Hello, It's Me

by Wendy Markham

But I always did. I always knew that what we had was too good to last.

  Yes, and she frequently worried that something horrible would happen to take it all away.

  So why were you so shocked when it did, Annie?

  “Mommy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When are you going to marry Thom?”

  Annie abruptly stops stroking Trixie’s sweat-dampened hair. “What?”

  “Daddy said you were going to marry Thom and I was wondering when.”

  “‘Daddy said’?” Annie’s blood runs cold. “Trixie, what are you talking about?”

  Trixie yawns deeply, then says, “Daddy was sitting on my bed. He was smiling like in that picture.” She points to a framed snapshot Annie placed on her nightstand last fall, when she realized Trixie’s memory of her father was fading fast.

  “Trixie, maybe you were just looking at the picture and you thought he was really—”

  “No,” Trixie interrupts stubbornly, “he was here. And he said I was going to have a new daddy and it was Thom.”

  “Trixie, you know that was just a dream.”

  “No it wasn’t.”

  Annie sighs. No use arguing with a four-year-old whose imagination is obviously as vivid as her mother’s.

  “Is that why you woke up screaming?” she asks gently. “Because you thought you saw Daddy?”

  Trixie shakes her head rapidly. “I’m not scared of Daddy. And I want you to marry Thom, Mommy. I was screaming because Milo let go of the string on my new pink kite and it flew away. Why does he always have to ruin my stuff?”

  Annie sighs. “Trixie, Milo is sound asleep in his bed and your pink kite is downstairs in the closet. And I’m not going to marry Thom, so—”

  “But Daddy said that you were. He said Thom was going to be my new daddy on earth because he’s stuck up in heaven so he can’t take care of me as good as he used to.”

  “It was just a dream,” Annie insists, unable to control the waver in her voice or the tremor in her hand as she resumes stroking Trixie’s hair.

  “Stop saying that! It was not a dream! He was really here. I saw him.”

  “All right, sweetie. All right. You really saw him.”

  “I did.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t believe me!”

  “Yes, I do,” Annie says softly.

  And in that moment, she almost does.

  The electric floor fan beside the bed makes a wooshing noise as it arcs toward them, stirring the air with a too-warm breeze.

  Trixie yawns again. “He was here.”

  “Shh . . . I know.”

  Trixie’s body gradually relaxes as Annie holds her close the way she has on countless other restless nights.

  Marry Thom?

  There’s no way.

  And yet . . .

  No. Lord knows Annie isn’t living a fairy tale; Thom isn’t a dashing Prince Charming who can zap away her troubles and whisk her off to happily ever after.

  No . . .

  But he is persistent. Just when she thinks he’s gone from her life, he swoops back in to sweep her away like tide does the starfish on the sand.

  Yes, she thinks grimly, but sooner or later, the tide always ebbs, and the starfish might find itself beached once again.

  It might . . . or it might not.

  Sooner or later, Annie reminds herself as she carefully settles her slumbering daughter against the pillows, the starfish might just be carried out to sea, cradled forever in its calming blue depth, never again to be stranded alone on the sand.

  Part Two

  July

  Chapter 13

  0pening the door to his sister late Tuesday evening, Thom braces himself for bad news. Susan might live only a few blocks up Park Avenue, but she never drops by unannounced. Especially at this hour.

  When the doorman buzzed up to alert Thom to her presence, all he could think was that something horrible must have happened . . . something that warrants face-to-face delivery of the news.

  “Is it Mother?” he asks, peering anxiously at his sister’s face, relieved to note that she hasn’t been crying. At least, he doesn’t think she has. The unnaturally smooth skin around her eyes is as pale as the rest of her and there are no telltale smudges in her omnipresent mascara and liner.

  “Mother?” Susan echoes, incapable of furrowing her brow in the confusion her tone conveys.

  “Did something happen to her?”

  “No! Mother’s fine.” She walks past him, her heels clicking across the marble entryway into the living room, where he was in the midst of watching the ten o’clock news. “In fact, I just came from there.”

  “Southampton?” Thom pads after her in his cashmere slippers and sits beside her on the couch.

  “No, she’s at the townhouse. Matthew drove her into the city this afternoon.” Matthew, of course, is their mother’s longtime chauffeur, an elderly Englishman whose patience with the formidable Lillian Merriweather Brannock outweighs his driving skills at this point.

  “I thought she was staying out east all week.”

  “She was planning on it, but I asked her to come home to go with me to a doctor’s appointment.”

  Thom’s heart stops. “The cardiologist? Is your heart acting up again?” His mind leapfrogs through a lineup of terrifying scenarios, all of which lead to a chilling destination: his only sibling’s deathbed.

  “Relax, Thom,” Susan says with a chuckle, opening her Chanel handbag and removing an envelope, which she hands to him. “It wasn’t the cardiologist, it was my ob-gyn, and I’m fine. Really fine. In fact, I’m ecstatic.”

  Opening the envelope, he removes what looks like medical X-rays. “Then why . . . oh!” His gaze shifts in quick succession from the white-on-black image in his hand to Susan’s twinkling blue eyes to her midsection beneath a sleeveless navy linen dress, where he searches for . . . and finds the slightest telltale bulge.

  “Can you believe it? The doctor is ninety-nine percent certain it’s a boy. I’m due around Christmas.”

  He hugs her ferociously. “I’m going to be an uncle?”

  “Yup. And I’m going to be a mom. And Wade is going to be a dad. How crazy is that?”

  “Not so crazy. You’ll be a wonderful mom, and Wade will be a wonderful dad.” He fervently hopes that’s the case. Perhaps parenthood will loosen them up, bring some joy into their lives. “I didn’t know you were even trying to conceive.”

  “We weren’t, until now. I got pregnant on the first try. You know what Dad always used to say when we were sailing . . .”

  “Timing is everything,” he says in unison with his sister. “In sailing, in business . . . and obviously, in biology. Oh! I just realized—”

  “What?”

  “Mother. She’s going to be a grandmother. That’s absolutely unfathomable.”

  “You wouldn’t think so if you had seen her earlier.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s taken up knitting.”

  “No, but she was pleased about the baby. Quite pleased.”

  He notes that Susan’s expression is as close to an outright grin as it has been in years. “You know, you’re actually glowing.”

  “That’s what Wade told me.”

  “He did?” It’s difficult to imagine his stiff brother-in-law saying anything of the sort.

  “Yes, and he also said that I’m suddenly snoring like a trucker. I’ve never snored in my life, and even if I did, he’d never hear me over the racket he makes with his own snoring.”

  Thom shakes his head at the very idea of his prim sister snoring like a trucker.

  “What else did he say?” he asks, then cuts off his own question with, “Wait a second, forget about Wade, what did Mother say? Or should we all be calling her Granny from here on in?”

  “That’ll be the day. You know Mother. She said congratulations, gave me a perfunctory hug, shook Wade’s hand. But I swear I heard her sniffling a little.”

  “Mother cried? With joy?”<
br />
  “Sniffled with joy. Yes. She came with me to the doctor’s office for my sonogram earlier. We saw the baby fluttering, and we heard its little heart beating, and I swear, Thom, she was actually moved by the whole experience.”

  Maybe, Thom thinks, Lillian Brannock is softening a bit in her old age. Maybe she’ll be a more affectionate grandmother than she was a mother. Maybe, if her grandson picks her a bouquet of violets, she’ll put them in a vase.

  Violets.

  Annie.

  Annie, who unexpectedly agreed, when he called her from the office this afternoon, to meet him for dinner in Manhattan tomorrow night. So unexpectedly that it’s going to be a challenge for Thom to rearrange his already packed schedule to keep their date, but to hell with Saltwater Treasures. That merger isn’t looking promising anyway.

  But the merger with Annie Harlowe, on the other hand, is looking quite promising.

  He’s going to see Annie again.

  He’s going to kiss Annie again.

  Annie.

  Violets.

  “I met someone,” he blurts to his sister.

  Her smile fades. “Mother told me.”

  “I take it she isn’t thrilled?”

  “What do you think?”

  Thom shrugs.

  “A waitress with two kids? What are you doing, Tommy?”

  “Sowing my wild oats,” he says grimly. “Isn’t that what you called it?”

  “I told Mother that you’re feeling restless and that she should give you a break and stop pushing you to get married. I told her that it might be good for you to date a few different women before you settle down. Better now than later.”

  Like Father did.

  Susan doesn’t say it, and neither does he. But they’re both thinking it; he can tell by the look on his sister’s face.

  “Who did you have in mind?” Thom asks. “Because all the eligible British royals are spoken for, and the Hilton sisters are too young, too nouveau, and much too—”

  “Which leaves you with a waitress?”

  Thom bristles. “Stop saying it that way, Susan.”

  “What? Waitress? Isn’t that what she is?”

  “She’s working for a caterer to earn enough money to keep a roof over her children’s heads. She’s . . . an artist.”

  “An artist? Even better.”

  “Why the hell are you being so damned nasty about this? I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am on your side, and I know what you’re going through. I did it too, Tommy, remember?”

  “You did what?”

  “Rebelled,” she says simply. “Only I did it younger. They say girls mature faster than boys. I guess this is your delayed adolescence. But you have to be careful, Tommy. You’re a grown man with a lot to lose.”

  “What do I have to lose?”

  “A fortune—and that’s at the very least,” she says with a shrug.

  “She isn’t after my money.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Annie isn’t a gold digger, Susan. Lord knows I’ve met enough of them to recognize one when I see one.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Trust me, she doesn’t have to have an Academy Award to be a good actress.”

  “She isn’t acting! She’s genuine and sweet and down to earth, and she’s the best woman I’ve ever met and I’m lucky she’s giving me the time of day!”

  That fervent speech is effective in clamping his sister’s mouth shut.

  “Look, Susan, I’m not going to marry her,” he says. “I’m just spending time with her because I enjoy her company, and her kids are a lot of fun.”

  “Well, pretty soon you’ll have a nephew of your own.”

  “I know, and I can’t wait.” Thom holds back a sigh. “And I’m sorry for bringing up Annie. I didn’t mean to spoil your big news. I’m thrilled for you, Susan. Really. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know.” She hugs him. “Just like I’ll be thrilled with you someday when you find Ms. Right and settle down and have children of your own.”

  Clearly, there’s no doubt in Susan’s mind that Annie isn’t Ms. Right, nor that her children will never be his own.

  But there’s a doubt in Thom’s mind.

  He said that he isn’t going to marry her, but did he mean it? Why is it suddenly all too easy to see himself slipping into Annie’s life as easily as he did these cashmere slippers after a long day at the office?

  Is he falling in love with her?

  Does he dare let that happen?

  What if he’s wrong about her character?

  His heart is telling him that she’s sincere, but when it comes to reading the women in his life, he’s proven himself illiterate.

  Susan . . . Mother . . . Joyce . . . and countless girlfriends before her.

  But Annie is different, Thom tells himself, feigning interest as his sister chatters on about baby names and registering for a layette.

  He’s never felt a yearning this desperate about anything—not even business. He’d trade the pending multibillion dollar deal with Saltwater Treasures in a heartbeat for a chance with Annie.

  But . . . a chance for what?

  Mergers are your specialty, Brannock.

  Yes, corporate mergers.

  Not . . .

  Romantic mergers.

  “So which do you like better?”

  Susan’s voice cuts into his thoughts, startling him back to reality, and baby names.

  “I’m sorry . . . can you tell me the choices again?”

  Susan sighs. “John Wade Ellington or Wade John Ellington?”

  Frankly, Thom doesn’t like either of his sister’s suggestions.

  “How about something more creative?”

  “Creative?”

  “You know . . . more original.”

  “More original? Like what?”

  “Like . . .” His thoughts flit promptly back to Annie. “I don’t know. How about Milo?”

  “Milo?” Susan laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Actually, I’m serious.”

  “Milo? What kind of name is that? No parent in their right mind would name a baby Milo.”

  “Forget it,” Thom says, resigned to the fact that there are some things his family is, quite simply, incapable of understanding. “It was just a suggestion. Name him John. I think that’s perfect.”

  Annie sits on the front steps with the cordless telephone heavy in her hand, looking up at the stars and listening to thunder rumbling in the distance and the crickets’ nightly chorus resonating in the moonlight.

  Don’t call, she tells herself firmly, as she unsuccessfully attempts to blow her sweat-plastered bangs away from her forehead.

  Do not dial that phone.

  Carry it back into the house. Now.

  But she can’t seem to summon the energy to move her hair away from her skin, let alone get up and go into the house.

  Summer has arrived with a vengeance, descending over Long Island like a hot, wet towel. The night air is alive with buzzing mosquitoes, dank with the smell of algae that rises from the salt marsh at the low-lying rear of the property.

  It’s uncomfortable out here, but more so inside, where the fans stir but fail to cool the steamy night air. At least both children are finally asleep, wearing only their underpants and lying on top of their quilts without even a sheet.

  Overnight heat and humidity are more typical of August. It’s too early in the season for this oppressive weather.

  Annie finally gives up attempting to create a breeze with her breath and finger-rakes the weight of her damp hair away from her scalp.

  Hurricane season is going to be brutal this year. That’s what Andre always said when summer came too soon, and he was usually right.

  Annie’s hand comes to rest on the phone once again, her fingers twitching over the buttons.

  Don’t call, Annie. Didn’t you learn your lesson last weekend? If you were going to get through to him, it would have been then, o
n the anniversary, and you know it.

  But her fingers are dialing anyway.

  You’re not going to prove—or disprove—anything. You know that, don’t you?

  Annie looks up at the night sky to focus on the brightest star she can find as the phone rings in her ear.

  Answer, she wills her husband, wherever he is. Come on, answer this time. I need you.

  In the distance, she spots a bolt of heat lightning. The next instant, with a sudden burst of sound, the receiver comes to life in her ear.

  “Andre? Andre!”

  She hears her own name in response, as though somebody is shouting it across a vast chasm.

  “You’re there! Andre!” Tears stream down her cheeks. “Please, Andre, talk to me.”

  Static sizzles in her ear, but nothing coherent.

  “What am I supposed to do, Andre? Tell me, please . . .” Annie begs. “Do you want me to look for the treasure at Copper Beach? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  The line is ridden with atmospheric interference.

  Consumed by a longing so extreme that her entire body is clenched in physical pain, Annie wills her husband to come through more clearly.

  “Andre? I can’t hear you, babe. I know you’re trying to tell me something, but I can’t hear you.”

  Grief has taken hold of her, grief and anger. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that this is all she has left of her husband: this disembodied voice she can’t even understand.

  “Andre, I know there’s a reason you’re reaching out to me this way. I’m listening so hard . . . please, please try to get it through.”

  Static.

  Yet he’s there. She can feel him, all around her, the same as she did the last time.

  At least I have this, she tells herself, closing her eyes and imagining that he’s here beside her, pretending that his arms are around her, as anger gives way to serenity.

  None of it was her imagination.

  She tried to convince herself of that because it was easier that way, but she won’t make that mistake again.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, Annie realizes that she must note every precious detail to recall later, lest doubt overwhelm her once again.

  Details, Annie. Notice the details.

  The crickets’ chorus seems oddly muffled now, and the smell of the water has been replaced by something else. Something floral, and it takes a moment for her to identify it.