The House on Honeysuckle Lane (23 page)

C
HAPTER
43

“S
houldn't you be home sifting through silverware and table linens?” Maureen asked. Emma and Maureen were window shopping in Somerstown later that afternoon and enjoying the unexpectedly balmy day. Emma's coat was open and she had slipped off her scarf and folded it in her bag.

“Danny will probably kill me when he sees I haven't finished packing up the silk flowers Mom collected,” Emma admitted. “I swear she must have bought a bunch once a month for years; there are so many, and all in perfect shape, not even a speck of dust.”

“She wasn't a fan of fresh flowers in the house?” Maureen asked.

“Dad was allergic to lots of stuff,” Emma explained. “Anyway, I did manage to pack up a big box of almost brand new towels to donate to the local animal shelter. Those kitties and doggies are lucky—if any animal in a shelter can be considered lucky. My mother was adamant about only using super-high-quality towels.”

Emma's phone, set on vibrate, alerted her to a text message from her second-in-command at Reynolds Money Management. “Sorry,” she told Maureen. “I have to answer this.”

“Do you ever regret doing what you do?” Maureen asked when Emma had sent her reply and stuck her phone back in the pocket of her coat. “It can't be easy, handling other people's money. There's got to be so much risk.”

“No, it's not always easy,” Emma admitted, “but then again, not much worth doing well
is
easy. Still, I used to love my work, really love it. It's challenging and interesting. Some clients are unpleasant to deal with, mostly because they're used to bossing people around from morning till night, but somehow I've always been able to handle those types.”

“But?” Maureen asked, as the two women stopped at a storefront with a display of handcrafted wooden nutcrackers in the shape of Old World soldiers in red coats with gleaming brass buttons, Santa Clauses of various types, elves with distinctly mischievous looks on their faces, and jolly, rotund bakers, complete in tall white hats and aprons, a baguette tucked under an arm.

“But lately,” Emma went on, only vaguely noticing the fanciful collection before her, “lately, I don't know, I find myself thinking of Joe Herbert sitting at the desk that was supposed to be mine. . . .” Emma smiled ruefully. “Well, the desk my father wanted for me, I should say.”

“And you feel?” Maureen prompted.

But Emma didn't answer her friend's question right away. Instead she said, “I used to love going to my father's office when I was a kid, sitting in that big leather chair at the big oak desk and admiring Dad's shiny pen and pencil set and the brass paperweights. Everything was solid and sure, and I used to fantasize about working there with him, side by side.”

“So what happened?” Maureen linked her arm through Emma's and they strolled on. “Why didn't you go into practice with him? I guess I never really understood.”

Emma sighed. “I left because it was expected of me to stay. I left because Dad's offer felt like someone else's demand, rather than my own choice. I wanted to be independent.”

“As simple as that?” Maureen asked.

Emma simply shrugged. Nothing was ever
that
simple.

“And now you want to claim your heritage, or maybe I should say your legacy.”

“The legacy I didn't want and really have no right to now. I'm not entirely sure.”

Maureen came to a halt at another storefront, this one featuring a Christmas village with houses, a post office, a church with a tall white spire, and a tavern. “Charming,” she commented. “I've always wanted to collect a Christmas village, but the pieces are so expensive.” She shrugged and the women moved on. “So, tell me more about what's going on inside that big brain of yours.”

Emma laughed. “Maybe a big brain but a tired one.”

“You work too hard. It's a silly thing to say to someone, especially to someone who owns her own business. But it's true.”

“I can't argue,” Emma admitted. “You know, I used to go to Dad for advice when I first started out on my own. To be honest, I wasn't at all sure he would want to help me, after I rejected the idea of becoming his successor. But I asked, and he was generous with his advice. He was a kind guy, not one to punish people unnecessarily.”

“Your father was a favorite for sure.” Maureen smiled. “A bunch of us had a crush on him in about seventh grade.”

“Really? Wow. I had no idea.”

“We kept our squealing in public to a minimum,” Maureen said dryly. “So, what else is going on at 32 Honeysuckle Lane?”

“Well,” she said, “Rumi's not talking to her mother for some reason or another. Andie made a special dinner for us the other night, and Rumi was a no-show.”

Maureen frowned. “That's not like her, to be rude to one of her parents.”

“I know. It's getting to Andie. She seemed particularly subdued this morning and she left Norma's party pretty suddenly yesterday. I saw her almost running toward the door, and when I called out to her she didn't look back.”

“Maybe she's feeling under the weather,” Maureen suggested. “Where is she this afternoon? She could have come with us.”

Emma shrugged. “I don't know. She'd left the house before I could suggest she join us.”

“And Danny? What's going on with him?”

Emma sighed. “Still being Keeper of the Flame. This morning he accused Andie of lying about an argument between my parents she swore she remembered.”

“Does he seem happy?” Maureen asked. “Danny is a sensitive soul, far more than he lets on, I've always thought. And sensitive souls can make themselves—and everyone around them—miserable at times.”

“He is sensitive,” Emma agreed, “and no, I don't think he is happy, not really. His marriage is solid, from what I can tell, and he adores the children. But . . .” Emma shook her head. “Enough about the Reynoldses. What I really want to know is when I'm going to meet Jim.”

“Soon, I promise. But at the moment there's something far more important on my mind.”

“What's that?” Emma asked.

“Lunch.”

C
HAPTER
44

A
ndie had left the house with no destination in mind; for the past hour she had been wandering the back roads of Oliver's Well in her rental car, barely aware of the passing scenery. She
knew
she was remembering the events around the trial of Brian Dunn clearly. Daniel would have been too young even to notice that the town was abuzz. She just couldn't understand why he had to accuse her of lying, or why he couldn't accept the fact that his parents had argued. It was normal for people to disagree; it was to some degree even healthy.

A large hand-painted sign announcing the sale of homemade candles—a big red arrow pointed toward a small house set far back from the road—barely registered with Andie, so preoccupied was she with her unhappy thoughts. Yes, she was worried about her brother, but she was more worried about her own state of mind. Being home this Christmas was proving toxic. Maybe because Oliver's Well wasn't really
home
and it hadn't been for a very long time.

Tired of wandering aimlessly, Andie decided she would head into the heart of town and stop at the Eclectic Gourmet for a packet of herbal tea, something to calm her nerves. Bob had said the store had an expert on staff; surely he would be able to recommend just the thing. Andie found a driveway into which she could pull and turn around. Just as she was about to get back onto the road, her iPhone, on the seat next to her, alerted her to an e-mail. She didn't recognize the sender, but almost automatically she picked up the phone to view the message. Too late and with dawning horror Andie realized that the e-mail had been sent to her by a troll. Her heart began to beat heavily. She felt as if she would be sick to her stomach. Hastily she opened the driver's side window and tried to breathe normally.

This person, this awful person, had found it necessary to tell her that her latest book was garbage. This self-appointed critic chose to remain anonymous. And he couldn't spell. And his grammar was awful. But still, this person had succeeded in wounding the flesh and blood woman who had taken so much time and expended so much heartfelt effort into writing the best book that she could write at that moment in time.

Andie tossed the phone onto the seat; it bounced onto the floor of the car.
Take this for what it is,
she told herself. Mentally she reached for the words of the Buddha. “Hatred,” he had taught, “does not cease through hatred at any time. Hatred ceases through love. This is an unalterable law.”

A life based in nonattachment was what Andie tried her best to achieve, but oh, sometimes it was so hard to do. And one took a risk forging a career in the public eye, attracting random hate, becoming an easy target for cowardly commentators who thought it was acceptable to insult and drag you down because they could get away with it without having to own their hateful, shameful behavior.

Andie shivered and quickly closed the window. And going a bit too far over the speed limit, she drove into town. She felt . . . strange. She wondered why she wasn't just going home. Well, not home. Number 32 Honeysuckle Lane was not home. Nowhere was home. Was that the message she had been missing? Maybe, Andie thought, that anonymous critic was right and she didn't really know what she was talking about. Maybe she really was just a self-deluding fraud.

Andie parked her car in the municipal lot and, grabbing her bag—leaving her phone on the floor—she climbed out. She began to walk purposefully until she arrived outside the Wilson House, home of the Oliver's Well Historical Association. And then she climbed the stairs to the front door. A volunteer at the reception desk told her that Mary Bernadette was in her office and pointed the way. Andie knocked and was summoned inside.

Mary Bernadette was wearing a simple fitted maroon dress. It reminded Andie of a dress her mother had owned. “You're too stockily built for this sort of thing,” Caro had told her daughter. “Better stick to more forgiving, less formfitting shapes.”

“Good morning, Ms. Reynolds,” Mary Bernadette said, rising from her desk and coming around to greet Andie with a handshake. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“I'm sorry to just drop in like this, Mrs. Fitzgibbon,” Andie said, her hand sitting limply in the older woman's. Her voice sounded odd to her ears, both too close and too far, both too loud and too soft.

“It's perfectly all right,” Mrs. Fitzgibbon said, returning to her seat behind the desk. “The OWHA always welcomes visitors. What can I do for you?”

“It's about the George Bullock desk,” Andie went on. “My mother's family's heirloom. We've . . .” Andie wondered. Would it really matter what happened to the desk? It was only a bit of wood, after all. It meant nothing in and of itself. It could burn up in a fire and nothing essential about the world would change. Right?

Mary Bernadette folded her hands before her. “Yes?” she said.

“We've decided that the OWHA can have it.”

The moment the words left Andie's mouth she came crashing back to earth with the realization of what she had done. She could feel the color drain from her face and her body began to shake. She put her hand on the back of the guest chair and hoped that Mrs. Fitzgibbon was too excited to notice that her benefactor was ready to faint.

Mary Bernadette smiled beatifically. “This is a most generous gift, Ms. Reynolds, and one deeply appreciated. Would you like to have a seat and we can talk details of the transfer?”

Andie sank into the offered chair. She barely heard Mrs. Fitzgibbon's questions about the desk, its provenance and its condition. Paperwork. There was something said about paperwork.

“I'm sorry,” Andie blurted. “I'm not really the expert on the piece. I'm sure another one of my family can answer all of your questions.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Fitzgibbon said.

Andie rose unsteadily. Sweat was pouring down her back and chest. “There's one other thing,” she said. Once again her voice sounded as if it was coming from far off. “Could I ask that you not make the announcement of the gift until after Christmas? This is an emotional time for my family, and as some of them aren't entirely happy about the Bullock desk going to the OWHA . . .”

“Of course, Ms. Reynolds,” Mrs. Fitzgibbon said. “Of course.”

The women shook hands again, and Andie found herself back on the sidewalk before she realized she had actually left the Wilson House.

Make the announcement after Christmas
, she thought.
After I'm gone from Oliver's Well, never to return.
Regret and embarrassment flooded her, but she could not bring herself to go back inside and recall the offer she had had no right to make. She began to walk, on the verge of tears.
What just happened to me?
Andie cried silently. She had never acted without careful thought; she had never done anything so utterly bizarre and against her own interests. A terrible thought occurred to her. Could it be that for the first time in years she had acted out of hate or spite? Was her promising something she had no right to promise an act of revenge on the brother who seemed to find enjoyment in belittling her? On the daughter who . . .

No. No
, Andie thought desperately,
that couldn't be right! It could not be right.
She was not like that troll who had attacked her with hate. She was not.

But what if she
was
just like that hate monger? Tears began to slip down Andie's cheeks and she prayed she wouldn't have a breakdown in view of downtown Oliver's Well. She vaguely remembered there was a small park on a side street somewhere nearby; maybe it was a place she could take refuge until she felt calm enough to drive. She wasn't at all sure she could find the park and thought it was a miracle when she did. She dropped gratefully onto a wooden bench and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. And then it was impossible to block the memories of a time she usually tried very hard not to remember.

She had gotten pregnant a few months after her wedding. She was pleased. She felt she had done something right. Her parents were all warm approval and well wishes. Bob was over the moon. His mother started a quilt. Emma bought a big plush frog for the baby. Daniel seemed almost embarrassed in Andie's presence; then again, he was only a teen and the thought of his sister having sex was probably anathema to him.

The pregnancy was almost ridiculously easy; she didn't even suffer once from morning sickness. Bob painted the tiny room that was to be the baby's in shades of lilac and purple. He built the crib himself. Andie taught herself to knit and made a trousseau fit for a royal infant. They decided to name the baby Rumi if a girl or a boy. This was a nod to Andie's nascent interest in things spiritual and other. By other, she meant things that didn't interest her parents, like, she assumed, the quality of the inner self.

When the pregnancy was well under way, she thought,
This is my life. I have a husband and he's a good man. We have a cute little home. We're having a child and maybe, in a year or two, we'll have another.
Why not? Bob intended to expand his father's business. Maybe someday, when the children were grown, she would go back to school, take some courses in Buddhism and meditation. Maybe someday she would . . .

But there was enough to occupy her in the present.

Labor was brief and the birth easy. Bob was with her when their daughter first saw the light of day, and they both cried tears of joy when Rumi was laid on her mother's breast.

Life was good.

And then it was not.

The changes were almost imperceptible at first—a lessening of interest in her favorite TV shows and authors, an erratic appetite, odd changes in her usual sleep pattern. Andie initially chalked it up to the exhaustion of being a new parent. It was Bob who first saw the changes for what they were, signs of depression in a woman who had never before been depressed and didn't know how to identify the symptoms. Increasingly Andie felt as if she were living under a heavy, low hanging cloud that no one else could see. Colors weren't as bright as they had been. She lost track of her body in the space it occupied and frequently tripped or bumped into objects.

Days passed excruciatingly slowly. From the moment Bob left the house each morning to go to work—after feeding and changing the baby, making coffee for his wife, kissing her forehead and smoothing her hair, telling her that “things will be all right”—until the moment he walked in the door at four each afternoon, Andie desperately awaited his return. Worse than anything was that the little helpless baby, her own flesh and blood, seemed an utterly foreign being. Andie felt almost entirely detached from the child she had helped to create. It was a cruel thing to know that she should care but that she was unable to care.

She struggled to understand why she was the way she was. She never thought:
I want to hurt someone
. She did think:
I want to die
.

Finally, Bob insisted they talk to a doctor, a sympathetic woman who spoke gently to the couple, explaining the causes and symptoms and likely duration of postpartum depression. The doctor gave Andie a mild antidepressant—“not a magic pill, but something that will help over time,” she explained—which Andie took obligingly. They said nothing to Cliff or Caro of what their daughter was experiencing. Andie felt ashamed of her failure.

She began to have panic attacks where the sweat would pour from her, soaking her clothing, much as it had in Mrs. Fitzgibbon's office just moments before. Once, she fainted dead away in the middle of the kitchen. She lost interest in food and dropped a good deal of weight. Her mother, not seeing—refusing to see?—the pain in her daughter's eyes, told her she looked better than she ever had. “I didn't think it would happen for you,” she said, casting an approving eye over Andie's slimmed frame. “I didn't think you would get your old body back, let alone a better one.”

When the depression had finally lifted, when the marriage was amicably over, still the guilt lingered. The guilt of failure. The shame of having succumbed to weakness. The embarrassment of having to move back in with her parents. Caroline Carlyle Reynolds had never failed. She had never succumbed.
But I am nothing like my mother,
Andie had thought.
Nothing at all.

Andie came back to the present moment with a start. Her hands felt numb with cold. How long had she been sitting on that bench, lost in times past?

“The mind is everything. What you think, you become.”

Andie shivered. The words of the Buddha had never sounded so frightening. She wondered if she was becoming clinically depressed again. She had suffered a second episode of depression in her midthirties, triggered by nothing other than the chemicals in her brain. By then she had her beliefs and her peers to help her survive the time of distress and unease.

But now, at this particular moment in her life, at the age of forty-four, Andie felt cast away, cut adrift, unsupported. Vulnerable. She knew that wasn't really the case, but at the moment it
felt
that way, and sometimes no amount of mental or spiritual discipline could budge a
feeling
.

Abruptly, Andie got up from the bench. She couldn't sit alone in this park all day. With what little determination she could muster, she continued on to the Eclectic Gourmet on Market Street. Maybe doing something as ordinary and mundane as buying a packet of loose tea would help reorient her in the moment. Andie opened the door of the shop and stepped inside. Immediately, as if he had been waiting for her, a man approached. He looked to be in his early thirties and was wearing a distinctive tweed cap.

“You're Andie Reynolds, aren't you?” he asked, his expression eager.