“Yeah, yeah.” August pushed his hair out of his eyes, glanced at the drawings on the desk. “Hey, what are those?”
Tripp felt his muscles relax after the roughhousing. He always did like the brother role best. “Drawings for the Smythe family. A new construction on Sherman Cove. Colonial.”
August leaned closer, studied the interior layout. “Aly Smythe, right? Her mom teaches painting on the weekends.” He looked at the drawing another minute, pointed at the second-floor rooms. “That bathroom’s as big as a dance hall. If they scaled it down a bit and moved that closet here”—he pointed—“she’d be able to have an extra room, probably with a great view. Maybe an art room with a small balcony.”
Tripp squinted at the drawings, imagined August’s suggestion. “You know, I think you’re right. I’ll mention that to them when I deliver the estimate. Not bad, Little Colton.”
“I’m not just around here for my stunning good looks, you know.”
Tripp delivered another light punch to his side. “And clearly not for your humility either. Go on, get out of here. Maybe I’ll catch you for the game later? Sox are taking on the Blue Jays.”
“Maybe. All depends how my date with Mackenzie goes.”
“Mackenzie Brown?”
“Yup.”
The girl lived a street over from Grandpop’s estate. Pretty, though hard to tell with so much makeup. Her usually revealing, too-tight clothes didn’t leave much to the imagination. She didn’t strike Tripp as the kind of girl August would be—should be—drawn to. But lately he wondered how well he really knew his brother at all. Then again, maybe he wasn’t being fair to the girl. Maybe August saw something in her Tripp didn’t.
His brother opened the door.
“August, just be careful and don’t—”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do. But then I wouldn’t have any fun, would I?” He chuckled as he walked down the hall, whistling.
Tripp groaned. That boy needed Jesus or a father or a sweet girl who would set him straight. Preferably all three.
Tripp leaned back in his chair, stared blankly at the blueprints in front of him. He’d always thought Josie Martin would be his future and Amie Martin would be August’s. They would hang out together, maybe have their own families one day. Real families, with parents and aunts and uncles and cousins—something the Colton boys never had.
But lately it seemed all those dreams were as good as the rotten boards in his latest demolition project—torn down and thrown in the back dumpster, never to be repurposed or used again.
He stood, shoved his chair back against the desk with more force than necessary. He wasn’t fond of playing the lovesick puppy, and truth be told, it was growing old. Maybe he should take a lesson from August’s book and date more. Ashley Robinson had been flirting with him for some time. A pretty elementary school teacher on the worship team at church. They’d talked a few times at town events. Maybe he should ask her out, get over this crazy Josie hump.
But when he thought of sitting across from Ashley on the balcony of The Waterfront Restaurant, or buying her ice cream at the Camden Cone, all he could think about was a woman with long chestnut hair who ran like the wind, who had convinced him to dress up for Halloween as Romeo their junior year of high school, who would probe his thoughts on life and purpose and faith and humanity with the tenacity of a lawyer cross-examining a witness in a high stakes trial but listen to his responses with the compassion of Mother Theresa. A woman who could make him laugh with her wittiness and take his breath away with her beauty.
The Martin family had filled so many gaps in his life—in August’s too. Their poor neighbors, the most unlikely of benefactors, had poured themselves out in love to the two little rich boys. It was only natural Tripp fell for his best friend. But that horrible summer day when he’d admitted his feelings, Josie had rejected him. Accused him of wanting her for what he’d never had—a ready-made family. Said he only thought of her as a logical step to adulthood, to becoming a man.
Was any part of what she’d said true? He’d wrestled with that question last year and still didn’t have a solid answer. He only knew his heart. He only knew who he wanted to be with forever.
He thought of August seeing her at the doctor’s, thought of that desperate look from yesterday. It wasn’t his place to question anymore, maybe it never had been. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t swing by the Martin house later. He used to stop by for a game of chess with Josie without a second thought. Besides, there was more trim to put up, and he’d never stopped to question his motives for a visit before.
Why should Josie’s presence change that?
4
Dad had drilled into me the importance of fulfilling my “God-given potential,” and I never questioned that the plans I had for my life would steer me in the right direction of said potential.
Until now.
The tiny blob on the screen changed everything.
I had failed. The evidence was plain before me, making me feel all sorts of emotions I couldn’t even begin to wade through. Defeat. Shame. Remorse. And something so small I hardly recognized it…surely not amazement?
I’d put off calling my doctor while at school, telling myself I’d figure things out once I’d gotten home. It took every last ounce of willpower for me to drive myself to the office today.
Now, as the midwife moved the wand over my small, hard belly and studied the portable screen, reality hit.
The quick flash of a heartbeat showed strong and sure. There was an actual tiny human growing inside of me. Unreal.
“When was your last period, Josie?”
“Um, mid-January sometime, I think.”
She made a small sound of acknowledgement, but it held a hint of disapproval. Or was I being overly paranoid? She didn’t know me from Adam, but had she already formed her opinions about me?
My face burned at the realization of what I’d done to be in here, answering her questions. I’d always planned to wait for marriage and children until after I’d obtained a dependable career. If only I’d remembered those good intentions in Finn’s presence.
From a psychological standpoint, I could make excuses for my poor decisions this past year. The grief following Dad’s death, Maggie leaving us for her new family, trying to embrace school and New York and my future, trying to make Dad proud from heaven…then meeting up again with Professor Becker as a graduate student instead of a wide-eyed freshman. He’d heard of my father’s passing and expressed his condolences, apologized for not making it to the funeral. I thanked him for the kind card and the generous donation he’d made to the college in Dad’s memory. Told him I’d missed his presence at Thanksgiving last year.
When he asked me out for a drink to share a few untold stories in honor of my father, I accepted, even as I felt out of my element. Like a naïve freshman once again—one of two-hundred held spellbound by Finn’s dynamic presence in the classroom.
We toasted to Dad, and Finn spoke about how they’d met in a class they’d taken together some eighteen years ago. Dad had gone back to school for some psychology classes to better prepare him for his role as a counselor at the church. He and Finn had shared a battle of wits over the logical existence for God—Dad owning there was plenty of evidence to support such an existence, Finn claiming there was none.
Despite their opposing opinions, they enjoyed the challenge of their debates. When about to leave for Thanksgiving recess, Dad had asked Finn what his plans were. Finn admitted he’d had none. Ever the giver, Dad had invited him to our home for the holiday and although Finn wanted to object, he hadn’t.
Never marrying or having his own family, Finn had shown up for many a Thanksgiving. Not last year, though. Our first without Dad. Mom had extended the invitation, but Finn had declined.
“You know,” Finn said, his eyes reflecting warmth from the lights above the high top table we shared. “Your dad and I may have disagreed about a lot, but I don’t know if I ever told
him how much I appreciated those Thanksgiving invitations. I wish I had.”
I’d smiled, put my hand on his. “I think he knew.”
By the time we parted for the night, my heart swam with anticipation, the warmth of the wine pleasant in my veins. I couldn’t wait to attend Finn’s class the next day.
But no one was more surprised than me when he asked me out again that weekend, this time without citing my father’s memory as a reason to get together.
Things had escalated fast. Too fast.
Fifteen years my senior, Professor Finn Becker was sophisticated, handsome, and ambitious. He filled an emotional void within me, made me forget about home and Dad and Tripp—even my family with whom I now connected to grief and dead dreams. For the first time, I allowed my levelheadedness to get swallowed up in obsession.
Mystical and massive, pulling at me like the swell of an enchanting crystalline sea, Finn’s boundless energy and surety, coupled with the intellectual world he lived in, enchanted me until I gave him all I had.
Finn didn’t believe in marriage. He said it was a man-made restriction that ruined the beauty and potential of true love. While I’m not sure I’d call what we had love, it was something powerful enough to cause me to lose my senses.
Looking back, I’m ashamed to admit his words sounded intelligent, enlightened. Why couldn’t I pursue my career alongside a man that inspired and encouraged me? Maybe that’s why my parents’ love had seemed lacking—their marriage had been weighted down with burden and sacrificial responsibility, most of which fell on Mom. Finn believed in equality and teamwork, in two free spirits who made the choice of caring for one another with each new sunrise.
I blinked at the small spark of my baby’s heartbeat on the screen, Finn’s words coming at me.
“I’ll go with you to the appointment, Josie. It will be quick and over and we can put this all behind us, continue living our lives, completely and totally wrapped up in one another.”
And then later, when I’d rebuffed his suggestion.
“It’s me or it, Josie.”
Finn had refused to take responsibility.
The screen went blank as the midwife took the wand off my belly. “Everything looks good.” She dug out a cardboard wheel from her white coat pocket and spun it slowly. “You’re about fourteen weeks along, which will make your due date October 19th. We’ll need to schedule you for a more detailed ultrasound in a few weeks.”
My heart picked up speed. This was all happening so fast. Ready or not, October was less than six months away.
The midwife pocketed the wheel, her eyes softening for the first time since our visit. “I don’t know your situation, Josie, but if you need me to refer you anywhere, please let me know.”
Anywhere? Like an adoption agency? A therapist? An abortion clinic?
That last thought caused my knees to shake, and I moved my head back and forth, hard. I’d already wrestled with this. Despite my beliefs, despite my upbringing, I couldn’t deny that simply getting rid of the entire problem had tempted me. No one would have to know how far I’d fallen. I wouldn’t have to disappoint my family. I could keep my heart whole and Finn in my life. I could go on to do those great things I’d always planned.
But in the end, none of that mattered. I hadn’t entertained the thought for more than a minute. Quite simply, I wouldn’t be able to live with such a decision.
Adoption, though…perhaps that would be my baby’s best chance. Not once had Dad voiced regret over being given to a loving family as a babe. All had benefited. Perhaps this would be my own child’s path.
I swallowed, refusing to ask the midwife to elaborate. I didn’t want to know what she suggested, wasn’t even sure I wanted to come back to this room ever again.
As I pulled my shirt over my stomach, I thought of the hard road ahead of me, of Mom’s face, of Lizzie’s, Bronson’s, and Amie’s disappointment when I finally revealed my secret. Aunt Pris would likely die of a coronary on the spot. And yet, as surprising as the news would be, I knew my family…they would stand by me despite myself. Maybe, despite my failures, there was still a chance to attain the dearest wish of my heart—to earn the praise of those I loved.
I’d talk to Maggie first. She knew me best. She knew my flaws, my passionate nature, my temper and bold blunders. She’d defied Aunt Pris’s objections by marrying into an already-made family. I needed someone on my side and I couldn’t think of anyone better.
I opened the door to the exam room and threw my shoulders back. I would face this. Take the bull by the horns and decide how this baby fit into my plans. Keep it and by some miracle become a mother, or give it away and bless another couple.
Either way, I would wrangle something good out of my mistake.
5
I pounded on the door of the downstairs bathroom, my bladder desperate for release. “Bronson, is that you in there? You better not be smelling it up, either. Come on, get a move on. I have to pee!”
Though I’d gone before my walk, I’d found myself racing home for the bathroom—just one of the changes taking over my body. Amie was in the upstairs shower. Chances of Aunt Pris offering a pre-dinner stand-up comedy act were better than getting into that bathroom.
I pounded again, desperate. “I swear, Bronson, if you’re taking your pretty little time in there just to—”
The door opened. A head of white hair matching that of the fur in her arms caused me to step back. “Aunt Pris.”
Cragen yapped, his fierce mouth quivering.
“Truly, girl. Must one yell about bodily functions loud enough for the neighbors to hear?”
This coming from the woman who brought her dog into the bathroom as religiously as one might use toilet paper. “Sorry, Aunt Pris.” I rushed past so relieved I didn’t even mind that Mom had invited her for dinner.
When I was finished, I went upstairs to change into jean shorts, noting their new tightness at my waist. The day hung warm, my room in the attic stuffy. I opened the window and slid the fan inside, turning it on high.
I glanced around the room, my simple twin bed pushed against one side, my tiny desk where hundreds of stories had been born on the other. So very small, but all mine. Mom had been my champion, knowing how I longed for my own space to simply be—at that time, to write.
“You truly are my little Jo,” she’d said.
I looked in the full-length mirror, pulled my shirt tight around my waist. It wouldn’t be long before all would know. Then any illusions about me being Mom’s little Jo would be righted, for Jo March would have never allowed herself to fall into such an unfixable mess.
I turned from the mirror and left the room to go downstairs, but a box at the top of the railing, set apart slightly from others, caught my eye. It was labeled in black permanent marker. B&B.
Interest piqued, I dragged it into my room where the fan now blew cool. I shut the door, took scissors from my desk, and cut open the packing tape, while squelching a hint of guilt at how Mom had taped this box not expecting anyone to open it soon, if ever.
On the top lay a Yankee Magazine, a prominent article on the front featuring the Five Best Cozy B&B’s in New England. Beneath that, a Bed & Breakfast magazine highlighting gourmet seafood breakfasts. Below that a stack of Better Homes & Gardens magazines. I took each one out, noted the dog-eared pages, the careful notes on the sides. Photos of gorgeous inns around the world, tasteful dining rooms, wide porches, beautiful gardens, and romantic rooms. Article upon article featuring the best places to stay in the country. Another dozen on how to start a bed and breakfast. One on the Royal Family opening an inn in Scotland. Another featuring eleven Southern B&B’s perfect for mother-daughter getaways.
I pulled the magazines out, knowing I should get downstairs to help with dinner, yet mesmerized by this private glimpse inside my mother’s dreams. At the bottom lay a familiar white three-ring binder—Mom’s scrapbook, the one I remembered from my childhood. It lay bare and unmarked on the front, almost as if s
he wasn’t bold enough to title the dreams within. Or maybe, like me, my mother wanted to keep her secrets.
I opened it, a stale, musty smell meeting my nostrils. I inhaled the scent of old dreams tucked away and gazed at the collage of carefully arranged photos. Sweeping gardens and verandas. Large windows with oceanfront views. Breakfasts fit for a queen. The following pages each featured different rooms. The first was titled the Alcott room. No surprise there. Pictures of Louisa and her siblings, original artwork of Little Women, a photograph of the Alcott Orchard House and of Louisa’s half-moon desk where she’d written her famous book.
The next room was the Dickinson room, containing Emily’s poems and photos of the poet’s bedroom. Then the Frost room, the Emerson room, the Thoreau room, the Hawthorne room. Each with just as much detail, just as much passion as the one before.
The sound of steps echoed on the stairs and I shoved the binder beneath my bed, worked to pile the magazines back in the box. Silly. It wasn’t as if I were snooping. Not really. The box was there for anyone to see. Though breaking the packing tape had been a bit presumptuous.
“Josie! Dinnertime!”
The deep baritone outside my door caught me further off-guard, plucking at the high and low strings of my heart even as relief caused my body to relax. Not Mom but rather the person who, up until last summer, I’d told most of my secrets.
“Come in!” I’d not thought Tripp’s presence in my room would be anything but normal. But when he opened the door and stood there, part GQ magazine, part sexy construction worker, my stomach did a flip. I couldn’t make the mistake of pretending things could ever go back to the way they were between us. Tripp had ensured that last summer. And I’d ensured it by the mess I’d gotten myself into with Finn Becker.
“Your Mom asked me to get you. I don’t know what’s she’s cooked, but it sure smells good.” Tripp tried not to let the sight of Josie sitting cross-legged on her area rug get to him. How many times had he barreled up here, caught her munching on an apple while tapping a pen against a notebook, staring out the window at a world she would never fully share with him?
Where Grace Appears Page 4