by Terri DuLong
The words were kind, but what I noticed most was that they sounded very sincere.
“Thanks. Somehow I just have to get through the next five days, which won’t be easy. I want answers now.”
“That’s natural. Another glass of wine?”
“I think I will. I told my mother not to wait dinner for me.”
After the waitress brought the wine, I found myself telling Worth about how Andrew and I met and surprised myself because I normally didn’t open up to somebody I’d known for only a few days. But it felt right.
“So you met at UF in Gainesville,” he said. “Majoring in the same program?”
“No. I was English lit and Andrew was a science major, but we didn’t meet as students. We were both on the faculty teaching there. I was already twenty-seven, dating different guys but nothing serious. Actually, the first few months after we met, it was a platonic relationship. We were just friends, and then he asked me out. After that we began to get serious. We got engaged a year later and married two years after that.”
“So you weren’t a kid.”
“No, I was thirty when we got married. We both had our positions at the university, so we bought the house in Gainesville. We were married two years when I had Jason, and then John two years later. So I gave up my teaching position.” I didn’t mention the fact that Andrew wouldn’t even consider me working part-time. He wanted me home, raising the boys and being a professor’s wife.
“Oh, I thought you said the other day you were a retired English professor.”
“Right. When the boys were in high school, I did return to teaching,” I said, recalling the problems it created with Andrew. “I’d probably still be there, but the university began downsizing a few years ago. I figured I could keep busy for a year, because Andrew was supposed to retire this past summer and we had plans to travel.”
“That’s a shame that didn’t work out,” Worth said.
I nodded. “I guess so. We were still disagreeing on the travel when Andrew died. He wanted to get a motor home and drive cross-country. I wanted to return to Paris and then take time to travel throughout France. But none of it was meant to be.”
I took the last sip of wine and looked at my watch. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it’s seven-thirty. I really have to get going.” How had the time flown so fast just sitting there talking to him?
“Could I interest you in joining me someplace for dinner?”
I had to catch myself before saying yes. “Gosh, I’d love to, but I really should get home. Oh, by the way, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this letter to anybody. I’m still not even sure what it’s all about, and, well, you know . . . in a small town news travels fast.”
Worth stood up and placed some bills on the table. “You don’t need to worry. Your information is safe with me.”
“Thanks,” I said, heading toward the stairs. When we got on the sidewalk, I said, “Thanks for listening.”
I walked toward my car and realized that while I was feeling far from great, maybe there was a possibility that I’d be able to get through whatever was ahead for me.
I walked into the house and found my mother in the family room knitting and watching TV.
“Did you and Chloe go out for dinner?” she asked.
“Actually, no,” I said, then paused. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to where I’d been. “Worth invited me to the Black Dog for a glass of wine.”
She looked up at me with surprise on her face. “Oh, that’s really nice. Did you have a good time? He seems like such a nice fellow.”
I smiled. Leave it to my mother. Never one to judge anybody.
“You don’t think it’s too soon?”
Now her expression looked confused. “You mean since Andrew passed away? You only went for a glass of wine in public, Marin. Nothing wrong with that.”
She was right. I realized I was hungry. “Any leftovers?”
“Yes, just heat the tuna casserole in the microwave, and there’s salad in the fridge.”
“Thanks,” I said and headed to the kitchen.
I poured myself a glass of sweet tea while I waited for the casserole to heat. I had made the decision on the drive home to not tell my mother about the letter. I still wasn’t sure what it was all about, and quite honestly, I didn’t feel like discussing it with anybody yet. Except for Worth.
I set up a TV table in front of the sofa and sat down to eat.
“Oh, Saxton called me earlier,” my mother said. “Victoria called him today. She’s planning a memorial for Maybelle sometime next month, before Thanksgiving. He’ll keep us posted with the information.”
“That’s good. How’re you doing?”
“I’m okay. When you get to be my age, I think you become more accepting of the fact that each year you’re going to lose more friends.”
After I finished eating, I put my dishes in the dishwasher, got into my nightgown, and settled on the sofa with a cup of herbal tea and my knitting.
My mother retired to bed at ten, but I sat up knitting and thinking.
6
I had always found needlepoint, like my knitting, to be a soothing way to pass time. But by Sunday afternoon neither of my current projects held my interest. I was consumed with a million questions in relation to the letter from the attorney’s office.
Who was this Bianca Caldwell? Somebody Andrew knew from years ago? A woman he was having an affair with before he died? And Fiona Caldwell? Why would Andrew have arranged for her to receive money upon his death? As much as I hated to admit it, over the past few days it had been becoming more clear to me that she had to be his daughter. But how was that possible? And how old was she? A small child now left motherless? The attorney’s office was located in Boston, as was the bank. Did that mean Bianca Caldwell had also lived in Boston? Had Andrew ever been there? Although he had traveled a lot over the years for teaching seminars, I honestly couldn’t recall his itinerary. So many questions and three more days to wait for the answers.
I looked up from the needlepoint canvas I held in my hand and let out a deep sigh. I normally loved the peacefulness of sitting on my mother’s patio overlooking the water, watching ibis and heron sweep across the saw grass. But today nothing seemed to settle me or diminish the unease I felt.
“Doing okay?”
My mother settled herself in the lounge beside me and removed the sweater she was working on from her knitting bag. Although she had to have known that I picked up the correspondence from Mail Boxes on Friday, she hadn’t questioned me about the contents. But that was my mother. Never one to pry. Always allowing me to open up to her in my own time.
“Not really,” I said, getting up to go in the house to get the letter.
Walking back out to the patio, I passed the envelope to her. “Here. I’d like you to read it. This is what was in Andrew’s mailbox.” My mother removed the paper, adjusted her eyeglasses, and began to read.
When she finished, she swung her legs to the side of the lounge to face me. “Do you know what this is all about?”
“No. I have no idea.”
“Did you contact the attorney’s office?”
I nodded. “Yes, and James Coburn won’t be back in the office until this Wednesday. I’ve been going nuts trying to figure it out.”
“From what I can gather, this Bianca Caldwell was killed in a car crash this past April. It would appear that this law firm has no idea that Andrew has also passed away. They’re requesting his signature in order to transfer funds from an account to Fiona Caldwell.”
“Right,” I said, and could feel anger slowly beginning to build inside of me. “And who the hell is this Fiona? Did you see the bank statement? Fifty thousand dollars. It has to be a mistake . . . either a mistake or a joke, but I’m not finding it humorous at all.” I jumped up and began pacing the patio. “How could this happen? Did Andrew have a secret life I didn’t know about? I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.” But even as I said
it, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I did understand.
My mother remained silent for a few moments and then let out a deep sigh. “You knew Andrew better than anybody, Marin. Is there any chance that this Fiona could be his daughter?”
I felt moisture stinging my eyes. “Do we ever really know anybody?” I shook my head back and forth. “Anything’s possible, isn’t it? Secrets are buried all the time. Look at what your own sister did—gave birth to Sydney, gave her up for adoption, and never told a soul.”
“Very true, but secrets usually have a way of surfacing just like Sybile’s eventually did.”
“I don’t even know how old this Fiona is. The attorney’s office and the bank are in Boston, but that doesn’t mean she definitely lives in that area. I don’t know a thing.”
My mother reached over to pat my hand. “And you won’t until Wednesday, I’m afraid. But there’s one thing that you must remember, Marin.”
My head shot up. “What’s that?”
“The reason you found out about any of this now is because it was Andrew who gave your cell number to Mail Boxes as an emergency number. That tells me that if something happened to him, he wanted you to get any correspondence related to this situation.”
My mother was right. “But why? Why the hell would he want me to find out after he was gone about money he had provided for somebody? Why couldn’t he just tell me when he was alive?”
“Shame. Fear. There could be a number of reasons, but until you get the entire story, I don’t think you’ll know for sure.”
“You’re right,” I replied as the doorbell sounded inside the house.
“That’s Sydney,” my mother said as she stood up. “I hope you don’t mind, but with Noah away for a few days, I invited her to have supper with us. And it’s up to you if you want to share any of your news with her.”
“Aunt Dora, that was delicious,” Sydney said. “Nobody cooks up mullet like you do.”
My mother laughed. “Good thing your mother isn’t here to hear you say that. She always thought she cooked mullet better than anybody on the island.”
I smiled as I reached for the wine decanter on the table and refilled our glasses. “That’s one thing you and I never experienced,” I told my cousin. “We were both only children, so no sibling rivalry.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I told Monica if that begins with her four, I’m afraid I’ll have no advice to give on that subject. How about your boys, Marin? Any rivalry there?”
I took a sip of wine and shook my head. “Not really. Oh, the usual squabbles when they were little, but for the most part they got along and I never noticed any jealousy. I think girls might be more prone to that anyway, don’t you?”
Sydney nodded. “Could be. Look at what Chloe and Grace went through. Chloe’s jealousy caused a ten-year estrangement between them. I’ve always felt, though, that if somebody is happy and adjusted with their own life, it doesn’t leave any room to want what others have. But I don’t think it’s just between sisters. I see it with the younger girls, like Clarissa. They all have to have the same clothes, the same style hair. It drives Monica crazy, and she’s trying to teach Clarissa to be her own person. To be an individual and different. I do think raising daughters can be more complex than raising sons, though.”
“Hmm, probably. But I wouldn’t know. My mother had one daughter, your mother had one daughter, and you had one daughter. Yet I was the one to have two sons. It was Andrew who got the daughter,” I said, and as soon as the words were out I felt the anger returning and saw the confused expression on Sydney’s face.
The three of us sat there in silence for a moment, and then I let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Yeah, well, at least I’m pretty sure he has a daughter that I only recently found out about,” I said and went on to explain the story to my cousin.
When I finished, she took a sip of her wine and patted my hand. “I have to be honest and say that I’m not that surprised.” When she saw the look on my face, she went on, “No, no. I have no reason at all to even think that Andrew cheated on you. It’s just that at this stage of the game, Marin, not too much surprises me. You have to remember what I went through when Stephen died and then coming here and discovering my biological mother. All of my own experiences have only forced me to believe that truth truly is stranger than fiction.”
She was right. If anybody could understand, it would be Sydney. Finding out two weeks after she buried her husband that he had been a compulsive gambler was bad enough, but being evicted from her posh home, which she’d thought was long paid for, had rocked her world as she knew it.
“Sydney’s right,” my mother said. “Of course this is shocking to you, Marin, but it’s life. Shocking and bad things happen. But it’s how you choose to get through it that will be important. Just know that you have people who love you, and we’ll be there for you, no matter what.”
I heard the words, and while I appreciated them, they didn’t take away the anger that surged through me. “But damn him. Damn him for doing something like this. I thought we had a good marriage. I thought he loved me. We always got along so well, had so much in common, and enjoyed each other’s company. How many times other people even commented on what a great couple we were and how perfect we were for each other. It was all a lie, a sham. Here I am grieving for a husband who was nothing but a fraud.” I felt the tears sliding down my face and didn’t bother to wipe them away. “This is what Andrew left me with. Not his love . . . but his secrets, and I hate him for that.”
I felt my mother’s arms around me as Sydney passed me a tissue. “That’s not entirely true,” she said. “I felt the same way when Stephen died. I knew nothing about those loans he took on our house, which ultimately caused me to be evicted. You have a right to be angry, Marin. Damn angry. But that doesn’t cancel out the love that you did share with each other. It doesn’t wipe away the fact that you raised two sons together or the good times and happy moments. Those did happen. You might not want to admit that right now, and that’s only natural. But I agree with Aunt Dora—what’s important now is how you go forward from here.”
I wiped my eyes again with the tissue. They were right. I knew that. But I also knew that the happy couple Andrew and I projected to family and friends was probably as much of a fraud as I now felt he was to me in death.
7
I woke at five-thirty after a fitful night of tossing and turning. Too much to think about. It was still dark as I brushed my teeth, threw on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, and then headed to the kitchen.
I waited for the coffee to brew as I stared out the window to the sky over the water getting lighter. After filling my insulated Starbucks cup, I made my way through the family room to the front door. No sign of my mother or Oliver. Slipping into the golf cart, I turned the key and headed downtown to the City Beach.
The sun was just peeping over the horizon as I sat on one of the benches watching a new day begin. The only sound was water splashing onto the shore. I thought back to shortly after I met Andrew. I was teaching at the university and sharing a small house in Gainesville with Bella, my friend and colleague—now known to the reading public by her full name, which graced her book covers, Orabella Vitale. I had invited Andrew to Cedar Key for the weekend to meet my parents, along with Bella and a fellow she had been seeing at the time. Bella stayed with me at my parents’ home, and the fellows got a room at the Island Hotel.
The weekend was pleasant enough. My parents seemed to like Andrew, but I recalled a bit of awkwardness during the Saturday evening dinner my mother prepared for all of us. Sitting around the table with coffee and dessert, Andrew began questioning my father about some best-selling novels on the New York Times list, asking if he had read them and what his opinion was. My father was a fisherman. He worked from dawn to dusk providing a decent living for us. Many days he barely had time to scan the newspaper before falling into bed shortly after supper.
I saw the embarrassed expression that
crossed my father’s face at the same time that Bella did.
“Yes, well,” she said. “We can’t all be bookworms, can we? Tell me, Mr. Foster, which do you find to be more popular, crab or oysters?”
My father visibly relaxed as he launched into an explanation of both, depending on the season, and I wanted to lean over and kiss my friend’s cheek. It was the first time that I suspected Andrew was an academic snob, but it wasn’t the last.
Another incident on Sunday afternoon was mentioned by Bella later that evening. The four of us had taken my father’s pontoon boat out for a ride. It was August, hot and steamy, so Bella and I had worn our swimsuits under shorts and tops. I had grown up on the water, knew how to drive and operate a boat from the time I was ten. But for some reason Andrew seemed hesitant about me being at the helm. Bella’s friend cajoled him, saying he had the utmost faith in me.
We headed out from the City Marina, through the channel, and I steered the boat north. I could see the tide was going out, and after a ride to North Key I turned the boat around and headed back. As luck would have it, I hit a sandbar and we got stuck. For those of us who had grown up on the island, it wasn’t a big deal. The water is pretty shallow, and with a bit of pushing and prodding, a boat was easy to dislodge.
Bella and I began laughing when we realized what had happened. I whipped off my shirt and shorts and said, “Not to worry,” as I jumped over the side of the boat into the water, where I was quickly joined by Bella. The two of us were now giggling as I sputtered out instructions to Andrew and Bella’s friend to back the boat up as we pushed. It was then that I saw the look on Andrew’s face: a mixture of anger and, if I wasn’t mistaken, fear.
Within a few minutes we had the boat off the sandbar, Bella and I jumped back in, and we were on our way.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I heard Andrew yell; I honestly didn’t know what he was talking about.
I turned around and stared at him. “What do you mean?”