Millie shrugged sadly, as if it were beside the point.
“Years!” Iris sputtered. “For ten years we’ve been in and out of therapy. First for our difficulty trying to get pregnant. Then for the difficulties that come with being a functional family. And now? He cheated, Mom. Paul cheated on me.”
Millie clasped her hands together, twisting her wedding ring. “Iris, men are not as strong as us. Sometimes they make mistakes—stupid ones. Selfish ones. But we have the power to forgive. Forgiveness doesn’t make you the weaker sex.”
It was the most profound thing Millie had ever said to her.
“Children shouldn’t have to suffer from their parents’ mistakes.”
Iris flinched. “But they are suffering, Mom. Do I want them to grow up thinking it’s okay to be with someone who belittles you all the time? Who walks right past you in your own house, like you are invisible? Is that what you want Sadie, Jack, and Lily to think marriage is? Because as awful as I feel about leaving this marriage, I feel far worse imagining them entering one just like it themselves. It’s not good. For any of us.”
Millie stood abruptly. Either she’d heard too much or there was nothing left to say. But Iris wasn’t about to let her scurry away, shaking her head as if something awful were stuck in her ear. “Mom.”
Millie set her teacup in the sink with deliberate care. With the same precision, she took a kitchen towel from the cupboard and unfolded it slowly, one corner at a time. Her calmness infuriated Iris.
“Mom, I need you to support me. I’m not asking for you to understand, but I need your support. Dad does,” Iris said, her anger rising in her throat. “He may not like what I’m going through, but he doesn’t judge me.”
“You think I judge you?” Millie cried suddenly.
“No,” Iris said, wishing she could take it back. She’d never heard her mother respond so shrilly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that you put this pressure on me, like you disapprove of everything I do. Like I’m not good enough or something.”
“What’s wrong with wanting your children to be their best? You’re a mother now. Don’t you want that for your own kids?”
“But I don’t push them, Mom. I don’t hold them at arm’s length and inspect everything they do as if I’m looking for cracks or holes. And I don’t pick favorites.”
Millie stared back at Iris, her mouth slack. “You think I favored your sister?”
Iris took a small breath. “Whether it was Leah or the farm, I always felt like second best.”
Millie stepped back. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“Well, what do you expect? It’s like I’m not really a part of this family. Take last summer. You didn’t tell me about what happened last summer. I had to hear it from Cooper Woods. How do you think that made me feel?”
Millie’s voice softened. “Then you know about Leah.”
“I do now. But why didn’t I hear it from you?”
Millie lowered her eyes, whether in regret or sorrow, Iris couldn’t tell. “Iris, I’m sorry. It wasn’t something I meant to keep from you.”
“But you did!”
Her mother did not answer, but turned on the faucet and stood, waiting for the water to warm. She picked up a cereal bowl and began rinsing it.
“You should have told me.”
“I tried. Every time I asked you to come home, there was always an excuse. And things with you and your sister have always been so complicated, I don’t know why.”
“Because no matter what she does, you always protect her. You always choose Leah!”
With that the bowl slipped from Millie’s grip. There was a splintering crash, and she spun around to face Iris. “I had no choice. Leah is not strong like you, Iris. Leah needs more from me. I protect her because I have to. Because I have to protect her from herself!”
Iris recoiled at her mother’s expression, as shattered as the broken shard of pottery she still clasped.
It was then Iris noticed her mother’s hand, streaked in red.
“Mom, your fingers. You’re bleeding.”
But Millie was too outraged to hear. Her voice stopped Iris dead in the middle of the kitchen. “Everything I’ve done is for both of you.” Millie swept her arm toward the window, and the greenery beyond it, spots of blood dripping across the counter. “I built all of this for you kids.”
“Mom,” Iris pleaded, pointing toward her mother’s hand.
“Your father and I spent the last forty years cultivating lives for you. And yet you two were so busy fighting, you couldn’t look past yourselves to appreciate any of it. Even as adults, you fled the first chance you got. Keeping my grandchildren away from me. Like some kind of punishment.” She pointed her bloody finger at Iris. “At least your sister came back. She may be troubled, but she trusted me enough to come home.” And then her voice fell, along with her stare, as she noticed her hand. “I’m bleeding.” Millie fell back against the sink in disbelief.
“It’s okay, Mom.” Iris moved quickly, grabbing the towel from the countertop. She took her mother’s trembling hand, which still gripped the broken piece of china, in her own. “Let go of the bowl. I need to wrap your finger.”
“I’m bleeding,” her mother said again, her eyes wide and fearful.
Iris examined the cut, which was long and jagged, but not deep. She ran the faucet, holding her mother’s shaking palm beneath the cold flow, watching the stream of pink liquid spill into the basin between them. “It’s okay.”
But Millie did not answer. She stood back, her arm rigid as Iris wrapped it tightly in a dishcloth and applied pressure.
Iris made herself look up at her mother, whose jaw trembled with effort.
“Make it stop,” Millie whispered.
“I’m trying,” Iris said softly. “I’m trying to, Mom.”
• • •
Her mother held the bandaged appendage protectively between them as she made her way about the house and farm stand, working one-handed throughout the day. Her adaptability and refusal to complain only added to Iris’s guilt. But that was Iris’s own affliction; Millie had not said any more to her on the matter, and instead had pressed forward, determined to dismiss the whole thing. Leah had fussed over their mother, asking Iris repeatedly, “What happened?” To which Millie curtly interjected, “It’s nothing. I just dropped a bowl.”
Bill had insisted Millie see the doctor. He’d driven the two of them into town, where they stayed for dinner afterward, returning to the house as the peepers were just beginning their evening interlude. Millie retired immediately to the sunroom.
“The doctor said it was just a nasty graze,” Bill reassured Iris as she leaned against his bedroom door frame watching his end-of-day ritual, something she took deep comfort from. He took off his watch and set it on the dresser, then emptied the contents of his trouser pockets. A monogrammed handkerchief, which Iris found both old-fashioned and endearing; his wallet; a handful of change. “Your mother needs to slow down with this wedding stuff,” he added, shaking his head wearily. “She’s taking on too much.”
Which made Iris stiffen; was it not her own “stuff” that had caused her mother’s injury?
“Your sister is almost settled, at least,” he said, bending stiffly to unlace his shoes. “I know your mother worries about her.”
It was an opening, and Iris took it.
“Leah’s not in great shape, Dad.”
He did not reply, but moved his shoes neatly to the side of the dresser. If only he could arrange his children so easily. “I know, honey. We’re trying.” He, too, was weary from the effort, Iris realized. “Stephen will give her a good life, a stable life,” he added. “She’s a fortunate girl.”
As we all are, Iris thought to herself. And she realized what Stephen represented—a rescuer of sorts, after a long labor of worry.
“What about you?” Bill asked, turning to her in the doorway.
“Me?”
“Yes. I haven’t really had a chance to ask after you. Things have been somewhat . . .”
“Crazy,” Iris said, finishing the thought for both of them. “I’m fine, Daddy.”
Bill regarded her carefully. “You’ve been spending some time working on the barns, I’ve noticed. Quite a bit of time, in fact.”
Iris’s cheeks flushed deeply. It did not matter that she was a grown woman. Under her father’s curious gaze, she was forever that knobby-kneed teenager who still found her father’s approval essential.
“Yes, I have been spending time up there. I know it must seem strange, considering I’ve never swung a hammer or really built anything before.” She smiled self-consciously.
“Well, there was that birdhouse.”
She grinned gratefully. “Yes. The pink birdhouse.” It was a Scout project the two had done, for a father-daughter badge. She doubted the Scouts even offered those these days, with the changing structure of modern families. But she remembered it well—she’d banged up most of her fingers with the hammer, and several of her dad’s. He’d never complained, though. It had taken them a whole day to complete. She’d set her heart on painting it pink, and her father had driven thirty miles outside of town to find a hardware store that could mix an all-season pastel oil paint.
Bill pulled a worn cotton button-down from his closet, as close as Bill got to lounge wear. “I assume Cooper has taught you a lot, then.” It wasn’t a question. But in his statement, Iris heard all of her father’s curiosities. As well as his concerns.
“It wasn’t about Cooper, Dad. I needed a job. Outside of being a wife and a mom.”
“You have your work,” he reminded her gently.
“Outside of that, too. I needed to tackle something new, something physical. Everything I do requires thinking. And worrying. I just needed to build something.” She paused. “And yes, Cooper taught me how.”
Her father finished buttoning his shirt, and for the first time looked her directly in the eye.
“You’re a big girl. But I guess I’ll always see you as my little one.”
Iris felt her eyes water. “I know, Dad.”
Bill tucked in his shirt and shut the closet door gently, as if the matter were closed. “Arthur’s reviewed the papers that Paul sent.”
A breath escaped Iris’s chest. “Oh. What did he say?”
Bill shrugged. “They’re pretty standard; I’ll go over it with you later. You’ll need to think about property divisions, that sort of thing. The house.” He paused. “And of course, the kids. Paul’s proposed an equal split.”
Iris wrapped her arms around herself. “I see.” She had not wanted to read the divorce papers, had not wanted to speak of them even. But she was grateful her father had opened the matter, along with the envelope, for her. Now it was her turn to take over. “That sounds okay. I want the kids to see both of us, to keep things as normal for them as possible.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” Iris said quietly. “I’ll take a look at them. Are the papers in your study?”
“Another time,” Bill said, sparing them both. He went to where Iris stood in the door and rested his hands on her shoulders. “It’s been a long day.”
Twenty-Three
Done. Finito. Finis!” Trish slapped a thick packet of typed pages onto the café counter with gusto.
“Really? You finished the soup chapter?” Iris fingered the packet and then held it up, impressed.
“Two chapters,” Trish corrected her. She placed a cup of coffee before Iris. “I added another on Crock-Pot dinners. Crock-Pots are a busy family’s saviors.”
“Brilliant!” Iris began to flip through the pages, pausing to ooh over a recipe for slow-cooked beef bourguignon. “I wish all my clients kept your pace. How’d you get all this done so fast?”
“Well, it was smooth sailing—once I got past my little nervous breakdown.” She winked at Iris.
“What? Trish, I had no idea this was getting to be too much. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Trish waved her hand dismissively. “Please. It was a good excuse to send Wayne and the kids out of my hair for a bit. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t got enough on your own plate.”
Iris studied her carefully. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”
“Are you kidding? This has been one of the best things I’ve ever done. If you hadn’t pushed me into this . . .”
“Pushed? Now you’re giving me a complex.”
Trish smiled. “Okay—let’s say twisted my arm.”
“Trish!”
“No, really. I’ve been meaning to apologize to you.”
The sudden serious look on her friend’s face caught Iris off guard. “What do you need to apologize for?”
“I’ve been an ass. Preaching to you all summer, trying to tell you how to get on with things. Maybe I should broaden my own horizons a bit, instead of hassling you so much about broadening yours. It never occurred to me until we started this book.”
“Trish, you did not hassle me. You’ve been the best friend a girl could ask for. Steadfast. Honest.”
“Oh, please, I can barely stand the sound of my own voice. Telling you to take better care of yourself. To chase your own dreams . . . I sound like a Disney commercial.”
It was true: Trish had stayed on top of Iris about doing all of those things. But in the best of ways. Iris was confused.
“What’s this really about?”
Trish paused. “I have to confess something. When you came home all busted up and hurting, my heart went out to you. It really did. But there was a small part of me—deep, deep down—that was sort of relieved. For once, you needed me.” She winced as she said it.
“Trish, I’ve always needed you. We already talked about this. I’m the one who let the friendship slide these past years.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who sort of held a grudge. I think I was jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Because you were the one who got out of here. You went off to college in New York while I stayed home and went to UNH.”
“So? You loved that school.”
“Yeah, as much as I loved my high school sweetheart. Who I then married and raced home to have kids with. In the very same neighborhood I grew up in!” It was the closest thing to shamefaced Iris had ever seen her friend look. “Ech, I’ve turned into my mother.”
Iris laughed. “Have not.”
“But you couldn’t be further from Millie. You lived in the city. Had a big, fat career. And still had a family. All while I was here pounding dough back at the homestead.”
Now it was Iris’s turn to make a face. “Are you kidding? From where I’m standing, you’re the one who has it all. A great marriage. A family. Your own business.”
“Yeah, but sometimes I wonder. What if I’d been more imaginative? Taken more risks?” She looked at Iris. “Like you did.”
Iris was almost too touched to speak. “You know this book never would’ve happened without you.”
“Well, that’s true, of course. Seriously, though. I love Wayne and the kids, but sometimes I’d wake up at night and wonder if this was it. If this was as good as it’d ever get. And now, with this crazy book . . .” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Trish.”
“You’re okay, Iris. You’re doing great on your own. I’ve got no business telling you what to do. Or who to do it with.”
Iris wiped her own eyes. Here she’d been feeling like the loser who’d rolled home empty-handed, in need of Trish’s ear and heart, as much as her key lime pie. “Thank you.”
Iris reached over and pulled her in for a hug.
“But I’ll be honest,” Trish said. “Between th
is job and the kids . . . I don’t know how real writers do it. I swear, I need one of those retreats where you escape, alone, to some mountainside cabin for three months where no member of your family is allowed.”
Iris laughed. “That’s just in the movies. But look at you. You did it anyway.”
Trish shrugged humbly. “No big deal. The kids just haven’t eaten in two weeks.”
“Well, feed them well tonight, because I have some news.” Iris tried to temper her own excitement. She was supposed to be the seasoned agent, after all. “I called Joan last night. The culinary publisher I told you about.”
Trish raised her eyebrows. “And?”
It was no use. Iris dropped her agent guise like an ugly sweater. “She likes our concept. She’s agreed to read it!”
“Holy crap!” Trish squealed, jumping up from her chair.
“But it doesn’t mean anything yet,” Iris cautioned, pulling her agent hat back on. “There are conditions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, she needs a proposal.” Iris winced. “By Friday.”
“This Friday?” Trish sputtered. “That’s three days away. You never mentioned anything about a proposal!”
“Relax,” Iris said. “I’ll handle the proposal. It’s just a write-up of our concept, with a little marketing insight about our intended audience. No biggie.” Though it was a biggie, and the realization of their sudden deadline filled her with her own sense of panic.
Trish tightened her apron strings and took a deep breath. “Okay, Agent Standish. We can do this proposal thing. Or, at least, you can.” She looked at Iris firmly. “Right?”
Iris nodded quickly. “Yes. Done it many times.”
Trish paused, then leaned in to whisper, “I love this crazy book that you talked me into. And I love you.” She leaned closer. “But if you screw up this proposal, don’t even think about coming back here for your key lime fix.”
“Understood.”
Twenty-Four
Iris was driving back to the farm when her phone vibrated in her lap. She looked down and smiled.
“Can I take you to dinner?” Cooper’s voice filled the spaces in her mind, pushing away the cookbook, the wedding, and all the other clutter.
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