At first Emma had been a little hurt by her mother’s choosing Daniel over her, a financial professional. Maybe, she had thought, Caro was still holding a grudge against her for not having accepted her father’s offer of sharing the business. But Emma had soon let go of the hurt; she was busy enough with her own life, and as long as her brother did a good job caring for the trust, she was content.
“What have you been thinking about?” Andie asked, breaking the long silence. “You’ve been frowning.”
“I have? I was just thinking about Mom having chosen Daniel as trustee of the estate after Dad died,” she said. “It seemed an odd choice at first but . . .” She shrugged.
Andie turned to her sister. “Daniel is trustee? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” she asked.
“You should have gotten a notice from Deb Buchanan. I did. Mom didn’t feel she could handle the finances on her own anymore.”
“Well, I do tend to just file papers regarding the estate. And by file I mean stuff them into a drawer unread.” Andie paused. “You know, I wonder if Danny’s being appointed trustee plays a part in his assumption of the role of patriarch. The lists, the inventories.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Emma said with a laugh. “You wouldn’t have wanted that role, would you? Matriarch?”
“No, not at all,” Andie said firmly. “I just never thought about Mom’s feeling unable to handle her affairs. She always seemed to me to be absurdly competent. Of course, when she died I hadn’t seen her for almost a year. I had no idea how quickly she was failing.”
“Didn’t Danny keep you updated?” Emma asked. “He sent me daily dispatches about Mom’s condition, even when there wasn’t anything new to tell.”
Andie smiled ruefully. “Obviously not as often or as accurately as he did you.”
“Well, I have to say that Danny did an excellent job of protecting Mom’s assets. She was never in need, and now there’s money for those of us still here.”
“Whether we want it or not.”
Emma smiled. “Be that as it may, Dad would have been proud of his son. Andie? Did you find it odd that Joe Herbert delivered Dad’s eulogy?”
“I guess a little,” Andie admitted. “I assumed Mom would ask one of us.”
“She told me that Dad had requested Joe. Honestly, I would have liked to be the one to speak in Dad’s memory. I couldn’t help but wonder if he ever forgave me for choosing to move away and start my own business.”
Andie put her arm around her sister. “Poor Emma. I know that Dad forgave you, as if there was anything to forgive. I’m sure he was disappointed, but that’s all.”
“I suppose you’re right. But it hurt a bit that it was Joe standing there and not me, or even you or Danny.”
“Still,” Andie pointed out, “Dad got the tribute he deserved, and that’s what really matters.”
“You’re right about that, too. Joe did a great job, probably better than I could have done. In the last ten or fifteen years of Dad’s life it was Joe, not me, who knew him best. Next to Mom, of course.”
“You had a life to lead, Emma. Don’t waste time on regrets.” Andie took her arm from around her sister’s shoulders and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Well, I need to get some sleep,” she said.
“How’s the couch working out for you?” Emma asked.
Andie smiled. “I’ve slept on worse.”
Emma listened to her sister’s footsteps descending the stairs until she heard the sound of the door to the den gently closing. She turned off the bedside lamp, slid down under the covers, and stared into the darkened room. And she thought back to that moment in the den when the idea of buying her parents’ house had first occurred to her.
She wasn’t a stupid or a reckless woman. She believed that the time for a big change was now, before she started to feel that she was simply too tired to stage a revolution in her life. She had shed Ian and that was a good thing, a step forward into her future. But what exactly came next? The old blueprint she had created for her life needed to be replaced by one to better fit her needs going forward—whatever they might be exactly.
To detach from old habits that had led her to this point in her life, without love. Could that be it; could that be her goal? Except for a few sociable colleagues, her circle of friends in Annapolis was primarily made up of people she had met through Ian. While they were nice, intelligent, and successful, she had come to realize that she wouldn’t miss spending time with any of them, whether she stayed in Annapolis or not. The truth was she had always been a fairly private person, not big on making friends. Except, that is, for Maureen Kline, her old school friend. In fact, they had made plans to meet the next morning.
Emma hadn’t seen Maureen since Rumi’s party, but they weren’t the kind of friends who needed regular face time to feel bonded. Whenever she did see Maureen, even if it was after a full year apart, she felt as if they had been together but a moment before. Still, it would be nice to spend more time with her, sharing one of the massive cinnamon buns at Cookies ’n Crumpets, window shopping at the absurdly high end jewelry store in Lawrenceville, or indulging in a martini at the Angry Squire. Maureen’s friendship certainly added a strong attraction to the idea of coming home to Oliver’s Well.
But it was just an idea, and often ideas never came to fruition. Emma turned on her side and settled into the ever-comforting fetal position. Before long, she was sound asleep.
CHAPTER14
The sun was not quite up, but Andie had been awake for some time. As she made her way to the kitchen she noted that but for the ticking of the stately grandfather clock in the living room, the house was absolutely still. Emma was not out of bed; she wasn’t meeting Maureen Kline for breakfast until eight-thirty.
Andie made a pot of coffee and when it was brewed she took a cup into the backyard. She pulled her bathrobe more tightly around her and breathed in the cold morning air. How many early mornings had she enjoyed in this yard! She had often snuck out of the house before breakfast to watch the dew dry as the sun came up and to witness her mother’s flowers turn from gray to red and pink and white.
For some reason she couldn’t identify, Andie suddenly recalled a birthday party at which one of the guests, a boy Andie didn’t know very well—but whom for some reason now lost to time she had invited—pushed a girl into a rosebush, where she cut her cheek on a thorn. Andie had never before witnessed an act of violence, and that’s what it was, though the boy—what was his name?—had laughingly sworn the shove was “just a joke.” She remembered feeling sick to her stomach, unable to enjoy the rest of her party even after her mother had cleaned the girl’s cut and covered it with a Band-Aid. Still, Andie had gathered enough courage by then to tell the boy to leave, and surprisingly, he had gone quietly. She had been less afraid to stand up to bullies after that.
Andie took another sip of the cooling coffee, and more memories came rushing to her. As clearly as if he were standing there before her in flesh and blood, Andie saw her father at the charcoal grill, wielding a spatula and laughingly boasting that he was the grillmeister of Oliver’s Well. She remembered, too, all the times they had eaten dinner on the patio on a spring or summer’s evening, the sun still high in the sky, the sound of laughter from the neighboring houses drifting over them, her father lifting his glass in a toast to his family.
Dad. My wonderful father. It wasn’t unusual for her to speak to Cliff now that he had passed on, even though when he was alive she hadn’t been in the habit of turning to him for advice or comfort. Sometimes, Andie thought, watching two little birds busily flitting around the birdbath situated near the rosebushes, it was only at a distance that you could see the value of what was once right before your eyes. Sometimes it was only at a distance you could learn to love a person in the way he deserved to be loved.
Now Andie’s thoughts traveled into the recent past, touching on Rumi’s remarks at dinner about her mother needing to be the center of attention, about her mother having to be
different, as if Andie walked at her own pace simply to be perverse. That wasn’t at all the way it was, and by now, Andie thought, Rumi should know better. It was upsetting that her daughter didn’t seem to understand her—or that she had decided she didn’t want to understand her.
Andie sighed, her breath visible in the air. She and Rumi had shared so many good times through the years. There were the early visits to the ashram in a suburb of Baltimore—an adventure Rumi had particularly enjoyed—and later, the books they had read at the same time and talked about via phone, and the times when Andie visited Oliver’s Well and they would take turns closing their eyes and pointing to a spot on the map of Virginia and taking a day or overnight trip in Andie’s rental car. Such simple fun. Such comfortable companionship. It would be terrible if their relationship were to come to an end over something as trivial as not being around to blow out candles on a cake.
But the fact was that people fell out of love, even parents and children. Maybe, Andie thought, holding her cup of coffee more tightly, this sad fact was something she would have to learn to accept in her own life. Andie remembered how when Rumi started high school she had announced that she would be using her middle name, Caroline, in public from then on. Maybe already she had wanted to disassociate herself from her mother’s “otherness.” Maybe she had wanted to further the bond with the grandmother who had helped raise her. Or maybe Rumi had simply wanted to “fit in” as teenagers so often do. Andie had never questioned her daughter’s decision.
“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” Andie believed the message of her beloved poet, but that didn’t mean the wound wasn’t painful and that it sometimes didn’t fester before you could see the brightness or feel the warmth of the healing light.
Her cup of coffee now empty, Andie went back inside the house. She heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs and went about pouring a cup of coffee for her sister. “Good morning,” she said, as Emma came into the kitchen.
“Good morning. I saw you out in the backyard a little while ago. What were you doing?”
Andie smiled. “I was calling up ghosts,” she said.
“How did that work out for you?” Emma asked, accepting the cup Andie handed her.
“Not well. It never does.”
CHAPTER 15
Emma was waiting for Maureen Kline at Cookies ’n Crumpets that morning at a quarter past eight. The bakery was busy with people lingering over artisanal coffee and buttery, jam-filled pastry as well as with people dashing in for breakfast on the go, but she had managed to snag a table for two near the window. She also had managed to scoop up the last of the infamous cinnamon buns.
The door opened and Emma glanced up from her newspaper, the day’s issue of the Oliver’s Well Gazette. A man had just come in and was making his way to the order counter. She thought he was about her age. He was not overly tall; he might even have been a bit shorter than her. His hair was dark blond, and his eyes—Emma only glimpsed them as he walked by—looked to be dark brown. He was wearing dark jeans, brown, unmistakably Italian leather shoes, and a well-cut jacket. But it wasn’t his clothing that drew her attention, as nice as it was. It was his . . . It was just him.
Emma didn’t want to appear rude should he catch her eye, but she couldn’t seem to look away. It wasn’t that he reminded her of someone she knew back in Annapolis. But it was almost as if she recognized him. The feeling was disconcerting but not unpleasant.
The café was small and Emma couldn’t help but overhear the man’s order—a corn muffin with a side of warm honey and a black coffee. She smiled to herself. So, she thought, he has a sweet tooth. She was sorry when the man paid for his breakfast and left the café. If he had lingered or taken a seat . . .
Maureen made her appearance a moment later, and with a wave she headed to the counter for her coffee. In the past few years Maureen had made a conscious effort to up her style game. Before that, and especially after her divorce, she had been—and Emma hadn’t been thinking anything everyone else hadn’t been thinking—downright dowdy. Today, however, she was wearing a white silk blouse with a smart gray pants suit that fit her perfectly. It wasn’t couture, but it was a vast improvement on the ancient ill-fitting suits she used to wear. And her hair, once close to a national disaster (that had been Maureen’s term for it), was now stylishly cut and the gray professionally disguised.
Emma smiled as Maureen joined her. So many memories! In grammar school they had played with Barbie dolls. In middle school they had spent hours riding their bikes around Oliver’s Well, talking about what exciting, adventurous people they were going to be when they grew up. They had double-dated at the high school senior prom. Maureen had visited Emma when she was away at college. Emma had been a bridesmaid in Maureen’s wedding. When Maureen’s father had suffered a stroke, Emma had gone back to Oliver’s Well for a few days to help Maureen care for her parents.
Maureen bent down and gave Emma a hug. “So, back in Oliver’s Well for Christmas. Are you staying through New Year’s?” she asked, taking a seat.
“Probably,” Emma said. “It’s great to see everyone. The kids are growing so fast. And Danny’s got a full schedule of Christmas activities planned for us!”
“Oliver’s Well is pretty charming at this time of the year,” Maureen said. “Even at my ripe old age, when I see the lights on the trees in the Grove and the pine boughs draped across the windows of the Wilson House, I start to think that maybe there is a Santa Claus after all.”
“Your ripe old age is my ripe old age,” Emma pointed out.
Maureen laughed. “Oh, right. Our mature youth, I should say.”
But time is moving inexorably on.... “I was thinking,” Emma said abruptly. “I was thinking that maybe I should just chuck it all, my entire life in Annapolis, and move back to Oliver’s Well.”
“Really?” Maureen raised her eyebrows. “I never thought I’d hear those words coming from your lips.”
Emma laughed. “I don’t know what came over me. I haven’t told anyone else what I’ve been thinking. And I’ve only been thinking it for like a nano-second!”
“Hey, we’re friends. Besides, I’m the kind of person people tell their secrets to. Must be something about my face.”
“You’re a natural confessor,” Emma said. “It’s a talent. Though I suppose it could become a burden.”
“Tell me about it. I’ll never forget the time I was on line at the dry cleaners, minding my own business, when this woman came in and before I knew it she was telling me all about her skin disorder and how embarrassed she was by it and how people sometimes made fun of her and then—wait for it—she was pushing up her sleeve to show me said condition and pointing out every bump and raw spot and . . .” Maureen shuddered. “I felt sorry for her, of course, but—why me?”
“Talk about too much information! Yikes. I hope she found some relief.”
“I hope so, too, but I never saw her again, so I don’t know.” Maureen frowned. “Hey, wait a minute. What about Ian? If you chucked it all in Annapolis and moved back here, where does he fit in to the scheme?”
“Truth is, I broke up with him a few days ago.”
“And you’re not telling me until now?” Maureen asked, eyes wide. “Even though I’m a natural confessor?”
“Now we’re face to face,” Emma said. “It’s always best to tell someone big news in person.”
“How did he take it?” Maureen asked. “You guys were an item for a long time, except for that one tiny time off.”
“I think he doesn’t really believe it’s over. He was so very pleasant when I told him I wanted to end things. He just kept nodding and saying things like ‘okay’ and ‘well.’ And since then he’s been sending me countless texts and leaving messages on my voice mail at all hours.”
Maureen frowned again. “Sounds creepy. But to give the guy his due, maybe he doesn’t believe it’s over because of what happened last time. You went back to him almost before he’d had time t
o process you were gone. Maybe he thinks the same thing is going to happen this time around. Not that it’s an excuse for his pestering you.”
Emma cringed. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“It’s just an idea. By the way, when are you going to cut that thing in half and give me my share?”
Emma picked up her knife and divided the massive cinnamon bun in two. As she handed half of it to Maureen her phone rattled against the tabletop.
“See what I mean? It’s Ian again. This is the second text today and it’s only eight-thirty.” Emma sighed. “He’s not a bad guy, you know that. He’s just . . . upset. Andie says Ian’s having trouble letting go of his connection, not only to me but also to my family. She says his persistence is denial and that I should be patient with him.”
“Well,” Maureen said, “that’s Andie, always trying to be kind. But I’d be tempted to tell him in no uncertain terms to back off.”
“Enough about Ian. Are you still seeing that guy you told me about the last time we spoke?” Emma asked. “The contractor, Jim.” That was something else that had changed for Maureen, Emma thought. After her messy divorce she had pretty much shut down her social life and refused even to consider dating. But about the time she had gotten her look in hand—and started taking swimming lessons and adult education courses at the community college—she had re-entered the world of dating. Maureen had told Emma that she felt she had gone from being just “the girl next door” to being someone noticeable in the eyes of Oliver’s Well.
“Yup,” Maureen said. “Things are going well. Jim’s a doll. I can’t find anything significantly wrong with him, and believe me, I’ve looked. Even his ex-wife doesn’t make waves in his life, or in mine. And his son’s announced he’s staying in California after he graduates college. He’s already got a job lined up at the company where he’s been interning, so there are no worries about Jim’s having to support a disaffected kid. Sorry if I sound so very practical about it all, but I’m too old to be saddling myself with someone else’s difficult family. Mine can be enough of a challenge. Not Mom and Dad so much as my sisters.”
The House on Honeysuckle Lane Page 8