The Winter Lodge

by Susan Wiggs

  “And it costs money.”

  “If we find the bleeding artery, then maybe we can stop the flow.”

  “Have you talked to Matthew Alger? Seems to me you’d start with the city administrator.”

  “He was no help at all. His books are in perfect, squeaky-clean order.” She scowled. “Of course they are.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He wants to look perfect because he’s going to run against me in the next election.”

  She looked so completely stressed out that Rourke nearly forgot his own troubles. “Listen, what about ordering an independent audit instead of the forensics at this point? Then you don’t look paranoid and maybe you’ll figure out what’s going on.”

  “And the funding for an independent audit comes from, what, your department?” she asked.

  He slapped his hand down on the desk. “I’m trying to be helpful.”

  Unlike most people he worked with, Nina ignored his temper. “What is with you, McKnight?”

  He glared at her. “Nothing’s with me, unless you want to count trying to run this department on a budget the size of an egg roll.”

  “Liar. You’ve never let yourself get rattled over a budget shortfall.” She folded her arms on her desk and studied him.

  He refused to let her scrutiny affect him. Nina Romano was beautiful. She was single and everyone loved her. For years, people in town had wanted them to fall in love and live happily ever after. The city mayor and the chief of police. It was just too cute to resist.

  The only problem was, they weren’t a match. They both knew it. Yet they respected each other. When she demanded to know what was eating him, he wasn’t going to pull any punches.

  “I’ve been all pissed off lately,” he said.

  “Oh.” She gave a sage nod. “PJSD.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Post-Jenny Stress Disorder.”

  Very funny, he thought. “She drove me nuts when she was staying with me. I figured I’d be glad to see the back of her.”

  Nina laughed. “McKnight, you are one hell of a piece of work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve carried a torch for that girl ever since we were kids.”

  “I, um, kind of told her so before she left.”

  “And she still left?” Nina looked amazed.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must not have told her.”

  “I just said I did.”

  “All right, how did you tell her?”

  He thought for a moment. “I told her the reason I date so many girls is that none of them is her.”

  It took Nina several minutes to stop laughing and pull herself together. Then she flipped a pencil at him, hitting him in the chest. “Good job, genius.”

  “What?”

  “If I have to explain why that was so completely inappropriate, then you’ll never get it.”

  “Listen, can we move on? It’s pretty clear she’s better off heading to the city—”

  “God, McKnight, you always do this,” Nina said.

  “Do what?”

  “You always try to find all the reasons you shouldn’t be with Jenny, or with anyone decent. Why is that?”

  “I don’t need you to analyze my personal life, Nina,” he said.

  “Right. You’re doing so well on your own.” She showed him a banker’s box overflowing with photographs and papers. “This might cheer her up.”

  “What is it?”

  “The call I put out in the paper? Things have been flooding in.”

  Shortly after the fire, Nina had written an open letter to the citizens of Avalon, explaining Jenny’s loss and asking for copies of any photos or memorabilia people might have of the Majesky family or bakery. To no one’s surprise, items came flooding in—old photos, Sky River Bakery calendars dating back to the ’60s, cards with heartfelt memories handwritten on them, a startling number of pictures of Mariska Majesky. The school district had donated copies of the high-school yearbook from each year Jenny had been a student there. He shuffled through a few items and was struck anew by the feelings she roused in him. She was so damn beautiful in picture after picture, smiling out at the camera. He tried to imagine what it was like to lose everything. At one point in his life, he had walked away from everything with only the clothes on his back, but that wasn’t quite the same. He had been glad to leave his old life and all its trappings behind.

  He came across a clipping from the paper, dated August 30, 1995. There was a photo of Jenny and Joey, their faces filled with happiness. “Mrs. Helen Majesky announces the engagement of her granddaughter, Jennifer Anne Majesky, to Corporal Joseph Santini...a summer wedding is planned.”

  Memories burned inside him, still painful even now. He replaced the lid on the box. “Does she know about this stuff?” he asked Nina.

  “No, things are still coming in. I thought maybe you could be in charge of it.”

  “Nope. No way.” One thing was clear to Rourke. He was still haunted by the emotions that had engulfed him during the fire. There was a moment when he thought he’d lost her, and the one searing thought that wouldn’t leave him alone was that he’d never told Jenny how he felt about her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jenny felt like an impostor as she emerged from the subway station at Rockefeller Center. She tried to join the flow of hurrying, sharply dressed professionals heading off for appointments, but she felt like a phony. She was a stranger here. Sure, she’d visited the city before, but she’d been a tourist. Her grandparents had brought her to visit museums or to see a ballet, and on two blessed, cherished occasions, they had taken her to see a Broadway play. Beauty and the Beast had made Gram weep with joy while Grandpa had struggled to stay awake. Another time, they’d seen a drama called Da about an Irish family, which was terribly sad but beautiful to watch.

  Other times, they had gone to the Frick, the Met, Wall Street. By far the most memorable visit had been to Ellis Island. There was something haunting about the place where so many millions had taken their first breath of air in America. Gram and Grandpa had said little as they regarded the pictures of crowded waiting rooms and dormitories, a rooftop where children used to play. They had spent a long time studying the display cases of random objects—a cracked leather satchel, a child’s stray shoe, a printed ticket, a stamped certificate of immigration. With a feeling of hushed awe, they had found their names among the engraved brass lists that marked the perimeter of the park. They’d traced the letters of their names with their fingertips, and Jenny would never forget the way they embraced each other, standing before the plaque with the wind blowing their hair and the Statue of Liberty in the background. It was such a mingling of sadness, regret and gratitude that she could finally see, in that moment, a glimpse of what it had been like for them, teenagers and newlyweds, fleeing to a new land, knowing full well that they would never see their families again.

  Jenny had been thirteen years old. She was full of love for her grandparents and, she discovered, full of anger at her mother. That year, they’d also gone to the Cloisters, a medieval museum clear at the other end of Manhattan. To get there, they’d ridden a bus, and when it went through the Upper East Side, she’d known she was in Rourke McKnight’s neighborhood because he and Joey had once explained where it was. She’d looked out in wonder at the beautiful Gilded Age buildings and parks, nannies in their crisp aprons pushing prams, manicured parks and shiny limos transporting their precious cargos here and there.

  She remembered thinking, This is his world. She’d felt like an alien then, and she did now.

  Everyone in the city seemed intense and full of purpose—the food vendors on the street corners, the black-clad young execs chattering into cell phones as they rushed along the crowded sidewalk. Even the
smokers clustered around their sand-filled ashtrays seemed busy and important.

  Maybe in time she would feel a part of this rushing scene, but for now, she was simply going through the motions. She turned down Forty-Seventh Street, bustling with shoppers, diamond merchants and brokers, many of them Hasidic Jews in traditional long black coats and brimmed hats, earlocks and beards framing their faces. Diamond jewelry glittered in the windows of shop after shop. On one corner, she noticed a peculiar smell—the hot reek of exhaust and the smoky-sweet aroma of roasting nuts. She spotted a little girl with a woman, hailing a taxi. The woman was hurrying; the child stumbled as the mother half dragged along.

  Watching them, Jenny had the most extraordinary sensation of déjà vu. She could hear, as clearly as a voice spoken in her ear, a clipped command: “Come along, Jenny. You have to keep up. We have a flight to catch.”

  “I don’t want to fly away.”

  “Fine, I’ll leave you at home.”

  Jenny felt, for a moment, as though she’d become detached from her own life. Though the memory was dim, like a half-remembered dream, she had the eeriest notion that she had been here before.

  In the next block, she watched the numbers on the buildings decrease, and found the address where she was to meet Philip Bellamy and Martin Greer, a man Philip had known since college, who was now a successful literary agent with his own firm.

  As Jenny surrendered her coat, hat and gloves to the cloakroom of the restaurant, she felt the unpleasant tickle of panic. Oh, come on, she thought. Not now. Talk about your lousy timing. She contemplated taking a pill for it but dismissed the idea. For the next hour, she would simply ignore the symptoms.

  She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, pasted a smile on her face and approached the podium. “Has Mr. Bellamy arrived yet?” she asked.

  “I’ve just seated him.” The Eastern European hostess, as slender as a pencil in a sleek skirt and blouse, led Jenny to the table where Philip and Martin awaited.

  Both men stood to greet her, Philip with a brief kiss on her cheek and Martin with a handshake. She prayed he didn’t notice the sweat.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” she said, taking a seat.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Martin said. He had the pleasant and resonant voice of a radio announcer.

  Jenny looked around the beautiful restaurant. It was airy and light with a view of the building’s atrium, lush with tree-size tropical plants. They had been given prime seating—Martin and Philip were persons of consequence.

  “How do you like New York so far?” Martin asked.

  “It’s fascinating. Olivia’s apartment is great.” So much in New York was over the top and larger than life, but Olivia’s place was a comfortable oasis in an adorable brownstone filled with chintz-covered furniture, homey houseplants, bright Fiestaware in the china cupboard. Olivia had combined her good taste with the natural warmth of her personality, reflected in the cozy, sunny apartment.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of reading some of your columns and essays,” Martin said, turning businesslike.

  Jenny held her breath. She felt Philip doing the same.

  “And here’s the thing,” Martin continued, leaning toward her a little. “I’m a fan. I like the material. And I’m not just saying that because Philip would strangle me if I didn’t. I’m saying that because there’s something special in your writing.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she told him. “I’m flattered, really.”

  Martin held up his hand. “I’m just getting started. Like I said, I’m a fan. I could feel the atmosphere of this little family bakery as if I was right there. You brought your grandparents to life for me. I could hear their voices and picture them in my mind’s eye. I’m no baker but the recipes make sense to me. Your writing is lively, authentic and unpretentious.”

  Jenny was still in the clutches of the panic attack. She could feel her face burning. Perhaps he would think it was just excitement. “Thank you,” she said a bit breathlessly. She took a quick sip of her Voss water. “But at the end of everything you said, I hear a great big ‘however’ coming.”

  Martin and Philip exchanged a glance. “You have good hearing,” Martin said. “Very perceptive.”

  “So what’s the however?” she asked.

  The waiter came for their orders. She barely glanced at the menu, and opted for one of the specials, which contained at least three things she’d never heard of.

  “The however is this,” Martin said. “You’ve given us the bakery. The recipes, the characters involved—your grandparents and co-workers, the quirky customers. It’s all there. What’s missing is one key ingredient.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You.”

  Jenny hadn’t expected this. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You need to be more present. Not just a narrator but a character yourself. Sure, people are going to like these vignettes, the recipes and character sketches. But in order for this book to be extraordinary, we need to see you in it. We need to see the things that define you, your dreams and emotions, and what this place represents for you. Show us your heart.”

  “I don’t really consider myself interesting enough to write about.”

  “Then you’re not thinking hard enough.” Martin was clearly unmoved by the fact that the whole notion distressed her completely. “You’ve given us little tantalizing glimpses of key things that happened in your life. The bitter-chocolate cake your grandmother made every year on your mother’s birthday. How could the reader not want to hear more? And the fiftieth-anniversary cake you yourself made for Philip’s parents. I’m thinking there’s much more to the story. I mean, come on—somebody orders a cake, and it leads to discovering the father you never knew. That’s what people want to read.”

  Now Jenny got it. She glanced at Philip and knew he got it, too.

  “You want me to write about my mother,” she said.

  Martin steepled his fingers together. “What was it like to have her walk away? And to have your father come into your life last summer? And here’s a question—who’s Joey?”

  Oh, God. “You read the archives.” It was not a question.

  “Sure,” Martin said. “I’m taking this project very seriously.”

  She didn’t know what to say. The raw nerves of the past were suddenly exposed. Neither of these men wished her ill, but their scrutiny was painful. Years ago, when she had first started her column, Joey had been a part of her life. Naturally, allusions to him and his Italian heritage had made their way into the column. His father, Bruno, a lovable bear of a man, had even convinced Gram to add fiadone to the menu at the bakery.

  “He, um... Joey and I were engaged,” she finally said, studying the crisp white tablecloth. Even now, it hurt to say the words. And even now, she could picture Joey, laughing and innocent, so in love with her that his fellow rangers used to rib him for spontaneously bursting into song every time he thought of her. There was so much more Jenny could say about Joey, but she wasn’t used to talking about him, especially not to a man she was just coming to know. And in front of—good lord—a literary agent.

  “Honey, I’m sorry,” Philip said, touching her hand in a gesture both awkward and comforting. “I hate that certain things happened to you, and I wasn’t there to... I don’t know. Help or just listen. Just be there.”

  His painful honesty touched her, yet she felt a faint shadow of bitterness, too. She wished he’d found her sooner, wished he’d been there when she desperately needed someone. Of course, that was impossible, and it wasn’t his fault. “I’m all right now. It was a long time ago,” she told him. Then she turned to Mr. Greer. “I never put anything too personal in my writing. I’m not sure I’d know how to do it.”

  “Little anecdotes work fine for a newspaper column.” He paused. “But you’ve got some t
hinking to do—about the personal stuff. Because here’s the thing about a food memoir. It’s never about the food.”

  * * *

  “In other words,” Jenny said to Nina on the phone that night, “he wants me to bleed on the page.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Of course I can. The question is whether or not I’m willing to,” Jenny said. “And does anybody really care? I’m just a girl who grew up in a small town, helping out with the family business. Nobody special. I thought that was what people liked about my writing. They could relate to my story, make it their own. Why do I have to write about my mom and admit I never knew my dad? Why in God’s name do I have to bring up Joey?”

  “People like that stuff. An ordinary person facing the out-of-the-ordinary.”

  Jenny tried to imagine herself putting certain things on the page. “All I’ve ever wanted since I was a girl was to be heard. I wanted people to know my story, even though there was nothing particularly unique about it. People tell about their lives and they want them to be happy stories. When you have to go somewhere not so happy...” She looked out the window at the apartment buildings across the way, standing shoulder to shoulder in an impenetrable blockade. “It’s going to change what this book is.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Nina asked.

  “I’m not sure. I had a pleasant collection of recipes and anecdotes about the bakery—that’s what I thought it was. Now I’m about to change it into a story of abandonment and anger, and a failed love affair, and I’m supposed to pull out some sort of epiphany in the end.” She shook her head. “I have no idea how to end it.”

  “Could be when you met Philip Bellamy or made the fiftieth-anniversary wedding cake for people you didn’t even know were your grandparents, take your pick,” Nina said. “How bad do you want this?”

  Bad enough to hurt and bleed for it. Jenny took a breath, got up and paced restlessly. “I want it.”

  “Then I guess you’d better get busy finding that epiphany.”

  She smiled and poured a glass of water on a houseplant. “It doesn’t work that way.”