by Marci Nault
A stifled scream rumbled in her lungs. She climbed onto the stiff mattress and tugged at the window covers. Damn curtains that shut out the light when he wants to sleep and brighten his day when he goes to work. Doesn’t matter that I fell asleep at 3 a.m. With the curtains closed and the room dark, Heather grabbed her coffee and slumped onto the bed. She created a cocoon around her body with the blanket as she cradled her mug.
“You don’t even pay attention when I try to break up with you,” she mumbled.
Heather curled the blankets closer and sipped the coffee. She longed for the coffee she drank in Africa. She let her thoughts wander back to her trip as she tried to calm her nerves.
Every morning at five o’clock, Manal, her guide in Botswana, would sing out her name. Hot coffee prepared with sugar, a splash of brandy, and heavy cream awaited her on the table outside her tent. Porridge, covered in more cream and brown sugar, greeted her when she took her place around the morning campfire. As the Okavango Delta’s cool dark waters gave birth to the blood-orange sun and monkeys tried to steal her silverware, she savored breakfast. Mid-morning, Manal would set up a table and camp chairs next to the open Land Rover and Heather feasted on scones and biscuits dipped in hot chocolate and watched giraffes nibble on the sausage tree’s long fruits. At night, while the kitchen staff sang, their cadences joined by hippo grunts and deep-throated lion calls, she and the other guests would stare at the stars and sip Amarula, the sweet, creamy liqueur of the marula tree.
Charlie was right. She’d spent a month living her dream of traveling and writing, and he’d helped her to achieve it. But that couldn’t mean that for the rest of her life she had to feel indebted to him . . . and invisible in their relationship.
A car horn honked. The rush-hour traffic on Storrow Drive motored past her apartment. Someone slammed a door and three car alarms screeched. As the city awoke outside her window, Heather longed for quiet.
From her overstuffed drawers, she grabbed a baggy sweatshirt and pink M&M’s flannel pajamas—which Charlie never saw—and threw on her glasses. In the kitchen she raised the thermostat from 60 to 75 and filled her coffee cup.
The refrigerator door hit against the table as she grabbed ingredients for a protein shake. She dug in the cabinets for the blender, but realized the glass pitcher was dirty in the dishwasher. Frustrated, she returned to the bedroom to get dressed and head out for breakfast. She opened the door to her tiny closet jammed with clothing and then closed it.
There wasn’t room for her in this apartment. Charlie used three-quarters of the storage space, citing the fact that she traveled most of the year and only needed access to her things on the rare occasion she was home.
Charlie’s black leather couch felt stiff and uncomfortable as she sat with her laptop. A website with lakeside houses for sale appeared on her screen. On nights when insomnia left her awake, she spent hours on the Internet taking virtual tours of the homes on the site. From her Favorites folder she clicked on a picture of a blue Craftsman bungalow. The bungalow had come on the market almost two months ago. To lull herself to sleep she fantasized about owning it and having cookouts with friends, parties with dancing, sunny days on the beach.
As a young child, Heather had lived in a rented lake house with her grandmother and mother. Heather tried to remember her grandmother’s face, but it was like catching a dream. She had glimpses of memories: the gold chain that hung from her glasses, gray and black hair that tickled Heather’s neck when they hugged, and sticking out blue tongues at each other when they sat in the blueberry bushes eating berries. Heather remembered sun-warmed towels after a dip in the lake.
Their five-room house had shelves filled with knickknacks of blown glass animals and porcelain figurines. Pink crocheted cozies covered tissue boxes on end tables. In the living room her grandmother or mother would rock her to sleep to the sounds of a crackling fire and the women’s soft voices.
What Heather remembered best were the sweet smells of homemade bread and ginger cookies. Her grandmother loved to bake. The scent of molasses permeated the brown paneled walls and green carpets. Almost every afternoon, her grandmother would take down the yellow Bisquick box and measure out the water and flour mix. She’d roll it out on the table with Heather sitting in a chair next to her. Then, with a juice glass, Heather cut out perfect circles for biscuits. She’d sneak little corners of the dough and she still recalled the slight metallic taste of baking soda and salt.
When Heather was five, her grandmother passed away, and Heather’s mother tried to pay the rent on the lake house, but after two years she’d put herself so far into debt, they were forced to move.
Heather closed the laptop and placed it on the coffee table. Charlie had paid for the apartment and their living expenses for the last six years; he opened her Visa and American Express statements before she saw them, and he allowed her a budget for luxury clothing as a business investment. She didn’t see her own paychecks; they were deposited directly into their joint account. He said all this was necessary because she spent so much time on the road and he felt she couldn’t be trusted with her own finances.
She looked around the ten-by-ten living room. The brick wall held a sixty-inch flatscreen TV that overpowered her senses when it was on. Sports Illustrated magazines had been neatly piled on the glass coffee table. The leather couch squeaked as she stood. Nothing about this place felt like home to her.
Charlie had threatened her career if she left. In everyone else’s eyes she had the perfect life, but . . .
Before she could change her mind, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Information. “Littleton, Massachusetts,” she said. “RE/MAX Realty.” Whether or not she could buy the house, it was time to make a change.
CHAPTER 3
Victoria awoke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of hail hitting the roof. From under the pillow she grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. The delicate skin felt raw. Five rainy, icy days, along with the flu, had kept her in bed.
Each day, lost in memories of her granddaughter, she stared at her sage bedroom walls in the room her parents once occupied and listened to the fire crackling in the fireplace. Seven years ago, Victoria had renovated the house in anticipation of Annabelle’s marriage to Tommy Woodward, a grandson of Nagog. She thought about all the plans she and Annabelle had dreamt up when they discussed the future: making ice cream on the porch, pushing baby strollers around the neighborhood, and, as Annabelle had put it, putting down roots secured in Massachusetts granite.
Those dreams had been lost when Annabelle died. After Victoria buried her granddaughter, she left Nagog—run away, as she had many times throughout her life. Now she was home to try to reconcile with the only family she had left—to find forgiveness and to come home somehow. There had to be more to life than loss and grief, and Victoria hoped that this place could help her to heal.
Molly came into the room and placed a wicker tray on the ottoman. “I have fresh-squeezed orange juice, coffee, eggs, and blueberry pancakes. It’s time for you to eat.” Molly’s plump body, clad in a jogging suit, bustled around the queen-size bed. Her soft hands tucked the Egyptian cotton sheets into the mattress. With one swift movement, she fluffed the brown duvet over Victoria.
“Not hungry.” Victoria rolled onto her back and stared at the cherry ceiling beams. Molly forced Victoria to sit up.
“Feed a cold, starve a fever. And you no longer have a fever. I still can’t believe you stayed out in that weather and made yourself sick.” She placed the tray over Victoria’s lap. “Sooner or later you have to get up. You can’t hide forever.” She placed a glass of juice in Victoria’s hand. “I’ll be downstairs cleaning if you decide to move.”
The orange juice no longer stung Victoria’s throat, and she gulped the sweet, pulpy liquid. Her stomach awakened and growled for more. The pancakes oozed cooked blueberries as she cut through the three thick layers. She could feel herself salivating as she sank into the first forkful.
Soul food
. That’s what the people from the South called it. If only Molly’s cooking could lift the emotional boulder currently weighing on her shoulders. Instead it would likely just add pounds to her hips.
Downstairs, Molly turned on the vacuum cleaner. Molly had already washed the linens and cleaned the bathrooms in preparation for Victoria’s arrival. She’d vacuumed the soft carpet. The oak bureau, nightstands, and vanity table that had once been her parents’ bedroom set had been dusted and polished. But the rest of the two thousand-square-foot house needed attention. It had sat empty for five years, and sheets that Molly had draped over much of the furniture after Victoria’s sudden departure still remained. The built-in woodwork customary to an Arts and Crafts bungalow needed to be treated with kindness. Though Victoria had thought about hiring a service, she knew Molly would insist on doing it herself.
Boxes had been delivered weeks before from the home she sold in Malibu, and they still needed to be unpacked. It was time for Victoria to stop hiding and make this her home again. Yesterday she’d felt well enough to get out of bed but had decided against it. She’d been acting like a child afraid to go to school after the boys had seen her underpants.
As she stood, she knocked over the glass of water on the nightstand. Water splashed onto the brass lamp and the curtains. The glass rolled under the bed and the water soaked into the carpet. Too stiff to bend, she left the mess.
In the master bathroom, she looked at the unused jetted tub. It had been meant for dirty, giggling great-grandchildren to play in with bubbly euphoria.
She disrobed and opened the glass shower door. Hot water pulsed onto her back as she leaned against the stone tile. Steam filled the room and fogged the metal-framed mirror. She turned off the taps and wrapped her body in a fluffy purple towel.
For the last week, Victoria had kept everything in her suitcases, as if she were in a hotel. Part of her feared moving forward uncertain of what her life would be now that she’d returned. She grabbed underwear from the smallest case, along with a pair of tailored slacks and a fitted green button-down shirt. Then she pulled out a curling iron from the vanity’s wooden drawer.
With quick, practiced skill she curled her hair into soft waves, not allowing the heat to scorch her fragile locks. In her youth, she’d worried about wrinkles, gray hairs, and hormonal fluctuations, but it wasn’t until her late sixties that the texture and thickness of her hair became soft and fine. Aging, she thought, was not for the weak of heart.
From her makeup case, she pulled out bottles and jars. She applied moisturizer and a thin layer of foundation and blush. With a light hand she swept soft blue powder across her lids and then applied mascara. As Victoria took up her favorite soft berry lipstick, she remembered her mother saying that a lady never forgot to wear lipstick, even around the house.
Back in the bedroom, she lifted the largest suitcase and placed it on the bed. She unzipped the garment bag’s sides, unfolded the heavy case, and opened the middle zipper. She removed the items that were already on hangers and placed them in the closet: designer silk blouses in a myriad of colors, tailored pantsuits, and cocktail dresses. All had been bought in fancy boutiques in Beverly Hills, London, and New York. Now she wondered if she’d have a reason to wear the fancy clothing here.
She pulled out a quilted leather box from the small suitcase and walked to the vanity. Her hand ran along the smoothness of her mother’s antique rosewood jewelry box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She lifted the lid and filled the empty box with her jewelry: five pairs of diamond earrings; the diamond necklace her ex-husband, Devon, had given her for their anniversary; the tennis bracelet from her father; gold hoop earrings, chains, and assorted pieces she’d collected over the years when she traveled.
She opened the secret compartment in the bottom of the travel jewelry box. Inside was a pearl ring Annabelle had given her. She slid it onto her finger and rubbed the white gold that swirled around the smooth pink pearl.
Annabelle had curly, golden locks that flowed over her shoulders and down her back. Her high cheekbones curved under bright, blue eyes. Always lost in her imagination, the girl would twirl the hair strand behind her ear until it became a tight ringlet. Victoria had always commanded men’s attention in the past, but when she walked next to Annabelle, she knew it was her granddaughter who caused men to stumble over trash cans and walk into doorways, unable to take their eyes off of her.
Victoria continued to unpack, placing items in drawers that contained articles she’d left behind when she fled Nagog after Annabelle’s death. The way she’d run from the community five years ago hadn’t been so different from the first time she’d left home—she’d barely packed a bag.
Downstairs, the smell of coffee filled the kitchen. Victoria placed the breakfast tray on the wooden butcher-block counter of the island. Through the glass panels in the whitewashed cabinets she could see the dozens of plates and bowls that filled the cupboards ready for the meals she’d planned to fix her family. One cabinet contained wineglasses that now looked smoky with years of disuse. Each one would need to be washed.
She pulled a dusty red mug from the cabinet and turned on the tap to clean it. Once it dried, she filled it with coffee and curled it to her chest, pulling in its warmth as she looked out the window above the sink. By now there should’ve been Sunday dinners here, children playing in the sunroom. Victoria would’ve stood at this sink, its white porcelain front against her waist as she peeled carrots and chatted with Annabelle.
Victoria knew that an apron that read World’s Greatest Grandmother hung inside the pantry door. Unopened cookbooks lined the shelves. Victoria wasn’t a great cook, but she’d thought she might spend her golden years learning the skill. After dinner the children would’ve curled up on the old couches in the sunroom and watched movies, their heavy eyes trying to stay awake past their bedtimes.
Outside the window, black-and-white chickadees landed in the empty bird feeder and searched for food, then flew to the melted snow piles and pecked at the fallen pine needles. Snowstorms were for children: cold red noses peeking out from between scarves and hats; bright-colored snowsuits wrapped around small legs like pillows; saucers and sleds careening down hills while the children screamed in excitement.
Tommy and Annabelle would’ve had children by now. They’d planned to have a “truckload of kids,” as Tommy had put it. Victoria could almost see the bright blond hair sticking up and the aqua eyes of their father sparkling with excitement while the children told Grandma stories of ice-skating on the pond and she made them hot chocolate.
Annabelle had wanted these things, the winters that she hadn’t experienced growing up in Malibu. Victoria had taken her granddaughter on ski trips to Tahoe and Aspen, but it wasn’t the same as having school canceled because the sky had dumped a winter playground on your front lawn.
The vacuum cleaner hum went silent and then restarted farther down the hall. Victoria took her coffee into the front sitting room. The furniture was still covered with sheets and the carpets needed to be cleaned, but other than that, this room hadn’t changed since the day Victoria had left for California when she was nineteen. This was her mother’s space. While the rest of the house had a modern flair, this room had been decorated similarly to the Boston residence where they’d lived when Victoria was a toddler.
Familiar pictures hung on the walls. Victoria scanned the frames: a black-and-white photo of the family, ancestors’ portraits dating back to the 1800s, and in the middle, above the fireplace, the largest portrait of all—her thirteen-year-old face captured by a painter.
Victoria turned on the Tiffany lamps and the light created a soft glow that illuminated the dust as she removed a sheet from the furniture. She could almost see her mother in the high-backed chair. A crisp shirt and a pencil skirt had been her mother’s favorite outfit, lipstick and a touch of rouge her only makeup. She kept her curly blond hair short, and tucked it behind her ear whenever she read. The epitome of grace and decorum, she never raised her vo
ice over a speaking tone. She didn’t need to—one improper move by Victoria and her mother could impose wrath with the “look.” Victoria hated the “look,” and she’d received it often as a child.
She walked to the window and watched the raindrops dance in the puddles on the road. She tried not to look across the beach to Joseph’s home, but her heart defied her mind as she gazed at the warm light coming from his study.
The day after Victoria and Joseph made love for the first time, he became a sailor. That year, the women of Nagog had endured World War II together as the men of the community fought in Europe. Seventeen-year-old Victoria waited for the postman, always hoping for a letter. Sometimes they came daily; at other times, weeks would pass without word. She tended the victory gardens and collected tin for the drives. Then she walked the country road, under the green-leafed canopy, to the small white Episcopal church where she sat in the pew alone and prayed, “Please God, bring him home to me.”
When she finished her prayer, she stood and walked to the alcove in the back of the church. The sun came through the stained glass and the colorful prism light reflected across Victoria’s skin as she lit a candle and pressed her hands together. From her heart she sang, performing for God so he might hear her prayer over the millions of other women who asked for their loves’ safety.
At night, she, Molly, and their friends Evelyn, Maryland, and Sarah curled under a mountain of lace in Victoria’s canopy bed. They pretended to sleep, but their minds were active, recounting the news and searching for hidden messages that the war would end.
During the second summer of Joseph’s absence, the heat blistered the porch paint and burned the grass tips. The temperature reached 100 degrees, and Victoria found solace in the lake. Diving deep below the surface, darkness enveloped her as she swirled her body like a mermaid. Over and over she plunged and surfaced until she gave way to fatigue. She lay in the sand, moisture evaporating from her suit as the sun melted her muscles.