The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Carolyn Marvin. Janet Durbin told me about her.”

  “Well, my mom hosted the reception afterward. It was all she could talk about for weeks.”

  “Your mother—she’s not still alive, is she?”

  Corbin shook his head. “And all those ladies who used to meet with her—they’re all gone too. Dead or moved away. But I could help you with your research—drive you to places associated with her. Portsmouth, for one. And I know there must be material at the state archives in Concord.”

  “That would be great,” she said. Did he really need to drive her to Concord? It was less than thirty minutes away. Maybe he was just trying to find a way to see her again. If so, she realized she liked the idea.

  “In fact, I have to head over to Concord the day after tomorrow. Do you want to go with me?”

  “All right.” Had she been right and he was asking her on a date? She wasn’t sure.

  “How’s nine thirty? I’ll pick you up.”

  “Nine thirty is fine.”

  By the time they ordered dessert—carrot cake for her, cheesecake for him—the man who’d come over earlier and a few other people from the meeting had wandered by and pulled up chairs. Susannah didn’t mind; she was having a good time, better than she’d had in a while. Then the guys started to play a game of darts using a board hung in a corner and Janet joined in, surprising everyone when she scored a bull’s-eye.

  Susannah turned to Corbin. “You’re right,” she said. “I do like this place.”

  “Told you so,” he said. “But how about next week you let me take you someplace else? There’s a kind of upscale new restaurant in the next town over; I hear the food is terrific, like something you would get in Boston or even New York.”

  Susannah didn’t say anything. That really was a date. “I’m not sure,” she began, “that is—I—”

  He reached out and put his hand over hers; the connection was immediate and electric, just as it had been all those years ago. “I get it. I heard about your husband and I’m really sorry. So forget dinner. Let me take you skating instead. Your kids too—I’ll bet they’ve never skated on a pond before.”

  “That would be fun,” she said. His hand was still covering hers; it was causing little pinpricks of pleasure to needle her skin.

  “Great. Maybe Saturday? Or is Sunday better?”

  “Can I check with them and let you know?” She doubted Cally would agree, but she would ask anyway; Jack, she knew, would love the idea.

  “Sure.”

  The check came and Corbin insisted on paying it. Susannah got up. It had been a good evening, one of the nicest she’d had in the month she’d been here. Now it was time to go home; Jack would be back from Gilda’s, and she hoped Cally would be home from Alice’s. She was saying good night to Corbin and Janet in the parking lot when George Martin came over.

  “Hello,” he said. “I saw you come in and wanted to catch you before you left.”

  “How are you?”

  “Pretty well. I think I might have a couple of letters your mother sent me after she and your father moved away. If I can find them, I’ll make sure you get them.”

  “Thank you, George.” Letters! From her mother! “That’s really nice of you.” Susannah had already ruled out Todd Rettler as the man who might have been her mother’s lover. But George Martin was still a possibility, especially if he and her mother had exchanged letters. And then there was Harry Snady.

  “By the way, I did find a number for Harry Snady. In Eliot.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’d heard he’d moved. Did you talk to him?”

  “No. The woman who answered the phone wouldn’t let me speak to him and she told me not to call again. I was wondering if you might know why.”

  “That must have been Deedee. His wife.”

  “Was she always such a bitch?”

  “She kept him on a short leash—I remember that.”

  Susannah wanted to ask more about her, but a man with a trim silver-flecked beard and thin gold-rimmed glasses came up and gently put a hand on George’s arm.

  “Hate to break up the party,” he said, “but I have to be up at the crack of dawn.”

  “I was just saying good night.” George took the man’s hand and turned to Susannah. “This is Barry,” he said. “My partner.”

  Partner! Susannah looked from George to Barry and then finally let her gaze linger on George’s face, the face of the man who had clearly not been her mother’s lover.

  SEVENTEEN

  The morning after the community meeting, Susannah went to the high school and made her way to Antoinette Benoit’s office. Cally was already there, seated across from Antoinette wearing what looked like a Catholic school uniform: pleated gray jumper, insignia of some kind on the front, buttons on either shoulder. But paired with the silky fuchsia blouse and lavish cluster of fake pearls, it had transcended its origins. Antoinette said a polite hello to Susannah, who took the other chair in the small office. Then she jumped right in. “Cally, you know why we’re here, right?”

  “It’s Calista.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name. It’s Calista, not Cally. I don’t want to be called Cally anymore. Not ever.” She shot Susannah the look.

  “All right, Calista.” Antoinette did not allow herself to get derailed. “We’re meeting to talk about your cutting classes—and how that is unacceptable. Do you want to say anything about what’s been going on?”

  Again, Cally—Calista—looked at Susannah. “I don’t belong here,” she began. “I don’t fit in. The kids here don’t get me and I don’t get them. My classes are boring, I hate New Hampshire, and I want to go back to New York and live with my best friend, but my mother won’t let me.” She gripped the arms of her chair tightly, as if she might snap them right off. “I think that about covers it.”

  “It sure does,” said Antoinette, still serene. Not much rattled this woman. “That’s quite a list. Let’s see if we can unpack those issues one by one.” And to Susannah’s amazement, Antoinette addressed each of Cally’s complaints and laid out a plan that included a move up to a senior history class, a French tutorial to eliminate the dreaded Spanish class, and an independent study in equine management in which Jester, the horse owned by Alice Renfew, had a starring role. There were also to be mandatory meetings with Ms. Lanigan, the school psychologist.

  Susannah was largely silent during this conversation. She was grateful for the dean’s enlightened attitude about the problem, which was remarkably free from admonishment and threat. It was only toward the end of the conversation that Antoinette hinted at the consequences for Cally if she didn’t toe the line. “I’ve seen your test scores,” she said, running her finger over the sheet of paper—presumably the scores—that sat in an open manila folder. “And they are impressive. You’ll have many doors open to you.” She paused and tucked her neat white pageboy behind her ears. “But they can close just as quickly. That will be up to you, Calista. In the end, it’s your decision.” She stood and Susannah stood too. “We’re going to have a follow-up meeting in a month or so. See where we are then.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Benoit,” Cally said.

  Calista, Calista, Susannah had to remind herself. It would take time.

  “Back to class with you now.”

  Cally—no, Calista—left the office and Antoinette Benoit turned to Susannah. “I can see it’s been a rough transition for her. But let’s see if we can get her back on track. I’ll talk to Alice later today. I’ll bet she’ll be tickled by the idea.”

  “Do you know her well?” Susannah asked.

  “Everyone around here knows her; her husband Dave was kind of a local celebrity. Almost every child in town passed through his office at one time or another. And he used to come to senior career day every year; he was just so inspiring. I don’t know how many kids he steered
toward medicine. A few pediatricians, an oncologist, nurses, X-ray technicians, a radiologist or two.”

  “That was very generous of him.”

  “Extremely.”

  Susannah thanked Antoinette and said good-bye. This meeting had gone well—better than she’d expected, in fact. Calista—there, she was getting it now—had not been too hostile and by the end had even seemed receptive. So why wasn’t she more pleased about the outcome?

  She was jealous, that was why. Jealous that her daughter seemed to have attached, so effortlessly, to their new neighbor, leaving her own mother outside their charmed circle. Why couldn’t Calista find some nice friends her own age to bond with? Someone at the high school? She brooded over this on the drive back. The sky was gray and filled with low, swollen clouds; snow was predicted for tonight and into tomorrow morning. Jealous or not, Susannah wanted to be ready for the storm and she ticked off the list of things she needed: gas, groceries, deicer for the path leading up to the house.

  That last item she could pick up at the hardware store, and a trip to the hardware store meant a potential encounter with Corbin Bailey. The thought was like flipping a switch, diverting her foul mood over Alice, and sending an anticipatory buzz right through her. But then she decided, no, she did not actually need to get the deicer; there was enough in the package to get through at least this snowfall. She was going to Concord with him tomorrow—that would be soon enough to see him. And then she’d see him again on Sunday. He was going to come over to Primrose Pond, which was frozen solid, and they were going skating—or at least she and Jack were. Calista, predictably, had already said No way to the invitation.

  On her way home, she passed Buns of Steel, the exercise studio she had seen when she first drove into town, and, on a whim, parked the car and went inside. Behind a high white desk sat a woman in a tight, cleavage-baring black sweater. A tiny cross glittered on her neck. She was staring at a computer screen but turned to Susannah right away and smiled. “Can I help you?”

  “I just wanted to get a schedule and see what kind of classes you were offering.”

  “Sure.” The woman plucked a flyer from a holder on the desk and handed it to Susannah. “We’ve got a class called Boot Camp at seven a.m. five days a week. Trim and Tone is Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at noon; Tuesday and Thursday is Pilates. Weekends are for spin and yoga. And Jazzercise too. And there’s a winter special going on now. If you buy a card of ten classes, you get two free.”

  As she talked, Susannah kept thinking there was something very familiar about her, although she was having trouble placing her. “Martha Dineen,” she said finally.

  The woman looked blank and then recognition settled on her face. “Susannah!” she said. “Susannah Gilmore, right? From that summer, oh, about a hundred years ago?”

  “That’s me.” Susannah and Martha had been close, though their friendship had not survived the distance. Or the time.

  “Are you back in town for a visit?”

  “Actually, I’m living here, with my kids, in the house that belonged to my parents.”

  “It’s great to see you. I was just about to go out for a break. I close the studio for about an hour. Do you have time for a bite?”

  • • •

  Seated across from Martha in the little soup and sandwich shop down the street, Susannah listened to an abbreviated version of her old friend’s life: four years at UNH with a major in chemistry, then training to become a pharmacist. Marriage, three kids. One had Down syndrome. Divorced now, but on good terms with her ex. And living in a committed relationship with a woman. “It wasn’t so easy to be openly gay back then. I had to hide—even from myself. Things have gotten so much better.”

  “Did you marry Andrew Jordan?” Susannah had a sudden vivid memory of the boy Martha had been dating back then—slim, small, with feathery brown hair and a high-pitched, almost hysterical laugh. He’d been the clown of the group, always coming up with one crazy prank after another. They had called him the Joker.

  “No, Andy and I broke up after that summer. I married Jim Snady.”

  “Jim Snady?” Could he be any relation to Harry?

  “Yes. We met at UNH. Sweetheart of a guy. If you happen to like guys, that is.”

  “Is he related to Harry Snady?”

  “Yes. Why? Do you know Harry?”

  Susannah considered her next words carefully. She didn’t want to tell Martha what she suspected about Harry, but she hoped she could ask for her help in reaching him. “No,” she said finally. “But my mother did. So I called him and his wife practically hissed and spit. She wouldn’t even let him come to the phone.”

  Martha took a bite of her ham and cheese. “That would be Deedee. In Jim’s family, she’s . . . legendary.”

  “I only want to talk to him. Ever since I got back here, my mother has been on my mind. You might even say she’s been haunting me.” That much was true. “I had hoped Harry could fill in some gaps in the picture. She was a very private person and, though I was her only daughter, I never felt I really knew her.”

  “I remember your mother.” Martha finished the sandwich and patted her lips with her napkin. “So pretty and so . . . worldly. We all thought she seemed different than the women around here. Had a kind of big-city way about her.”

  “Yet she loved it here. She really did.” Susannah glanced at her watch. She ought to be going now; the kids would be home from school soon. But what about Harry Snady? Could Martha engineer a meeting with him? She wasn’t even married to Jim anymore. And she’d have to find a way to elude Deedee.

  The waitress came with a check, which Susannah insisted on paying.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Martha said. But Susannah knew money was tight: the job at the exercise studio was in addition to her evening shift at an all-night pharmacy in Concord.

  “You can treat some other time,” Susannah said. “I’ll come to a class and we’ll have coffee after.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I want to hear more about what you’re up to.”

  They walked out into the frigid street, and when they got to Susannah’s car, Martha gave her a quick hug, the fur on the hood of her coat briefly tickling Susannah’s cheek. “So glad we bumped into each other,” she said. “I hope we can pick up where we left off.”

  “So do I.” She waited a beat. Should she do it? Was it presuming too much? She thought of that awful woman hanging up on her and told herself, Be bold. “There’s one more thing. I know it’s a lot to ask, especially since we haven’t seen each other in decades, but I want to see Harry Snady. Do you think there’s any way you could help?”

  Martha stepped back. “I think so,” she said. “Harry always liked me and I can find a way around Deedee. Besides, he needs to get out more—it will do him a world of good.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Susannah said and she hugged Martha again. “Thank you so much.” She wasn’t at all sure that Harry Snady had been her mother’s lover. But if she met him face-to-face, at least there was a chance of finding out.

  As she was walking back to her car, Martha’s voice called after her. “Have you seen Corbin Bailey since you got back to town?”

  Susannah turned around. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know.” Martha came closer. “Seeing you got me thinking about that summer. Even though you were going out with Trevor, I always thought there might have been something between you and Corbin.”

  “He certainly was . . . attractive back then,” Susannah said.

  “He still is,” said Martha. And though Susannah didn’t reply, she most certainly agreed.

  EIGHTEEN

  Driving home, Susannah made a mental list of all the things she wanted to ask Harry when they met. How long had he known her mother? When and where did they meet? Had they stayed in touch when she moved away? He’d directed her mother in several productions; which on
es and what roles had she played in them? Susannah and her father had gone to see her mother perform when they lived in New Brunswick. But by that time she was playing older women: Amanda in The Glass Menagerie, Juliet’s nurse in Romeo and Juliet. She had shone in those parts. But before Susannah was born, she’d been young and beautiful; she must have played different kinds of roles. She hoped Harry Snady would be able to tell her about them.

  As Susannah’s car crunched along the road that went by Alice Renfew’s house, her thoughts were abruptly yanked in another direction. Even before a plan had been formalized today, Cally—Calista—had been spending quite a bit of time at this house. And soon that time would increase. Susannah’s irritation mounted as she drove slowly past the meadow, the barn, and, yes, the horse, leaning his head out of the stall the way he had that first time. She debated stopping and getting out of the car to pat him again, but the gate was closed and, anyway, she wanted to get home.

  She parked and let herself into the house. It was too late to start working; her visit with Martha had eaten up the time and now she had to get dinner started. Jack came in first and then Cally—Calista—came in too. Dusk didn’t descend until after five today; the days, though still cold, were getting longer. And after the meal was finished and the kitchen cleaned, Susannah felt she could spend some time at her computer. She’d leave the door to her room open so if either of the kids needed her, she’d be available.

  She had not given up on the Ruth Blay story; if anything, Tasha’s resistance had only made her that much more determined. She would prove her wrong; she would. Why she needed to do this was only partially clear to her. Did she hope to expiate her own guilt by wrestling with Betsey’s? Because Betsey’s guilt was a theme that was pulsing through these pages, a rhythm that Susannah was drawn to and needed to follow. Tasha was giving her a reprieve, and the sale of the Brooklyn house had given her a hefty nest egg. She could afford to indulge herself, at least for a little longer. She gave herself a deadline: the spring. If she couldn’t write the pages that would convince Tasha, she’d give up and return to more familiar territory. But it was still early February; spring felt like a long way off.