The House on Honeysuckle Lane

by Mary McDonough

  And speaking of empathy or the lack thereof . . . Emma frowned. It had been mean of Daniel to tease Andie about being a vegetarian, to dismiss her latest podcast as unimportant, to criticize her for not having been around for Rumi’s birthday in June. For that matter, there had been no need for him to mention the fact that Emma had left Ian once before; it was a memory that embarrassed her.

  It had been a spur of the moment thing. One of Ian’s friends from architecture school had invited them to his wedding, an event that took place over a weekend in Savannah. From the moment Emma was introduced to Ted and Maggie she was struck by just how much in love they were; their feelings for each other radiated in waves of happiness and goodwill. She had been so reminded of her parents’ relationship and had found it almost unbearable to witness Ted and Maggie’s joy in each other’s company. They were in such stark contrast to her and Ian, who were moving along the road of life with little if any real passion, their souls never quite touching. As soon as they were back in Annapolis Emma had told Ian she was leaving him. “Things don’t feel right,” she’d said, and he was understandably puzzled, but as with this last time, he hadn’t seemed much affected. And less than two weeks later, Emma found herself asking him to meet for lunch and they had picked up right where they left off. The loneliness she had felt without Ian around had surprised her, and she had asked herself if something wasn’t better than nothing. In short, she hadn’t been ready to walk away. Not like now.

  Anyway, Emma thought, that wasn’t the Daniel she knew, kind, good natured, ready for a laugh, willing to be teased by his older sisters. Still, time and tragedy changed people, and while she had been battling her own demons since their mother had died, who knew what Daniel had been going through—and if he had been going through it alone or if he was sharing the experience with his wife.

  Emma hoped it was the latter; she admired her sister-in-law. From the start Anna Maria had held her own with the strong-willed Caro, and it couldn’t have been easy. Her brother had always been their mother’s favorite, and Caro could be vocal about how she felt he should be treated. Maybe having grown up in a “big, noisy, passionate” family—Anna Maria’s description—had prepared her not to be cowed by a doting mother-in-law too often tempted to point out what she saw as mistakes or omissions in her daughter-in-law’s housekeeping or the attention she paid to her husband.

  And Daniel could be a bit full of himself, Emma thought, and that was partially her fault, and Andie’s. Along with Caro they had spoiled him as a child, the adorable baby brother. Emma often wondered how Anna Maria handled Daniel when he was in a difficult mood. Probably with grace, patience, and a well-turned phrase.

  In a way, Emma thought, settling more comfortably against the pillows, Daniel and Anna Maria reminded her of Cliff and Caro Reynolds; they were a good, solid team built on love, respect, and friendship. But Daniel and Anna Maria lacked the glamour that seemed to hang around Cliff and Caro like a shimmering cloak. For so many years Emma had felt in awe of her parents. Cliff and Caro Reynolds had been so good-looking, so personable and charismatic, so intelligent. In short, they had been overwhelming.

  That was why when her father had approached her at the start of her last semester in graduate school with his remarkably generous offer, Emma had momentarily panicked. It would be an honor, he said, for his daughter to join him in his practice. He hoped to offer her the benefit of his years of experience. “And eventually,” he said, “when I retire, the business will be yours. And don’t worry about finding a place to live,” Cliff had gone on. “Your mother and I are more than happy to have you back home with us until you’ve saved enough money to buy a home of your own in Oliver’s Well.”

  Emma had been speechless. The idea of moving back to Oliver’s Well—specifically, to the house on Honeysuckle Lane—was appalling. She wanted a life of her own. She needed a life of her own. And to leave Oliver’s Well and the immediate sphere of her parents’ influence was, Emma believed, the only way to achieve full independence. She had seen what had happened with Andie and viewed her sister’s predicament—an early mistaken marriage—as a warning of what might come to pass if she stayed around. Unhappiness, dissatisfaction, and an unintentional dependence on her parents, those powerful, commanding personalities.

  Finally, after almost a full minute of silence, Emma admitted she simply didn’t know what to say. “Think about it,” her father had said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re bound to have questions.” Cliff had chuckled. “I pride myself on keeping accurate accounts, but after all, you’re the one getting the MBA.”

  It was several days before Emma told her father that while she was grateful for his generous offer of a partnership, she intended to pursue other plans. His immediate reaction had almost made her change her mind; he was so very disappointed that Emma’s heart almost broke. Really, what was so wrong with staying in Oliver’s Well and working alongside her father, a man she loved and respected? But deep down she knew she couldn’t let guilt and a sense of duty override her intentions for a life of her own making. She knew that it would be a grave mistake to live out her adulthood in Oliver’s Well, with her parents ever present and exuding such a powerful influence.

  In spite of his disappointment, Cliff Reynolds had been gracious about his daughter’s refusal to join him in his business and had wished her success in her ventures. “Just know,” he’d said, “that if you change your mind the offer is always open.”

  But she hadn’t changed her mind, and within eighteen months Joe Herbert, the young man who had once interned with her father, was firmly installed as a junior partner. She didn’t feel any regret when she heard this news. She liked Joe and she knew that with her father’s heart condition, it was only wise for him to share the burden of his work.

  Her mother, however, had not been as gracious as her father. “It’s a slap in your father’s face is what it is,” she had told Emma angrily. “After all he’s done for you.” Caro simply hadn’t understood her daughter’s need to forge her own life elsewhere. “Oliver’s Well has always been good enough for your father and me,” she had said. “I don’t see why it’s not good enough for you.”

  Their relationship had changed after that, though given the fact that neither Caro nor Emma enjoyed altercations and were not the type to provoke just for the fun of it, things had fairly quickly settled into a state of only slightly uneasy détente.

  A huge yawn half convinced Emma that if she tried once again to fall asleep she would meet with success. But before she turned out the light, she picked up her iPhone from where it sat charging on the nightstand, ringer turned off for the night, and saw that Ian had left a message. She did not listen to it. And suddenly, she felt angry. That it should all have come to this . . . Emma didn’t entirely regret the relationship with Ian, but she did regret all the years she had put into something that had never quite felt joyful. And joy was important.

  They had met almost eleven years earlier at a party given by mutual friends. They hit it off and by the end of the evening had agreed to meet for drinks the following week. On that first date they discovered a mutual interest in history. Ian hadn’t yawned when she described her career as a financial advisor. Emma had enjoyed Ian’s stories about his time in architecture school. At dinner the following week they discovered a mutual passion for sushi. They took a day trip to Williamsburg. They binge-watched the first British version of House of Cards. They went to bed, and it was good if not great. Emma found the relationship comfortable and unchallenging, and that, she thought, was fine. She was challenged enough in her career; what she needed from Ian—from any man—was an uncomplicated companionship.

  A few months after they first met, Ian had suggested they spend a weekend in Paris. He had found a cheap flight, and a friend who lived in the fourth arrondissement had offered them his apartment while he paid a visit to his sister in Amsterdam. And while a tiny part of her had wondered if going to Paris with Ian was such a wise idea—she wasn’t in l
ove with him, and Paris was the fabled city of romance; might her agreeing to go with Ian give him the wrong idea?—she accepted his suggestion. They had a fantastic time. While they strolled the Champs-Élysées one evening, Ian told Emma he was in no rush to get married. Still, he made it clear that he felt committed to her. Emma told him that she wasn’t sure—and never had been—that marriage was the right thing for her. “But you’re committed to me?” Ian had asked. What was there to say but yes? After all, it wasn’t a lie, not really. She wasn’t interested in seeing anyone else. She wasn’t a cheater. It was all very civilized.

  Andie was right—Ian Hayes was a good man. On paper he was a real catch, partner in a successful architecture firm, in excellent health, an active contributor to the maintenance of the local homeless shelter, and unencumbered by bitter former wives or unhappy grasping children. But he was not the right man for Emma.

  In the end the relationship had proved too much work, and for what? A degree of comfort? A companion with whom she could attend dinner parties and go on summer vacations? No, there had to be more to a relationship than convenience. There had to be love, plain and simple. The kind of love that made a man follow a woman off a bus; the kind of love that made that woman happily agree to marry him only months later.

  With a sigh, Emma turned off the light and lay down once again. And this time, she quickly entered sleep.

  CHAPTER 8

  Andie couldn’t sleep. She had repeated a prayer that most often helped her mind settle into a state of receptivity. She had dipped into one of the several books she carried with her whenever she traveled. A few of the titles explored Buddhist practice and others focused on the spiritual teachings of Rumi, the thirteenth-century Sufi mystic, poet, and prophet.

  But it was all no good. She shifted on the leather couch and sighed. She couldn’t get the memories of Daniel’s behavior out of her mind. Was it always going to be this way, her brother, as had her parents, not understanding—refusing to understand?—the choices she had made for her life? The Buddha had said: “Your work is to discover your work, and then with all your heart to give yourself to it.” That’s exactly what Andie had done.

  Well, Andie thought, if Daniel was determined to be aggressive with her this holiday, there was nothing she could do about it. In a few weeks she would be home in Woodville Junction, a little haven ten miles from the closest large town, ensconced in her three-room apartment in a residential building on property communally owned by Andie and her fellow spiritual explorers. While the ten or twelve people living there at any given time spent much of the day in each other’s company, there was also ample provision for privacy and for essential prayer and meditation. The arrangement in upstate New York—so far from Oliver’s Well—suited Andie perfectly.

  “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” No matter how wise, Andie thought, the Buddha’s teachings were never easy to put into practice. She reached behind her and pulled the cord on the table lamp. If she was going to be awake, she might as well have light as her companion. She blinked at the sudden illumination and then found herself looking directly at her father’s armchair, over the back of which was draped a gorgeous tweed throw her parents had bought on their trip to Ireland one summer. Cliff and Caro had often traveled alone together. In fact, only once had the Reynoldses gone abroad as a family, and that was to Italy when Andie was sixteen, Emma fourteen, and Daniel twelve. Andie remembered it as a magical two weeks, replete with new sights and sounds, new tastes and smells. It was a trip that had first opened her eyes to the possibilities of travel, a trip that had allowed her to catch a glimpse of a future that might truly suit her. But only a glimpse. At that tender age Andie hadn’t been equipped to envision much else besides what her mother had already decided for her older daughter’s future—marriage and children, membership in a respectable women’s club, and if she were tenacious, the presidency of the PTA.

  Andie’s eyes shifted to a photograph of her father in a highly polished silver frame. Danny must be in this house every week to keep everything so shipshape and sparkling, she thought. In the photo Cliff looked downright robust, a broad smile on his face, his thick dark hair waving back off his forehead, his fists on his hips. Nothing in the image betrayed the fact that Cliff Reynolds had a congenital heart condition that would eventually take his life. The Reynolds children had known about their father’s heart condition from an early age, but for them it was just a fact, like their father’s brown eyes or the round-faced watch he always wore. The knowledge carried no threat to their safety as a family, and that was because Cliff had never let the heart defect get in the way of a zest for life. If Daniel wanted a “horseyback ride” around the living room, he got one. If Andie wanted a tent pitched in the backyard for a sleepover with her friends, the tent was pitched. If Emma wanted to show her father a new move she had learned in dance class, Cliff Reynolds was always a willing partner, even if he just stood there as a support when his middle child got up on her toes and attempted a pirouette.

  Caro, on the other hand, had often used Cliff’s condition to guilt her children into behaving. “Don’t fight,” she would say. “You know your father has a weak heart.” Or “Make sure your homework is done before dinner. You don’t want to upset your father.” If Cliff was in earshot he would turn to the kids and wink. It was amusing, Andie thought, how her mother used her husband’s heart trouble to justify all sorts of things, like trips to London or Japan or Hawaii. “Your father needs a nice long holiday,” she would say, though Andie had never understood how the sheer physical strain of busy airports and long plane rides would be helpful to a man with a weak heart. Still, she smiled at the memory. And then Andie’s smile faded when she remembered how her mother had told her that her divorcing Bob would kill her father. “His death will be on your head,” Caro had warned. “If you still want to go ahead with this ridiculous idea, then you’ll have to accept the consequences.”

  But the divorce had not been a ridiculous idea and it hadn’t killed her father, Andie reminded herself. Cliff and Caro had gone on having dinner at the Angry Squire and attending dances at the Lower Waterville Country Club and hosting cocktail parties for the members of the Women’s Institute and their husbands. And, of course, traveling.

  Andie shifted again on the couch, remembering when she had been alone in the house for weeks at a time when her parents took off for foreign climes, a young and unhappy woman with a small child. Though part of her welcomed the chance to live without what she sometimes thought of as her parents’ surveillance, she remembered all too well how the silence of the house would soon begin to prey on her nerves. She liked it when Daniel would come by for a few days between semesters at college. Emma rarely returned to Oliver’s Well in those years, busy as she was with getting an education and later, starting her own business in Annapolis. Even Bob, never neglectful of those he loved, had been overworked, trying to grow and improve the plumbing business his father had started, and his visits to Honeysuckle Lane were often short and distracted.

  Andie crossed her arms over her chest in a consciously self-protective gesture, as if the depression and anxiety of the past could somehow still hurt her. The nights, she recalled, had been the worst. Alone in the house with Rumi, she would become overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy, certain that she would do something stupid or careless and accidentally put her child in harm’s way. She imagined all sorts of disastrous scenarios. She would forget to turn off one of the gas burners and they would suffocate in their beds. She would spill scalding water from the teakettle over her daughter as she sat innocently in her high chair. She would trip while carrying Rumi down the stairs and the child would land on her head, killed instantly. Once or twice, when the panic was riding high, she had asked Bob to stay with her and he had obliged, until he began to date someone who, understandably, didn’t want her boyfriend sleeping in the room next to his ex-wife. After that she considered seeing a doctor for an antian
xiety prescription, but then felt afraid that she would accidentally overdose, leaving Rumi alone and helpless until someone finally came to find her, cold, dirty, and hungry.

  When her parents finally returned from their travels, Andie would greet their arrival with mixed emotion, glad of their company and yet aware of their displeasure. For a few days they would be overly solicitous, as if they felt guilty for having left their troubled daughter and their innocent, helpless granddaughter alone. And then they would resume their usual behavior toward her, pleasant enough but always with an edge of disappointment.

  And of course Caro always had something critical to say about how Andie had cared for the house in her absence. Well, Caro had been a perfectionist. Every picture frame in exact alignment, the house vacuumed every other day, sheets and towels neatly folded and stacked in a linen closet that would have made the most exacting housekeeper proud. Not like me, Andie thought with a rueful smile for no one. “I don’t know where you came from,” Caro would say, shaking her head at her oldest child’s messy habits.

  Sometimes Andie still asked herself the same question. Where indeed had she come from? From the very beginning she had been a disappointment. Her parents had fully expected their first child to be a boy; he was to be named after Cliff’s father, Andrew. But a girl had come along instead, and “Andrew” became “Andrea.” I’ve never been what was expected of me, she thought. A miniature of my mother, a girl who excelled at the expected.

  Expectation. It could be a terrible thing when the expectations you attempted to fulfill were not of your own choosing. The expected would have been for Andie to give her daughter a more mainstream name. The expected would have been for Andie to stay in Oliver’s Well with her husband and child, rather than for her to travel the world on her own. Sometimes, in very dark moments, Andie thought she would gladly give up all that she had achieved if she could turn back the clock and be a “normal” wife and mother. But only in very dark moments.