Fixing Delilah (20 page)

News
?

News can only mean one thing.

They sold the house.

From the bottom dresser drawer, empty now of all my summer things, I remove the diary of Stephanie Hannaford. Seeing Casey’s name again as I flip through the pages, I know that if I reread it, it will be as a brand-new story, every sentence illuminated by the light of Mom’s confession. If I read it carefully, Stephanie’s memories might tell me more about my biological father; about the kind of person he was before her death. The kind of person he would have remained if his life had turned out like it was supposed to.

I think of Stephanie’s grave again and my heart hurts to have missed the chance to know her in this lifetime. But, if Stephanie had lived, Casey and Mom wouldn’t have had their moment, and I wouldn’t have been conceived. In that way, we weren’t
supposed
to know each other in this lifetime.

If I was meant to find the diary, then the universe has fulfilled that promise. I found it. I read it. And now it must go back to the house, kept safe with the history of all who’ve lived here until the universe decides that someone else should discover it. I close the latch and run my hands over the faded gold rose on the cover one last time before placing the diary back beneath the floor in the closet. Over the hole, I snap into place the board I knocked loose that first week, inserting four nails and hammering it back down, swift and certain.

I lay my hand flat against the wood for a moment, the last I’ll have in this room before it’s time to say farewell to the house on Maple Terrace forever.

“Good-bye, Aunt Stephanie,” I whisper. A breeze blows through the open window, billowing the curtains out over the bed, and when I look up at the sunlight, I see the red cardinal, perched on the ledge outside the window. He watches me for a moment, and then, without fanfare, turns and glides away.

Chapter thirty-four

Downstairs, as I look around at the half-packed boxes of Mom’s computer accessories and dry cleaning bags of pantsuits and the remaining spoons and forks we saved for our last few meals, I feel an emptiness in me. Tomorrow is the last time I’ll see this house. The last time I’ll watch the roosters dance over the kitchen sink or the ants scurry from under the stove. The last time I’ll make any memories in my grandparents’ home.

Jack and Patrick are here, and Mom and Rachel assemble us all outside for their big announcement. From the front lawn, I look up at the house—
really
look at it—for the first time since our arrival in June. I know the third step on the porch still creaks. The shutters, under the weight of their new paint and some possibly missing hardware which may or may not be my fault, aren’t one hundred percent level. And there’s no guarantee that the gutters will stay clean or the paint won’t peel again or the newly remodeled sunroom will keep the cardinals out.

But those shutters were painted and hung with love. The flower beds have been replanted. The trees and honeysuckle vines were trimmed and the carpets steam-cleaned and the windows reflect the sky and the entire house radiates like a gold beacon in the warm yellow of the sun, high on the hill above Red Falls Lake. Like the women that have called it home for hundreds of years, the house on Maple Terrace is beautiful. Within its creaks and cracks and flaws, it holds the memories, hopes, and dreams of all of us. Today, our summer of work has come together—the shutters and the gutters and the painting and the flowers—and I
know
. I know that it was worth it.

We arrived in Vermont expecting to fix up the old lake house. But in the end, it was the house that fixed
us
. I knew in my head that we’d never see it again—the place that reunited the Hannaford women. But my heart had different ideas. Crazy ones, faraway ones, like maybe, somehow, we could spend one more summer here. One more Fourth of July at the Sugarbush Festival. One more week washing windows and taking down shutters. One more season sipping lattes with Em and listening to Patrick sing at Luna’s.

“You guys, look at this place!” Rachel says, her pale pink
Save 2nd Base—Get a Mammogram
T-shirt clinging to her body in the heat. “Look at what we accomplished this summer!” She puts her arm around Jack.

“She’s a true beauty,” Jack says. “I’ve worked on lots of remodels, but this one,
man
. I’m really gonna miss ’er.”

I take a deep breath, honeysuckle overflowing in the late summer air.

“Well,” Mom says, “after three months of hard work and a lot of tears, Rachel and I have some really excellent news for everyone.”

Patrick squeezes my hand as I steady myself for the news I’ve waited for all summer. The news I couldn’t hear soon enough when we first arrived. The news I’d give anything to put on pause now, just for a few more days.

Mom speedwalks across the grass to the front end of the driveway. There’s a sign staked into the lawn on iron post, wrapped in a white canvas tarp. It seems strange that she’d post a
FOR SALE
sign if they’ve already accepted a private offer, but it’s probably just another one of those weird historic town ordinances. I shield my eyes from the sun as Mom tugs off the canvas to reveal a simple wooden sign swinging gently on its post.

FUTURE SITE OF:

Three Sisters Bed & Breakfast

A Hannaford Family Guest Home

“We wanted to tell you guys first,” Rachel says. “We’ll start accepting reservations next summer. The news will be announced officially in tomorrow’s
Bee.
”

Who needs the
Red Falls’ Bee
? Once the neighbors see the sign, we’re inundated with visitors and phone calls, everyone wanting a tour, wanting to know more, wanting to bring coffee cake. Hours later, when it’s just us and Emily and Patrick and Jack sitting around the kitchen table for our final meal together, it’s the first chance I have to ask my questions. To balance my excitement at the romantic idea of it all with the unlikely reality of Mom giving up corporate life.

“I’m great at my job, Del,” Mom says. “For years, it’s been my priority.”

“Right,” I say. “I don’t think they’ll let you go.”

“A born project manager like you?” Jack asks. “
I
wouldn’t let you go. If half the sites we worked on were run like this remodel, I’d come home with a few less headaches. Just the ones the kid here gives me.”

Patrick throws a cherry tomato at his father, but Mom presses on. “I’ve been buried in project spreadsheets and other people’s marketing plans for too long. I love my work, but it’s stressful. I’m dependent on the cell phone, dependent on the computer, dependent on… well, other things I no longer want in my life. It took me the whole summer to figure it out, but now I’m one hundred percent sure. I’m ready for a change.”

“But Mom, running a B and B is a
huge
change. It’s like a hotel, right?
And
a restaurant.
And
a museum.
And
you have to work with people—in person, not on e-mail.” Emily, who rushed over as soon as she heard the neighbors gossiping at Luna’s about the news, kicks me under the table.

“It’s still a business,” Mom says. “And that I
can
do. With my management and marketing skills, and Rachel’s creative energy and way with people and food, we can make this work. I’ve looked at the numbers, Del. The tourist industry up here is on the cusp right now. Rachel and I have already met with the bank and the Chamber of Commerce. We’ve got some money saved, and your grandmother was smart with hers. With the assets from her estate, we can afford the risk.”

I swallow a bite of sautéed zucchini and look at her with raised eyebrows. “Mom, you don’t do risk, remember?”

“Well, this one’s a very
calculated
risk. I’ve done financial projections across several market scenarios, accounting for climate changes and fluctuating maple production levels, both of which directly impact the tourist industry in Vermont. I also looked at… hey, don’t laugh! It’s still a risk! Anything can happen. It’ll be an adventure.”

“So… we’re moving to Vermont?” I ask.

“Not right away,” Mom says. “Not necessarily at all. It’ll take time to get all the right permits to get it zoned and up to code. We’ll need to do some upgrades, which I’m leaving in Jack’s capable hands, and I need to plan my transition from DKI. Rachel needs to work out her catering schedule for the Toronto Film Festival and Sundance before she can commit to dates here. And you need to finish out your senior year at Kennedy and decide what comes next. One day at a time, right?”

I consider her plan, not surprised that she’s accounted for everything.

“Besides,” Mom says, “Rachel did our cards, and according to the Eight of Wands, it’s time for some fresh opportunities. Oh—I also got the Ten of Pentacles in my ‘best outcome’ spot. Abundance, family traditions, strong family ties—I thought that was telling.”

“Absolutely,” Rachel says, pouring us all another round of hibiscus tea. “I also thought it was cool that the Empress appeared in both of our spreads this morning. That means it’s a good time for female creativity, and work ventures will likely lead to material comforts.”

“Whoa. I want my cards read!” Patrick says.

“Seriously,” Em says. “You should do lakeside readings for the guests. Um, starting with us.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Rachel says, reaching for Mom’s notebook on the counter behind her.

Everyone around me is laughing, chatting, passing food, telling stories, eating, forks scraping on mismatched plates, chipped cups clinking together, no more invisible guests for invisible dinners at the big empty table.

“Okay,” I say over the happy sounds filling the room. “You win, guys. Three Sisters B and B. I’m in.” I spoon another pile of mango chutney over Rachel’s organic grilled seitan. “I just hope next season’s guests aren’t holding out for actual
bacon
with their breakfast.”

Mom laughs. “We said one day at a time, Del. We’ll cross the bacon bridge when we get there.”

After dinner, Mom packs up the rest of her mobile office while Rachel walks Emily back to Luna’s. Everyone promised to come over tomorrow morning to see us off, but tonight is the last I’ll have alone with Patrick before my summer in Red Falls draws to a close.

Side by side, we walk along the lake shore, watching the turtles and sailboats like we did the first time we saw each other under the bleachers that day. Neither of us wants to acknowledge the good-bye sitting there on the horizon, to ask the questions about when we’ll see each other again. They’re not on our lips, but I know they’re in our minds, both of us silently counting and recounting the hours and the miles between New York and Pennsylvania.

“I told my father about college,” Patrick says. “He knows I’m going.”

“How did he take it?”

“He didn’t freak out as much as I expected. He was more upset that I didn’t tell him how I really felt a long time ago. He said that he never meant to push his own dreams on me, and that if I don’t want to work for Reese and Son, he can hire another partner. He actually seemed kind of proud about the college thing. But I know he’s not crazy about the music major. I don’t think he’ll ever be comfortable with the artist gene in our family.”

“Did he try to talk you into a new major?”

“Architecture. But only for about thirty seconds. Then he said that as long as I don’t expect him to take the subway or a taxi, or wear a suit, he might possibly perhaps
maybe
come to one or two of my shows in the city. That is, assuming I find any work.” Patrick laughs.

I hate thinking about him not being right next door after tomorrow, but picturing him onstage again, even if it’s all the way in New York City, makes me smile.

“I’m really proud of you,” I say. “For telling your father the truth and for following your heart. Just promise me something, okay?”

He puts his hand over his heart. “Anything.”

“Don’t sing that song for anyone else, Patrick. I mean, unless you get a record deal or something. Then I’ll make an exception.”

Patrick wraps my pinky in his. “If I get a record deal, I’ll fly you down to the studio so I can sing it for you there. Promise.”

I smile, pulling him closer.

“So aside from visiting me like every single weekend in New York, what are your plans after Red Falls?” he asks.

“Plans. Let’s see. Big plans. Well, there’s another exciting year left at Kennedy High.”

“Senior year,” Patrick says. “The home stretch.”

“I guess. I’m also thinking of getting a job at a coffee place or something,” I say. “Just a few hours a week. Get some job experience before college.”

“That sounds cool, but if you’re going to work in a café, you have to promise
me
something.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t let anyone else sing to you.”

“Oh, no problem.” I hold up my pinky again. “I’m only doing it for the free chocolate hazelnut lattes.”

Patrick squeezes my hand. “Delilah?” he asks. “What about… are you going to look for your father?”

My father
. I turn to watch a small blue sailboat making its way across the lake, wondering if I’ll ever have the answer to that question. That first night I found out?
Yes.
I wanted to look for him. I was mad, and I needed someone to scream at. If I had the money, I probably would’ve bought a ticket to L.A. just so I could track him down and stand in front of him and tell him
all
about it.

Now, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d really say or do or feel, and I don’t
want
to. I’m not ready to know him. I’m not ready for him to know
me
.

More than that, there’s still Thomas Devlin. And I’m not ready to say good-bye to him.

I pick up a rock from the path and throw it sideways at the lake, watching it skim the water twice before it disappears. “Honestly, I have no idea what to do about Casey Conroy,” I say. “I’m not ready to think about it yet. I’m keeping Thomas for a little while. Maybe a long while.”

Patrick smiles.

“I was just thinking about this story he did on elephant poaching in Africa,” I say. “He basically lived with them on these wildlife preserves where different animal rights groups were working to rescue and treat the elephants wounded by poachers.

“In the article, he talked about family dynamics in elephant herds. The matriarch builds up a kind of social memory, so the older she is, the more she remembers about the family and the rest of the herd, about which outside elephants are friendly, about where all the best food is, stuff like that. But these older elephants are usually bigger, with bigger tusks, and that’s what poachers go for. When the matriarchs die, all of those memories go with them, and the rest of the herd is kind of lost.”

We stop to watch a family of turtles scuttling up a rock near the shore. Patrick puts his arm around me.

“At first, the story kind of reminded me of my grandmother and how everything got so screwed up and lost when we left Red Falls that year. But then I realized something.”

“What’s that?” Patrick asks.

“We’re not exactly like the elephants. We have the ability to pass our memories on. We just have to tell them to someone.”

“All right,” Patrick says. “Here’s one for you. My earliest memory of Red Falls Lake happened right over there.” He points along the shore past the turtles. “I must have been about four. I was playing in the sand when I noticed these tiny silver fish swimming in a shallow pool next to the lake. They looked so sparkly, like little flashes of light in the water. I remember how much I wanted to see them up close, to see if they would still sparkle in my hand.

“I tried to grab them, but they were too fast. They kept speeding away whenever I got close. A woman was watching me from the beach, and when she figured out what I was doing, she came over with a red bucket, crouched down next to me, and scooped up the water and the fish so I could get a better look.”