by Jean Stone
She should have been working. She should have been looking at last-minute lists in order to be certain Irene would be pleased.
But after Jo dropped her mother and Ted off at their new condo, swapped vehicles so she was back in her Honda, Jo somehow found herself on Route 7 headed south. South toward Stockbridge. South toward Great Barrington.
She hadn’t been down there in years, not since she and Brian had gone to the fair one long-ago September. She couldn’t remember if she’d been in college or still in high school. She was beginning to feel an odd sense of relief that the lines of the past no longer seemed rigid, but a blend of one yesterday into another.
She stopped at LeeAnn’s Diner, which was chrome-colored and shiny and had been there for more decades than Jo had been alive.
A young waitress wore a crisp, white cropped shirt, black pants, and a belly-button ring that shone like the exterior siding of the place. Jo asked her for coffee and pumpkin pie and if there was a local phone book that she might see.
The waitress delivered the phone book first. Jo turned the pages with surprising nonchalance. He’d been dead and gone more than twenty years; chances were good his widow had moved on.
And then there it was: Lyons, Samuel. 45 Rabbit Run Road.
She tipped her head to one side, again surprised that she felt no real emotion. Curiosity, but no real emotion.
“Can you tell me how to get to Rabbit Run Road?” she asked, when the waitress returned with her coffee and pie.
The girl gave her directions; it wasn’t far.
Then Jo ate her pie, drank most of her coffee, paid her check, said thank you, and left. Not with haste, not with anticipation, still with only curiosity, she left.
It was a small clapboard house painted beige with white trim. A few pumpkins were clustered around tall cornstalks that rested against a white pillar on the front porch. A trio of deep red and golden Indian corn hung festively on the front door. A mailbox stood on the tree belt. “Lyons” was printed above the number forty-two. She moved her eyes from the mailbox to the front door of the house. She tried to picture her father living here, going up and down the three concrete steps and in and out the door on his way to work and home again, in and out of life, while Jo had been sitting by her bedroom window, looking out onto the street, wondering where he was and when she’d see him and if she would at all.
She wondered if he’d brought the lunch pail to Great Barrington—the lunch pail that she’d bought him at Sears, Roebuck for his birthday the year before he left, the black metal thing that had an arch-shaped top for his Thermos filled with coffee, and two silver latches on the outside to keep his sandwich (bologna and cheese) and his cookies (three Oreos) and his apple or his pear (depending on the season) protected until each lunchtime, thanks to her, he’d said.
Staring at the small house, Jo realized that her heart was aching, and her eyes had welled with tears, over a foolish lunch pail that she’d not known she remembered.
She wondered what things he had remembered about her, and if they’d been foolish, too.
Jo stopped her car.
It wasn’t all your father’s fault that he left, her mother had said. I was certainly to blame that he never saw you. I never gave him a reason to stay.
Suddenly the front door opened. Jo’s first instinct was to jam the shift into “Drive,” to get out of there before she was caught. But the person who emerged was a tiny, gray-haired woman. She seemed pleasant and unthreatening in her too-large cotton sweater and old, faded jeans.
“Looking for something?” the woman asked, and Jo knew it was Doris Haines, the junior-high science teacher who’d run off with her father.
She blinked. She reminded herself that she’d done nothing wrong.
Then with more courage than Jo knew she had, she turned off the ignition and got out of the car.
“My father was Sam Lyons,” she said as clearly as if she’d said his name just yesterday.
Doris Haines scooted her hands up into the big sleeves of her sweater. “Jo Lyons,” she said. “My, you turned into a beauty.”
They had tea in the kitchen of the tiny, four-room home where her father had gone after he’d left Marion. And Jo. Doris told her that, yes, Sam had passed on more than twenty years ago; she’d had him cremated like he wanted; his ashes taken by the current of the Housatonic River. She was a nice, kindly woman who made no excuses for what she and Jo’s father had done. They’d married soon after his divorce had been final; they’d never had kids.
Jo was surprised by that: in her quest to push everything down, out of sight, out of mind, she’d never considered that she might have half siblings somewhere in the world.
Then Doris abruptly said, “He talked about you sometimes. He hated that he hadn’t been allowed to see you.”
Jo nodded. “My mother said she was a madwoman when he left.”
The woman smiled a gentle smile. “Your mother? Oh, it wasn’t because of her. It was your grandfather who’d threatened Sam. Said he’d see him rot in hell before he’d let him see his girls.”
“My grandfather?” Jo asked, then she laughed. “No. It couldn’t have been him.” He’d never been angry; he’d never been mean, not once right up until he had died, a dozen years ago.
“Oh, it was him, all right. He confronted your father right here one night. I sat in the kitchen, hearing it all.”
“My grandfather?” Jo repeated.
“Sam said he was only being protective. Protective of you. Protective of your mother. Sam understood that; he didn’t blame him.”
Jo looked around the room, trying to picture her father, her grandfather there, doing battle.
Then Doris got up and went to a small built-in cupboard in the corner of the room. She moved around some papers, a photo album, some tiny boxes. Then she pulled out a small box and handed it to Jo. Inside was a long silver chain with a charm in the shape of an oak tree.
“Your father bought this when he read in the paper that you’d be graduating college. He never sent it, though. Didn’t want to ‘upset your apple cart,’ he said. He died before he changed his mind.” The woman sighed. “It was his way of saying he wanted you to grow tall and strong, sturdy as an oak, in your body and your mind. I believe he’d feel you’ve done just that.”
Jo studied the small gift. Her throat closed, her eyes swelled.
“Would you like a picture?” Doris Haines then asked. “A photo of Sam?” She offered a faded color snapshot of a young, laughing man with light-colored hair and a bright, wide smile. He sat on a rowboat, a bundle of trout at his feet. It was her father’s face, exactly as she now remembered him. Exactly the way she hadn’t been able to visualize him for so many years.
Tucking the photo into the jewelry box, Jo covered it with the necklace. Then she thanked Doris Haines and left the small house, wondering if her mother had ever learned the truth, or if she’d accepted the blame because of her guilt.
Outside in the car, Jo set the gift in the glove box. She’d keep it there until she could decide where she would put it—somewhere safe, somewhere close by so she could look at it whenever she needed to.
They’d spent the morning and into the afternoon at the stables. Cassie had her lesson, then she convinced Andrew and Irene to take a trail ride with her.
Andrew was given “Stormy,” the most mild-mannered horse in the barn. Stormy had a hard time keeping up, but that was just fine with Andrew.
Then they drove into Boston.
They went to the aquarium and ate at Legal Seafood and did the Museum of Science and the iMax Theater. Andrew secretly hoped the fun they were having might help change Cassie’s mind about contacting her mother, about wanting to see her.
He should have known that trying to manipulate your child often doesn’t work.
Dear Mom, Cassie typed into Andrew’s laptop. It was after eleven by the time they dropped Irene at the castle and went home to the cottage. It was after eleven and Cassie should be in bed, but
she claimed she’d slept in the car. When he tried to argue she said, “Come on, Dad, you promised,” which was true.
It was also true that he’d told Irene he’d promised and, the last he had known, two against one never worked. Especially when the two were women and the one was a guy.
So there they sat at the kitchen table. He’d pulled a chair close to Cassie’s so he could read over her shoulder. I saw your picture in Buzz and wanted to write to you.
Andrew had no idea his daughter could type so well. She’d been asking for her own computer. Maybe he could buy one with his next paycheck from the magazine. He supposed he’d have to learn about parental controls and all that high-tech kind of crap.
She stopped typing and looked at him. “Well?” she asked.
He realized he’d been daydreaming, avoiding the task at hand. He reread what she’d typed. “Would you mind changing Buzz to read ‘a magazine’? I don’t want her to make any connection of the column to me.”
Cassie highlighted, deleted, typed “a magazine.” “Now what?”
“Say it’s been a long time since you’ve seen her and that you were wondering if you could go there for a visit.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you and I was wondering if I could go there for a visit.
Andrew smiled.
Then she added, Dad said it’s okay with him.
He ruffled Cassie’s hair. He wondered if she should add that Andrew could bring her out in the summer during school vacation. He’d have to check the schedule at Second Chances. The summer would no doubt be booked with wedding on top of wedding—he’d worry about that later. Besides, it was too soon to be specific, and it might not be a good idea to let Patty know that he’d be going, too. She might not agree that an eleven-year-old should not be going halfway around the globe unchaperoned.
“I think that’s fine,” Andrew said.
“Maybe I should tell her that I miss her.”
He shifted on his chair. “Well, okay. Sure.”
I miss you, Mom.
He stared at the words on the screen. He nodded, because what else could he do? Some days—most days—he’d forgotten that Cassie even had a mother. He thought she had, too. To see it in print was—well, it was disconcerting.
“Okay,” he said. “That looks good to me. Are you happy with it?”
Cassie nodded, then hit the SEND button before she—or he—had a chance to change her mind.
37
Elaine’s father stayed overnight Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. He slept in Kory’s room; he said it gave him a chance to practice shooting hoops. During the day he was “all business” he said, though they laughed while they scrubbed vegetables, pounded veal, snipped parsley, and more, while they recounted stories, one after the other, of the “good old days” at the restaurant. Even Karen got in on the family act, reluctant at first, but won over by her grandfather.
For Elaine, it was so nice to be with her father, to work alongside him. How long had it been since they’d had time like this together, without Lloyd or then Martin and always a houseful of kids?
It was nice to be with him. Yet, the cartons of Elaine’s mother’s possessions sat in the back hall, unopened, undisturbed. She told herself all that mattered now was Irene, and presenting her with a menu that she would simply be mad about, mad in the good way.
Andrew agreed to let Cassie go to Elaine’s Wednesday night as long as Cassie promised not to let anyone think she knew Irene, and as long as Irene promised not to let on that she knew Cassie.
Even though Elaine knew otherwise, it was best to forget that, he’d warned.
So far, the week had gone fine. A glitch about the ceremony (Irene had slipped and suggested that Andrew walk her down the aisle. He had turned ruby red but she quickly covered her mistake. Everyone had laughed; they didn’t know it wasn’t funny); a gaffe with the flowers (“These were the ones at my mother’s funeral,” Andrew had said in a familiar way to Irene, because, after all, she’d chosen them. Lily had looked at them oddly, but Irene had said, “Oh. They must have been lovely”). Other than that, he and Irene had pulled off the wedding planning with his secrets intact.
The chaos, the tension, the hectic days, had accomplished something else: Andrew had had little time to think about Jo, who’d been acting standoffish, or about Lily, who seemed excessively syrupy, or Sarah, who was more introspective than usual. He supposed people acted differently when surrounded by fervor. Women, he thought, and men, too.
“Remember,” he reminded Irene and Cassie sternly as he pulled into Elaine’s driveway and turned off the ignition, “not a word. Not a hint. Neither of you knew the other one until tonight. No winking, no giggling.”
“My lips are sealed,” Irene said with a playful gesture of fingers across her mouth.
“Scout’s honor,” Cassie said, which was pretty funny because she’d never been a Girl Scout.
“Just be sure to point out Jo to me,” Irene said.
With a gulp and a sigh Andrew shook his head, got out of the car, and feared he was doomed.
A sumptuous array of epicurean selections and a plethora of desserts. “Sumptuous” had been Lily’s word; “plethora” had been Irene’s.
Elaine surveyed the buffet table after her guests had served themselves and moved into the family room. She was glad she’d taken the extra time to use the good china and sterling; she’d even dressed in one of her new outfits that complemented the tiny, pale peach-colored flowers that rimmed the dinner plates. With the proper linen tablecloth, the chandelier dimmed, and a lovely, low floral arrangement—“Use neutral colors,” Bob had instructed when he’d called the same florist where the Sunday roses had come from (funny how once she’d mentioned it to Lloyd, the roses had stopped coming)—the table resonated of McNulty’s in Saratoga, of glamour, of elegance, of class. Without her father, she could never have done this.
She stood there a moment, savoring the background sounds of spirted conversation and clink-clinking of utensils. She marveled at what stood next to the floral arrangement: a miniature White Chocolate Lace Bridal Veil that her father had crafted into an exceptional, edible, one-of-a-kind sculpture.
“So?” her father asked, stepping from the kitchen into the dining room. “Did the old man do okay?” In honor of the evening he’d worn a tall white chef’s hat that Karen had laundered and ironed to crispness.
She smiled and hugged him. “I can’t believe you pulled this off, Dad,” she said. He had worked tirelessly.
“You helped. Karen did, too.”
Yes, it had been fun. Good family fun, like in the old days when she and her father and her mother had been a team. She only hoped that she could find a caterer to faithfully re-create her father’s recipes and present them as brilliantly as he had done here.
“I can do it again tomorrow if you want,” her father added. “If Mrs. Benson doesn’t find a recipe she likes.”
“She’ll love them all,” Elaine whispered. She looped her arm through his, turned her eyes back to the table, and realized that if she’d married Martin, if she’d not had her makeover, none of this might have happened. She might have remained old Elaine, unhappy, but not knowing why.
Then her father smiled. He crooked his index finger at Elaine. She knew what they’d do next.
With footsteps like tiptoes, they moved toward the doorway, then bent their heads in unison to carefully eavesdrop. It was what they’d done when Elaine had been young: according to her father, it was the only way to know for certain that the guests were having a good time, that the food was acceptable.
“You simply have to have the veal,” Lily commented.
“Did you try the eggplant, Irene?” From Sarah.
“And the salad,” Jo said. “It’s wonderful.”
“Uncle Andrew, what’s this?”
“Just eat it, it’s good.”
“I shredded the beets for the salad,” Karen chimed in with a sparkle of pride that floated to Elaine and filled he
r, as well. “It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”
“Well, I only know one thing, and that is it’s all wonderful,” said Irene. “My friends will be envious that I’ve managed to shanghai Bob McNulty’s recipes from the attic. Where is that man, anyway?”
Elaine looked at her father. “Your public is calling, Dad.” She kissed his cheek. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said. He adjusted his chef’s hat and put on his best smile.
Elaine waited a few minutes before following him, because he deserved to receive his compliments alone, and because it wasn’t the right time for her friends to see her get emotional.
Andrew had been right, something was different.
From the minute Lily had opened the door at Elaine’s house and welcomed them in, he had sensed the shift in attitude even more strongly than he had the previous week. When she kiss-kissed his cheek, her lips didn’t meet flesh. Then she quickly dismissed him and moved on to Irene.
Maybe he’d been studying the women so long that he had developed their intuition. Or maybe he’d become stupidly sensitive. Whatever it was, he really wished things would just get back to normal.
He took another bite of the veal, gave kudos to Elaine’s father, and ignored the ring of the doorbell and the way Lily leaped from her chair to answer it.
He focused instead on watching his daughter. It was both neat and bittersweet to see her become caught up in the wedding plans, the laughter and the chatter of lively women-things. He was reminded that Cassie wouldn’t be a kid forever, that she wouldn’t always be only his.
“Well, look who’s here,” Lily announced and all heads turned to the doorway, and suddenly Andrew had confirmation that, yes, things were different. In black jeans, a black turtleneck, and a black leather jacket, stood the epitome of contrast to fair-haired, fair-skinned Lily. “I’m sure the girls remember Damien,” she said. “He owns The Bear Claw Tavern. I thought he’d be a marvelous help in selecting the menu.”