by Maggie Dana
My mind struggles to keep up. “Who does?”
“Judith Tate, your future agent. She loves opera and parrots, and she’s absolutely mad about Archibald.”
* * *
Tom rambles on about royalties and copyrights and how Judith’s already talked it up to an editor, and she expects them to offer around ten thousand for Archibald and maybe I should think about developing him into a series. Tom’s words ricochet around my head like popcorn. Probably all that whisky I drank.
Ten-thousand dollars.
Reality check here. Ten thousand, minus agent’s commission and taxes, won’t put much of a dent in my debt. But I don’t give a shit because it’s doing wonders for my ego. So is the win. I read the letter again.
Oh, my God. First place.
Tom hugs me and I don’t want him to let go.
Sophie cracks a bottle of champagne and we toast my success. I pinch myself because I still can’t believe it. Is Tom stretching the truth? Can I be sure he had nothing to do with all this? He’s flying home tomorrow night, says he looks forward to having me back on the beach, and how about we drive to the city and meet with Judith?
“We’ll take her to lunch and you can sign the contract,” he says.
Jeez, I’m going to do lunch with a New York agent?
What on earth will I wear?
* * *
On Monday, Hugh rents a van and he drives to Cornwall with Sophie to fetch Claudia’s cat, her clothes, and a few pieces of furniture. I remind Sophie to bring Alexandra as well. I stay behind and finish painting the downstairs bathroom. Better that way. I’m not quite ready to face Claudia’s cottage.
After lunch, I take the Underground to Guy’s. Claudia sits by the window in the patient’s recreation room, bending over a card table. Two spindly brushes stick up from behind one ear like a TV antenna. A jar of muddy water sits at her elbow and tubes of watercolor lie in twisted shapes beside her sketchpad. Paint rags spill from her pocket. She looks up and grins, her face a smorgasbord of color, and my heart does a victory roll.
She’s going to be okay, she really, really is.
I tell her about Archibald and she whoops with joy, then shows me her latest creations, caricatures of the nursing staff, her doctors, and the woman who trundles in with her meals every day. She will give them as parting gifts when we bail her out of the hospital on Wednesday.
She takes my hand. “Thanks to you, I can afford to keep my cottage. If you hadn’t helped get my squirrels off the ground, it’d be on the market by now.” She leans toward me. “I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“That one day, you’ll go back there with someone special.”
“Fat chance of that,” I say.
“I wouldn’t be too sure, if I were you,” she says, and her lips curve into a saucer of a smile.
Does she know something I don’t?
* * *
Sophie’s downsized her business so that she can spend more time at home, taking care of her mother. Claudia, of course, insists she doesn’t need taking care of, so they squabble about this all the way home in the car, along with Claudia’s decision to volunteer at the animal rescue center.
“Just what you need,” Sophie says. “More bloody stress.”
“Rubbish,” Claudia retorts. “I can’t sit around all day twiddling my fingers, doing nothing.”
Like I said, she’s going to be okay.
Proudly, we escort Claudia into her new room. Narcissus and early daffodils bloom in pottery bowls. The smell of lemon polish wafts up from the floor and the sprigged curtains I hung this morning frame a view of Sophie’s back garden where winter jasmine tumbles over a brick wall. Alexandra’s portrait hangs above a bleached pine dresser. Claudia’s quilt and soft linen sheets cover her brass bed. On the armchair, Max dozes amid a nest of pillows. I bend and stroke his silvery fur, tickle his ears. He opens one blue eye, yawns hugely, and goes back to sleep. Does he remember me?
I look at Alexandra and wonder the same thing.
Chapter 46
Sands Point
February 2012
My train pulls into Sands Point at six o’clock. I gather up my luggage and climb down the metal stairs, feet crunching on crusty snow as I cross the tracks and step onto the platform. Lights twinkle above the lone ticket window. A brisk wind tugs at red balloons tied to the guardrails.
Leftovers from Christmas?
Paper hearts cut from pink doilies adorn the timetable board, and two plastic cherubs dangle from a push pin. A wizened carnation droops from the stationmaster’s buttonhole.
Valentine’s Day.
I’d forgotten all about it, probably because the greeting card companies haven’t brainwashed people in England the way they have here. I drag my suitcase into the waiting room. A basket of candy sits on the table beside a pile of Amtrak schedules, and I’m about to scoop up a lollipop for Anna when someone taps my shoulder.
“Jill?”
I turn and come face-to-face Gary Kesselbaum. I haven’t set eyes on him since he trashed my proposal for last year’s festival. He carries a brown leather briefcase; an umbrella is tucked beneath his arm. Was he on my train?
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says.
No sense telling him I haven’t been home. “Why?”
“Do you still have those designs?”
I have no intention of making this easy. “The ones you turned down?”
His face reddens. He sets down his briefcase and removes his glasses, wipes his forehead with a handkerchief the size of tea towel. “Stop by my office next week.”
Not till you ask me nicely.
Avoiding his eyes, I take my time choosing two lollipops and a Snickers bar. May as well make him sweat a bit more. Even though I’m desperate for work, I’m damned if I’ll lick his boots. And he’d better bloody apologize, too.
Behind me, Gary clears his throat. “Jill, your presentation was excellent, really first-rate, and I’m sorry about last year, really sorry, but it was out of my—”
Sorry?
Yes!
I turn and flash him my warmest smile. “Gary, I’d be delighted. How about next Tuesday at ten?”
* * *
Harriet’s car waits at the curb, engine running, puffs of exhaust scorching a hole in the snow. She pops the trunk and I heft my suitcase inside. I blow on my hands to warm them and kick the snow off my boots before climbing into the passenger seat.
“Welcome home,” Harriet says. “We missed you.” She leans over and kisses my cheek. “How’s Claudia?”
“Doing great.” I glance in the back. “Where’s Anna?”
“Saying a fond farewell to your cat,” Harriet says. “I left her with Bea at your house. We turned up the heat and I bought you some eggs, milk, and bread.”
“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Want to stop at the market for anything else?”
I shake my head. Scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of tea are all I need right now. Harriet guns the engine. We slide across the parking lot and fishtail onto the road, only to get stuck behind a snowplow.
“Damn.” Harriet thumps the steering wheel.
“In a hurry?” I ask.
She grins at me. “Not really.”
We follow the plow down Bay Street. Familiar landmarks drift by. The Contented Figleaf, Denison’s Hardware, Tuttle’s Market. Former clients. Will they come back now the chamber of commerce has bestowed its blessing on me? If they do, I might have a chance of jumpstarting my business. In the center of town, Harriet stops to let pedestrians cross the road and I spot a green-and-white sign in front of the vacant building next to the post office.
Coming Soon. Village Realty.
Must be that new real estate company owned by a woman who used to work for Elaine. She bailed out just after my meltdown. I remember liking her because she didn’t fit the pattern of Elaine’s clones. Wore glitter socks with Tevas and drove a pink Jeep. Maybe I’ll
list my house with her, after I have a go at selling it myself.
One well placed ad in The New York Times, Lizzie always said, and I’d have a herd of buyers out here, waving money at me.
In February?
I’d get a better price in April or May. Can I hang on until then? I make a mental list of stuff that needs to get done.
Bulldoze the attic, ransack my closets, plunder the garden shed. Toss out those National Geographics I’ve been hoarding since 1978. Haul crap to the dump, donate books to the library and clothes to the Goodwill. Do I really need two sets of dishes and what about that bentwood rocker I keep meaning to mend, but don’t? And then there’s that exercise bike I bought and used once, the basketball hoop we never got around to putting up, skateboards and ski boots long outgrown but still in good condition. Jordan’s old guitar. Alistair’s football pads and helmet, size large.
I’ll need to organize a tag sale.
Find another house, another job.
Another life.
Harriet swings onto my dirt road. No lights at Tom’s house, just a low-wattage floodlamp aimed at the front door. Looks kind of nice, welcoming. Maybe I should get one of those. Hold on a minute. What’s the point? You’re selling the cottage. Remember? Suddenly, I can’t wait to be inside. Alone. I hope Harriet and Bea won’t be pissed off if I shoo them out right away.
* * *
Beatrice flings open my front door, laughing as if she’s just heard a good joke. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it hard, then Anna rushes up and latches onto my legs like a clip-on toy. I wrap her in a hug and she puts her feet on top of mine and we shuffle together over the threshold. Why is it so dark in here? I’m about to reach for the switch, when out of the gloom Zachary saunters by to see what all the fuss is about. He rubs against my ankles, gives me a look that says, okay, so you’re back, big deal, then slinks into the shadows. Harriet hauls my suitcase up the porch steps.
Somebody giggles.
“Sshhhh!”
I glance at Beatrice. “Who’s that?”
“Surprise!”
Chapter 47
Sands Point
February 2012
Bea hits the light switch and suddenly I’m surrounded by people. Lizzie and Fergus spill into my narrow hall; Carrie and Tom, with Molly astride his shoulders, stand behind them. Paige emerges from my kitchen; Joel and the kids bring up the rear.
Everyone yells hello, welcome home.
Lizzie pushes Beatrice aside and gathers me into a hug. “Congratulations. I knew Archibald would win.”
For once, I’m speechless. I sneak a look at Tom and he just grins and shrugs, like it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t stop himself from spreading the good news. Hands pull me into the living room where red and white roses bloom on my coffee table and helium-filled balloons dance across my ceiling. A parrot piñata with green wings and a red beak hangs in the stairwell. Beneath it, a plastic whiffle bat leans against the wall. My God, they’ve thought of everything. Someone shoves a drink in my hand. Pink, with white blobs floating on top.
“Marshmallow punch,” Fergus booms. “My secret recipe.”
Lizzie nudges me. “Battery acid.”
Cripes.
Casseroles and cold cuts, baskets of warm rolls, and bowls of salad appear out of nowhere. Plates and silverware, napkins and glasses materialize like magic. My friends. My friends. I can’t believe they did all this. Tom takes my hand, whispers in my ear. Agent Judith is looking forward to meeting me. How about next Thursday?
Yes, yes. Of course, yes.
Someone pops a bottle of champagne.
Alistair rings from Boston, excited about Archibald. Lizzie admits to e-mailing my sons. Jordan calls five minutes later even more excited than his brother because, hey Mom. Guess what? Bridget and I are getting married.
Oh, my God. A wedding.
“When?”
“September.”
Fabulous.
My heart soars. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I yell down the phone. “It’s a mad house in here.”
“I can tell,” Jordan yells back.
“Congratulations, and I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I close my eyes, open them again. I’m still not believing this. A welcome home party plus my son’s getting married?
Wow. Double wow.
Lizzie gives me a glass of champagne. “Dutch sends love and best wishes.”
“Jeez, Lizzie, who didn’t you tell?”
She grins. “Elaine Burke.”
Joel slots in a CD and Moon River wafts from the speakers. He scoops up his daughter and swings her in circles. Beatrice and Harriet join hands and sway in time to the music. The kids squeal and jump up and down. Fergus and Lizzie glide into a well practiced waltz.
Tom bows and offers me his arm. “May I have this dance?”
I nod and pretend I’m the mother of the groom and we’re taking the floor at Jordan’s wedding. I’ll be wearing a floaty dress and matching high-heels. Maybe a wisp of a hat. I wonder where they’ll hold it. Some place in Pennsylvania, I suppose. Where will I be living then?
Don’t even go there. Not tonight.
Holding me tight, Tom whirls me around and around, faster and faster. Faces zoom past, my feet barely touch the ground. Finally, when I’m way beyond dizzy, we slow down and my partner leans me over in a backward dip and I feel myself curve into a shape I wasn’t meant to be.
Will I be able to stand up in the morning?
Big round of applause. Lizzie yells for an encore and I realize we’re the only ones left dancing. Last time we did this, Tom wore a hideous mask. Tonight, he wears an idiotic grin.
My face aches from smiling.
What the hell did Fergus put in that punch?
We crack another bottle of champagne and the children gather around Beatrice as she reads Archibald’s Aria. Not all the illustrations are complete, but the kids don’t seem to care. Some are just pencil, others pen-and-ink. Unfinished sketches.
I think about my mother.
Is she sharing this moment with me? Does she have any idea how much I miss her? Tears well up, trickle down my cheek.
I need a few moments alone.
When nobody’s looking, I slip upstairs and change out of my rumpled travel clothes, splash water on my face. Then I sit on the bathtub and run my hands over the terracotta tiles I glued down and grouted, the walls I colorwashed three times before I got it right. I contemplate the towel rails I chose with such care and the pedestal sink I found at a yard sale, brand new and still in its box. What will the new owners think of my house? Will they love it or tear it down and begin all over again?
Someone taps on the door.
“Jill, are you in there?” Harriet says.
I run a brush through my hair. “Be right out.”
Sipping a glass of champagne, Harriet leans against my dresser. She points to a manila envelope on my bed. The flap is unsealed, my name’s printed on the front.
“What’s this?”
“Happy birthday, Jill.”
“It’s not for another three weeks.”
“So, shoot me, I’m early for once.”
I pull out a sheet of paper and begin to read, but the legal-sounding words blur and run together. Baffled, I shrug and look up.
“It’s a letter of intent,” Harriet says. “The insurance company decided to settle out of court.” She grins and raises her glass. “I knew they would. They can’t afford the negative publicity.”
“You mean—?” I sit down hard on my bed.
She nods. “Forty-five thousand.”
Oh, my God.
“We’ll have their check the beginning of next month.”
Good thing I’m already sitting, because now I have a strong need to lie down.
* * *
“I had a feeling that punch was dangerous,” Harriet says. I open my eyes. She’s fanning me with a magazine. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m gobsma
cked.”
“And jet lagged,” Harriet adds. She hands me a glass of water. “Here, drink this.”
I ask her to repeat, in words of one syllable, what she told me before I zoned out. I need to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. Her hands fly about as she describes how easy it was. Mine wasn’t the only complaint, and my former supervisor no longer has a job.
Forty-five thousand dollars?
Enough to pay off all my debts?
I’ll do the math tomorrow. Right now, my head’s full of cotton candy and my stomach’s doing cartwheels. I couldn’t add two and two and come up with four if I tried.
* * *
With a final whack, the piñata explodes and candy falls into the hands of eager children. Fergus snatches up a Tootsie Roll and hands it to Lizzie with a bow and a flourish. Their daughter comes in with a cake, and oh, what a cake. Tiny green parrots—God knows where they found those—perch on a nest of chocolate twigs. Hearts and roses cascade over the sides. No candles, thank goodness.
Lizzie hands me a knife. “Make a wish,” she says.
But I don’t need to. I’ve got it all. My house, my friends, my business, even good old Archibald. But best of all, I’ve got myself, back where I want to be. What more could I possibly want?
I slice and serve and we dive into the cake and wash it down with more champagne, and I’m wobbly on my feet by the time I bid my last guest goodnight. Now it’s just Tom and me. And my cat. I gather him up and flop on the couch, head spinning, exhausted and too wound up to sleep. My eyes twitch with fatigue. According to my watch, it’s three A.M. in London. Way past my bed time. Zachary yawns, curls up, and goes to sleep on my lap. His whiskers are covered with frosting.