The House on Honeysuckle Lane

by Mary McDonough

  Daniel put both hands on the counter on either side of the cutting board and hung his head, as if the board itself held something far more interesting than cut vegetables.

  “What is it, Danny?” Emma asked gently.

  Daniel continued to stare at the board as he spoke. “The first time I saw Mom in one of those humiliating johnnies, the first time she got sick after Dad died, her arms so thin, the skin almost papery, it was like something in me just shattered. It was like my childhood, something I thought had ended long before, only ended at that moment, abruptly, almost violently. Even though I had married and was raising a family and had started a successful business, I was still a child, my mother’s child, until I was confronted by the sight of her in that hospital bed. And then I finally realized that she was no longer the woman I had known all my life, not really. And after that, every time I sat with her in a doctor’s waiting room or paced the hallway waiting for her to come out of the exam room, I felt . . . I felt every emotion so strongly.” Finally, Daniel looked up at Emma. “I’d never realized just how much I loved her,” he said, his voice trembling, “how much I wanted to be the one to take care of her, even when it was difficult or inconvenient, which it was at times.”

  Emma felt her heart break a little for her brother. “Oh, Danny,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s hard being sick, you know. A patient is so vulnerable, so utterly dependent. It’s a half-life really, being ill. Mom didn’t talk much about it, but I could tell she felt . . . demeaned. Useless.”

  “Surely not unwanted though, not with you there?” Emma asked.

  “No,” Daniel admitted. “I think she knew she was still wanted. Just not . . . necessary.”

  Emma shook her head. “I wish you had told me these things, Danny. I wish you had let me know how stressed you were feeling. I would have listened. And I would have tried to help.” Emma considered for a moment. “Though I probably should have been the one to ask if you needed help. I’m sorry, Danny. I let you carry the full burden of Mom’s care.”

  “I wanted to carry it,” he told her. “I wanted to feel indispensable. I just didn’t think about how trying to do it all on my own was going to affect me in the end. It took its toll, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. But you don’t have to bear that weight any longer, Danny. Mom and Dad are gone, but the family still exists, and it will go on existing in some form or another without your having to exhaust yourself to keep it alive.”

  “I guess I’ll have to learn to believe that. Emma?” Daniel said. “Do you think Andie will forgive me? I’ve been pretty rotten to her, as you, Bob, and my wife have pointed out to me.”

  “I’m sure she already has forgiven you,” Emma said with a smile. “You know our Andie. She’s as close as a Reynolds is ever going to come to being a saint.”

  “But she’s still a human being,” Daniel said. “Vulnerable. Easily hurt. Sometimes I forget that when I think of her. I see her as, I don’t know, as a troublemaker, I guess. Anna Maria has told me it’s unfair of me to think that way. I know she’s right, but I still have a hard time letting go of all these assumptions I made about Andie years ago. That she was cold. That she was selfish. That she shakes things up just to get a reaction out of us.”

  Emma wasn’t entirely surprised to hear these words from her brother. But it did sadden her that Andie had been so deeply misunderstood—and that poor Daniel had been drained by such uncharitable opinions. “I think,” she said, “that Andie feels more than any of us. I think she feels things more immediately, if that makes sense. By the way, did you tell Rumi that Andie promised Mom’s desk to the OWHA?”

  “God no,” Daniel said, eyes wide.

  “Good. I don’t want Andie to suffer anymore than she already has this holiday, and I suspect that if Rumi found out about what her mother did she would react badly.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. And that’s partly my fault, too, trying to drive a wedge between mother and daughter, and for what?” Daniel shook his head. “For my own childish needs.”

  “Now, stop being so hard on yourself, Danny,” Emma said, getting off the stool. “What’s done is done and we’re all moving on. I’ll let you get back to whatever delicious dish you’re preparing.”

  “Cream of leek and potato soup.”

  “And who are the lucky people getting to eat this luscious-sounding soup?” she asked.

  “The guests of Mr. Neal Hyatt and Mr. Gregory Smith. By the way, Neal is a member of the OWHA. I doubt he’d approach me about the Bullock desk when I’m at his home on a professional basis. But if he does . . .”

  “If he does,” Emma said, “just demur. Andie wants to be the one to tell Mrs. Fitzgibbon the offer no longer stands.”

  “Agreed.”

  Emma gave her brother a hug—which he returned warmly—and went out to her car. The conversation had gone so much better than she had expected, and she felt grateful that Daniel had trusted her enough to share his thoughts and feelings again. Now, she thought, starting the engine of the Lexus, if only her brother would make a pot of cream of leek and potato soup for her.

  CHAPTER 65

  Andie was sitting on the couch in the living room, flipping through one of the art books she had found in the den—this one featured the paintings of the Italian Renaissance—and sipping a cup of the tea blend she had bought (somewhat blindly) at the Eclectic Gourmet.

  Emma had gone to meet Maureen for dinner at the Angry Squire. She had told Andie that she and Daniel had reconciled that afternoon and that he had apologized for his behavior toward both sisters, but Andie found that she couldn’t quite work up the energy to face him just yet. The intensity of her brother’s anger the other evening still weighed on her; she needed a bit more time to let the memory of that anger dissipate so that she would be able to speak clearly and, more importantly, to listen carefully.

  Andie turned the next page in the book to find an image of Raphael’s Madonna of the Chair. The warm and intimate family portrait of Mary, her baby son, Jesus, and a young Saint John the Baptist, was one of Bob’s favorite paintings. Andie sighed. Bob, too, had been deeply troubled by Daniel’s outburst, surprised by Andie’s promising the Bullock desk to the OWHA, and distressed about Emma’s so callously revealing the fact of Caro’s first engagement. But he had also voiced his sincere compassion for all three of the siblings. “Don’t forget,” he told Andie, “the holidays often bring out the pain we thought we had safely buried.” And in that, Bob Dolman was absolutely right.

  Suddenly, there was a loud and insistent knocking on the front door. Andie put her cup of tea on the end table, the book on the cushion next to her, and got up from the couch. She opened the door to find her daughter standing there, her expression grim.

  “I need to talk to you.” Rumi strode past her mother and into the living room.

  Andie’s heart sank. She knew why her daughter had come. The truth about her foolish action had come out. Very little in a small town could stay hidden, and certainly not something as ill considered as she had done. “All right,” she said. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  “I’ll stand,” Rumi said. Her voice was hard. “I ran into Joyce Miller just now, when I was coming out of the Angry Squire. Imagine my surprise when she told me how happy she was that my mother had given Grandma’s heirloom desk to the OWHA. And imagine how totally stupid I felt when she realized from the look on my face that I knew nothing about it.”

  For a moment Andie was speechless. She had no clear idea how to explain why she had done what she had done. She couldn’t admit that she might have promised Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon the desk in retaliation for her brother’s hurtful remarks about her, or that . . .

  “Well?” Rumi demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself? Does Uncle Daniel know about this?”

  “He knows,” she said. “So do Emma and Anna Maria. Look, Rumi, I’m so sorry. Sometimes I . . . Sometimes I don’t get things right. Sometimes I act foolishly. But don
’t worry. I’m going to tell the OWHA there’s been a mistake. Grandma’s desk isn’t going anywhere.”

  Rumi laughed a bit wildly. “But you can’t change the fact that you did what you did. You gave it away!”

  “No,” Andie said, “I can’t change that fact. But I can make reparation.”

  “Not everything can be fixed, Mom. Some things just stay broken.”

  “Rumi, I—”

  Rumi shook her head in obvious disgust. “I’m out of here,” she said.

  “Rumi, wait!” Andie cried. “Don’t run off like this!”

  But Rumi ignored her mother’s pleas. She stalked out of the living room, slamming the front door behind her.

  Andie sank into the nearest armchair and put her head in her hands. The words of her favorite poet came to her then to ease the passing of grief. “Suffering is a gift. In it is hidden mercy.” But this time, the words failed to support her.

  The sound of the front door opening startled her; she wiped futilely at the tears now coursing down her cheeks. It was Emma. “Andie, my God,” she said, hurrying to her sister’s side. “What’s wrong?”

  A sob escaped Andie in place of words. Emma knelt and put her arms around her sister and began to smooth her hair away from her forehead. “It’s all right,” she whispered soothingly. “It’s all right.”

  But at that dreadful moment, Andie felt that nothing would be all right ever again.

  CHAPTER 66

  “Bob? It’s me.”

  “Good morning, Andie. Sleep well?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, her grip on her phone tightening. Her eyes were still swollen from crying so much the night before, and there was a dull ache in her forehead. “I’m sure you know by now that Rumi found out about my offering my mother’s desk to the OWHA.”

  Bob sighed. “Yes, I know. I got an earful last night.”

  “Bob,” Andie asked, “will you come with me this morning to see Mrs. Fitzgibbon? I have to make this right before more time passes.”

  Bob agreed and an hour later the two of them were standing on Haven Street, looking up at the Wilson House.

  “It looks particularly imposing this morning,” Andie said, with an attempt at a laugh.

  Bob squeezed her shoulder. “There’s no reason it should. There’s nothing inside this building that can hurt you, Andie, not unless you let it.”

  Andie sighed. “I know. Well, let’s get this over with.”

  Together they climbed the steps and went inside. The volunteer receptionist—the same woman whom Andie had seen days earlier—welcomed them and sent them off to Mary Bernadette’s office. Mrs. Fitzgibbon was dressed much as she had been at Nora Campbell’s party, in a conservative but pretty skirt suit in a pale neutral color.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Reynolds?” Mary Bernadette asked, nodding as well to Bob, who stood a little behind and to the right of Andie, a silent but sure support.

  With a deep breath Andie began. “I regret,” she said, “that I have to withdraw the offer of the George Bullock desk to the OWHA. I misunderstood my family’s intentions. I’m so sorry for any inconvenience I’ve caused.”

  The expression of pleasant expectation on Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s face didn’t budge. “Yes, well,” she said after a moment, “I’d be lying if I said this isn’t a disappointment. But the OWHA will go on without the addition of the Bullock piece.”

  “Thank you,” Andie said. “Again, I apologize.”

  “Of course, if you ever change your mind . . .”

  Andie nodded, and she and Bob left the Wilson House behind. “I think,” Andie said, as they walked toward the parking lot, “that was one of the most difficult things I’ve had to do in a long time.”

  “But you did it and survived. Look,” Bob said, when they had reached Andie’s car. “I’ll tell Daniel that you spoke to Mrs. Fitzgibbon. And I’m going to suggest that he seriously consider your idea of loaning the heirloom to the OWHA for a few years. Maybe he’ll listen to me since he’s not been in the habit of listening to his sisters.”

  “That might be about to change,” Andie told him. “Emma says she had a very good conversation with him yesterday afternoon. He apologized for having treated the both of us unfairly.”

  Bob smiled. “Still, it can’t hurt for me to chime in.”

  Andie smiled back gratefully. “Thank you, Bob, for everything.”

  “You going to be okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will be.” And she did believe now that she would be okay.

  Andie got into her car and watched in the rearview mirror as her former husband, the father of her only child, her dearest friend, got into his own car and drove out of the lot.

  CHAPTER 67

  Daniel had inspired Emma to try her own hand at making cream of leek and potato soup, and Andie had readily volunteered to help with the prep. While Emma peeled and sliced potatoes, Andie washed and chopped the leeks.

  And while Emma performed the simple and oddly soothing task of peeling and slicing, she found herself trying to imagine Morgan, gentle, nonconfrontational Morgan, standing up against the formidable Aunt Agatha, whom she now pictured as looking exactly like the character in the Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie version of P. G. Wodehouse’s stories, complete with antiquated dress and stern frown.

  “What’s got you so happy?” Andie asked, pausing in her chopping. “You’re smiling.”

  “Oh, nothing,” Emma demurred. “I just remembered something funny I heard on TV the other night.” Really, she thought, why don’t I just tell Andie what I was imagining? Why the need for adolescent secrecy?

  “Thanks for taking care of that wine stain on the living room carpet,” Andie said. “I wonder if Danny even remembers spilling the bottle.”

  Emma smiled. “I doubt he does or he would have had a professional cleaning service here by now.” She hesitated a moment before asking, “No word from Rumi?”

  Andie shook her head. “No. And I don’t expect there to be, not for some time anyway.”

  Emma sighed. “I’m so sorry the rift between you and Rumi has widened. But I’m glad you talked to Mrs. Fitzgibbon this morning. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

  “It wasn’t,” Andie said, “but with Bob at my side, I managed. And though Mary Bernadette might be intimidating, she’s extremely polite. I didn’t fear that she was going to subject me to a tongue-lashing. And I don’t think she’s the type to go around bad-mouthing me to others after the fact.”

  “I agree. I expect she’ll put a very genteel spin on the story. After all, she won’t want to look like someone who was duped.”

  Andie visibly cringed. “Gosh, I hope she doesn’t suspect me of purposely fooling her about the desk!”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t,” Emma said hurriedly. “By the way, I told Maureen last night about what happened here with Danny. Not all of it, just enough for her to get the gist. I felt I could really use the perspective of someone who isn’t family but who knows us well.”

  “Was she helpful?” Andie asked.

  “She listened, and that’s the most important thing. “

  “That well might be. Does Maureen know about my promising Mom’s desk to the OWHA?”

  “Yeah. Remember, her mother is a board member and Mary Bernadette’s dearest friend. There are no secrets in that bunch.”

  “Yet another scandal for me to live down in Oliver’s Well.”

  “Hardly a scandal.”

  “Just an embarrassment. You know,” Andie said, “I’ve been wondering why Mom put that love note from Dad behind a photo in an album and not somewhere more private. I’m sure it was something she cherished.”

  Emma shrugged. “Maybe she was rereading it one day while looking through some pictures and the phone rang or someone came to the door. She might have just slipped it behind a photograph for temporary safekeeping and then forgot where she’d put it.”

  “That sounds plausible. I wonder what Danny will do with it.” Andie’s
cell phone rang. “It’s Bob,” she said, looking at the screen. “I should take this.” She put down her knife and walked off a step or two; after a moment Emma saw her sister nod and heard her say with some doubt in her voice, “All right, Bob. If you think it’s a good idea. I’ll see you later.”

  “What did he have to say?” Emma asked when Andie had closed her phone.

  “He’s invited me to dinner tonight. Rumi doesn’t know I’m coming. He thinks it’s best. He said that normally he hates the idea of an ambush—as do I—but drastic times call for drastic measures.”

  Emma nodded. “He might be right. This situation has gone on long enough.”

  “And he thinks it’s high time we tell our daughter everything. I mean, about my postpartum depression. We never said anything about it before. I guess we thought we were protecting Rumi from a difficult truth.”

  “I’ve been wondering how much she knows of those early years,” Emma admitted.

  “Maybe we did the wrong thing by keeping her in the dark to the extent we did.” Andie nodded firmly. “But I think Bob’s right. Now’s the time, if ever.”

  “Bob is forcing the moment to its crisis. Brave man, and smart.”

  And maybe, Emma thought, she should take a lesson from her brother-in-law, a lesson about forcing the moment, taking charge of one’s life, taking the leap of faith.

  “I’m ready to sauté these leeks,” Andie announced. “That’s the best thing about this recipe. We get to use butter.”

  Emma sighed. “Sometimes,” she said, “life can be pretty darn good.”

  CHAPTER 68

  Andie’s first thought on seeing Rumi that evening at Bob’s house was: she’s suffering. Her daughter looked so deeply unhappy. There were dark circles under her eyes and her mouth was fixed in a frown. It broke Andie’s heart to think that she was the cause of this distress, however unwittingly. In her mind’s eye she saw the image of a little girl seated cross-legged by a campfire....