“No caveats or conditions.”
Steve smiled. “You’re tough, Becca. You’d have made a good lawyer. Fine. I forgive you.”
“Good. I mean, thank you. And, look, I was thinking, next time you and Mom are coming to Boston, you should let me know. I’ll be sure to be in town. Maybe I could go to the museum with you. I mean, if it’s on a weekend.”
Steve slung his camera case over his shoulder. “You do work too much, you know that. You get it from me, I suppose.”
“I know. I’m thinking about cutting back a bit. Though I can’t make any promises yet.”
“I think you should consider getting a cat.”
Becca glanced down at Sir Henry Le Mew. He looked up at her and yawned. Becca was fascinated by all the—corrugation—inside his mouth. It reminded her that while cats were all cute and fuzzy in appearance, they were predators at heart. She supposed it was a key part of their charm.
“Why?” she asked. “For companionship?”
“For companionship, yes, and for the lessons you can learn from living with a feline. Lessons like how to be still. And how to be patient. And how to find great pleasure in little things like food and sleep. Plus, it’s very funny when they chase their own tails.”
Becca smiled at the image she’d conjured of Sir Henry Le Mew scooting in a frenzied circle of whirling fur. “I’ll think about it, Dad,” she promised.
“Good,” he said. “Just promise me you’ll get a cat from a shelter. Well, I’ve got my camera, so . . .”
There was one more thing Becca wanted to say to her father. Rather, one more thing about which she wanted to ask his opinion. As the three made their way back home, she said, “Dad, I’m thinking of telling Alex about Rain. We’ve become— friendly. It feels somehow wrong to be hiding the truth from him. And he’s so close to you and Mom and Grandma. Anyway, I want to know if you think it’s a good idea.”
Steve couldn’t hide the smile of pleasure that came to his face. Secretly, he was as much of a matchmaker as his wife. He knew why Becca would want to tell Alex the truth about Rain’s birth. And he couldn’t think of a better son-in-law than Alex Mason. But maybe he was jumping the gun.
“I think,” he said, “that’s a fine idea.”
Olivia waylaid her mother as she was coming out of the kitchen. When, Julie thought, will I stop associating my daughter with acts of confrontation and violence?
“Mom,” Olivia said, “can we talk for a minute?”
“Of course,” she said. Mentally, she braced for a scolding and then thought the presumption unfair. Olivia did seem different this morning, more—mellow.
“When you asked me the other day if everything was okay between James and me, well, I lied. Sort of. Everything wasn’t okay—isn’t okay—but I just didn’t know it. Or I didn’t want to know it.”
Julie nodded in what she hoped was an encouraging way. “I’m truly sorry to hear that,” she said.
“So James and I have decided to go to counseling. We—he, actually, confronted me. He’s been very unhappy. I know I’ve been . . . sad, but I didn’t even notice how miserable he was. How miserable I was making him.”
“Oh, Liv,” Julie said, reaching out to squeeze her daughter’s arm. “I think going to counseling is a wonderful idea. I have great faith in you, and in James.”
“Thanks,” Olivia said, with a wobbly smile. “Look, Mom, I’m sorry for giving you a hard time about the salt cellar. Maybe this counseling will help my—mood.”
“I’m sure it will,” Julie said heartily. “But in the meantime maybe this will cheer you up. I did some searching through a stack of old papers and I found a journal I kept around the time I got that old gravy boat you were interested in the other night at dinner. Here.” Julie reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I wrote down what information I found. I thought you’d like to have it.”
Olivia accepted the piece of paper and read it. “You were right. It first belonged to your mother’s aunt Clara. Then she passed it on to your mother, and then it came to you. Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re quite welcome. Now I really should—”
But Olivia detained her mother. “Mom,” she said, “one more thing. I was thinking, maybe David was right. Maybe it’s a silly idea after all, giving this house a name like it’s a fancy estate or something.”
“Oh, no, Liv, I think it’s a lovely idea! And I was thinking that maybe my flower idea isn’t the way to go. How about simply—Rowan House.”
Olivia smiled. “Okay. That sounds nice.”
“Good,” Julie said. “Now I must go and put more water in the tree stand. The last thing we want is the newly baptized Rowan House burning down.”
Her mother scurried off just as Becca was walking by, on her way to the kitchen.
“Becca.”
Becca jumped. She had seen her sister standing right there but still, her commanding tone had taken her by surprise. She wondered if Olivia’s employees dreaded the weekly staff meetings; she’d say “good morning” and everyone would think they were being fired. But maybe James was the person who ran the meetings.
“I want to talk to you for a minute,” Olivia went on. Her face showed the signs of a recent inner struggle. But Becca also thought she caught a glimpse of something like a sign of relief.
“Okay.” Becca was wary; she felt she was right to be.
“All that stuff I said up in the attic the other day . . . I didn’t mean it. Or maybe I did, at the time, but I was—upset. I’m sorry. I took it out on you. My anger—and frustrations.”
“That’s okay,” Becca said. “Really. Forget it.” Not that I’ll easily forget it, she added silently. There had been an awful lot of violence behind her sister’s words, and her own words hadn’t exactly been kind. Maybe she should be apologizing, too. And what was that nonsense she had spewed about everyone living and dying alone? No person was an island. That fact had been established long ago by better minds than the one she possessed.
“James and I are going into therapy,” her sister went on. “Things haven’t been right between us for a while now.”
This was indeed a surprise. “Oh,” Becca said. “That’s good. I mean, it’s good that you guys are going to try to work things out.”
“Yes.” Olivia gestured toward the living room. “Well, I’d better get back in there. . . .”
“Yes . . .”
Her sister walked off.
Well, Becca thought, not everyone got a happy ending. And it seemed that she and Olivia were not likely to be all warm and fuzzy any time soon, if ever. But that was okay. As long as her sister and brother-in-law worked to salvage their relationship—and as long as she, Becca, started really living her life—things would be well.
Things would be well.
53
She had asked him to go for a walk. Alex had looked at her dubiously.
“Are you feeling okay?” he’d said. “You do know it’s midafternoon. The sun is starting to go down. The air is going to get progressively colder. Maybe you should tuck a hot water bottle under your sweater.”
“I’m okay,” Becca had assured him. “I borrowed a pair of long underwear from my mother.”
“But you’re . . .”
“So they’re a little short. And a little big around the waist. At least they’re warm.”
Of course, he’d agreed, and together Alex and Becca headed out. It was essential that their conversation be private. Besides, if they were walking, she didn’t have to look directly at him and risk seeing condemnation or reproach in his bright blue eyes.
She wouldn’t be telling him the whole truth. She wouldn’t be telling him that she had planned on revealing the truth of her parentage to Rain against the wishes and better judgment of her family. Maybe someday she would be brave enough to tell him, but not now. Not yet, not until she could be really sure of their relationship. If there was to be a relationship after this one week in December.
&
nbsp; They’d gone several yards in silence before Becca summoned the nerve to speak.
“Alex,” she began, “there’s something I want to tell you. I mean, if we’re—if we’re becoming friends, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay,” he said.
Becca glanced over at him. His expression was attentive. “But the thing is,” she went on, “you have to promise to keep it a secret. Seriously, if you can’t make that promise, then I can’t tell you. I’ll understand, really. Some people just aren’t good at keeping secrets, even really important ones. And some people—well, some people just don’t like the burden a secret imposes.”
Alex didn’t answer right away. He was too busy deciding to accept the responsibility of keeping Becca’s secret. He didn’t like to give his word lightly. “I promise, Becca,” he said after a moment.
She took a deep breath and said the words she had never said to anyone before. “I’m Rain’s birth mother. Not Naomi. Her father is—he’s some guy I knew in high school. Some idiot. And I—we, the family—don’t want Rain to know the truth. At least not yet. Maybe never. For her sake, of course.”
Again, Alex didn’t respond immediately. Becca walked along next to him, her head down, and waited. Her nerves jangled with anticipation.
“Okay,” he said finally, evenly. “So . . . So David and Naomi adopted Rain when she was born?”
“Yes.” And as succinctly as she could, leaving out her recent acrimonious feelings and the self-imposed isolation that had led to them, Becca told Alex the story of Rain’s adoption. There had always been details unknown to her, but she could give him the outline well enough.
When she was done, Alex touched her arm. She stopped walking, as did he. She looked up at him and was relieved to see in his eyes not condemnation or judgment but—sympathy? And acceptance.
“That’s quite a tale,” he said. “Thank you for telling me, Becca. It means a lot to me that you trust me enough to share something so important to you and your family. Now may I share something with you?”
Becca felt her stomach drop. Did he have a criminal past he’d been hiding? A secret drug habit? A mortal illness? Was he moving to Alaska for good? What could he find in Alaska that he couldn’t find in Maine? “Okay,” she said. “I guess.”
“I knew that Rain was your daughter. Not by anything anyone said or did,” he added hurriedly, seeing her look of alarm. “But—I just knew.”
Becca was stunned. At the same time she was inordinately pleased. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you mean, you knew?”
Alex shrugged. “She has your eyes. Not David’s, not the other Rowans’. Yours. The way she looks at people. It’s subtle but it’s there. It’s hard to put into words.”
“But an aunt and a niece can look an awful lot alike,” Becca pointed out, not sure why she was arguing this happy news. “There’s genetics, DNA, inherited family traits. How did you really know that Rain is my daughter,” she asked, “without a doubt?”
“Let’s walk while we talk. Your skin is turning blue again.” They did. Alex went on. “It was a good guess. Instinct. The way you look at her. I don’t have the words to explain.”
“I think you’re very articulate. For an artist, I mean.”
Alex laughed. “Uh, thanks?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it as an insult,” she explained. “It’s just that you always hear that most artists have trouble explaining their work or putting their thoughts in words. But hey, I can’t draw a straight line. And besides, half the words that come out of my mouth lately seem to be the wrong ones. I think I infuriated everybody in my family this week. And maybe you, too,” she added, tentatively.
“I did think your attitude about your father was a little harsh,” Alex admitted. “But I didn’t know the full story of your relationship, so I knew I had no right to judge.”
“Yes, well, my attitude was a little harsh. A lot harsh, actually, and wrongly so.”
“Things are better now?”
“Yes,” she said. “They are. And thanks for knowing about Rain and me. That means a lot. It means more than I can say.” It means that I feel comforted, she added silently. And maybe someday I can tell you that.
They walked on in silence for a few moments before Alex said, “I think you were very brave to do what you did at only sixteen.”
Becca laughed. “I don’t know about brave. I was an absolute wreck.”
“Maybe you were a wreck, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t brave. Courage is being scared but doing something anyway. And I think you’re very brave now. It must take a significant amount of courage every single day to accept the sacrifice you made—and the decision your family made for you.”
“Sacrifice?” Becca frowned. “I don’t know if I’d use that word. It sounds so grim, so medieval or Gothic.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Alex argued. “Sacrifice can be instructive. It can teach you a lot about yourself and about other people. It can engender sympathy, and it can foster empathy. It can even make people happy.”
“No doubt you’re right. But I’d like to come up with a better word, one that doesn’t make me think of blood and ritual altars and, I don’t know, suffering in dungeons and hanging in chains.”
Alex smiled. “I’ll work on it.”
Becca thought for a moment before saying: “Anyway, don’t you think that sacrifice has a lot to do with vanity? Don’t you think it has a lot to do with feeling superior to others, with thinking that you’re better than others or maybe even better than you yourself actually are? I don’t think I’m better than I really am, Alex. I’m well aware of my faults.”
“I suppose sacrifice can be self-serving,” he admitted, “if you want it to be. But not in your case, Becca. You’re not a whitewashed sepulcher, to borrow a turn of phrase from the New Testament. You don’t parade your good deeds in public. You made and continue to make, every day, a sacrifice for the welfare of your child, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t see you crowing about it.”
Becca flinched. How could she ever tell Alex how close she’d come to doing just that, to bragging about what she’d done for her child to that very child? How could she ever tell him how close she’d come to ruining everything she and her family had built?
“Becca?” Alex touched her arm, as if to call her back to the moment. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said, “fine.”
“You looked pained for a moment. Something you ate? Not that Nora and Julie aren’t great cooks, but they have been stuffing us all for days now.”
“No,” she laughed, “I’m fine, really.”
“Okay, then. Do you mind if I change the subject?”
“Please do!”
“Do you ever travel in February or March?” he asked. “Go someplace warm and sunny? Escape the dead of a New England winter? You know how depressing the long winters are up here.”
“I can’t take time off work.” As Becca said the words she knew they were her usual, knee-jerk answer to every suggestion of relaxation. Not that she’d had many of those suggestions made to her.
“Why not?” Alex asked. “Why can’t you take time off?”
“You know what?” she said. “I have no good answer for that except ‘I can’t.’ And I know you won’t accept that as a good answer, and it isn’t one. My office can live without my physical presence for a few days. I know that. I’m here in Maine right now, aren’t I? It’s just that—”
“Just that what?”
“Just that I’ve rarely acted on that knowledge,” she said. “Well, except for the time I had to spend two days in the hospital for some—well, some female-related thing—and I brought my computer and my BlackBerry with me. So I guess that doesn’t count.”
Alex laughed. “No, it doesn’t. Unless you spent the time reading celebrity gossip Web sites like Lily does, or texting your friends.”
“I’m afraid not.” Becca paused. She felt suddenly embarrassed.
“Alex, I don’t have many friends. I don’t have any friends, really.”
“You’ve got me,” he said. “And you’ve got your family. There’s no reason, is there, why you can’t call their love for you and yours for them a sort of friendship?”
“I guess not,” she admitted after a moment. “Okay, so I have a few friends. And a few acquaintances from the office. About once every two months we go out for a drink after work.” But drinks had never led to dinner or the movies or a shopping spree on a Saturday afternoon. Why?
Becca pushed those unhappy thoughts aside and changed the subject. “You can’t commute every day between Portland and Kently. Or do you?” she asked.
“No. I have a small studio apartment in Portland for the days when I’m teaching. It’s clean and the location is good—I’ve even got a view of Casco Bay—but it’s nothing fancy. Which is fine because as soon as my classes are over for the week I head up here.”
“Not a city boy, then?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve got nothing against the city. Portland’s a great town. It’s just that I like having the option of a retreat. Up here, I can work and think undisturbed. And untempted. There’s not a lot to spend your money on in Kently. This way I’m able to make my mortgage payments every month. On time, too.”
So, not only was Alex kind and sympathetic and intuitive, he was also responsible. Becca liked what she was learning.
“Do you ever come down to Boston?” she asked then.
“Is that an invitation?”
Becca felt her cheeks flush and wondered just how awful she looked. Alex had said she was turning blue; now she was flushing. What was she, purple? “If you’d like it to be,” she said boldly.
“Then I accept. Do you ever get up to Portland?”
“Is that an invitation?” she asked.
“Yes, it is. I’ve got a gallery show at the end of March. I’ve already given an invitation to your parents and they’ve promised to come. Maybe you could be persuaded to join them.”
“That would be interesting. I’ve never been to a show of the work of someone I know.”
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