“Okay,” I said. “Do you want me to take the rag inside?” I pointed to the towel he’d used to clean the grill.
“No, no, doll.” Since being married to my mom, he’d adopted a shortened version of my mother’s “baby doll” term of endearment. Jan tilted his head and studied me. I felt a sudden nervousness. I wasn’t used to being looked at. Four years of high school, and I still wasn’t comfortable in my teenaged body. But when I gazed back at Jan, I relaxed. He was nodding, clearly on the verge of saying something. And he looked strangely emotional, his lips pushed together. He ran a hand over his gray hair.
I waited. I could hear my mother’s tinkling voice calling something to the caterers, something like, “Oh, dear, those are horrid!”
“Here’s the thing,” Jan said, reaching for the shelf next to one of his grills and lifting a small, yellowed envelope. “I want to give you a coin. Now, I know that doesn’t sound like much, but this is special.” From inside the envelope, he took out a copper-colored coin. His hands were like large mitts, and the coin seemed petite in comparison. He handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said, peering at it. On one side was a woman who appeared to be soaring through the air, her arms outstretched.
“She’s called Flying Liberty,” Jan said. “I got that coin and a couple others like it when I was in the service in Italy. I carried them in my pocket and whenever things got bad-and they did-I looked at the Flying Liberty. I always thought that she could go anywhere and do anything. She was freedom, and she gave me strength, you see?”
“Sure,” I said, nearly tingling with the personal information. Jan was the kindest man-that was always apparent from his actions-but he was a man of few words. “And you want to give this to me?”
“That’s right, Billy.” He patted me on the shoulder with his big hand. “You’re a flying liberty now. You’re off on your own, and…” His voice died away a little. “Well, I’m going to miss you when you’re at school.”
“I’ll miss you, too.” Suddenly I felt trembly. Leaving high school, leaving my mom and going to college was a terrifying thought, one I’d pushed aside by searching for a summer job and pretending August was far, far away. “I can’t believe you’re giving me this,” I said.
And then he uttered the sentence that changed everything for Jan and me. “I gave them to all my kids.”
In that instant, I felt for the first time that I loved this man. That he could think of me as one of his “kids” was a bigger gift than anything he could ever have handed me.
Now, I felt a swell of sadness staring at Jan’s plaque, thinking of what my mom had lost when he died, of how intensely she must have missed him to have made this plaque and hung it on the side of the house, like a mini headstone. I thought of what I’d lost, too, after Jan died.
I spun around then, struck, at last, with a charge of motivation. I went into the study that had been Jan’s. Photos of his extended family lined the walls. The desk was big and manly, the chair a rolling leather boat. It pleased me that the room was still here, still his. It meant that my mother hadn’t rid herself of everything old in order to embrace her new life.
I had to boot up the computer and wipe off a thin sheen of dust. My mother didn’t believe in e-mails-too impersonal, she said. She preferred to write notes on her pink personalized stationery with her name embossed in silver at the top. The only Internet access she had was through an old dial-up that took about five decades to connect. Once I was connected, I went immediately to Google.
I hesitated. I fiddled with Jan’s silver Mont Blanc pen that stood in a leather holder on the desktop. Do it, I told myself.
I put the pen down, and I typed in Brandon Tremont. My father’s name.
I’d done this years ago when the Internet contained only minimal information, and I’d found nothing except a family tree showing descendants of a particular Tremont family from Pelahatchie, Mississippi, and the mention of a man named Brandon Gunnison Tremont, born 1859. Decidedly not my father. I’d been strangely relieved at the dead end. My dad was nowhere to be found. I didn’t have to deal with what-ifs. And yet my obsession, my curiosity about him, grew intensely over the years. Until a few weeks ago, that is, when such worries and thoughts had been miraculously erased from my mind. Yet that erasure had left me flat. My obsessing had been the way I’d kept myself connected to him. He was a ghost now. I wanted to say an official goodbye to the ghost and maybe get some answers to satisfy the child in me who’d wondered for so long.
Now, I sat back from the computer feeling as if I’d been slapped. There were 26,415 results for Brandon Tremont. I did the search again, putting his name in quotations so that it would only search for those two names together and in that order. Fourteen results this time. Could he be one of them?
I clicked on the first one. My finger on the mouse felt heavy, awkward. There was a Brandon Tremont Web site, apparently for a guy who was a computer graphics consultant. Did my father have his own Web site? Was he in computers now? Anything was possible. I wouldn’t have been shocked to find out he was a circus performer. I clicked on the “biography” link of the site. And there was a picture of Brandon Tremont-a kid who looked about eighteen years old and had albino-white hair and terrible acne.
I went back to the Google site. The second and third results also concerned the acne-ridden Brandon, who had apparently been on his high school lacrosse team. The fourth and fifth were about some Brandon in Tampa, Florida-a black man, a photo revealed, so again, not my dad. I began to wonder whether this might require a private investigator. My father had hidden from my mother, from his responsibilities, for years. He might have easily changed his name.
I clicked on the sixth result. It seemed to be a misplaced link, a Web site for Cover to Cover, a bookstore in Telluride, Colorado. But then I noticed a section called “About the Owners,” which I clicked on. My fingers felt light now, as if they were moving too fast, and for some reason, I wished I could reverse the click. Irrationally, I moved the mouse to the top of the screen, ready to hit the back button.
Too late. There he was.
An older version, of course. Silver hair now, instead of heavy, rich brown, lines stretching from his eyes. He had his arm around a woman with frizzy, honey-colored hair and tortoiseshell glasses. Below the picture, the caption read, Brandon and Lillian Tremont, owners of Cover to Cover.
Without taking my eyes off the picture, I lifted the phone next to Jan’s desk and dialed United Airlines.
“I’d like to get a flight to Telluride, Colorado,” I said. “Today.”
chapter fourteen
“C an I get you something to drink before takeoff?” the flight attendant asked. They were so much nicer here in first class. This was the only seat left on the flight to Denver, and luckily I had a plethora of frequent flyer miles from business traveling. “Maybe a water or an orange juice?” she said.
“Chardonnay, please.” It was only 3:45 in the afternoon, technically not happy hour, but it wouldn’t have mattered to me if it were 7:30 a.m.
“Certainly,” said the flight attendant, who was clearly familiar with daytime drinkers.
The Chardonnay came in a thimble disguised as a wineglass. I downed it in about three seconds while other passengers filed by, heading back to the coach section, where I usually sat.
“Another?” the attendant said.
“Please.” I fought back the urge to beg for the bottle. This was all happening at lightning speed. And nothing, save my quick-moving relationship with Chris, had ever happened fast in my life. I was a planner, a watcher and, as I’d recently told Odette, a procrastinator. Not even twenty-four hours before, I’d been in Odette’s basement office debating what to do with my life. Since then, I’d admitted near infidelity to my husband, moved out of the house, tracked down my father and gotten on a plane to find him.
The second glass of wine came, filled to the brim this time. I gave the attendant a grateful smile, which hopefully said, Keep ’em
coming, because the fact was I’d only tracked down my father on the Internet. I hadn’t called him. I hadn’t even called Cover to Cover to find out if it was still open, let alone if he was still the owner or if he was even in town.
I saw my father as a skittish, delicate animal that could frighten easily. You had to sneak up on such an animal. This was a complete departure from the way I used to think of him when I was a child. He was a tall, strong man in a house of women. He was the person who lifted you up and threw you in the air until you screamed with laughter and my mother said, “Brandon,” in a disapproving but laughing voice. He was the man who spoke two other languages-foreign, awkward-sounding words. He was the head of our family, the sun we all moved around. But he’d taken off, and my feelings about him had gone through wide, fluctuating metamorphoses-from pining for him, to hating him and denying his existence, to obsessing that somehow it was me, the last child, who had scared him out into the world alone.
He wasn’t alone now, though. At least according to the Web site, he was married to Lillian of the frizzy hair. This made me oddly jealous and irritated. And his owning of a bookstore was perplexing. He’d never seemed the bookish type. But what did I know about him? Absolutely nothing.
I had a few more thimbles of wine once we were airborne, then managed to sleep for an hour or so. In the Denver airport during my layover, I went to the bathroom to wash the plane grime from my face. I had only a small bag with me, the one I’d brought to my mom’s and then grabbed again after I’d hastily written her a note letting her know I’d call soon. As I went through the bag now, I realized I’d forgotten to pack my cleanser. I also didn’t have my moisturizer, my blue hairbrush (the only one that could mildly control my waves), a change of socks, the cute Italian driving shoes I’d just bought or any decent shirts. I sank onto the tiled floor, fighting back the panicky feeling of being adrift and unprepared. An older woman walked into the bathroom and glared at the sight of me on the floor. I scrambled to my feet, staring enviously at her huge wheeled bag that probably contained everything she needed to survive for three years.
I left the bathroom and bought a few toiletries in a shop, feeling mildly comforted by the tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner and moisturizer. In the next store, I bought two soft T-shirts, one in yellow, one pink. Spring colors. I had no idea what the weather would be like in Telluride-to be honest, I couldn’t have found Telluride on a map if forced at gunpoint-but I knew it was mountainous, maybe cold, and so, channeling the woman with the massive suitcase, I bought a sweatshirt and a wind-breaker. Lastly, I found a tan golf visor for Chris and quickly told the clerk to add it to my bill. It seemed pathetic, that visor-a small offering from a bad wife. But I felt driven to get him something. I wanted to carry something in my bag that showed me, in some way, that he was still with me.
The plane to Telluride was a tiny pop can of an aircraft. The whole thing rumbled and shook. About forty-five minutes into the flight, the pilot came over the intercom. “Those of you on the right can see the town of Telluride. We’ll be landing momentarily.”
I glanced out my window and saw the sun setting over a small hamlet, which looked like a box of candy-a jumble of brightly colored, shingled houses. The plane swooped to the left, leaving only a russet-red sky in my plane window, then began to descend.
The Cover to Cover bookstore wasn’t closed. Instead, it glowed yellow next to two businesses now dark for the day. A few blocks down, a hotel called the New Sheridan seemed like a fairly hopping place-a few people pushing in and out of it, while shouts of laughter rang from the bar next door. I probably should have inquired earlier whether there were any rooms available. I probably should find lodging now since it was dark. But that bookstore shined too brightly.
I took a few halting steps toward it. I was as nervous as I’d ever been. I peered in the glass of the clothing store, right next to my father’s shop, trying to make out my reflection between stacks of jeans and a mannequin wearing a flowered skirt. My hair was unkempt from sleeping on the plane. I had little makeup left. This shouldn’t have mattered. A father shouldn’t care what his daughter looks like, particularly if he hasn’t seen her for over twenty years. But my father wasn’t the average dad. He was someone who scared easily. So I swiped some lipstick across my mouth, patted powder on my cheeks and drew a comb through my hair.
The door to the bookstore was old, arched and wooden. It opened with a creak. The melodic sounds of Mozart or some other classical music piped through the store. The place looked historical-the walls at least fourteen feet high and lined with books, two library ladders on either side. In the center of the store were a few round tables piled high with books and little yellow rectangular signs proclaiming, New in Paperback! or Memoir! or Historical Fiction! I wondered if the exclamation marks were my father’s idea or the influence of frizzy Lillian. The fact that I had absolutely no idea-no clue whatsoever-about what kind of person my dad was made me sad and exhausted and impatient to see him now.
A man with blond dreadlocks stood behind the desk to the left. “Excuse me?” I said, but the words came out choked. I cleared my throat. “Sorry,” I said, wondering what I was apologizing for. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Sure,” he said, nice as can be, putting aside a paperback. “Who’s that?”
“Bran-” I managed to say. “Bran-” I tried again. Why couldn’t I say my father’s name? Why did I sound like I was in a diner asking for a muffin?
“Brandon Tremont?” the guy said, seeming a little less friendly now and a little wary of me, the strange woman with the speech impediment.
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” I said, suddenly mimicking Roslyn and her efficient style. “Is he here, please?” This was it, this was the moment I’d imagined for years.
“No, I’m sorry. Gone for the day. Can I help you find something?”
My father, I felt like saying. You can find my father, my family, my husband, my life. If you could just locate that for me and ring that up, that would be great. Instead, I swallowed hard and said, “When will he be in?”
“He’s usually here by 9:00 in the morning. Store opens at 10:00.”
“And Lillian?” I’m not sure why I asked after her. Maybe I was thinking she was in the back and would take me home for a Walton-family-type reunion.
“You know Lillian?” The blond guy leaned on the desk with a smile, his blond dreads sliding over his shoulders.
“Uh, no. No, I don’t.”
“Well, I’m her son.”
This shocked me into momentary silence. Lillian’s son got to work with her, live in the same town as her-as her husband, my dad-while Brandon Tremont’s kids had no idea what he was like, what he was doing. Until a moment ago, I hadn’t even known for certain if he was even alive. The unfairness of it squeezed my stomach, leaving me with a nauseous, resentful feeling that made my mouth suddenly taste like tin (although I suppose it could have been the eight thimbles of Chardonnay).
“You’re her son,” I said, only managing to repeat his words.
And then it hit me. He might be Brandon’s son, too. He might be my brother. He looked a little younger than me. It could easily be the case.
He held out his hand and smiled wide. His teeth were crooked but white. “I’m Kenny.”
I shook it. “Billy Rendall,” I said. “And your last name?”
“Gilchrist.”
I let out a huge breath I hadn’t realized was stuck in my chest. “So you’re not…”
Kenny tilted his head to the side, not understanding me.
“You’re not Brandon’s son?” I said.
“No, no. He’s my stepdad.”
Which makes you my stepbrother. For some reason, I wanted to vault over the desk and hug him. I thought about telling him who I was and what I was doing there, but my father might run for the hills if he knew I was in town. I wanted to meet him now, no matter what his story, no matter what an asshole he was. I wanted to see him and to tell him what he’d
done to our family by leaving. I wanted to ask him why. And then I wanted to leave Telluride.
I missed Chris right then. I wished I had my husband next to me.
“Do you want to leave a message for Brandon?” Kenny asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll stop back tomorrow.”
As I approached the New Sheridan Hotel, two women walked past me, both pushing jogging strollers with sleeping toddlers inside. They were talking quietly and laughing.
I opened the hotel door and watched them disappear down the street, their heads inclined together. It made me think of Tess and how, before she’d had the kids, we’d done nearly everything together. We had lived only three blocks apart in Lakeview. We talked on the phone before work, we met up for lunch, we worked out together afterward, and we usually went carousing at night. But now we had such different lives and so little time for each other.
The desk clerk greeted me and announced that he had only a few rooms available. “You’re lucky,” he said. “If you’d come in next week, we would have been booked for the rest of the summer.”
“I thought this was a ski town.”
“Oh, it is, but summer is even better. We’ve got film festivals and jazz fests. What are you in town for? Just visiting?”
“That’s right.” Visiting my father.
When I got up to the room, I dropped my bags and immediately called Tess from my cell phone. Seeing those women had made me want to reconnect with her, even if it meant confessing my indiscretion with Evan.
“’Lo?” her son, Sammy answered. In the background, there was a clatter, then a shriek that sounded like it came from Joy, Tess’s youngest.
The Night I got Lucky Page 16