to me and now it’s my turn to be a good son to him.”
What began as a chatty companionship over weak coffee and uninspired sandwiches slowly became something more, a friendship Ruby came to cherish. After about six months, George invited Ruby to dinner. “Someplace other than this cafeteria,” he said. “Someplace where the food doesn’t come wrapped in plastic and the coffee actually has a kick.” Ruby said no. George said, “Why not?” Ruby realized she had no good answer. She liked George. And what was the harm in going to dinner? Everyone had to eat. So she said yes.
To Ruby’s immense surprise, a romantic relationship blossomed, one strong enough to override the fear of having her heart trampled on again. George loved Ruby and she loved him. He had been a rock when she broke her leg and then, only weeks later, when Aaron and Ariel were killed. Through the dismal days after the double funeral George had been there not only for Ruby but also for Frieda and Bella, who both considered him family. And Phil had long ago given George his seal of approval, something not lightly bestowed.
Ruby sighed. Everything had been just perfect until Walter died back in early May and George had dropped the proverbial bombshell. “I want us to be together all the time, Ruby,” he said one evening when they were sitting on the front porch after dinner. “For the rest of our lives. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you have me as your husband?”
The proposal was endearingly old-fashioned and completely unexpected. People their age didn’t need to get married. She and George weren’t going to be having babies and raising families. Neither had parents left to disappoint or to anger. They were each economically independent. As a couple they were perfectly fine the way they were, not legally bound but emotionally committed.
“It might be best to wait until after the summer to . . .” Ruby had replied quickly. “To talk about our future. Frieda and Bella will be here soon and they plan on staying until the end of August when Bella needs to be back for the start of the new semester.”
“Oh,” George had said, sitting back in his chair. “I didn’t know that.”
Ruby felt a rush of shame when she remembered how she had lied to George. She hadn’t yet approached Frieda with her idea, one she did indeed feel strongly about. “We just decided earlier today,” she said. Another lie. “You know that Bella’s been having difficulties since the anniversary of the accident and I thought that it would be best if we were all together this summer.”
“Yes, of course,” George said promptly. “It’s a good idea. And I wouldn’t have mentioned our getting married just now if I had known. I’m sorry, Ruby. But since the idea is out there, will you promise to give it some thought when you can?”
Ruby had promised, but she hadn’t yet given George’s proposal the respect it deserved. And yet George continued to love and support her. While I use my daughter and granddaughter as an excuse for not confronting my fear of marriage . . .
Well, Ruby thought, she might have bought herself some time by having her family under her roof for the next few months, but the matter couldn’t be avoided forever, not if she cared for George, and she did. Ruby turned off the lamp on the nightstand and settled gratefully against the pillows. She had always felt that if there was an intelligence orchestrating the lives of humans, sleep was one of its greatest gifts.
Chapter 6
“You know you don’t have to ring,” Frieda said as she let George into the house at fiv
e minutes to eight the next morning. “Just because Bella and I are here doesn’t mean you’re ostracized.”
George smiled and gave Frieda a warm hug. “Just being polite. Where’s Bella this fine morning?”
“She’s not up yet,” Frieda told him as she led him to the kitchen. “She’s been sleeping late these days, but that’s going to have to change once she starts working at Phil’s.”
“Maybe he’ll give her afternoon hours,” George suggested.
“Nope.” Ruby turned from the sink, where she had been rinsing out her coffee cup. “Her hours will be at his convenience. Bella needs to be pushed. It’s the only way she’ll come back to us.”
Frieda fervently wanted to believe her mother. For as long as she could remember Ruby Hitchens had seemed so sure of herself, so convinced in her beliefs, so settled in her determination. There had to be things that worried or puzzled her. There had to be, but Frieda didn’t know what those things were.
“Frieda,” George said. “I almost forgot. Jack Tennant asked for you the other day.”
Frieda smiled. She had gone through grammar and high school a year behind Jack Tennant. He had been one of the nicest boys in Yorktide and was probably now one of the nicest men. “How is he?” Frieda asked. “I haven’t seen him in quite a while.”
“He seems good. For a while there after Veronica died we were all pretty worried about him, but . . .” George smiled sympathetically. “Well, you know better than anyone what he went through.”
Frieda nodded. Though Jack had lost his wife to cancer and she had lost her husband in a car accident, the result was crushingly the same. Emotional devastation. “Is he still working at the community college?” she asked.
“Yeah. He’s head of admissions now.” George looked down at his iPhone. “Come on, Ruby. We’ll be late if we don’t get a move on.”
Home for the Summer Page 3