by Maggie Dana
Tom bustles about, collecting plates and glasses, picking up trash. I hear the fridge door open and close. Dishes clink as he loads the dishwasher. It wooshes into action and he brings me a mug of tea, then hunkers down by the hearth.
“Feel like a fire?” he says.
I cradle the mug with my hands. “Now?”
“Sure, why not?” He picks up a log. “Got any kindling?”
“I doubt it.”
“Newspaper?”
“Nope.” I shove Zachary to one side and struggle to my feet. “But there’s bound to be something in my office we can use.”
A stray balloon hovers above my desk. Its string dangles in front of that photo of Colin and me. Just what I need. I rip the picture off the wall, take a final look at his face, and tear it in half. Then I place both pieces together and tear them again … and again.
Should’ve done it sooner than this.
I toss the bits in my overflowing waste basket and carry the whole lot out to Tom. He crumples paper and stacks logs, then strikes a match, and as I watch the flames curl around Colin’s pink shirt, I feel a final pang of sadness for the boy I once knew.
Tom nods toward the fire. “Letting go of the past?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“It was time.”
“I know.”
There’s an awkward silence. We’ve never been short on words before. Why now, why tonight after we danced one another’s feet to ribbons? I lean against the mantel, move a candlestick two inches to the left, move it back again. Now what do we do?
“Shall we sit?” Tom says.
I tell him this will be fine.
So we sit. Another silence. Tom drapes his arm across the back of the couch. Crosses his knees, taps his foot. Hums a bit. I think he’s nervous. I certainly am. He just watched me toss my past into the fire, so he knows I’ve worked my way through it. Just like he said I would. Is he going to kiss me?
Oh hell, I don’t know what to do.
What if he does? Will I like the feel of his beard? What if it tickles and I laugh, or scratches my face enough that I flinch? Tom moves closer, takes my hand off my lap and raises it to his lips. Oh my, I didn’t expect this. His beard is much softer than it looks, and I’m wondering what it’d feel like on my mouth, when I find out for sure.
Let me tell you, kissing a guy with a beard is pretty special.
We kiss a bit more and hold hands, and that’s all I want. I’m not ready for anything more. Not yet, anyway. I don’t want to rush. I did that before and I won’t be making that mistake again. We’re not on a cruise ship. We have all the time in the world, except for right now. I push him, gently, off the couch and out my front door. Tell him I’ll commit a mischief if I don’t get some sleep.
I’m living on borrowed time here, can’t wait to fall into bed.
But when I do, I can’t fall asleep, dammit. My eyes refuse to stay shut. Sighing, I get up, slip into my robe and go downstairs. I wander from room to room, weak with relief and gratitude. I came so close to losing all this, and it gives me the collywobbles to think that only a few hours ago I was readying myself to let it go.
My best memories lie within the fabric of these walls. That stain on the ceiling where Jordan chucked a lump of pastry dough to see if it would stick. The grooves in the floor from my bentwood rocker. Those dents in the utility box outside that Alistair used as a backstop when playing baseball. I got an irate call from the power company about that one. They thought someone was tampering with the meter.
The doorframe where Zachary sharpens his claws.
Climbing the stairs, I run my hands along the banister, down the spindles, feeling drips of paint I neglected to sand off. I adjust a couple of pictures that never seem to hang straight and find myself looking at two little boys as they build a castle on the beach. From this angle, I can’t tell which one is which. They used to look so much alike.
Am I ready to fall asleep yet?
Almost.
I wrap myself in a quilt, shove my feet into loafers, and step onto the balcony. Winter taps its frosty fingers on my face. I shiver and pull the quilt tighter. A breeze ripples through the willows. Their ice-covered branches glisten and tinkle like wind chimes. Curls of snow tumble off the roof and spiral down to the patio. In the distance, waves roar and rumble up the beach.
My beach.
My home. I take a deep, cleansing breath. Fill my lungs with hope and fresh air. I look up at a black velvet sky dotted with stars and see Claudia’s smile in the curve of a fingernail moon. It hangs, suspended on invisible strings, directly over Tom’s house. What’s she trying to tell me now?
Promise you’ll go back to Cornwall with somebody special.
You bet I will.
But first, I have to stitch my life back together again.
Epilogue
Sands Point
July 2012
There’s a wedding about to begin in my back garden and I’m holding up the works. I peer over my balcony. Guests sit in rows of rented chairs on the lawn. A blonde justice of the peace stands in her black robes beneath my new rose arbor. The groom and best man wait beside her. Looks as if everyone’s here. If I don’t hurry up, they’ll begin without me.
I shove my feet into strappy sandals, give my seafoam silk dress one final twitch, and grab my bouquet off the bed. Lizzie waits at the foot of my stairs. She wears lavender chiffon and carries a spray of peach roses. Her eyes are as blue as a breaking wave.
“Ready?” she asks.
“You look gorgeous,” I tell her.
Lizzie grins. “So do you.”
We link arms and step outside. The late afternoon sun melts into the horizon like a huge blob of butter surrounded by splashes of paint—orange, pink, and purple—that look as if they’ve been flung up casually by a giant unseen artist. I tell Lizzie I ordered it specially for us.
Three little girls in a froth of lemon organza wait on the patio. They giggle and nudge one another. Ribbons flutter from wreaths of daisies that circle their sweet heads. Molly wanted to wear her fairy wings, but settled for a basket of rose petals instead. Anna and Beth clutch posies of sweet peas and baby’s breath. Tyler carries a blue velvet pillow with two rings tied on top.
“All set?” I whisper.
The girls nod, suddenly serious. Tyler slips the tiny bulldozer he’s been playing with into the pocket of his white pants, and Lizzie bends to adjust his tie as the first bars of Ravel’s Bolero waft from the speakers on my porch. The guys from The Contented Figleaf are pulling double-duty today. I put them in charge of music as well as food.
Lizzie and I move slowly forward, Molly in front scattering petals, Tyler and the two girls behind. Tubs of flowers line our path. Ice blue hydrangeas, white cosmos, and crimson petunias. It’s July Fourth weekend and there’ll be fireworks on the beach later tonight. Fergus will make sure of that. I focus my gaze straight ahead. If I waver, I’ll catch someone’s eye and burst into nervous laughter. The guests smile and nod approval. Dear, familiar faces. Friends from close by and far away.
Dutch sits beside his sister-in-law, a friend of Lizzie’s from Atlanta. Her paisley silk scarf flutters in the breeze. Dutch pats it down and leaves his arm draped across the back of her chair. He wears khakis and a safari jacket and he winks as I pass by. It’s his reunion weekend, but he said he’d have come up anyway. Harriet gives a discreet wave and Beatrice flashes me a thumbs up. I’d have loved for Sophie to be here. She called this morning to wish us all a happy day. Claudia chimed in and told me to be nice to lovely Tom, then admitted he came to see her in the hospital a few hours before leaving London. He never said a word to me. I’ll have to ask him about that.
Lizzie’s family, and mine, take up the front row. I see my sons, handsome in navy blazers and gray flannel slacks. Jordan holds hands with Bridget, elegant in green linen that matches her pretty eyes. Paige and Joel stand with Lizzie’s son, Adam, tall and straight in air force dress blues. Behind them, Carr
ie and her husband, Steve, watch their little girl with pride. Molly’s doing a helluva job with those petals. One just landed on my nose.
The music soars and I hear waves crashing up the beach. A lone seagull waddles across the dunes. Only a few more steps. God forbid I catch a heel in the grass. Should’ve worn flats, not these outrageous shoes. Did I remember to warn the caterers about my cat? He’ll scarf down the food if they don’t cover it up.
The justice of the peace smiles and gestures to both men. Fergus, almost unrecognizable in suit and tie, reaches for Lizzie’s hand. Tom grasps mine. I glance at him and nod, then we step to one side and watch as the two McKennas get on with the joyful task of marrying one another, all over again.
About Maggie Dana
Maggie Dana grew up in England and moved to the U.S. in her early 20s. In addition to raising a family, caring for numerous animals, and working full-time, Maggie wrote books for children once her own had gone to bed. Several years later, after she complained there weren’t enough novels about feisty, middle-aged women, a friend challenged Maggie to write one of her own. So she did.
A freelance book designer and typesetter, Maggie lives on the Connecticut shoreline where she enjoys gardening, riding horses, and walking along the beach with her family. She is currently working on her next novel, along with a new series of books for horse-crazy girls.
First published by Macmillan New Writing in 2009
This edition published in 2012 by Momentum
Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
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Copyright © Maggie Dana 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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Painting Naked
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