by Robin Brande
“Where’s the kitchen?” Hildy demanded.
“Through there,” Ted said, pointing straight ahead. He and Eliza followed. “Bossy, isn’t she?” he murmured.
“I was just telling her that.”
The kitchen looked new and unused. A half-eaten microwave dinner sat on the counter beside the sink. Eliza took in the cherry wood cabinets, the oak floor, the clean granite countertops in muted grays and greens. The room was cozy, despite how enormous it was. But it lacked something. The appliances all looked brand new—not even a smudge on their black and stainless steel exteriors. The track lighting cast a cheery glow, but what was wrong with this picture?
“I see you made yourself dinner,” Hildy smirked, setting her casserole dish on the counter.
“Yes. Cooked it myself,” Ted said. “Would you like one?”
Hildy made a face. “I don’t know how people eat that garbage. Why don’t you bring yourself home some soup from your store? I saw some nice ones in there today.”
“I didn’t have time to stop,” Ted answered. “I was expecting some ladies.”
“Oh, well we’ll get out of your hair—”
Ted smiled at Hildy. “I meant you two.”
Hildy laughed. “Well, you could have dressed up a little more.”
“I didn’t want to shock you.”
Hildy squeezed his arm. “It takes a lot to shock an old woman like me.”
Eliza watched in amazement. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother-in-law so flirtatious. And Ted Walsh seemed to be enjoying it as much as she did.
“Well, let’s see if we can feed you something better,” Hildy said, unveiling her creations with a flourish. “Take your pick.”
Ted withdrew a spoon from a drawer and sampled what was in the casserole dish. “Mmmm...”
“Horseradish mashed potatoes,” Hildy said with pride. “I like to serve those in champagne glasses—people really get a kick out of that. Of course we can use plastic glasses if you like.”
“I think we’d better. People get awfully sloppy at these things.” Ted leaned over the counter and continued sampling Hildy’s work. He reached for a stuffed mushroom.
“That one has garlic and—”
Ted held up his hand. “Let me guess.” He maneuvered it over his tongue while he gazed at the ceiling for inspiration. “Lemon, maybe some curry—”
“No,” Hildy said.
“Butter—”
“Of course—”
Ted turned to Eliza. “Did you make these or did she?”
Eliza wasn’t prepared for any attention. “Uh...no, she made them all.”
“You’re the assistant she talked about?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be cooking for this event?”
Eliza glanced at Hildy.
“She always does,” Hildy lied. “What difference does it make?”
“Just asking.” Ted made another selection. With his mouth full of smoked salmon and capers on crostini, he asked Eliza, “How long have you worked for Miss Hildy?”
“Uh, off and on, a few years.”
“Hm,” he said, swallowing. “That isn’t what I heard.”
Eliza tensed. “Oh?”
“I heard you’re Hildy’s daughter-in-law Eliza Shepherd, you’re about thirty-one, grew up in Nevada, two brothers, you majored in English, you’re a writer—what else have I missed?”
Eliza stared. “How could you possibly know all that?”
Ted shrugged and picked up another mushroom. “Word gets around.”
“Gossip,” Hildy said.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Ted asked.
“So far,” Eliza confirmed. “Did anyone guess my height and weight?”
Ted considered her. “Five foot four, maybe? Weight about...nah, I’m really bad at that. Let’s just say under two hundred—”
“Close enough,” Eliza said.
“Truth is, I met you once.”
“You did? When?”
“Maybe ten years ago? Long time. You and Jamey were up here visiting the folks.”
“Must have been the year after you got married,” Hildy said. “’Cause we moved out to Nevada—”
“I don’t remember,” Eliza interrupted. She wanted to head them both off before they felt it necessary to talk about Jamey. “Remember meeting you, I mean. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not surprised,” Ted answered. “As I recall, you only had eyes for Jamey.”
She nodded politely. It was still hard for her, hearing people talk about him so easily. With Hildy it was one thing—Eliza had learned to listen without flinching while Hildy reminisced about this or that from her son’s life—but she still had trouble hearing about Jamey from strangers. She supposed people felt entitled to talk about him. His life in the public eye made him other people’s property, not just hers.
“I saw something you wrote once,” Ted said.
“You did?”
“Some trip you did with Jamey—Antarctica, maybe? Somewhere where there were a lot of glaciers.”
“I didn’t go with him on the Antarctica trip,” Eliza said. “It must have been either Alaska or France.”
“Right—Alaska. Jamey took some great pictures, didn’t he? I liked the one of you climbing that frozen waterfall—”
“Listen,” Eliza said, “I don’t really—”
“I liked your article, too. Really vivid.”
“Thanks.” Eliza felt a mix of emotions: pride at the difficulty and success of that trip, joy at the memory of sharing it with Jamey, the pain of knowing that part of her life was over.
“Lizzy writes beautifully, doesn’t she?” Hildy said.
“She does. You do.”
“They made an excellent team.”
“I’m sure,” Ted said. “Anyway, I was sorry to hear about Jamey.”
Eliza cleared her throat. “Yeah, well.... So, will any of this food do?”
“All of it,” he said. “Can we do that?”
“Sure,” Hildy answered. “I’ll set it out in shifts. Start with the mushrooms—”
“However you want it,” Ted said. “Set up by four o’clock. I expect it’ll go till around eleven.”
“All for a grocery store?” Eliza asked before thinking it might offend him.
“Not just a grocery store,” Ted corrected her, “a shopping and dining experience.” He stood erect and placed his hand over his heart and recited solemnly, “‘At Walsh’s we don’t just promise the finest selection of foods in central New York, we promise a shopping and dining experience your family will want to return to again and again.’” He rotated his hand in the air. “And again and again and again. Seriously, we put up some great stores. Have you been in one yet?”
“No, sorry, I haven’t gotten out much.” Eliza thought guiltily about a conversation she’d had just a few days after arriving, when Hildy had suggested they stock up on groceries at Walsh’s.
“That place?” Eliza had said. “Too big, too loud, too trendy.” She’d driven past it a few times and always kept on going. She preferred the small, homey market just up the street from Hildy’s house. They might not have every food and gadget Walsh’s did, but at least Eliza could shop there in peace without having to compete with the crowds.
“I’ll leave all these for you,” Hildy told Teddy. “You can give me back my dishes later.”
“No, here, take them now.” Ted swiftly transferred the food from Hildy’s dishes into some of his own. When Hildy reached for her casserole dish, Ted pulled it back and rinsed it in the sink first.
Hildy nudged her daughter-in-law. “Wow, what manners—huh, Lizzy?”
Eliza shot Hildy a warning look. “Yes. Very nice.”
“So, Teddy,” Hildy said, “we’ll see you next Friday, then? Or maybe before? We just got here, and Lizzy doesn’t know many people yet—”
“That’s okay—”
“No, Lizzy—Eliza,” Ted said, “Hildy’s right. I should show
you around the greater sights of Careyville before too long. Have you seen the post office yet?”
“I’m pretty busy.”
“Doing what?” Hildy scoffed. “Walking the dog? Clicking at your computer? You should go.”
Eliza glared at her. Hildy shrugged.
“You could come by the store tomorrow,” Ted said. “Oh, no, wait, I have to be at the Delmar store tomorrow. How about Thursday—lunch? I’ll give you a tour so you can see the full Walsh’s shopping experience. Maybe even sneak you a free lunch.”
“No, thanks, I’d pay—I mean, if I came—which I probably won’t—”
Ted smiled and there was mischief in his eyes, making Eliza feel even more flustered. She wasn’t used to men looking at her that way anymore. In fact, she had made a point over the last two years of not inviting any attention at all. She dressed plainly, usually in jeans and a black or blue shirt of some kind. She wore little or no makeup, kept her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and had switched from contacts back to glasses.
“I have to go,” Eliza said. “Come on, Hildy, I still have work to do.”
“Writing something?” Ted asked.
“Her magazine column,” Hildy said.
“Yeah, and it’s due day after tomorrow.” Eliza pulled at her mother-in-law’s sleeve. “We have to go. Nice meeting you—um, seeing you again.”
When they were safe in the car, Eliza turned to the older woman and said, “What was that?”
“What?” Hildy answered innocently.
“I’m not that lonely.”
“He’s a nice man—and very good looking, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure he is, but I’m not interested.”
“He’s very nice.”
“How do you even know? When’s the last time you talked to him before today?”
“He was one of Jamey’s friends in school.”
“Oh, I see, so we’re talking historically here. Well, they can’t have been that good of friends—Jamey never mentioned him.”
“It was when they were younger.”
“Hildy, honestly—I’m not looking for male companionship.”
“Honey, you’re going to have to start thinking about it some time. I’m not going to have any more sons, you know. You’re going to have to start looking around.”
Eliza groaned in frustration. “Please, please, don’t do that again. It’s embarrassing.”
“Why? He’s good looking, you’re gorgeous, if you’d fix yourself up a little—”
“Hildy, I’m serious.”
Hildy laid her hand on Eliza’s wrist. Eliza winced—the wrist was still tender from having been kicked that morning.
“It wouldn’t hurt to be a little friendly. You need the practice.”
“I’m plenty friendly.” Eliza gave her best fake smile. “See?”
“You know,” Hildy said, “I might get married again, for the right man.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“I sure would. You think I’m too old for that? You think no one would want me?”
“No, of course I don’t think that. But even if you did, that’s you, all right? I’m perfectly happy with the way things are.”
“You think you’re going to live with me until death do us part? No way,” Hildy said. “The first sign someone’s interested in me, you’re out on your can.”
“Start the car. I’m freezing.”
“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Hildy pressed.
“He’s rich and he’s charming, and you know I can’t stand either of those things.”
“So that’s why my Jamey never made a success.”
“He was plenty successful and you know it.”
“He could have been a millionaire,” Hildy said wistfully, “but he loved his wife too much...”
“Start the car.”
“I can’t,” Hildy said. “He’s coming.”
Eliza slunk down in her seat. Hildy started the engine and rolled down Eliza’s window.
“I forgot,” Ted said, leaning in. “I can’t do Thursday lunch—I have a meeting. How about dinner instead?”
“Um...no, thanks. I can’t.”
“Yes, she can,” Hildy said.
Without turning her head Eliza flicked her hand against Hildy’s thigh. “I really can’t. Sorry.”
“Okay, too bad,” Ted said. “Maybe some other time.”
“Yeah, maybe. Good night.”
“’Night.”
Eliza rolled up her window and mumbled from the side of her mouth, “Can we please go now?”
Hildy waved to Ted before backing into the street. “He’s a very nice man.”
Eliza’s breath steamed the window. I had a nice man, she thought. One was enough.
4
Eliza awoke just after five o’clock Wednesday morning and put the coffee on. She sat at the kitchen table and booted up her laptop. She checked her essay one more time, then e-mailed it to her editor.
Change is inevitable.
When Eliza first stopped writing what she thought of as her Widow Columns, she received mixed reviews from her readers.
“Glad you’re moving on...”
“You understood exactly what I was feeling. I wish you the best, but I’m not ready...”
“Thank God. You were depressing the hell out of me...”
“I am a single white male, 35, non-smoker...”
It was Jamey’s idea, six years ago, that she taper off writing outdoor adventure articles and concentrate instead of writing more personal pieces. “You’re getting bored.”
“No, I’m not,” Eliza had argued.
“I can tell—your writing’s gotten flat.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Jamey tilted his head in his irresistible puppy doggish way. “Liz, you know what I mean. I love having you on these trips, but you shouldn’t feel like you always have to come. Maybe it’s time you started writing other things.”
“Go ahead and say it—you have a girlfriend.”
“It’s true.”
“She’s five foot-ten, blonde, an expert mountain climber, and you’d rather have her belaying you than me.”
“It’s all true, but that’s not why I’m saying this.”
“Then why?”
“Simple—I think you’re a great writer.”
The compliment had pleased her more than he could know. Jamey Shepherd had worked with some of the best outdoor writers in the world, and even though Eliza knew he was biased, she still soaked up his praise.
“And I think you have more to say than this,” Jamey continued. “A lot more.”
That one discussion had led to a whole separate career for Eliza. She began with a compilation of essays on overcoming her fears to become an outdoor adventurer, and that in turn led to a book about other women who embraced the risky life. Soon Eliza caught the attention of various women’s magazines, and for the last few years she had made her living through a combination of freelance work and the modest royalties from hers and Jamey’s books.
She also managed to make some money here and there from teaching and speaking fees. She taught writing workshops a few times a year, and she was often invited to speak at conferences around the country.
One of her more popular talks arose from an article she once wrote about creating a Life List. The first group to invite her to speak about that was a conference of women executives who wanted to be inspired in their personal lives. Eliza handed out several sheets of loose leaf paper to each woman, then over the next half hour she had them write quickly, without self-editing, listing every single thing they wanted to do before they died.
“Let’s hear some of them,” Eliza prompted when the half hour was over.
A dignified-looking woman in her mid-fifties stood and read, “I want to learn French.”
“Go hiking in the Alps,” said another.
“Learn to make a great chocolate mousse.”
Some ideas were simple—learn to drive
stick shift—some more complicated—“Finally let go of all my anger.” Before she dismissed the group, Eliza made them all stand, raise their right hands, and pledge to begin pursuing just one thing on their list that very day.
“Can you go to Greece this afternoon? Probably not,” she said. “But you can get on the phone or the Internet and check out prices and make a plan to start saving and get yourself there next year or the year after that. Right?”
“Right,” the crowd agreed.
“How many of you said you wanted to learn a foreign language?” Hands went up. “You can call your community college as soon as you get back to the office and sign up for the next class. Or you can buy yourself a software program and practice for an hour every night. Right?”
“Right,” they all agreed.
“Okay, then. Don’t make me come back here,” she threatened, and the women cheered.
She had been invited back there three times so far. Other engagements around the country followed.
But that stopped when Jamey died. Eliza started turning down offers. She lost the urge to leave home. She lost the urge to tell other people what to do—she had forgotten what to do herself.
Instead she turned inward and wrote about what she found there, and the offers to speak dwindled. She wondered if her readership did, too.
Over the past year she had been working to bring them all back. She played at being upbeat again, funny—ready, she pretended, to enjoy life along with everyone else.
Daisy’s tags tinkled against her bowl as she drank. The terrier followed Eliza into the living room for the next stage of their routine.
Eliza flicked on the reading lamp beside the couch, and nestled beneath the lap quilt Hildy had made for her husband. Then Eliza opened her journal and prepared to tell the truth.
Her readers thought they saw her—knew her—but Eliza was well aware the woman she seemed to be in her columns was an illusion. Her essays were designed to inspire, challenge, uplift. More times than not Eliza used the columns to convince herself of changes she needed to make in her own life, even though she knew people reading the essay probably assumed she already had everything figured out.
But here in her daily journal she could be as petty and angry and awkward and stupid and pitiful as she really felt inside. Some days she might cover a sheet with lists of things to do, or whine about how someone had mistreated her, or go on and on for pages about how unfair it was that Jamey had died so young, just when they had talked about finally slowing down and raising a family.