The House on Honeysuckle Lane (17 page)

C
HAPTER
31

E
mma spotted a familiar figure at the opposite end of the vestibule. Yes, it was Morgan Shelby, wearing a beautifully tailored topcoat. Just as she was considering making her way through the crowd to say hello to Morgan, Maureen waylaid her.

“Hey,” she said. “I'm here with my parents and the Fitzgibbon clan. Well, those who live in Oliver's Well. I'm guessing you're here with your family?”

“Yeah, the whole gang's here except for Bob. I'll try to catch your mom and dad after the concert,” Emma promised. “I haven't seen them since my mother's funeral.”

“Here we go,” Maureen whispered. “Mrs. Fitzgibbon is coming our way.”

Mary Bernadette joined them, her famous dazzling smile firmly in place. Emma hadn't seen Mrs. Fitzgibbon since Caro's funeral, and then she had been struck by how straight and elegant she still looked, in spite of having suffered both a stroke and a heart attack the year before. Now, if you looked closely, Emma thought, you could see small signs of age finally beginning to catch up with her, a slightly thinner frame, her eyes a little less intensely blue, her once gloriously thick hair not quite so thick. Still, Mary Bernadette was dressed as elegantly as she always had been, in a navy dress with a narrow black patent leather belt at the waist, a strand of pearls around her neck, and small but what looked like very good pearls in her ears. Emma almost smiled remembering how she had always suspected a fashion rivalry between Mrs. Fitzgibbon and Caro Reynolds, each out to outshine the other in simple sophistication.

“Hello, Mrs. Fitzgibbon,” Emma said. “It's good to see you.”

“As it is you.” And then, to Emma's surprise, the older woman abandoned small talk. “I'm sure your brother has told you how very interested we at the Oliver's Well Historical Association are in your mother's fine desk. We would be greatly honored if your family decided to donate it for display at the Wilson House.”

“I'm sure you would be honored, Mrs. Fitzgibbon,” Emma replied smoothly, “but the family hasn't yet decided what to do with the desk.”

“You will be sure to let me know if you do decide it should pass out of the family?”

“Of course.”

Mary Bernadette went off to rejoin her husband and family, but not before reminding Maureen that intermission would soon be over and that she shouldn't dally.

Maureen rolled her eyes. “That woman is like a dog with a bone. Don't get me wrong,” she added hurriedly. “I like her and I respect her. She's my mother's best friend you know—and my goddaughter's grandmother—so I think I understand her a bit more fully than the people in town who just see the sort of intimidating grande dame.”

“I like her, too,” Emma admitted.

Maureen went back to her seat. Emma glanced around the vestibule, but Morgan Shelby was lost to sight. She did see Andie and Daniel talking; her brother looked agitated and Andie looked distressed. She thought about how during that wonderfully open conversation she'd had with Daniel about Caro's final days she had tried to get him to talk about his feelings toward Andie. Her brother's answer had been dismissive—it had told her nothing—and there was no way she believed Daniel was suffering just a case of mild annoyance with his oldest sister.

Well, hopefully her brother would allow the good will of the season to overtake any ill feelings. Emma went back to her seat inside the church, next to Anna Maria and the other family members; her siblings joined them a moment later. She glanced around and was finally rewarded with the site of Morgan Shelby several pews ahead. He seemed to be alone, but she couldn't be sure. What mattered was that she had missed the chance to say hello. She was disappointed, but then she realized not inordinately so. After all, she would be going back to Annapolis shortly after Christmas, most likely not to return to Oliver's Well for anything other than a weekend here and there. Her future, whatever form it might take, most probably did not include Morgan Shelby.

Emma folded her hands on her lap. But what, she thought, as the organ came to life, what if it did?

* * *

“It was nice tonight, wasn't it?” Emma asked her sister. They were curled up in the living room, lights low and a Diana Krall CD on the player. “I kept remembering all the times we went to Christmas concerts when we were growing up.”

Andie smiled. “It was always a big occasion, another chance for the Reynolds family to be seen in all their glory! Do you remember Mom dressing Danny in a suit and bow tie when he was small?”

Emma laughed. “A suit with short pants, yes! It was more than a bit old-fashioned, but he did look awfully cute.”

“He probably hated it. Most little boys hate being stuffed into suits of any kind. I have a friend with a four-year-old son and she can barely keep him in his play clothes. He prefers to be naked.”

“That could be awkward!” Emma laughed.

“Oh, I'm sure he'll grow out of the naked stage. At the very least he'll be taught to conform enough to be allowed to attend school without causing a riot. Any word from Ian?” Andie asked. “I can't help but remember how he enjoyed—how he probably still enjoys—dressing for an occasion.”

Emma sighed. “His latest text said, ‘thinking of you.' The one before that said, ‘miss you.' ”

“Did you reply?”

“No. I am feeling a bit guilty about that,” Emma admitted, “but like I told you, I'm afraid he'll read too much into common courtesy. So I suppose I'm being cruel to be kind.” Emma hesitated before going on. “I don't mean to be nosy,” she said, “but I couldn't help but notice that you and Danny seemed to be having a, well, a bit of a heated discussion at intermission.”

Andie smiled ruefully. “I made the mistake of mentioning to Danny that I would have liked the opportunity to say a few words at Mom's funeral. I guess I was feeling—emotional.”

“What did he say?” Emma asked.

“In effect, he said, ‘tough luck.' He was the one on hand for Mom, so he had the right to deliver the eulogy. Honestly,” Andie said, “I can see his point.”

“Though he could have been more open minded about your suggestion that we all say a little something,” Emma argued. “Lately I think he's stopped . . . Well, I was going to say ‘stopped caring about anyone but himself,' but that's wrong. I guess what I mean to say is that he seems to have lost track of the fact that other people have feelings, too, and that it might be a good thing to show some respect for those feelings.”

Andie sighed. “He's suffering anxiety, the stress of trying to hold on to things as if they were tangible and not constantly changing. It's a terrible state to be in, and none of us are entirely immune to it. Well, unless we're great spiritual masters, and that leaves me out, no matter what my book jackets say.”

“You're more of a spiritual master than Danny or I will ever be, that's for sure!”

“Well, you're entitled to your opinion. By the way, what time are the others coming over tomorrow to go through Mom's clothes?” Andie asked.

“Around ten.” Emma got up from her chair and stretched. “Well, I'm off to bed. Good night, Andie. Sleep tight and don't let the bedbugs bite.”

Her sister laughed. “Bedbugs? In Caro Reynolds's house? Never!”

C
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32

A
ndie ran her finger over the intricate brocade on the collar of a jacket Caro Reynolds had worn for occasions like a dinner party at the house of one of Cliff's more important clients, or one of the OWHA's fund-raising evenings. And what Andie was thinking about was not the fine workmanship that had gone into creating the jacket, but rather the strange power people accorded the things that outwardly defined a person, rather, the things that a person chose to outwardly define her self, to render herself recognizable and distinct from everyone else. The clothing and jewelry; the hairstyle and trademark lipstick shade; the big dark sunglasses and head scarf.

And what was it all worth in the end? What did it all come to? Nothing, Andie thought. At least, nothing of real importance.

Together Andie and Emma had laid out most of their mother's clothes on the bed; the closet stood open and largely empty, though Caro's camel-colored wool topcoat still hung on its padded hanger, next to her classic belted trench coat, one very similar to the one worn by Caro's friend or nemesis (depending, Andie thought, on whom you talked to), Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon. On the shelf above the coats sat three hatboxes. Though she hadn't opened the boxes yet, Andie knew their contents by heart. First, there was the elegant straw picture hat, trimmed with a pale blue ribbon, which Caro had worn for Easter. Next, there was a larger, floppier version reserved for bright summer days; it was, Caro had said, excellent protection against the harming rays of the sun.

Finally, there was her mother's mink beret. Andie had always had an aversion to the hat; she remembered how she had actually scolded her mother for wearing “a dead animal,” long before her own vegetarian beliefs had taken shape. Come to think of it, it was shortly after her impassioned speech that Caro had stopped wearing the mink, at least, in her daughter's presence.
Could Mom actually have put it away out of respect for my feelings?
Andie wondered. It was a striking thought.

Andie laughed and picked up a pair of lightweight wool pants. “There's nothing here I would wear. Mom and I had completely different taste in clothes.”

“I might be able to fit into some pieces,” Emma said, “with a little alteration here and there, but most of it isn't really my style, either. Everything is a bit too elegant for me, a bit too overtly feminine. The silk dresses, what she used to call her dress slacks. Though some of the blouses are beautifully tailored. . . .”

“What about the scarves and bags?” Andie said. “There's an entire dresser drawer full of silk scarves.”

“Mom always said the details made an outfit. A good silk scarf artfully draped or knotted could elevate a look. She was right. If it's all right with you and Danny, I'll probably choose a few accessories to bring home with me.”

“It's fine by me,” Andie said. She looked down at the batik print scarf draped haphazardly around her neck and hanging almost to her knees. “This thing I'm wearing,” she said, “certainly wouldn't meet with Caro's approval.”

Emma smiled. “No, it wouldn't. And Mom's shoes. Her feet were so narrow! I hope there's someone around who can squeeze into them. Look at this pair of navy pumps. They're really gorgeous. And every single shoe here is in perfect shape. Mom must have been the cobbler's best customer.”

“There's a cobbler in Oliver's Well?” Andie asked.

“Not that I know of, but there might be one in Lawrenceville. These days most people just throw something out when it starts to show some wear. Mom had the right idea. Repair what could be repaired and buy good quality in the first place. She liked to spend money, but she wasn't wasteful.”

Andie opened another drawer of her mother's dresser. “Her jewelry boxes,” she said, opening each one in turn. “Two for the good pieces, and this one for the costume.”

“I think we should deal with all the jewelry some other time,” Emma suggested. “It might be fun to go through it all and try it on.”

“Sure,” Andie agreed, as her sister went over to their mother's vanity table. The surface was bare of all but a silver-backed comb and brush set. Andie watched as Emma opened the table's shallow drawer and shook her head.

“Her makeup is still here,” Emma said. “Danny never threw it out.”

“We'll do it,” Andie said briskly. “Did I ever tell you about the time Mom introduced me to makeup?”

“I don't think so, no.”

“It was bad enough I had to endure her poking and prodding me about my unruly hair and my weight, but then she had to start on my face.” Andie could hear the note of distress in her voice and it bothered her.

“Andie,” Emma asked, frowning. “What happened?”

Andie took a calming breath before she began. “I must have been about thirteen,” she said, “when Mom decided it was high time for a lesson in what she called ‘the art of concealment.' She sat me down right here at this vanity table, and I'll never forget what she said. ‘The point of using this powder, Andrea, is to conceal the flaws.' ”

“And?”

“And I was genuinely puzzled. I told her I didn't have any flaws. To which she replied, ‘Everyone has flaws.' And then she pointed out this tiny red spot on my chin and dabbed some cream on it and then some of that powder she always used. ‘Now,' she said, ‘no one can see it.' ”

“What did you say?” Emma asked.

“I said that the spot was still there. And Mom said, ‘Not if it can't be seen.' ” Andie laughed and shook her head.

Emma grimaced. “Mom's logic wasn't always, well, logical. But that's all in the past now, Andie. You—well, all of us—really should let go of the unhappy memories.”

“I know,” Andie admitted. “But the sorry truth is that I still get upset about Mom's always trying to change my appearance. And I'm disappointed that I haven't been able to outgrow all childhood resentments. I have to keep reminding myself why Buddism is called a practice. You have to work at achieving and then maintaining necessary detachment.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, you're not alone in hanging on to old hurts, even those not intended to be punishing. The things parents say to you when you're growing up matter so very much. I doubt any parent realizes that every time he or she opens a mouth to comment or criticize, the effect of their words is likely to be very deep and very long lasting.” Emma laughed. “Parenthood is fraught with traps! It must be exhausting.”

“What do you hang on to from the past?” Andie asked.

Emma sighed. “For one, Mom and I were often mistaken for sisters, at least until she was in her midforties. Mom didn't mind in the least, of course; I could see that clearly enough. But it always made me feel annoyed, like why wasn't she content to be my mother? Why wasn't that good enough? It still makes me upset when I think about it.”

“It appealed to her vanity to be thought your sister.”

“I know, and I didn't like that about her. Not that I don't have my own share of vanity. It's not entirely a bad thing, but sometimes I thought Mom took it one step too far.”

“And Dad didn't help,” Andie said, “always telling her how beautiful she was and saying he felt like he'd married a model and that he was the luckiest man in the world.”

“Well, he really felt that way, I think, like the luckiest man in the world. We can't blame him for loving Mom.”

“No,” Andie agreed, “of course not.”

Just then Andie heard the front door open, and Anna Maria called out, “Hello, we're here.”

Andie went to the door of her parents' room. “We're upstairs,” she called back.

A moment later Anna Maria, Rumi, and Sophia joined the sisters.

“We started without you guys,” Andie explained. “There's so much to go through. Hi, Rumi.”

Rumi murmured a greeting and went immediately over to the bed on which Caro's clothes were laid out. Andie couldn't help but recall Rumi's remarks about her being a Buddhist at the concert the night before, not so much what she had said but the dismissive and disrespectful way she had said it. She wondered if her daughter was feeling a pang of conscience for the way she had been behaving toward her mother. But unless Rumi spoke, there was no way for Andie to know for sure. Guessing was as useless as wishing.

“Remember the dress Mom was buried in?” Emma asked suddenly. “The pale lilac one? She'd chosen it, of course, months before she died. Mom always liked to be in charge of her image.”

“It was a very pretty dress,” Rumi said to her aunt, a bit defensively, Andie thought.

“It was,” Emma agreed. “I didn't mean anything negative by my comment, Rumi.”

Rumi turned away and seemed to be finding a pile of cashmere sweaters of great interest.

Andie went to the foot of her parents' bed where a large cedar chest had stood for as long as she could remember. “What's inside, I wonder,” she said. She removed the carefully folded gray light wool blanket from the top and set it on the bed.

“I don't remember Mom ever showing us what she kept inside it,” Emma told the others.

“I don't remember ever asking to see.” Andie undid the brass latch and slowly opened the chest. The pleasant scent of cedar met her as she did. “It's her wedding dress,” she said with some surprise. “Mom's gown.” Carefully she lifted it from the chest and spread it out on the bed atop the elegant suits and dresses and cashmere sweaters.

“It's so narrow,” Anna Maria said. “I've seen the pictures of it, of course, but to see it in person is such a different experience. Caro must have been terribly slim when she married.”

Emma nodded. “Even when she was well into her fifties Mom used to boast that she could still fit into her wedding dress.”

“She was obsessed with her weight,” Andie said. “I suppose women of her class often were, and probably still are. Like being thin is a badge of honor, proof of a strict control over the passions. Ladies who lunch but who, in fact, don't.”

Sophia frowned. “Why wouldn't a lady have lunch?”

“Because she's silly,” Emma said.

“Grandma wasn't
obsessed
with her weight,” Rumi said suddenly. “She just cared about how she looked.” She turned then to her mother. “Why didn't you wear Grandma's dress when you got married?” she asked, the challenge in her tone unmistakable.

Though the answer was obvious to anyone with eyes, Andie chose not to take offense. “I was
always
bigger than Mom,” she said lightly, “ever since I hit puberty. Look at the waist of this thing! I could barely get my arm into it. Plus, I'm about four inches shorter than she was.”

Andie waited for her daughter's reply, but Rumi wandered over to the open closet and took down the hatbox that contained Caro's Easter bonnet.

“The question now,” Emma said, “is, what do we do with the dress? It could be altered if Rumi or Sophia wants to wear it someday. Or we could give it to the charity shop or put it on consignment. Otherwise, it's just going to sit here. I can't believe it's held up as well as it has. Leave it to Mom to know how to protect a treasured item.”

Anna Maria shuddered. “I've seen wedding dresses after the preservation process dry cleaners offer. They give me the creeps. There's something—funereal—about them lying stiff in a box under a hard plastic shell. Anyway, I know Daniel would love it if Sophia wore Caro's dress someday.”

“That would be fun!” Sophia said. “It's so pretty. I love the picture of Grandma on her wedding day. She looks like a princess.”

Andie laughed and glanced at the wedding portrait on her mother's dresser. “An empress, you mean. Mom was the only person I've ever known who could wear a tiara and not look slightly ridiculous in it.”

“Grandma wore a tiara?” Sophia asked, eyes wide.

“She did indeed,” Andie said. “When I was about seven she and Grandpa went to a costume ball at the country club. They dressed as British royalty, no one specific as I remember, but their costumes were definitely early nineteenth century in style, and your grandmother wore a tiara.”

“There must be a picture around here somewhere,” Emma said. “Mom and Dad documented everything. We'll probably find it when we go through all the old albums.”

Rumi abruptly turned to face the group again. “What did you do with your wedding dress, Mom?” she asked.

Andie thought a moment. “I don't know,” she admitted. “Mom might have kept it. I suppose it might be in the attic.”

“That figures,” Rumi said with an unpleasant laugh. “Don't you have any sentimentality?”

Andie flinched. “Of course I do,” she said. “Of course I have sentimentality.”

“I doubt it! Is that why you didn't come home for my twentieth birthday?” Rumi challenged. “Because you just don't care?”

Here it is,
Andie thought. She had half expected a showdown was coming. She just wished it wasn't happening in front of other family members. She kept her eyes on her daughter as she spoke, but she was all too aware of their audience.

“I told you I'm sorry for missing your birthday,” she said. “I really am. You know I was on a book-signing tour. I'd made a commitment.”

Rumi folded her arms across her chest. “I guess for some people career is more important than family.”

“Work,” Andie said calmly. “Good work. That's important to me. Not more important than family, but important.”

“If family is more important than work why did you move so far away from Dad and me all those years ago?” Rumi demanded.