Family Trees (18 page)

C
HAPTER
19

“I
'll apologize now for anything my mother might do or say to make you uncomfortable, angry, annoyed, or flat-out shocked,” Shelby told Ryan on Thanksgiving Day as she paced back and forth across the Meyerses' kitchen floor. She already regretted her decision to wear black wool slacks and a cable-knit sweater. “Are you hot? God, it's hot in here!” She hastily opened the kitchen junk drawer and rummaged around for a hair binder.
Why'd I even bother with my hair this morning?
she grumbled to herself, tying her hair up in a floppy knot. There wasn't time to change her clothes again and she was desperate to cool off.

“Shelby, relax. It's going to be okay,” Ryan tried to assure her, putting his hand on her shoulder and closing the kitchen drawer. “Maybe you should go outside for a minute—let the snow cool you off.”

“It's just nerves,” Ginny said while rolling out pastry dough between two pieces of wax paper. Over her shoulder, she asked Ryan to grab a citrus zester out of the utensil drawer.

Ginny was teaching Ryan how to make pies, and while Shelby thought the sight of them baking together was endearing, she was too nervous to enjoy it.

“Relax, dear,” Ginny continued with Shelby. “Your mother will behave herself. It's a holiday and we have a special guest.” She nudged Ryan, who had returned to her side with a mandoline instead of the zester.

“I'm not so sure,” Shelby said, pushing up her sleeves.

“Shel, I've met a lot of characters in my life. I'm sure I can handle your mom.” Ryan used his forearm to wipe flour from his cheek. He had mentioned to Shelby how much he enjoyed being in the kitchen with Ginny because he never had the opportunity with his own mother. According to Ryan, what Charlotte Chambers lacked in culinary skills she excelled in managing cooks and caterers and orchestrating perfection.

“Uh-huh,” Shelby replied to Ryan absentmindedly as she stood at the kitchen window, keeping watch for the family's white truck. The snow was light enough to be easily cleared by the county's plows. Her mother's flight was expected to arrive in Duluth at 9:50 that morning, so they were bound to drive up County J that very minute. She wondered what they were talking about during that two-hour car ride.
How is Grandpa holding up?
Shelby would know the instant he walked into the house whether there was a glimmer of hope that Jackie was going to behave—or if she was already throwing punches.

Behind her, Shelby could hear lively chatter between her grandmother and Ryan, but she was too preoccupied to focus on their words. The clock ticked on. The anticipation was agonizing.
Why was I crazy enough to agree to this? To subject Ryan to this? Whose idea was this, anyway?

She turned away from the window to look at Ryan. Here he was, spending the holiday with her family. Shelby was truly thankful for him. But no matter how handsome he looked wearing Ginny's paisley yellow apron around his waist, this day was sure to be a disaster. It was much too soon for him to meet Jackie. After all, Jackie could make “pass the cranberries” sound like an offensive remark. Shelby wouldn't be surprised if Ryan left her family's holiday table and hightailed it all the way back to Chicago. She wouldn't blame him at all.

“Step away from the window, Shelby. Now you're making
me
nervous,” Ginny said as she retrieved a jar of cinnamon from her spice drawer. “Come over here, sweetheart. See what a great pastry chef your boyfriend is turning out to be.”

“Boyfriend?” Ryan mouthed to Shelby with a wink. Why did he have to be so damned charming?
The poor guy has no idea what's coming. But at least this will be a Thanksgiving he'll remember.

“Maybe we should have a signal, Ryan,” Shelby said, drumming her bluntly cut fingernails against the edge of the kitchen sink. “You know, when things become intolerable, you can give me a hand signal or something that says you've had enough. We'll just get up and leave.”

“How 'bout a peace sign?” he suggested, raising two fingers in the peace gesture. Then he repositioned his hand with his thumb down. “Or would this be better?”

“Maybe just give us the bird, dear. That should be a clear enough sign,” Ginny said with a twinkle in her eye and a cinnamon-dusted middle finger held high. “It certainly would liven things up around here, now, wouldn't it?”

While Ginny and Ryan continued making jokes and finishing the pies, Shelby returned to staring out the window at the vacant, icy driveway. Chewing nervously on her lower lip, she remembered a time when she was seven. Like today, Jackie had decided to grace them with her presence over the Thanksgiving weekend, just in time to see Shelby perform in a 4H dance recital at church. “You're such a creative dancer, Shelby,” Jackie had said mockingly to young Shelby. “Not every girl is as brave as you are, to disregard the choreography and do your own steps while the others stay so beautifully synchronized. You're a unique bird.”

Or the time Jackie ended a disappointing letter when Shelby was thirteen by writing, “Don't worry your pretty little head about your math grade. Problem solving simply isn't in your nature.”

Or the phone call, years later, when Jackie asked her teenaged daughter, “Why on earth would you break up with that nice boy, Brett?” At the time, Shelby was still shaken over being pinned in the backseat of that “nice boy's” grungy Gran Torino with her hand forced down Brett's unzipped pants while his friend drove the car down a dark forested road. “I hear he's one of the most popular boys in school. Just think of what he could have done for your social life.”

The sight of Olen's truck turning onto their property and crunching across the icy driveway interrupted her thoughts. Shelby ducked away from the window and was tempted to rush into the living room and peek from behind the curtains, just as she had done as a child. Instead, she followed Ginny's lead and walked calmly to the front door to greet them.

Jackie entered the home with ostentatious flair, like a flamboyant showgirl greeting her backstage admirers. There she was, dressed in leggings tucked into knee-high patent leather boots, sequin tunic, and a faux-fur bolero jacket. The acrid scent of jasmine perfume permeated from her cleavage. Her hair was the same color and texture as Shelby's, but unlike Shelby's, it fell in curls that were tightly coiled and sprayed stiff.

Shelby clenched her fists and felt her mouth go dry.

“Mother!” Jackie shrieked, rushing to Ginny with outstretched arms and air kisses, all the while tracking snowy footprints into the house. Olen walked in behind Jackie, lugging an oversized, hot pink suitcase behind him, its tiny wheels caked in snow. The forced smile on his face told Shelby everything she needed to know.
Man your battle stations,
she thought, taking a deep breath.

Ryan appeared at Shelby's side while removing the apron from his waist. “She looks harmless,” he leaned in to whisper in her ear before wrapping his arm protectively around her shoulders.

The mouthwatering aromas of thyme, lemon, roast turkey, and nutmeg filled the house. The table was set beautifully. Everyone had chipped in to help Ginny prepare their favorite dishes. In appearances, it was a picture-perfect holiday scene. That is, until Jackie turned her attention to Ryan. She rushed toward him with audacious flirtation and then caught him off guard with a full kiss on the lips.

Ryan pulled away, Ginny's jaw dropped, Olen stumbled and knocked over the pink suitcase, and Shelby lost her appetite.

 

“How did you meet our Shelby, Ryan?” Jackie asked with a winsome smile as she forced a hard pat of butter across the warm dinner roll in her hand. “May I call you Ryan? Or do you prefer William?”

“Ryan is fine,” he replied, shooting a quick glance in Shelby's direction.

“Jackie, I already told you how they met,” Olen said while raising a forkful of mashed potatoes to his lips.

Jackie ripped off a piece of the buttery roll. “Oh Dad, you know how us girls are—we all adore a good
love
story,” she purred.

Shelby thought she actually saw her mother bat her eyes in Ryan's direction.

“Let's let them enjoy their meal in peace,” Olen said, offering Shelby a supportive nod.

“No, no—it's fine,” Ryan said, to everyone's surprise. He took hold of Shelby's hand beneath the table. “I don't mind one bit.”

“You see, Dad?” Jackie said to Olen, who chose to dip a piece of turkey into the pool of gravy on his plate rather than look at his daughter.

Ryan spoke easily about their chance meeting, the pies, surprising Shelby at the orchard, and his return to Bayfield for a photography sabbatical. The more he spoke, the more Shelby was able to relax. And every time Jackie threw out a sugar-coated insult, Ryan acted as a buffer, shielding Shelby with his charismatic replies.

“So, tell me, Ryan, what are your intentions with our Shelby?” Jackie reached toward him and ran her finger up his arm suggestively. Ryan leaned away from her as Olen dropped his fork against his plate.

“For God's sake!” Olen added.

“Jackie!” Ginny scolded.

“Relax, Mother,” Jackie said, pulling her heavily glossed lips into a sneer. “We're just having a friendly little chat, aren't we, Ryan? I'm not prying, am I?”

Olen pushed back his chair and picked up the bottle of wine at his end of the table. He walked over to Ryan and refilled his glass without having to ask. “What Jackie is trying to say,
I'm sure,
is that we're all happy that you and Shelby are enjoying each other's company and that we're celebrating Thanksgiving together.” Olen continued to walk around the table with the wine and, when he reached Jackie, took a firm hold of her shoulder and whispered, “Enough!” loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Actually, Dad, that's
not
what I meant. A mother has the right to know if there are any long-term plans,” Jackie cooed, brushing off Olen's hand and dismissing his stern command. “Since I hardly
ever
hear from my daughter, I thought I'd catch up on all the news while I have the chance.” She turned back to Ryan and waited for a response while Olen returned to his chair. When he refilled his own wineglass, he did so generously.

Shelby exchanged looks with Ginny, who then raised an eyebrow and discreetly lifted her middle finger above the edge of the table.
The signal,
she thought. Shelby shook her head and covered her mouth to hide a smile. They were on her side. It was enough to make her see things differently and she almost felt sorry for her mother. Perhaps Jackie behaved badly because, like a feral cat trapped in a corner, the only thing she could do was lash out at the people who tried to bring her home. Maybe she felt caged in. Disconnected. Unaware that she could have a life with them if only she would retract her claws.

Shelby surprised everyone at the table, even herself, when she looked directly at Jackie and raised her glass. “A toast, to my mother,” Shelby began. They all rose their glasses with slight trepidation. “Although we live apart, we have certain . . . connections . . . that hold us together. I am thankful for you, because the decisions you made in your life have profoundly influenced mine. I am grateful to live with Gran and Grandpa in this ordinary town where I have met extraordinary people, like Ryan. For that, I will be forever thankful.”

Everyone looked between Shelby and Jackie, whose veneer of a smile had disappeared.

“Cheers!” Ginny burst out, clinking her granddaughter's glass.

“Cheers,” the others around the table joined in reluctantly, clinking glasses and sipping their wine, no one knowing what would happen next.

Jackie pulled her lips back against her teeth in a forced grin and took several gulps of wine while eyeing her daughter intently. “What a lovely sentiment, Shelby,” she said finally, pushing back her chair and standing with her glass raised. “And now, let me add a toast of my own.”

“Jackie,
please,
” Ginny insisted. “Sit down.”

“Relax, Mother,” Jackie said, before addressing everyone around the table. “It's just a harmless little toast. After all, it isn't every day that Shelby invites a man over to meet her mother, let alone someone with Ryan's impressive pedigree. So let's raise our glasses again. This time, to the happy couple—may Ryan continue to find sanctuary by hiding away in our little town, and may Shelby continue to hold his interest by hiding her precious insecurities.”

C
HAPTER
20

L
ater that evening, after the table was cleared and the dishwasher was humming, Ryan and Ginny drank coffee in the kitchen while Olen cornered Jackie in the living room for a serious talk. With a moment to herself, Shelby slipped down the hallway and entered her bedroom. She walked past her antique bed with its matching dresser, her tidy desk, and the chest painted in rustic rosemaling.

She paused when she reached her bookshelf. It was once filled with fairy tales and chapter books and now held a collection of novels, along with college textbooks and journals that had sat untouched for far too long.

Tucked in among the books was a small diary with a red leather cover and a delicate gold script that spelled out
My Diary
along its aged spine. It wasn't what she had planned to retrieve from her room, but there it was, begging to be noticed after so many years. She knelt down in front of the bookshelf and pulled out the diary. The lock was broken. The key long since lost. But the pages were still tinged with a golden luster.

She carefully opened to the first page. There, she read the thoughts of her six-year-old self, as written with a tender hand on Christmas Day.

Shelby's eyes began to well with tears as she continued to thumb through the pages of her diary. There were large gaps of time, over which her handwriting and vocabulary improved, and other memories were recorded. Birthday parties. Spelling bees. Games in the orchard played with John. Her first time meeting a spitfire named Nic. But the recurring theme—the words that couldn't be missed—was the constant reminder from Jackie that Shelby was an unwanted child.

With the diary in hand, Shelby stood up and walked to her closet. She pulled a stepstool from the back and used it to retrieve a shoe box from an upper shelf, tucked beneath her sweaters. Shelby then stepped down and made her way back to the bed, where she sat cross-legged, opened the box, and carefully spread its contents out across her blue duvet.

There was a pair of Badgers football tickets. Several Valentine's cards. Jeff's caricature of their twelfth-grade science teacher conducting a botched lab experiment, which still brought a smile to her face. Frayed friendship bracelets. Letters, neatly folded and bound with a thin orange ribbon. And a photograph of them sailing on the
Cadence,
laughing uncontrollably about something she could no longer remember.

Jeff had been Shelby's childhood, her best friend, her love, and, at one time, her future. With tears pooling in her eyes, she held each object with bittersweet remembrance before tucking it back into the box. She then slid off of her bed and took hold of one last item, something that had been sitting on her nightstand every night since the accident. Jeff's Badgers hat. She closed her eyes, let the tears fall, and hugged it tightly against her chest. The memories of him were as strong as ever, but the pain was easier to bear. She raised the cap to her nose and inhaled deeply. His scent was long gone. Shelby ran her finger over the threadbare brim of the hat before bringing it to her lips and then carefully laying it back down into the box.
I'll never forget you,
Shelby thought.

Before closing the lid, she picked up the diary once more and ran her hand over its cover. It was time to put those memories behind her, as well. While her experiences with her mother would always be a part of her, they wouldn't haunt her. Even with Jackie in the room next door, Shelby would be strong. She owed it to that little girl who cried beneath a Christmas tree to find true happiness.

After what seemed like a lifetime since Jeff's accident, she felt that a part of her former self was coming back. She was beginning to see the possibilities of a future beyond Bayfield's city limits, and beyond her fears, doubts, and deeply rooted feelings of obligation.

She returned the box to its place on the closet shelf, feeling thankful for the person who inspired her to dream again. It was the man sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother. It was the man with whom she had fallen in love.