by Susan Wiggs
“You know what I think? I think it’s Rourke McKnight.”
Jenny held the receiver away from her and scowled at it. “Come again?”
“You and Rourke. Maybe that’s the ending.”
“There is no me and Rourke. God, Nina.”
“And you know what else?” Nina said, unrepentant. “You sound miserable. I don’t think heading to the city was the best idea for you.”
“I’ve always wanted to do this, always. You of all people know that.”
“I think you liked the idea of it more than the reality,” Nina pointed out. “You know, the cute little apartment, the bustling crowds, the excitement. But the reality is, your life is in Avalon. It’s where the people who care most about you are.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting my new family,” Jenny pointed out. “My father’s sisters, my paternal grandparents, cousins I never knew existed until half a year ago.”
“Fine, get to know them, but I still think you belong back here.”
Jenny winced. Was she that girl? The shop owner destined to spend her life in a small town while dreaming of a different life like a latter-day female George Bailey? She paced back and forth in front of the window. Outside, people hurried along on their errands, lines of traffic crushed and expanded like a giant accordion. In a doorway across the street, a woman in a gray cloth coat leaned against the jamb, brooding as though the scene was a personal affront to her.
“I like it here,” Jenny insisted, though the impersonal snapshot out the window made her wonder if she was fooling herself.
“Come home. You know you want to.”
“I don’t have a home, remember? I refuse to stay at Rourke’s any longer, and I love you dearly, but there’s no way I’m moving in with you and Sonnet.”
“You can find a rental. No big deal.” Nina, whose heart and soul belonged to Avalon, who loved it so much she worked fourteen-hour days as mayor, simply couldn’t seem to understand why someone would want to live anywhere else.
“I’ll think about it,” Jenny said, mainly because the whole issue was giving her a headache. A confusion-induced headache. In all honesty, she didn’t know her own mind—her own heart—anymore. “I’ve got some things I need to do here besides meeting my father’s family.”
“Like what?”
Jenny took a deep breath. “I need to go see Joey.”
“Aw, Jen.” Nina’s voice wavered. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “It’s just...something I need to do.”
* * *
She took a taxi because the day was so cold. There wasn’t much snow around, just grainy gray heaps along the curbs here and there. The sky was heavy and colorless over the Manhattan Bridge as the taxi crossed to Brooklyn and made its way along Flatbush Avenue. She’d been here once before, but her memory of that day was faulty, a blur of pain. Yet since the meeting with Martin Greer, she’d been thinking a lot about the stories inside her, and she was beginning to realize she’d been hiding from the past rather than facing up to it.
The taxi passed through the arched iron gate and trolled along the gray paved driveway. She silently counted the rows, and then spoke up. “I think it’s here,” she said faintly. “Can you wait?”
The driver nodded and she got out. She seemed to be the only one here. The cold was etched into the very ground beneath her feet, the grass flattened and drained of color. She walked along, counting as she went, and then she stopped and turned, suddenly glad no one else was around. Her stomach fluttered with nervousness.
“Hey, Joey,” she said. “It’s me.” She took a deep breath, blew it halfway out and started talking. “There’s something I’m thinking about doing, and I wanted to tell you about it. You know how I’ve always wanted to write a book? You used to tease me about writing everything down, remember? I still do that, and now it looks as though I’ve been given that chance. It’s not easy, though. Some of the things I’ll be writing are going to take me back to...difficult times. I don’t know, maybe it’s masochistic, but I want to write about those times. It’s something I probably should have done a long time ago. I think you know why. Anyway, that’s the plan.”
The cold wind caused her eyes to water. She stood for a few moments longer, thinking, remembering. The headstone was situated next to an older marker for Joey’s mother. Joey’s still looked brand new, rounded at the top and gleaming, the carved letters crisp at the edges:
Joseph Anthony Santini, 1976-1998. Beloved son.
Step softly—a dream lies buried here.
The buzzer sounded from the street. Jenny hurried to answer, opening the door for Jane Bellamy. Her grandmother—Philip’s mother—stood beaming at her. A wave of silver hair winged out from beneath her soft angora hat, and she wore a handsomely tailored burgundy wool coat. There was nothing the least bit unkind about her, but Jenny simply didn’t know how to act around her.
“Hello, dear,” Jane said. “I’m so pleased you agreed to come.”
“I really appreciate the invitation.” Jenny wondered if she looked as rattled as she felt. She’d been trying all day to get some writing done, but had managed nothing more than organizing her e-mail files and playing a dozen games of Minesweeper. She gave her grandmother a hug. Her grandmother. They had not known each other long, but there was nothing to dislike about Jane Gordon Bellamy. Jane’s grandfather had founded Camp Kioga and she had grown up there.
In 1956, she had married Charles Bellamy in a ceremony at Camp Kioga. Helen Majesky had created their wedding cake, a splendid confection covered in sugar-dough flowers. Fifty years later, Jenny had made an exact replica of that cake for their golden anniversary, also celebrated at the camp. Jane was sixty-nine years old, beautiful, with bright eyes, her silver hair fashionable, her cashmere winter coat draping nicely over her slender figure. There was an unpretentious air about her, even though she was married to a Bellamy and lived in one of the venerable old buildings on the Upper East Side.
Jane looked around the room, a bright spot even in the dead of winter. “How are you liking Olivia’s apartment?”
“I absolutely love this place. It’s just perfect.” Even so, Jenny was haunted by the things Nina had said on the phone the other day. Was it perfect, or was she forcing herself to feel that way because this was what she thought she wanted?
“I’m not surprised the two of you have similar taste,” Jane said. “After all, you’re sisters.”
Half sisters, Jenny thought. The other half of Olivia was her mother, Pamela Lightsey—divorced, well off, socially connected, intimidating. Yet another thing she had in common with Olivia. They both had difficult mothers. The difference was, Pamela was made difficult by her presence and Mariska by her absence.
“So, are you ready for our outing?” asked Jane.
“Absolutely. I’ve always wanted to see the St. Regis.” Jenny went and got her coat. Going to a legendary hotel for tea might be a common occurrence in Jane Bellamy’s life, but it was a first for Jenny.
“I usually have tea there once a month,” Jane explained. She had her own driver, a low-key man in a good suit, who murmured in a foreign language into his Bluetooth as he expertly navigated the car through traffic. “In the past, I nearly always took Olivia along. It was quite the tradition with us.”
Jenny and Gram had traditions, too, but they were much more humble. Jenny would go to the bakery after school each day. She would sit at one of the worktables with a glass of cold milk and a warm cookie, spinning around on a stool as she exuberantly told Gram about her day.
“Olivia and I started this when she was ten or eleven,” Jane went on. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind my telling you that she took her parents’ divorce very hard.”
“She told me,” Jenny said.
“I can’t say taking her to high tea did m
uch good, but I’m sure the extra attention didn’t hurt.” Jane reached over and patted Jenny’s hand. “Listen to me, rambling on and on.”
“I don’t mind.”
The car pulled alongside the curb in front of the hotel, a Beaux Arts landmark in midtown. A doorman in formal livery hastened to open the car door for them, offering Jane a hand to help her out. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bellamy,” he said.
We’re not in Kansas anymore, Jenny thought, stepping into the opulent lobby.
The hostess also knew Jane Bellamy by name. She led them through an indoor palm court to their table in a bright, elegant tearoom. Murmured conversation and soothing harp music filled the air. Jane beamed at Jenny. “Are you impressed? I wanted to impress you.”
Jenny laughed. “Are you kidding? Definitely impressed. They treat you like a VIP.”
“It’s a privilege of old age.” Jane grew serious. “When Charles and I first moved to the city after we were married, I felt the same way you probably do—lost and confused. The only thing that saved me was knowing my summers would all be spent at Camp Kioga. I want you to know, Jenny, there’s no shame in feeling homesick.”
“I don’t feel homesick. I’d better not.” At Jane’s confused look, Jenny said, “I’d be disappointed in myself if I was homesick.”
“Dear, although we haven’t known each other long, I am your grandmother and I can smell a lie a mile off.”
“But—” Jenny stared down into her cup of tea, warm amber Earl Grey, redolent of bergamot. “All my life, I thought I wanted this. I’d feel like a failure if I didn’t think this was a dream come true.”
“Nonsense,” Jane said. “You can’t force your feelings to do your will.” She smiled wistfully. “I’ve been away from Avalon for fifty years and I still miss it.”
Jenny was stunned. “Why not move back?”
“My life is here because Charles is here. When you’re with the person you love, you’re home. Have you ever been in love, Jenny?”
She thought about Joey, the plans they’d made, and the way everything had shattered apart. “Not that way,” she admitted. “Not in a follow-you-to-the-ends-of-the-earth way.” She took a sip of her tea, faced Jane’s steady gaze. “I was engaged,” she said. “His name was Joey, and he was a soldier in the army.”
“I take it things didn’t work out.”
“He died.” Jane probably deserved a fuller explanation, but Jenny didn’t trust herself to say more without coming apart. She thought about Joey constantly, but all the memories and all her plans didn’t clarify anything for her. God, she thought, and she was supposed to write about this? She couldn’t even say it.
Jane’s eyes softened with shock and concern. “I’m sorry. He must have been so young. It must have been terrible for you.”
Jenny nodded. “I’m all right now. It’s been several years. Eventually, I dated a little.” She was embarrassed to admit how little. “My last boyfriend—Don—was a nice guy. We had fun together. He was an awful driver, though. He got more traffic tickets than anyone I’ve ever known. In fact, I think he eventually skipped town because he didn’t want to pay them. Come to think of it, another guy I dated used to get a lot of tickets, too.” She’d nearly forgotten about Tyler. He hadn’t left much of an impression.
“Oh, dear. Does this mean you’re attracted to reckless men?”
“I don’t think so. They were just unlucky. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Failing to signal, a taillight out... One of Don’s tickets was for not having mud flaps on his truck, can you imagine? Who even knew that was a rule?”
“Avalon’s finest,” Jane said. “Good to know they’re so vigilant. Olivia tells me the chief of police has been especially good to you since the fire. I’m pleased to hear that.”
Uh-huh. And what else had Olivia said? The snitch. Maybe there was a downside to having a sister. “Rourke and I have known each other for a long time,” she said. “He was Joey’s best friend.”
“I see. And how did he come to settle in Avalon?”
The question startled Jenny. “He studied law enforcement in college and then he just...settled there.”
Jane lifted one delicate eyebrow. “And you and Rourke are...close?”
No one was close to Rourke. “Like I said, the two of us go way back, but it’s...complicated.”
“Well. I won’t pry, much as I’d like to,” Jane said, beaming at her.
Jenny laughed, liking this woman more and more. “I don’t mind the prying,” she said, “but there’s nothing to find out. Rourke McKnight and I are... We found out a long time ago that we’re better off staying out of each other’s range. Much better off. I have been conspicuously single for a while.”
Jane carefully blotted her lips with a linen napkin. “I lied,” she said. “I am going to pry. I can’t pretend I know anything at all about the situation, but you don’t get to be my age without learning a thing or two about love. Now, this Joey—I’ll bet he loved you very much.”
Jenny gave a cautious nod.
“He would have wanted you to move on. To fall in love again.”
Jenny stared at her lap. “We talked about it—about the possibility of him not coming back—each time he was deployed. All soldiers do that. They have to. I hated those conversations. And...yes. He always said if he was gone, I should fall in love again.”
“And yet, you haven’t.”
Jenny looked up. She wanted to be angry at her grandmother, to accuse her of meddling, but she saw only wisdom and compassion in Jane’s eyes. “I haven’t,” she admitted. “Taking care of Gram and running the bakery kept me busy.”
“Helen was lucky to have you,” Jane said. Mercifully, she seemed to sense Jenny’s desperation to change the subject.
“I was lucky to have her.”
Jane nodded. “I went to the Sky River Bakery on its opening day back in 1952.”
“You’re kidding.” She tried to picture Jane as a young woman in Avalon.
“Not at all. And I have to tell you, the minute I set foot in that place, I had a good feeling. It was everything you want a family bakery to be.” She studied the tiered tray of petits fours and truffle butter canapés, but didn’t take one. “I had a jam kolache. And within a week, my parents had made a contract with your grandparents to supply Camp Kioga with baked goods in the summer.”
The memory filled Jenny with both warmth and sadness. She felt so distant from that world. She pictured Helen and Jane together, younger than Jenny herself was now. How strange that they had met, that Helen had created Jane’s wedding cake, and then unknowingly, they had both become grandmothers at the moment Jenny was born.
“Did you know my mother?” Jenny asked.
“Mariska? Oh, my, yes.” Her hands fluttered down into her lap.
“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable—”
“I’m not at all. I dearly wish I had known her better. I understand you haven’t seen her since you were very young.”
To this day, Jenny could still smell a whiff of perfume—Jean Naté—and hear her mother’s voice: I’ll see you when I come back around again. It was what she always said, never explaining where she was going or when she’d be back.
“Helen and Leo were extremely proud of her,” Jane said. “She was a beautiful girl—you look very much like her. She was smart and hardworking. And she liked going fishing with her father, which seemed curious to me. They used to come up to Willow Lake, year-round.”
“Why was that curious?”
“She just didn’t seem the type. She was lovely, and very feminine, and she was utterly determined to see the world. I believe she was what’s known as larger than life,” said Jane. “Prettier, more fun-loving, more daring. No wonder Philip fell in love with her. I’m quite surprised they were able to keep it secret all summer long
.”
The summer Jenny had been conceived.
“And all this time,” Jane said gently, “there’s been no word? Nothing?”
Jenny shook her head. “It’s as if she dropped off the face of the earth.” She helped herself to more tea. “If I decide to pursue this book, I’ll be writing about it.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“Yes.” Even knowing the memories she’d have to explore, she wanted to do it.
“That’s very brave of you. When I was young, I used to dream about publishing my poems.”
“And did you?”
Jane smiled and shook her head. “They were extremely bad poems. Your father always wanted to write,” she added.
Jenny felt a jolt at the words your father. Discovering a whole new world of relatives was like finding a hidden door in a house she’d lived in her entire life, and learning that it led to new places she never knew existed. “I haven’t made any progress, though. Here in the city, I feel...distracted,” Jenny said, unable to be anything but honest. “Philip introduced me to Martin Greer, a literary agent who thinks I might actually have a book in me. Unless he was just saying so out of respect for his friend.”
Jane shook her head. “I know Martin. He would never be so disingenuous. He understands a book has to stand on its own merits.”
“That’s good to know.” Jenny hesitated, then confided, “The truth is, I’m having trouble with the project.”
“What sort of trouble? Perhaps I can be of some help.”
Jenny took a deep breath. “Being here in the city is not quite...what I’d expected. I mean, I knew it would be noisy and full of life, but I’m letting myself get distracted.”
“Perhaps you’re a peace-and-quiet sort of writer.”
Jenny recalled the endless silent hours in Avalon. She would become so absorbed in what she was doing that hours would pass, unnoticed. She used to work late into the night, when the only sound was the wind sighing in the leaves, or in springtime, the chirping of frogs. Here, there was no silent time of the night. She acknowledged, though, that it wasn’t just the noise distracting her.