Postcards From Last Summer

by Roz Bailey

  Tara turned to glare at him, but the sight of her husband dressed in only faded jeans softened her anger. Not an inch of flab over his waistband, his tight, flat waist led up to rippled muscles and a light patch of hair.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked.

  “Thirty-three years old and you still got it.”

  Steve covered his nipples demurely. “I’m so embarrassed,” he teased. “Did you marry me for my body?”

  “No . . .” She stepped up to him and pressed her palms to his flat chest. “But it sure didn’t hurt.”

  Thank the Lord for Steve; he made the meal with her parents tolerable, almost pleasant as he discussed sports with her father and ate enough of her mother’s homemade biscuits to make Serena Washington’s cheeks glow with pride. When everyone was finished eating, Tara’s father arose from the table and beckoned his daughter.

  “Come with me, sweetheart.”

  Shooting a look of regret to Steve, Tara found herself following her father up the back stairs to the small room lined with books. Her father’s old maple desk sat at the center of the room, his “secret” stash of cigars in the top drawer, though these days he only nibbled on the ends and occasionally lit them in the garden for a few short puffs.

  Laurence Washington went straight to the cigar drawer. “Sweetheart, I hate to see you leave this way, with you and your mother so at odds.”

  “I’m not thrilled either, Daddy.” She lingered in the doorway, not wanting to enter the room and immerse herself in a conflict. “I’m struggling with it. She lied to me.”

  He held the cigar under his nose and sniffed. “And you can’t forgive her for that?”

  “As I said, I’m struggling with it.”

  “And you blame your mother.” He turned away, a courtroom gesture that attracted attention to his next question. “Funny,” he said, turning back to her. “I was in on it, too. I participated in the lie, and yet you don’t blame me.”

  “Maybe I should.” She stepped into the room, veering left toward a bookcase and running her fingers over the titles inscribed on the bindings. “But I don’t feel that way. Look, Daddy, I don’t want to argue the fine legalities. The secret was Mom’s to create, and it hurt me, all the time I was growing up. I felt like a freak, and she tried to make me act like someone I’m not.”

  “We wanted you to have a cultural context, to feel like you belonged.”

  “Well, I didn’t, okay?”

  “Point taken,” he said. “But may I point out, Tara, that we tried to do what was best for you and your brother and sister. We tried, honey, and maybe we took the wrong approach. It’s something you’ll want to think about for when you have children.”

  “I won’t lie to them,” Tara said slowly, not wanting to shut her father down. She didn’t remember him ever opening up this much before.

  “But when will you tell them that you’re of mixed race? How old should they be? Of course, it will be more obvious with you and Steve as parents. Maybe you won’t have the same problem.”

  “Steve and I haven’t decided whether we’re having kids yet,” she said. “But if we do, we’ll be honest with them. They’ll know they’re of mixed race. And we would probably get involved with some kind of support group, so that our children could spend time with other children of mixed race and know they’re not alone in the world.”

  “You’re smarter than we were,” he said, leaning back onto the edge of his desk. “More socially aware. I shouldn’t be surprised by that. You were always a headstrong, stubborn little girl. You know—” His voice cracked, his eyes shiny with tears. “I’m proud of you, honey. You’re finding your way . . . your own way. I’m so proud.”

  He reached for her, and Tara hugged him tight. “We’re going to miss you, honey,” he said.

  “We’ll be back,” she reminded him, feeling her throat thicken with emotion. This was the most affection she’d ever received from her father, aside from yesterday when he’d walked her down the aisle and kissed her under her tulle veil. “It’s only for a year.”

  “God bless you, child,” he whispered. “God bless.”

  There was the creak of footsteps in the hall, and then Serena Washington’s voice. “Are we interrupting?” Mama’s fake tone indicated she knew they were, but Tara just drew in a breath and turned to face her mother and husband, who smiled casually, fingertips tucked in his jeans pockets.

  “I just realized we’ll have to get going right after dessert,” Mama said. “They still want you to check in two hours before an international flight.”

  Typical Mama, always on top of the rules. Studying her now, Tara noticed that the lines at the corners of her mouth had become permanent creases and the curve of her waist had disappeared, now well disguised by her double-breasted linen suit. She also noticed that her mother held a small velvet box in her slender fingers.

  “We’d better stay on schedule,” Tara said, casually, finding it hard to avert her gaze from the box, a rich royal velvet.

  “Oh, and this.” Her mother stepped forward and handed the velvet box to Tara. “I thought you might want it.”

  The blue velvet felt soft in her fingers. Inside was a heart-shaped locket, a beautiful silver sliver etched with old-fashioned flowers. “How pretty.”

  “I know it’s not in style,” Serena explained quickly, “and don’t think you have to wear it, but it was your grandmother’s. Grandma Mitzy. There are tiny pictures of her and Willy inside.”

  Pressing the tiny clasp, Tara popped the locket open to see the photos, old black and whites, with Willy in his soldier’s cap. An old-fashioned locket. When you close it, the people inside kiss, Tara thought, remembering someone saying that when she was a kid. “This is wonderful.” Tara put the velvet box on her father’s desk so that she could put the necklace around her neck. Her mother helped her with the clasp.

  “I love it,” Tara said, reaching down to touch the heart nestled just above the cleavage revealed by her camisole top. “Thank you, Mama.”

  Serena waved her off. “It’s nothing.”

  Tara caught her mother’s eye, knowing this was as close as they’d probably come to a reconciliation. “No, Mama, it’s very special.” She reached for Mama’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It means a lot to me. It always will.”

  Mama drew in a deep breath, nodding. She knew. At last, she got it.

  “Now,” Tara said, gently checking the locket at her breast, “how about that dessert?”

  82

  Elle

  “Good morning, sports fans. Looks like the Yankees are going to go all the way this year.”

  Elle awoke to Judd’s gravelly voice, creases of sunlight through the blinds and the robust scent of warm coffee. “The season just started,” she muttered, pushing back the covers and stretching. It was all part of their morning ritual, Judd waking her with a latte and telling her how the Jets did or that the Rangers dominated last night and Elle playing the skeptic.

  “A-Rod hit two runs last night,” Judd said.

  “Damn Yankees,” Elle joked. She sat up, propped up a pillow, and sipped the latte Judd had left on the nightstand beside her. “So good. Thank you, sweetie.”

  He rolled onto his side and placed his palm over her knee. “What’s the plan for today?”

  “I’m heading out to the Hamptons. I want to take Mary Grace some of that tea she likes, and I promised Lindsay I’d relieve her so she can take a break. Lindsay doesn’t get to see Noah too often, especially since he’s got the new show going in the city and she’s got Mary Grace out there.” Although Elle was happy to help out Lindsay, in truth she felt driven to sneak in as much time with Mary Grace as she could. Each week she brought out Mrs. Mick’s favorite flowers or muffins or caramels or Irish teas and spent a day listening to her stories and trying to make her laugh. In the past few years Mary Grace had become a replacement for Elle’s own distant mother, who clearly believed that her role of doctoring the masses was more important than raising on
e daughter. It was through Mrs. Mick’s hospitality, giving Elle a home in the Hamptons that summer her parents gave her the boot, that Elle envisioned buying a house and sinking roots out there. The McCorkle house on Rose Lane had become a jumping-off place for so many people, strays and friends of Lindsay and Steve. Elle would always be grateful to Mary Grace for giving her a home when she needed it most.

  “Did you have a chance to read those Falkowitz scripts yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m planning to dig in on the train.” She yawned. “Unless you want to loan me your driver?”

  “Let’s see. I’ve got a lunch with Showtime today, but that’s midtown . . .” Judd closed his eyes, going through his schedule. Although Truth and Justice was on hiatus, Elle was working with him on other ongoing projects, consulting on scripts and casting, working with writers, negotiating with agents. The work suited Elle’s jack-of-all-trades personality, as did the long, unpredictable hours.

  Still, the best part of her tenure on Judd Siegel Productions was her developing relationship with the executive producer. After a year of tumultuous dating Elle had leapt over the obstacle of those double doors on the first floor of Judd’s brownstone with an invitation to the mysterious upstairs. To her delight, there were not skeletons or shrines, but a comfortable apartment, including a den lined with bookshelves, a claw-foot bathtub, and a granite-counter kitchen with Vulcan stove and cappuccino machine. Elle had forged past the barriers and consequently she’d come to enjoy the daily patterns of her relationship with Judd, from lattes in bed to the full-time driver to the comfort of having a burly, argumentative man around 24/7.

  “You can have my driver,” Judd said, “but you’ll need to send him back. I’ve got a meeting at Silver Cup tomorrow.” He squeezed her knee. “Are you staying out in the Hamptons?”

  “Probably through the weekend. Mary Grace is having trouble getting around. I want to be there to help.”

  He nodded. “I’ll meet you out there Friday night?”

  She smiled. “That’d be perfect.”

  “You okay?” he asked, his dark eyes full of concern.

  She sighed. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.” Judd had heard various tales of her special relationship with Mary Grace McCorkle, her surrogate mother.

  “Sounds like she’s going,” he said quietly.

  “Why are you saying this?”

  “Because I hate to see you blindsided.” Judd had been through a similar loss a few years ago when his father died.

  Swallowing back a swell of emotion, Elle nodded. “Lindsay has been in touch with a hospice. They’re starting to send someone out, a few times a week.”

  He nodded, his eyes steady. “It’s going to happen. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  Elle just nodded as a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Wheels! You got wheels?” Elle sat down in the wheelchair on the McCorkles’ screened-in porch and propelled herself through the door. “Woo-hoo!” she screamed as she went flying down the newly installed ramp, a little too fast for comfort.

  “I knew you’d be jealous,” Mary Grace said from the porch divan, where she was sitting with Milo. “Get your own, Elle, and I’ll race you.”

  Lindsay appeared in the doorway, looking smart in black linen pants and a burgundy camisole top that matched the highlights in her dark hair. “The rationale behind the wheelchair is to help Mom save energy by limiting her walking around town and down to the beach. With the chair, she can still get out and go where she wants.” Lindsay said. “As far as I remember, Dr. Garber didn’t mention anything about races.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” her mother crowed. “What does an oncologist know about having fun?”

  “Good point,” Elle said, running the wheelchair back up the ramp.

  “And . . .” Lindsay pressed her hands to her chest in a dramatic pause. “I have good news. Great news. That was my agent on the phone.”

  Milo’s eyes grew round as his glasses lifted. “I didn’t know you had an agent.”

  “I found Debra through Island Books. She represents a few mystery writers, some romance writers, some serious novelists. And, to make a long story short, she said the story speaks to her and she’s going to auction it off next month!” Lindsay raised her arms and did a brief happy dance.

  “That’s great!” Milo jumped up and gave her a hug.

  “You worked on that manuscript for so long.” Elle shared her excitement, remembering the days that Lindsay had holed up in the fourth-story room, reappearing only to replenish her supply of Diet Cokes. “That’s the story of us, isn’t it?”

  “Inspired by us,” Lindsay agreed, “with some creative license.”

  “I hope the names were changed to protect the innocent,” Milo said.

  “I think you’re safe,” Lindsay teased. “I made you bald.”

  “Why’d you want to do that?” Milo rubbed his bristly brown hair as if in need of reassurance.

  83

  Lindsay

  Later that day, after Milo and I shared a train ride into the city and walked uptown to the theater district, I sat in the shadowy seats of the small theater on West Forty-fourth, replaying the bright afternoon in my head—probably the best day I’d had since the wedding. I hadn’t realized the dark cloud I’d been living under, being Ma’s caretaker and giving up work, until it lifted, letting a ray of light through. Elle brewed a pot of Irish tea for Ma and placed the Zabar’s muffins she’d brought onto a tray while I made a pitcher of lemonade. When the tea was ready, Milo wheeled Mary Grace out to a shadow spot in her garden, where white and purple clematis climbed gracefully up the stone wall of the garage. We sat around the old stone table and talked about possibilities . . .

  How much money would my book bring in if it sold? What wild, impulsive purchase would I make, at least with part of the money? Would I want to quit my job at Island Books to write other novels?

  “I’m so proud,” Ma said, putting her teacup down with a satisfied clink. “I’m beaming with pride. Can you tell?”

  “I just thought you overdid your blush this morning,” Milo said as he swiped a chunk of blueberry muffin.

  “My daughter, the author.” Mary Grace shifted in the wheelchair, adjusting a pillow behind her back. “I’m just dying to read your book, Lindsay. How soon can I get a copy?”

  “It’ll be a while, if it sells,” I said. “Depending on when the publisher schedules it . . . a good rule of thumb is that it takes around nine months from manuscript to printed book, like a baby.”

  “So I’ll be getting one more grandchild.” My mother smiled. “That’s delightful. But I can’t wait nine months.”

  “I’ll print out a copy of the manuscript,” I promised.

  “This is great news.” Mary Grace rubbed her hands together greedily. “I suppose it’s compensation for the fact that you girls are holding out with your single lives, refusing to bring me real grandchildren.”

  “Ma!” I gasped, and Elle let out a snorting laugh.

  “You never put on the pressure for me to get married before,” I said. “Don’t start now.”

  “I’d love to get married,” Elle said. “Judd and I have talked about it, but he’s not into it. He figures we’ve got a good thing going, why ruin it.”

  “Men,” Mary Grace scowled. “Pardon me, Milo, but I just can’t understand their reluctance to commit to marriage these days.”

  “I’m with you, Mary Grace,” Milo said. “I’ve been coercing my partner Raj to make things legal, register at City Hall, but he’s very resistant, says he’d feel trapped by making a legal commitment.”

  “You guys should press on for what you want,” I said, wanting to set the record straight. “But for me, marriage isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Noah and I just don’t have that kind of relationship. His first priority is his work. It consumes him, and when he’s in the middle of a show or film, there’s very little left of him at the end of the day.” I thought of all the things he’d missed or cancelled
in the past year. “He couldn’t even make my birthday celebration because they were shooting that day. That’s not the kind of relationship I want to sign on to for a lifetime commitment.” Taking a sip of lemonade, I realized the others were watching me. “What?”

  “You must have some interest in Noah,” her mother pointed out. “You go into the city to see him, even if it’s just to watch him rehearse the actors.”

  But I go to the city to escape, to take a break, to hide in the dark theater . . . I wasn’t sure how much of that was true, but I didn’t want to hurt Ma by suggesting that I was using Noah as an escape from her. “I don’t think people should get married unless it’s a perfect match,” I said. “Not to sound too idealistic, because I know we’re all human and flawed, but for two people to make it, there’s got to be that undying attraction. A chemistry. A spark.”

  “And you don’t have that with Noah?” Milo asked gently.

  “If we do, it’s fleeting.” I shrugged. “I’m not complaining, it’s just that I don’t want to pretend that our relationship is something it’s not.”

  “A wise bit of insight,” my mother said. “You’re so much more aware than I was at your age.”

  Now, sitting in the shadows of the tenth row of the theater, I had to wonder about the future of this relationship, especially when my boyfriend could become so consumed in his work that he didn’t take time to acknowledge my presence in the theater. Not that it bothered me for the first hour or so as I watched him block a scene with Darcy and Ban and a dour woman named Helen who was playing Ban’s mother in the play. Helen was straight man to Ban’s comic cut-ups, and Darcy was the one who reacted with laughter and giggles, so amused that she managed to draw Noah into the comedy of it all, until he was laughing, too.

  I studied them, as if observing a science experiment, a chemical reaction of foaming, colorful liquid in test tubes. When was the last time I’d seen Noah laugh? Not at his apartment, not while we were having dinner at our small table in the back of Joe Allen. And certainly not in bed, where he brought such sharp intensity to our love life that I often felt as if I were trying to play an edgy, dramatic part and failing miserably.