Where Grace Appears

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  He looked around, tried to distract himself. “You want an AC unit up here? I have a couple lying around the shop.”

  She shook her head. “No thanks.”

  No surprise there. She always did like her open windows, no matter how hot it got. “Suit yourself.”

  She stood, tugged at the bottom of her shirt. “Let’s go. I’m famished.”

  Tripp turned, but not before catching the box of magazines. “Josie Martin, is this graphic literature you’re hiding in your room?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not porn, Captain Underpants.”

  “But it’s not exactly F. Scott Fitzgerald or Steinbeck, is it?” The corner of his mouth twitched as he stooped and grabbed up a copy of Bed and Breakfast magazine, flipping through the pages.

  She grabbed it from his hands. “They’re Mom’s. She packed them away and I was just having a last look.”

  “Ah, her old dream, right? A bed and breakfast. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “I think we all had.” Josie placed the magazine he’d held onto the top of the pile and closed the box, folding one edge under the other in a clockwise manner. “This was her dream, Tripp. To run an inn. But now…a bookshop. She’s settling.”

  She met his gaze and a bubble formed in his throat. As close as they were, he felt light years away from her. He wanted to reach out a hand, smooth a finger down her round cheek, but knew such an action would cost him dearly. He should be grateful Josie even spoke to him. He refused to ruin that.

  She bit her lip, stared at the box on the ground. “Do you think that’s bad? The settling, I mean.”

  He ordered his feet still so he wouldn’t take that one step forward to close the gap. “What do you think, Josie-girl?”

  “I think she should go after her dream. She’s not under any grand illusions about the hard work of running a B&B. She worked as a chambermaid and assistant chef at Bar Harbor Inn for seven years before she met Dad. She’s got a gift for hospitality.”

  “What’s stopping her, then?”

  She shook her head, flashed him a mischievous grin. “So how about those Red Sox?”

  He put a hand on her bare arm. “Oh no you don’t. What’s stopping her?”

  “Forget it, Tripp. It’s not your problem. We better get downstairs.”

  By her avoidance, he could surmise that the thing stopping Hannah Martin was of the monetary kind. Josie always clammed up when it came to her family’s financial burdens—likely because she knew he’d offer help, something all of the Martins doggedly refused.

  He let it go.

  “You up for a walk after dinner?” He turned toward the door, tried to keep his tone casual.

  “I don’t know …”

  “Please, Josie. I’ll behave myself, I promise.”

  She breathed deep and let it out. She looked strained. Beat. As if the world had done her in. He remembered her trip to the doctor’s and a short burst of fear jabbed his insides. “Hey, is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, of course.” But her answer was too quick.

  “August saw you at the doctor’s.” He felt the tips of his ears redden. “He was driving by.”

  She groaned. “You’re all too nosy for your own good. One thing I’ll miss about the city this summer is no one cares about anyone else’s business.”

  He let the comment roll off him, pretending it didn’t hurt. “So…you good?”

  “It was just a checkup, Colton. Ever hear of those?”

  He released a breath, long and slow. “Good. So what do you say? Walk after dinner, then?”

  “Only if Amie breaks out Pictionary.”

  He chuckled as he followed her downstairs. If Josie disliked graphic novels, she loathed graphic games. Lucky for him, Amie could always be counted on to break out Pictionary.

  I inhaled the comforting scents of sausage and tomato sauce, yeasty homemade garlic bread, and Mom’s honey-mustard salad dressing. All my favorites.

  Davey and Isaac crawled to their places on all fours under the table, Josh directing them not to bump their heads or take the tablecloth with them and Maggie pulling out their chairs.

  “Coming through!” Amie yelled, a nine-by-thirteen pan of lasagna cradled in her potholder-clad hands. Lizzie followed with salad.

  “Watch it!” Bronson balanced three baskets of garlic bread, nearly tripped over Cragen’s pudgy body on his way to the table. Aunt Pris gathered the furry fellow to her, but the stooping caused her curled gray head to tickle Davey’s face. He squeezed himself against the wall and scrunched up his nose. I hid a giggle. Mom set another lasagna down, then scurried to light the candles on the table, set against a magnificent display of heliotrope and tea roses.

  It truly was a beautiful sight. Each setting with a woven placement, wineglasses filled with sparkling cider, and enough utensils to supply an army. Mom always said the beauty of a table was worth the dishwashing at the end. Tonight, with the table edged on every side with a face I loved, I had to agree.

  Bronson sat in Dad’s old chair, and my heart ached anew as I remembered Dad’s jolly laughter, his boisterous call to sit down quick so we could give thanks to the Lord before the food ran away with itself.

  Voices hummed, and I took it all in, memorizing the features of those around the table. I caught Maggie’s gaze and she waved from her spot at the end of the table, her other hand in Josh’s, one twin on either side of them. Aunt Pris sat beside Mom, and Tripp took his customary place beside me. I didn’t begrudge his presence. All of us here, as it was so often growing up…it just seemed right.

  “I might need to add another table at this rate,” Mom said, her eyes light and happy. “Although we might reach the bathroom if I do that.” She turned to Bronson. “Would you mind saying grace, honey?”

  We bowed our heads, and when Tripp reached for my hand, I allowed it, even as I tried to focus on Bronson’s words instead of comparing the hard calluses of Tripp’s hands to that of Finn’s soft ones.

  When my brother finished, glasses clinked, voices mixed. From down the table, Davey protested a piece of onion on his plate. Amie told Lizzie about the prom dress she’d just bought, and how she planned to wear flip-flops instead of high-heeled shoes that night.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Mom peered around Aunt Pris to speak to me.

  I looked at my plate, where globs of ricotta with parsley lay alongside the feta cheese I’d taken out of my salad. I’d read an article in a pregnancy magazine at the doctor’s about the potentially harmful effects of soft cheeses. There was so much I didn’t know. How would I get through it all?

  “Just taking it all in.” I shoveled in a bite of pasta. “It’s good to be home.”

  Mom smiled. “It’s good for you to be home. How’d your finals go?”

  “I’ll find out Monday. Hopefully well.” Certainly not the best I’d ever taken, but my grades had remained high throughout the semester. I trusted they’d float me through any low marks.

  “And what are your plans after you obtain this mighty degree?” Aunt Pris asked.

  “I plan to practice under an established therapist. Learn the ropes, gain experience. I might work toward my PhD in time. My undergrad degree in philosophy could open up some doors as well.” Even as the words left my mouth, I wondered how I could accomplish all these things with a baby. Would I keep my child? If so, would he or she live in daycare? How would I afford that?

  “So you’ll be dealing with nutcases all day, is that it?” Aunt Pris lifted her cider to her mouth, leaving smudges of lipstick on the rim.

  From my side, Tripp elbowed me lightly, as if to say he understood my thoughts and yes, best to keep them in my head.

  I felt a furry body brush my ankles, and I grit back a comeback, reminding myself that this woman made it possible for me to attend NYU. No matter that she nearly ruined my life a couple years before that with her meddling. Nearly ruined my chances for college by allowing mindless gossip to run rampant through the town at the hands of her qu
ilting club. How Aunt Priscilla had thought questioning my virtue in public after a simple, completely explainable incident was blown out of proportion was beyond me. It’d been nearly impossible to obtain a good recommendation after the gossip club was done with me. Thank God for Dad stepping in to save the day.

  I pushed aside a flash of grief at the thought of my father and sucked in a steadying breath. “Most of what I want to deal with is just everyday people like you and me wading through problems. Relationship issues, marital problems, things in their childhood they never worked past.”

  Oh, this was rich. Who was I fooling that I could help anyone?

  I was about to excuse myself when Tripp, God bless his intuitive soul, broke in. “I saw my buddy over at your place on my way to work this morning, Aunt Pris. Gary Shube. Excellent realtor, let me tell you. You’re not thinking of selling the place, are you?”

  Only Tripp could turn the conversation in such an innocently winsome way. I eyed him, wondering if his comment was truly as inoffensive as it appeared.

  “What I do with my property is my business, young man.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, placed it carefully on the side of her plate, a trail of lipstick peeking at the edges. “Really, you might think your grandfather would have taught you some manners.”

  “Aww, give a fellow some slack, Aunt Pris. I was just happy to see that two of my favorite people knew one another.”

  Aunt Pris’s face reddened. “Now you’re mocking me.”

  Tripp held up his right hand, fingers crossed. “Scout’s honor. This table would be quite a bore without you here, and that’s the truth. Isn’t that right, Josie?”

  “That’s right.” A snarl started at my feet. “Though I could do without your little sidekick,” I muttered so only Tripp could hear.

  Aunt Pris straightened. “If you must know, I’m selling off the orchard. I can’t look at that land another year. It’s overgrown, a breeding ground for who knows what type of insects. It’s a shame I’ve kept it this long. I’m getting on in years and could use more assistance around the house. Selling the orchard is a perfect way to gain some cash.”

  “Oh, Aunt Pris…the orchard. That was such a big part of your childhood, wasn’t it?” Mom placed her fork down.

  Aunt Pris pushed around a spinach leaf in her salad, an uncharacteristic action without purpose. “I suppose it was, yes. But its purpose is no longer. I’d rather it be put to good use.”

  “Are you selling the barn as well?” Tripp asked. The barn had been used for washing and packaging the apples back when Aunt Pris was a girl.

  She shook her head. “No, that belongs with the house. They can build a separate barn on the orchard property if they want to.”

  “Will the person who buys it run the orchard?” Lizzie shifted in her seat, concern on her face.

  “They could, but I suppose that’s up to them.” Aunt Pris gave up on the spinach leaf and put her fork down. Her voice had lost its usual spunk, and a pull of pity started in my belly.

  Tripp reached for the spatula to dish up another piece of lasagna. I’d forgotten how that boy could eat. “Unless someone’s actively looking for an apple orchard, chances are a developer will buy it. That’s enough land for at least eight house lots. Prime historic Camden land. Make sure you’re asking enough for it, Aunt Pris. Grandpops could talk it over with you if you’d like.”

  “Thank you, young man. I might just take you up on that offer.” She turned to me. “I knew I always liked that boy. Why’d you say no to his proposal again?”

  I stood, smacking my knee into the table leg, but my pain was likely unnoticeable beneath my embarrassment. “It’s time for Pictionary, isn’t it?”

  6

  “Aunt Pris hasn’t lost any of her pluck, has she?” Tripp turned right on Bay View Street, and I followed. We’d end up at Curtis Island Overlook as we had a million times before. Though we hadn’t been there since that day. I wondered how it’d feel to be back there with him.

  We’d played one round of Pictionary—me partnering with Davey and trying to make out his crude scribbles of Mr. Potato Head and a pirate. We’d lost, and though I’d been hesitant to take Tripp up on his offer of a walk, especially after Aunt Pris’s comment, I found that some quiet was preferable to another round of picture-game torture.

  “She certainly hasn’t.” I opened my mouth to apologize for my aunt’s last comment, but then snapped it shut. Best to move on. “I’d forgotten how loud family gatherings can be. It’s wonderful, but I guess I’ve gotten used to the quiet.”

  “You always did like your alone time.”

  I smiled. Maybe Aunt Pris was right. Maybe I’d been crazy to turn down Tripp’s proposal. No one knew me better, understood me more. Although who I was now was a far cry from who I’d been last summer.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I can’t believe Aunt Pris is really selling the orchard. That seems drastic for her.”

  The road simmered from the business of the day, no cars in sight, just the gentle sound of a seagull in the distance.

  “It does.” He kicked a pebble off the road as we crossed. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything, but I thought your mother had a right to know. You’re all Aunt Pris’s only family, right?”

  I nodded as we entered the path. Less than a half mile from my home, the Overlook was an out-of-the-way nook in the woods off Bay View Street, and it offered the best view of the island and its picture-perfect Maine lighthouse. “Dad didn’t even know of Aunt Pris until after his adoptive parents died. He was in his thirties by then. I guess Aunt Pris didn’t feel led to take him in after her sister died, and she never had any children of her own—I would have pitied the poor dears if she had.” I shrugged. “Or maybe it would have softened her up some.”

  “She has a heart under all that Yankee puff and independence. You don’t make it easy for her.”

  “I don’t make it easy for her? Have you forgotten the mess she got me into just a few years ago?”

  Tripp’s brow furrowed. “Believe me when I tell you I’ll never forget. And it was wrong, of course. But I think we’re doing more harm than good by not letting it go.”

  We. As if Aunt Pris had wronged Tripp as much as she had me. I dragged in a cleansing breath, the pain of the town gossip still fresh in some ways. Never in all my life, when I fell asleep in the school library with Alan Ash by my side while finishing up a special edition of the school newspaper, could I have predicted the far-reaching effects. While Alan bragged of the night and did nothing to quell the school gossip, neither did my great-aunt and her quilting club.

  Aunt Pris, ever the genteel lady of impeccable upbringing, found herself mortified to have her niece in such a predicament. She, of course, took the only path available to her: all but disown me and my “wild” ways to her quilting club friends, who happened to include a committee member for a memorial scholarship for which I had applied. I’d been a shoe-in for that scholarship.

  But I hadn’t received it, and by the time Dad had marched into a quilting club meeting and defended my honor, setting Aunt Pris and her club members straight on the surety of my virtues, it had been too late.

  I may not have received the scholarship anyway. But in my mind, it was one step back. No New York college, but rather a local community college for at least four years.

  When Aunt Pris offered to foot the bill for NYU and graduate school years later, I couldn’t help but be grateful. I tried hard not to harbor a grudge over our past differences. Tried hard not to let it bother me how she had been so quick to believe town gossip over her niece. I tried. But I didn’t always succeed.

  Now, I spoke carefully to Tripp. “I feel I have forgiven her. Forgetting is another matter.” And yet what did it matter? In some ways, I had now proven such gossip true. And my virtues? They were no longer worth defending.

  I bit my lip, hating what would come out of my mouth next but knowing it was the honest truth. “I think me and Aunt Pris might be more
alike than I want to admit.” I could be crusty and hard-edged too. Set in my ways, determined to succeed and be right. But did I want to cling to those values so much that I grew old and alone, without allowing people to get too close?

  Not for the first time, I wondered about my grandmother, Aunt Pris’s sister. Did I share any qualities with her? The only person alive who would be able to tell me was my great-aunt, and I’d never known her to speak of anything having to do with Dad’s mom, Hazel.

  We reached the end of the path, and Tripp sat on the bench. A light haze hung over the lighthouse and the island, but the salty scent of the sea soothed the edges of my ruffled feathers. I used to start my morning runs here. I’d sit down on the dirt, the earthy scent mixed with the briny smell of the sea, and stretch my limbs. My head would clear, my simple plans for the day would come together.

  I’d been so anxious to escape to better things back then—the hustle and grind and excitement of the big city, the race to grab hold of a respectable career, to change the world, and maybe make some money in the process. To solve the human mind, as if it were a clever riddle or a two-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. And yes, to put all those letters after my name.

  “Maybe just try with her a little more, you know? Show her some grace and maybe she’ll give you some in return.”

  I didn’t like his self-righteous tone, but preferred not to tackle it head on. I swept my hand regally toward him. “Whatever you say, oh wise and wonderful Captain of Underpants.”

  I half expected him to grab my wrist, pull me on his lap, and tickle my ribs. But that was something he used to do, a carefree act from our carefree days. Instead, he just stared at me, growing serious.

  I didn’t like it. Much safer to interact with jokes and banter.