by Marci Nault
“I’m Thomas,” he said. “Aren’t you just a pretty little thing. I bet we’re going to be great friends.”
What world had Heather moved into?
Victoria sat on the porch swing, enjoying the rusted hinges’ squeaking in the night. The dark sky looked like silver glitter had been tossed against black ink. The moon was only a sliver, and Victoria could see the Big Dipper between the tall pines around her home.
The lake was still tonight; she couldn’t hear the waves beating against the two rowboats that had been put in the water last week. They were tied to the new wooden dock that had been built last month. It was a peaceful quiet night, the sounds of nature a meditative song. Small critters scurried in the woods behind the house. Frogs croaked in the small vernal pools.
Grass blades poked through the fertile earth, and tulip leaves held up round buds ready to burst open any day. Spring had been late in coming, but now new life bloomed around Victoria. Two cardinals built a nest in her eaves. Soon little baby birds would open their mouths and squawk for worms. The mother would feed one from her own mouth while the other babies pushed to get their share. Youth was everywhere.
The sound of bass disrupted the quiet night and Victoria looked to Maryland’s place. Heather had every light on in the house and all the windows open. The girl had been quiet when she said that she’d recently broken up with her fiancé and was starting fresh but had lit with enthusiasm as she told Victoria about her career as a travel writer, and Victoria enjoyed hearing about her latest adventure while they scrubbed and straightened the kitchen together.
Earlier she’d seen Heather return from the store with paint cans, brushes, and rollers. The child had already started to make the house her own. It was too bad she had to do it alone.
Though Victoria had spent most of her life as an independent woman, she still remembered the joy of sharing her life with Devon: buying their first home, planning vacations, making decisions together about their future.
They’d met on the set of On the Waterfront. She had a role as a supporting actress, and Devon was a supporting actor. Victoria tried to maintain her composure when she spoke to him, but his charisma and deep brown eyes caused her to stumble over her words whenever he smiled.
One night the cast had gone to a bar on the waterfront in Malibu. She’d tried to sneak glances at him, but he caught her. He took a long sip of his drink and raised his eyebrows, showing her in this exasperating way that he knew she found him attractive. When her face flushed red he laughed, enjoying her discomfort. She excused herself from the conversation and walked outside to the edge of the pier to calm her nerves. As she stood staring at the stars, he’d grabbed her around the waist and kissed her, and she melted instantly to his will.
When they made love for the first time, it was like choice fell away; she drowned in his touch when his large hands pulled her to him. He sucked the wind from her lips, leaving her breathless—as if he stole all her thoughts so that she could only feel what he chose: a deep bite on her shoulder made her gasp; he pinned her to the wall and traced the curve of her hip; she still remembered the fire that ignited when he entered her body so ready to embrace him.
Devon didn’t bow to her as so many other men had. His confidence claimed her as his own, and a primal part of her loved being his woman. After nine years of independence and the loss of both her parents, she’d been ready for a partner and their courtship had been quick. They married at the courthouse because Victoria hadn’t wanted to face a large wedding without her parents or her childhood friends.
They honeymooned in Italy, where the thin walls of their Tuscan villa couldn’t muffle Victoria’s cries of pleasure, but the more she tried to stifle her moans, the more Devon forced her to release them.
“Devon, we can’t again,” she said as he woke her from slumber with soft kisses along her spine. Through the large windows she could see the pink light of sunrise touching the terra-cotta roofs of the village below. “I’m certain we kept the whole place up last night. It’s improper to wake them as well.”
“I like you improper,” he said as he pinched her waist. “And we’re in Italy. Everyone here is enamored with sex.”
Those first years with Devon had been among the most exciting of her life. They took spontaneous trips throughout California, jumping in the car and driving north to wine country or the mountains to ski. Together they attended premieres and the afterparties, and they bought the house on the beach.
This new girl, Heather, looked like her daughter, Melissa—long hair, thin face, small frame, the legs that went on forever. Deep chocolate brown eyes, just like Melissa. It had been a surprise when Victoria found out she was pregnant with her daughter. Melissa hadn’t been planned. Victoria had been getting bigger roles in movies and the pregnancy put her on hiatus, ruining her momentum. But when her baby was born with fuzzy brown hair the color of Devon’s, Victoria took one look at her child and her career no longer mattered as much. She didn’t care about running to auditions or working long hours to rebuild her career.
Victoria could sit for hours cradling Melissa and staring into her eyes. During that time, a longing for Nagog tugged at Victoria’s heart. She wanted Melissa to have lazy days playing in the sand by the lake and nights by the fire making s’mores. What once felt confining had seemed like a place to wrap her child in warmth, love, and protection.
Fathering hadn’t come easily to Devon, who saw Melissa as an intrusion. His career was on the rise and he didn’t have time to spend at home. He wanted to hire a nanny so that Victoria could return to work. They were supposed to be the Hollywood supercouple building their careers together, and he didn’t like the changes in Victoria. In the bedroom his forceful touch no longer suited her. It began to feel like masculine bravado. She’d become maternal and wanted gentle caresses, to make love slowly. More than once her thoughts turned to that first, tender time with Joseph.
Their passion turned from lovemaking to fights. When she divorced Devon, she gave him the house and all of their material goods in exchange for full custody of Melissa. She changed her and Melissa’s last name from Massaro to Victoria’s family name of Rose. Victoria focused her career in the international markets and they lived all over Europe, depending on where she was filming.
Hearing music and singing coming from the blue bungalow snapped her back to the present moment. Oh, to be young again: to feel the rush of new love, to have every opportunity open to you as you dream of a bigger life.
Victoria looked over in Joseph’s direction. What did he do at night now that he was alone?
In the sunroom, she touched the lighter to the starter log in the fireplace and the paper wrapping ignited. She added small kindling and then the big logs that Bill had brought in last week. Around the room she lit candles. Above the mantel was a large portrait of Annabelle at sixteen. She traced her fingers along Annabelle’s smile. On the mantel below the frame was a golden statue. Victoria touched its shiny metal. The night she’d won the Oscar for best supporting actress had been one of the best of her life, but that was a lifetime ago. There’d been after-parties and a run of publicity. Victoria had felt like the belle of the ball.
The statue didn’t fit in this room, but she’d been uncertain about where to place it in the house. The photos and framed posters on the cream-colored wood paneling made the room feel like the warm hug of family. The space was overstuffed with furniture: the denim blue couch and matching chairs, the rocking chair by the fire, a large ottoman for a coffee table, a window seat that looked over the woods and had bookshelves underneath covered in knickknacks and little treasures from Victoria’s travels. A thirty-six-inch television was tucked into the wooden entertainment center by the fireplace. Beneath it was a drawer filled with hundreds of DVDs and old VHS tapes.
She cranked open the large windows and let in the air that smelled of moist earth and clover. It mixed with the smell of wood from the fire and spice from the candles.
A collage on the wall
held pictures of Melissa. Victoria ran her hand over the images. “My darling baby girl, the fun you and I had together.” In one picture, Melissa was dressed in a purple and blue sari. “Do you remember our first time in India? You were only eight when we went to my friend’s wedding. When the dancing started, you stood up and imitated the women’s movements.”
A smile played at Victoria’s lips as she floated around the room, humming and moving her hands in wave patterns. She could see Melissa’s tiny hips swaying and hear her laughter that started as a giggle and erupted into fits of shaking joy.
“Melissa, do you remember wearing the princess tiara all over Paris? You sang that song until I heard it in my dreams. You told me my director had given you the tiara, but you had stolen it from the set.” Victoria sat in the rocking chair and opened a polished wooden box on the side table. Tiny flickers of light sparkled off the crystal stones of the tiara. Victoria placed it on her head.
“For months you wouldn’t part with it. Whenever I tried to take it away, you would say, ‘My jewels.’ I would sneak in while you slept and try to remove it, but your little fingers would reach out through your dreams and protect your coronet . . .
“There were times I thought I should’ve been stricter. God knows you were a curious child. I can’t count how many times you went off on your own in a big city because something caught your eye while we were shopping.” Victoria could still feel the panic in her heart that she’d felt whenever Melissa disappeared and she’d feared she’d never see her again. “It was as if my insides became empty and worry became my blood and breath.”
Victoria sighed. “I couldn’t punish you. I tried a few times when you snuck off to the bar in Ireland to meet that boy. But how could I tell you not to be adventurous or to live by rules when our lives didn’t have any?”
When Melissa came to her at seventeen, pregnant and scared, Victoria hugged her and said, “We’ll do this together.” Victoria knew it had been her fault that her daughter was in this position; she hadn’t given her the stern lectures or upbringing of her own childhood. But in the end, her granddaughter, Annabelle, had been one of God’s greatest gifts.
Victoria saw her reflection in the glass window. She looked ridiculous wearing the tiara.
Suddenly Melissa’s words came back to her. Promise me you’ll take care of Annabelle.
Victoria had held her daughter’s hand on her deathbed and nodded her head, tears clouding her vision. “I’ll protect her. I’ll teach her she’s the most precious thing in the world.”
Victoria placed the tiara in the box. Annabelle had planned to wear the crown the day she married Tommy.
Tears fell from Victoria’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, Melissa. I failed you.”
CHAPTER 9
The small moving truck Heather had rented earlier that morning was filled with boxes from Charlie’s apartment and her storage unit. The items rattled as she drove the cumbersome vehicle along Route 2. The first four days she’d lived in Nagog all she had was the suitcase that she’d carried while in Europe. Charlie had told her she could get the rest of her things from the apartment today. He’d conveniently made appointments and hadn’t been able to help her move. When she’d entered the apartment she found her belongings packed in boxes: clothing, art from her travels, dishes, and personal items. A thick manila envelope had been taped to one of the boxes, holding two opened credit card statements and a standard agent-client contract stating that he owned fifteen percent of all monies made on Solo Female Traveler. They’d never signed an agreement, and now Heather needed to hire a lawyer to go over the contract—that is, if she wanted to keep him as her agent—but it was a pivotal time in her career, and she was worried about starting over with someone new.
Charlie’s love of money would drive him to help her, but she wondered how dedicated he would be now that she’d left; now she was just one of his twenty clients. They still hadn’t spoken since the fight. Heather had called him after she returned from her trip to tell him about her conversation with George, but his phone went to voice mail. He responded with an e-mail stating when she’d be allowed to move her things.
It had taken Heather three hours to pack up the rest of the items she felt belonged to her from the apartment and carry them down to the rental truck, then another two hours to drive to her storage unit, pack its contents into the truck, and close out her account.
As she reached Nagog, every muscle ached with exhaustion. She still needed to unload, and just the thought of it made her feel sore. After parking the truck, she immediately went up to her room and changed out of her grimy clothing and into shorts and a tank top. She pulled her windblown hair back in a ponytail and secured it with elastic.
Outside, she stood on her deck, staring at the moving truck, trying to will the boxes to march themselves into the house. She grabbed a water bottle from the cab of the truck, sat down in the grass, and drank in large gulps while the muscles in her thighs twitched. Feeling better, she reached her hands to her feet and stretched her tight hamstrings and back. A ladybug crawled on her arm, its tiny legs tickling the hairs on her skin. The last two days had been warm and bright blossoms had emerged from the fertile earth. When the breeze came through the kitchen window at night, it brought the scent of roses from the backyard.
The flowers brought with them the memory of her grandmother: trowel in hand, face smeared with dirt as she planted in the garden. Heather wondered how old her grandmother had been when she passed. She would’ve fit right into this community.
For the hundredth time, Heather went over the conversation with Aaron the day she saw the house. He’d said that the houses had been passed down to younger generations, and then he’d introduced Tommy as one of her neighbors. He’d swindled her into buying it, knowing full well the age of her neighbors. She realized her need for the house had led her to be impulsive and buy the place without researching first. It was finally hitting her that she was living in a retirement community, basically, and seemed to be the only resident under the age of seventy. A part of her knew if she heard this story from a friend she’d find it funny, but the realization didn’t fill her with mirth. There definitely wouldn’t be parties with neighbors, or margaritas on the beach.
Heather moved her legs apart and pulled her head to her left and then right knee to stretch her inner thighs. The muscles began to unwind and she leaned her chest on the soft lawn. A second ladybug flew onto her arm and chased the first one.
A woman rode her scooter along the road. A black brace stuck out from under brown cotton culottes. She had on a floral long-sleeved shirt that skimmed away from the rolls above her waist. A wide-brimmed hat fluttered as she sped nearer, then she stopped in front of Heather, and without further introduction, said, “You know the sun is dangerous. Look here. Melanoma.” She pointed to a scar on her nose and then lifted up her shorts to reveal a long sunken area on the back of her thigh. “I beat it twice against the odds, but they removed large chunks of my skin, and chemotherapy nearly killed me. If you don’t want to endure what I did, you should stop wearing skimpy clothing and cover up.”
Heather stood and walked toward the woman with her hand outstretched. “I’m Heather. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Agatha Lowe. I live three doors down.”
“Thank you for the advice, but I wear sunscreen, and it’s after six. I don’t think I have to worry.”
“Every young person thinks they’re unbreakable. In my day, women didn’t go around wearing shorts that barely covered their cabooses and their bras as shirts. We still got skin cancer. Think about it.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Heather smiled.
Agatha nodded. “Well, I’ll be on my way. I see you have quite a bit of work ahead of you with that moving truck.” The gravel crunched under the scooter’s tires as Agatha rode off.
Heather sat back down on the grass and pulled her head to her knees. Her thighs still screamed with tightness, and she took deep breaths as her body unwound.
Last night, before she went to bed, she’d dragged the picnic table to a different location closer to her neighbor’s house on the right. Now she looked up from her fragmented moment of yoga serenity to the astonishing sight of the four men, cigars hanging from their mouths, carrying the table back to its original location, putting it down in the ruts it had already made in the grass, and sitting down as if nothing had happened. Then the man with the Red Sox cap pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle.
Thomas came out of his house and made his way across her lawn.
“Evening, Heather,” he said as he smacked his lips. Heather moved to stand but he put up his hand. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. You just go right ahead and stretch that cute little figure of yours.”
Heather blushed, stood, and tugged her small shorts down her thighs a couple of inches. Thomas took her fingers in his hand, bowed, and kissed them. “If I was a younger man, you’d be in trouble.”
Heather laughed. Dirty old man. “I think I still have to be careful.”
“Better believe it.” He smiled and squeezed her hand as he led her toward the picnic table and the other men.
“Men,” he said as he put his thin arm around Heather’s waist. “Our new neighbor, Heather. Heather, this is Bill, Carl, Joseph, and Daniel.” He pointed to each, and she tried to remember the names and faces.