Three Times a Charm

by Jean Stone

  “Men,” Elaine retorted. “That’s all they ever think about.”

  “Well, it’s not everything,” Lily added, then Elaine blushed and Mrs. McNulty blushed and Bob just laughed, and Jo thought maybe he and Lily would have been a decent couple after all.

  “Business is great,” Jo said. “Our only problem now is going to be how to know what we can handle and when we must say no.”

  Bob shook his head. “Never say no to good business. Say you’ll check things out. Say you’ll do your best. Never just say no.”

  Elaine sighed, then told them about the three Valentine’s Day weddings. He laughed again and agreed they had a problem.

  “I suppose I could lend a hand,” he said, and winked at his bride. “If the new missus will allow it.”

  Larry, the new missus, smiled. Jo suspected they’d already discussed it.

  “We want to start a new life together,” Bob said. “Our friends in Saratoga are either hers or mine. We want to have friends that we can say are ours.” He took Mrs. McNulty’s hand and said, “We’ve decided to leave Saratoga and move down to West Hope. I want to help out with the business. We’ve just learned that Larry’s son is moving to Cincinnati with his company. Well, we sure as hell don’t want to go to Cincinnati. But we do want family around. And, Elaine, honey, you and the grandkids sure are that.” Then his smile drifted from Elaine to Jo to Lily. “And you girls too, of course.”

  “The Four Musketeers,” Lily said. “Well, I’m not sure you’re really ready to handle us, but you’ve surely got my vote.”

  Jo looked over at Elaine, but Elaine just sat there, smiling, tears running down her cheeks.

  34

  Sarah left the shop at seven o’clock. She hadn’t eaten and she’d barely slept the night before; she needed food, she needed rest. After what seemed like too long a ride home, she pulled into her driveway, got out of her truck, and walked toward her front door, the weight of loneliness heavy on her footsteps. And then, at the front door, on the front steps, she saw a brown box, an overnight-delivery package, from Donaldson, NYC.

  Hope rose. Had Jason sent a gift? A make-up present wrapped with love?

  Then she remembered the red dress for Rhonda Blair.

  With a deflated sigh, Sarah picked up the box, opened the door, and went inside. Elton was there, having opted to stay indoors when she’d left in the morning, apparently having had his recent fill of being spoiled by the neighbors. She fed the dog, then herself, then sat on the floor, where she was always the most comfortable. “Indian style,” Lily had said when they were back in college, as she’d pointed out Sarah’s penchant for curling her long legs around and tucking them under her butt.

  She stared at the phone and considered that if she couldn’t have a family one way, maybe she should try another. But first she should call Aunt Mae and ask point-blank if she’d known Laura Carrington and whether or not she’d ever heard that the woman was Sarah’s mother.

  Without hesitation, Sarah picked up the phone and dialed information in California; an operator gave her a phone number for the herb shop. Sarah checked her watch: it was only four-fifteen on the West Coast. Surely the shop would still be open.

  She held her breath when a woman answered the phone.

  “Mae?” Sarah asked, though the voice sounded neither old nor familiar.

  “This is Belinda, Mae’s daughter-in-law,” a voice retorted. “Who is this?”

  If Belinda really was Mae’s daughter-in-law, that meant she was married to Douglas, Sarah’s unfortunate cousin. Sarah considered mentioning that Douglas had spied on Sarah more than once when she was young—eleven or twelve—when she was swimming naked in the lake, washing her long hair in the mountain water. She considered telling the woman that Douglas was a pervert. Instead, she said, “I’m an old friend of Mae’s. Actually, my Glisi was a friend of Mae’s.”

  “Your what?” Belinda asked.

  If the woman did not know the word Glisi, she must not be a Cherokee. Which probably meant Douglas had married a white woman. She wondered if they had any white Indian children and if he made fun of them the way he’d made fun of her.

  Then she decided that none of it mattered. “Glisi was my grandmother,” she said. “Please, could I speak to Mae?”

  “Mae’s dead,” the woman said, so matter-of-factly that Sarah had no time to prepare, no time to react. “She’s been dead five years. You want to speak to Douglas?”

  Sarah said, no, she did not want to speak with him. She hung up the phone and stared at the receiver. Then she picked it up once again, this time dialing the cell number of Sutter Jones. When his voice mail kicked in, Sarah said, “Hey, this is Sarah Duncan. Whatever happened to you, anyway?”

  Then she pulled herself up from the floor, went to the box where she had dropped it, and opened one brown-paper–wrapped end. She slid out the bag and removed the red dress. Now free from its confines, the red rose petals fluttered a soft, elegant dance. An envelope fell out: It was addressed to her. She recognized Jason’s handwriting.

  She picked up the envelope, considered throwing it out. Then there was a knock on her front door.

  “You’re here,” she said to Sutter, who stood on her front steps. He looked younger when he wasn’t in a business suit, more like a Cherokee in jeans and a North Face parka. “Mae’s dead,” she said to him.

  “I know,” he said.

  She studied him a moment, looking into his black eyes, wondering how it was that she saw so much truth there when she still didn’t always get that sense from Jason after so many years. It was the blood, she supposed, the connected link of DNA.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  She stepped aside. “Of course. I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” Closing the door behind him, she heard him speak to Elton.

  “Unalii,” he said, and she knew that he was petting Elton, that he was telling him he was a friend. Sarah closed her eyes; tears quickly followed.

  “Unalii,” she whispered.

  He turned to her and held her shoulders. “Sarah,” he said, “you’ve decided to meet your mother?”

  “Yes, but not yet. Not now. First, I want to hear your voice. I want to sit and have you tell me stories of our childhood, of things I might have been too young to remember, of people like my aunt Mae and your mother, Little Tree, and what became of so many others. I want you to tell me about the reservation. Then I will meet my mother.”

  Since the first day that she’d seen him, the first day that she’d known who he was and why he’d come, those thoughts had taken root deep inside her heart. And now, standing there in her log cabin, with her tribal drums and woven blankets and furniture made of the forest’s twigs, and the rented videos of Laura’s films still strewn around the room, Sarah at last felt safe to share the things she felt.

  Sutter placed his hand under her chin; she opened her eyes and looked into his again. Then he drew her close, taking her into his warmth, and he stroked her long, free-flowing hair, and he kissed the top of her head and said if she’d make tea that he would light a fire.

  35

  They sat at the long table in the Benson dining room eating veal marsala, wild rice, and steamed asparagus, a far cry from the pizza and hot dogs and beans that had become a staple in Andrew and Cassie’s cottage. Sometimes he thought the change was nice, like wearing silk socks instead of cotton sport ones, and fine Italian leather boots instead of sneakers.

  It was Saturday night, however, and they’d been at the Bensons’ for a week. He’d tried calling Jo that morning, but there was no answer at Lily’s apartment. The not knowing of whether or not the women had left, of whether or not they still were in the city or if they’d gone back to West Hope, had left Andrew with a hollow feeling all day while he and Barry worked, while he made sure Irene’s life would be all right while his might be falling, piece by piece, apart. He hated that he hadn’t made the time to call Jo at least once. He hated that he was such a man that he had easily compartmentali
zed his days and had not left room for her.

  “Cassie and I went by Miss Claridge’s this morning,” Irene said now, smiling across the table at Andrew’s daughter, who, he suddenly realized, looked more grown-up than she had a week ago. Was that a new shirt she wore tonight? A new pink sweater too? And where were the earrings from Eddie what’s-his-name?

  “Who’s Miss Claridge?” Andrew asked.

  Cassie rolled her eyes. “The school, Dad.”

  “The school?” He plunked his fork into his veal. “What school?”

  “The school where Cassie and I have been thinking she might like to go.” Irene made the announcement as if a deal were done, as if she were his wife and Cassie’s mother and she was calling some shots he’d not known were even in the works.

  “She goes to school in West Hope,” Andrew said.

  “The MacKenzie girls go to Miss Claridge’s.” That came from Cassie, who should have known better than to think he’d know who the hell she meant.

  “Pop singers,” Irene informed him. “They’re twelve and fourteen and cute as buttons.”

  His eyes moved from Irene to Cassie then back to Irene. “Cassie goes to school in West Hope,” he repeated. He stood up, put his napkin on the table.

  “Oh, Andrew, do sit down,” Irene said. “It’s not as if I’m kidnapping your girl. But it appears as if, like it or not, you’ll be here for some time. And Miss Claridge’s offers a wonderful education. Far better than Cassie can get in that backwoods town where you’ve been living.”

  He moved to the tall windows, put his hands into the pockets of his wool-blend pleated pants, not jeans. On one hand, Irene was right. If they were going to stay in the city, Cassie should be in school. And he knew he couldn’t do what needed doing if he was in West Hope, not here.

  He turned around. “Cassie,” he said, “is that what you want? To stay here in New York?”

  Cassie picked up her water glass. She shrugged.

  It wasn’t right, he knew, to make this decision hers. She was only twelve, for God’s sake; what was he thinking?

  Irene stood up from the table and went to where he stood. “Andrew, dear,” she said, “must we talk about this now?” Then she reached up and fixed his collar, the way he’d seen her fix John’s collar on dozens, maybe hundreds, of occasions over the years, her trademark finishing touch, indicating that she had the last word in his appearance and that, finally, she approved.

  And suddenly, from somewhere down inside his toes that were tucked in his silk socks, Andrew felt a chill start then travel through his bones. He grasped her hand, which had lingered on his throat, and said, “It’s time for Cassie and me to leave, Irene.” He would not be John’s replacement, not in any way.

  But Irene laughed. “Oh, you won’t be going anywhere,” she said, and walked back toward the table. “Face it, Andrew, your future is right here.” She sat down again, draped her napkin across her lap.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want John’s shares in Buzz and I don’t want a TV station. I’m sorry he did this to you, Irene, really I am. But I am going home. You’re in good hands with Barry. He’s perfectly capable of putting the Benson Group sales package together on his own.”

  She stared at the place setting in front of her. Then she said, “What is it, Andrew? Is it because of our past? Because we were lovers?”

  Her words came out so quickly, so unexpectedly, Andrew almost didn’t believe she’d said what she did, right there in front of Cassie. He almost didn’t believe it, but then, this was Irene, a woman who controlled the things she had and got the things she wanted, hiding all the time behind manipulative smiles.

  His stomach turned; the silk socks burned. Someday he might have needed to explain to Cassie about his teenage blunder with Irene—someday, but not here, not now, and never unless absolutely necessary.

  “You and John meant so much to me,” he said, trying to stand steady, choosing his words with care. “I’ll always be grateful, but I’ll no longer be indebted.” Then he addressed his daughter. “Cassie, finish your dinner. Then you need to pack. We’ll leave for West Hope in the morning.”

  He was afraid she’d come to him that night. He was afraid Irene would stand there in the doorway of the guest bedroom, wearing a sheer, very short chiffon robe and high-heeled slippers that matched. He was afraid her breasts would still look terrific, that they’d still be firm and high, still dark-nippled and inviting. The first breasts he’d ever seen.

  He was afraid she would weaken his resolve through her touch, her scent, her needy state. He was afraid that somewhere in his gut, Andrew still was the young boy who once had needed her, had let himself be cradled by the love she had to give.

  He was afraid, so Andrew fought off sleep that night, not daring to close his eyes until the sun began to rise, until the pink light crept around the edges of the penthouse blinds and sleep, at last, was there, and he, at last, gave in to it.

  Not long after that, Andrew heard angry shouts.

  “Goddamn.

  “Pissant.

  “Bitches, bitches, bitches.”

  He shook the sleep from his eyes and from his brain and realized the words were coming from Irene, who indeed was standing in the doorway to the guest room, not in a sheer robe but in terry-cloth sweats, her cheeks aflame, her hair spiky with rage. She waved what looked like newspapers as if they were plump pom-poms and she a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader whose mouth had gone afoul.

  BENSONS SPLIT.

  JOHN ABANDONS IRENE FOR TAHITI.

  WEDDING WAS A FARCE.

  The headlines screamed from the pages, their decibels accelerated by the fattest, boldest type.

  “Your friends, Andrew. Your friends did this!”

  He sat up in the bed, pulled the blanket around his lower half, which was clad only in briefs. “Irene,” he said, “calm down.”

  She stomped across the room and flung the papers on the bed. “No one knew,” she said. “No one knew but the four of them. And you.”

  He stared at the newspapers. Could it be true? “And Senator Jervis,” he quickly said, hoping that she’d read John’s note to him, too. “And probably others, Irene. If you think about it.”

  “But no one else would throw it up in my face. No one else sashayed over here digging for more dirt. How much do you suppose they sold this story for?”

  Andrew almost felt sorry for her as she stood in the bedroom looking very ordinary and not like Irene at all. “I can’t believe they’d do this. Especially not Jo.”

  “JO!” Irene shouted again. “Get out of here!” she shrieked. “Go home to your small-town girl. But you’ll be sorry someday, Andrew. You’ll be sorry that you gave up all this—that you gave up ME—when you wake up one morning and wonder where your life went and why you wasted it on her.”

  With that, Irene spun around and stalked from the room.

  Andrew sat there for a minute, trying to regain the bearings he truly might have lost this time, when Cassie poked her head around the corner. “Is she gone?” she asked.

  “Hey, honey,” he said, “come on in. You heard it all, I suppose.”

  “Jeez, who didn’t, Dad? I think her voice echoed in New Jersey.”

  She plopped beside him and he tousled her hair. “We’re on the East Side, Cassie. That’s Long Island out there. New Jersey’s on the other side.”

  She slumped against his side. “Dad,” she asked, “can we go home now, please?”

  Sometimes Andrew thought if his daughter ever left him he would crawl into a hole and let himself fade away. Thankfully, it did not seem that today would be that day. “You’re okay about not going to Miss Claridge’s?”

  Cassie wrinkled her freckled nose. “You know I was just trying to make Irene happy, don’t you? I mean, you didn’t really think I wanted to go there, did you?”

  Thank God she was as much his daughter as she had been Patty’s. Still, there had been a moment…

  Then Andrew smiled. “No, honey,” he
said. “I knew you wouldn’t want to give up Eddie what’s-his-name. Not even for the MacKenzie girls.”

  “Emmie and Mallory.”

  “The pop singers. Yes, I know that.”

  “They’re not as cute as Eddie.”

  “No, I’m sure they’re not.”

  “And I really want to do my spa day that Jo and everyone gave me for my birthday. I want to invite Marilla, okay?”

  “Whatever you want, honey.”

  She paused, then said, “Dad? Is it true? Were you and Irene really lovers?”

  “Not exactly, honey,” he said, his heart moving up to his throat. “But I’ll explain it to you if you want.”

  She thought for a moment. “No,” she replied. “I think I’m too young to understand.”

  He laughed and she poked him. “Hey, can we go home now, Dad? Please?”

  He nodded and said, “Wait here while I take a shower.” He stepped out of bed, dragging the blanket with him.

  “Hurry up,” Cassie said. “I’ll be waiting right here, reading the newspapers.”

  He stopped a second, wanting to turn and ask his daughter if she thought that Jo or Lily, Sarah or Elaine would have done that, if they would have sold Irene Benson’s story for money or for fame. But then he shook his head, deciding it was one of those things he should not be analyzing with his daughter. He uttered a small chuckle, then headed for the shower, feeling lighter than he’d felt since they’d arrived last week.

  36

  Sutter Jones spent the night. They sat on the floor in front of the glowing fireplace and reminisced about their childhoods, about the mountains and the streams and the lake where they both swam at different times, in different years. Each of them, however, had believed it was the magic lake.

  “When you look into the waters and witness your reflection, you will find harmony and balance and all things good in life.” Sutter said the words that they both knew, one of the many legends they’d both been raised to understand.