“Yo, Brad, you made it. Hi, Abby. Come on in.” Bill welcomed them, then stood back and let Abby pass, then punched Brad on the arm as he followed her. “Hey, pal, did you see the Penn State game today?” And the men were off, exchanging details about plays and coaches.
Abby slipped out of her jacket and looked around for a place to put it. There was a heap of coats on the stairs, so she added hers to the pile, then, summoning her courage, headed for the noise and light. She paused for a moment in the doorway, looking for an opening. Some faces she recognized, others were new to her. Everybody looked smart and thin and vivacious, talking eagerly, gesturing widely, laughing. They made Abby feel small and pale to the point of invisibility. Like a ghost, she thought. I’m here, but I’m not here. This would not do. Maybe Brad was right: maybe she’d just been spending too much time by herself, with no one to talk to. Maybe she just needed to practice her people skills more. Maybe her next best friend was somewhere in this room. She squared her shoulders and marched in.
There was an informal bar set up on the far side of the room, and Abby waded through the crowd and helped herself to a glass of wine. Sipping, she studied the people. They looked just the way they should: confident, happy, energetic. Everything she was not. She spied a woman approaching her. Abby knew she’d met her; what was her name? Susan? Sally?
“Hi. Abby, right? I’m Shanna—we met at the office, a month or so ago. You’re with Brad.”
“Yes, hi, and yes.” Abby could never think how to phrase personal questions politely. She knew Shanna was in some kind of relationship with Rich, but she wasn’t sure what; she had the vague feeling that “what do you do” was both dated and politically incorrect, but wasn’t sure what had replaced it. Thank goodness Shanna didn’t notice Abby’s confusion.
“So, how’re you settling in?”
“Fine, I think—it’s all new to me, so I’ve got lots to explore.”
“You’re out in the suburbs somewhere, right?”
“Yes—Waltham.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Shanna dismissed Waltham with a contemptuous sniff. “Brad said you were looking for a job? What’re you looking for?”
“I’m not sure—I taught elementary school for a couple of years, and then I worked for a foundation. I haven’t quite figured out where to start. Did Brad say you were at the art museum?” Abby couldn’t for the life of her remember what Shanna was supposed to be doing there—taking tickets? Restoring paintings? Running the place?
“Yes—curatorial assistant. I have a degree in art history, so I’m a happy camper. Busy place these days, what with all the expansion plans—they’re probably going to be looking for help on the fund-raising staff. If you’re interested, I could ask around.”
Abby plastered on a smile. “Sure, that would be great.” Heck, she liked museums, and she’d heard Boston had a good one, not that she’d seen it yet. Brad didn’t like to waste precious football time going to museums. “What does a curatorial assistant do?” She pitched the softball to Shanna and watched her run with it. Oops, Abby, mixed metaphor. But in any case, Shanna looked very enthusiastic about it. Abby wondered what it would take to feel that same rush herself. Shanna waved to some other people in the room, who came over to join them. They all knew each other, and gradually Abby came to feel invisible again. They were all talking about people and places she didn’t know, great restaurants in the city or Cambridge, a terrific new Belgian movie that was playing only in obscure art houses. How was she supposed to get to know them? Chicken and egg problem—she couldn’t share interests with other people until they shared theirs with her. But she kept on smiling, and nodding, and pretending very hard that she belonged with these bright happy people. Maybe it would rub off.
Sometime after one o’clock, Brad made his slightly unsteady way over to the corner where Abby had spent the last half hour trapped in conversation with someone whose name she had long since forgotten, but who had insisted on regaling her with the entire history of the software industry in Massachusetts. Abby’s eyes had glazed over after the first fifteen minutes, but her companion hadn’t noticed. Indeed, he was still warming to his theme.
“Hey, babe. Time to head for the ’burbs,” Brad said, after a contemptuous glance at her captor.
“Fine. Let me get my coat. Sorry I can’t stay to hear about . . .” Abby noticed that Mr. Software had already moved on to another unwitting audience.
Outside the night air was cool and crisp. Almost October now, and Abby could feel winter lurking. She wondered where she had packed her winter coat. She looked down at the sidewalks. “These must be nasty when they get icy.”
“Huh?” Brad seemed lost in his own thoughts. “Oh, yeah, I guess. Nice neighborhood, though. Wonder what a place around here goes for?” He seemed to see her for the first time since they’d left the party. “Hey, have a good time? I saw you talking with Shanna.”
“Yes, she came over and introduced herself. She said she might know about some jobs at the museum.”
“Great. You’d like that.” It wasn’t a question. As though he knew anything about museum management.
Abby sighed. What was it about these people that drained all the color out of her? They were nice people—smart, hardworking. Some of them had even made an effort to talk to her, to include her in their conversations. She had nothing to complain about—except herself. It was her own fault if she didn’t fit in with them.
“Maybe. I’ll give her a call next week, to follow up.”
“Great idea.”
Riding home through the half-empty streets, Abby wondered: what did she want to do? Was it worth it to make the effort to fit into Brad’s gang of friends? There was nothing wrong with them—but they were wrong for her. But what did that say about Brad, and why he and she were together? She shook her head. It was late, she was tired. Things would look better in the morning.
11
Brad and Abby slept in on Sunday morning and then pottered companionably for a while, reading the paper, making and clearing up breakfast. Abby was sorting laundry in the bedroom when Brad came in and started putting on his jeans.
“Going somewhere?” she asked.
“Rich wanted to get together and watch the game at his place—I thought I mentioned that last night. We didn’t have anything planned, did we?”
Abby didn’t know if she felt disappointed or relieved. “No, nothing in particular. That’s fine. I’ve got stuff to keep me busy. You will be home for dinner, though? Or at least give me a call if you’re going to be late.” Again, she added to herself.
“Sure. The later match-ups suck, anyway.” He whistled to himself as he pulled on a sweatshirt, ran a comb through his hair, and filled his pockets with keys, change, and other guy stuff. “See ya later.” Abby heard the door slam, and he was gone.
Up to her elbows in dirty laundry, Abby wondered if she was supposed to be annoyed. No, she didn’t want to go watch football with the guys, but it would have been nice if Brad had at least asked if she had anything in mind for the day. They spent very little time together during the week. Well, they had been to the party last night—but that was Brad’s friends, the ones he saw at work. On the other hand, she had no friends. Cut the pity, Abby. You’ve got things to do—like working on that genealogy.
She needed to call her mother and decided to do it before she lost the impulse. She was happy to find that her parents had returned to Maine from their trip to New Jersey. Abby made the necessary chitchat, and then got to the point.
“Mom? You remember we were talking about family history stuff, when you were here? And I asked if you could look for anything you’ve got?”
“Oh, that’s right, you did. But we’ve still got to unpack from the trip, and then I’ve got to clean this place up, and do some laundry . . . How about this? Let me take a look in the attic tomorrow, see what there is, and if I find anything, I’ll send it to you.”
“Fine, Mom.” Abby sighed with resignation. It was the best she c
ould hope for at the moment. “Let me know when you stick it in the mail—I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“Okay, sweetie. Now, tell me all about what you’ve been doing. And how’s Brad? He’s always so sweet to me, such a nice boy . . .”
It took Abby another fifteen minutes to get off the phone, after she’d assured her mother that she was fine, Brad was fine, they’d been to a nice party, and everything was hunky-dory. Which was not exactly a lie: it was as hunky-dory as it ever was. Only that wasn’t very. With another sigh, Abby turned back to finish sorting laundry, and then the phone rang.
“Abby? It’s Ned.”
“Oh, hi.” Finally, a friendly voice.
“I just wondered what luck you’d had with finding that software we’d talked about, and if you’d made any progress?”
Shifting mental gears, Abby found she could respond with some enthusiasm. “Yes—I did find a program and downloaded it and filled in what I knew. But then I looked at the results and realized how little information I had. I just asked my mother to look for anything she’s got at home, but I don’t expect a whole lot. She’s a real dynamo and loves to clean things out. Which means that a lot of stuff gets thrown out, if she doesn’t think it’s important.” Including half the relics of my childhood, thought Abby ruefully. Ah, well, water under the bridge. She could only hope that her mother had some respect for legal and personal documents. “She might get it to me this week—if I’m lucky.”
“That’s a good sign. Well, I’ll let you get back to what you were doing . . .”
“Not much,” Abby muttered.
“What?”
She hadn’t realized she had spoken out loud. “Oh, I just said I’m not doing much. Brad went to watch football with his buddies, and I’ve just been cleaning up.” God, she sounded pathetic. And did it sound as though she was fishing for an invitation? She felt a flurry of panic.
Ned didn’t seem to notice. “You up for some more sightseeing? I’ve got some errands down your way—I’d be happy to show you a bit more of the area.”
Did he mean it, or was he just being polite? Did she sound that wretched? “Well, I don’t want to bother you, if you’ve got things to do.”
“Nonsense,” he said firmly. “I love showing off my home state. And we can talk about your next research steps, if you want.”
“Okay. What time?”
“Say, two? I’ll stop by and pick you up, if that’s all right.”
“That would be great. See you then.” Abby hung up the phone decisively, before she could change her mind. Well, if Brad could go play with his friends, she could play with hers. And Ned was a friend. That was nice to think about—she did actually have a friend of her own.
She’d finished the laundry and was sorting through her notes and the pathetically spindly family tree she’d put together when she heard Ned’s knock. Quickly she gathered up a jacket, her purse, and her notes, and opened the door.
“Hi,” she said, slightly breathlessly. She held up her pile of papers. “I thought I’d bring these along, if you don’t mind. I want to be sure I’m doing things right, before I get hopelessly entangled.”
“Not a problem.” Ned waited while she locked the door behind her. “I’m parked out front.”
“Where are we going today?”
“Well, I thought we could head out toward Wellesley—there’s a coffee place there that roasts its own beans, and I like to stop there when I can and stock up. Have you ever seen the college campus?”
“No, but of course I know about it. I went to Swarthmore.” In what seemed like another lifetime.
“You’ll probably see some similarities, although the Wellesley campus is bigger . . .”
They chatted amiably on the way. It took no more than half an hour to reach the town of Wellesley. Abby fell silent as they crossed the Charles River and passed through Newton Lower Falls.
“Penny?”
Abby jumped when he spoke. “What? Oh. I was just looking at the town. Is that the Charles River we just crossed? The same one as in Cambridge?”
Ned nodded cheerfully. “One and the same. It’s a little smaller here.”
They followed train tracks into the town of Wellesley, passing an imposing Victorian town hall as they came in. Ned drove through the town, and on the far side turned into the college campus and slowly drove through it. Abby admired the great open spaces and the soaring Gothic buildings, interspersed with more modern additions, including a much newer building on a hill.
“It certainly looks . . . collegiate, doesn’t it? Except for that thing.”
Ned laughed. “Yes, it does, and if you’re wondering, that’s the Science Center. And Frederick Law Olmsted designed this campus. He was a busy man.”
They reached the far edge of the campus and turned back toward town. Ned pulled into a small parking lot in front of the coffee store. “Want to come in, have a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.” Abby opened her door and climbed out, and he guided her inside. On a Sunday afternoon, the coffeehouse was only half filled, with a mix of students and townspeople. Abby looked around and sniffed appreciatively. The place was filled with blond wood, rich dark colors, and the heady scent of coffee beans. They found an empty table by the front window and Ned went up to the counter to order their coffees, adding a couple of cookies at the last minute.
When he returned he set them on the table. “There. Now we’ve staked our claim to the table. Show me what you’ve got.”
“I feel embarrassed, it’s so little.” She spread out her few pages so he could see them.
“No, don’t apologize. Everyone has to start somewhere. You picked a good program—it’s pretty flexible, and it usually prompts you if you’re trying to put in something ridiculous, like a baby born five years after his father died. Not that it hasn’t been known to happen.” Ned flashed her a grin.
Abby sipped her coffee approvingly. It was good—black and strong.
Ned’s voice broke into her thoughts. “So, what do you need to do next?”
She studied the sheets. “Push it back, one generation at a time, right? There has to be some record of my grandmother’s birth, or of her parents’ marriage. And I may as well start with Massachusetts. Oh, and I found out something about the chair.”
“The one . . . ?”
“Yes. Well, let me tell you first about what happened when I sat in it again. It was like the first time, only very, I don’t know, diluted. I mean, I saw the same things, but it wasn’t anywhere near as intense. It was a whole lot easier to handle. And then, while I was sitting there, it just sort of faded. I’m not sure that’s exactly the right way to describe it, but it stopped, and there I was, just me, sitting in the chair. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I looked under the chair, and it was made in Massachusetts, in 1892—there was a label. That was before my grandmother was even born. So I’m wondering if maybe it was my great-grandmother’s.”
“Interesting.” Ned seemed impressed. “So Massachusetts would be a good starting point.” He stopped for a moment. “There was something else I wanted to ask you about.”
Abby looked at him curiously. “About my family?”
“No,” he laughed, “about the here and now. Didn’t you tell me you were looking for a job?”
Abby nodded. “Yes, I guess so. I haven’t figured out what I want to do, but I should start doing something soon. Why?”
“Well, a friend of mine works at the Concord Museum—you remember, we went by it the other day. It’s just down the road from the Alcott house. Anyway, one of the staff there quit suddenly—medical reasons, I gather, but it was unexpected. So they’re looking for someone to step in quickly.”
“What’s the job?” Abby said dubiously. “I don’t have any museum experience.”
“That’s not a problem—it’s the coordinator for the school programs and educational outreach. You’ve taught, right? And you’ve done some nonprofit administrative work. You’d be fine. So what d
o you think?”
Abby was impressed. Not only had Ned paid attention when she’d given her brief life history, but he recognized that her background was a good fit. “It sounds great! What should I do?”
“Give Leslie a call tomorrow—here’s her number.” He handed her a card with a phone number scrawled on the back. “I’ll tell her to expect to hear from you. If that’s all right? I don’t want to push you into anything, if you’re not ready to go back to work.”
“No, this is wonderful. It sounds perfect. I will call her. And, Ned? Thank you.”
He looked abashed. “Just trying to help. If it works out, Leslie will owe me big-time. Are you finished with your coffee?”
Abby looked down. Her cup did seem to be empty. “I guess I am.”
They walked out into the sharp October air. The sky had darkened since they entered and the chill wind whisked dry leaves in aimless circles on the road. Abby stopped abruptly outside the door and stared across the street. There was a cemetery there.
Ned had gone ahead to unlock the car but turned to see her standing, frozen. “Abby? What is it?”
“Can we go look at that cemetery? If you don’t mind?”
“Sure. I never turn down a good cemetery. Why?”
She didn’t answer. With deliberation, she crossed the main street at the crosswalk and climbed up over the low stone retaining wall into the cemetery, Ned following close behind her. She stood for a moment, reconnoitering. The church at the far side was clearly twentieth-century, but the stones that lay in front of her were old, many eighteenth-century, with a few Victorian monuments scattered throughout. The burials were arrayed in untidy rows, not quite parallel to the church. She started walking slowly, toward the middle of the small cemetery. She stopped in front of a row of stones and hesitated a moment. She looked back over her shoulder at Ned, who was watching her with questions in his eyes. He didn’t speak, and she turned back and moved forward, reaching out a hand to touch the tallest slate stone. She shut her eyes.
The world dissolved into gray. The modern church was gone, but there was a much smaller wooden building in the corner, and the land around the cemetery was open. But the rows of stones were there, or at least parts of them, and swirling around them were people, layered again as she had seen in Concord. Many people—men, women, children. There was a silent noise in her head, as though all the voices of those people had blended together to create an echoing white din. Across time. These people had died a long time ago.
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