Retreat to Love (27 page)

“No, sweetheart, that was always our plan. I’m not giving up my trusty friend here,” she’d said, patting it. “You can have it when I’m dead. Until then, you use this.”

And I did. I loved my machine. But I was taking them both. So after Bernadette left on Thursday with an armload of official-looking documents to sort through while at the store, I found Gran’s case of lint and oil brushes and the tube of lubricant, and set to work. Gran hadn’t cleaned it often once her arthritis got bad, and I’d forgotten when I was in for Bernadette’s birthday. Still, there wasn’t a lot of build up. I just liked doing it, it was satisfying to know I was treating the equipment well, the way Gran had taught me.

But I didn’t start crying again until I opened the fabric closet. The boxes she’d labeled ‘scraps’ and ‘quarters’ and ‘1/2 yd or more’ in red permanent marker did me in. She was always so organized. I was constantly fighting the urge to just toss my leftovers on the top of the pile when I finished a piece, but the Gran-voice in my head made me fold them neatly and jot the remaining yardage on the bias. The partial bolts in Gran’s closet were all lined up straight, with darker fabrics to the left and lighter ones to the right. I screwed up the organization right away by sitting in the middle of the closet and digging through the quarters box to see if anything in particular caught my eye. The only way I could get through it was to dive in and be as ruthless as I could manage, and I had my black garbage bags at the ready. I wasn’t even going to look in the box of scraps. Everything I didn’t want was going to the church auxiliary’s blankets for the homeless project.

After I’d bagged up some desirable textiles, and created a ‘maybe’ pile to look at again in the morning, I moved on to the threads. Most of the spools weren’t colors I needed, but I filled up my thread case and took the colors matching any unusual bobbins she’d made up. And I kept all of Gran’s button jars.

I loved those jars.

Before I could sew a stitch, I used to empty them over her floor to sort and play, delighting when I found a white in the pink/red jar or a fabric frog in with the wood buttons. Gran didn’t often make clothes, but it took years for me to guess she was mis-sorting the buttons just for me.

Big old treasure trove of devastatingly happy memories in one small room. I wandered back into the kitchen and opened a beer. Anesthesia was definitely the way to go. I tuned in the eighties rock station—anything to avoid an oldie or one of Gran’s mockingly loved country songs—and took a deep breath.

They’re just things, Ash. Some cloth, some embroidery floss, a few pairs of scissors. Figure out what could be useful, figure out what’s sentimentally important, and pack up the rest.

I ended up with the buttons, three bags full of cloth, my favorite embroidery hoop, and a collection of beads stashed on a shelf too high for Gran to have reached in a long time. I also found the Singer’s long-absent embroidery disk no. 19, for block stitches. Gran would have gotten a big kick out of seeing that gap finally filled.

Ultimately the phone stopped me from packing more.

“Baby girl, dinner’s on the table. Are you coming?”

“Oh, Frank, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the time.” Glancing down at myself, I volunteered, “Why don’t you two go ahead and eat, and I’ll clean up and come by for a drink?”

“No, we’ll wait for you. Nothing will spoil. You take your time.”

“Are you sure?”

“We are. See you in an hour or so.”

I rushed. Bernadette wouldn’t appreciate my near-miss of standing her up.

She was treading gently, though. Even told me I looked nice, which was unique. I had to smile when I saw they were serving gazpacho, Caleb’s favorite, and it made it easier to just come right out with Project: Arizona.

I glanced sidelong at Frank. He was the one who’d give me problems over this. He started with, “But, why there?”

“I can’t stay here. This week,” I spooned a bite and stalled, “this week’s been hard enough. I just can’t stay here right now.”

“So far away, though?”

“It’s the half-way point. Just as easy to get to his family as mine.” Or as hard, I didn’t say.

“What are you going to do there?” This from Bernadette.

“My art. Same as Caleb.”

“But, for rent, for food?”

“We’ve got it under control. We’ve got our commercial sites, too.” I attempted a smile. “Come on, you two taught me so much about living frugal and simple. I don’t need much more than air conditioning and room for some tomato plants.”

“How well do you think you know this Caleb, anyway?”

I patted his hand. “Don’t worry, Frank, I’m getting bigger by the day. I’m not making a mistake, not this time.” It came out steady, but inside I was stammering.

It was all going so damn predictably. He questions my emotional judgment, she questions my practical judgment, I defend and deflect while trying to sound reasoned. Finally I set down my spoon and said, “Look, Frank, would you like to read my cards? Would that help?”

As he dealt, his frame lightened. The past was predictable enough—three of swords for heartbreak. Better then than now. Frank patted my hand and moved to the present. “A new beginning for your heart,” he said, almost triumphantly, laying the ace of cups. Bernadette stopped clearing my bowl and leaned on him to watch, a soft smile spreading when Frank turned the king of cups. “True love,” she read for him, though we all knew already. I’d known for weeks, but it warmed me to see the proof laid out on my parents’ dining table. Considerably more accepting of my new life-course, they turned the conversation to more immediate concerns.

Over chai, we made plans for the rest of my stay. They would walk-through with a realtor on Sunday. Frank would help me load the trailer on Wednesday before Caleb’s flight came in, and he and I would leave early enough to eat dinner with Zach and Rebecca (Bernadette used her correct name) in Austin, aiming for New Mexico by Thursday night and our new home, wherever precisely home was, by Friday.

Logistically, there wasn’t much left to do at Gran’s. Bernadette and Dermot and Matthew had accomplished a lot.

“I could use your help going through all the papers,” Bernadette told me.

I nodded. “Okay.”

“The mail is piling up. Well, you know, you saw it. You could start to sort through all that. I’ve arranged to cover the store on Saturday, so we can stay over there together and figure it all out. Okay?”

I nodded again.

The parental dinner wasn’t quite as hard as I’d feared, I reported to Caleb later, in bed. He’d made it to Arizona.

“Oh, Ash, it’s beautiful. Wait till you see. You’ll be so happy.”

“I’ll be happy wherever we are,” I smiled down the wire at him.

“Hey, me too! Hmm, I do miss you.” His voice was dipping and growling.

“And I you.”

He would look at properties in the morning, texting me pictures and opinions. So I started my last Friday in Texas scrolling online property listings while waiting for any early reports from Caleb.

There was nothing from him, but there was an email from Lizzy. She’d been tracking her crate, and was anticipating it in another week. And based on the slides Caleb had shot of it, coupled with some advice from Wren, she’d been able to secure a top notch agent, who in turn had secured her a couple of exhibitions in the next month. Moira had begged again for her to come back to Carmel’s, but not to her arms, which was fine. Lizzy would have rejected either option. She was getting on well at the brasserie and had met a tall blonde who was flirting mercilessly with her.

All in all, she was in grand form.

And she had a postscript: “Wren has put aside her houses for the nonce. She barreled into a gallery there in Norwich trying to flog her stuff, and ended up talking her way into a job. She claims to be ecstatic about it all, but as this is Wren we’re talking about, is sure to change her mind. Happy thoughts going out to her, though, and to you and Caleb. Lotsa love, Lizzy.”

Right, I told myself. The mail pile wouldn’t shrink just because I ignored it. Carrying the stack from the hall to the breakfast room, I couldn’t help noticing on the way the house was colder and emptier than I’d ever imagined it could be.

Setting the recycling bin next to me, I got to work. A profusion of AARP-type bulk mails went out first of all. Following that, the credit card offers and local coupons. A bank statement and three bills stayed on the table, as well as four envelopes suspiciously sympathy-card-shaped, which I left for Bernadette. Over two week’s worth of mail, and only eight things worth saving.

I didn’t want to mess with the bank statement—and there I was, professing to be a grown up—so I opened the bills. Electricity, long distance, and, predictably, a statement from the hospital. At least the water bill was straightforward. I put the remittance slip and envelope with the ones for the long distance, and started to toss the rest. But the phone bill was close to fifty dollars. Gran never called long distance. Were they pulling something funny knowing it was the final bill?

So I read the itemization.

International calls: Ireland. The morning of her brain attack. Thirty-six minutes to a number not unfamiliar.

Kitty O’Connor.

On the morning leading to her death, Gran had phoned her estranged sister-in-law and found her at home.

And that’s where my mind stopped churning. It didn’t go into the implications, it didn’t try to recreate what their conversation was. It didn’t think to stand up and throw away the billing and not be sitting there gripping it when Bernadette walked in with some yogurt smoothies for us to share over lunch.

Sure, I tried to snap out of it. When Bernadette glanced into the dining room as she entered and said, “Wow, Ashlyn, you’ve been working so hard here. Thank you,” I looked up with an automatic smile. But I didn’t manage to say anything, or to put aside the papers. Bernadette’s round eyes narrowed at me before she sat down in the other chair.

“What is that?”

I stammered some. “It’s just, it’s a bill of Gran’s.” Handing over the payment voucher and the envelope, I added, “It’s due next week.”

But instead she took the detailed bill, scanning it to figure out the line items before saying, “She called her.”

Who? “Who called who?”

“Mom called that traitorous aunt of mine. I can’t believe she did it.”

“She told you?” She didn’t tell me she would tell Bernadette. She didn’t tell me she would call Kitty. She didn’t even email me afterwards, just started making a salad.

“No, she said she wasn’t going to do it, and then look, she did.”

“But. Gran told you about Kitty and … and Pappa?”

Bernadette’s eyes went all round again. “Oh, Ashlyn. You didn’t know she told me? I’m so sorry.” When she took my hand, I let her. “I thought you just didn’t want to talk about it.”

Brushing my eyes with my shirt sleeve, I said, “No, she told me she didn’t want me to talk to anyone about it. I, that’s what, on her last day ….”

“Ash. My poor girl.”

I shook my head. Sniffled. “I promised her. I didn’t think anyone else knew, and she said she didn’t want me to contact them, and didn’t want me to tell you guys. I promised her, there, there in the hospital, I wouldn’t. And then, right after. That’s when.” I sank, fetal, defeated, to the floor. Whispered, “That’s when she died.”

“Oh, my Ash.” Bernadette was holding me. “Okay, it’s okay.”

We rocked together, cried together.

“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay.” She wouldn’t let me shake my head ‘no’, holding it against her shoulder. “It is. It’s okay. Just cry, then we’ll talk, but just cry.”

I did what she told me to do.

Later, we took a walk around what used to be the farm. Most of it was half-completed subdivision now. With some work, Bernadette convinced me what Gran had meant with her requests for my silence was that she wanted to be the one to talk to Bernadette and her brothers about it all.

“She told Dermot and Matthew?” I was genuinely surprised.

“No, she was going to. But she wanted to do it in person.”

Bernadette believed Gran had felt my presence when she released herself from life, but also that she hadn’t been hanging on because of lingering concern about Pappa’s secret.

“But we both agree,” I said, stopping her in front of a cul-de-sac of framed out houses that used to be the path to the creek, “her call to Kitty was critical. That her hemorrhaging just hours later was related.”

“We do,” confirmed Bernadette.

“Then there’s no doubt if I had just kept all this to myself, Gran would never have known to call Kitty and then she’d still be alive. So it all comes back to me.”

“Baby,” Bernadette brushed my hair off my forehead but I shook her hand away. “There’s a reason you’re an artist and not a lawyer. The argument does not hold. You are not, could never be, the reason your Gran died. Directly or indirectly.”

She’d never called me an artist before.

“Ashlyn, you were the light of her life. She loved you.” Bernadette looked away. “Loved you more than the rest of us put together, I think. And even if this knowledge about Dad was the reason she passed on to him—”

I swallowed heavily.