The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  Hearing Corbin describe it, Susannah almost didn’t mind the bond Alice had with her daughter. Almost.

  “I think it’s weird.” Jack used his finger to pry up a bit of melted cheese that had stuck to his plate. “I mean, she’s, like, old.”

  “Being different ages doesn’t mean two people can’t be friends,” said Corbin. “Look at us, buddy. I’m a lot older than you are, but we’re friends, right?”

  “Right!” agreed Jack. “Do you think maybe after lunch we could build a snow fort? My dad and I used to do that . . .”

  “Build a snow fort? Hey, I’m, like, the king of snow forts—just ask anyone in town.”

  Corbin and Jack bundled up and went outside to start on the fort while Susannah stayed inside to clean the kitchen. Fort building never had been her thing anyway; she didn’t like the cold, which was ironic considering where she had chosen to live. As she worked, she could hear the muted sounds of Jack’s high, excited voice. She loved how sweet and totally natural Corbin was with him; nothing forced there. It seemed they would be occupied for a while, so she went upstairs to look at the Polaroids again. Now that she was sure her mother was in Quebec for those few days, it seemed even more essential to find out with whom. She sat down at the computer and sent quick e-mails to Janet, Todd, and George about Linda; she’d let that trail go cold, but she was going to pick it up again. It was entirely possible that Linda would reveal something essential. And Friday Martha was stopping by with Harry Snady. Had he been the man with whom her mother had gone to Quebec? And even if he had, would he actually tell her?

  The afternoon light was beginning to wane, casting bluish shadows on the snow outside. She heard the door open as Corbin and Jack came in, and she went downstairs. “Mom, you have to see the fort!” Jack led her to the window; his hand was freezing. “Look how big it is! And it’s got a little opening so we can go inside.”

  Susannah stood looking at the domed structure made of snow and ice. “It’s an igloo, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Corbin says the Eskimos are the guys to follow when it comes to snow—they know all about it.”

  Corbin came up behind her and casually put a hand on her shoulder. Even the light touch set her body humming. Calista would just have to learn to deal with this new development. Where was Calista anyway? If she had gone over to Alice’s, it was time for her to come home. She was just about to text her daughter to say this when the phone rang. It was Alice. Susannah moved away from the window and went out to the porch.

  “I just wanted you to know Calista’s here with me,” she said.

  “Thanks for letting me know. Can you tell her to be home for dinner? There’s a path to the house that Corbin and Jack shoveled, so if she comes around to the front door, it will be easier to get in.” She was shivering a little; it was cold out on the porch.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. Calista’s very upset and doesn’t want to go home. She wanted to know if she can stay with me for a while.”

  “Stay with you!” Whatever softening she’d felt toward this woman earlier instantly vaporized. No, she did not want Calista staying with Alice. She did not want that at all. And since Calista was still a minor, she was going to put her foot down right now and insist that her daughter come home. If she didn’t, Susannah was prepared to go over and get her.

  “. . . it wouldn’t be any trouble to me; I’m just rattling around by myself in this great big old house anyway. And I think you know how fond I am of her. She’d be so very welcome—”

  “You’re very kind but that is not happening. Calista needs to come back home; this is where she belongs.” Susannah looked out at the thick blanket of snow that covered the pond.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Alice said. Did she sound patronizing or was this Susannah’s projection? “When she got here, she said she was going to run away. She had it all planned out and it sounded, well, quite plausible.”

  “Run away? What are you talking about?” Susannah remembered how Calista had wanted to go live with her best friend. Had she actually been putting such a plan into motion? No. She was just being impulsive and dramatic, trying to get a reaction from her mother. Well, it was working.

  “She wants to go back to New York. I suggested staying here with me as a compromise. You see, she’s really quite unhappy at home right now.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” Susannah knew her tone was frosty if not openly antagonistic. Who was this woman, encroaching on her family, her life? What chutzpah! as her grandmother would have said. But underneath her anger was the even more uncomfortable realization that Alice might actually be right—Calista’s staying with her was a way of forestalling an even more radical move. She just wished she didn’t have to admit it.

  “. . . know you had words today. Why don’t you let her sleep here for a night or two while you both cool down? You can look at the situation again when you’re calmer.”

  I don’t need to cool down! Susannah wanted to say. That was not true, though; she had been shouting good and loud when Calista stormed out of the house. “I suppose it would be all right for a day or two,” Susannah said stiffly. “But she has to go to all her classes and not miss any schoolwork—”

  “I think that’s all been taken care of,” said Alice. God, but she sounded smug! “There’s nothing to worry about on that front.”

  “All right, then.” Susannah tried to be polite. “But I want to stay in touch with you. Daily.”

  “Of course,” said Alice. “That goes without saying.”

  Susannah got off the phone and went back to the kitchen, where Corbin and Jack were playing pick-up sticks on the table. “I didn’t even know they still made those,” she said.

  “The company is based in Nashua and I like to give a boost to local businesses, so I carry them in the store. There was a box in the glove compartment and I wanted to show them to Jack; he said he’d never seen them before.”

  Jack was concentrating on the plastic sticks, giving Susannah the chance to gaze openly at Corbin.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said. “Calista’s staying with Alice?” When Susannah nodded, he added, “This doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it?”

  “Why would it have anything to do with you?” Jack looked up from the game, not noticing that the red stick he held was about to touch another in the pile.

  “I don’t think your sister likes me very much.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe she thinks no one can take your dad’s place. And you know what, buddy? No one ever will. But that doesn’t mean your mom can’t have some company now and then. You too.”

  “Right.” Jack looked back down at the pile of sticks. “I don’t understand why she doesn’t get that.”

  Me neither, Susannah wanted to say. But instead, she opened the freezer and took out a Pyrex container of chili. “How about I heat this up and you stay for dinner?” she said to Corbin.

  “Sounds like a plan.” He and Jack played another round of pick-up sticks, then moved on to checkers; Corbin had unearthed a mold-spotted box in the garage and brought it inside. Susannah was amused at how her son had so quickly taken up these retro amusements; pick-up sticks were already outdated when she was a kid, though she did recall playing checkers, maybe even with that very set.

  The meal was easy and relaxed; the only off note was Calista’s empty seat, which felt like a reproach. But Susannah tried not to let her daughter’s absence ruin her mood, and when Jack went upstairs, Corbin pulled her into his arms for a long, heated kiss.

  “Don’t worry,” he said when he finally let her go. “She’ll come around. She just needs some time.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Susannah said. “Because I want to keep seeing you.”

  “And I want to keep seeing you. Are you busy on Saturday?” When she shook her head, he said, “Good.
I’m going to be tied up with this Wingate thing all week, but we can get together then.”

  After he’d gone, she went into the kitchen in search of that open bottle of Malbec in the fridge. She hadn’t served wine with dinner because she knew Corbin wouldn’t be drinking it, but she really wanted a glass. It might help her settle down; otherwise, she was never going to get to sleep tonight. Carrying the wineglass upstairs, she opened her laptop again and found a message from Janet Durbin.

  I just heard that Lynda Jacobsmeyer was living in Mexico, but I know she has family in the area and comes back east from time to time.

  So it was Lynda, not Linda! It had never occurred to her to check an alternate spelling. Susannah hastily typed the name in and did another search. Lynda Jacobsmeyer popped right up. And even better, this Lynda, her Lynda, was a yoga and natural food enthusiast; she had a blog outlining her yoga practice and posted her vegan recipes. At the very bottom of the page was a contact button. Susannah composed a quick message and then went downstairs to refill her wineglass. Just one more, she told herself. It really had been quite a day.

  Jack was still upstairs, so she sat by herself sipping the wine. It was so quiet here at night. So quiet and so still. There was a waning moon and in its cool, distant light she could see the drifts and mounds of snow that surrounded the house. What was visible of the trees faded into the darkness and all that remained glowed white. Was the snow isolating her or protecting her?

  She got up from the table and turned off the lights. There was a little bit of wine left and she would finish it while she checked her e-mail one last time. The screen brightened when she opened the laptop, a familiar welcoming presence. And there, in the in-box, the message:

  Long time! How many years has it been since your mom died? Eleven? Twelve? I can’t remember exactly but I think of her often and I still miss her. She was a very special person. I’ve thought of you too, and wondered how you are. I wanted to be in touch but a lot has changed in my life this last decade—way too much to go into here. I’ll be in Boston around the end of March. We could meet then if you want to drive down.

  Did she want to drive down? If only Lynda knew how much. And by the time they met, she would have seen Harry Snady. Susannah did not fool herself into thinking Harry was going to reveal himself too easily to her. But she trusted her own instincts and believed that if he and her mother had been lovers, something in his manner would let her know. And that Lynda would be able to substantiate any hunch she might have.

  I’d be happy to meet with you in Boston. Just name the day, typed Susannah. And she felt the rush of possibility as she hit send.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Grabbing her parka and her bag, Susannah headed for the door, which, unlike so many people here, she insisted on locking behind her, and climbed into the Jeep. Martha Dineen was behind the wheel, a torrent of apologies tumbling out of her mouth.

  “I am so sorry I’m late. There was horrendous traffic on the bridge. And I couldn’t even call you because I left my cell phone at home,” Martha said.

  “That’s all right,” said Susannah. “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

  “So am I.” This was uttered by the man—somewhat frail, but tall and dignified, with still abundant hair combed neatly back from a broad, slightly speckled forehead. “I’ve been wanting to meet you.” Susannah turned to look at him—Harry Snady.

  “There’s a shopping center on the way and I thought you could drop me there; that way you and Harry can have some time alone.”

  “Thanks, Martha.” Susannah was touched by her thoughtfulness. She climbed in back and Harry extended his hand. A heavy gold ring shone from one finger and his nails were neatly trimmed and buffed. “You’re a vision,” he said. “The very image of your beautiful mother.”

  “Thank you.” This was the second time since she’d moved here that she had been told she looked like Claire. She had never thought so, but maybe she was wrong. Or maybe Harry just wanted to think so. In any case, he certainly sounded admiring. Even smitten. Was he the one?

  “I’ve never forgotten her,” Harry was saying. “She was one of the most talented amateurs I’d ever worked with. I think she could have been a pro if she’d wanted.”

  “That’s what George said.”

  “Ah, George! How is he?”

  “Fine. I think. At least he was the last time I saw him.”

  “I really should be in touch . . .” Harry turned his face to the window, and the bare, ice-glazed trees rushing by.

  “It’s Deedee, isn’t it?” Martha had been quiet until now. “She doesn’t want you to see anyone from the past—isn’t that right, Harry?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, she’s very protective of me. And I appreciate that. But maybe sometimes she goes overboard.”

  Martha did not answer, and Susannah didn’t feel she ought to offer her own opinion of Deedee, so there was silence in the car. When Martha pulled into the mall’s parking lot, she programmed the address of the clinic into her GPS. “You won’t be able to call me since I don’t have my phone,” Martha said. “But I’ll be waiting in the Starbucks in about an hour and a half; we can meet there.”

  Susannah got into the front seat and turned to Harry. “Do you want to join me? It might make it easier for us to talk.”

  “Good idea,” Harry said, easing his way out of the back so he could come around to sit alongside her. Susannah noticed his brown chesterfield coat and scarf. The scarf must have come from Burberry; she recognized the plaid. Even through the scrim of age, vestiges of the handsome, well-put-together man he’d clearly been were still visible. Harry was quiet as Susannah navigated her way out of the lot and back onto Route 4, but once they picked up speed, he began to talk again. “I hope that Deedee wasn’t too unfriendly,” he began.

  “Actually, she hung up on me. And she told me not to call again.”

  “I’m sorry.” He seemed to shrink in his seat. “But she always felt that your mother held too special a place in my heart and it bothered her. So if you mentioned Claire, I can see how that would have set her off.”

  “Was there any basis for her suspicion?” Susannah was glad to keep her eyes on the road; it spared her from having to look at him as she probed.

  “None. I was married to Deedee, and Claire was married to Warren. No, ours was a purely intellectual and artistic connection. We mingled minds, not bodies. Now, if she’d been free, things might have been different, because in all honesty I always was a little bit in love with her. And I like to flatter myself into thinking that maybe she was a little in love with me too.”

  “She always talked about you with real affection,” said Susannah. This was not true; her mother had never mentioned him at all. Yet this could have been a strategic omission on Claire’s part, a desire to cover up her true feelings.

  “Did she?” His face brightened. “What did she say?”

  “She talked about what a sensitive and nuanced director you were, and how you brought out the best in your actors.” That sounded plausible, and it seemed to please Harry very much.

  “I’m so glad to know she thought of me that way.” He ran his hands over his hair, smoothing it back. “I always did try to nurture each actor’s own special gift.”

  “What was my mother’s?” Susannah asked.

  “She had a great range,” he said. “She could be young, lovely, fetching, and seductive. But she wasn’t afraid to be unlovely, and that takes a very strong ego. She could do old, she could do shrewish, she could do crazy if she was asked to. And she had a real ear for poetry—she could recite Shakespeare and make it sound so natural, so credible.”

  Susannah’s hands tightened on the wheel. Was this the opening she’d been waiting for? “She developed quite an interest in poetry. Was that something you had in common?”

  “Absolutely,” said Harry. “We both shared a love of Yeats, among o
thers, and I even directed her in one of his plays. He was a playwright too—did you know that?”

  “No.” All she could think of was that volume of Yeats, the one in which she had found the note. Had Harry given her the book and tucked the note inside? She gripped the wheel more tightly.

  “The Countess Kathleen. Fine production it was, too.”

  Susannah’s mind was racing. Had Harry written those poems? Gone to Quebec with her mother? It really did seem possible. She was trying to find a delicate way to continue her probing, but when she glanced over at him, she saw he was dabbing at his eyes with a large white handkerchief.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Don’t mind me. I’ve gotten more emotional with the years. It’s just that thinking of your mother, and what we shared, has stirred up a lot of memories.”

  “Good memories?” Susannah ventured.

  “Very good.” He blew his nose and gave her a tremulous smile.

  I can’t ask him any more right now, Susannah thought. It would be wrong. Cruel. But even without any more questions, it seemed to her she had her answer.

  • • •

  To pass the time while Harry had his physical therapy, she had brought along a book about the Salem witch trials—she had a hunch that some of the same group hysteria might have been responsible for the condemnation of Ruth Blay—but she found she was unable to concentrate, so she decided to take a walk around Dover while waiting.

  It was early March, and still cold, but some of the snow had started to thaw; Susannah had to pick her way through slushy puddles and mud-streaked mounds. There was not much to the town, but she found a thrift shop that yielded a waffle iron still in its original box. Jack would adore freshly made waffles. She bought it for five dollars, and on her way back to the clinic stopped at a bakery for two coffees and a bag of cinnamon rolls. When she got there, Harry was just emerging from his session and accepted the coffee gratefully. “You must have found Ella’s,” he said.