For My Daughters

by Barbara Delinsky

  “But if you loved him—” Leah began, her eyes bright with tears.

  Leaving my chair, I went to her, touched her hair, put an arm around her shoulder, drew her close. The awkwardness was even less now, the comfort of touching even greater. I wanted to cry for all that I had deprived myself and my girls of through the years.

  Such irony. In the name of giving, I had taken away.

  “I loved all the other things, too,” I said sadly. “They were part of how I defined myself. I was materialistic. Foolish, perhaps. But that was the way I was at that time. And I did come to love Nick. We developed a relationship of shared experiences. When you girls came along, you bound us together, and by the time you were grown, we were so used to each other that any other kind of life seemed absurd.”

  As I had out on the bluff, I wiped at Leah’s tears. In the process, I caught looks of astonishment on her sisters’ faces. They didn’t know me to be a toucher. They had no idea that my heart went out to Leah because she loved Jesse so.

  “But you never forgot Will,” Leah said brokenly.

  “No. I never forgot Will. He was always part of my life, not necessarily a conscious part, but never far. Other friends have died over the years. I’ve mourned them, missed them, and moved on. But I never moved on from Will. He captured a unique part of me that no one else has ever touched.”

  A shrill whistle rent the air. I jumped, half-fearing that having said something so blasphemous, lightning was about to strike me dead. When Leah slipped out from under my arm, I realized it was the tea kettle. I left a supportive hand on my heart.

  “Did Daddy know that?” Annette asked, looking up at me from a sideways perch.

  “I never told him, not in as many words.” I leaned against the sofa back. “He might have guessed.”

  “It’s a wonder he didn’t resent you.”

  “Actually not,” I said fondly. “Your father was a kind man. We never talked about what had happened. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. All he knew—all he cared—was that I’d decided to stay with him.”

  “What about trust?” Annette asked. “Didn’t he get nervous when you talked with other men?”

  “No. I had made my choice. He knew I would stick by it.”

  “Who else knew about that summer?” Caroline asked, looking paler than before. I fancied that she identified with Will and me, because what she experienced with Ben was a little like that.

  “No one,” I said.

  “Not your parents?” Annette asked.

  I shook my head. “They’d have been scandalized. Same with our friends.”

  “Did you live in fear of being discovered?”

  I smiled. “No. I didn’t fear that. The people in Downlee knew what Will and I had done, but they were worlds away from my life with Nick.”

  “I’d have feared blackmail,” Caroline said.

  “Who would bother?” I asked with a shrug. “Nick already knew about Will. No, I didn’t worry on that score. On others. But not that one.”

  “What others?”

  I could smell the peach of Leah’s tea and was craving a cup. “That smells divine,” I told her as she reached for the china.

  “What others?” Caroline prodded.

  “The loss of feeling.”

  Leah set the cups down with a clatter. Annette and Caroline exchanged looks.

  “You’ve all suffered it,” I said quietly. “It’s the source of my greatest regret.”

  “You regret not staying with Will?” Leah asked.

  “I regret the price I paid for leaving him. I thought I could do it. I thought that I could resume my marriage and grow into it. But in leaving Will I found that I was emotionally maimed. The pain of the leaving was so great that I simply shut down. Rather than risk further pain, I separated myself from anything and everything of an emotional nature. I didn’t express emotion. To some extent, I didn’t feel it.”

  “You needed a shrink,” Caroline remarked.

  “I had one,” I said and found some satisfaction in her surprise. “I saw one weekly for years. He helped me understand why I was the way I was, but he couldn’t help me restore what I’d lost.”

  “Did you resent us?” Annette asked. “Did we represent the chains that kept you with Daddy? Was that it?”

  “Lord, no,” I cried, touching her shoulder. When it tensed, I took my hand away. In the next instant, consciously, I put it right back. “I never resented you in that sense. I might have resented you in other ways.”

  “What ways?” Caroline said.

  I tried to express what I was only then coming to understand. “I was jealous. You three had the capacity to express things, and that made me look all the worse by comparison. What you took to be disapproval on my part, was self-defense. To approve of all you did in your lives would have been to admit to my own failings. I was feeling badly enough without that.”

  I patted Annette’s shoulder, wanting to return to her question. “You girls were always a vital part of my life. Never once did I resent you. Chains? To the contrary. During those times when I asked myself if I’d been right in choosing Nick over Will, you three were the overriding factors in the affirmative. If I’d stayed with Will, I’d never have had you.”

  “But you’d have had him,” Annette said. “You’d have had his children. Didn’t you ever wonder about that? Didn’t you ever wish that you had?”

  I shook my head. “I made my choice and never looked back. The only thing I regretted was not being able to give you more of myself. I could see each of you suffering at times, needing more from me, but I just didn’t have it to give. It was gone.”

  “If that was so,” Caroline said, “why are we here? Why did you buy Star’s End?”

  I took the tea Leah offered me. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Okay. You wanted us to know about Will. But wouldn’t it have been simpler to invite us to Philadelphia and tell us outright?”

  “Ah, but it wasn’t only the knowing. It was the seeing. The feeling. The understanding. I wanted you to experience Star’s End yourselves. Besides, I had to come back here. That knowledge has been lurking in my mind for years. I didn’t give it much thought until after your father died, but then it wouldn’t go away. I had to come back. I had to see Star’s End. I had to visit Will.”

  “You didn’t have to buy the place for all that,” Caroline pointed out.

  “This is where I want to die.”

  “Mother!”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “It is,” I insisted, feeling confident in the face of death as women still in their prime couldn’t possibly feel.

  “But why?” Annette asked. “Your whole life was back in Philadelphia.”

  “Not my whole life. The major part of it, but not its entirety. As I see it, I’ve had five major achievements in my life. The first is my marriage to your father, the next three the creation of you girls, and the last my time with Will—and yes, that was an achievement. When I was with Will, I reached an emotional high that most people never, ever reach. In that sense, even in spite of the pain, I was fortunate.”

  I sipped my tea. It occurred to me that I might sit down again, but I was loath to put distance between me and my girls. I liked standing near them, being one of them. Besides, if I’d felt unburdened back at Will’s grave, I was feeling all the more so now. Each loose end that was tied gave me strength.

  “I’ve said goodbye to your father. There is no unfinished business on that score. There is, though, with you girls, and with Will. I wanted you to know him—through me and through Star’s End. Only by being here can you begin to understand the kind of environment in which a love like ours could flourish.”

  I gazed out the window, past the flower beds and the bluff, toward the horizon. “And then there’s the matter of apologies. I didn’t have the taste for them in Philadelphia. This seemed the appropriate place.”

  I returned a slow, ready,
anticipatory gaze to my girls.

  It is late. I lie in bed, exhausted but at peace. I’ve been a mother this day, and it was quite a workout, but a thrill, too. We spent the evening talking, my daughters and I, over tea first, then dinner, then ice cream in a little shop in town.

  What fun it was, piling into the Volvo and driving into Downlee. We’ve never been as content together, certainly not as adults. When the girls were children and we did things like that, there was a ceremony to it. Tonight, there was camaraderie. We were a family, relating to each other, perhaps for the very first time.

  Was it Star’s End at work? I like to think it was us. The potential was there. The setting simply enabled us to tap it.

  Then again, by the time we made the ice cream trip, we were in need of a lighter moment. Unburdening the soul is heavy stuff, indeed. I retold the story of Will and me, and answered questions a second, third, and fourth time—and I didn’t mind, really I didn’t, it was such a relief to finally have it out in the open.

  Perhaps that was what brought us closer, the simple fact of disclosure. The girls don’t approve of what I did—I neither ask for, nor expect that—but I think they finally appreciate something of the earthshattering nature of my time with Will.

  After the ice cream trip, when we returned to Star’s End, we talked more seriously again. I faced other accusations—that I had neglected the girls in their times of need, that I pitted one against the other, that I favored Leah. I admitted to the first, was bewildered by the second, and clarified the third. I love all three of my daughters, always have, always will.

  Love all three. Admire them. Want them happy.

  There were tears, large, laughing, cathartic tears, but they were good. So were the hugs. They came most often from Leah, though there were several from Annette, and those were gratifying, indeed. Annette and her family are huggers. I feel as though I’m finally one of them.

  Only Caroline remains reserved. She thinks I betrayed her by keeping secrets all those years. I think her pride is wounded. In either case, time is the only healer. What happened today was just a beginning.

  But a good one. Ah, yes. As I lie in the dark, I feel the satisfaction of that. The relief. The peace.

  Inevitably, too, as I lie in the dark in this place I’ve dreamed about for so long, I think of Will. He never once slept with me in the big house, yet I feel him beside me now. It is the misty air, the rhythmic ocean song, the wonderful, wonderful smell that I’ve worn for so long. Beach roses lingering. They take me back.

  I remember picnics on the rocks—crusty bread cheese and homemade wine. I remember the early morning mist lifting off the water, and the hot noon sun hovering in ripples on the bluff. I remember the schooners slicing down east through the waves, and the monarchs flitting from iris to lily to Queen Anne’s lace.

  I remember Will’s arms. Strong and brown. And Will’s hands. Callused and nicked, but ever gentle on my soul.

  I’m here, Will. I’m here.

  I smile and sigh. Then sigh once more, deeply and contentedly.

  nineteen

  ANNETTE HELD THREE PIECES OF PAPER IN her hand. One was the note that had come with the flowers Jean-Paul had sent. The second and third were telephone messages, again from Jean-Paul. The first had come the day before, assuring her that Thomas was fine. The second had arrived that morning. It simply said that Jean-Paul missed her.

  She hadn’t called him back, initially because she had a point to prove, and after that, because events started unfolding that swept her up in their midst.

  She picked up the phone now, held it for a minute, set it down. It was nearly one, midnight in St. Louis. Jean-Paul would be asleep.

  But she wanted to talk with him. Standing on principle was one thing, bowing to heart and soul another.

  This time she punched out the numbers before she could think again about the time. The phone barely made it through half a ring when it was snatched up, but it wasn’t Jean-Paul’s deep, sleepy voice she heard. It was another deep voice, not sleepy, but breathless.

  “Hi,” it said.

  Annette grinned. Imitating the breathlessness, she said, “Hi, yourself.”

  There was a pause—she imagined Robbie bolting up straight—then a far higher, “Mom?”

  She was still grinning. “No. Jessica.” At least that had been the love interest when Annette had left five days before.

  “Mommm,” he complained.

  “Why is she calling this late?”

  “We were talking a little while ago, and she had to get off to take a shower so her hair could dry, and she said she’d call back. Everything is fine here, Mom. We’re all doing really good. You don’t have to worry. There haven’t been any more broken arms, Charlene’s been here every day, and Dad’s been great. He’s sleeping. I’ll tell him you called.”

  Annette knew Robbie wanted her off the phone, fast, before Jessica called—which was all fine and good, but fair was fair. If Robbie wanted to talk with his squeeze, Annette wanted to talk with hers. “Are you sure he’s sleeping?” she asked. “Maybe the phone woke him.”

  “I just went down for a snack. He’s dead to the world on the sofa. I turned off the TV.”

  “Didn’t you wake him and tell him to go to bed?”

  “I tried, but he looked at me like I was an alien and rolled over and went back to sleep. He’s been doing this every night. He doesn’t like going to bed without you.”

  “That’s so sweet,” Annette said. It was a reaffirmation, like flowers and phone messages, vouching for what Jean-Paul had said, what her sisters had said about true love lasting.

  “Is everything okay there, Mom?”

  “Fine.” She took a breath and thought of the evening that had just been. “Great, actually. Your grandmother finally arrived. We’ve had an incredible time. I’m glad I came. I think this is really important.”

  “That’s great, Mom. Can Dad call you tomorrow?”

  “If he wants. You say Thomas is okay?”

  “Thomas is a jerk, but his arm is fine.”

  Annette was sorry she asked. Instinct told her not to ask more. “Nat and the girls are okay?”

  “Great. We’re all great. How about I have Dad call you first thing tomorrow?”

  “It’s not critical. He doesn’t have to call first thing. He doesn’t have to call at all, actually, if he’s busy.” She didn’t need to talk with him; she just wanted to. She felt bolstered knowing that he didn’t like sleeping in bed without her. “I just wanted to say hello.”

  “At midnight?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s late.”

  She refused to be chastised. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s late.”

  For you, too, young man, and still expecting a call. “Pardon me?”

  There was a moment’s silence, then a sheepish, “Okay. We won’t talk long. ’Night, Mom.”

  “’Night, Rob.”

  Pleased at how independently she was behaving, she hung up the phone.

  * * *

  Caroline couldn’t sleep. It was this way when she was on trial, when her mind refused to shut down. Granted, she wasn’t on trial here, but her adrenaline level was the same. Too much had happened for her body to settle, and her mind was three steps ahead.

  She thought about having a cigarette, but that was all it was—no craving, just a thought, and a distant one, at that. Cigarettes were for tension-filled meetings and power lunches. They weren’t for Star’s End.

  What she wanted—the one thing that could calm her—was to reach Ben, but either he wasn’t answering his phone, or he wasn’t home. Neither possibility reassured her.

  Throwing back the sheet, she jumped out of bed. She thrust a hand through her hair and made for the hall. The house was quiet, the others asleep. Her feet were soundless on the stair runner and little more than a soft padding on the wide-planked wood floor of the hall. She snapped on a small light in the kitchen, shook the tea kettle to make sure it held
water, and turned on the gas. Just shy of the rolling boil that would have whistled, she removed the kettle and poured steaming water over the small holder that held the loose tea leaves together in her cup.

  While they steeped, she went to the French doors. The moon was hidden behind a thin blanket of silver-deckled clouds. She saw a cluster of stars between them—here, gone, here again—and then a tiny light moving steadily across the horizon.

  There was another light, this one moving only by illusion, as tree branches swayed before it. It marked Jesse Cray’s home, once the groundskeeper’s shed where Ginny St. Clair had been wild and free. The image continued to astound her.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  Caroline darted a glance over her shoulder as Annette joined her at the glass doors. “No. You neither?”

  “I don’t know why. I should be exhausted. What do you see?”

  “The light at the edge of the woods. I’m trying to imagine it when it was the little shed Mother described. I’m trying to picture her running bare-foot across the grass in the night.”

  Annette made a sound. “Bizarre. I never would have dreamed it.”

  “Me either.”

  “I wanted to tell Jean-Paul, but he was asleep.”

  “I wanted to tell Ben, but he isn’t home.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Beats me,” she said with a nonchalance that wasn’t nonchalant at all. “He wasn’t home last night, either.” She felt Annette look at her and couldn’t meet her eye. “I’ve taken him for granted, I think.”

  “Has he been seeing anyone else?”

  “No. But I frustrate him.”

  “He travels a lot. Maybe this is just another one of his trips.”

  “He would have told me he was going.”

  “Maybe he just took off—the frustration, and all.”

  Caroline knew it was possible. But he loved being at the cabin this time of year, when the days were long and the forest fertile. Those things inspired him, he said. Late spring and early summer were always productive for him.