Rebecca looked at her life line with renewed appreciation. “So I’ll live a long life?”
“You know, most people think a life line denotes the length of one’s life, when, in fact, it mainly reflects a person’s vitality and life energy. Your line is perfectly suited to your physical lifestyle. You’ve lived more than most people have in your first trimester on Mother Earth, but you’re a survivor. You’re able to withstand whatever hardships come your way. That’s what your line tells me.”
She opened her mouth to respond, to refute the statement in some way or brush it off as nonsense, but there was too much truth there to deny, and she’d reached a point in her life where she wanted to stand in her truth.
After a moment, Towanda spoke again. “Lastly, let’s look at your head line, the line of wisdom and intellect.” She pointed to the groove in her skin that traveled between her heart line and life line through the center of her palm. “This line is long, too, indicating you have a clear mind, and it’s curved, which shows your gentle nature. You have a great deal of tolerance and good interpersonal skills. Ideal for a teacher.”
Rebecca smiled. “The tolerance part comes in handy when working with teenagers.”
“You’re an old soul, Rebecca,” Towanda continued. “The lines on your hands are deep, and the skin is tough. You have the palms of a person who’s lived a dozen lives. The best thing for a woman with an old soul is to find a younger man.”
Before Rebecca could comment on that startling conclusion, Towanda’s gaze shot to the opening of the tent with interest. Rebecca swivelled in her seat and caught Addie’s guilty expression. Had she been listening to their conversation?
“Oh, Addie! Come in, come in!” Towanda motioned with her free hand. “I’ve been trying to read this one’s palm for years,” she murmured to Rebecca, who was grateful for the distraction. She had a lot to digest, and not just the pies she’d purchased from their unexpected visitor.
“Thanks for the reading, Ms. Deacon, er, Towanda,” she amended as she stood. “I’ll be sure to donate to the food bank.” All who entered Towanda’s tent, even those who entered unintentionally, were expected to make a generous donation to the food bank in exchange for a palm reading. And in case you weren’t aware of this tacit agreement, the neon-pink sign that hung near the entrance served as a very bright and colorful reminder. Rebecca donated often to the local food bank, but she’d ensure this week’s box was extra full.
“Wonderful! Ta-ta, darling! Best of luck!”
Rebecca waved goodbye to both women, her bag of pies clutched tightly in her fist as she exited the same way she came in. Bright beams of sunshine welcomed her back into the outdoors. She breathed in a lungful of air, the sweet smells of late summer tickling her nostrils. Or maybe that was just the pie. All the more reason to hurry home and get her eat on. She took two steps, then her feet froze in place as she picked up on the conversation drifting through the tent flaps.
“God, I’d kill for that figure,” Towanda said.
Addie laughed. “You and me both, sister. I don’t know how you got her to park her butt for a few minutes. That girl looks like she lives on a treadmill.”
“I can never be entirely sure what draws a person into my tent. In her case, I think it was a combination of curiosity and loneliness. The poor dear is looking for love and doesn’t know where to find it.”
In a younger man, apparently, Rebecca mused as her feet surged forward once more. She was more bothered than she cared to admit by Towanda’s words. Mainly because, twenty minutes ago, she wouldn’t have imagined a palm reading would have the power to influence her in any way, shape, or form. But now, well, she somehow felt like she was on the path to finding what she’d been missing.
2
Choices. People made choices every day. What to eat, how to dress, where to work.
When to deliver their resignation.
Will Whitney had made that choice three terrifying months ago because he hated who he’d become, and he couldn’t waste another day not being able to answer why he kept showing up for a job that was nothing short of soul-crushing.
He parked his sports car in the circular driveway and gave himself one final pep talk in his rearview mirror. “Just go in there. Hold your head high. You’re a frigging adult so act like one. This is your decision, and you’re totally comfortable with your decision.”
It took him another minute before he realized he had an audience. Rolling his eyes, he stepped out of his vehicle to the sound of his older brother’s laughter. “Talking to yourself now, bro? That’s a bad sign.”
“You’re not the one they’re about to skin alive in there. I needed the fortification.”
Joey pulled him into a side hug and clapped him on the back. “I’ll be there for backup.”
“You’re only here for the free meal.”
“A man cannot live on mac and cheese alone.”
Will shook his head as they walked the remaining steps to the front door of the two-story, six-thousand-square-foot structure. Their family home. A fresh swell of nerves wreaked havoc in his stomach when Joey rang the doorbell. “You go ahead,” he told his brother. “I need another minute to clear my mind.”
“You sure?” Joey asked. At Will’s nod, he said, “All right, but don’t be upset if all the hors d’oeuvres are gone by the time you stop being a pussy.”
“Piss off,” Will shot back, much to his brother’s amusement. He ducked around the corner and hid in the perfectly manicured row of shrubs, waiting until the door opened and closed again before making the short trek to the granite fountain in the center of the driveway. Funny, it was the only thing calming about the curbside view of their home. He’d spent many hours of his youth sitting on the edge of this fountain, dreaming about the future. Now, as strange as it seemed, he wished not to be there at all. Because the reason they were all gathering together, the way they did the second Friday of every month, wasn’t here any longer.
He rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and trailed a hand over the glassy surface of the water. He’d been ten years old when his parents delivered the news that they were expecting a third child. But he soon came to realize that expecting something and wanting something were two very different things. Alison hadn’t been unloved, but she’d never received the same doting treatment he and his brother had. She wasn’t as academically or athletically inclined. More introverted. Quiet. Insecure.
He and Joey had spent their teenage years pushing the envelope, turning every last hair on their father’s head gray. They’d known their future was already set, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a hell of a lot of fun before being locked into their careers in the advertising world.
When Aly reached adolescence, his parents weren’t particularly interested in monitoring another teenager—been there, done that—so they let things go. They figured their boys had turned out okay, so they didn’t see why things should be any different with their daughter.
None of them saw how bad things had gotten until she was too far gone.
Fingers curling into a fist, he punched through the surface, droplets of water splashing on the front of his shirt and his khakis. He’d been a cocky twenty-eight-year-old with something to prove when he’d learned Aly was in the hospital. Less than forty-eight hours later, she was dead. Until that fateful day, he thought they’d been a family like any other family with grown children in the mix. He and Joey checked in when they could and spent all the major holidays with the family, and outside of that, the two brothers followed the path Edward and Isabelle Whitney had expertly laid out for them.
And now he was veering off that pathway.
His classes at Columbia University, his alma mater, started next Monday. Having met with an academic advisor in the spring, they were able to use many of the previous credits he’d earned during his MBA and his undergrad, where he’d minored in kinesiology, to enroll him in the physical education and movement science stream of their college program. E
xercise physiology and anatomy courses had been of interest to him since his high school days. He’d always been athletic, but as Coach had taught him, in order to excel in any sport, you had to know the mechanics involved. Learn how the muscles worked together in perfect harmony to complete a pass. Read an opponent’s body language down to the slightest twitch so you were two steps ahead.
His varied interests paid off. Hours from now, he’d be seated among countless other future educators. Ready to make a difference. Teaching had been one of those fountain dreams he’d had as a teenager, and if he hadn’t been shoved into a penthouse office at his father’s advertising agency, he’d have pursued that dream.
But it was never too late to do the right thing.
“For you, Aly,” he whispered. His resolve strengthened, he stood, brushing the wrinkles and remaining water droplets from his clothing, and circled back toward the house.
“Well, that’s gotta be the best filet mignon I’ve ever had,” Joey assessed, patting his protruding stomach for emphasis.
“It must have been,” Edward said, chuckling. “You practically inhaled it.”
Their housekeeper/cook beamed as she cleared his plate. The sweet middle-aged woman had been working for his parents for several months, and Will couldn’t remember her name to save his life. Helen? Harriet? He’d really need to get better at name retention before starting his first teaching practicum.
“I have a reputation to live up to as the designated family vacuum cleaner,” Joey said with a proud grin.
Isabelle tsked. “If your table manners get any worse, Joseph, we’d just as well set a place for you on the floor.”
Will cracked a smile, not so much at the disparaging comment, but more at the image his mind conjured of his brother sitting cross-legged on the floor, his place setting just as elegantly decorated as the table itself. Isabelle wouldn’t have it any other way. Will scanned the current table setting, noting the painstaking details. A crystal vase filled with freshly cut flowers served as the centerpiece and sparkled under the light of the chandelier overhead. Soft pink silk tablecloth—his mother must have had one in about twenty different colors—and tall taper candles in crystal holders placed exactly six inches apart along the embroidered table runner. Two wine glasses, three plates, two forks, two spoons, a steak knife, and a butter knife for every person. Napkins in the lap, elbows off the table, he could hear his mother say.
He looked to her then, surprised to find Isabelle staring straight at him. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Will,” she said, a worried frown on her face.
“Just have a lot on my mind.”
“Oh. Well, we’ve been meaning to talk to you about this . . . career change of yours.” She glanced at Edward, and he nodded his affirmation. “You know your father has a great many connections. With your education, your upbringing, there are countless options available to you.”
“Teaching,” his father practically spat the word, “isn’t the path we imagined you’d go down, son.”
Of course not. Who needed an imagination when your career was predetermined before you hit puberty? If your father owned an advertising agency, you were expected to work for him. And as a Whitney, you always did what was expected of you. All the more reason why Will had been surprised by how well Edward had taken his resignation at first. Clearly, he’d assumed Will had his sights set on bigger things.
Teaching was beneath him, at least according to the people who raised him. He released a bitter laugh. No, it wasn’t so much the idea of teaching that bothered them; it was the clientele he’d be teaching. High school students. A public high school teacher—one step above a used car salesman in his parents’ eyes and probably the rest of their social circle, too. “I’ve told you both that this is something I need to do. I wasn’t there for Alison—”
“Stop,” his mother begged, the steel in her voice giving way to anguish. “Please don’t bring her into this.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry?” his mother asked.
Heart pounding, he took hold of the moment he’d been presented and ran with it, knowing he might not get another chance or have the guts to say what he needed to say. “Why can’t we bring her into this? Why can’t we talk like a normal family at the dinner table? We did before Aly died.”
“William,” Edward interrupted. “That’s enough.”
“No, no, I’m sick of it,” he said, picking up steam. “I’m sick of pretending. We go through the same damn routine every month, sitting at this table and acting like our hearts aren’t cut wide open. And we don’t dare mention Alison or anything related to her because it still hurts too much. But you know what hurts the most? Pretending that she doesn’t exist! We’re here because of her. You insisted we spend more time together as a family after she died, so why the hell can’t we speak her name?”
Edward rose from his chair to comfort Isabelle, who sat quietly weeping. “All we ask for is one pleasant meal a month with our two grown sons—”
“There’s nothing pleasant about living in denial. Let’s be honest for once. Here, I’ll start. I feel like I failed Aly. I wasn’t there when she needed me the most and—”
“Will, that’s not true,” his mother cried.
He raised a hand to ward her off. “It is true. It’s my truth, okay? And the only way I can possibly start to feel whole again is by getting my teaching certificate so that maybe I can make a difference in another kid’s life. So whatever conversation you wanted to have about my ‘career change’? You can save it. I’m all set for my college program, and I’m not about to quit now.”
Silence fell over the room like a suffocating blanket. Everyone seemed frozen, as if stuck in some kind of solemn tableau. His father hunched over the back of his mother’s chair while she sniffled into her napkin. His brother stared at the table like the chickenshit that he was. So much for the backup I was promised.
Just then, the connecting kitchen door flew open and the housekeeper breezed in, her arms loaded with a tray of desserts. Peach cobbler, by the look of it. One of his favorites. With a nervous glance around the table, she kept hold of the tray, apologized, and backed her way into the kitchen again.
“Thank you, Heidi,” his father offered.
Heidi. At least he knew it was an H name. That had to count for something. Will watched as his father pressed a comforting hand to his mother’s shoulder, which she covered with her own. He’d never meant to make her cry, but this had to be healthier than bottling it all up inside. The grief she carried showed in the lines on her face and in the smiles that never quite reached her eyes anymore. She’d stopped coloring her hair when days of mourning turned into weeks and then months, and she simply couldn’t be bothered at that point. She’d lost weight, too, but that subject of conversation was even more taboo than his dead sister. Her appearance beyond that was unchanged, maybe even imperceptible to the untrained eye. But he could see past the tailored pantsuits, the flawless makeup, and the stylish haircuts. He knew the pain she kept buried.
Edward pecked a kiss to his wife’s cheek, then slipped his hand from her grasp and returned to his place at the head of the table. Next, he’d try to revive the conversation and get them back on good terms. Stoic, unflappable, predictable Edward Whitney. He wouldn’t allow himself the time to grieve. His role was to provide for his family, to be the calming force. He’d give you anything you needed—even the shirt off his back—so long as you lived the life he’d carved out for you.
“Where do you plan on teaching for your first placement?” he asked Will.
Meeting his father’s eyes, Will waited a beat before dropping the bomb. “Kendal High School.” A notorious public school. Not a prep school. Not even within a fifty-mile radius of one.
His mother choked on a sob.
“So . . . who’s up for dessert?” Joey asked.
“Well, here’s my stop,” Rebecca said, stooping to give Muffy one last noggin rub.
Hannah Barker, her best friend and M
uffy’s owner, pulled her in for a hug. “We’re gonna miss you, aren’t we, Muffykins?” she cooed to the forlorn Labradoodle at her side.
Rebecca had spent a good chunk of her summer walking Hannah’s sweet dog, but being back at school and juggling prep work, coaching, and a billion other responsibilities didn’t leave her much room for extras. Even so, the sad gaze the Doodle hit her with almost made her want to rejig her schedule.
“You’re gonna have to get used to it, baby girl. Rebecca’s back to work now so you’re stuck with Momma for morning walks,” Hannah said.
The pathetic pooch turned her mop of curly hair toward Hannah and let out a heartbreaking whimper. “I know, I know. She gives you more treats, but if you’re a good girl, I’ll let you off the leash.”
Muffy perked up instantly at the use of the L-word.
Rebecca laughed and waved to the adorable duo before climbing the front steps to Kendal High School to officially begin her twelfth year as a teacher. She strode through the doors and entered the building, which looked pristine after a good summer scrubbing. The floors were sparkling clean, and the scent of lemon mixed with a hint of bleach lingered in the air. She happily greeted colleagues and retrieved her “welcome back” package from the main office that contained important bulletins, health information, and safety plans. She’d just about made her way to the PE office when her phone buzzed. Pulling her cell from her pocket, she smirked at the name on the screen.
“Miss me already?” she answered after two rings.
“You’ll never guess who I ran into after we dropped you off at the school.” Hannah paused, probably expecting Rebecca to chime in, but she remained silent.
“Hello? Did we lose our connection?”
“Are you actually gonna make me guess? Need I remind you that in less than twenty minutes, teenagers will be taking over my life? Maybe you could save me the time.”
Learning to Love Page 2