The House on Honeysuckle Lane

by Mary McDonough

  Emma decided not to pursue that particular line of argument. “Danny,” she said, “what do you really know about Andie’s marriage to Bob?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked with a frown.

  “Look, I don’t think I’m spilling a secret I shouldn’t when I tell you that it was Bob who suggested Andie be the one to file for divorce. The decision to split was entirely mutual, but he didn’t want her to be seen as the betrayed woman.”

  Daniel nodded. “That’s like Bob. He’s a gentleman. But the fact is that Andie left her child. The divorce is nothing compared to that. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I’d do anything rather than walk away from my kids. Anything. And her being a mother . . .”

  “Men walk away from their children all the time, Danny,” Emma pointed out. “Don’t be hard on Andie just because she’s a woman. And why is this bothering you so badly now, after all these years?”

  Daniel didn’t respond. Maybe, Emma thought, he didn’t know how to respond.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “it’s not as if she abandoned Rumi. She’s always been in close touch with her daughter, as well as with Bob. You know that.”

  “Bob said as much to me this afternoon,” Daniel admitted. “He swears he and Andie coparented even after she left Oliver’s Well.”

  “Believe him, Danny. They’re a family. They’re going through a rough patch, but they’re close at heart. And they certainly don’t need anyone from the outside stirring the pot.”

  Daniel smiled a bit. “Are you saying I’m interfering?”

  “Yes,” Emma told him. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You shouldn’t encourage Rumi when she’s rude or disrespectful to her mother. Think about it, Danny. How would you feel if I started to encourage Sophie or Marco to turn against you or Anna Maria?”

  “I’d be furious.”

  “And I’d be in the wrong.”

  Daniel sighed. “It’s just that when I think of how Andie lives her life I can’t find any connection between my sister and my mother. Mom would never, ever have turned her back on her husband and children to pursue her own interests. It never even would have occurred to her.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t have occurred to her, Danny,” Emma said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. “Mom was happy with her life the way it was. Look, just because Andie did something that Mom would never have done doesn’t make it wrong. And face it, we really don’t know what Mom might or might not have done in different circumstances, if she had been unhappy with Dad and her life in Oliver’s Well. No one ever knows another person well enough to accurately predict their behavior one hundred percent of the time.”

  Daniel frowned down at his beer, as if assessing the truth of what she had just said. Poor Danny, Emma thought. In her brother’s eyes, their mother could do no wrong, and that sort of adulation could bring with it difficulties. She wondered again what her brother would think if he knew that Caro had broken her first engagement. She suspected he might put his own spin on the story, paint the fiancé as a monster his mother was well rid of, rather than accept that she had followed her passion—just as his oldest sister had followed hers. For a split second Emma was tempted to tell her mother’s secret, but she got the better of herself. To tell Daniel might be to further upset him, and what good would that do for any of the family?

  “Have you chosen a real estate agent to list the house?” Daniel asked suddenly, looking back at her.

  “Not yet,” she said, “but I’m close. Hey, Danny, do you remember the time we went with the Klines to Worthington Lake for the day? I was just thinking about it last night. Remember how we kids, Maureen’s sisters, too, went into the woods at one point and tried to build a fort with fallen tree limbs?”

  Daniel laughed. “And Kathleen tried to control the construction, which is probably why it failed. And later, Fiona pretended to fall into the lake and drown.”

  “She always was an attention seeker, even as a little kid. I’m surprised Jeannette and Danny put up with it.”

  “We parents do tend to overlook our children’s foibles at times. Sometimes to our—and their—detriment.”

  “I don’t see anything too terrible in your kids, Danny.”

  “If you lived with them you might see differently!” Daniel smiled and then glanced around the bar. When he spoke again his voice was low. “Look, I know I’m a professional chef and I’m supposed to only eat the best quality food, but I suddenly have a craving for very greasy onion rings. There’s a dive about a mile out of town. Are you in?”

  Emma grinned. “Oh, yeah. A gal can only eat so many salted nuts.”

  “Great. But let’s keep this to ourselves. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  Emma laughed. “You sound like Dad. Every time he would do or say something goofy or slightly off color he’d say exactly the same thing. ‘Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. ’ ”

  “I remember. I remember an awful lot of the things he used to say and do. Like how he used a good old-fashioned brush and shaving foam instead of an electric shaver or a razor. Sometimes it’s as if he never died, I see him so clearly.”

  Emma took her brother’s arm as they left the Angry Squire. Her brother, she thought, was truly suffering, maybe more even than Andie at the moment. “Onion rings are on me,” she said. “And remember, you’re not allowed to say no to your big sister.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Bob had lived in the little house on Bertram Road since just before Rumi’s tenth birthday. He had bought it as a fixer-upper and had truly transformed the one-story structure into a charming home for himself and his daughter.

  “Thanks for having me over,” Andie said, turning from the small watercolor she had been admiring. “Sorry to invite myself.”

  “My pleasure.” Bob smiled. “You know you’re always welcome, Andie. I’ll go make us some tea.”

  Andie waited for her former husband in the living room, a small but welcoming room with walls painted a soothing blue and homey touches like a brightly colored crocheted afghan tossed across the back of the couch and a vase of fresh white carnations on the coffee table.

  With some difficulty she resisted going down the hall to take a peek into Rumi’s bedroom. She hadn’t seen it for years and she wondered what she might find. She wondered if there would be evidence of Rumi’s jewelry making, stones she had selected for their healing properties as well as for their beauty. She wondered, too, if Rumi had kept the things she had sent her through the years, like the books and the prayer beads. Andie had always believed that a gift should be given freely, without expectation even of thanks; still, she hoped her daughter had kept and cherished at least some of the items her mother had sent her.

  More importantly, Andie wanted to touch the pillow on which her daughter laid her head each night, and to see whatever it might be that Rumi saw first thing each morning. She wanted to see evidence of her child’s daily life, a life she had not witnessed firsthand for most of the past twelve years.

  But she remembered what she had said to Emma about a parent respecting a child’s privacy and she refrained from satisfying her curiosity. If she wanted to know more about her daughter’s life, she should simply ask her. Assuming Rumi was still talking to her. Andie hadn’t heard from her since she stormed out of the house on Honeysuckle Lane the morning before.

  Bob came back from the kitchen carrying a tray with teapot, cups, and a plate of ginger snaps. Andie smiled. Bob loved ginger snaps. They sat side by side on the couch and Bob poured their tea.

  “I hope you like this,” he said. “It’s a new blend I discovered at the Eclectic Gourmet. They’ve got a specialist in tea; he’s always coming up with new combinations.”

  Andie took a sip. “Mmm. That’s lovely. What’s it called?”

  “Seahawk’s Dream.”

  Andie laughed. “That’s creative.”

  “So, what did you want to talk about?” Bob asked. “Though I think I can guess.”r />
  Andie took another soothing sip before answering. “Rumi is so angry with me, Bob, more so now than ever. I can’t help but wonder if it’s more than just missing her grandmother. It’s almost as if she’s been listening to nasty stories about my being . . .“

  “Being what?”

  Neglectful. But Andie couldn’t say the word aloud—the word Rumi had used to describe her mother. “Never mind. But it’s like she’s determined to misinterpret everything I say.”

  “I’ve never spoken ill of you to our daughter, Andie. You can believe that.”

  “I do, Bob,” she said. But she wondered if her brother had been subtly poisoning Rumi’s thoughts.... No, she decided. Daniel would never do such a thing. It would be far too cruel. “Has Rumi ever asked you why you married me?”

  “Where did that come from?” Bob smiled. “But as a matter of fact, yeah. When she was about fifteen she had a crush on a boy at school, and I guess she had fantasies about marrying him at some point. It was painful to witness. Hormones masquerading as young love.”

  And I wasn’t here to help.... “What did you tell her?” Andie asked.

  “I said that I asked you to marry me because I loved you.”

  “The simple answer.”

  “And a true one.”

  Andie sighed. “Sometimes,” she said, “I wonder if the postpartum depression was partly the result of my knowing that I wasn’t the right kind of wife to you. If I couldn’t properly love the father of my child as a wife should love him, how could I properly love the child?”

  Bob shook his head. “Gosh, Andie, I don’t know the answer to that. But I do think you might be allowing Rumi’s mood to make you feel gloomy. And I don’t want you to feel gloomy or to dwell on what’s gone. The past can take care of itself.”

  “I wish I could always believe that.” Andie smiled ruefully. “I truly never meant any harm, Bob. But I caused it. Sometimes I think I’ll never be able to fully forgive myself. Ironic, isn’t it? The teacher can’t practice what she preaches! As Rumi says, ‘Everyone is overridden by thoughts; that’s why they have so much heartache and sorrow.’ The question is, how do you let go of thoughts?”

  Bob smiled gently. “I’ll get back to you on that one.”

  Andie took a bite of a ginger snap, and as she chewed her eye returned to the small watercolor painting she had been admiring earlier. “That painting by the door,” she said. “It’s charming, but I’m not sure I noticed it before today. Where did you get it?”

  “Your mother gave it to me about a year before she died,” Bob told her. “It was a birthday present. I think she said she’d gotten it at a craft fair a short time before your father passed away.” Bob shrugged. “For some reason she wanted me to have it.”

  “Because she loved you, Bob,” Andie said. “She wasn’t entirely sure about me, but she knew that you were a quality person.”

  “Now, Andie, your mother loved you.”

  “Maybe. But she considered me a flake at best.”

  Bob sighed and put his cup on the coffee table. “Caro didn’t understand you,” Bob said gently, “but then again, none of us ever really did. None of us do, not entirely, not even me. Now, that’s not a criticism of you. It’s our failing. Maybe we lack imagination. But, Andie, your mother did love you. You have to believe that. She even admired you, one she got past the shock of your leaving Oliver’s Well after Rumi came to live with me. I remember her saying to me once, just after you published your first article in a national magazine, that she never thought you were the child who would prove to have such nerve.”

  Andie laughed a bit sadly. “Kind of a backhanded compliment, don’t you think?”

  “Only if you choose to take it that way,” Bob argued. “The point is that she was proud of you. If she was surprised by your success, it was only because you were, and these were her words, a late bloomer. What she didn’t have to say—what she probably couldn’t say—was that you only really blossomed after our divorce.”

  “And after you took over Rumi’s care,” Andie pointed out. “In an important way, Bob, I have you to thank for what I’ve managed to accomplish in my life. You gave me the freedom to leave Oliver’s Well.”

  Bob smiled. “You would have found another way out on your own, I’m sure of it. It might have taken some time, but you would have succeeded in the end.”

  “I suppose it was nice of my mother to tell you she had some respect for my work,” Andie admitted. “But I would have liked to hear it from her own lips.”

  Bob shrugged. “She was who she was, old fashioned, in spite of having witnessed the sixties and seventies. She probably didn’t know how to talk to you. Or she thought she didn’t know how. So she kept quiet rather than flounder and embarrass the both of you in the process.”

  “You’re probably right, Bob. Still . . . I wish I had known how she felt when she was still alive.”

  “Well, now you do know,” Bob pointed out. “Better late than never.”

  “Yes. You’re right. And I hope that knowledge will help me going forward.”

  And Andie thought: Why are the important things left unsaid? Why do we waste so much breath—so many words—on the trivial, the mean spirited, the critical? How often in my own life I’ve been guilty of this! Because to be human is to fail others, as well as to serve them.

  “Any thoughts on what can be done to bridge the gap that’s opened up between Rumi and me?” she asked her dearest friend.

  Bob sighed. “I don’t have any bright ideas, if that’s what you’re looking for. This is a difficult time for her. We were lucky her adolescent years were relatively smooth. The biggest bump in the road was when she had to get braces for a year. She threw a bit of a tantrum about that until her best friend of the moment also got them, and suddenly braces were cool.”

  “I just wish she weren’t so angry,” she said. “Anger frightens me, Bob. It always has. It makes me feel physically ill.”

  “Be patient, Andie. Why don’t you ask her to visit you in Woodville Junction sometime?” he suggested. “Let her see where you live, meet the people who share your day-to-day life. They’re important to you, and maybe she needs to witness that.”

  “I don’t know, Bob. She used to enjoy our visits to the ashram and to the retreat center outside Charleston, but she was so much younger then. Do you really think asking her to visit me is a good idea? Especially now, when we’re in such a bad place?”

  “Maybe not right yet.” Bob sighed. “But some day.”

  Andie laughed a bit desperately. “I certainly hope so.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, back at the house on Honeysuckle Lane, Andie thought about what Bob had told her—Caro Reynolds had been proud of her oldest child’s achievements. Bob was right; knowing this now was better than never having known it at all. And suddenly Andie recalled the time many years earlier when she had been presented a humanitarian award from a foundation to support and promote the work of spiritual guidance and study. The reason? She had donated one hundred hours of her time to work with victims of PTSD and help them master the skills needed for a more peaceful life going forward. Her father, she remembered, had called her from Oliver’s Well to congratulate her. “It’s more of a recognition than an award,” she had told him, feeling a bit awkward accepting his praise. “Still,” he had replied, “I’m so proud of you.”

  It wasn’t something Cliff often did, Andie recalled, tell his oldest child that he was proud of her. He was more likely to praise Emma or Daniel.... But maybe, like Bob had said, that was because he had more easily understood and recognized their achievements than he had Andie’s.

  Andie felt a lightening of spirit—her parents had respected her!—and decided just then that she would host a feast for the family that night. She couldn’t remember the last time she had made a meal for any of her family; certainly it had been years and years. And it was such a caring and generous thing to do, to cook for people you loved. She would send a text
to Rumi and also ask Bob to encourage her to join them; the invitation might be better coming from both of her parents. Andie might not succeed in getting the Reynolds family to join hands in a prayer of thanks, but at least she would have the satisfaction of giving a gift.

  Andie pulled out her iPhone and sent a text to Anna Maria, Bob, and to Rumi, inviting them for dinner at six-thirty that evening. Emma had left a note that she would be back soon; Andie would tell her directly. And then she would make a shopping list and head into town. Any ingredient she couldn’t find at the grocery store she might be able to secure at the Eclectic Gourmet.

  Andie heard the front door open and shut. A moment later Emma came into the kitchen, carrying a bag from the local independent pharmacy. “I took the last of the aspirin that was in the bathroom cupboard,” she said. “So I thought I’d better replace the bottle before Danny decided he’d pay for that, too.”

  Andie smiled. “Speaking of Danny doing things for us, I thought I’d give him a break and cook dinner here for everyone tonight.”

  Emma smiled. “Just don’t expect to make a convert out of Danny. I don’t think he’ll be giving up his red meat any time soon.”

  Andie laughed. “I’m not that naive.” But, she thought, reaching for her bag, if she could at least accomplish a pleasant meal around the family table, she would be happy.

  CHAPTER 37

  “What time is it?” Andie asked, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her middle. Emma remembered her mother wearing the apron; until Andie had put it on earlier that evening it had remained spotlessly clean. Now it was splattered with stains. But what, Emma thought, was an apron for if not to get dirty?

  “It’s six-forty,” Emma told her. She hadn’t needed to check her watch. Andie had asked the same question less than two minutes ago.

  Andie frowned. “I don’t want to hold dinner for long. The children are probably starving.”

  “There’s no reason we can’t start without Rumi,” Emma said, in what she hoped was a comforting tone. “I’m sure she’ll be along soon.”