Unraveling the Pieces

by Terri DuLong

  “Yeah,” Yarrow said. “I grew up in this area but I have no desire to experience snow and cold.”

  Isabelle laughed. “I’m sure skiing in Switzerland will make me appreciate the south even more.”

  “Did you pack all your warm knitted hats and mittens?” Louise asked. “Because you’ll certainly need them.”

  Isabelle nodded. “Yes, we’ll definitely have the proper attire, but I’m not sure that will make me any warmer.”

  After a few minutes, I said, “Well . . . I have some news.”

  Everyone looked in my direction, waiting for me to continue.

  “I got a phone call Friday evening. From Ben. Dr. Wellington.”

  Everyone remained silent.

  “He wanted to apologize for his behavior at Petco. And . . . I neglected to tell you, but Jonah showed up at the shelter with a small bouquet of flowers last week. He said they were from his dad, who wanted to say he was sorry.”

  Iris started laughing. “Oh! No! Let me guess . . . they were not from Dr. Wellington.”

  “Correct. So I compounded the problem by thanking him for the flowers at his office.”

  Yarrow chuckled. “And I’m sure he was wondering what the hell you were talking about.”

  I nodded. “Exactly. It was a very awkward situation.”

  “So Jonah took it upon himself to bring you the flowers?” Mavis Anne said.

  “Yup. And when Ben . . . Dr. Wellington . . . figured out what had happened, he called to apologize.”

  “Well, I’d say that was very gentlemanly of him.”

  “It was. It really was,” I said. “And . . . he invited me to dinner Wednesday evening. You know . . . to make it up to me.”

  “Hmm,” Mavis Anne said. “That’s a very nice way to apologize.”

  “So are you going?” Yarrow asked.

  “I am,” I told her, and I realized that I hadn’t considered saying no when he invited me. “No big deal. Just a barbeque at his house. And he requested that I bring Lotte. Jonah would like to see her again.”

  “Sounds like a big deal to me,” Yarrow said.

  I began to stammer, “No . . . it’s really not . . . it’s just an informal dinner . . .” I looked up and saw the grin on her face and could feel heat radiating up my neck as I realized she was teasing me.

  “Well, from what I know of him, he seems like a very nice guy,” Iris said. “I’m glad you’re going. You need to meet some male friends in the area.”

  I brushed her off. “Oh, I’ll probably never see him again. Well, except for taking Lotte in for her exams.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” Mavis Anne said as she sent me a wink.

  * * *

  After everyone left, I spent the evening knitting. The yarn shop did charity knitting and I had finished a baby blanket and now wanted to make a matching sweater. I casted on my required stitches and knew I’d enjoy working with the Plymouth DK yarn again. It was soft, with a white background and just a hint of pink for a baby girl. This made me think of Jonah. And the fact that he’d lost his mother. At eight years old. That must have been difficult for him, but he seemed like a well-rounded and personable boy. It also led me to think about the devastation that Ben must have felt losing his wife. I wondered if she had been driving the car. If she had been killed instantly and how he had managed to get through the days and weeks that had followed. Maybe he had had family and friends to help him.

  I might be alone in my life, but unlike Ben and Jonah, I had never had such a shattering loss. When my mother passed away, it had been expected. She had been diagnosed a few years before with cancer. And my father . . . it’s true that what you don’t have, you don’t miss.

  But this made me wonder again if he was alive and if so, where he might be. I also had begun to wonder if he even knew of my existence. My mother said he had died—but had he? She had been married to Jim Garfield. So who was the man in the photo? With the name Peter Maxwell written on the back?

  It was looking more doubtful that I would ever find out.

  * * *

  I woke at three in the morning to use the bathroom and realized that I had had another dream. About Emmalyn. This time we were outside by the fishpond. She looked exactly the same as in the first dream—wearing that red formal gown. Although it was out of place, in the dream I never questioned it. She was sitting on the bench, looking down at a photograph in her hand. I couldn’t see what it was, but I heard her say, “Sometimes things aren’t always as they seem.”

  “What do you mean?” I questioned.

  When she lifted her face to look at me, I saw sadness in her eyes. She let out a sigh. “Just because something isn’t what we thought, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t good.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, but even in the dream I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Sometimes we have to take a chance. Trust our instincts.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But how?”

  A smile covered her face. “You’ll figure it out. When the time is right, you’ll figure it out.”

  I got back into bed, pulled up the sheet, and stared at the ceiling. Why was I having these unexplainable dreams? What did they mean? And how could it even be possible that I would dream of Emmalyn Overby just as Chloe and Isabelle had?

  I had no answers.

  Rhonda March 1969

  I didn’t have a vast wardrobe to choose from, so I was nervous about finding the proper attire for dinner at Peter’s home.

  I finally decided on a red-and-black plaid skirt, matching jacket, white blouse, and black flats.

  I took a final look in the mirror before walking out to the parking lot to meet Peter.

  He was already there, leaning against his car waiting for me.

  “Hi,” he said, a smile covering his face. He pulled me into an embrace and kissed my cheek. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I felt relieved that my choice of clothes was probably okay. He was wearing chino slacks and an open-collar shirt.

  “Nervous?” he asked as he put the key in the ignition.

  I nodded. “A little bit.”

  He reached over and touched my hand. “Don’t be. My father can be a bit gruff, but he’s okay.”

  I hadn’t seen a gruff side of him in the restaurant, so I was surprised by this information.

  “Will your sisters be there too?” I asked.

  “Just Sheila. My older sister is off to Miami for the week with her friends.”

  Peter drove a little north on A1A and then pulled into a long driveway. At the end was a black wrought-iron fence with an elaborately carved gate in the center. A stone post held a metal box, which Peter unlocked with a key. He opened it to reveal a telephone. Removing the receiver, he dialed a few numbers and a smile crossed his face as I heard him say, “Sadie. It’s Peter. I’m at the gate.” A moment later the double gate swung open, allowing him to drive inside to a circular driveway. And there sat the Maxwell home: a two-story redbrick structure with black shutters. The house itself had been hidden from the road due to large oak trees that formed a canopy of privacy.

  I let out a gasp. “Oh, wow. This looks like a mansion,” I said.

  Peter laughed. “No. It’s far from a mansion.”

  He got out of the car as I continued to stare at the house, opened the passenger side door, and led me up the few steps to the front door.

  We walked inside to a large foyer with white tiled floor, butter yellow walls, and white crown molding. A cherrywood table held a Tiffany lamp and a crystal vase of pink and white mums.

  I tried to avoid gushing but it wasn’t easy. And this was only the foyer.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

  Peter took my hand and led me to the right into what I assumed was a den or sitting room. I glanced at leather furniture, dark wood tables, more fresh flowers, and paintings on the wall. French doors at the far end of the room were open, and I followed Peter through the doors and outside to a brick terr
ace patio area.

  The view in front of me took my breath away: a garden area that began at the patio and stretched straight down the slope to the Atlantic Ocean.

  “This is just gorgeous,” I said.

  “I’m glad you think so,” I heard a male voice on my left say.

  I looked to see Mr. Maxwell standing near a barbeque grill, a long silver fork in his hand.

  “How are you, Rhonda?” he asked, but even with those few words I detected that the friendliness he normally displayed at the restaurant was missing.

  “Very well, Mr. Maxwell. And you?”

  He reached for a rocks glass on the round patio table, took a sip, and nodded. “I’m fine. Peter, get your friend a drink.”

  “What would you like?” Peter asked. “A glass of wine, soft drink?”

  “A soft drink is good,” I said, unsure which one I should accept.

  “Have a seat.” Peter gestured toward the patio chairs before walking to a refrigerator on the patio, opening it, and removing a can of Sprite. He added ice to a glass and passed me the drink.

  I now saw that a small bar area had been built on the patio. Walking behind it, Peter reached for a bottle of wine and uncorked it.

  “This is a nice red,” he told me. “Maybe you’ll try a little with dinner.”

  I nodded.

  “Yes. We’re having steaks,” Mr. Maxwell informed me. “Do you like steak?”

  I nodded again. “Yes, I do.”

  I was beginning to feel a little awkward being with somebody who had been my customer at the restaurant. I normally waited on him. And here he was cooking me a steak for dinner. So I was grateful when Peter’s sister breezed onto the patio.

  “Hi, Rhonda,” she said, putting me more at ease. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. Thanks. How are you doing?”

  She was wearing a very pretty blue-and-white-striped dress. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and I noticed she had on a pair of trendy sandals that showed off her red painted toenails.

  “I’m doing great. But I’d be doing even better if I could convince my father to let me go to Woodstock in August.”

  “Oh, my friend Cynthia might be going with her boyfriend.”

  “Really?” Sheila sat up straighter in her chair. “See, Dad. Everybody’s going.”

  Mr. Maxwell took a gulp of his drink, finishing it off before flipping one of the steaks on the grill. “Everybody is not going. So no more discussion about this tonight. You’re only sixteen and I’m not about to let my daughter go traipsing to some farm in New York with hippies and musicians.”

  Sheila shrugged, looked at me and rolled her eyes.

  I gave her a smile and took a sip of my soft drink. My eyes kept going to the view of the ocean and sky. This had to be one of the most beautiful houses I’d ever seen. It was hard to picture growing up in a place like this, but Peter and Sheila seemed to take it for granted as if it wasn’t anything beyond the ordinary.

  The table outside had been set when we arrived, but a few minutes later I helped Sheila bring out a large bowl of potato salad and hot dinner rolls that Peter had removed from the oven.

  “I think we’re all set,” Mr. Maxwell said.

  At dinner, Sheila chatted about an event that was coming up at school. I was grateful for her presence. I was seeing a different side of Mr. Maxwell from what I saw at the restaurant. I guess being in his own home caused him to be more like the lord of the manor. Because that’s how he was coming across to me. He had an air about him I couldn’t define. But then again, I had never been exposed to a man as wealthy as Mr. Maxwell.

  I was sorry when Sheila stopped chatting because it allowed him to now focus on me.

  “So, Rhonda,” he said, before taking a sip of his freshened drink, “Peter tells me you’re going to be attending secretarial school?”

  I wiped my lips with the linen napkin and nodded. “Yes. I hope so. I . . . ah . . . I’m saving money to attend. I hope to begin this summer.”

  He nodded. “Does that mean you’re not considering college?”

  Was he being condescending? College? I had never considered this. I knew from a young age that I’d never be able to afford it. It had never been an option for me, and my grades weren’t high enough to earn a scholarship.

  “Dad,” Peter interrupted before I could answer. “Give her a break. Not everybody has to attend college today.”

  We had finished eating, and Mr. Maxwell now lit up a cigar and nodded. “No. No, of course not. I was simply inquiring.”

  Peter mentioned something work-related—I’m sure to keep the conversation away from me—and the two of them got into a discussion having to do with the company.

  A little while later a middle-aged black lady walked out to the patio.

  “Evening, Mr. Maxwell,” she said and nodded to the rest of us. “Are you ready for me to clear away the plates?”

  I wondered where she had been while we were eating but got no explanation.

  He waved a hand in the air. “Yes, Sadie. That would be good, and you can bring out dessert.”

  They had a maid? I’m not sure why this surprised me, but it did. Being alone with Peter was way different from being here in his home with his father.

  A few minutes later Sadie brought out a tray carrying dishes of key lime pie and cups of coffee.

  She placed mine in front of me, and I looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, honey,” she replied. I loved the drawl of her accent.

  We were just finishing up dessert when I heard the telephone inside the house ringing. A minute later, Sadie appeared.

  “It’s for you, Mr. Maxwell.” She looked at Peter’s father.

  “Thank you,” he said, getting up. “Excuse me.”

  “I’m going to listen to my records,” Sheila said, also getting up. “I’m glad you could join us for dinner, Rhonda. I hope you’ll come again.”

  I gave her a smile and thanked her. I liked this girl. She was like Peter—down-to-earth and friendly. I wasn’t sure I could say that about their father.

  Peter also stood up and reached for my hand. “Come on,” he said. “I’d like to show you the boathouse. Take your glass of wine with you.”

  We walked along a flagstone path leading away from the house. Beautiful hibiscus bloomed in colors of red, white, and yellow. There was a breeze coming off the ocean and a hint of salt in the air. Oak trees formed a canopy and lampposts lighted the path as the sun had now set in the western sky.

  Peter reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. I looked up at him and smiled.

  A few moments later we came out into a clearing. The ocean and beach were to my right and ahead of me was a medium sized structure. I had always pictured a boathouse more like a ramshackle shed used to store a boat. But this was much more upscale. Red brick, like the house, it had windows and French doors with a perfect view of the ocean. And from the front another flagstone path led to a dock area where the boat Peter had taken me on was moored.

  He gestured with his hand. “Here we are,” he said. He reached into his pocket for keys and unlocked the door.

  We stepped inside and I was surprised that not only were there no boats, but the room reminded me more of a retreat. A day bed took up the entire back wall, providing a good vantage point to enjoy the ocean view. Tables held lamps, and paintings of seascapes covered the walls. An easel had been set up, and I saw a palette of paint and brushes in a ceramic jug on another table.

  “This is a boathouse?” I asked, and Peter laughed.

  “Well, that’s what my family has always called it. But it was my mother’s favorite spot. She loved to paint and would spend a lot of time here. It doesn’t get used much anymore. Sheila sometimes comes here with her friends or by herself to read.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “It’s a lovely spot. You don’t use it?”

  He shook his head. “No. I have to say I really don’t. Maybe
I should.”

  “How long ago did your mother pass away?”

  “It’s been five years now. I think it was the hardest on Sheila. She was only eleven. It was a heart attack and very sudden, which made it more difficult.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  I felt Peter’s arms around me as he pulled me close. “I do love you, Rhonda. I need you to know that.”

  “I love you too,” I whispered.

  I felt him easing me back toward the day bed as we kissed, and I found myself lying down. His body stretched out beside me as our kisses grew more passionate. I felt his hand under my blouse gently teasing my breast before he slid his hand across my stomach and reached under my skirt to trace his finger along my thigh.

  We were both breathing heavily when he pulled away and groaned. He sat up, running a hand through his hair.

  Shaking his head, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  I sat up and rested my chin on his shoulder. “Don’t be,” I whispered in reply.

  And I knew with those two words there was no turning back.

  I had never known that making love could be so frenzied. That a person loses track of time and space and anything else except two bodies coming together in a passion that fills their very souls. I didn’t realize that a hunger could be fulfilled with a connection that made everything else pale in comparison. But that was how it was with Peter. And when we finished, we lay beside each other, holding tight to what we had just shared—our naked bodies still tingling with desire.

  We were both silent, absorbing the moments and acknowledging our choice to make those moments happen.

  Peter was the first to speak. “I love you, Rhonda. I love you.”

  There was no doubt in my mind about my feelings or taking that love to culmination. “I love you too. So very much.”

  He shifted to better see my face and looped a strand of hair behind my ear before letting his finger trace my profile as he exhaled. “You had never done this before, had you?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I am so sorry,” I heard him say, but I had no idea why.

  I was afraid to ask.

  He went on to say, “I’m not sorry we made love. Not at all. But I’m sorry I didn’t give more thought to protection.”