I hadn’t planned on saving the world but there seemed to be no alternative, really.
Someone had to do help and for the first time in years, I had the means to do it. I had no excuse.
“I just want to make sure I’m not putting you in the direct path of temptation,” I told him placatingly, resting a hand on his arm. “If Tessa gets wind of the fact that you’re housing Bessy, she’s never going to trust you. Bessy’s gorgeous, even in her current state, and she wasn’t exactly the most demure of the girls in our high school.”
Jake rolled his eyes and sighed, his shoulders dipping in defeat slightly. “You know what? I want Tessa, but I want her to want me back without reservations or some niggling doubt that I’m going to betray her one day. I’m giving her some time to figure out if she can trust me enough to be with me. I want her but I don’t want her half-hearted.”
“Oh, Jake.” My heart wrenched at his pain so I wrapped my arms around him in a hug, my hand gently patting his back. “I really wish things would work out between you and Tessa. You’re a great guy and she’s an incredible girl. But you’re right—there is no point in having a relationship where you each expect it to be over any second from when you started. It’ll happen, whether there may be a good reason or not, just because you believe it will.”
Brandon and I were acquainted with that feeling of doom, when we first started our business arrangement/marriage. It hung heavy over our heads, making us question every sweet gesture, every tender word. It ate away at every bit of trust we formed. The freedom from it made the difference between the inevitable end and the lifetime we would now spend together.
In the next couple of days after that, I kept dropping by to check in on Bessy while Jake made a few short trips home throughout his work day to look in on her as well. She was still a bit thin and pale but she didn’t look anything like she did the day we practically abducted her from the clinic.
Late on Thursday night, Jake called to tell me that Bessy had decided to go home and he was going to drop her off and make sure that she made it back without any hitch.
I wanted to come with them but Brandon had come home that evening and I’d welcomed him with an extravagant dinner date I’d prepared.
I was so tired that even though I’d missed Brandon terribly in the days he was gone, I did no more than close my eyes before dozing off the moment we hit the bed that night.
The next day, Gilles and I drove out to this address in Framingham, about a good half hour out of the city.
The Society had been quite busy putting together the last-minute details for the Masquerade Magnifique that was being held in two weeks, where the Championettes’ featured charity of the year would be revealed.
I’d successfully championed the new cause I’d picked for this almost wild-card round—the family shelter and transitional program in the city which offered housing facilities to those who were displaced or were in dire situations. While the centers the program provided primarily catered to the homeless, the new housing facility that the Society was going to finance and maintain would focus on families, may they be whole or fragmented. In this shelter, they would be cared for and connected with other resources that could provide them legal and financial aid, employment options, housing assistance, and other means of community support that would help them find their footing once again.
The Society had been looking at location options for the project, debating whether we should build or buy the property.
Simone had invited the group to this location with the pitch that it was something she’d been thinking of donating to the project.
While most of the members didn’t bat an eye at spending the money for this project, none of them could turn down the idea of a free property on the spot. It would free up a huge chunk of our funds and allow us to do more things for the project.
The location held a rural appeal, sequestered in the picturesque countryside on a vast acreage surrounded by thick trees and gently rolling meadows. The narrow road was quiet and private, leading up to a driveway where even taller trees stood as a fortress against the rusty, white wrought-iron gate. A weathered wooden board bore the name Oakley Stead. The cracked, bumpy driveway wrapped around a grove of trees before stopping in front of a massive building, its clapboard sidings painted a deep terra-cotta red.
It was a sprawling, two-story, older colonial style that showed its age and character well. While it would certainly need to be inspected to fulfill all building safety requirements, it had great bones and would provide ample housing space that we could start with before any additions or extensions.
"My mother's family had purchased this house more than sixty years ago from the original owners who'd built it," Simone told us at the beginning of the tour she was giving our small group. "It was built by a family fleeing the Salem witch trials in 1693."
"It was owned by witches?" Catherine asked with her nose scrunched up in dismay.
She'd been full of sunshine since we first saw the house, just brimming with positivity.
I wiggled my brows at her. "There's a cauldron in the dungeon where they cook up toads and bats to make potions that turn really whiny people into frogs."
Catherine glared at me for that but Simone just rolled her eyes and added, "It's very old and rich in history. More than that, it's rich in space. It has six bedrooms, a large kitchen, with an eating area, a large library, a servants quarters, and even a ballroom that was later added."
"Oh, great. A ballroom," Catherine muttered. "Very practical."
"Witches like dancing apparently," I snickered to Catherine. "They do need the occasional break from turning people into frogs."
"Kids, no fighting in this field trip," Melissa piped in with a wink and I giggled while Catherine just looked more cross as we continued our tour throughout the house.
“It still looks like a red barn,” Catherine pointed out later, once we arrived back at the front entrance of the house after doing a full loop around the property. "And I'm not sure of its structural integrity. It's over 300 years old."
“It's a First Period English Colonial and my great-Aunt was living here for the last thirty years before we had to move her to assisted living facility. She took pride in keeping this place in top shape," Simone said with an impressive attempt at politeness considering this was about the tenth time Catherine complained about it. “As for the color, it can be changed. You can paint it purple, pink, yellow—paint it all the colors of the rainbow, if you like—I don’t care.”
“We’ll call it the Rainbow Roof Project. How about that?” I asked with a broad smile as I leaned down and plucked a dried dandelion from the ground. "It sounds better than the Family Welfare Assistance Center Project."
Melissa’s eyes lit up at the idea. “Rainbow’s a good word. It represents hope and all kinds of bright and happy things—like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!”
“Which doesn’t really exist,” Catherine said peevishly.
“You’re in charity work, Catherine,” Melissa shot back. “At least try to be a little optimistic.”
“Good thing Layla isn’t here or you’d get a good, long lecture about promoting positivity,” I said with a snort, reminding everyone of Layla’s little pep-talk about showcasing everything the Society did in such a positive light it would be practically luminescent.
Catherine scoffed. “Well, if only she was around a little bit more, she might get a chance. Hard to remember she’s leading this troop when she’s hardly around.”
“Hey, the woman may have some personal issues going on,” I chastised lightheartedly. “Besides, I’m still one-half the troop leader so we can limp on."
I walked ahead of the group to face them. "And I think this house is absolutely gorgeous and perfect for what we're looking for. It's got history but it's humble. It's got so much land around it that we can add extensions to it later if we wish. Or build a playground for the kids, or a sustainable garden or greenhouse that would help sup
ply food to the center and also allow others to learn produce-growing skills. It'll need a little bit of TLC and maybe some creative touches, and I know a really good interior designer who would love to be part of our project. It's a good size property with lots of history and character and it's free. I say we have a winner."
Everyone else murmured their assent—even Simone was smiling with satisfaction—that Catherine looked around, sighed loudly, and muttered a grumpy 'Fine'.
I was already on a roll, the lightbulbs blinking in my head like a Christmas light show.
"Actually, I think it would be a great idea to showcase Oakley Stead to our guests who would be letting out their deep pockets come the night of the masquerade. It gives them tangible proof of where our efforts are going and it offers a unique setting for once, since we do the wild card charity round at Clifton House every year."
I glanced behind me and arced my hand in dramatic flourish to highlight the rustic charm of the house and the quaint mystery of the thick woods that surrounded the soft slopes like fortresses to a fairy land.
"With some firefly light effects outside, around the trees, and some elegant old-world touches, it could be the perfect setting for Masquerade Magnifique," I added with a near-twirl as I imagined the soft, smoky glow of candlelight in the ballroom, the fancy ball gowns and mysterious masks, the sweet, seductive music, the tinkle of wine glasses, the rippling laughter and humming conversations among the crowd. "I think it's going to be splendid."
The faces staring back at me all showed symptoms of dreamy excitement except for Catherine who looked at me incredulously. "But plans have been made to hold it at Clifton House! It's two weeks away. You can't just move the event to a totally different location."
I shrugged. "We have a long-standing partnership with the best event-planning team in the state who tote the esteemed reputation of being able to cater to our every whim and fancy considering how particular our standards are. I'm sure they can make it happen in all levels—from our guests, to our vendors, to the press. They can easily angle it as a means to showcase the home which will become the very center of this cause."
"I'm not sure that the place is quite party-ready, Char," Melissa added with an uncertain purse of her lips. "It needs some prepping."
I nodded. "I'm with you. From our tour, the place looks to be in pretty good shape given its age. Simone's great-auntie did her best with this ancient house."
"Thank you," Simone intoned with a solemn nod and an almost smug smile.
I grinned. “I’m sure that within two weeks, we can bring some professional cleaners in and someone who can stage the place to be this great house it once was."
"I know someone with a knack for staging a place so well you can sell it to anyone."
We all stopped at the familiar voice and turned around nearly in unison to find its source.
Layla stood a few feet away behind us, just by a large oak tree, with her mouth curled up in a smile and her arm around the slight shoulders of the boy she kept close to her side.
"Riley!" I blurted out delightedly, my arms extended as I was about to rush to the boy. I stopped in my tracks when the other ladies around me turned their heads in my direction and gave me puzzled looks.
My smile dropped along with my arms.
I smiled sheepishly. "Uh, Riley's a friend of mine."
That didn't seem to explain anything but their heads swung back the opposite way when Layla laughed softly and and walked over to our group without removing her protective arm around the boy who was grinning up at me crookedly.
"Hello, ladies," Layla greeted calmly despite the variety of expressions flitting across the faces of the other members. If they had bubble thoughts visible, it would've been flicking through like a comic strip.
"Sorry, I'm late. I was out of town in the past week and I just got back in this morning. I had to rush over here," Layla explained before gesturing to Riley. "I hope you don't mind but I brought Riley—my son."
I met Layla's eye in that split-second before the rest of the world erupted around us in a comical chaos of incredulous outbursts and shrill shrieks of disbelief.
Seriously.
Even Simone hadn’t remembered yet to shut her mouth. She was still gaping at her best friend.
I was a little bit stunned myself.
The fact that Layla showed up when I thought she was still in Seattle trying to come clean to her father, and announced to the world (which would be the equivalent of the Championettes) that Riley was her son when I thought the boy didn't even know, was truly epic.
The woman didn't do things in half-measures when she finally had her head screwed in place.
My respect for her grew when, despite the sudden scrutiny, she added to the fire by announcing that she was divorcing Don. She didn’t give out the sordid details, just simply explained that their marriage wasn’t working out anymore.
I listened patiently, hovering just outside the circle as the others grilled her, but I couldn’t help my reflex when Catherine blurted out, “Whatever could be possibly wrong with you, Layla? First you were a knocked-up teenager and next you’re divorcing your husband? Have you lost your mind?”
“You make it sound as if she just went and committed a crime and now has to be stoned to death,” I said sharply, grateful that Layla had encouraged Riley to go and wander off when the barrage of questions came. They boy was out of earshot, talking to Gilles whose hand gestures suggested he was explaining something about the car to the kid.
The other members turned in my direction and from the wary looks on their faces, I may have sounded more than sharp.
“I personally don’t appreciate being led on to believe that someone is of outstanding character when she isn’t,” Catherine said with a sulky pout. “Now, I question the wisdom of the decision we’ve all made based only on the facts we’d known at the time.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why? Because you wouldn’t have allowed her into the Society if you’d known all her dirty laundry? Don’t be overdramatic, Catherine. If outstanding character was a make-or-break qualification for membership in this group, the lot of us wouldn’t be able to get a foot in the door, including you. You may not have been weak or unwise when you were fifteen, or saddled with a husband who makes you unhappy—kudos to you—but to have you diminish the worth of those who had made mistakes makes you worse. You’re being deliberately mean and unkind.”
“I’m merely expressing an opinion!” she protested, red in the face.
I raised a brow. “Why don’t you make an informed one for a change, before you bluster it about? Do you think Layla would do this to herself, knowing what she risks losing, for shits and giggles?”
I knew I was getting angry but I didn’t realize I was trembling with fury until a firm hand clasped my arm, echoing the tremors running along it.
Layla gave it a reassuring squeeze before facing Catherine with an admirable calm, her chin raised ever so slightly. “While I’d like to keep the details of my personal struggles private, I understand your confusion. So let me put it this way—the comfort zone I’d kept myself in all these years was really nothing more but a gilded cage. While that perfectly insular world gave me a sense of protection, it did not give me peace because prison isn’t a place for that. Prison is where you serve your penance and I’ve served mine long enough. I have a son who is growing up fast without me, and Im not going to sit around and waste more time. While I know it’s not going to be friendly out there, my son is worth all the trouble in the world.”
Something thick and heavy was lodged in my heart, in an old crack that had long ago opened and never mended, as I thought of how lucky Riley was, to have a mother who loved him enough to fight for him. He was young enough that the broken parts of his heart could still heal and become whole again.
“It’s easy to make mistakes and even easier to leave them behind,” Simone spoke up in a measured tone, sweeping a daring glance at everyone listening. “I think that those who
own up to them and do their best to rectify them, no matter how difficult and painful the process is, deserve another chance. Whatever your opinions are, I’m with Layla.”
I smiled in spite of my frustration.
Since day one, Simone seemed to be happy staying on neutral ground, happy to keep the status quo, no matter how unhappy or uncomfortable it made her. It cheered me up that when she finally took a stand, she took it next to her best friend who had a real cause this time.
“I don’t see an issue with Layla’s revelations either,” Melissa said, stepping forward. “The reality is, shit happens and it happens to everyone. So what? I’m glad she hasn’t let it put her life on hold. And if she’d like to continue serving the Society, I don’t see why we should try to stop her.”
“Thank you, ladies,” Layla said softly, a tremulous smile on her lips. “I wasn’t the best example when it came to open-mindedness and I don’t blame the others for putting me under the same magnifying glass and looking for everything that’s wrong. I’d like to stay. I actually take pride in what we do here, beyond all the fancy frills. My life is going to be chaotic for the next little bit but it doesn’t mean I won’t make time for my duties with you.”
“Then it’s settled,” I announced with a finality I dared anyone to challenge, especially Catherine who still looked slightly mutinous. “We’re not going to prosecute anyone who has had shit happen to them in hope that we’ll all be granted the same courtesy when it’s our turn to deal with the occasional mess of our lives. Anyone who’d like to insist on the point of perfection as a membership requirement can come up to me and receive the honor of being the first beneficiary of our completely impossible yet seemingly important standards. You’ll be escorted out at the first flaw. Do I make myself clear?”
Melissa had a twinkle in her eye, Simone looked solemn, Layla stood with quiet dignity and everyone else squirmed at my ruthless challenge.
The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield Page 87