by Mary Campisi
She didn’t invite people to her home with the exception of Cash, and now, Tess, but they were family. And if she stretched the “family line” a bit, she supposed she could include Tess’s mother, Olivia, and her husband, Will Carrick. They’d been Ramona’s friends before they became “family” though JJ Carrick’s death had caused a falling out between Ramona and Olivia for too many years. But now they were on an even keel again, and while neither woman blabbered on and on about the lost years of friendship, they did on occasion enjoy a cup of coffee together and a baking session. There was always a new recipe to try and an opinion to be gained on the flakiness of the pie crust, the creaminess of the frosting, the richness of the custard.
Ramona glanced around the tiny kitchen, took in the aging appliances, the discolored and worn Formica countertop, the dull stainless steel sink. There were stacks of cookbooks, coffee cups, and potholders on the counters; a bowl of plastic Granny Smith apples, a bowl of real McIntosh apples, and her one concession to pampered luxury—a coffee maker with a built-in grinder and specialty blends that performed all manner of magic; they woke her up, relaxed her, and, shock upon shock, they made her smile. The coffee maker was a gift from Cash and Tess, who, upon witnessing the not-often-seen smile on Ramona’s face, elected an automatic refill option that delivered a specialty blend to her doorstep once a month.
If Ramona were alone, she’d choose an aromatic decaffeinated coffee, the kind she and Olivia enjoyed for their after-6:00 p.m. visits. But with a pregnant girl, green tea seemed the more appropriate choice. Ramona set out the tea, put the pot on low, and waited.
The girl arrived a short time later, her pale face red and wet from the cold and snow, her blue eyes a mirror of her grandmother’s. She had her grandmother’s red hair, too, and her nose. “I really appreciate this, Mrs. Casherdon. My grandpa’s going to be so surprised when I bring him a pumpkin roll.” She shrugged out of her jacket and smoothed her sweatshirt over her belly. “I’ll bet he tries to dig into it tonight.” She laughed and pulled off her boots to reveal small feet covered in red and green candy cane socks.
She’s just a child, a baby having a baby.
Ramona nodded, forced a tight smile, and said, “The name’s Ramona.” She didn’t correct her on the misuse of Mrs. What was the point? Everyone but Lucy Benito knew Ramona didn’t have a husband; as far as they knew, she’d never had a husband, never even had a boyfriend. That would not be exactly correct, but what she did or did not have, including surnames, was not their business.
“Oh.” The girl’s face turned redder. “Sure. Sorry,” she mumbled, and then finished with, “Ramona.”
It would not do to have the girl nervous before Ramona had a chance to execute her plan. But first, they had baking to do and tea to drink. “I’ve set out the ingredients. Dry over here—” she pointed to the flour, baking powder, cinnamon. and other spices “—and wet such as oil, pumpkin, eggs, and vanilla, over here. If you follow the recipe, you’ll know exactly how to combine the ingredients and that’s important. Too many beginners toss everything in all at once and then wonder why their cake is flat and doesn’t rise. There’s an art to it.”
“Like Grandpa’s pizzelles,” Lucy Benito said, studying the recipe. “He says people are in too much of a rush and that’s why they mess up. They haven’t finished the first task and they’re already on the third.”
“Your grandfather is a wise man.”
The girl smiled and her voice softened. “He’s the wisest man I know.”
Ramona spent the next hour teaching the girl how to measure properly, what happens when you overbeat the mixture, why you should always crack eggs in a separate bowl, and how to check for doneness that had nothing to do with a timer. With Ramona’s supervision, Lucy Benito poured the batter into the prepared baking pan, placed it in the oven, and went to work on the cream cheese filling. “Most people can’t afford pecans, so walnuts are a cheaper choice.” Ramona opened the first package of cream cheese and set it aside. “Not that walnuts are cheap, but every penny saved helps, and—” She caught herself before she went on about the importance of being thrifty. What would this child know about cutting costs, buying seconds, or going without?
“Grandpa says we shouldn’t be wasteful, that one pair of shoes might not be enough but four is too much.” The girl measured the walnuts and dumped them in a small chopper. “He said Grandma washed out her plastic bags and reused the broccoli rubber bands.” She laughed and glanced at Ramona. “My grandma was a recycler before it was cool to recycle.”
Ramona shrugged, uncomfortable with the warmth in the girl’s eyes. “That’s called being practical. If more people in this world thought like her, they’d have more money and fewer garbage problems.”
“That’s what Grandpa says. I tried to recycle, but Dad kept getting mixed up between recyclable and non-recyclable, so I gave up.”
“You can’t give up when something gets hard.” Ramona dumped the second cream cheese in the mixing bowl and stirred. “That’s when real character comes out. Weak people give up at the first obstacle, but the strong ones, they grow more determined, and they keep going.”
“Is that what happened with your nephew, Cash?”
Ramona shot her a look, clenched the spatula in her right hand. She did not like anyone talking about her nephew and if they did, she wanted to know what they were saying. “Who told you that?”
The girl paled. “Grandpa told me about his injury,” she stammered.
Fine, the injury was something Ramona could handle. It was the other…
“And that he and Tess…”
“He and Tess, what?” Damn that Pop for opening his mouth.
“…were torn apart before the marriage.”
Ramona let out a sigh. That she could handle, too. The whole town knew of the tragic events that separated Cash and Tess, and they’d also witnessed the reunion that led them down the aisle. Maybe Pop was trying to show his granddaughter a silver lining in their story and, in that way, help her find one in her own predicament.
“I really like Tess. She’s been so kind.” She placed a hand on her belly and said, “She takes me to my doctor visits and even offered to be my coach when the time comes.”
“Your coach?” How had Ramona not known about Tess taking Lucy Benito to her prenatal visits? That was a bad idea on so many levels. Why hadn’t Cash stepped in and said something? Or maybe he had and it hadn’t worked.
“Uh-huh. But I don’t know. I feel kind of bad, you know…with Tess and Cash not being able to have their own baby and all.”
“Who told you that?” If it had been Pop, she’d give him a piece of her mind, and it wouldn’t be good.
The girl blinked hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Who told you?”
“Tess.”
Ramona could not have heard that right. “Tess?”
“She told me how she almost got rid of the baby but changed her mind…and then she lost it…and there was an infection and scarring…” A tear slipped down her cheek, then another, and she swiped at them with both hands. “She said she never told Cash until years later, after they got back together, and only because he found out. At first he was so angry, but he forgave her and said if they couldn’t have children of their own, they’d adopt or whatever, as long as they were together.” She sniffed, sniffed again. “She said I wasn’t alone; the whole town cared about me and no matter what, people were there for me. Imagine her telling me that when I’m pregnant with a baby I didn’t even want and she can’t get pregnant. How absolutely tragic is that?”
More tears poured out as the girl’s slender body shook and she whimpered her grief. Ramona stood there, one hand gripping the countertop, the other clutching the spatula, torn between comforting Lucy Benito and using this time as an opportunity to accomplish her mission. She released the spatula and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Maybe you can find it in your heart to help Tess and Cash get through
their pain.”
Lucy Benito swiped her hands across her face and nodded. “What can I do?”
Ramona leaned toward her, placed a hand on the girl’s swollen belly, and said, “Give them your child.”
Chapter 6
Anthony hadn’t driven in this much snow in over twenty-five years, but that didn’t stop him from yanking on his coat and grabbing the car keys two seconds after Lucy told him and Pop that Ramona Casherdon had asked her to give up her baby to Cash and Tess Casherdron. Who the hell did that woman think she was? A person didn’t go around making those kinds of requests, especially to a vulnerable, pregnant young girl, one who happened to be his daughter. He should have paid closer attention to the dynamics going on around him. He had no idea Ramona’s nephew and his wife couldn’t have a child, or that Ramona had invited Lucy to her home supposedly to teach her to make a pumpkin roll. That woman hadn’t changed; all these years later she was still doing whatever she wanted and to hell with everybody else.
Not this time. Anthony was going to call her on her reckless behavior and then he was going to demand she apologize to his daughter. Nobody had a right to treat Lucy that way. He made it to Ramona Casherdon’s tiny house with only one skid and remembering to pump the brakes well before the stop signs.
Damn you, Ramona! He slammed the door, trudged up the unshoveled driveway, and made his way to her front porch. Only a glimmer of light shone through the drawn curtains. She’d always been partial to night and darkness, and there’d been a time when he was, too. Despite the lack of activity or illumination, Ramona Casherdon was in that house; he was certain of it. He rang the doorbell and waited, angry with himself for not thinking this through but angrier with her for putting him in this position.
The door eased open and there she stood, a figure cast in shadows by the faint light behind her. He couldn’t make out her features or the expression on her face, and until she spoke in that husky voice he’d never been able to forget, the woman could have been anybody. “Hello, Tony. I’ve been expecting you.” Once she said his name, it all came back, the memories, the pain, the longing, in sharp, lasting, and dreaded detail.
“Hello, Ramona.” He forced the emotion from his voice as he faced the woman who’d cast him aside so many years ago. “May I come in?” The shadowed figure opened the door wider, stepped aside. Ramona had never been one for talking much, preferred to show her feelings through actions. Anthony had been the one to go on and on like a sick poet, until she laughed and demanded he stop expounding on her “supposed” beauty and virtues. He hadn’t wanted to, though; he’d been so enraptured with the essence and mystique of Ramona Casherdon that he never wanted to stop talking to her or about her.
Unfortunately, she’d found a way to shut off the spouting—permanently.
She turned away and began gathering a stack of magazines from the couch as though she were in no particular hurry to face him, as though she’d seen him yesterday instead of twenty-eight years ago. She was broader than he remembered, shorter, too, dressed in black pants and a black top, her long black hair streaked with gray and pulled into a loose bun. The large gold hoops she favored dangled from her ears. He’d wanted to buy her diamond studs, or rubies, but she’d refused, just as she’d refused everything else he’d offered, even his love. When she turned, her dark gaze met his and he didn’t see that time had rounded her middle, given her extra rolls where there’d been none, and drawn fine wrinkles near her mouth and eyes. Anthony saw her as she fit into his memories: the woman who had stolen his heart and cast him aside.
“You’re here about your daughter.”
How could she look at him with such casualness as though seeing him or not seeing him was of no consequence? Her nonchalance annoyed him and it spilled over into his next words. “My daughter is not going to hand over her baby to your nephew and his wife.”
Her voice dipped, turned huskier. “And you came to stop me?”
He took a step closer. “Yes.”
That seemed to amuse her. “Because you’ve been able to control what I’ve done in the past?” She cocked a brow, her full lips hinting at a smile.
“Right,” he bit out. “Maybe I’ve learned a few things since then.”
She eyed him as though to say she seriously doubted it and shrugged. “I have no intention of trying to convince your daughter to do anything. I merely said that because I wanted to talk to you and thought that might be the only way to get you here.”
Now he was annoyed and angry. “You played me? You made Lucy half-hysterical as a ploy to get me here?” How dare she do that? “You couldn’t pick up the phone like a normal person and call me?”
“Tony, don’t be so dramatic.” Those eyes moved over him, pierced him with their intensity. People said she looked like a gypsy and it was more than the dark eyeliner she favored, or the large hoop earrings and bracelets she wore. It wasn’t even her penchant for black that had them whispering that word. No, it had to do with the aura she created when she walked into a room, or stood next to someone. She had the ability to draw them in without a word, pull energy from them to interpret their mood, their emotion, their troubles. People stayed away from her, uncomfortable by her silence and intense gaze. Not Anthony. He’d been drawn to her the second he spotted her in Victor’s Pharmacy where he’d stopped to pick up a box of candy for his mother. Ramona had been filling a prescription for Cash’s sore throat.
“Dramatic? That’s my daughter we’re talking about, Ramona.” He sighed, raked a hand through his hair. She’d always had the ability to unsettle him with a few words.
“And your daughter’s the reason I wanted to see you.” She gestured to the worn couch and said, “Sit. I’ll get you a glass of wine.”
He should remain standing but then she’d tack petty to dramatic so he took a seat on the couch that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a slightly updated version of the one she’d had twenty-eight years ago. Plaid. Ugly. Cheap. He hadn’t cared, hadn’t thought about the sound of the loose springs moving with the rhythm of their lovemaking, or the fried oil smell permeating the house. Anthony hadn’t noticed any of it because he’d been immersed in Ramona Casherdon.
“Here.” She handed him a glass. “Still drink Cabernet?”
He nodded and took a sip. Ramona might call it Cabernet but it burned his throat and tasted more like vinegar. “So, you wanted to talk to me?” It was difficult to pretend nonchalance when he’d spent years imagining this moment, the look on her face when she saw that he’d survived her refusal, and not only that, he’d thrived. Except, sitting in this dingy living room in this godforsaken town thousands of miles from California, he didn’t feel victorious. Yes, he had money, an important job, and friends who owned season tickets to every sporting and musical event within a fifty-mile radius, but so what? Did it compensate for the mess that had become his world? The life he’d planned did not include an ex-wife, a pregnant and unmarried daughter, or a father who acted as if he were thirty-five. And yet, here he was, sharing a glass of cheap wine with an ex-lover and feeling as worn and beat up as the couch he sat on.
She must have sensed his mood because she sat on the other end of the couch and said in a quiet, yet firm voice, “Your daughter needs you.”
“Hmm. You mean to get her out of this mess she’s in? Or to talk some sense into her about staying here with my father?”
Ramona’s earrings jangled when she shook her head. “I meant she needs you to salvage this relationship. She’s scared and hurting and this isn’t the time to point fingers and find fault.”
“No, that would have been before she got pregnant.”
“Tony, if you can’t accept this, it’s not going to end well.”
“Why am I always the one who has to accept things?” He turned toward her, anger simmering beneath his words. “Accept that my daughter’s pregnant and doesn’t want to talk about it, and refuses to mention the father? Accept that she’s determined to quit college and stay in Magdalena? And I e
ven have to accept my father’s supposed right to be independent when he isn’t? I’m tired of it, tired of not having a say in what other people are doing that affects me.”
“Are we talking about them—” she paused, met his gaze “—or are we talking about us?”
And there it was, the real reason behind his agitation tonight. “Did you ever once regret your decision?”
Her eyes sparked with what might have been annoyance or pain; he couldn’t tell. That was the problem with Ramona Casherdon; he’d never been able to tell what she was really thinking or feeling. It was all a mystery and a guessing game. “I don’t believe in looking back and wallowing in regret.”
That wasn’t an answer. “Humor me, Ramona. I would have done anything for you; helped raise Cash, even stayed in Magdalena if that’s what you wanted. But you rejected me, and I’ve always wondered if maybe for a second you ever wished you’d made a different choice.”
She looked away. “You were twenty-five, a boy.”
Still not an answer. “You were thirty-one. So what?”
“You had your whole life before you, a chance to do big things, no ties. Nothing to hold you back from letting the world sink into your pores. I had responsibilities.”
“Cash might have welcomed a male figure in his life instead of an overprotective aunt.”