The House on Honeysuckle Lane (25 page)

C
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46

T
he following morning Emma paid a visit to another of the real estate agents Daniel had chosen as finalists.
As if it were a contest,
she thought. Well, she supposed in a way it was—free market competition, with number 32 as the prize. She was less than impressed by the personal manner of this agency's representative, who was brusque to the point of being unpleasant, but as Emma was still considering buying the house herself, asking smart questions of the agents under the pretense of hiring one could only help her think through the logistics of a purchase. After all, if she decided to buy out her siblings she would have to make them a fair and market competitive offer.

When she had gone a few yards in the direction of her car, Emma spotted Joe Herbert coming out of the post office just ahead. She waved and he waved back. Joe was a year or two older than Emma, and a great deal taller. She thought he might be close to six and a half feet tall. His eyes were keen and observant; his smile was ready and transformed what might have been a stern face into one that you couldn't help but deem trustworthy. Even in the warmest of weather Joe wore a long-sleeved dress shirt and his signature bow tie. He had one in just about every color and pattern a person could imagine. Today's bow tie was celery green embroidered with tiny sprigs of parsley.

“We were just talking about you last night,” she said when she joined him.

Joe laughed. “Ah, that's why my ears were burning! Do you have a question about the estate's financial health?”

“No, actually, we were wondering what you could tell us about our father that we don't know. I mean, you worked side by side with the man for years. You knew him uniquely.”

“As did you,” Joe pointed out. “And Daniel. And Andie.”

“Yes,” Emma admitted, “that's true. It's just that parents conceal so much of themselves from their children, purposely or not. It can be interesting to learn about your mother or father from someone who interacted with them outside the bounds of family.”

“The trouble with asking questions about someone you love is that you never know what the answers are going to be—disturbing or pleasant.”

“And in Dad's case?” Emma asked.

Joe smiled. “Entirely pleasant.”

“So, how's business?”

“To be honest,” Joe said, “it's almost too good. There are nights when I can't get out of the office before eight. I wouldn't mind so much but for my kids. I mean, I didn't become a father not to see my own children. And my long hours put a strain on Jenna, who has enough on her plate caring for her patients.”

“That
is
a danger of success,” Emma said. “Losing the rest of your life in the process.”
And I,
she thought,
should know.

Joe frowned. “That's exactly what I'm afraid of. But I just have to hope that a solution will present itself before too long.” And then he smiled. “After all, nothing stays the same for long, does it?”

“Even when we wish it would! You know, Joe,” Emma went on, “I have to admit that at first I was puzzled when Mom chose Danny to be trustee of the estate. Frankly, I seemed like the better choice, at least the more obvious one. But he's done a fine job of it all, with your guidance. I really appreciate all you've done for the family. We all do.”

Joe shrugged. “It's just my job.”

“No,” Emma said. “It's more than that.”

“Okay,” Joe admitted. “It's my vocation.”

Emma nodded. “I understand. Helping people manage their money is, well, it's almost an intimate experience. It's such a matter of trust. You're privy to someone's hopes and dreams, to their successes and failures. It's a bit like being a doctor or a lawyer in that way, I imagine.”

Joe smiled. “I'll ask Jenna and get back to you on that one.” He checked his watch and whistled. “Look at the time. I've got a client coming to the office in ten minutes. Good to see you, Emma.”

“You, too, Joe. Have a merry Christmas.” Emma watched for a moment as Joe hurried off toward his office, then continued on to her car. And as she drove back to Honeysuckle Lane she thought about what Joe had said about being overworked, and the glimmer of an idea began to take hold.

It's not an outrageous notion,
she told herself, steering the car along. After all, if she were to move back to Oliver's Well, wouldn't it make sense that she and Joe join forces? It would probably be to the benefit of each of them; she couldn't see any obvious downside, at least not at the moment.

But nothing was set in stone, Emma reminded herself, as she passed the local bank branch, still housed in a fairly elaborate nineteenth-century building. She had not yet made the commitment to return to the scene of her childhood, and indeed, might never make that commitment. Still, joining forces with her father's former apprentice and partner was an idea she would keep hold of, if lightly.

Because as Joe had said, nothing stayed the same for long.

C
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47

D
aniel pulled up in front of the Unitarian Universalist Church. He recognized Reverend Fox's ancient Volvo in the lot and smiled. How that thing was still running was anyone's guess.
Maybe
, Daniel thought in a moment of whimsy,
God is his mechanic.

While the family had been decorating the Christmas tree the day before, Daniel had got to thinking of how his father had loved to add the strands of silvery tinsel in great big handfuls, and if his mother later edited her husband's handiwork, he never seemed to mind. It was always Caro who climbed the ladder to place the star atop the tree, after which Cliff would applaud and declare the Christmas season officially begun.

And it had occurred to Daniel that a nice way to commemorate the senior Reynoldses and their love of Christmas would be a good old-fashioned candle-lighting ceremony. So he had set up today's meeting with Reverend Fox to discuss the logistics. Though his mother had grown up in the Episcopal Church, she had embraced membership in the Unitarian Universalist Church her husband preferred. Daniel had often wondered how his mother's parents had felt about her choice. Why, he wondered, had he never asked her?

He was alerted to a text from the reverend; he was running a bit late and would Daniel mind waiting about five minutes? Daniel texted his reply—
no worries
—
and, as the day was mild, he decided to wait for Reverend Fox on the front steps of the building. And for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past few days, he thought about the article he had found in his father's writing table, the one about the trial and conviction of a man named Brian Dunn. He had tried to put what Andie had told him about his parents' argument out of his mind, but it was no use. The fact that they had differed so strongly about what came down to an issue of ethics—of right behavior and loyalty—bothered him. And why in the end had his father not come forward as a character witness for Brian Dunn? Had Cliff Reynolds simply bowed to his wife's opinion? Had it been to keep the peace in the home or had he really come to change his mind and agree with Caro, that his coming forward on Dunn's behalf might seriously hurt his business? Had his father chosen his family's financial security over an act of altruism for a friend? Daniel had to admit it was probably what he would do in a similar circumstance.

And all this speculation was based on the assumption that what Andie said had happened had indeed happened. The truth in all its large and small detail about what transpired all those years ago was another thing lost to Daniel and he would simply have to accept that.
Easier said than done,
he thought.

The front door of the building opened then, and Reverend Fox beckoned Daniel inside. “Daniel,” he said, extending his hand. “Hello. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Reverend Fox was about Daniel's age; he and his life partner, Matt Lehrmitt, lived in a restored farmhouse not far from the Joseph J. Stoker House, only one of the many historical sites the OWHA had helped to preserve.

“Reverend Fox,” Daniel said, shaking the man's hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“It's my pleasure. How are you, Daniel? I haven't seen you at a service since your mother's funeral.”

“I'm afraid I've been busy,” Daniel said. And then, he laughed a bit awkwardly. “I know. A person should never be too busy for God.”

Reverend Fox smiled. “Joining the congregation on Sundays isn't compulsory. I didn't mean to make you feel guilty of negligence. So, why don't you tell me what you have in mind for this memorial ceremony?”

What Daniel had in mind was something very simple; he didn't, he told Reverend Fox, even want the distraction of music. “It will be just my wife and sisters,” he explained. “I thought we might light candles in my parents' memory and each say a few words. And, of course, if you could offer a prayer. . . .”

Reverend Fox agreed to a date and time for the ceremony. Daniel thanked him and took his leave. Just before he left the building he stopped and turned to look at the giant quilt that had been made by members of the Women's Institute back in 1908. He flashed back to Andie's wedding, which had taken place in this very room, under that very quilt. He remembered how happy she had looked, and how pretty. She had been so young and hopeful then....

And then Daniel remembered how promptly Andie had offered the peacock ornament to Emma, and how she had hosted that lovely meal for the family. And he remembered Rumi's rude remark about Andie's colorful clothing, and the criticisms of her mother's behavior and beliefs. He felt truly ashamed of how he had been treating his sister—and of how he'd been encouraging his niece to treat her. What he had said about Andie to Anna Maria at Norma Campbell's party was inexcusable. He felt a genuine tenderness for his oldest sister in that moment, a feeling that was very new to him. And he remembered again his promise to Bob, Emma, and to Anna Maria that he would treat his sister with more respect and kindness....

So much for promises,
he thought guiltily. But tomorrow was another day, wasn't it? Andie would say that it was never too late to change....

Daniel turned away from the massive quilt under which his oldest sister had taken her marriage vows and left the building.
Mom,
he thought
. Dad. I'm trying my best. I truly am. But I don't think that my best is good enough.

C
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48

“T
his place certainly seems to be a success. I think it must have something to do with the rosy colored walls. Pink makes everyone feel good, doesn't it?”

Andie smiled. She and Emma were at the Pink Rose Café, sharing its version of the classic afternoon high tea. On a three-tiered plate were laid out small thin sandwiches and an assortment of petite cakes and pastries. Andie thought of her mother's Lenox tea set. Would it ever belong to her? she wondered. And if it didn't, would it really matter so much?

Yes, she thought. It probably would. Just as it would matter to Daniel and to Rumi if the Bullock desk were to leave the family.

“I ran into Joe Herbert this morning,” Emma said. “He's such a nice guy.”

“What was his tie like?” Andie asked.

“Celery green with sprigs of parsley. And speaking of color, thanks again for letting me have the peacock ornament.”

“My pleasure.” Anyway, Andie thought, from now on she would associate the peacock with her daughter's unpleasant remarks. She would work hard not to hang on to that memory, but given her current weakened state of mind and emotion . . .

“What was your favorite ornament from when we were kids?” Emma asked.

“That's easy,” Andie said. “It would have to be the Victorian balloon. It seemed so exotic to me, so appealing to be able to take off into the sky and have all sorts of adventures.” Andie smiled ruefully. “I suppose Danny would say that even as a child I had my head in the clouds.”

Emma frowned. “It would do our brother good to lighten up and float a bit.”

Andie didn't reply to her sister's comment. Instead she voiced a question that had long been on her mind. “You know, I've never really understood why Mom left her wedding rings to me. I mean, I'm the divorced child, the wild child, at least in her eyes. Maybe she still held out hope that I would suddenly see the error of my ways and settle down and marry again.”

“Well, you are the oldest daughter,” Emma pointed out, licking a bit of powdered sugar from her fingers, “and Mom was a traditionalist. I suppose she thought leaving the rings to you was ‘the thing to do.' ”

“Sure, but it would have made more sense to leave the rings to you. Or why not leave them directly to Rumi?”

“I guess we'll never know. By the way, what ever happened to your wedding ring?” Emma asked. “The one Bob gave you?”

Andie smiled. “I sold it not long after the divorce. I needed the money. Bob couldn't afford much in the way of child support.”

“But you were living with Mom and Dad.”

“I hated being so dependent on them,” Andie said. “So I decided to sell the ring to supplement my measly income. I didn't get much for it—it was a pretty narrow band—but it helped pay for diapers and mashed carrots for a while.”

“I'm sorry, Andie.”

“Don't be. I was okay with it. So was Bob; I told him what I'd done and he admitted he'd done the same thing with his. We laughed about it. But when Mom found out . . .”

“How did she find out?” Emma asked.

“I kept the ring in a box in the top drawer of my dresser. I don't know what Mom was doing snooping around my room, but one day she noticed that it was missing. She asked me about it and I told her. She was shocked.”

“It was your ring to do with as you wanted,” Emma said. “Why do you think she was so upset?”

“I know why she was so upset, because she told me. The ring was sacred; it represented the union that had created my daughter. There was more in that vein. Mom put more importance on my wedding ring than I did.”

Emma nodded. “The traditionalist. Still, you and Bob were divorced. Her attitude doesn't make a whole lot of sense.”

Andie shrugged. “To Mom it did. Remember, not only was a she a traditionalist, she was a real romantic at heart, defying her family's choice of husband for the sake of love. It really was a courageous thing to do.”

“I wish I was as courageous as Mom,” Emma said ruefully. “I should have ended things with Ian a long time ago, instead of just letting the relationship slide along. I took the lazy way out.”

Andie shook her head. “I don't think you're lazy or a coward, Emma. I suspect that for whatever reasons you simply weren't ready to leave the relationship. And then, you were ready and you acted. As Rumi says, ‘There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled.' ”

Emma smiled. “Is there?”

“Yes,” Andie said. “I think that there is.”

While Emma poured them each more tea, Andie let her mind wander. She had no idea if Mary Bernadette would keep her promise not to advertise the gift of the Bullock desk until after Christmas. Maybe it would serve Andie right to be shamed with the truth before she could make things right by telling Mrs. Fitzgibbon that she had been misguided in giving the desk to the OWHA. Coming clean before more time passed was the mature option. In fact, she could tell her sister right now what she had done and then, make amends. Promises could be broken, even if they shouldn't be.

But looking across at Emma with her perfect posture, always calm and in control of her emotions, Andie felt simply too embarrassed to confess. She had long ago realized that one could never underestimate the power of embarrassment. It could render a person speechless, immobile, and unable to do the right thing.

“I wonder if I've accomplished anything by coming back to Oliver's Well this Christmas,” Andie said suddenly, with a bitter laugh. “I certainly haven't succeeded in mending my damaged relationship with my daughter.”

Emma smiled kindly. “You've helped me with going through Mom's belongings. I couldn't handle all that on my own. Not that Danny would have let me. And you've helped me understand why Ian might be clinging to what no longer exists. And you've helped me by simply being who you are. My sister. My friend.”

Andie reached for Emma's hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Hey,” Emma said, “let's do something fun when we've finished here. Let's do something that has nothing at all to do with estate sales and damaged relationships. I read about a vintage store in Somerstown that exclusively sells clothes and memorabilia from the eighties. It's called Time after Time. Remember the Cyndi Lauper song by that title?”

Andie laughed. “I do. I love that song. But the eighties are already vintage?”

“Guess so. How about it? It should be pretty cringe-worthy. Massive shoulder pads. Big plastic earrings. Ripped fishnet stockings.”

“Sure,” Andie said. “I've always had a soft spot for Boy George.”