The doses of the silent treatment from Mom, the letter Linnie wouldn’t read, and Jane Cannon, with her carefully made-up face and styled hair—the snow might as well have fallen on these problems, too. One issue after another, utterly unresolved, frozen under the cloak of cold denial.
* * *
On Thanksgiving, Maggie and Wren, lugging store-bought rolls and pies, joined their neighbors.
Maggie expected to find Linnie at the Blakes’ but didn’t.
“She had a bad episode,” Sam confided out of the others’ earshot. “Got rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.”
“Oh my God.” Maggie stared, shocked. “Is she okay?”
He ran a hand over his tired face, muffling part of his “For now, I guess?”
Later, leaning against the window, Kate insisted, “She’ll come. I know she will.”
Sam wagged his head. “She already called and told you she wouldn’t be able to make it, sweetie.”
“But we have turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy. She loves mashed potatoes.”
It was heartbreaking how long Kate stood with her cheek pressed to the glass, her gaze fixed on the driveway.
Maggie felt a flare of frustration. That Linnie was hurting and battling addictions, Maggie realized. But why wasn’t she seeking professional help?
Sam finally wheedled his daughter to the dinner table with the promise that she could eat her dessert first. Kate moped through the meal. Maggie felt so sorry for her that, after supper, she hauled some interesting-looking toys upstairs and found Kate in her bedroom. “Want to build Legos with me?”
Kate looked up from her paper dolls. “Those are for babies.” She scowled at the toy basket Maggie had set on the floor (like a failed peace offering, she thought ruefully). “I was busy in here using my imagination,” Kate said angrily. “Thanks a lot.” She scrambled to her feet. “And stop trying to act like my mom.” She kicked Maggie in the shin and bolted. From the den: “You’re not my mom!”
Maggie glowered after her. She was tempted to trample the paper dolls. Hobbling out of the bedroom, she said under her breath, “I would never want to be your mother.”
Then she regretted the mutter. Kate was basically a sad kid acting out, taking it out on someone else.
Maggie just wished she wasn’t that someone.
After the holiday, Maggie texted Linnie to make sure she was okay. Though Linnie responded swiftly, it wasn’t much of a response, just a word: fine. Then, with her next text, she changed the subject. And Maggie didn’t know how to get Linnie to open up. She didn’t even know if she should.
The last Saturday of the month arrived. The book club was meeting at the shop to pick its next read, an occasion Maggie would have welcomed had Sam not blown her Marge cover. Now she didn’t want to go—couldn’t drum up the energy to field their questions or even (assuming the girls had done their research on the history of Margaret Arioli) their sympathy and support. I’m as much of an avoider as Mom, Linnie, and Jane, she thought gloomily. She texted Ran an excuse, then crawled into bed and drew the covers up over her head.
There was one thing, however, that Maggie had to address: her mom’s photo albums. Since returning to the cabin, she’d waited for the right moment to discuss her realization with Wren. But that moment just wouldn’t arrive. The aunt was almost always busy, even at mealtimes now. She carried her slapped-together sandwiches into the studio and got back to work.
Maggie finally decided she couldn’t wait any longer. At the beginning of December, the night before Wren was to leave for New York City, she found the aunt in her studio, poring over some paperwork.
Wren glanced up with a vague smile. “Hey.”
Maggie perched on the edge of a chair and stared out the windows. The wind roared against the lake-facing wall. Though it was dark out, the light by the back room’s exterior door was on, and in its halo, snowflakes twirled. “Are you worried about the weather?”
“No point. I have to head out, regardless. I just hope parts of the thruway aren’t shut down. I don’t relish taking the slow, scenic route to New York. Not this time around.” She lowered her frown to her papers and turned another page. “I’ll be meeting up with a few ceramists. They’ve got contacts that may help me track down some of these less accessible materials. Worth their weight in gold, and for good reason. Certain high-fire glazes…” She whistled softly.
“Pretty?”
“Gorgeous.” Patting the papers against her thigh, she glanced around. “Can’t think of what else I might need. The truck’s packed.”
There were no murky shadows in either damp box. Nothing sat on the long table waiting to be trimmed. But the kiln was open, and Maggie spied some bone-dry greenware on its shelves, probably the work Wren had set aside so she could take care of the last sculpture. “It looks so clean in here.”
“Sam’s doing. Glazing’s a messy business—at least as messy as throwing. As soon as I finished the last firing, he helped me wrap and load the sculpture into my truck, then tackled the disaster in here. I think he was glad for the challenge.” She hummed a sad note. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”
Maggie leaned over the table and rested her chin in her hand. “How did the sculpture turn out?”
“It’s…” The aunt tapped the wheel’s base with the toe of her sneaker before finishing flatly, “Done.”
Maggie straightened in the chair. “There’s something I didn’t tell you about my visit to Carlton.”
The aunt’s mouth curled into a lopsided smile. “You never told me anything about the visit.” She waved a hand when Maggie started apologizing. “Forget about it. I gathered your mom wasn’t open to working things out?”
“No, and I’m sorry about that. I told her you were being more than fair, warning her about the show and telling her to just ignore it if she couldn’t deal with it. But she didn’t see how that would be an option, since it will probably make the news and all. It was…” Maggie tugged at the ends of her hair. “Well, it was obviously a lot easier for her to close her eyes to the situation and lie to herself when no one was putting the truth in the spotlight.”
“That’s the problem.” Wren held the scrolled papers so tightly they crunched. “It’s not the truth in her mind. She thinks I’m lying.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“What do you mean?”
A gust roared, rattling the windows. As if awakened by the wind, the furnace turned on with a clank and rush of air. “That night we stayed at the house, I went looking for Mom after the others had gone to bed. I found her in the living room, flipping through the family albums. Mournfully, you know. Like it was the last time she’d be able to see her parents the way she always had.”
Wren pinched the bridge of her nose. “A final good-bye?”
“Yeah. She was upset. I tried to discuss the situation with her. It wasn’t a productive conversation. Not only didn’t I change her mind, she decided I was siding with you.”
Pressing the scrunched papers against her chest, the aunt swore softly. “I am very sorry about that, Margaret. I was afraid that might happen.”
“She wants me back home.” Maggie ran a hand over her hair. Apologetically: “She thinks you’ve been manipulating me.”
Wren briefly shut her eyes. “Oh God, worse and worse.”
“Well, that’s stupid, and I told her so.” She pulled a curl straight, then brushed it back. “After we argued, Mom headed upstairs. I stuck around in the living room. The albums were open, so I started going through them, not paying much attention, just thinking about you and Mom. But I noticed something—something strange in the pictures, the ones that included my grandparents. I went through them again, more slowly. It struck me that the whole time I was growing up, Mom never left me alone with Gramps.”
“Never?”
“Not that I remember. And in the albums, there isn’t a single photo of me bouncing on his knee, sitting by him at the table, playing at his feet. Gr
andma used to babysit me after school at our house, but I don’t have any recollection of his coming along to help. I mean, that’s not a huge realization. I guess that information has always been in the back of my mind, but I put it down to what Mom and Dad always said about him, how he was so grumpy. Grumpy Gramps. He was grumpy—and distant. But something in those photographs and in my memories of Mom, when she was facing Gramps or even just talking about him outside his presence, makes me think she—”
“Was afraid of him?”
Maggie nodded. “And didn’t trust him.”
For a moment, Wren frowned at the floor. Abruptly: “Is she conscious of that, do you think?”
Maggie shrugged. “Mom’s pretty good at putting problems out of her head and moving on.”
“Some people can do that. Forget the past or rewrite it. Or just blank it out. Run away from it. That’s what Linnie does.”
“Yeah…” Maggie remembered Linnie’s rant the night they drove home from the Cannons’ house. She did do that. And she recommended others do the same. With a tired moan, Maggie got to her feet. “So that’s what I realized from those albums. It’s what I think I learned, anyway. I wanted you to know.”
“Thanks, Margaret. I’m glad you told me, though…” Her voice trailed off. She sighed.
Maggie nodded. What good did this information do? Unless Mom faced what she subconsciously knew, the truth was like a treasure at the bottom of Lake Ontario. It helped nobody.
20
THE NEXT MORNING, Maggie woke to an empty house. She and the aunt had said their good-byes before bedtime the previous night. Up until the moment Wren began shutting off the studio lights, Maggie had hoped her aunt might invite her to come along on the trip. Instead, she’d given her a brisk, one-armed hug and said, “I left Thomas’s and Sam’s numbers on the fridge. If anything happens and you can’t get ahold of me, call one of them. Help yourself to whatever’s in the pantry and fridge. I picked up milk and eggs. Fruit and bread, too. There’s soup in the freezer. Eat it up. You good with holding down the fort for a few days?” Maggie had nodded and quit daydreaming about skyscrapers, fine restaurants, galleries, and museums.
Now from her bed, she stared at the wispy flakes floating by the window. No heavy snow or whipping wind this morning. Wren would be okay.
The cabin felt small and safe, tucked into winter like a puppy curled up on a blanket. Not scary or lonely, just quiet. She brought the quilt up to her chin and closed her eyes. Having three days to herself might not be such a bad thing after all. She went back to sleep.
Later in the morning, she showered and made coffee. Standing at the kitchen window, she considered spending the day doing something other than reading and walking (like getting back to Ran, whose last text she hadn’t answered yet, or writing a couple of emails to Shayna and Jen, or even throwing on the wheel). She was smiling at this last possibility, when a rumble broke the silence.
A car pulled into Wren’s driveway. It was Caleb’s.
Maggie clumsily set down her mug, then jerked away from the window. Her hands flew to her throat. Against her warm fingertips, her pulse galloped.
What was he doing here? What did he want?
When she realized what she was thinking, she exhaled a laugh, a tremulous sound pitched high with hysteria. Christ, Maggie, calm down. It’s just Caleb.
She lowered her shoulders and smoothed back her hair with trembling hands.
The porch steps creaked under Caleb’s weight. He knocked.
She shook her head, impatient with herself, with her instinct to panic (over Caleb, of all people!). Pinning on a smile, she opened the door. “Hey, good morning.” Her voice sounded hoarse. She cleared her throat.
“How’s it going?” He shut the door behind him, stepped out of his damp boots, and crammed his gloves into his pockets. “Wren leave already?” he asked, shrugging off his coat.
“Before I got up.”
“She should be fine. The storm passed through by midnight.” He hung his coat, then pulled an envelope out of one of its pockets. “I heard the snowplows early this morning.”
“You were awake?” She folded her arms across her chest, realizing she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Working on a paper.”
Her hoodie was dangling from one of the hooks by the door. While he said something about his geopolitical class, she grabbed the sweatshirt and pulled it on. “Where’s Fluffster?” She freed her hair from the neckline.
“Back at the house, sleeping. I probably should be doing the same. That essay kicked my ass.”
He did look exhausted. Smudges hung under his eyes.
Feeling calmer, Maggie managed a friendly “How about some coffee?”
“Sounds great.” He collapsed into a chair at the table.
After pouring him a cup, Maggie indicated the envelope with a lift of her chin. “What’s that?”
“Linnie’s letter.”
She sat opposite him. “What are you going to do with it?”
He shrugged. “I was hoping you might have a suggestion.”
“Well…” She cupped the warm mug with both hands and frowned at the envelope. “It’s not right to open another person’s mail, unless you’re a mom or dad and the kid’s young and you need to handle things for her, like a bank account or whatever…” She bit her bottom lip.
“That’s the problem, right? Linnie’s not a kid. And you, Sam, and I—we’re not the parents.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Visiting her old neighborhood was … instructive.”
“Rough place?”
“Beyond rough. I mean, Sam told me about Linnie’s difficult childhood, but until I actually stopped by Mary Tate’s place, I don’t know that that information really sank in. I used to think it wouldn’t be too hard for Linnie to clean up her act if enough friends rally around her, help and love her.” He slumped over his coffee. “But when I got a glimpse of her old world and what she’s up against, and when that Mrs. Tate widened the glimpse with a few details…” He shook his head.
Oh God, what kind of details? Maggie couldn’t bring herself to ask aloud. Linnie had made it plain her childhood had been a nightmare. She set down her mug. “We rally around Linnie because that’s what friends do. But she also rallies around us.” Like how she’d joined in on the road trip. Linnie never had any intention of visiting Baldwinsville. She’d gone just to support Maggie. “Hold on to the letter,” she said, “but don’t open it.”
“Okay.” He brushed the table with the side of his hand. “Sam came over when we got back. I, um … told him about the trip. I hope that’s okay.”
She nodded. They were best friends. She figured Caleb had probably given him the highlights, if the trip’s depressing events could be called that.
She sighed, mentally tallying up her botched missions.
“You know Sam wants the letter,” Caleb continued. “But the more I think about it, the less I want to give it to him. It doesn’t seem right.”
She stared out the window at the gray sky. Sam would be all over that letter. Then he’d be full of suggestions for Linnie. She felt the certainty of this in her gut. “The letter isn’t his to read. Tell Linnie you’ll hold on to it for a month, in case she changes her mind, but that you’re not opening it. If she wants it, it’s hers. If a few weeks pass and she doesn’t ask for it, toss it.”
“Okay.” He raked back his bangs. “I’m glad I asked for your advice.”
“Sure.” She shrugged.
He smiled shyly at her, then hastily lowered his gaze to his coffee.
But not hastily enough.
Maggie had seen the interest in his eyes. She quickly looked away, too, heat flaring under her skin.
Her chest tightened. With regret and sadness. But mostly with panic: Oh my God, no. I can’t, Caleb. I just can’t.
This instinctive no made her sorry for him.
It made her sorry for herself.
If the sound of the waves outside the cabin could cut into her sl
eep, trip up her thoughts, and yank her back to what had happened, what would a hug do? Or a kiss? Or more? She couldn’t imagine handling an intimate relationship.
And finding pleasure? That seemed least likely of all.
A rap on the door made both of them jump. Caleb snatched the letter off the table and hid it under his sweater.
Sam entered with a happy “I’ve got news!” He stomped his boots, then toed and heeled them off, leaving white clumps of snow on the small rug.
“What is it?” Caleb asked. He sounded put out.
Sam grinned. “Huge news.”
“Tell us, and I’ll get you some coffee.” Maggie went to the shelf to collect Sam’s favorite mug. She was glad he’d shown up. Relieved. It struck her that Sam had become like a brother to her.
He shed his coat and dragged off his hat. Dark hair poked around his head in wild tufts. Cupping his fingers in front of his mouth, he blew on his skin. “Freezing out there.” He rubbed his hands together. “So!” He fell into a chair and slapped the table. “My news,” he said with relish. “My incredibly awesome news.” And then he wiggled his eyebrows and leaned forward.
Caleb smiled grudgingly. “Yes…?”
“The School of the Art Institute in Chicago.”
“Chicago?” Maggie repeated, bringing his coffee to the table.
Sam nodded, an exaggerated up-and-down motion of his head.
“What about it?” Caleb asked impatiently.
“Wren has a friend who teaches there, another sculptor. She asked her if I could send her my portfolio. It’s not complete. I still haven’t finished my last project, but I put together images of some other work, a few ceramic pieces, mostly paintings and drawings.”
Maggie smiled a little at the wonder blooming in his face. “She liked it?”
“She loved it. And she shopped it around her department, made some calls…” He turned to gaze dreamily out the window. “They’re offering me a full scholarship if I want it.”
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