The House on Honeysuckle Lane

by Mary McDonough

  Emma laughed. “And yet I don’t get the impression she’s out to lord it over us mere mortals.”

  “No,” Morgan agreed. “She’s a nice woman, truly humble.”

  A circulating waiter offered them a glass of champagne, and Emma took one. It was her second, but she had eaten so much food she seriously doubted it would impair her ability to drive. Especially, she thought, eyeing the dessert table, if she had another profiterole.

  “Have you chosen a real estate agent yet?” Morgan asked when the waiter had moved off.

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t,” Emma admitted. “I’ve . . . I’ve been busy with other things. I brought my mother’s clothes to a resale shop this morning. It was more difficult than I imagined.”

  “I’m sorry it was a trying experience,” Morgan said feelingly.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I suppose I should have expected it.” She would not tell him that after leaving the resale shop, clutching her mother’s tweed jacket, she had wanted so badly to see him. At least, she wouldn’t tell him yet.

  “You know,” Morgan said. “I’ve never been inside number 32. Well, I suppose there was no reason I would have been. I wasn’t a close friend of your parents.”

  “The house has some charming touches,” Emma told him. “Otherwise, structurally it’s much the same as the Fitzgibbons’ house. And the decor doesn’t come anywhere near Norma’s taste in furniture and trappings!”

  Morgan smiled. “Some of the pieces are not to my taste—I could never get into rococo!—but Norma’s got a good eye and the money to put that eye to good use. She invited me to tour the entire house shortly after she settled in, which I thought was very nice of her. And she’s bought a few small pieces from the gallery in the last year or so.”

  “And still no one knows where she got her money?” Emma asked.

  Morgan lowered his voice dramatically. “It’s a deep dark secret, though I’ve often wondered how Mary Bernadette hasn’t managed to ferret out the truth! By the way, I saw your brother leaving earlier, as I was handing my car keys to a valet. Was that his wife with him, the woman in the red blouse?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes, that was Anna Maria. And you missed my sister, too,” Emma said. “She left shortly before my brother did. She seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. So much of a hurry she didn’t even say good-bye.”

  Morgan laughed. “Is my reputation that bad? No, really, I’m sorry that I missed her. She’s forged quite a life for herself from what I’ve heard around town.”

  “Have you also heard the nastier gossips slam Andie for having left her child with her ex-husband so she could go off gallivanting or smoking strange substances or performing bizarre rituals ‘God knows where’?”

  Morgan frowned. “One old biddy tried to buttonhole me in the gallery not long after I opened. I don’t know why she felt it necessary to fill me in on a so-called scandal that took place years in the past. I was polite, but I managed to shut her down.”

  “And if you knew Rumi,” Emma said, “Andie’s daughter, you’d know that she turned out just fine.” In spite, Emma thought, of her current unhappy behavior toward her mother. That was private. And hopefully, it would pass.

  “Small town life,” Morgan said. “It’s got its good and its bad points. Still, I’d say the vast majority of people in Oliver’s Well feel proud of Andie Reynolds being one of theirs.”

  Emma smiled. “I’m glad. I’m certainly proud of my sister.”

  “I know. I can tell. It’s in your voice.”

  “Good. We were always close as children,” Emma told him. “We grew apart a bit when she got married and had Rumi, but I think that was because our lives were suddenly so different. She was here in Oliver’s Well, eventually living back with our parents for a time, changing diapers and working at whatever job she could get, and I was off in Annapolis, trying to establish a career.”

  “But you grew close again?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes.” Emma smiled. “Interestingly it was when Andie finally left Oliver’s Well and went off to establish her own life on her own terms. Then we seemed, I don’t know, on more equal footing.”

  “Apropos of nothing, that’s a beautiful ring you’re wearing.”

  Emma looked down at the gold and black diamond ring on her right hand, holding the glass of champagne. “I’m afraid it was a bit of an indulgence,” she said. “It’s funny, but I’m more comfortable buying presents for myself than receiving them from others.”

  “And what was the occasion for this present?” Morgan asked.

  Emma didn’t answer right away. She remembered how she had asked Ian not to get her anything special for her fortieth birthday; she hadn’t wanted to feel indebted to him even then. “My fortieth birthday,” she told Morgan finally.

  “I think it’s a good thing we treat ourselves to what makes us happy, as long as it’s not at the expense of others. And happy belated birthday.”

  Emma smiled. “That was two years ago. But thanks.”

  “Look,” Morgan said, with a quick glimpse around the ballroom, “I don’t know about you, but I feel I’ve spent long enough here not to seem like I’m being a rude guest, just in and out for the drinks. And I spoke to Norma and at least three other people on my way to the ballroom. Would you like to stop back at the Angry Squire for a bit? Unless you’ve got to be home.”

  “No command performance this evening,” she told him. “Sure. I’ve got my car, so I’ll meet you there. Though I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat another bite!”

  “Good. If I get there first I’ll try to get our table.” Morgan briefly touched her arm and made his way back through the crowd of Norma Campbell’s guests.

  Our table, Emma thought. That had a nice ring to it.

  CHAPTER 42

  Daniel was in the den alone the next morning. Emma was taking a shower and Andie was on a call with her editor. Both promised to join him as soon as possible to help with what was beginning to feel like a never-ending task. Every time Daniel opened a drawer or uncovered a box in his parents’ house, he seemed to find something else he hadn’t noticed before. So much for my complete inventory, he thought, flipping through a spiral notebook that contained jottings on grilling techniques and temperatures in his father’s handwriting. Yet another thing about his father he hadn’t known until now.

  He put the book back into the right-hand drawer of his father’s writing table and sighed. He had thought a lot about what Anna Maria had said to him just before they left Norma Campbell’s party the day before; she had taken him to task—again—for being unfair where his oldest sister was concerned. Anna Maria was right. He hadn’t been nice to Andie lately, or nice about her when talking to the other members of the family. Emma had asked why Andie’s choices were bothering him now, so many years after the fact. He hadn’t answered her and still wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to answer. And he had told Bob that he intended to change his behavior toward Andie. If he were to be honest with himself, he hadn’t made one effort to treat her with more respect and understanding.

  Daniel rubbed his eyes. He felt so very tired. He could, of course, put his general impatience with his sisters down to the stress of the holiday season. But he knew that his impatience had a deeper root....

  Daniel went over to the intricately carved red lacquer box his mother had bought while in China. He ran a finger along the deeply cut curves and swirls. How many times had he dusted this precious object, both before and after Caro’s death, unwilling to let anything scar the beauty of one of his mother’s treasures? Countless times, and yet he had never looked inside. Somehow to open the box—as to go through his mother’s vanity table—had seemed a violation of the privacy of a woman who’d already had so much taken from her. But now . . . Carefully Daniel unlatched and lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a stack of postcards, all from a woman named Susan, all sent to Caro between fifteen to twenty years earlier. One card had been posted in Venice, another card from Cairo, yet another from Bu
enos Aires. Daniel shook his head. He had no memory of his mother having a friend named Susan. Who was she? And why had his mother kept the cards all these years? “Wish you were here, Caro. What fun it would be if we were in this fabulous city together. Thinking of you as I watch the glorious sunset over the basilica.” Whoever this Susan was, she had meant something to his mother. And his mother had meant something to her.

  Daniel returned the postcards to the box and closed the lid. And as he had at Norma’s party he felt a sense of dislocation, a sense of alienation. Susan. His mother’s interest in politics. What else about Caro Reynolds did he not know? Daniel had thought he was the closest to her after Cliff’s death. He had just assumed.... He had assumed what? That he had been in the privileged position of partner; that he had been his mother’s dearest friend and confidante. Had he really been so wrong?

  “What did I miss?”

  Daniel turned to see Emma, her hair still damp, coming into the den. “Did you know that Dad kept notes about what techniques and temperatures to use when grilling different meats?”

  “Really?” Emma laughed. “Yet another bit of the puzzle falls into place.”

  Andie joined them a moment later. Daniel thought she looked drawn or tired. “Things okay with the publisher?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “That really was a great dinner you made for us the other night, Andie,” Daniel said with a heartiness he didn’t feel. “I still can’t get over how you managed to pull together the entire meal at the last moment.”

  Andie smiled a bit. “Thank you, Danny.”

  Daniel wasn’t at all sure that Andie had believed his compliment. Well, he thought, could you blame her? “I’ll continue going through Dad’s writing table,” he said briskly. “You guys can get to work on something else.”

  Daniel opened the top drawer of the desk. Three perfectly sharpened number two yellow pencils. A clean pink eraser. A small box of staples. He wondered if his mother had ever sat at this table after her husband passed. Or had that seemed too painful for her? It was yet another thing he would never know.

  “What’s this?” Daniel lifted a folded piece of newsprint from the very back of the drawer. Carefully he unfolded it and scanned the article and then handed it to Emma. “I don’t remember this at all. I wonder why Dad kept it.”

  “The trial of Brian Dunn,” Emma said. “Well, the headline says it all. GUILTY! Seems this Mr. Dunn was convicted of stealing a huge amount of money from the charity for which he was the CFO.” Emma handed the clipping to Andie. “Do you remember this story?” she asked. “You were about eleven when it happened.”

  “Yes,” Andie said. “I do. It seemed like everyone was talking about it, even the kids in school. I remember someone saying that it was ‘the trial of the century’ and that nothing that exciting had happened in Oliver’s Well for generations. I also remember Mom and Dad arguing about it. Dad knew this Mr. Dunn and said there was no way he could be guilty of such a crime. He wanted to put himself forward as a character witness at the trial, and Mom thought it was a bad idea. She said something about Dad putting the business at risk if he came out for someone accused of embezzling funds from a charity dedicated to the welfare of children. I think it was the only time I heard them argue. It really upset me.”

  “That’s not true,” Daniel said stoutly. “Dad would never have stood up for a criminal, and Mom and Dad never argued, ever.”

  “But I remember it,” Andie said, her voice calm. “I remember it clearly. In the end Dad didn’t come to his friend’s defense. And the man was found guilty. I’m not saying the conviction was Dad’s fault. I’m just telling you what I know.”

  Daniel felt his heart begin to race. Why did Andie always need to stir things up? Was it any wonder he wasn’t able to treat her like a normal person? “You’re wrong,” he said.

  “It’s not uncommon for siblings to remember a particular event in completely unique ways,” Emma said in what Daniel found to be an annoyingly soothing tone of voice. “Everyone experiences reality differently. No one here is lying. No one here is wrong or right.”

  “Maybe I am wrong,” Andie said quietly. “Maybe I misremembered after all.” She turned away and picked up a small crystal owl. It seemed to fascinate her. Daniel hoped she wouldn’t drop it.

  “Mary Bernadette called me this morning about the George Bullock desk she wants for the OWHA,” he announced, turning to Emma. “Just yesterday I told her to her face that it wasn’t up for grabs. You heard me at Norma’s party. Talk about tenacity.”

  “She’s just doing her job,” Emma said. “You can’t blame her for trying, though it must be annoying, having to fend her off all the time.”

  “She’s polite enough,” Daniel admitted, “but yeah, it’s annoying.”

  “Maybe if I talked to her I might—”

  “No,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “I’ll deal with her.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Daniel was startled; he had almost forgotten Andie was in the room. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I need to go out for a while,” she said. Andie put the crystal owl back on its shelf and left the den.

  “I hope she’s all right,” Emma said with a frown. “She’s not herself today.”

  Maybe, Daniel thought, we should be thankful for that.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Shouldn’t you be home sifting through silverware and table linens?” Maureen asked. Emma and Maureen were window shopping in Somerstown later that afternoon and enjoying the unexpectedly balmy day. Emma’s coat was open and she had slipped off her scarf and folded it in her bag.

  “Danny will probably kill me when he sees I haven’t finished packing up the silk flowers Mom collected,” Emma admitted. “I swear she must have bought a bunch once a month for years; there are so many, and all in perfect shape, not even a speck of dust.”

  “She wasn’t a fan of fresh flowers in the house?” Maureen asked.

  “Dad was allergic to lots of stuff,” Emma explained. “Anyway, I did manage to pack up a big box of almost brand new towels to donate to the local animal shelter. Those kitties and doggies are lucky—if any animal in a shelter can be considered lucky. My mother was adamant about only using super-high-quality towels.”

  Emma’s phone, set on vibrate, alerted her to a text message from her second-in-command at Reynolds Money Management. “Sorry,” she told Maureen. “I have to answer this.”

  “Do you ever regret doing what you do?” Maureen asked when Emma had sent her reply and stuck her phone back in the pocket of her coat. “It can’t be easy, handling other people’s money. There’s got to be so much risk.”

  “No, it’s not always easy,” Emma admitted, “but then again, not much worth doing well is easy. Still, I used to love my work, really love it. It’s challenging and interesting. Some clients are unpleasant to deal with, mostly because they’re used to bossing people around from morning till night, but somehow I’ve always been able to handle those types.”

  “But?” Maureen asked, as the two women stopped at a storefront with a display of handcrafted wooden nutcrackers in the shape of Old World soldiers in red coats with gleaming brass buttons, Santa Clauses of various types, elves with distinctly mischievous looks on their faces, and jolly, rotund bakers, complete in tall white hats and aprons, a baguette tucked under an arm.

  “But lately,” Emma went on, only vaguely noticing the fanciful collection before her, “lately, I don’t know, I find myself thinking of Joe Herbert sitting at the desk that was supposed to be mine. . . .” Emma smiled ruefully. “Well, the desk my father wanted for me, I should say.”

  “And you feel?” Maureen prompted.

  But Emma didn’t answer her friend’s question right away. Instead she said, “I used to love going to my father’s office when I was a kid, sitting in that big leather chair at the big oak desk and admiring Dad’s shiny pen and pencil set and the brass paperweights. Everything was solid and sure, and I use
d to fantasize about working there with him, side by side.”

  “So what happened?” Maureen linked her arm through Emma’s and they strolled on. “Why didn’t you go into practice with him? I guess I never really understood.”

  Emma sighed. “I left because it was expected of me to stay. I left because Dad’s offer felt like someone else’s demand, rather than my own choice. I wanted to be independent.”

  “As simple as that?” Maureen asked.

  Emma simply shrugged. Nothing was ever that simple.

  “And now you want to claim your heritage, or maybe I should say your legacy.”

  “The legacy I didn’t want and really have no right to now. I’m not entirely sure.”

  Maureen came to a halt at another storefront, this one featuring a Christmas village with houses, a post office, a church with a tall white spire, and a tavern. “Charming,” she commented. “I’ve always wanted to collect a Christmas village, but the pieces are so expensive.” She shrugged and the women moved on. “So, tell me more about what’s going on inside that big brain of yours.”

  Emma laughed. “Maybe a big brain but a tired one.”

  “You work too hard. It’s a silly thing to say to someone, especially to someone who owns her own business. But it’s true.”

  “I can’t argue,” Emma admitted. “You know, I used to go to Dad for advice when I first started out on my own. To be honest, I wasn’t at all sure he would want to help me, after I rejected the idea of becoming his successor. But I asked, and he was generous with his advice. He was a kind guy, not one to punish people unnecessarily.”

  “Your father was a favorite for sure.” Maureen smiled. “A bunch of us had a crush on him in about seventh grade.”

  “Really? Wow. I had no idea.”

  “We kept our squealing in public to a minimum,” Maureen said dryly. “So, what else is going on at 32 Honeysuckle Lane?”

  “Well,” she said, “Rumi’s not talking to her mother for some reason or another. Andie made a special dinner for us the other night, and Rumi was a no-show.”