“Right. Oh, Frieda, I thought we’d grill some fish for dinner. Would you mind stopping into Gascoyne Fish Market? Whatever catches your fancy will be fine. Did I say ‘catches’? Get it? Catches. Fish.”
“Yes, Mom,” Frieda said with a smile. “I get it.”
“Very amusing, Ruby.” George grabbed Ruby’s hand and hurried them out of the kitchen.
Alone, Frieda leaned against the sink and rubbed her forehead. The tiniest mention of a seemingly insignificant thing like the buying of fish for dinner could open the proverbial floodgates of poignant memory. She remembered as if it were yesterday the evening she and Aaron had gotten into a friendly conversation with a local Jamaican fisherman. He had generously given them two of the largest of his day’s catch for the resort’s kitchen to cook specially for the family.
Everything about that last week together had been special, most of all the fact that it had turned out to be so unexpectedly romantic. The girls had been mostly busy on their own, leaving Frieda and Aaron to themselves a good deal of the time. One afternoon they had taken a guided hike into the hills. Another evening they had gone into the town for an authentic meal of Escoveitch fish. Afterward they had stopped in a café and caught a fantastic performance by a local band. Best of all, they had made love three times in that one week. By the last day of the holiday they had felt rejuvenated as lovers as well as partners in raising two children.
And then . . . Losing Aaron at just that point in the evolution of their relationship had felt like a massively cruel trick of the universe, an enormous slap in the face Frieda could barely comprehend. Correction. A slap in the face she couldn’t at all comprehend.
Frieda straightened her shoulders. She would put the past aside at least for the moment. She had work to do, new jobs to find, and a budget to balance. Bills didn’t pay themselves, as her mother used to say when Frieda was growing up and they were struggling to make ends meet. Now Frieda knew all too well what her mother had meant. A career as a freelance marketing writer and copy editor was all well and good when there was a second heftier and steady salary coming in, but when it served as the family’s sole means of support making ends meet could be difficult.
Before fetching her laptop Frieda wondered if she should wake Bella. She was halfway to the stairs when she changed her mind. Bella didn’t start work at Phil’s shop until the following day; there was no need to rouse her from what Frieda hoped was a sweet and dreamless sleep. She knew all too well how rare a gift that was.
Chapter 7
Bella locked her bike to the old-fashioned hitching post outside Phil’s shop in downtown Yorktide and pushed open the door of Wainscoting and Windowseats. Here goes nothing, she thought. For the life of her she couldn’t see how working in a store that sold stuff like candlesticks and chandeliers was going to make her feel less guilty for being a jerk to Ariel about wanting to go to the museum the morning they were scheduled to leave Jamaica, or less guilty about not having thanked her father enough for giving her a birthday present that had made all her friends jealous—before the accident, that is. But Bella had long ago realized that there was pretty much no saying no to her grandmother.
Phil was waiting to greet her, a dust cloth in hand. “Good morning, Bella,” he said. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Phil Morse was a handsome, tall, broad-shouldered man about her grandmother’s age. Phil always wore really nice clothes; Bella was no fashionista, but she could recognize people who were. His dark hair, short on the sides and a little longer on top, always looked perfect, as if he had just come out of the hairstylist’s salon. But the most attractive thing about Phil was his personality. He was seriously nice and witty and smart. He had to be smart to be able to afford his beautiful house, which he had had specially built by a Boston-based architect he had known since their undergraduate days at the Rhode Island School of Design. Why Phil wasn’t in a relationship had always puzzled Bella. She knew he had lost his partner to cancer, but that was a bazillion years ago, long before Bella was even born. Well, Phil might be alone, but he didn’t seem to be unhappy, so . . .
“Hi, Phil,” she said. “I guess I should thank you for giving me a job.”
“Yes, you should thank me, even though I know you didn’t ask for it.”
Bella managed a smile. “You know Grandma.”
“I do. Now, come here.” Phil gave her a hug; his familiar scent was comforting and it almost brought tears to her eyes. Bella was surprised. She hadn’t been able to cry in months.
“Come to the office,” he said when he released her, “and I’ll fill you in on your duties and how things are done around here.”
The first thing that caught Bella’s eye when she walked into the office at the back of the shop was a plaque on the wall over the larger of two desks. If you’re going through hell, it said, keep going. Underneath those words was the name Winston Churchill.
“One of my all-time favorite mottos,” Phil said, “though it’s now agreed he never actually said those exact words. Do you know who Winston Churchill was?”
Bella looked away from the plaque. “I think so. I mean, I think he had something to do with history.”
Phil sighed and looked heavenwards. “What do they teach young people in school these days? Yes, Bella. He had something to do with history. He was England’s Prime Minister from 1940 to 1945 and then again from 1951 to 1955. Trust me, he knew a bit about hell.”
I do, too, Bella thought. But I’m not always sure about the keep going part.
“You can put your bag in here,” Phil said briskly, pointing to a deep drawer in the larger desk. “It locks. You’ll get a fifteen-minute break every two hours. If you work a full day, you’ll have an hour for lunch. If you want to bring your lunch you can eat it here at this smaller desk. And I’d recommend bringing lunch from home; you know how pricey everything is here and the crowds lining up at the sandwich shops and clam shacks for food will be long.” Phil pointed to a small fridge under a counter on which sat what looked to Bella like something from an old black-and-white movie about the space age. “The fridge is yours to use, but stay away from the Bezzera Strega. That’s the espresso machine to you and me. It’s highly temperamental. If you want a cup of coffee, just ask.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” Bella said. “But thanks.”
“Are you ready to roll up your sleeves? And yes, I know that you’re wearing a sleeveless top.”
“I guess.”
Phil smiled kindly; Bella had never seen him smile anything but kindly. “Look, Bella,” he said, “if you want to be miserable, fine, that’s your decision. As long as you do your job well I won’t complain. I can’t have you overcharging the customers for drawer pulls or doorknobs.”
“Sorry. I mean, I’ll pay attention.”
“Good. Now, let me show you around.” Bella followed Phil out of the office and back into the shop itself. “It’s pretty simple, really. Over here is the fabric for sale by the yard. Belgian linen, velvet, textured linen weave, et cetera. Everything is clearly marked, and if a customer has a question about what fabric is best for what purpose come and get me.” Phil pointed across the shop. “The area rugs are over there next to the ottomans and footstools and benches.”
“Benches?” Bella said.
“Yes, the kind you place at the foot of your bed. Sometimes they include a storage unit for extra blankets and whatnot. This center table as you can see is where we display the candlesticks and vases and such. Table linens are over there and window hardware—curtain rods—and drapery are against the wall over there.”
“Who buys this stuff?” Bella asked, looking from a pile of pillows on a small couch, many decorated with fringe, to three fancy chandeliers hanging overhead. “I don’t even know what some of this is. What’s wainscoting, anyway?”
“The simple way to put it is that it’s a lining of an interior wall. Most often done in wood, oak if you’re lucky, but it can consist of other materials.”
“So, do you sell wainscoting?”
“No.”
“Then why is the shop called Wainscoting and Windowseats? What about window seats? Do you sell them?”
Phil sighed. “Alliteration, Bella. A catchy phrase. An evocation of a comfortable domestic life. And plenty of people buy this ‘stuff,’ ” he went on. “I’ve got a loyal clientele of year-round residents from as far away as Kennebunkport and Cape Elizabeth. They’re people who redecorate their homes regularly and don’t want to buy everything online. I provide good old-fashioned face-to-face service.”
“What about summer people?” Bella asked, running her finger along a small wooden box inlaid with some shiny material. “Do they buy anything?”
“The ones with vacation homes do,” Phil told her. “And on occasion I get a tourist who’s been on the hunt for a particular item and he finds it here in my shop. You’d be surprised how many people travel to the ends of the earth, so to speak, in search of the perfect bowl for the perfect potpourri.”
Bella shrugged.
“Bella,” Phil said, “a shrug is the least eloquent means of communication.”
“Sorry.”
Phil waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I don’t really care. Just don’t do it in front of the customers. They like to think you’re interested in them, even a little. Now, let me show you how to use the computer and then I’ll open the doors. It’s usually busiest after lunch, but some mornings can be hectic. You never know. What is certain is that if we get rain we get customers, so try not to call in sick on a rainy day.”
“I won’t,” Bella said. “I like rain. I’m not afraid of gloom.”
Phil put a hand gently on Bella’s shoulder. “Don’t forget,” he said, “that sunshine is pretty good, too.”
Bella swallowed hard and nodded. She wanted to thank Phil again—for what exactly she couldn’t say—but this time she knew that if she risked a word the tears would begin to flow.
Chapter 8
Frieda lifted her long blond hair off her neck in a vain attempt at cooling down. It was a real scorcher of a day, the kind of day that made you want to be holed up in an air-conditioned room. And Roy’s Garden Center was not an air-conditioned room.
“Frieda.”
At the sound of her name, spoken by a familiar voice, albeit one she hadn’t heard in years, Frieda turned around. “Jack,” she said with a smile. “Hi.”
Jack Tennant had hardly changed at all since high school. His skin was remarkably smooth and the ubiquitous middle-aged sagging chin hadn’t yet manifested. There was not a trace of gray in his hair and Frieda bet he could still fit into his old basketball uniform. The thought made her flush with embarrassment.
“How are you?” she said briskly, extending her hand. “I can’t believe we’ve seen so little of each other these past years. It seems every time I’m in town you’re in Chicago for a conference or Colorado for a hike!”
Jack laughed and shook Frieda’s hand. “I think my wandering days are coming to an end. Travel doesn’t hold the same interest for me it once did and I’ve scaled back on the number of conferences I attend. Every once in a while I’m pretty much compelled to go and listen to a bunch of other college administrators as bored as I am go on about changing admissions policies or new software aimed at making my life infinitely easier—once I figure it out.”
“Hmmm, that doesn’t sound very appealing.”
“It isn’t,” Jack said. “So, what brings you to Roy’s on this insanely hot day?”
“My mother asked me to pick up a few potted plants. Anything colorful, she said. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Bella and I are spending the summer with her. Things have been . . . Well, they’ve been difficult, especially for Bella.”
Jack nodded. “I understand, Frieda. I really do, and I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Are you doing well? It’s been four years now, hasn’t it?”
“Four years this past February that Veronica passed, yes,” Jack affirmed. “And I am doing well. It took some time and there are still some painful moments, but with every passing day there comes a little more peace of mind.” Jack smiled. “Listen to me! I sound like one of those posters printed with slogans supposed to encourage you to keep on keeping on. A kitten clinging with his front paws to the branch of a tree.”
“But you’re right, Jack,” Frieda said. “Time does help the healing process. I mean, it’s only been fifteen months since the accident, but I do feel better than I did. Mostly. Of course, then I feel guilty for moving on, as if by healing I’m allowing myself to forget Aaron and Ariel.”
“I know all about that cycle, too,” Jack said. “Survivor Guilt they call it, right? Getting Better Guilt. It’s a nasty business whatever form it takes.”
Frieda nodded. “It is. But on matters less gloomy and complicated, what are you doing at Roy’s?”
“I needed a new spade,” Jack said, indicating the small plastic bag in his hand. “The handle broke off mine. Well, I’d only had it about twenty years, so I got my money’s worth. Hey, would you like to go for coffee or get lunch sometime? I’m sure there’s plenty to catch up on, and not all of it sad.”
Frieda smiled. “Sure. That would be nice. I don’t have a lot of work at the moment—summers can be slow in the world of freelance—which means I’ve got plenty of free time. I guess that’s both a good and a bad thing.”
They exchanged cell phone numbers and Jack headed in the direction of the parking lot, new spade in tow, while Frieda went in search of the plants her mother wanted her to buy. Jack Tennant. Her memories of him didn’t seem to have a marked beginning. Well, why should they? She had known Jack almost her entire life. In third grade they had been in the school’s Christmas play together. In middle school they had both been members of the glee club. Later, she had watched him play on the high school’s varsity basketball team and perform trumpet solos with the orchestra. It would be good to exchange memories of the old days, back when life was relatively simple. Back when they had both been so innocent of true sorrow. Sure, Frieda thought, her father leaving when she was eleven had been upsetting, but it was nothing to having lost her husband and child, or to Jack’s having lost his wife.
Nothing.
Chapter 9
“I hope everyone likes garlic,” Ruby murmured as she tasted the basil and parsley pesto sauce she had just made. And if they don’t, she added silently, then it’s more for me.
Ruby spooned the pesto into a large pan and then regarded the old-fashioned crank-handled ice-cream maker sitting by the toaster. She had bought the machine earlier that afternoon at a flea market in South Berwick. Aaron had had one just like it. He and the girls had loved to make a big production of churning their own ice cream. And if the results weren’t always perfect, the fun of the process more than made up for poor results.
You would be hard-pressed to find a more wonderful father than Aaron Braithwaite, Ruby thought with a sigh. No matter how demanding his work schedule, he always made time to take Bella to Boston Breakers games at Jordan Field or to take Ariel to see a play at the Huntington Theatre. Each summer Aaron and Bella went on a camping trip to the Lake St. Catherine region in Vermont, and when there was a special exhibit at the Yale University Art Gallery in New Haven that Ariel was just dying to see Aaron would happily escort his younger daughter. Whether it was watching old horror movies with Bella or Downton Abbey with Ariel, Aaron Braithwaite had proved his love for his children time and time again.
Ruby began to grate a pile of Parmesan for their meal and glanced again at the ice-cream maker. What she was going to suggest to Frieda and Bella at dinner was perhaps a risk, but it was a risk Ruby was willing to take in an effort to encourage Bella to remember the simple pleasures of family life. To encourage Bella to come home.
At exactly six thirty Ruby heard a car pull into the drive and she smiled. It was George, of course. Call me what you like, but never call me late for dinner was his motto. He joined Ruby a moment
later and after kissing her cheek he began to set the table.
“Busy day at the office?” Ruby asked, stirring the pot of boiling pasta.
“No more than usual,” George told her. “Though I was stuck in an interminable meeting with the budget people. Seriously, I almost laughed out loud when one of them started to compare the cost of our using mechanical pencils to the cost of our using the old-fashioned wooden kind. Really? In this day and age this is an issue?”
Before Ruby could reply, Frieda and Bella joined them.
“Hello, George,” Frieda said. “Mmm, what smells so good?”
“Your mother’s been hitting the garlic again. Hello, Bella.”
“Hi,” Bella said, taking a seat at the table.
After mixing the boiled pasta with the pesto sauce, Ruby brought the meal to the table. “Sit and enjoy,” she said. “It’s better when it’s hot.”
Frieda and George each took a healthy serving of pasta and began to eat. Bella put a small helping on her plate and began to move it around with her fork. “It tastes even better when it’s in your mouth,” Ruby told her granddaughter.
Dutifully, Bella took a bite.
Ruby hesitated for a moment and then said, “Guess what I found in a flea market this morning?”
“A flea?” George quipped.
“Ha. No. Take a look at the counter. I found an old-fashioned ice-cream maker, just like Aaron’s.”
Frieda glanced over her shoulder and then looked down at her plate. Ruby couldn’t read her expression. Bella showed no sign of having heard her grandmother.
Ruby soldiered on. “I was thinking we could make our own blueberry ice cream. Lord knows there are plenty of blueberries around this time of the year.”
“I’ll be your taster if you like,” George said. “I know it’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
Ruby smiled at him gratefully. Bella shrugged and coiled a few strands of fettucine around her fork.
“I think it’s a great idea, Mom,” Frieda said, finally looking up. “Really. We haven’t . . . We haven’t used our machine since . . .”
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