At the River’s Edge

by Mariah Stewart

  “Skeptical because of our dad.” Sophie nodded. She knew the story.

  “Yes.” Violet met Sophie’s eyes without apology. “Your father was a scoundrel. I suppose he still is and always will be, though God knows why he should have been. He was always loved and he was raised right, and he still turned out to be a scoundrel. Your grandmother was my best friend, and he broke her heart. Some things you don’t forget. Some you can’t forgive.”

  “I have a hard time understanding him, too.” Sophie started to open another envelope, and Violet passed her a letter opener with a silver handle. “Actually, I don’t understand him at all.”

  “He was always a handful, that boy, but once he hit high school, he became worse. Always in trouble of one sort or another. Made it through college somehow, though he was bounced out of the first school he went to. Law school, he barely graduated, but he did pass the bar. Then he met and married that lovely Delia and had those three sweet children …” Violet shook her head. “Whatever possessed him to leave her—and them—I’ll never know. Your grandmother Rose told me that he had no contact with Delia and the children after he left. He just walked away from that family, and she never did know why. Oh, I understand he did pay some child support, but still, what kind of a man does a thing like that?”

  “No answers here.” Sophie shrugged. “He met my mom after he left Delia, and they had Jesse and then me. Then he met someone else and he left us as well. Now he’s onto his fourth wife—at least I think she’s his wife, but I’m not sure that they’re actually married. I don’t know if his divorce from Pam—she was wife number three—is final. I think the new woman is a lot younger than he.”

  “I’d say she was a gold digger, but since he was disbarred, I don’t suppose he’s making as good a living as he could have.”

  “I don’t know her—don’t know anything about her—and I haven’t seen him, so there’s not much I can say.”

  “It has to weigh on you, though.” Violet’s hands rested atop the letter she had yet to begin to read.

  “Oh, it does. At least, it used to. These days, I guess I just feel that he’s made his bed—literally—and he’s going to have to live with the choices he’s made.”

  “How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “My mother is great. Terrific. She has a successful career—she’s made partner in the firm she works for—and she has what looks like a solid relationship with a very nice man. I don’t think she has a lot of complaints about her life these days.” Sophie balled up another résumé—no legal experience—and sent it overhand to the trash can. “I’d say all of us have weathered the storm that was Dad and we all came out okay. Of course, Judd’s still really young, so the jury’s still out on him. Then again, with Pammie for a mother, who knows how he’ll turn out.”

  Sophie was aware that there was an edge to her voice every time she spoke of or thought about her father, and she knew that Violet had picked up on it, because the older woman fell silent. It was hard to talk about him, harder than she ever liked to admit. The years after he’d left them for Pam had been painful for all of them. But in the end, things had worked out well enough. Her mother had been forced to take out loans to go back to law school, but after a few low-level jobs, she’d landed one she loved and had excelled. Craig hadn’t yet been accused of siphoning funds from a client’s account—charges he vehemently denied even as he was disbarred—so the Enright name hadn’t yet carried the stain it would later bear. Jesse and Sophie had gotten through college and law school on student loans, which they were both still paying off, but the end was in sight on that score. So while they’d been down for a while after Craig left them, they were never really out, thanks to their mother’s strength and smarts and her no-excuses approach to life.

  Funny, Sophie thought—her father’s first wife, Delia, had managed pretty well, too. After Craig had dumped her and their children, Delia started writing mystery stories—at first to amuse herself at night after her kids, Nick, Zoey, and Georgia, had gone to bed. She’d found she was good at it, and eventually found the nerve to submit her writings to a literary agent, who found a publisher for the first three of what would become dozens of bestselling mysteries. Delia Enright was to this day one of the top-selling writers in the country. Her latest book sat on the coffee table in Sophie’s living room.

  “Funny how both your mother and Delia blossomed after Craig,” Violet said.

  “Funnier yet that I was just thinking the same thing.” The lesson wasn’t lost on Sophie. Could she rise above her failed relationship and flourish, as her mother and Delia had?

  Perhaps, but maybe not while she remained in the DA’s office.

  “Well, I guess a lot of women find themselves once they’re on the other side of a bad relationship,” Violet went on. “I’m not sure why, but a lot of women really come into their own. Maybe it’s because they want a new direction in life, and that makes them focus on what’s important to them. Some women find strengths they never knew they had—strengths they might never have found if they’d stayed in a relationship that proved to be bad for them. Sometimes all we need to grow into the person we were meant to be is a little push, however painful that push might feel at the time.”

  “Not everyone has that kind of strength. Not everyone can find their way out, or see beyond where they are.” Could she?

  “True,” Violet agreed. “But we’ve handled our share of divorces in the years I’ve been here, and I’ve seen a lot of women who changed their lives for the better when they had to.”

  “Change is harder for some people than it is for others. It’s not always easy, knowing what’s the best course to take.” Sophie could attest to that.

  “No doubt. But all of life’s a challenge, you know, and eventually, it all comes back to the choices we make. Sometimes the choices that are the hardest are the ones that, in the end, lead us to where we’re supposed to be.” A small smile played at the corner of Violet’s mouth. “Sometimes we have to go out on a limb to find what makes us happy, what makes our lives complete.” She looked up at Sophie and added, “Choices, don’t you know,” before focusing her attention on the piece of mail she’d just opened. “Everything comes back to the choices we make.”

  Sophie narrowed her eyes and stared across the desk at Violet. Had Jesse told her about Sophie’s current dilemma, about her cheating boyfriend and her infatuation with the boarded-up restaurant on River Road?

  The phone rang and Violet answered it, taking a message for Jesse, and after a brief, cordial chat with the caller, hung up.

  “I know that voice mail is all the thing these days,” Violet said as she jotted down the message, “but it goes against my grain to make a client go through the motions. I’d just as soon talk to whoever calls myself. It’s the only way to find out what people really want when they call.” She rose and took the message into Jesse’s office, where, Sophie assumed, she’d leave the note on his desk.

  “Oh, by the way, I saw Enid Walsh on Sunday. She’s younger than I, but she’s had her problems over the years and doesn’t get around very well these days. Anyway, after you brought up her name on Saturday, I kept thinking I should call and see if she needed anything. That would be the charitable thing to do.” Violet sat back down at the desk and rolled her chair forward. “She said it had been ages since she’d been to church—can’t drive anymore because the arthritis in her legs is so bad and her vision isn’t what it used to be—so of course, I offered to pick her up. I think she’s looking poorly these days. I saw her back in the fall, and I can see where she’s failing. Poor dear. It must be so lonely for her, having her whole family gone.”

  Sophie had to bite her tongue to keep from urging Violet to get to the point—the point being the status of the restaurant. She knew that once that thought was in Violet’s head, the woman wasn’t going to rest until she knew what was going on with the property.

  “She’s thinking about going into a home, Enid is. There
’s a new one out on the highway going toward Ballard that’s supposed to be very nice. I believe she’s looking into it, though I hear it’s very expensive. She said she’d probably have to sell her house in order to afford it.”

  “That’s too bad.” No, no, the restaurant, Sophie thought. She ought to sell the restaurant.

  “She’d be much better off in a home, really, with people to look after her. She said she fell around Christmas and if her neighbor hadn’t come over to bring her a plate of cookies, she’d probably still be there on the floor. Then again, that house was built by her grandfather and it’s going to break the poor woman’s heart to part with it.”

  Get to the point. Please. Get to the part where she’s going to sell the restaurant.

  “So I asked her what other properties she owns—the Walsh family had some holdings here in town—but she said that everything had been sold over the years. Except, of course, the place out on River Road.” Violet looked up at Sophie. “She said she just couldn’t sell that place. Too many happy memories there, you see.”

  Damn. Sophie’s heart sank.

  “But I pointed out that she should probably have the property appraised,” Violet went on. “Because you never know, really, what lies ahead. Better to have one’s affairs in order, you know. I said, ‘Perhaps the better option might be to sell the old restaurant’—which really is of no use to her, after all—‘and keep the house.’ As I pointed out to her, with the nursing home being so pricy, why, she could stay in her own house and have someone live in for much less money.” She glanced up at Sophie again and added, “I believe she may be taking that into consideration.”

  “That would seem like a smart thing to do.” Sophie tried to hide the surge of hope that sped through her.

  “I’m sure I’ll hear either way.”

  “You think she’ll call you when she makes up her mind?”

  “I’m sure I’ll hear about it when I pick her up on Sunday mornings for church. I told her I’d drive her whenever she wants to go.” Violet smiled again. “It’s the charitable thing to do …”

  Diary ~

  Well, what a nice surprise I had at Cuppachino this morning! Sophie Enright is in town visiting her brother for a week. She’s a lovely girl, and I know that her grandfather is tickled that she’s going to be around for a few days. He’d never admit it—not in a million years—but he must miss his son, Craig—her father—terribly. Whatever happened between father and son, between mother and son, it’s not mine to say. I do know that being separated from your children for a long period of time can break your heart. To have your children stay away because you’ve sent them away, well, I cannot imagine. I know that my son stays away because he’s chosen a life that sends him into other parts of the world where maybe he can do some good. Keeping the peace, he says, even when I know that some of the places he goes to are in a state of civil war. And yet he’ll call whenever he can, he writes when the spirit moves him, and I know that if I ever truly needed him, he’d come home. Ford knows that he is loved, and we are confident that he loves us in return. I cannot bear to think of a time when we would not speak or communicate in some way. I don’t know how Curtis has lived these last … dear me, could it be twenty or more years already? Yes, I believe it has been. How could he stand to not see the face of his child in all that time? Yes, of course, I’ve heard the stories of Craig’s failed marriages and the families he’s abandoned, of the scandals and the allegations of fraud committed against a client. Still, when it’s your flesh and blood, do you not still love even when the actions may have been unlovable?

  I’m thanking my creator tonight that I’ve never had to make that choice, and I pray that I never will.

  ~ Grace ~

  Chapter 8

  JASON drove his pickup to the end of Curtis Enright’s driveway and parked in front of the old stone carriage house. He’d barely gotten out of the cab when he heard his name called.

  “Jason!” Curtis came toward him across the uneven lawn, a weathered walking stick in his right hand.

  I’m going to level off that section, Jason thought as he saw the old man wobble slightly and pause to steady himself on the bumpy terrain. After we get rid of the moles.

  “Hey, chief.” Jason walked to meet him so that his client wouldn’t have to navigate over the increasingly lumpy ground. “I was just about to come up to the house. You didn’t have to walk all the way down here.”

  “Nonsense. A man has to get his exercise somehow.” The old man’s eyes sparkled.

  “Seems like moles are tearing up the lawn down here. It looks like they have a series of condos that reach almost to the river.” Jason bent down to inspect the ruts in the ground.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been remiss in taking care of the far-back portion of the property,” Curtis admitted. “Other than having the grass mowed and the trees pruned from time to time, I haven’t paid as much attention as I might have. Guess I’m paying for that now. So how do we get rid of them?”

  “I can have someone come in and take care of the problem.”

  “Good, good. Whatever you need to do. I’d hate to see someone trip and break an ankle.”

  That would most likely be you, Jason thought. Aloud, he said, “I’ll have someone out by the end of the week. In the meantime, let me show you what we’re going to be doing in the big garden starting next week.”

  They started toward the house, Jason slowing his pace to match Curtis’s, though he didn’t mind that it took a few minutes longer to reach the other side of the yard. He enjoyed the company of the older man—looked forward to it, actually. Jason had never known either of his own grandfathers, but he thought he would have liked one of them to be a little like Curtis Enright. It wasn’t so much about the fact that Curtis was prosperous as it was about his spirit. Jason had been comfortable in his company since the first time they’d met to talk about possible refurbishing of the grounds. There was something about the old guy that clicked with Jason, something that made being around him a pleasure.

  “Let’s go on inside.” Curtis pointed his walking stick toward the back door. “Bring your plans in and we’ll take a look.”

  “I’ll grab the folder from the truck and meet you in the house.”

  Jason waited until Curtis safely reached the flat part of the yard before grabbing his work folder from the front seat. Curtis was already inside by the time Jason caught up with him.

  Curtis glanced at the clock on the wall.

  “Four o’clock,” he muttered. “Well, it’s six o’clock somewhere. How ’bout a beer while we go over those drawings of yours?”

  When Jason hesitated, Curtis added, “Unless you have another client this late in the day …”

  “Done for the day after this. A beer would be great, thanks.”

  Curtis went to the refrigerator and removed two bottles. “Jesse dropped off some of that new beer Clay and Wade are working on. Blueberry honey beer. Sounds more like one of Steffie’s ice-cream flavors than beer, you ask me. But no. Beer.” He shook his head. “Blueberry honey beer.”

  “I had some the other night. It’s pretty good, actually.”

  “I remember when beer’s flavor was beer.” Curtis went into the butler’s pantry and returned with two pilsner glasses. “You may not remember, but beer didn’t used to come in flavors.”

  “I remember.” Jason felt mildly amused. “I’m not that young.”

  “It’s all relative, my boy.” Curtis opened one of the bottles, poured the beer down the side of the glass, and handed both glass and bottle to Jason, then repeated the process for himself. When his own glass had been poured, he gestured toward one of the doors leading from the kitchen. “Let’s take these into the library. You can spread your plans on the table in there and we can take a look.”

  Jason followed Curtis through one of the doors and into the grand entry hall. A table held a lamp, a large painted vase filled with branching arms of forsythia, and a pair of silver candleholders. Jason t
hought he detected the faintest hint of gardenia in the air.

  “Mrs. Anderson’s touch.” Curtis pointed at the vase as they passed by. “She thought the house looked dreary last week, so she cut some bare branches and brought them in to force them into bloom. Looks like it worked. Flowers popped out over yesterday afternoon. Does look brighter.”

  He continued walking as he spoke, pausing only to open a door on their left, then stood aside for Jason to enter.

  “Feel a little chilly in here?” Curtis asked Jason.

  “Maybe a little.” Jason pointed to the fireplace. “I could build you a fire.”

  “That would be nice.” Curtis nodded and looked pleased by the offer. “Thank you.”

  “You chop all this wood yourself?” Jason asked as he selected a few lengths of wood from the black iron cauldron where they were stacked and piled them on the hearth.

  Curtis chuckled. “Ah, it’s been years since I so much as carried the stuff into the house. Jesse had someone cut it from some branches that fell from an old oak last year.”

  “I bet you’re glad Jesse lives so close.” Jason crumpled some newspaper and placed it under the rack upon which he’d stacked several pieces of wood.

  “Couldn’t be happier. He’s the future of Enright and Enright, and he’s grown into a good man. I’m delighted to have him around. Wish I could convince his sister to come aboard.” Curtis eased himself into a seat at the table facing the fireplace. “Matches are in the box on the mantel.”

  I wouldn’t mind having Jesse’s sister around full time, either.

  Jason struck a match and held the flame to the newspaper, allowing the fledgling fire to crackle for a moment or two before using the bellows to gently urge it upward to the logs. When the logs caught and the fire began to settle into the wood, he replaced the bellows onto the iron rack that had held it.

  “Very nice.” Curtis nodded. “Thank you. You get old, you can’t be too warm.”