by Sherry Kyle
Claire and his mother helped Sandy arrange the food. Mounds of fried chicken sat heaped on a plate. Sandy placed a vegetable tray in the middle of the table next to the potato salad and fruit. Michael set the cooler off to the side and opened the lid to find cans of soda and bottled water mixed in with the ice. "Who wants one?" he offered.
Claire's hand shot up. "Is there diet?"
Michael pulled out a Diet Coke.
"You young things worry too much about your weight." His mother leaned over to take a peek. "Diet soda has just as much sugar. Give me a dew, son."
"Mountain Dew?" Michael chuckled, then handed his mother the soda.
Sandy placed the napkins on the table. "Bottled water, please."
"Me too." Debbie chimed in.
Michael pulled out two water bottles. "Martin?"
Martin was situated at the head of the table. "You don't remember?" he asked with slurred speech.
Had it been so long since they've shared a meal that Michael couldn't remember what they used to drink? He dug his hand in the cooler and pulled out a Dr Pepper. "How about one of these?"
Martin nodded.
Michael passed the soda to Debbie and grabbed a Dr Pepper for himself. It was a lucky guess. He couldn't recall the last time he had had the soft drink. Then, like a punch in the gut, he remembered. It was that night. The night Martin's car got hit after Michael spilled out his past. He dropped the lid shut and took a deep breath to steady himself. He would make it through lunch—and keep his emotions in check. Michael sat down next to his wife at the picnic table, reached over, and grabbed a drumstick.
Claire couldn't believe her good fortune when Nancy had called and invited her and Geraldine for a picnic lunch. She never imagined she'd meet Martin DeWitt—the man from her mother's journal. And the letter.
Since Debbie and Martin arrived, Claire couldn't stop staring in Martin's direction as he sat in his wheelchair by the picnic table. Probably he had been a good-looking man when he was in his early twenties. He had a nice head of dark brown hair, and mysterious hazel eyes. She tried to picture her mother falling for him when they were young. What did the letter say? They rode the roller coasters at the Boardwalk, hung out at the beach, and held hands as they strolled under the stars. Claire tried to imagine Martin as a romantic all those years ago.
Claire mulled over the conversation she'd had with Geraldine as they took in the view a short time ago.
"A drunk driver plowed into Martin's car." Geraldine's voice shook. "Left him paralyzed from the waist down and slow from the brain injury."
Claire's eyes misted.
"Debbie and Sandy have been best friends ever since. They're kindred spirits."
They had appeared that way when Sandy introduced her to Debbie when the couple first arrived. "Claire, I'd like you to meet Debbie DeWitt." Sandy had gestured to the woman standing next to her.
So, this was Martin's wife. "Hi, nice to meet you." Claire shook Debbie's hand.
"Nice to meet you too." Debbie smiled and placed an arm around Geraldine's shoulder. "And it's good to see you too, Geraldine."
"The good Lord has yet to call me to my heavenly home." Geraldine grinned.
Claire had studied Debbie as the women chatted. She was a beautiful woman—with her straight teeth, blonde hair, and a dainty nose. She must be approaching fifty, but Claire didn't think she looked a day over thirty-five. Debbie was one of those women who aged gracefully and naturally.
At this point, Claire was more interested to get to know Martin and whether he was the writer of the letter. Now with lunch finished, Claire had to find a way to talk with him alone. She tossed the paper plates in the trashcan. How could she orchestrate a few minutes of his time? It didn't look like it was going to happen. She glanced at Sandy and Debbie chatting and laughing together as they folded the tablecloth. And Geraldine, bless her heart, had closed her eyes as she sat on the rock enjoying the sunshine. Michael was packing the picnic basket in his BMW.
"Photo time!" Sandy cheered. She grabbed her digital camera from the car. "Debbie, stand close to Martin so I can get a picture of you two first."
Michael moaned. "You have boxes of pictures to put into albums as it is, plus the ones in our computer."
"Come on, it'll be fun." She snapped a photo of the DeWitts.
"Okay, let's get it over with." Michael placed a hand on Martin's shoulder. "Cheese."
Claire's mind whirled. Michael was obviously ready to leave. How could she stall? An idea hit her. "There's a perfect place for a picture down the trail."
Sandy smiled. "The one down to the beach?"
"Martin and my mother can't go down there." Michael shook his head.
Claire saw her chance. "I'll stay here with them. Go on ahead."
Michael's brows furrowed.
"Thanks, Claire. That's sweet of you." Debbie placed her hand on the back of her husband's neck. "Okay, Martin? We'll only be a minute."
Sandy grinned at Michael. "And when we get back, Claire or Debbie can take a picture of you and me with your mom. "She hooked her small camera around her wrist.
Claire hoped it'd be more than a minute. She wanted to find out all she could about her mother and Martin's relationship. She sat down at the picnic table and watched Debbie, Sandy, and Michael disappear down the trail.
"Martin, do you remember my mother, Emily James?" The question popped out like a kernel of corn in a popcorn machine the minute the three were out of view.
Martin's eyebrows shot up. "Emily was your mother? Yes, I couldn't forget her. She was my teenage crush." His halting speech was painful to listen to. Claire's heart went out to him.
Now she was getting somewhere. She moved closer and focused on Martin's caring eyes.
Martin continued. "We spent time together one summer." A grin tugged at his mouth. "She came to visit from . . ."
"San Diego." Claire finished his sentence. She didn't want to be rude, but she didn't have much time. "Martin, do you remember writing my mother a letter?" Claire leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table.
"A letter?" Martin's eyebrows furrowed. "No, I don't."
Claire reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the tattered envelope. "This one. Someone with the initial 'M' wrote this to Mom back in 1972." She handed the letter to Martin.
Her heart pounded as she waited. She glanced over her shoulder. Geraldine stood and headed in their direction. Hurry, Martin. What did she see in his eyes? Confusion? Embarrassment? Guilt? He flipped the envelope over.
"July 1972." He shook his head.
"Claire, dear, is there any fruit left?" Geraldine called as she ambled toward the table. "It keeps me regular."
"In the cooler." Claire pointed. Her voice held a hint of annoyance. She shouldn't treat Geraldine that way, but at the moment she needed to find out all she could from Martin.
"I didn't write this." Martin's eyes reached hers.
His words registered in her brain. "If you didn't, then who?"
"Claire, can you help me, dear?" Geraldine held on to her walker with one hand as she reached down with the other. "I can't seem to grab the grapes."
Debbie, Sandy, and Michael approached. Claire closed her eyes and exhaled. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Lord, help me. She jumped up from the picnic table, leaned down, and picked a bunch of grapes for Geraldine.
"What do you have there, honey?" Debbie came up beside her husband. "May I?"
Martin gave Debbie the letter. She read it aloud.
"That is so romantic." Sandy's hand touched the side of her face. "And sweet."
"I agree. But—" Debbie bit her lip.
"I didn't write it." Martin glared at Michael. "But I can guess who did."
Michael shook his head.
Sandy looked from Michael to Martin and back again. "Can I see the letter?"
Debbie handed the piece of paper to Sandy. "Michael. This is your handwriting."
The weight of the truth pushed on Claire's shoulders
. She was right. Michael had been hiding something all along. It was time he faced the truth.
Michael looked over his wife's shoulder. His laugh sounded forced. "Martin and I hung out with Emily one summer. You know, teenagers. I probably got those sappy words out of a book. I didn't mean anything by it."
Sandy handed the letter back to Claire. "I received quite a few love letters myself when I was a teenager. Of course, I didn't keep them." She snuggled into Michael's side. "They didn't mean anything to me once I met the love of my life."
"I thought it was from Martin." Claire tucked the letter back in her purse. "My mother wrote about him in her journal."
Sandy turned to Michael. "Michael, I thought we went to Emily's funeral because we were down south visiting your mother." Sandy folded her arms across her chest. "How come you never told me you knew her when you were a teenager?"
"Look, baby, I didn't think it was important." Michael wrapped his arm around his wife. "Can we talk about this later?" He gave her a peck on the cheek.
The air felt thick.
Claire saw Debbie touch Martin's hand and pass him a tender look.
Sandy turned toward Geraldine. "Mom, did you know Michael and Emily had a relationship?" She frowned.
"Vaguely." Geraldine picked a purple grape and popped it into her mouth.
Claire could see the hurt in Sandy's eyes. She never intended for Sandy to see the letter, let alone upset her. Claire felt like crawling down the nearest gopher hole.
Twenty minutes later, after saying good-bye to the DeWitts, Claire sat in the backseat of Michael's car next to Geraldine. The silence in the front seat was unnerving. Michael gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, while Sandy leaned against the passenger-side door. Neither of them said a word. Geraldine, on the other hand, talked nonstop.
"Your fried chicken was amazing, Sandy. You'll have to share your recipe with Blake." Her hands flew here and there like a chicken trying to escape beheading. "And those snickerdoodles . . . my, my, my, were they delicious."
Claire looked out the window as Geraldine rambled on. The older woman knew a thing or two about Michael and her mother's relationship, she was sure of that. What was her part in all of this? Claire folded her arms tight across her chest. If she hadn't shown Martin the letter, Sandy and Michael might be talking and laughing about how Michael ate four drumsticks or how Sandy forgot the salt and pepper. Instead, they were at odds with each other.
Suddenly Claire had the urge to call Blake. He had become such a confidant the past month. He would know what to make of the situation. Either that, or he'd tell her to move on with her life. But she couldn't do that now. She would get to the bottom of this even if it caused Sandy or Geraldine discomfort. Tonight she'd talk to Geraldine about the letter, and then she'd show her the picture frame—the one that looked strangely similar to the one Geraldine had in her own bedroom. Maybe it wasn't so strange after all.
28
Claire paced the floor in the family room while Geraldine napped. Once they had arrived home, the older woman had gone straight to her room complaining of heaviness in her chest. Claire wondered if it had anything to do with the letter and her part in keeping it a secret.
Claire plopped down on the couch and flipped through Geraldine's Senior Living magazine. How long would Geraldine sleep? She scanned an article on the importance of exercise as people age, then tossed the magazine on the coffee table.
Outside, a car door slammed. She stood, walked to the kitchen, and looked out the window. Who was that? It couldn't be! "Haley?"
Her sister's beat-up Chevy hugged the curb.
Claire raced through the doorway and down the sidewalk. "Haley." She squeezed her sister tight the second she stepped out of the car. "What are you doing here?"
"It's good to see you too." Haley teased. "I thought I'd check on you. You know, make sure you had a roof over your head and food in your belly."
"Don't I look like it?" Claire twirled around. "Hey, wait a minute." She stepped closer. "It's Mark, isn't it?" She looked into her sister's eyes.
"We're fine." Haley brushed her blonde hair back. "I needed a break, is all."
"A break from what?" Claire pulled the heavy suitcase out of the trunk. "From Mark's drinking?"
"He was doing so well." Haley swiped the stray tears from her cheek, opened the passenger door, and grabbed her pillow, a blanket, and her purse. "But last night he relapsed. A high school buddy came into town—Brett Wilder."
"Wilder?" Claire's mouth dropped. She remembered Brett from high school. He had been known as a partier. She rolled her eyes. "You let Mark go out with Wild Man Wilder?"
"Mark is a grown man, Claire. I'm not his mother. He can make his own decisions."
Claire set the suitcase down. "So, why are you here?"
"They went to a bar." Haley's mouth formed a straight line. "He broke his promise."
Claire touched Haley's shoulder. "That low-down, horrible—"
"Wait a minute." Haley held up her hand. "He's still my husband."
Claire took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and counted to three. "Okay, I'll keep my opinions to myself . . . for now." She picked up the suitcase. "I'm glad you came."
"I'm also here to make sure you're moving on with your life. No more talk of mystery letters, journals, or Mom's past. Plus, I want to see this hunky neighbor of yours."
Haley's timing couldn't have been worse. Just when she was getting to the bottom of her mom's relationship with Michael, her sister showed up. "Blake's at work. He's a police officer. You'll have to wait till tomorrow." Claire shrugged. "Oh, and Geraldine is asleep, so we'll need to be quiet." She pushed the door open with her foot. "You'll be sharing my room, okay? The house is small."
Haley nodded. "Small and adorable." She looked around. "Where did you get all this nice furniture?" She ran a hand over the back of the Victorian-style couch.
"It's Geraldine's. I'm fortunate she furnished the place." Claire set the suitcase down against the family room wall. "My room's the first door on the right." She walked toward the kitchen. "Anything to drink? Coffee? Soda? Water?" She opened the refrigerator.
"Water's fine. I've cut back on caffeine." Haley patted her belly.
"The baby, of course." Claire pulled out two water bottles. She joined Haley in the family room. "How are you feeling?"
"Nauseated most of the time, but I always carry crackers with me." She unzipped her purse and took out a small plastic bag filled with Saltines.
"Claire, you have company." Geraldine appeared, pushing her walker, her hair slightly askew. "Is that Holly?"
"Haley." The sisters spoke at once, then laughed.
"Haley, of course." Geraldine's cheeks flushed pink. "How are you, dear? I didn't know you were coming for a visit."
"Claire didn't know. I surprised her." Haley sat down. She crossed her long legs, a pair of black stilettos peeking from below her designer jeans.
"You didn't have to dress up for me." Claire pointed to Haley's shoes. "How did you drive in those? I can barely walk in the red ones you sent."
"Practice." Haley's mouth twisted into a teasing smile.
"You should have seen Claire the other night, she was breathtaking." Geraldine sat down in the recliner chair next to the fireplace. "I offered to go out with Blake—he's quite smitten with me, you know, but I wanted to give Claire a chance." Geraldine tossed a small blanket over her feet. "Claire, mind getting me water? In a glass, with ice, dear. All those plastic bottles will end up in a landfill." She leaned in Haley's direction. "I like to be environmentally friendly."
Claire walked back to the kitchen. The sight of Geraldine made her heart race. She was a sweet woman, funny even, but her part in keeping the truth from Claire stung. Why would Geraldine hide something as important to her as Michael's relationship with her mother? She exhaled and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. They had been close—like grandmother and granddaughter—and now this rift between them. Claire pressed the button on the fr
eezer door and a few cubes of ice dropped into the glass.
She paused. So, Geraldine left out a few details. Did that make her an ogre? Claire picked up the water pitcher and filled the glass. No. Not an ogre, but definitely a mother covering up for her son. Claire tossed a look over her shoulder.
"Claire, dear. My mouth is parched." Geraldine clicked her tongue.
"Here you go." Claire hurried to the family room, handed her the glass, and sat down on the sofa.
"Oh, thank you, dear." Geraldine took a sip of water.
"Where's Haley?"
"She needed to use the bathroom." Geraldine cupped her hand over her mouth, "She's in the family way."
Claire leaned back against the couch. "And I'm going to be an aunt." What was taking Haley so long? Maybe now was her chance. "Geraldine, can we please talk about Michael and my mother—"
"What's there to talk about, dear? They knew each other when they were teenagers, went out a few times, and wrote letters." Geraldine's hand trembled. She set the glass on the end table.
"But there has to be more . . ."
Claire could hear the water running in the bathroom. Haley would return any second. She glanced down the hall, then back at Geraldine.
"You never forget your first love." Geraldine's voice was low. She kicked the blanket off her feet. "Is it hot in here? I'm sweating."
"You have the cutest bathroom." Haley came toward them, walking like a model. "Seashells and starfish, how adorable. "She glanced at Claire, then Geraldine. "Did I miss something? You two look like you've seen a ghost."
Claire popped up off the couch. "Why don't we get you settled?" She linked arms with her sister. "I bet you're exhausted from your drive." She pulled Haley toward her bedroom. Claire wanted to tuck her sister in her room and get back to her conversation with Geraldine.