For My Daughters

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Ah, gosh, Monica, I can’t. I have other plans. Maybe Donna Huntington can help you out?”

  She slipped in one last quarter and made one last call. “Hi, Ellen. I need your help.”

  “No, you don’t, Leah. You know what you have to do.”

  “I have to stand back and look objectively at my life, but nothing in my life prepared me for Jesse. He’s like no other man I’ve ever known.”

  “Well, it’s about time! You’ve picked some bastards, Leah.”

  “They weren’t bastards.”

  “Then what would you call them?”

  “Immature.”

  “What else?”

  “Self-centered.”

  “Try one more time.”

  Leah sighed. “Bastards.”

  “Why did you pick them, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course, you do. You were so desperate for love that you jumped the gun. You listened to your heart, but your brain was out to lunch. If it had been on the job, it would have told you to wait before you married either of those guys, but you were caught up in the romance of it, and scared to be without.”

  “I’m scared now, too.”

  “That’s natural. You’re taking a big step. Only this time your brain is saying the same thing as your heart. Do it, Leah. I can’t do it for you. You’re the one in the driver’s seat.”

  “But I’m a lousy driver.”

  Ellen sighed. “I don’t have time for this now, Leah. I have patients who need me. You don’t.”

  Seconds later, Leah heard a dial tone. Feeling abandoned, she hung up the phone, threaded her purse over her shoulder, and set out on foot through the city streets. Within minutes her hair began to curl. Then her makeup began to run. She couldn’t find a cab on Connecticut Avenue, so she kept walking until she reached Dupont Circle. She found a cab there, but by that time she was drenched with sweat, so she went straight home and got back in the shower.

  Wrapped in a towel, she huddled in the dark of her apartment, more alone and lonely than ever before. The doorbell rang. On a wild burst of hope, she ran down the three flights and peered through the peephole, but the smell that crept beneath the door was a dead giveaway. She wasn’t surprised to see a fat face, glistening with sweat, and a cigar.

  She sank down against the door, hugged her knees to her chest, and in spite of the sweltering heat, began to shiver.

  Not heat, but cold. Not cold, exactly, but cool, on her arms and feet, both bare. She was lying on her side, her ear to something more giving than the marble in her hall. She opened her eyes to tall grass and flowers. Wildflowers. The meadow.

  She felt a great swell of relief. Not Washington, but Downlee. Not heat, but mist. Not congested avenues, but pine-strewn paths. Not traffic circles littered with deviants and the homeless, but a large meadow heaped with plants. Not David, but Jesse.

  Jesse.

  She sat up and pushed the tangle of hair back from her face. It was curling as riotously as the Indian blanket bloomed, a tumult of red tipped in yellow, long blond waves, no bangs, as right for this place as they were right for her.

  They were natural, those curls. They fit. She didn’t know why she had fought them so long, couldn’t think of a single reason that held any merit at all.

  She put her head back and filled her lungs with the moist air of the meadow. It was fresh and clear, inspiring, nourishing, healing. Then she righted her head and saw him. Jesse. Sitting some twenty feet away, head and chest above the flowers, watching her.

  She went forward on her knees, parting patches of flowers, never once taking her eyes from his. She didn’t stop when she reached him, but continued right on until she was wrapped around him, arms and legs.

  His arms went around her and drew her in close.

  “I don’t know what it was about, all the agonizing,” she whispered, “I don’t want to be there. I want to be here.”

  “But you have a life there,” he argued, as she had so many times herself.

  “It’s the one I fell into because I didn’t have anything else, and I stayed in it because it was safer that way, but it’s not the one I want.” She remembered every discouraging detail of her dream. Yes, she loved Washington. But could she live there again? Knowing Jesse was here? “I kept thinking this wasn’t real. It was too good, too strong.”

  “It still is.”

  “I know, but real or not, I want it.” She became aware of her limbs. They hugged him, secure without being desperate. Like everything else about Jesse, they fit.

  “Downlee is a parochial little town,” he cautioned.

  “Not parochial. Just little. But that’s okay. I feel comfortable here.” Yes, everyone knew everyone else’s business, but there was something to be said for the intimacy of that, for the knowledge that people cared. No one in Washington cared, not the way she wanted them to. Gossip there carried a sting. Here it was a gossamer thread binding the town together.

  “You may be bored.”

  “In a place that sells cappuccino makers? I have ten times more to do here, than I ever had in Washington,” she said, realizing it was true. She drew back to look at him, to drink in a face that was rough-hewn and handsome, to drown in eyes that spoke of yesterday and tomorrow, of sunshine and mist and waves that exploded into brilliant bits of light, and she knew she was right. “Not bored. Never bored.” She skimmed her fingertips over his cheekbone to his jaw, then his mouth. Then she smiled.

  twenty-two

  WENDELL COOMBS WAS SCOWLING AS HE lowered himself onto the left end of the long wooden bench. His bones ached. It hadn’t been a good day. Hadn’t been a good week. Hadn’t been a good month. Things were happening around Downlee that he didn’t like one bit.

  With a grunt of displeasure, he set his mug on his knee. The mug held vegetable juice. He had given up on coffee.

  “Clarence,” he muttered toward the right end of the bench.

  Clarence Hart nodded. “Wendell.”

  “Gonna be a sticky one.”

  “Ayuh.”

  Wendell raised his mug, touched it to his mouth, put it down without a sip. He didn’t want vegetable juice. He wanted coffee, but not the prissy stuff the grocery store was brewing. He wanted real coffee, like Mavis used to make. But Mavis had closed her door and moved to Bangor. To a retirement community. Damned if they’d ever get him into one of those things. Not that stayin’ here was so great, what with Downlee goin’ to the dogs. Every day there was less of the old and more of the new.

  “Heeya the news?” he asked Clarence.

  “Depends what it is.”

  “They ain’t sellin’ Stah’s End.” He was as dismayed now as when he’d first heard it.

  “Ayuh.”

  He glowered at Clarence. “How’d you know?”

  “Guessed.”

  “Dumb thing, if y’ask me. Place is a monstrosity.”

  It had been once. But the St. Clairs had fixed it up nice. At least, that was what Clarence thought. June thought so, too. And Gus, and Cal, and Edie.

  “All that white wood and glass,” Wendell muttered. “Fancy rugs. Funny food.”

  “Y’didn’t have to go see.”

  “Yes, suh. Had to pay my respects like evra’one else.”

  Clarence drew on his empty pipe. He reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch.

  “My brothuh Bahney said the funeral cost ovah ten thousand dollahs,” Wendell announced.

  “Nah.”

  “Yes, suh. ’Coss, most of that was to pay Fathah to say somethin’ nice.”

  “Father doesn’t chahge. People just make a donation.”

  “And the moah they donate, the bettuh he speaks. Mebbe they paid him the whole ten—not that I believe all he said.” He barked out a sound. “‘Gracious philanthropist,’ hah. She was greedy. The wealthy always ah. Don’t like what she did to Stah’s End, eithuh. Kinda gaudy, if y’ask me.”

  Clarence opened his pouch, took the pipe from his mouth, and
dipped it inside. “It wasn’t so bad.”

  “Tell me that afta they been here five yeahs. Afta those kids’a been runnin’ ’round town every summah. Afta the mob’s taken ovah sellin’ Christmas trees from the Vets.”

  Clarence pushed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, returned the pipe to his mouth, and folded the pouch.

  “Her death was a sign,” Wendell warned. “She come up heeya, stepped foot in that house, and boom, that’s it. They should be sellin’. We should be tellin’ ’em to. If we thought we had trouble b’foah, we got bigguh trouble now.”

  Clarence lit a match. “Not many think so but you.”

  “Well, whadda they know. They ain’t old enough to know much. Young kids an’ ahtsies. And computahs.”

  Clarence was getting tired of listening to Wendell beat a dead dog. There were times when he thought of staying home with June. ’Course, she’d have him doing the wash, as well as carrying it out. He supposed he could stick it out here.

  He drew on his pipe several times until the tobacco had caught, then put out the match with a flick of his wrist and blew a stream of smoke into the air.

  Wendell waved it away and glared. “Got somethin’ to say?”

  “Ain’t no computahs at Stah’s End.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You evah work one?” He might as well have asked if Wendell had ever worn a dress, for Wendell’s look of horror. But Clarence didn’t feel any horror. “Howahd was showin’ me what it could do. Got news the newspapuh didn’t have. Got scoahs from late games out west. Red Sox lost.”

  Wendell grunted.

  Clarence eyed him. “Bet’cha didn’t know that.”

  “Could’a guessed,” Wendell grumbled.

  Clarence took a deep, satisfying draw. He had just finished exhaling a wide ribbon of smoke when Callie Dalton came up the steps. He touched a finger to his cap. “Mawnin’, Callie.”

  “Mawnin’, Clarence.” She glided on past and disappeared into the store.

  “Nasty woman,” was Wendell’s under-the-breath assessment.

  Clarence didn’t agree. Callie and George played Scrabble with him and June sometimes. Clarence liked them just fine.

  Wendell was glaring at him again. “’Coss, you probably like the St. Claya’s, too.”

  Clarence looked out over Main Street. It was a peaceful morning, always a peaceful morning in Downlee. “Me an’ lots’a othuhs. Face it, Wendell. Ya losin’ the waw.”

  “Only b’cause people like you side with the enemy.”

  “I don’t see no enemy.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Wendell snorted and angled himself away from Clarence. Then it occurred to him to wise Clarence up. Wendell happened to live next door to Potts, who happened to be the undertaker. Turning back, he said, “Heeya ’bout her dress?”

  Clarence crossed one leg over the other.

  “Potts said it was all yella’ an’ red,” Wendell scoffed. “Imagine burying her in something like that.” He gave a disdainful click of his tongue. “Good thing the casket was closed.” He shook his head. “Poah Will.”

  “Will’s dead. He won’t know a thing.”

  “She shouldn’t be buried theya.”

  “She had a right.”

  “Jesse should’a stopped it.” Wendell made a sputtering sound. “Jesse. Lotta good he’s gonna be. He’s marryin’ the youngest.”

  “Ayuh.”

  “How’d you know?”

  Clarence sighed. “Wendell, it’s all ovuh town.”

  “So why’s he doin’ it? Potts says it’s the money. Chief says she’s pregnant. Elmira says it’s love,” he snorted, “but what does Elmira know. Me, I say he’s afta Stah’s End. I would be, if I was him.”

  “Thank God you ain’t,” Clarence muttered with a flash of impatience, and looked off down the street. He was real tired of hearing Wendell’s opinion. It was almost always sour.

  “Got somethin’ to say?” Wendell asked.

  Clarence took the pipe from his mouth and looked right at him down the bench. “Thank God you ain’t Jesse. If you were, the girl’d be doomed.”

  “We’a the one’s doomed. She’s gonna be livin’ heeya, y’know. Know what she’s gonna do? Throw awgies.”

  Clarence rolled his eyes. “Who told you that?”

  “My cousin Haskell. She’s from Washington. They pahty all the time theya.” He glowered. “That’s just what we need. Pols. Comin’ up heeya, talkin’ outta both sides’a theya mouths. I’ll tell you somethin’, Clarence. If she an’ those pol friends think they can come in an take ovuh the town, they got anothuh think comin’. We don’t need no pols any moah than we need the mob. We don’t need no awgies, eithuh. And we don’t need one’a ahs marryin’ one’a theyas.”

  Clarence saw Hackmore Wainwright’s pickup slip down the street and turn down toward the dock, and suddenly the dock seemed like a good place to be. He pushed himself up from the bench.

  “Wheya you goin’?” Wendell asked with a frown.

  “The dock.”

  “Whatcha gonna do theya?”

  “Get some peace and quiet.”

  “You don’t like what I say? Well then, go on down to the dock. Know what’s theya? Buck Monaghan’s theya. Know what Buck’s gonna say? Buck’s gonna say we gotta shell up the money to rebuild the dock, else the new fishin’ boats he’s buyin’ won’t be able to tie on. Fact is, th’ old dock’s just fine. Problem’s with Buck. His eyes’a bigguh than his stomach. So-phis-ti-cated e-lec-tronics. Bah! He don’t need new boats. He’s not gonna find the fish to fill ’em. Ocean’s getting fished out in these pahts.”

  “Nah.”

  “Yes, suh. Fished out. Otta dry dock all the boats awhile, if y’ask me.”

  Clarence took a bold breath. “No one’s askin’ you, y’old coot,” he said and, feeling a slow draft of satisfaction, walked off.

  afterword

  STRAIGHTENING MY SHOULDERS, I CLOSE MY eyes and breathe deeply of the morning-crisp September air. It fills my lungs, sending frissons of excitement up and down my spine. Surprising. After four years at Star’s End, I should be used to it. But each day is still new and fresh.

  Four years. Hard to believe. So much has happened, so naturally.

  Jesse and I were married in August of that first year, in a simple ceremony in the meadow. Caroline and Ben, who had married quietly earlier that summer, were there, along with Annette and Jean-Paul and the children, and a handful of Jesse’s closest friends.

  Jesse’s mother declined our invitation, and understandably so. Witnessing the marriage of the daughter of her nemesis to her son at the scene of the crime, so to speak, would have been difficult. I have seen her since. Jesse and I make a point to visit her during our winter travels. All things considered, she has been cordial, even warm. I like to think that she’s growing fond of me and that if the wedding were held now, she would come.

  It was a wonderful day. Following the ceremony, we opened the house to the town, and what a party it was. There was dancing on the lawn, food and drink in never-ending supply, and a huge bonfire on the bluff. And that was just the first of many such parties. Jesse and I love having the townsfolk at Star’s End. It is one small way we can thank them for their warmth.

  “Mommy! Look, Mommy!”

  The sweet sound of Joshie’s voice brings me around. He is running toward me on sturdy, three-year-old legs, offering up a fistful of wild asters.

  “Purple flowers!” he cries proudly.

  I kneel down to accept his present, curling an arm around him to bring him close. “Very purple,” I say just as proudly and point to the lighter flowers. “And pink ones. And lavender ones.”

  “I like this one,” he decides, tugging a purple from the bunch and holding it to my nose. “Smell it?”

  “Sure do.” I turn the flower to his nose. He gives an exaggerated sniff, then holds it away and scrutinizes it as though it were an intricate piece of machinery. I am, in turn, fascinated by his scrutiny, intrigued b
y imagining the thoughts milling about in his head.

  Motherhood has taken me by surprise, literally and figuratively. Jesse and I had assumed children would be awhile in coming, but I conceived soon after our wedding and haven’t regretted it once. I loved being pregnant, even loved giving birth—though if I told my sisters that, they’d rib me forever. Mostly, I love mothering Joshie. He has his father’s sweet and even disposition. Jesse loves him to bits.

  With a gleeful screech, Joshie hurls his fistful of flowers into the air. They rain down upon him, but not for long, because he is off and running along the bluff. He stops abruptly, then squats. Seconds later, he holds up a worm.

  I hate worms. I hate crawly things, period. My sisters always thought that I gardened with gloves on to preserve my manicure. Not so. Though my nails are rarely polished now, I still wear gloves when I root around in the soil.

  “Look, Mommy.”

  “I see, sweetheart.” What I see are tiny fingers holding a slimy something tighter than my stomach wants. “Are you being careful not to hurt him?”

  “Yes. Look. He’s moving.”

  “Worms like to move. What they really like to move on is earth. They wiggle through it and make it healthy. Daddy always says that. Remember?”

  Joshie nods.

  “Want to put him down?”

  Joshie shakes his head, but the movement is enough for his eye to catch on a sprinkling of dandelions farther down the bluff. Dropping the worm, he takes off.

  I stand there watching him, thinking that there can’t be a sight much more beautiful than that of my son, in the jeans and sweatshirt that are miniatures of mine, kneeling on the grass, blowing at the dandelion fluff with the granite headland, the ocean, and the cloud-dotted sky as a backdrop. I feel a fullness inside that, yes, has to do with the new baby growing there, but even more with the overall state of my life.

  Taking another deep, deliberately appreciative breath, I start on toward Joshie. By the time I reach what is left of the dandelions, he is scrambling up over an outcropping of ledge. Knowing the way, he leads me inland a bit. When we reach a grassy decline, he runs, then falls and rolls to the bottom, jumps to his feet and crawls up the other side. At the very top, on a patch of grass, he plops down and turns back on me a wide, waiting grin.