by March, Mia
“Oh God,” Bea said, and Veronica was aware that Bea was trying to catch her eye. “You must have been so lonely.”
Veronica kept her gaze on the white farmhouse, on the swing. “Well, to tell you the truth, my parents always made me feel lonely, even before I got pregnant. They were always on the cool side, difficult to get to know, very proper, impersonal. My mother found someone just like herself in my father. They even brought up the idea for me to get emancipated so that they wouldn’t be held liable in any way.”
Bea shook her head. “But you had friends at Hope Home?”
Veronica nodded. “Some of the girls didn’t get along all the time, but generally we did. The staff was wonderful.”
“Good,” Bea said. “I’m very glad to hear that. You went into labor at Hope Home but I started coming while you were in the ambulance?”
“I was screaming my head off—in so much pain, scared out of my mind—but the EMT guy who delivered you was great to me. He said there wouldn’t be time to get to the hospital, and he coached me through the whole thing. Then suddenly, there you were. I got to hold you for two minutes, and then he took you to clean you up.”
“What about on the way to the hospital?” Bea asked. “Were you able to hold me again?”
“The social worker who accompanied us said safety regulations prohibited it and that besides, it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“So you wanted to?”
Veronica sucked in a breath. “Yeah.”
Bea was quiet for a moment. “Did you ever consider keeping me?”
Veronica didn’t answer; she drove off again, this time to Coastal General Hospital. She parked in the main lot, and they both glanced up at the stately brick building. “I had fantasies about it. Of running away with you. But I was sixteen and had nowhere to go, no family, nothing. And the social workers were very good at their jobs, reassuring me that I was doing the best thing for you, that I was being selfless and not selfish.”
“So what happened after I was born? Did you ever get to see me again?”
Veronica glanced away. She didn’t like these questions. “Just once. On my way out of the hospital. Even though I was told I shouldn’t look, that it might be too painful, for my last memory to be of leaving you. And that nurse was right. Even thinking about how I’d held you those two minutes in the ambulance was enough to do me in. So I learned to close it all off. After a while, I had trouble even conjuring it up at all.”
Bea was quiet for a moment. “So after you left the hospital, then what?”
“I went back to Hope Home to pack my things for the trip to Florida. And before I left, I called the adoption agency and left my name for the file and said I’d call to update when I found a place to live. I felt like if I didn’t leave my name, one day it would feel like it never happened at all, that I didn’t give birth to a baby girl. But on the way to Florida, I ended up working damned hard to make myself feel exactly that way—like it didn’t happen.”
“I can understand that,” Bea said. “After all you’d gone through. How did you make it on your own in Florida? How did you even get there? You weren’t even seventeen.”
This was easier to talk about. She started the car again, driving to the Greyhound bus station in Wiscasset. “I was an emancipated minor at that point, thanks to my parents preparing the paperwork for me. I had around six hundred dollars saved from my part-time job, so I asked for a ride to here and bought a one-way ticket to Florida.”
“Why Florida?”
Veronica explained that Florida was about an old dream of her grandmother’s, where there were no blizzards and lots of orange groves. Even though Veronica loved winter, loved snow, she’d always thought the hot and sunny orange-filled dream sounded magical. Once there, she lied about her age, got a waitressing job, something familiar, and found a nice female roommate in an apartment complex with palm trees and a pool. She’d stayed in Florida for a year, had a boyfriend or two, no one she’d loved, and certainly no one she’d tell her story to. When one of her boyfriends accused her of cheating on him, something Veronica had never done in her life, it had reminded her of Timothy and she’d packed up again. By then she’d been almost eighteen and wouldn’t have to lie about her age. Things would get easier. She’d headed west, crossing the south, staying for months at a time in various towns until she’d hear about someplace and pack up. She’d stayed in New Mexico the longest, but then her former beau had ditched her in Las Vegas when she wouldn’t marry him, and she’d known she had to come back home if she ever hoped to fix herself.
“I half expect you to drive us to Florida right now,” Bea said, smiling.
Veronica smiled back.
“Did you talk to your mom again?”
“I tried over the years, calling on her birthday, my father’s birthday. Christmas. But the conversations were stilted. No matter how many years passed, they couldn’t forgive me, couldn’t move on.” Veronica drove the fifteen minutes back to her house, parking in front of it. “Then I moved here.”
Just before she’d moved to Boothbay Harbor she’d called her mother to let her know she was moving back home, that she was hoping to put her past to rest. Her plan had been to finally do what she should have done long ago: give up on her mother the way her mother had given up on her. Of course, the moment she’d heard her mother’s voice, she still longed for her, for something to change. But it hadn’t. In twenty-two years, Veronica had come to understand something about limitations, that sometimes, even when you needed them most, the people you loved couldn’t rise to the occasion. Not wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Her mother’s response to her call: “I think too much time has gone by, Veronica, but I wish you well,” and Veronica had hung up, the breath knocked out of her. Good Lord, it was no wonder she was the way she was. With a heart that didn’t work right.
“I’ll drop you back at the inn,” Veronica said. She was spent. Even more so than she thought she’d be.
When they pulled up to the Three Captains’, Bea said, “Thank you for all that. I wanted to know, and though some of it wasn’t easy to hear, I’m glad I know the truth. Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. How about you?”
Bea nodded. “I’ll be okay. I just need to digest it all. I have a date, so that’ll help. I guess I should mention that I’m dating someone who works on the film. Patrick Ool. He seems like a great guy. We’ve only gone out once.”
The two worlds entwining seemed strange. “Oh yes, I know Patrick. He’s in charge of the extras. I don’t really know him, but he treats us very well, makes sure we know what we’re doing and that we’re comfortable.”
“I haven’t told him that you’re my birth mother,” Bea said. “I mean, I’ve told him that meeting my birth mother is the whole reason I’m in town and that you’re an extra on the movie, but I didn’t mention your name. I’ll absolutely keep your privacy.”
“Thanks. I don’t know if it matters, but like I said, I haven’t shared the fact that I gave up a baby for adoption with many people, so I do like the idea of keeping that private.”
She was so exhausted. Why didn’t she feel better? Why didn’t facing her past this way, going back over everything, make her suddenly open up inside?
She glanced at Bea, whose expression had changed. Did it bother Bea that Veronica wanted to keep it private? Veronica had spent so long keeping her past to herself, not talking about it, keeping it locked up tight. “Bea? Did I say something to upset you?”
“I’m just thinking about my mother. About all the times she might have told me—when I was two, three, four years old. She wanted to wipe all that away, pretend the adoption never happened. She made it so for herself—and for me.”
Veronica wanted to say something, about how love and hope and need could sometimes make you do—or not do—what you knew you should. Sometimes to protect others. Sometimes to protect yourself. But she didn’t dare say anything about Bea’s mother, the woman who’d raised her. And all she really knew
about Cora Crane was that she’d done a beautiful job as a mother, raising the wonderful young woman who’d just been on a tour of Veronica’s life at sixteen.
“Now what?” Bea said. “I mean, I’m not even sure what we’re supposed to be, who we are to each other.”
“We’re a part of each other’s history.”
“I guess that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the future, though.”
It was a statement and not a question, Veronica noticed, her heart constricting.
Bea bit her lip and got out of the car. “Thank you for today, Veronica,” she said through the open passenger window. I know it had to be very hard on you.”
Doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the future . . . So was that it? Would she never hear from Bea again? “It was worth it.”
Bea sucked in a breath. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about you. I’d better get going. Thank you again for today,” she said, then hurried into the inn.
I know how I feel about you, Veronica thought, watching Bea disappear through the front door. How I’ve always felt about you, since the moment you were placed on my chest as a newborn.
Veronica loved Bea, always had. And she knew then that that was what she’d been unable to face all these years.
After half a day on the movie set on Monday, Patrick Ool, whom Veronica could not look at without thinking of Bea, dismissed the extras because of a lighting issue. She was glad to leave; she felt a bit claustrophobic in the tent with the crowd and white material and her thoughts closing in on her. On the way home, she stopped at the farmers’ market for peaches for tonight’s pie class, and stocked up on strawberries and Key limes for special pies she needed to make this week.
At home, she placed the peaches she’d bought in two big bowls on the island counter, but even the beautiful, fresh peaches, one of Veronica’s favorite summer fruits, couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling lodged in Veronica’s chest, in her heart.
I’m not sure what we’re supposed to be, how I’m supposed to feel about you.
It was complicated. And not.
Would she never hear from Bea again? Had Bea found what she’d come for, answers to her questions, a person to put to the reality of the words birth mother, and now she’d leave, no interest in forging a relationship?
She understood Bea’s problem; she wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be to each other either. They were not mother and daughter. They were not . . . friends. They were connected in a biological, fundamental way, though. Perhaps Bea would decide biology did not a relationship make. But for Veronica, Bea had never been about biology and birth. She’d always been about the future—a future Veronica hadn’t been able to be part of.
The doorbell rang, and Veronica hoped it would be Nick and Leigh. He hadn’t called to say if he was coming or not, and with a kitchen full of students, she wouldn’t be able to talk to him about her personal life, anyway, but the sight of him would help. She wished that was only because he was so attractive to her, but it went further than that. What she was beginning to feel for Nick DeMarco felt a lot like need.
When she opened the door, Nick and Leigh stood on the porch, Leigh carrying a pie wrapped in plastic. Thank you, Veronica whispered silently to the universe.
“I made you a chocolate pudding pie,” Leigh said, holding out both her hands. “It doesn’t do anything. It’s just good. Or, at least I hope it is. I made one yesterday too, but I forgot the vanilla, I think. I remembered everything this time.”
Veronica smiled and took the pie. “I love chocolate pudding pie, and I’m touched you made this for me. Thank you.”
She was aware of Nick watching her, and his face, his body, his presence, had its usual effect. She felt a combination of relief, happiness, and something fluttery in her stomach, like butterflies or good nervousness.
“Leigh, if you want to head into the kitchen and choose your apron and start reading over the recipe on the island counter, go right ahead. We’re making peach pie tonight. I’m putting you in charge of measuring out the dry and wet ingredients.”
“I love peaches!” Leigh said, disappearing into the kitchen.
Veronica closed the door behind Nick. “I’m glad you two are here.”
“I thought about not coming,” he said. “But then I remembered that when you let people try to control you, to dictate how you should live, you’ve given up. I might be a little afraid of Leigh’s grandparents, I admit it, but I’m not afraid of pie.”
She smiled and wanted to hug him. Luckily, the phone rang, keeping her from making possibly unwanted displays of affection, and she went into the kitchen to answer it. It was Isabel, reporting that neither she nor June could make it to class; June, her husband, Henry, and their son, Charlie, all had bad colds, and Isabel was playing nursemaid at their houseboat.
The doorbell rang, and there was Penelope, once again looking toned down, less brassy, less showy. She was petite and thin as always, but the mass of expensive jewelry was gone. She wore a simple gold cross around her neck. Her clothes were more conservative. And her perfectly highlighted hair wasn’t flat-ironed to model perfection as usual, but instead seemed . . . natural. Also once again, Penelope was as friendly as could be, complimenting Leigh on her T-shirt and hair, telling Nick he was doing a fine job keeping the citizens of Boothbay Harbor safe, and thanking Veronica for offering “such a fun and informative pie class.”
With her three students around the center island, they set to work on the peach pie, Nick and Penelope on slicing, and Leigh on measuring out the dry and liquid ingredients. Unless Veronica was imagining things, Penelope kept staring at her. When Veronica would glance over, Penelope would smile fast, then shift her eyes away. Veronica had long ago given up on wondering what was going on in Penelope Von Blun’s mind. Back in high school, Penelope had ignored her completely; she hadn’t been mean to her, she simply pretended Veronica didn’t exist. But over the past year, if Veronica saw her around town, or in the diner, like the other day, Penelope would stare at Veronica, or whisper to her mother. Maybe those days were over.
“Mmm, this smells so good,” Leigh said, closing her eyes and inhaling over her mixing bowl, the smell of peaches, nutmeg, vanilla, and brown sugar fragrant in the air.
Penelope poured the filling into the crust, and Nick laid the top crust over the pie, then pressed the edges together. When the pie went into the oven, Veronica spent fifteen minutes talking about piecrust again, how technique was the most important part of making the crust, the not overworking, the not kneading, and then they practiced making lattice tops because Leigh wanted to, even though their peach pie didn’t require a lattice top.
“So, did everyone’s shoofly pie work?” Leigh asked, dipping her finger against the sides of the bowl and licking the bit remaining. “Mine did. But I’m not supposed to talk about it. Oops,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth.
“You can talk about whatever you want,” Nick said. “I’m glad the pie works for you. I’m glad for whatever makes you feel close to your mother.”
“Grandma thinks it’s voodoo nonsense, though,” Leigh said. “I told her what we put in the pie, every ingredient, and even though there’s nothing black-magicky about anything in the pie, she still said it was the idea, not the ingredients.”
“I think it’s like prayer,” Penelope said suddenly. She’d been a bit quiet for the past forty-five minutes. “It’s just about comfort, that’s all.”
“Did it work for you?” Leigh asked Penelope.
“I don’t know,” Penelope said, and she looked very sad for a second.
The timer dinged, and Veronica had Nick pull out the oven rack so that Penelope could make three slashes in the top of the pie. Then they turned down the temperature of the oven and the pie went back in for another thirty minutes.
“What about you, Veronica?” Leigh said. “Did having the shoofly pie help you feel closer to your grandmother?”
“It always does,
” Veronica said. “Even just looking at shoofly pie, that crumbly brown sugar topping, makes me think of Renata Russo. I can smell her Shalimar perfume as though she’s right next to me. I can hear her voice, stories she used to tell me about when she was a girl and learned to bake pies. I can feel her with me, and it’s like Penelope said—it’s pure comfort.”
“That’s how I felt every time I ate my shoofly pie,” Leigh said. “Like my mom was right there with me. Sometimes it just felt like she was in me, though. That’s just as good.”
“It sure is,” Nick said, running his hand down his daughter’s pretty brown hair.
A half hour later, the pie came out and they waited as long as they could for it to cool, and then Nick served a slice to everyone. Everyone declared it delicious, and Veronica divided the leftovers between the DeMarcos and Penelope. At eight thirty, the class was over, and Nick said he’d better get his little pastry chef home to bed, that she had camp the next morning. Veronica didn’t want them to leave. She liked having Nick in her house, in her kitchen, and she adored Leigh.
“Talk to you soon,” Nick said, his gaze lingering on her for a moment.
As she stood by the open door, watching Nick and Leigh walk to his car, Veronica realized that Penelope wasn’t behind them.
Veronica found her in the kitchen, sweeping the floor. “Oh, Penelope, that’s thoughtful, but I’ll do that.”
Penelope put the broom back in its wedge of space by the back door, then went to the sink, wet a paper towel, and began wiping down the island counter. “You lived at Hope Home back when you were in high school, right?”
If Penelope Von Blun was cleaning, ostensibly even, this wasn’t about bringing up Veronica’s past as a pregnant sixteen-year-old. This was about Penelope. Veronica sensed this conversation called for tea, and she added water to the kettle and set it to boil. “Yes, for seven months.”
“Did . . . any of you girls talk about the kind of parents you wanted to adopt your babies?”