Talk about new life. She wasn’t, thank God, alone.
At least they had the first meeting without Meg under their belt, Mara thought as she watched Hannah drive away shortly after nine-thirty. She wriggled into her coat. “You think she’s okay?” she asked Charissa.
“Not sure.”
“Me neither.” After her brief cry on Mara’s shoulder, Hannah had insisted she was doing all right. She said she was navigating lots of transitions, trying to find a new equilibrium, working things out with the church in Chicago, wondering how best to support Becca, missing Meg. Enjoying being a newlywed? Mara had asked. At this, Hannah had blushed and replied, Absolutely. Not that Mara would have expected Hannah to confide about intimate details, but she thought maybe Hannah would at least gush about how wonderful a husband Nathan was or how blissfully happy they were together.
“She and Meg had grown so close,” Charissa said. “Not that I wasn’t close to Meg, or that I’m not sad, but . . .”
“No, I know what you mean. The two of them had something special.” Mara was ashamed to think of it now, how she had responded with jealousy when Hannah chose Meg to be her maid of honor. If she had known then that Meg wouldn’t even make it to the wedding, she wouldn’t for a moment have begrudged her any of that joy.
Charissa was typing into her phone. “Sorry. Message from Becca.”
“How’s she doing?”
Charissa looked at her watch and counted off on her fingers. “She’s five hours ahead of us, so middle of the night there, and she’s replying to an email from one of her mother’s friends? I say, not so good.”
Poor girl. “I’m glad she’s reaching out to you. Meg would be so happy about that.” No huge surprise that the two of them had connected. With only a few years between them, Charissa and Becca had discovered quite a lot in common at Hannah’s wedding. Both were English literature majors, both had studied in England (Becca in London and Charissa in Oxford), and now, in God’s very small world way of weaving stories together, Charissa was living in Meg’s old house.
“I used the excuse of having a question about the car,” Charissa said. “Anything to keep communication lines open, right?”
“Right.”
It had been a God thing when, while Mara was zipping up the back of Becca’s bridesmaid dress, Charissa mentioned the hassle of only having one vehicle. Mara, admiring an intricate butterfly tattoo on Becca’s left shoulder, wasn’t looking at Becca’s reflection in the mirror when she offered the car, but Becca must have caught Mara’s lingering gaze because she reached over her shoulder, touched the butterfly, and said with the slightest pinch in her voice, “Mom didn’t know about that. She had a tough enough time with the nose ring.”
Becca was spirited—no question about that—and determined to defend her relationship with a fortysomething former philosophy prof to anyone who might question it. Though Mara did not pass any sort of judgment (who was she to throw stones?), Becca seemed to assume that she and Charissa would share her mother’s opinion about the perils of being involved with an older man. “At least he’s not married,” Mara had commented while she stuffed herself into her own bridesmaid dress. When Becca eyed her quizzically, Mara said, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”
A loud engine rumbled in the driveway, and Mara squinted out the Sinclairs’ front window. “Is that Jeremy’s truck?”
Charissa put her phone away. “Yeah, boys’ night out. He and John went shopping for the bathroom remodel.”
On a Friday? Abby didn’t usually work on Friday nights. Maybe she was home alone with the baby. Or maybe she was out with friends and they’d hired a babysitter when they didn’t have money to pay for one. How many times did Mara have to remind them that she would be happy to babysit and give them a date night, even if it meant missing her group?
She waited for the headlights to turn off, ready to chide her son for not accommodating an eager grandmother, but only one car door opened and slammed again, and soon John was at the front door, and Jeremy was pulling out of the driveway. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her car on the street.
“Hey, Mara,” John said as he yanked off his shoes near the door. “Sorry! Interrupting?”
“No, we’re finished,” Charissa said. “Any luck?”
“Say goodbye to those peach tiles and funky wall sconces. Your son’s a magician, Mara. An absolute magician. He’s got it all figured out and yes”—he held out a single finger to keep Charissa from interrupting—“it’s all in the budget. Under budget, actually. So we’ll have even more money to play with. What shall we do next? Maybe a deck?”
“Uh, no.” Charissa planted her hands on her hips. “You’ve got a funky math system going in your head.”
“Yeah, well. Anything for my baby girl.”
“Your baby girl needs a deck?”
“She needs her daddy to rock her outside and look at stars. So, yes.”
Charissa exhaled loudly.
“Jeremy okay?” Mara asked.
“Yeah, good. He said to say hi.”
Oh.
“Abby was waiting for him, so he had to get going.”
Oh. Okay. “Well, I need to get going too.” Mara leaned against the back of their sofa to balance herself as she put on her shoes. “Thanks for hosting, Charissa. Let me know when you want to go shopping for some more maternity clothes. I’m happy to go with you.”
“I think I’ve got what I need, but thanks.” Charissa tugged at her elastic waistband. “I’m hoping to get over to Crossroads next Friday to help serve lunch, so put me on your volunteer list, okay? I want to make a regular habit of it.”
“You got it. Thank you.”
As soon as she got into her car, Mara dialed Jeremy’s cell phone number. “Hey! Sorry I missed you,” she said.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Maddie’s having a rough time, and I didn’t want Abby to have to wait any longer for me to get home.”
“So Abby was off tonight?”
“She doesn’t work Friday nights.”
“I know, that’s what I thought. So I was surprised when Charissa said you were out with John.”
“It’s work, Mom. A potential job.”
“No, I know. That’s great. I’m so glad they’ve got some work for you to do.”
“At least somebody does.”
The resignation in his voice panged her. “Oh, honey. I wish there was something I could do to help. You know I’d do anything for you. For all of you.” He didn’t reply. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Abby called her folks. They’re going to give us a loan.”
Oh. That was exactly the type of help she couldn’t offer.
“Do you have any idea how much I hate that?” he went on. “How much it kills me to ask them for help? I hate being a charity case.”
“It’s not charity. It’s help. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help. Nothing shameful about it. If I’d had an option like that when you were little, someone who could have stepped in and given us a little bit to keep us going, I would have jumped at it.” She had jumped at it, come to think of it. She’d jumped toward Tom and his fancy suits and platinum credit cards when Jeremy was a teenager because she didn’t have family to help, and she was tired of struggling to make ends meet.
“Well, you’re you,” Jeremy said. “I’m me. And I’m telling you, it sucks.”
“No, I know, honey. I know. I’m sorry.”
Mara had only met Xiang Liu, Abby’s father, once. Though Abby had translated cordial greetings from him and from her mother, Ellen, at the wedding rehearsal dinner, Mr. Liu (Mara could never call him Xiang) had not seemed at all pleased by the merging of the families. After the brief translation Abby offered during family introductions, he spoke in whispered words that Abby listened to without interpreting, her mouth fixed in a smile that wanted to be serene.
“I gotta go, Mom. I’m pulling into the apartment now.”
Mara offered the only help she could. “I’ll be pr
aying for you, Jeremy. For something to open up for you. You pray too, okay?”
If he answered, she didn’t hear him.
When she reached her own driveway a few minutes later, she flicked off the headlights and sat in the dark, the moonlight reflecting off patches of lingering snow. The boys had left the house without turning on the exterior lights. They probably had also neglected to walk Bailey. As soon as she opened the garage door, he would bark, and she wanted a few minutes of quiet.
She exhaled slowly. If construction work didn’t pick up in the spring like Jeremy hoped, he and Abby might find themselves struggling to pay rent. And if they found themselves struggling to pay rent, they would have to rely more and more on Abby’s parents for support. Jeremy wouldn’t go for that. Not long term.
So what if she offered their basement as a small apartment for them? It wasn’t ideal for a couple with a baby, but it had a bathroom and an open living space, with a bedroom Tom had used as an office. If she moved the washer and dryer into the mudroom area next to the kitchen, they might even be able to put in a kitchenette. Jeremy could do that work, no problem.
She would have to appease the boys somehow. They would resent giving up their video game lair. But maybe she could clear out the guest bedroom upstairs and give it to them as a game room.
By the time Mara entered the house, she was already picturing a happy life together under the same roof, the shared meals at the table, the evenings spent in conversation, the unhurried hours she would enjoy with Madeleine. Maybe they could transform the backyard into a little girl’s paradise too, with a swing set and playhouse more magnificent than any of the ones she had envied or imagined when she was a child. “Down, Bailey,” she commanded as she flipped on the kitchen light switch. As expected, there was a puddle on the tile floor. Without removing her coat, she cleaned up the mess and grabbed his leash off the hook. “C’mon, dog. Walkies.”
With a spring in her step, she walked back and forth along the cul de sac until Bailey did the rest of his business on a neighbor’s lawn. Humming, she cleaned it up and carried the plastic bag home, swinging it in rhythm with her stride.
Becca
Becca stepped out of Simon’s bathtub onto the grimy linoleum and wrapped herself in a stiff, stale-smelling towel. What she wouldn’t give for a long shower with consistent temperature and powerful pressure! Even after almost eight months in England, she still hadn’t mastered the knack of combining scalding and icy water from two different taps.
She was fastening her bra when Simon rapped on the bathroom door. “Just a sec!”
Without hesitating, he flung open the door. She shoved her arms into her shirt. “What! Gone all prudish?” he said. She snatched her jeans from the yellowed floor.
He seated himself on the edge of the tub and motioned for her to sit on his lap. “I don’t have to leave for another two hours,” he said.
She averted her eyes and slipped into her jeans. “I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“I promised Harriet I’d help her with an essay.”
“So reschedule.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward himself, more forcefully than usual.
It was the daylight. That’s what it was. There was something romantic about the darkness of evening, the cloak of nighttime that enlivened passion and longing. She caught a glimpse of herself in the chipped mirror above the sink, and she didn’t look anything like Simon’s “seductive schoolgirl” from the night before.
“Simon, please.”
He released her wrist with a gesture of disgust. “Suit yourself.”
Something in his tone terrified her. “Wait, how about this? I’ll go help her for a little while, tell her I can’t stay long. I can be back here by lunchtime.”
“I’ve got other plans for lunch.” He turned his back toward her.
No! He couldn’t walk away. “Simon!” But that voice sounded childish and desperate. “Professor . . .” A little better. He glanced over his shoulder. “I made a mistake.” There. She’d found the alluring voice again. “I was wrong. I have time after all.”
Hannah
Saturday mornings at the Pancake House were an Allen Boys’ tradition, a tradition Hannah had participated in months before when, having fled New Hope because the retreat content was hitting too close to home, she had ended up lost and locked out of her car in the restaurant parking lot, pounding her vehicle in frustration when Nathan and Jake happened to arrive. Nate still teased her about the memorable first impression she’d made upon her future stepson.
“You sure you won’t join us for blueberry pancakes?” Nathan asked as he rinsed his coffee mug in the sink.
“I’m sure.” She brushed lint off her cardigan. Some morning she might feel comfortable enough to come downstairs in her pajamas or bathrobe, but for the past week, she had made a point of being dressed before Jake awoke. Exiting his father’s room in a robe still felt awkward. “I think it would be good for the two of you to have some father-son time, so Jake doesn’t feel like I’ve been inserted into everything.”
“He doesn’t mind.”
“Not yet, he doesn’t.”
Nathan looked over his shoulder at her, eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying, I don’t want Jake to resent having me around.” She opened the dishwasher and reached out her hand for his mug. Nathan had a habit of rinsing mugs and glasses only to abandon them on the kitchen counter. On any given day he’d go through half a dozen.
He clasped the mug with both hands. “Has he said something to indicate he resents having you here?”
“No, of course not. Jake’s the most easygoing teenage boy on the planet.”
“Okay, then.” He handed over the mug.
“Okay.” She set it on the top rack.
“So are you coming with us?”
“I think I’ll—morning, Jake!” Jake entered the kitchen in his pajamas, his eyes darting from his father’s face to hers. She hadn’t heard him come down the stairs.
“Hey, bud,” Nathan said. “Ready for some pancakes?”
“Are we going?”
“Absolutely! Hannah and I were just talking about it.”
“And I was saying I thought maybe it would be nice if you and your dad had a chance to go together, just the two of you.” She hoped Jake didn’t think they regularly spoke about him behind his back.
“Oh,” Jake said. “Okay.”
There. See? She gave Nathan a pointed glance when Jake turned toward the cupboard to get a glass. “I’ve got some work to do over at Meg’s house,” she said. “I’ll get it done this morning, and then the rest of the day’s open.”
“I was going to go with you and help, Hannah.”
“I know. But I think I need some time over there by myself, just to work some things through.” She hadn’t set foot in Meg’s house since returning from the honeymoon, and there were tasks she could no longer avoid, like mail to collect and sort. And Becca probably hadn’t disposed of all the flowers before she flew back to London.
Nathan tightened the sash on his terry cloth robe and said, “Well, I’ll go shower, then. Leave in half an hour, Jake?”
“Yeah.”
Nate was annoyed with her. She could tell. But if she followed him upstairs to continue the conversation, Jake would know there was something wrong, and she didn’t want to call attention to a disagreement. She waited until she heard footsteps on the floor above and then said, “So tell me about this science fair project your dad said you’re working on. What are you trying to do?”
Jake sat down at the table and took a sip of orange juice. “It’s called the McCollough effect, and it’s really cool. Have you heard of it?” She hadn’t. “It’s this visual perception thing where black and white horizontal line patterns look like they’re different colors because you’ve used induction to produce . . .”
She was already lost, but she sat down across the table from him with a bowl of cere
al and listened like she understood. When he asked if she would be willing to be a test subject, she accepted. Gratefully.
The first time Hannah had entered Meg’s Victorian house, she had been struck by its resemblance to a funeral parlor. Now as she entered, the mustiness of the space and the pungent odor of decayed flowers overwhelmed her. She removed her shoes and stood in the foyer, feeling the weight of the silence. Even the grandfather clock, which once echoed through the house with its melancholy chimes, had ceased its ticking.
Setting a stack of mail on the entry table, Hannah stared into the front parlor with its stuffy and lifeless antique furniture, the faded burgundy velvet drapes closed at the window and pooled on the floor, with gray dust clinging in creases along the deep folds. On the mantel sat a snow globe with a multi-spired castle, a gift Meg had purchased for herself in London because it was like one Becca had broken when she was a little girl. Hannah had watched Meg place it there in a small act of defiance—or perhaps as a declaration that she would no longer be governed by her mother’s house rules. Though she had enlisted Hannah’s help in rearranging some of the furniture and hanging family photos, there was so much they had left undone.
Hannah stroked the back of the sofa where the two of them were sitting the night Meg received the doctor’s phone call that the x-ray had revealed “something suspicious,” the same sofa where they’d sat the night of the foot washing. On the marble coffee table a magazine lay open to a page with photos of bridal bouquets. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it, not when Meg, who had planned to arrange her bouquet, had left it there. If she could have closed a door to the room, she would have done so. But there was no door.
Her lips firmly pressed together, she stepped across the foyer into the music room, where the piano was still covered with get-well cards Meg had placed there, along with handwritten notes of encouragement from friends and drawings and thank-you letters from her young students. Mingled among them were cards Becca had evidently received after her mother’s death: “Praying for God’s comfort” and “Thinking of you in your grief” and “In your time of sorrow, remember” cards she’d chosen not to take with her to London. Becca had also left the funeral bouquets here, along with the collage of pictures she had assembled for the memorial service. A shrine, Hannah thought as she touched the cheek of a smiling Meg. Becca had left a shrine.
An Extra Mile Page 4