Hope in a Jar

by Beth Harbison

That was consistent with the not-so-slick exchange Olivia had seen. “You’re missing the point. Or, actually, maybe that’s just consistent with the point. The guy is married, he’s got something of a high profile, if he was the real father of her baby, there’s no way she’d want to make that announcement.”

  “You know I’m ready to jump on this,” Allie said. “But Vickie has money. She doesn’t need any man to step in and take care of her. Why would she bother to lie, or worse, to tell one man he was the father when she knew another man was? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying she’s a really moral, principled person, but . . . what if she is?”

  “That’s why I didn’t want either one of us flying off the handle at this. I think we need to come up with a really careful, measured response.”

  “Good. I like that. How?”

  “Vickie’s left me about ten messages saying she wants to come up and get together for lunch. Or have me down. I think she imagines I can introduce her to celebrities or something.”

  “Deep.”

  “I know. So what I’m thinking is that I will take her up on that. Go down, have lunch with her, try to feel her out on the whole pregnancy thing, while you take some private time with Noah and calmly tell him what I’ve told you. Because ultimately this really is his choice. If he wants to pursue a paternity thing, which I hope he does, it’s up to him.”

  Allie was silent for a minute, then said, “He better.”

  “Right, but if he doesn’t, I don’t think we can bully him into it,” Olivia said. “I don’t think we should. Once you give him the facts, if he opts to move forward as if Vickie’s telling the truth then that says right there that he’s made his decision.”

  “Or he’s crazy.” Allie sighed. “But we’ll have to see what happens. So how soon can you get here?”

  Olivia clicked on Outlook and checked her calendar for the rest of the week. It was full. “Can you wait until the weekend?”

  “I don’t think so! Are you kidding?”

  “All right, all right, give me a second.” She checked her appointments for the next couple of days to see which were the least urgent. “Day after tomorrow,” she announced. “Wednesday. Can you wait until Wednesday?”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “Bear up, Allie. Keep yourself busy.” She smiled to herself. “Watch the news.”

  “Very funny.”

  “E-mail me your address and directions from the nearest metro. I’m staying with you. See you Wednesday!”

  Olivia hung up the phone. It was going to be a long forty-eight hours.

  She had no idea how long, though, until she got home and found her mother was there with a thin, spindly woman dressed entirely in black, from her high-necked blouse to her ankle-length skirt.

  “Aunt Cassandra,” Olivia said, setting her keys down. She half wondered if it would be wiser to keep them in hand so she could run if necessary. “How nice to see you.”

  “Who’s that?” the older woman barked, turning a stiff neck in Olivia’s general direction.

  “That’s Olivia, Cass,” Caroline said, bringing in a tray with glasses of water and sliced cheese and apples on a plate. She set them down in front of Cassandra and handed her a water.

  “Oooh, is it?” Cassandra was interested. “Let me see what my little brother’s daughter looks like now, come on.” She strained to turn to Olivia but her movements were limited.

  When Olivia stepped into her line of vision she gave a thin smile. “There you are. And, oh my, you look so much like your father.”

  “Doesn’t she?” Caroline agreed.

  Olivia had seen only a few pictures of her father, a lean young man with freckles and sandy hair, though it was hard to tell his true coloring because the prints had faded.

  “Indeed. Though he didn’t reach her age, did he? Bless his heart.” There was genuine regret in Cassandra’s voice. “I miss the boy Hank was. And the man he became, too. However briefly.”

  Olivia hadn’t expected that.

  In fact, she’d never thought about the fact that her father had died at an age younger than she was now.

  “Do you think about him often?” Olivia found herself asking as she sat down in one of the chairs opposite the sofa where Aunt Cassandra sat.

  “Now, Olivia, it’s been a long time,” her mother started, presumably to prevent hurt feelings if—as they both expected—Cassandra would bark that he was dead and gone.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead she said, “I think about him every day.” Her pale blue eyes grew watery. “Every day. I will never forget when they brought that boy home. I was thirteen years old and thought I was far too adult to have a baby as a sibling.”

  Olivia remembered herself at thirteen and tried to imagine how it would have felt to have a baby move in. “Did you babysit for him?”

  “I didn’t want to,” Cassandra said. “Every time our parents asked me to take care of him, I kicked and screamed. But when they’d gone and we were alone”—she paused—“I loved his pudgy arms and legs and those fat cheeks. Nothing was greater fun than to make him laugh. It was always like that with that boy. He loved to laugh. And he was smart as a whip, too. Got every joke”—she snapped her fingers—“like that.”

  Olivia noticed her mother look down, and there was a deflation in her shoulders that told Olivia this touched her deeply.

  “As he got older, he just got smarter,” Cassandra went on. “My goodness, he could do the most complicated mathematics when he was just eight years old. By the time he was a teenager, he was ready for any university in this country.”

  “He was so intelligent,” Caroline agreed, looking at Olivia. “You got that from him. You truly got so much from him.”

  “She did, didn’t she?” Cassandra looked back to Caroline. “I see what you mean now.”

  “Striking, isn’t it?” Caroline asked.

  “Indeed.”

  Olivia didn’t know what they were talking about, but it was clear that it wasn’t the time to ask. They were in a different place, talking about a different person and a different time.

  And frankly she was more interested in hearing about that person in that place at that time than interjecting her own present into it.

  “What do you remember as your favorite thing about my father, Aunt Cassandra?” Olivia asked, then sat back and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, enjoyed the long answer about her heritage and her father.

  “He knew how to make or fix just about anything. One time, I’ll never forget it, I was going to the country club and my car wouldn’t start. Hank came out with a Popsicle stick and a paper clip and damned if he didn’t make the thing run better than it ever had before . . .”

  It was late when Caroline, who had been stifling yawns all night, finally said, “I think it’s time for us to hit the hay. What do you think, Cassandra?”

  Cassandra glanced at Olivia. “I’d like to spend just a little more time with my niece, if she’s up to it.”

  “Absolutely,” Olivia said. Then, to her mother, she assured, “I’ll see to it she gets to her bed in the den.”

  Caroline hesitated, and Olivia knew it was because she was afraid Olivia didn’t mean her offer, but when Olivia gave her a nod, she reluctantly went on her way.

  “Your mother worries a lot,” Cassandra said, when Caroline was gone.

  “I know.” Olivia looked toward the hall to the guest room, as if her mother were standing there. “She has a lot of stresses.”

  “I don’t believe she ever got over Hank’s death.”

  Olivia hesitated, then had to ask, “You don’t? Why not?”

  “Because she’s come over to the house so many times now but, unlike the other relatives who want this and that from me, she only wants to hear about him. She only wants to see pictures from his youth. It’s as if she can’t think about anything else.”

  This shocked Olivia. She had never gotten the impression her mother thought about her father muc
h at all. “And do you tell her what she wants to hear?”

  “I tell her what I remember,” Cassandra said. “I can’t do any more than that, though it isn’t very much. I don’t lie, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No.” Again, Olivia looked toward her mother’s door, fighting an urge to go to her and ask what she really felt. “No, I don’t think either of us would ask for that.”

  “You and I both know she’s not coming to see me.”

  Olivia smiled. “I would have agreed with you there a few weeks ago, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “I offered her money,” Cassandra said suddenly.

  Olivia turned to her sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re no dummy. You know what I mean. I thought she wanted money. I thought she asked about Hank so she could get her hands on some inheritance from his only living relative.”

  Olivia felt sick. “And?”

  Cassandra raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “And nothing. Refused me flat-out. She didn’t want a penny. Not even money for the train. I believe she was even insulted.”

  Olivia felt shame because this surprised her. “But she kept going back? To hear more about my father?” Not my dad. Never Daddy. She’d never known him at all, much less known him well enough to assign an affectionate nickname to him.

  “That’s all she wanted. So you see, I think she’s grieving still, though there’s little you or I can do about it.”

  That was the moment that the clouds lifted for Olivia. Her mother hadn’t moved from man to man because she was desperate for romance; she’d moved away from the painful memories again and again, always hoping to find something that would distract her enough to make the grief go away.

  But she never had.

  Instead she’d had a child in her dead husband’s image, a child she had to somehow care for on her own, even though she didn’t know the first thing about how to do it.

  “You’re seeing what I saw,” Cassandra said.

  “What?”

  “A sad and lonely woman.” Cassandra lifted her brow. “You’re not like that. In fact, you have no man in your life. Are you a lesbian?”

  This was so completely unexpected that Olivia had to laugh. “No, I’m not.”

  “There wouldn’t be anything wrong with it if you were, you know. I’m not as behind the times as you might think.”

  Olivia was fascinated. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Love one. Do you have something stronger than that prissy wine your mother kept trying to push on me?”

  “Bourbon?”

  “Two fingers. Neat.”

  “No ice, right?”

  “I like you, girl.”

  Olivia thought that if she had some straight bourbon she might just warm to Aunt Cassandra, too.

  “Let’s not talk about your mother anymore,” Cassandra said, after a generous gulp of the fiery liquid. “I want to hear about you. It sounds as if you work in an office building all the time, almost every day of the week, is that true?”

  Olivia smiled faintly. “Yes, but I enjoy my job.”

  Cassandra narrowed her eyes. “No wonder you’re so pale.”

  “I’m not pale—”

  “Deathly pallor.”

  Olivia couldn’t help laughing at the woman’s complete lack of social niceties. “I use some of the most expensive cosmetics in the world to ensure I don’t have a deathly pallor.”

  Cassandra gave a nod. “But it begins in the eyes, my dear. Your eyes look dead.”

  “Really.” Under other circumstances, Olivia might have left this conversation right here, but this was her father’s sister insulting her. It wasn’t hard to step back and listen without taking it too personally. “Tell me more.”

  “Very well. I think you should quit your job before it kills you. You look far more adventurous to me than you would let on.”

  Now she’d touched a nerve. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Of course you do. It’s written all over you that you know I’m right but you’re afraid.”

  Olivia took another sip of bourbon. It was starting to go down easier now. “How would a woman who’s spent so many years avoiding human contact be able to read anyone?”

  Cassandra gave a bark of laughter. “You’re a smart one.” She tapped her forehead. “More clever than most. But then, you already know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re smart enough to take the good advice of an old woman.”

  “Of course.”

  “So let’s figure out what your adventure should be, shall we?” Cassandra regarded her with some thought before asking, “Did you ever hear about my trip to Africa with Karen Blixen and that pig, Ernest Hemingway?”

  Twenty-four

  Makeup optional.

  —ad for Hope in a Jar by Philosophy

  “Wow, you look different,” Allie said, when she opened the door to Olivia.

  “What are you talking about?” Olivia entered Allie’s apartment. “I don’t look any different than I did last week.”

  “Yes you do. It’s like you have sort of a glow. Did you—”

  “You are not going to ask me if I got laid.”

  Allie didn’t blush, but her expression itself was an admission. “I was, actually.”

  “Just because you’re doing it doesn’t mean I have to.” Olivia laughed. “Anyway, I didn’t. But I guess you can say I have a new lease on life.”

  “Interesting. Go on.”

  Olivia shook her head. “No time for that now. I’ve got lunch with Vickie in forty minutes. Where do you and Noah stand?”

  “Well, apart from the fact that he’s tortured and feels like his life is falling apart, we haven’t gotten very far.”

  “Stuck at the pregnancy, huh?” Olivia went into the kitchen and inspected Allie’s new coffeemaker.

  “Do you want me to make coffee?”

  “Would you?”

  “Outta the way.” Allie shouldered her way through. “In answer to your question, yes. We’re stuck at the pregnancy thing. And I don’t see any way around it.”

  Olivia leaned on the counter and watched Allie make coffee. “You know it would be a bad idea for him to get married just because of the baby even if it is his, right?”

  “Oh, I know that.” Allie scooped grounds from a Dunkin’ Donuts bag into the filter. “And I think he’s heading there, too. Noah’s not fool enough to willingly ruin the rest of his life. In fact, I think the whole marriage thing was a knee-jerk reaction to being faced with something you don’t expect to be faced with once you’ve stopped counting your age in halves.”

  “I still can’t believe Vickie did something so stupid.”

  Allie poured water into the machine and turned it on. “Maybe it wasn’t stupid,” she said simply.

  “How?”

  “Maybe it was actually very smart of her to time it just right. I’ll tell you, if half the people who told me I was getting old at the reunion told her the same thing, she probably started thinking about her biological time bomb right then and there.”

  Olivia’s expression hardened. “I don’t care how old she’s feeling, she doesn’t have the right to trick someone else into accommodating her life-altering plans.”

  “Hey”—Allie took out a travel mug—“you’re preaching to the choir. I’m just pointing out that this might not have been a long-term diabolical plan.”

  “It might not have been a plan at all. She might have just found herself knocked up and picked the more available fuck buddy to name as the daddy.”

  Allie held up the coffee carafe. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black.”

  She poured. “I guess we’ll know more in an hour or so.”

  Olivia nodded and took the steaming travel mug Allie handed her. “Wish me luck.”

  “You know I do.” Allie gave her a quick hug, careful not to slosh the coffee. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Are you kidding? You two are
the best friends I’ve ever had. There was no way I wasn’t going to help.”

  “You look horrible,” Allie said, walking into Noah’s apartment.

  He was bare from the waist up and, frankly, apart from the pale face and weary eyes, he looked pretty damn good.

  “Thanks.” He pulled her against him and kissed her forehead. Then her lips. “You don’t.”

  “Thanks a bunch, sweet-talker.”

  “You know it.”

  They went into his bedroom and she sat on the bed while he rummaged through the closet.

  “Vickie called,” he said, his voice muffled. “She wants me to go to the doctor with her for an ultrasound.”

  “An ultrasound,” Allie repeated. “Already?”

  Noah poked his head out. “What does that mean? Already.”

  “First ultrasounds aren’t usually done until eighteen weeks. I mean, they can do it sooner, but eighteen weeks is the big one where they can find out the sex and everything.”

  He grabbed a Beatles T-shirt and pulled it over his head. “Since when are you an expert on pregnancy?”

  “It’s called What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” Allie said. “You should check it out. Especially since your girlfriend is claiming to be pregnant.”

  “She’s pregnant, Allie. Come on.”

  “Fine. That doesn’t mean she’s not a liar.”

  He sat down on the bed next to her. “I’m not up for games. What are you getting at?”

  She needed to back up. “First of all, tell me this: Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

  “Yes. I’m going to tell Vickie I’m in love with someone else and I can’t marry her under those circumstances.”

  “And if she hits the roof?”

  He shrugged. “I think she might, but what can I do? It was idiotic of me to agree to the marriage thing in the first place.”

  “So it was her idea.”

  He looked at her. “Allie, a month ago, I wasn’t thinking about marrying Tori any more than I was thinking about marrying Hillary Clinton.”

  “You did have that dream once—”

  “Drop it. God, you’d think I could tell you one little embarrassing thing without it flying back in my face over and over like a gnat.”