Keeping Time: A Novel (25 page)

On their way up the exterior front steps, Elisabeth, saying, “I hope we don’t have to see that Brian Davis. Anything but sadness on his part might push me over the edge.”

“I might knock him down the stairs.” Michael.

“I’d take his heart out.” Daisy.

“Hopefully he’s at work.” Elisabeth, thinking that that’s where she should be. If she misses tomorrow, it would be a full week. Thinking “Holy shit, they must be pissed.” Watching Michael, trying the first key. Seeing it didn’t work.

Trying another. Success. Pushing the heavy front door open. Stepping inside. Instinctively inhaling. No yummy food smells. “It seems like he’s not home,” Michael, murmuring.

Up the stairs they went to the first landing. Passing the door with the child’s drawings of flowers and the sun. Starting toward the second, hearing the sound of a door opening, a voice from below.

“Hulda? Is that you?” Brian Davis. Coming down his hall toward the stairs.

Three sets of alarmed eyes looking at one another. Michael, asking, “What do we tell him?”

No time to answer. Brian Davis, bounding up the stairs. “Where’ve you been, gone three nights?”

Rounding onto the first landing, slamming headlong into the space
where they stood. Halting, his eyes sliding over and across each of them, remembering them. Looking in the space between them, around them. For Hulda. A moment passing before anyone spoke.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Hulda?”

No one answering, shifting their weight, blinking.

Again, “Where’s Hulda? I’ve been worried about her silly bird. I almost went in to feed the damn thing myself, but then I thought she’d hit the roof if she caught me. So where is she? When’s she coming back?” Looking from face to face for an answer. “What’s the matter with you gu to get the mower outrehabckys? Cat got your tongue?”

Daisy, clearing her throat. Saying, “She’s not coming back. We think she’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Passed away … in New Hampshire.” Daisy.

“No way.” Brian, falling back, leaning against the wall, acting incredulously, as if it were impossible, as if she hadnut. Hand-washi

FORTY-THREE

HOME@titDaisy Phillips. PULLING INTO THE DRIVEWAY. Relieved.

Michael, popping out of the SUV, carefully retrieving the birdcage.

David and Josh, hearing they were home, flying out of the house, down the steps, into their mother’s arms. She had never been away three nights before. Fighting over her, vying for turf on her body, both pushing the other away with his hips, arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

Elisabeth, laughing. Enjoying it.

Then Richard, in a red T-shirt, coming out onto the porch. Unshaven. Ungroomed. On a Thursday. In the early afternoon. Wonder you’d

FORTY-FOUR

SHE COULDN’T DO IT. It became painfully clear within just a few weeks that Amanda just couldn’t do it.

Dennis had gotten over that he had had to do all the unpacking himself. She always had a little something that caused her to run over to her mother’s. He had gotten over her tirade when she heard that Lenny was remarrying. He had listened dutifully as she rambled on about how his mother owes those three stepgrandchildren nothing and how Lenny’s marriage didn’t have to change their inheritance prospects one bit. He had gotten over eating dinner alone almost every night since they had moved and that she was putting off looking for a job while she yelled that he hadn’t made more than one appointment for an interview himself. He had gotten over all that. But there was one thing he just wouldn’t be able to get over, and Amanda managed to find it.

He had just come back from the shops where he had passed up the fine ales although his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. He made the case in defense of the ale to his brain, hoping his brain would send out a message to his hand to pick up a bottle. But Dennis was strong. He pushed his trolley past the rows of captivating bottles and picked up a single box of pasta, a single jar of sauce, and a package of broccoli. He headed home with a stiff upper lip, reminding himself that the beauty of
the surroundings in which he now lived was worth more than an ale sliding down his throat. He also reminded himself that Amanda was happy and that was what really mattered.

Back in the house, a pasta pot on to boil. The jar of sauce in the saucepan. The broccoli cut into florets, waiting to be sautéed in a little garlic and olive oil. Dennis, putting in a jazz CD, scrolling through job sites on the Internet, hoping to find someone who was looking for someone in his mid-fifties who’d done nothing for a decade after a splashy book publishing adventure and worked for decades editing a dying
Artifacts, Archeological Treasures, and Antiquities
magazine, an expert in seventeenth-century artifacts.

Not surprisingly, nothing popped out at him. Causing him to really want that pint of ale. Finding himself justifying having just one, telling himself that things weren’t so urgent yet that he couldn’t have a single pint. Turning off the computer, on his way out to grab one. Amanda, rolling into the driveway. Her long leg exiting the car before the rest of her. Standing up tall, smiling up at the house, hurrying up the walk, her heavy bag slung over her shoulder.

Charging over to Dennis, full of good cheer, taking the sides of his face in each of her hands, squeezing them together. Kissing him hard on the lips. Saying, “You’re never going to guess what I just did.” Kissing him again. His face was in a vice between her strong hands, being crushed from both sides into the middle. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Now, promise me you won’t be upset. I know it was a little extravagant, and I know I#siitDaisy Phillips promised not to buy anything for a year, but, oh, darling, how could I resist? It would have taken superhuman strength because it was such an amazing deal! You should be proud of me, not angry. Do you promise?” Kissing him longer and harder.

Dennis, taking a step back, worrying that his face might not come out of her kisses undented. Wanting to ask what she was going on about, but his lips were under siege. Fighting off the kiss. Asking what he feared most: “You didn’t buy anything, did you?”

Amanda, pausing. Nodding. Meekly. Her teeth clenched in a guilty grin.

“Oh, no, Amanda,” Dennis, saying, massaging his cheeks. They were throbbing. “You didn’t. What? What did you buy?”

Amanda, becoming worried. Her good cheer being quickly replaced by fear. Realizing now that she might not be able to wriggle out of this one. Looking at Dennis’s face, seeing an impatience she hadn’t seen before. Taking a deep breath, pulling herself up to her full statuesque height, telling herself that he was just going to have to take this one on the chin, not her. Opening her charm full throttle, drawing her fingers through her hair, tossing her head in a beguiling way—a way that had worked wonders in the past.

Dennis, repeating the question. Tonelessly. Through a tight mouth.

Amanda, “I got us a great deal on something we’ve always wanted, something we’ve talked about for years.” More hair maneuvering.

Dennis, impatient, his whole body stiffened for battle, barking out: “What?”

“A baby grand.” Giggling a little guiltily now that it was out. Reaching for “coquettish” but instead getting “nervous.”

“You didn’t!” Dennis, really blowing his top. Veins bulging across every patch of exposed skin. “A piano! A baby grand? Are you out of your mind?”

Amanda, staring at him in horror. She had never seen anything like it from him before. Her lower lip trembled.

“Return it! You hear me? Cancel the order! We don’t have the money for that!”

“I got us on a monthly installment plan, interest free! I thought you&#was savvy enou

FORTY-FIVE

DAISY, UP AT DAWN. SHOWERED. Completely packed by breakfast. She spent the early hours sipping tea before the boys were up. Richard and Elisabeth had said their good-byes before going to bed the night before. Elisabeth had hugged and kissed Daisy, saying she wanted to bring the whole family to see her at
her
home this year. Richard, in a blue-and-white-striped robe and slippers, said that would be nice but they simply didn’t have the money. He reminded Elisabeth that now they had
two
kids in college. Elisabeth sighed and got ready to go to work. She apologized before she left that she couldn’t take Daisy to the airport. She couldn’t possibly take another day off.

Daisy told her not to worry. She leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead, a motherly kiss.

Now Daisy, alone in the living room, waiting for the boys to wake up, listening to the plentiful sounds of birds from beyond the sliding glass doors. Going through old photo albums, enjoying seeing the boys when they were small. Flipping pages, watching them grow. Trying to pretend that she wasn’t going to miss them much. But what she had told Richard was true: She hadn’t been successful in what had brought her there, but she had found so much more.

ELISABETH, BACK AT HER DESK. Having dealt with the concerns for her health, the questions, and the expressions of sympathy. A summer flu? There is nothing worse. And how was she feeling now? Better? That#ȁ’b. They ’s good.

Elisabeth, looking around her office. Her eyes sliding over the dull, light-blue walls, shelves of books, photos, and objects that covered far too many years to remember. Everything was the same, depressingly so—except the piles of tax returns, the to-do list, and the inbox. They had all gotten higher and more backed up.

Looking at the tax return on her computer screen with all its blank lines, Form 6258. An open file full of spreadsheets on her desk. Resisting the urge to X out of the tax return and log on to PuppyFinder.com just for a minute, just to get a peek at Saint Bernard puppies or English mastiffs or schnauzers. Anything would be fine. Anything would be better than Form 6258 with all those blank lines stubbornly waiting to be filled in.

Her thoughts were six hours away—on the mountains and Hulda, who was still on the mountain. She had spoken to Captain Miller a little while ago. The search was still on, the unit smaller. Volunteers had diminished to a handful of stalwart souls. He was surprised that Hulda still had not turned up. He thought she must be deep in the woods. He promised Elisabeth that they wouldn’t stop until she was found.

Elisabeth, wishing she were back there on the mountain with the fresh clean air—so clean that it sparkled in the sunlight—and the clear mountain lakes and the vigorously running rivers of water cascading over smooth, colossal white rocks. The beauty of healthy nature.

Feeling sad that Daisy was going. Elisabeth, sighing, resting her chin on the inverted cup of her hand, her elbow leaning on her desk. Wishing she was back in New Hampshire. Wishing she was home. Wishing Daisy was staying longer. Wishing that they were all going
back to Liverpool with her. Wishing herself anywhere but there. Resisting the urge to go on PuppyFinder.com.

Logging on to eBay 0T">Storming o

FORTY-SIX

DENNIS, SITTING IN ONE OF the blue seats in a waiting room at the airport. Looking tired, haggard. Relieved to see Daisy. Saying, first words out of his mouth, “It’s a good thing you didn’t sell your house.”

Introductions. Dennis, thanking Ann many times over, saying he hoped he hadn’t put her out.

The Belt Parkway on the car ride home. Slow but steady. Ann, calling Elisabeth.

Elisabeth, at her desk. Plodding through the tax return. Three lines were filled in on Form 6258. Ann, on the phone, telling her that Daisy canceled her flight. Telling her why.

Elisabeth, listening, getting the news. Hanging up. Feeling left out. Thinking about what she had just learned: Daisy was staying longer, and Dennis was here, a cousin, a new houseguest.

Elisabeth, trying like mad to concentrate on issues of taxation so she could get out of there at a reasonable hour. She wanted to be there when Cousin Dennis got to her house.

FORTY-SEVEN

PLANS IN PLACE. There would be a wedding. That very weekend. The very next day. It was going to be an eight-minute ceremony at thny. Asking Den

FORTY-EIGHT

A FATHER AND DAUGHTER on their way to Long Island. The ride from New Hampshire, long, spotted with traffic. Frequent stops at restrooms extended the trip. Extending the time devoted to talk. An unprecedented delivery of mind-boggling information.

A crack in the past. Finally, long-held secrets slowly seeping out. Meeting the air. The father coming clean with his grown daughter, spilling facts at last that predated her birth. Hidden ever after. Until today. His mouth, moving. He could feel it. Words squeezing out. He could hear them, but it felt as if he were relating events in somebody else’s life rather his own. Secrets so long tucked away, so long unshared, they had lost their meaning.

The father telling her of a horrible accident. A restaurant fire that changed everything—a name, a plan. More than one life.

Revealing another secret—that, like her, he, too, had played the piano.

His daughter’s face tightening over the steering wheel, listening intently. Hearing that it was not only his left hand that had been crushed in the restaurant fire but also his dreams. He had been a child prodigy. He had won countless competitions, prestigious awards, and a gift—a silver watch inscribed by Arthur Rubinstein.