“You were married, Bert?”
“Forty-two years, and I was a late starter. You?”
We filled each other in on our family histories as we sipped and munched companionably, and after twenty minutes we felt like old friends. As I was reluctantly preparing to do my duty at the sales desk, Tommy Garcia entered the dining room from the kitchen. He carried one of the bins he used to collect used dishes and cutlery. He nodded at me and gave Bert a jaunty salute, which Bert returned.
“Just one lady friend this morning? You must be losing your touch, man,” Tommy kidded as he collected mugs from the now vacant staff table.
“That will be the day,” Bert returned with good humor, “and this lady is very special,” he called after Tommy as he retreated to the kitchen.
“What do you think of him?” I asked impulsively.
Bert looked surprised. “The Garcia kid? Pleasant, hard worker, good with the old ladies,” he twinkled over a last sip of tea. “We have a lot in common, he and I.”
“Oh, I know all about you. I’ve seen you in action with your bevy of adoring female fans, but what about Tommy? What’s his power over the ladies?”
“Aside from the obvious?” Bert put down his mug and once more waggled those bushy eyebrows as he gave it some thought. “He’s a natural flirt, of course. I have some talent in that area myself, they tell me.”
“Takes one to know one,” I agreed.
“They all see right through that stuff, though. Women always do, however much they like the attention, but with Tommy it’s more than that. He genuinely likes them and doesn’t patronize them or talk down to them the way their kids do now that they’re getting on in years. He’s a real people person, sees right past the wrinkles and the walkers and appreciates them for who they still are.” He grinned self-deprecatingly. “Bert Rosenthal, instant analysis on call.”
I thought about what he’d said and found his observations insightful. “That makes sense. It also matches up with his studies in massage therapy. Only someone who really cares about other people would take that up as a profession.”
“Yeah, the kid gives a hell of a good rubdown. I let him practice on me once in a while. A lot of us do, especially the ladies, which brings us back to Garcia’s obvious asssss-sets.”
He dragged out the first syllable, and I laughed as we made our way back to the lobby. “I hope massage is the only service he’s offering,” I said lightly, inviting Bert to comment further. He looked at me curiously but didn’t take the bait.
By noon the weather had done one of those surprising New England about-faces, and the skies had cleared. Except for the leaves strewn across what had been meticulously raked lawns just yesterday and an occasional puddle at the side of the road, you would never know it had rained. Ginny and I couldn’t resist a short post-luncheon stroll around the green. I repeated what John Harkness had told me about her suspicions.
“At this point all we have to go on is intuition and speculation,” I summed up. “There’s simply no evidence to support our uneasiness about these two deaths.”
“You mean my suspicions,” Ginny amended. “You’re being diplomatic, but you think I’m overreacting, too, and maybe you’re right.” She looked tired again, I noticed. In addition to a demanding job five days a week, she’d had a complicated weekend, not to mention a major life change to handle, and Ginny herself was no kid. If she wasn’t sleeping so well lately, who could blame her?
“How are things going on the home front?” I asked her. “Have you and Rog made a decision about selling the house?”
Her smile was wan. “I can’t seem to make a decision about much of anything these days. I have trouble choosing what to have for dinner, let alone where to live for the rest of my life, and Rog is no better.”
“What do you mean?” We had completed one circuit of the green and embarked on a second by tacit agreement.
“We’re both kind of stuck. We want to be involved in our grandchildren’s lives, but neither of us wants to leave Wethersfield. We have such good friends here, great neighbors. Our support system is totally in place. We know where to shop. We have season tickets for the symphony. We like our doctors. I’ve had the same dentist for over twenty-five years, can you imagine? Heck, even our veterinarian knows our kids’ names and asks after them.” She chuckled briefly. “I can’t imagine starting from scratch on all of that, and then there’s the house. We love that house. It’s full of good memories for us, and the thought of leaving it makes me very sad.”
I could well imagine. The years following my divorce, however amicable it may have been, had been tumultuous. I had raised two teenagers, adjusted to condominium living, met and married Armando, launched a business with Strutter and Margo. After all that upheaval, I looked forward to a peaceful old age in the same place with the same people.
“There’s no chance that Denny and his wife will ever want to move back to New England?”
“See, that’s another thing. Say Rog and I do commit to this change, sell the house, make the move. What’s to say that in two years or five or ten Denny and Joy won’t get a hankering to come back to where they grew up? Then where would we be?”
I pondered that for a few more paces. “How about Joy? Where are her parents?”
“Her mom’s been gone since Joy was in high school, had an early coronary. Her dad remarried quickly, as middle-aged men with kids tend to do, and Joy never really hit it off with her stepmother. They’re somewhere in the Midwest, so that’s not really an issue.”
We completed our second lap and approached the Building One entrance.
“It’s the grandparent thing that’s so problematic.” Ginny paused with one hand on the door. “I never dreamed it would be so important to me to see Denny’s kids grow up. I thought I’d be the benevolent-but-detached type. I guess you can’t know about these things until you get there.”
That brought me up short. At the moment, I didn’t know for certain what sort of grandmother I would be, but I was about to find out—in spades.
“It’s tough stuff,” I agreed. We returned to our duties, both deep in thought.
~
Late in the afternoon I heard Emma’s boss Jimmy, or maybe Isabel, clatter down the stairs and depart for the day. Feigning nonchalance, I carried two mugs of fresh coffee up to Emma’s workspace. She was on the phone, a perpetual state of being for a real estate paralegal, but she finished up quickly and disconnected. Before we could be interrupted by another call, she punched the series of buttons that switched on the voicemail system and accepted her coffee gratefully.
“Thanks, Momma. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to shoot the breeze with you for a few minutes. I’ve hardly seen you to talk to since Friday.” I sank into her visitor’s chair and put my mug down carefully between two stacks of documents on her desk. To the untrained eye the office looked chaotic, but I knew better than to disarrange anything.
“I know, it’s been crazy up here. It’s not just your referrals. Jimmy’s been networking again, and now we’re hooked up with a broker who specializes in problem refi’s, God help me. I’m drowning in packets. We’re doing two to four closings a day. It’s nuts.” She closed her eyes and sipped a little coffee. I took advantage of her momentary inattention to survey the area for books and spotted the tote bag in a corner with Emma’s purse. I wondered why she didn’t just leave the books in her apartment, since she couldn’t possibly have time to read at work.
“How are you adjusting to the idea of being Auntie Emma by springtime?” I carefully avoided looking at the corner.
“Better than you’re adjusting to becoming Granny Kate, is my bet,” she retorted. I winced.
“Sounds like an apple you’d use for baking pies. Can’t I just be Kate?” I pleaded.
“Nope. You have to be Gramma or Nana or something. It’s in the rulebook.”
I lunged at the opening, however miniscule. “Been reading up?” I allowed my gaze to stray to the bag
spilling over with books.
She smiled knowingly. “Aha, now we get to the real reason behind the apparently casual visit from Mom. I was wondering when you’d get around to it.”
“Once a mother, always a mother,” I confirmed, hoping she wouldn’t miss my double meaning. “The worst part is, it was Armando who picked up on it first.”
“He is a perceptive little devil,” she sighed. “Remind me never to play poker with him. I was going to talk to you about it, but I wanted to do some research on single parenting first, get my ducks lined up. I’ve done a lot on line, of course. These,” she waved at the books, “are just to give my eyes a break. I stare at a lighted screen all day as it is.”
“I hear you. So what have you learned so far?” I chose my words and my tone carefully, something I seem to need to do more often now that my children aren’t children any more. I no longer have the authority to lay down the law. Opinions and suggestions are my stock in trade at this stage. I know those should be put forth only when requested, but sometimes I can’t seem to help myself.
Emma shoved back her chair and propped her feet on the desk, holding her coffee mug on her chest. “Not a great deal that I didn’t already know. I’m sure you think this is all very sudden and was prompted by Joey’s and Justine’s news last week, but the truth is, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
“Huh. You never mentioned motherhood to me outside of an occasional someday-when-I-get-married conversation when you were heavily involved with one fellow or another.”
She smiled wryly. “Yeah, or another or another or another. There have been so many, and none of them ever works out in the end. Sooner or later I realize I’d be much happier on my own and cut them loose. You know that.”
I did know that. Emma’s good looks, loving nature and natural exuberance had attracted a steady stream of boyfriends since she had turned fifteen. A few of those relationships had been serious and endured for a year or two. Most, though, had been brief romances that evolved into lasting friendships. Emma had a talent for keeping the people she loved, or had once loved, close to her, and the endings to her involvements were rarely acrimonious.
“You do seem more content on your own, but that makes it all the more curious that you’re considering shattering your precious solitude by taking on a child. If you think a man can be demanding, wait until you see what a baby does do your life. You’ve worked in daycare, Emma. You know what infants are. What’s this really all about?”
She shrugged. “Hormones partially, I’m sure. I’m a female in my prime reproductive years, and the nesting urges are all there. I’ve always wanted kids. It’s finding a man I can tolerate for the long haul that’s the hard part. One day it hit me that I didn’t have to have a long-term relationship with a man in order to have a child. Frankly, it was a huge relief.”
“Okay,” I said a little desperately, “so you can have a child on your own these days. That doesn’t mean you must. Opportunity doesn’t equal obligation.” I heard myself beginning to lecture and stopped. Listen, Kate, you’re here to listen. I sipped my cooling coffee.
“You know you can count on Armando and me no matter what you decide to do. But oh, Em, what if the child isn’t born one hundred percent perfect and healthy? What if he or she requires full-time supervision or special programs or expensive medical care? Where will the time and money come from?” I blurted.
A glint came into my daughter’s eyes, and I realized that I had gone too far. Emma was intelligent enough to have considered all the possibilities. She also knew perfectly well that if it came right down to it, Armando and I and Michael and Sheila would open our days, nights and bank accounts to care for a child of hers. She adroitly turned the conversational tables.
“Gosh, you’re right, Momma. I hadn’t given that a moment’s thought. Thank goodness I have my mother here to guide me.” She pretended to think for a few seconds. “Guess I’ll have to take fertility drugs and produce a whole bunch of babies like Kate Gosselin or Octomom, get myself a TV show to support us. Then I’ll find myself a plastic surgeon and a personal trainer and pose for Playboy.” Her face was expressionless, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
I matched her deadpan for deadpan. “All right, now you’re thinking. The same people who are horrified by pet overpopulation seem to be fascinated when a human being drops a litter, so the more, the merrier. Becoming a public spectacle absolutely sounds like a plan.”
Emma’s face softened, and I breathed more easily. “Like I said, it’s good to know you’re in my corner.”
I picked up my mug and got to my feet. It was time to retreat and hope for the best, yet another parenting skill I was learning to exercise more frequently. “At least I know what to get you for Christmas,” I said, heading for the stairs.
“Oh, and what’s that?”
“A turkey baster,” I fired over my shoulder. Not a bad parting shot, all things considered.
Seven
Since I’d talked with Strutter on Sunday, she had been on tenterhooks, awaiting the results of Lavinia Henstock’s neurological evaluation. I finally took pity on her and invited her to tag along on my visit late Thursday afternoon. I knew both ladies would be happy to see her.
Even though I was expected, I tapped on the front door tentatively, not wanting to end Ada’s one break of the day if Lavinia were still napping.
“Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf!” yapped Henry, the Henstocks’ dog, effectively shattering whatever peace might have reigned inside the house.
To our surprise it was Lavinia, not Ada, who opened the door. “Henry, do be quiet for once in your life,” she admonished the stocky, terrier-sized mongrel before focusing on Strutter and me on the porch. I had momentary misgivings, wondering if she would remember who we were, but I needn’t have worried. “Kate, Charlene, how lovely to see you both. Do come in.” Her face wreathed in smiles, she stood back to let us enter. One hand firmly gripped Henry’s collar. “Let me look at you. Well, you just look wonderful,” she beamed, releasing Henry to give each of us a brief hug.
“Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf!” Henry concurred, dancing dangerously around Lavinia’s legs.
Strutter frowned at him. “Better tell Margo to get John and Rhett over here for a few more lessons,” she muttered, but she smiled at Lavinia gamely. “You’re looking lovely yourself, Lavinia.”
I agreed. The old lady had obviously taken pains with her appearance. Her classic shirtdress, dotted with plum-colored flowers, was freshly ironed, and her wispy gray hair had been successfully corralled into a neat bun. I don’t know what I had expected, but this Lavinia, though aged, was every inch the pulled-together hostess.
“Do come into the parlor,” she urged. “I’m sure you’ve had a long day and are looking forward to your tea. Sister, our guests are here.” This last was trilled down the hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “Make yourselves comfortable while I see what’s keeping Ada and put this dratted dog out back.” She whisked out with Henry at her heels.
“I’m all for that,” Strutter commented. “Cute mutt, but he’s a broken hip waiting to happen.” I couldn’t disagree, having some personal history with Henry in that area.
We settled ourselves on the sofa as Ada wheeled an old-fashioned teacart into the room. It was obviously a relic from their days in the Victorian next door. “I know this doesn’t go with our little bungalow, but it’s an old friend, and we simply couldn’t part with it,” she said without preamble. “Charlene, I’m so glad you could join us. How are those two beautiful children of yours? Do you have any photographs with you?”
Strutter was happy to oblige and produced a handful of prints from her purse. Their small talk gave me a chance to assess this new state of things. I was, quite frankly, amazed. The woman before me bore no resemblance to the agitated weeper of the previous week. This was the Ada I remembered, the clear-eyed older sister and mistress of the house. Her hair was freshly permed, her sensible shoes gleamed with polish, an
d the ancient teacart groaned under its burden of delectable goodies.
The demeanor of the two sisters flummoxed me. It was as if I had imagined my last meeting with Ada, or perhaps I was the one whose mental faculties were failing. Before I got too far down that path, Lavinia returned and cleared up my confusion.
“Would you be good enough to pour, Sister?” she asked Ada, then addressed Strutter and me. “A little tremor left over from my recent unpleasantness, don’t you know. Just a tiny stroke, thank goodness, but those doctors didn’t leave a stone unturned, let me tell you. By the time they finished poking and prodding and sticking me with needles, I felt exactly like a pin cushion,” she confided. “That big machine that clanked so was the worst. I couldn’t hear myself think, and I had to keep absolutely still for the longest time.”
“An MRI,” Ada explained as Lavinia fussed with plates and napkins. As requested, she took up her position behind the teapot and filled three bone china cups. “Cream or lemon?” she asked me, smiling at what must have been the astonishment on my face.
I finally found my tongue. “Lemon, please, and a little sugar. A stroke? That must have been very upsetting for you, Lavinia, but it’s hard to believe that’s what it was. You look so well.” I ignored Strutter, who was telegraphing what-the-heck-is-going-on-here to me as she accepted her cup from Ada.
“It was a TIA,” Ada explained once again. “It stands for a transient ischemic attack, and the key word here is transient. The symptoms disappear very quickly, and medication is prescribed to prevent future blood clots.”
Lavinia picked up the story again. “It wasn’t really upsetting, at least to me,” she said, looking at her sister with sympathy. “I didn’t even know it had happened until Ada insisted that we see Dr. Petersen right away. She called a taxi, and off we went before I knew what was what. It doesn’t seem to matter how old we get. Ada is still my big sister.” She smiled fondly at Ada, whose eyes were very soft, and I felt myself growing a bit misty, as well. Strutter plunked down her teacup and openly wiped her eyes with her napkin.
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