The House on Honeysuckle Lane (27 page)

C
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51

A
ndie looked up at the huge, old-fashioned, round-faced clock mounted on a black post just outside the bank. She and Emma and Anna Maria had been strolling the streets of downtown Oliver's Well for almost an hour, and if anything, the crowds were even more animated than they had been at the start of the festivities.
Wine and sugar and adrenaline,
Andie thought. She realized that the sweet treats she had consumed were making her feel a bit twitchy and swore she would indulge no more for the rest of the evening. She needed to keep her wits about her; it was entirely possible that she would run into Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon this evening, and if she did she hoped to find the courage to explain that the Bullock desk would not be going to the OWHA. But courage was a slippery thing to hold on to these days, Andie thought sadly, let alone to find in the first place.

“Look, there's Danny,” Emma said suddenly, pointing across the street. “Oops, I lost him. I've never seen so many people out and about.”

“Did you get to say hello to Rumi earlier?” Anna Maria asked as they walked on in step with the other revelers. “She and Daniel and the kids took off pretty quickly.”

“Not really,” Andie admitted. “I think she gave me a half smile, but I'm not sure it wasn't a grimace.”

Emma sighed. “I'm so sorry that things are at an impasse. It's such a waste of precious time.”

“I suppose I could talk to Rumi if you think it might help,” Anna Maria offered. “Maybe I'm at enough of a distance from the family—not a blood relation at least—for her to listen to me.”

“Thanks, Anna Maria,” Andie said, “but no. Honestly, I don't know what to do, but the situation is between my daughter and me. We'll have to figure out a way to peace by ourselves.”
And that
, Andie thought,
might take a miracle.

“Mom and Dad loved this festival,” Emma was saying. “For Mom I think it was primarily another opportunity to go on parade. She liked the attention she got when displaying a new coat or hat for the first time.”

“She did at that,” Andie agreed. “And I think Dad just ate up the joyous spirit of the evening. That and the candy apples they used to sell at the bakery before Cookies 'n Crumpets! What was the name of that bakery?”

“I think it was Pat's Pastries, wasn't it?” Emma shrugged. “Something like that.”

“After Cliff died,” Anna Maria told them, “Daniel and I tried every tactic we could think of to persuade Caro to come with us, but she just wouldn't budge. Maybe she couldn't handle being around so much cheer and good spirit, the others not feeling her loss as keenly she did.”

Andie couldn't help but wonder what her father would have done if Caro had gone before him—if he would have fared better, continued to find some joy in life, if he would have accompanied his son and family to the Christmas festival and not wasted away so quickly. But that, too, was something no one would ever know.

“Let's go in here,” Andie suggested as they reached the Artful Soul. “I've never been inside.”

The three women entered and were greeted by the enticing aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and orange. “Pomander balls,” Andie said, pointing to the bowls of spice-studded oranges on several counters.

“How pretty,” Anna Maria cried.

Indeed, Andie thought, the store did look beautiful, with its array of pine swaths and spindly sprays of branches painted white and sprinkled generously with silver sparkle. She noted but refrained from partaking in the refreshments on offer—classic colorful ribbon candy; candy canes in red, white, and green; and little squares of fudge and caramel.

“Oh, my gosh, look!” Emma grabbed Andie's arm and pointed to a section of the display case to their right. “Look at the sign,” she said. “Handcrafted by Rumi C. Dolman!”

Andie felt her heart speed up, and it wasn't due to the sugar she had consumed earlier. Carefully she lifted a bracelet from the display. It was made with irregularly shaped labradorite beads—Rumi's favorite stone, Andie recalled—and the clasp bore the mark of sterling silver. The bracelet was simple and lovely. “I had no idea Rumi was showing her work to the public,” she said. She was surprised—and pleased—that her daughter had chosen to use her first name rather than her second, Caroline, by which she was familiarly known to her peers and much of the community.

“Neither did I,” Anna Maria admitted. “She's been so dismissive about it all.”

Looking at the selection of bracelets and necklaces, fifteen pieces in all, Andie felt a surge of pride. Clearly Rumi's creative outlet meant more to her than just a hobby, even if she denied its importance to her mother. She was sorely tempted to buy a bracelet or necklace, but then better sense took hold. The shop owner would be sure to tell Rumi who had purchased her work, and the fact that it had been her mother might not sit well with Rumi at the moment.

“Guys,” Emma said, looking at her watch. “It's almost seven-thirty. The tree is about to be lit. We'd better get out there.”

Andie followed Emma and Anna Maria out of the store and together they made their way toward the massive fir tree that stood magnificently at the intersection of Main and Market streets. It was decorated with red, white, green, and blue lights that would soon be switched on to the enthusiastic singing of the crowd. Volunteers were already distributing sheets of lyrics to popular Christmas songs to those people still gathering, and Andie took the one offered to her. She wondered how many present really needed the lyric sheets; a quick glance at the papers in her hand told her that the words she had learned as a child were still firmly with her.

A little boy standing close by with his parents tugged on his father's coat. “This is the best night of my life,” he said quite solemnly. Andie smiled. Though she mourned the unhappiness that seemed to have engulfed her daughter in the past few months, she was struggling mightily with her own dark thoughts and the great misdeed of having given away something she'd had no right to give, she couldn't help but be moved by the general good feeling of the crowd.

At seven-twenty the master of ceremonies—another member of the Chamber of Commerce, Andie guessed—began to lead the crowd in singing the first carol. At seven-thirty precisely, the tree became a blaze of color and a great cheer interrupted the singing of the much loved standard “O Christmas Tree!”

Andie felt a flood of emotion, too intense to sort through. Emma leaned into her and smiled. Anna Maria put her arm through Andie's and continued to sing in her strong soprano. Andie, tears in her eyes, wished that Bob was there with her. But he wasn't, and that, she thought, was all right, because the moment—both painful and joyous—was good enough just as it was.

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52

“I
had so much fun last night,” Emma said when she and her brother and sister were seated at Cookies 'n Crumpets. The only thing that would have made the Christmas festival any better, she thought, was if she had actually worked up the nerve to talk to Morgan Shelby. But she wouldn't share that regret with Andie or Daniel.

“Anna Maria and I have a big holiday lunch party at a small office park in Middleton,” Daniel told them, ignoring his sister's comment. “It's at least an hour ride, so I have to be out of town by ten. Anna Maria will go on ahead with Bob.”

“Well, this shouldn't take long. We don't have too much to discuss this morning, do we?” Emma asked.

Daniel shook his head. “There's always a lot to discuss, but at the moment I want us to come to a decision about hiring an auction house to evaluate the estate and proceed with plans for the sale. I know it's going to cost us money,” he said. “But honestly, the thought of handling a sale on my own once you two go back to your lives elsewhere gives me a migraine.”

“Hiring an auction house is fine by me,” Andie said. “We're not professionals. We don't know what we're doing.”

Emma nodded. “I agree. Maybe we should ask Morgan Shelby to recommend one.”

“Good idea. Well, that's a relief. One less thing to worry about.”

“What about the Bullock desk?” Emma asked her brother. “Are you still determined not to sell it?”

“I'm still determined to keep it in the family,” Daniel said stoutly.

“I guess I'm fine with that. Andie?”

Andie cleared her throat. “Are you sure you wouldn't consider loaning it to the OWHA, even just for a year or two?”

Daniel sighed. “I know Mom used to say she couldn't stop us from giving it to Mary Bernadette after her death, but that doesn't mean it's the right thing to do.”

“But a loan is not a permanent gift,” Andie pointed out.

“I don't believe it's what Mom would have wanted,” Daniel said, and his tone was stubborn.

Emma's phone buzzed. “It's my assistant,” she said.

“Do you really have to answer that now?” Daniel asked with a frown.

“Sorry, I'll make it quick.”

Emma got up and walked a few feet from the table. As she listened to her assistant relate the latest message from a particularly irritating but important client, she watched her siblings sitting at the table in silence. Daniel was checking his phone, a frown of concentration on his face. Andie was toying with a bit of the muffin she had ordered but had barely touched. At that moment Emma wished nothing more than to see her brother and sister sharing a laugh. Even a smile would do.

After calming her worried assistant and promising to call the client in question herself later that day, Emma ended the call and returned to the table.

“Everything okay?” Andie asked.

“Yeah. Nothing a bit of groveling won't fix.”

“I've arranged a memorial candle-lighting ceremony at the Unitarian Universalist Church for tomorrow at ten
A.M.
,” Daniel announced suddenly. “Reverend Fox will say a prayer or two first. Then I thought we could each say a few words about Mom and Dad.”

Emma looked to Andie; her sister seemed as surprised as she was.

“What made you think to hold a memorial ceremony, Danny?” Andie asked.

Daniel frowned. “Are you opposed to it?”

Andie shook her head. “Why would I be opposed?” she asked, and Emma thought her sister sounded weary. Well, why wouldn't Andie be weary of Daniel's changing moods?

“I wish you'd given us a bit more notice,” Emma said. “I'm terrible at speaking about important things off the cuff.”

“You don't have to say anything if you don't want to.”

“No, I do want to. It's a nice idea, Danny.”

“Good. Any other business on the agenda?” Daniel asked.

Emma thought that Daniel should be the one telling his sisters what they next needed to discuss, not the other way around. “I've got nothing,” she said.

“I have something to say,” Andie told them. “The owner of End Quote, Chris Owens, asked me if I would give a reading, and I said that I would. I know it's last minute, but I'd appreciate it if you all could be there. It's late afternoon, the twenty-third.”

“Moral support?” Emma asked her sister.

“Something like that. Danny?”

Daniel tapped his index finger against the table, as if, Emma thought, to indicate the seriousness of his words. “I can't really make a commitment, Andie. This time of year can be crazy. People suddenly realize they can't handle the party they've announced they're giving and they call us, frantic for help. If possible, we say yes.”

Emma smiled. “What are you afraid of, Danny? That you'll be forcefully converted to Buddhism or suddenly convinced that meat is murder?” She turned to her sister. “I'll be there, Andie.”

Emma's phone indicated that she had just received a text. It was from Morgan Shelby. He had scored two tickets to the Oliver's Well Players' production of
A Christmas Carol
that evening. Would she like to join him?

“More work-related stuff?” Daniel asked.

Emma shrugged. “Nothing that need concern you,” she said, typing her answer.
Would love to.

“Well, I'm out of here.” Daniel gathered his belongings and with a wave, he was off for Middleton.

“So,” Emma said to her sister, taking a final sip of her coffee. “What do you think of this memorial service?”

Andie didn't answer for a moment. “I think,” she said finally, “that the last thing Danny needs at the moment is another walk down memory lane.” And then she waved her hand dismissively. “But what do I know?”

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53

T
he Oliver's Well Players were known to be the best of the area's amateur theatrical companies. The current director had worked in New York for many years with innumerable respected off-Broadway companies before retiring to Oliver's Well to devote her energies to her hometown's theater fans.

Daniel and Anna Maria and the kids were at their own home that evening; they were hosting a potluck dinner for their neighbors on Little Rock Lane. “We all take turns,” Anna Maria explained. “This year everyone is gathering at our house.” Emma hadn't mentioned her own plans for the evening.

“I'm going to see
A Christmas Carol
at the playhouse,” Emma had told her sister before leaving the house. She didn't mention that she would be attending the play with Morgan Shelby, though of course being at the theater with him would likely get back to the family. So what if it did, she thought. And then she felt a twinge of embarrassment. She should have told Andie the entire truth; she should in fact have tried to get a ticket for her sister as well. When it came to Morgan Shelby, Emma thought, remembering the wild surge of jealousy she had felt at the festival the night before, she was acting like a moody, love-struck teenager.

Emma met Morgan in the lobby, as arranged. He was wonderfully turned out, as always. The word “dapper” came to Emma's mind; Morgan was never flashy but always noticeable.

“I'm sorry I missed you last night at the festival,” he said right away. “Andie told me you were around, and I was hoping we'd bump into each other.”

Emma almost blushed at the memory of her strong emotions on seeing that woman kiss Morgan on the cheek. “I'm sorry, too,” she said. “But it was such a madhouse. . . .”

“I hear it was the best turnout in the history of the festival,” Morgan told her. “And that's saying something.” Morgan looked at his watch, a vintage Breitling. “We'd better take our seats,” he said. “The curtain rises in a few minutes.”

Together they went into the noisy theater and took the seats Morgan had scored. And as soon as the lights were dimmed and the curtain began to rise on the first scene of the play, Emma felt an overwhelming desire for Morgan to take her hand. She knew she didn't have the nerve to take his. This sense of expectation, the sense of sheer
romance
was something she had never felt with Ian, not even in the beginning of their relationship. It was something she had never felt with
any
man in her past.
Gosh
, she thought.
I don't even recognize myself!

Emma was soon absorbed in the unfolding of the famous Christmas story. The woman playing Belle, Ebenezer Scrooge's poor fiancée, brought a truly plangent note to the role, and the man playing Scrooge himself was perfection, evoking in Emma a troubled mix of anger and pity. The Players' costume people had done an excellent job and the set the designers had created was appropriately atmospheric. When the lights went on at intermission, Emma turned to Morgan with a smile. “It's as good as any performance I've seen in Annapolis,” she said.

Together they walked back to the lobby and joined the throng of audience members chatting and laughing. Morgan went to the refreshment table for two glasses of wine, and Emma let her mind wander back to the Christmas concert she and her family had attended at the Church of the Immaculate Conception. Like this evening it had been an event that had drawn together young and old to celebrate not only the holiday season but also the community of Oliver's Well. Emma thought about how different things were back in Annapolis. There, none of her close acquaintances had children; those of her colleagues that did weren't in the habit of socializing with childless couples like Emma Reynolds and Ian Hayes. And no one she knew regularly spent time with significantly older friends. Maybe, she thought, the people she knew didn't have friends of a different generation, and if they didn't, why didn't they? For that matter, she thought, why didn't she?

If she moved to Oliver's Well she might very well be able to establish more of a warm and inclusive social life. And, as she had realized the night of the Christmas pageant, she could be closer to her nieces and nephew, share more of their childhood and young adulthood before they were off to live adult lives of their own.

Morgan returned with their wine and said in a whisper, “Don't look now, but it's Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon and she's heading our way.” He took Emma's arm and hurried her back into the theater. “Just in the nick of time,” he said as they took their seats. “I'm sure no one will throw us out for bringing our drinks into the theater.”

“How did you know she wanted to talk to me?” Emma whispered.

“The Regency desk. Everyone in Oliver's Well knows that Mary Bernadette has been after the George Bullock piece for the past thirty years or so. I just assumed you didn't want to be bothered on a night out.”

Emma smiled. “She really is persistent. Thanks for being my knight in shining armor.”

The second act proved as wonderfully absorbing as the first, and when the little boy playing Tiny Tim finally proclaimed, “God bless us, everyone!” Emma felt tears flood her eyes. She felt embarrassed until the lights in the theater came on and she saw that Morgan was unabashedly wiping his eyes.

“Gets me every time,” he admitted with a laugh. “No one can pull a heartstring like Charles Dickens. Talk about sentimental.”

“Good thing I always carry tissues!” Emma handed one to Morgan and wiped at her own eyes with another.

“How about a nightcap at the Angry Squire?” Morgan suggested when they reached the lobby.

“I'd love to,” Emma said. And then, she took a risk no moody teenager would take. “It's becoming our place, isn't it?”

Morgan smiled. “Richard will be screwing metal nameplates to the backs of our chairs before long.”

When Morgan held out his hand, Emma took it.

* * *

The restaurant was crowded and cheery, the perfect setting, Emma thought, for the end of an evening of sentiment and joy. Richard Armstrong himself was circulating among the people in the bar, shaking hands and patting backs. When he had moved on from Emma and Morgan's table—their usual—Morgan said, “He's the perfect publican, to use a British term. He makes everyone feel like a regular even if they're just passing through, while at the same time he keeps an eye on potential troublemakers.”

“Has there ever been a troublemaker at the Angry Squire?” Emma asked.

“Nope. Thanks to Richard!”

When they had ordered a drink and a bowl of warm assorted olives to share, Emma told Morgan about the candle-lighting ceremony her brother had arranged for the next morning. “I don't know why it's so important to him to do this now,” she said, “but it is.”

“Didn't you say this is the first time the three siblings have been together since your mother's funeral?” Morgan asked.

“Yes, that's probably it. Danny's a big one for memorials and ceremony.”

“Nothing wrong with that, I suppose.”

“No,” Emma said. “But sometimes people can lose track of what they're supposed to be memorializing or honoring and get caught up in the pomp and circumstance of ceremony.”

Morgan took a sip of his red wine before saying, “I'm not sure that's always a bad thing. Maybe allowing the pageantry of an event to take over allows people to survive a moment or even a memory of grief.”

“I suppose you're right. Pageantry might have a cathartic effect.” Emma smiled. “Maybe that's why human beings love to give parties! Frankly,” she went on, “I'm nervous about what I'll say. I want to say something meaningful, something that's
true
, but the idea of trying to put my feelings about Mom and Dad being gone into words frightens me.”

“I don't blame you,” Morgan said. “I've already told my parents they can look elsewhere for a eulogist. I'm hopelessly bad at creative writing, and the last thing I want to do is speak off the cuff at something as important as a funeral.”

“Were they upset?” Emma asked.

“No. They understand I mean no disrespect. Besides, my mother told me they'd already had their eye on my cousin. He's a formally trained actor and regularly performs the big guns, everyone from Shakespeare to Mamet.” Morgan shrugged. “I guess they feel they can't go wrong with a guy who can handle playing Hamlet.”

Emma smiled. “Well, Andie isn't an actor, but she'll have something wonderful to say. She's always been good with voicing the important stuff, emotions and feelings. Even if she's quoting someone else, she knows how to choose just the right message. And knowing Danny, he's been drafting his speech for weeks!”

“A chance to shine?”

“Yes, though I know his heart is really in this. Oh,” Emma said, “I've been meaning to ask you. Do you think you could recommend a reputable auction house to handle an estate sale for us? With the exception of a few items, particularly the Regency desk, we'd like to sell most of the contents.”

“Of course,” Morgan told her. “A few come to mind immediately, but I'll do a little asking around, see if I can determine the one best suited for the Reynoldses.”

“Thank you.” Emma hesitated but only for half a moment. “My sister is doing a reading at End Quote the afternoon of the twenty-third. Would you like to come? That is, if you're not busy.”

“Sure,” Morgan said eagerly. “You know, I have two of her books and I've been meaning to buy the most recent one. She really is a gifted teacher. And a pretty good writer, too.”

“That she is. A far better writer than I am!” Emma finished her wine and suddenly realized that the bar had emptied significantly. She looked at her watch. “Look at the time! The pumpkin coach will have come and gone without me. And I've still got to come up with something to say at the memorial service tomorrow morning.”

Morgan paid their bill. Emma thanked him. She had long ago made peace with the idea of allowing someone else to pay her way on occasion.

Together they left the restaurant. “The beauty of living in the heart of town,” Morgan said, “is that I can be home in minutes. Would you like me to walk you to your car?”

“That's all right,” Emma said. “I'm just in the municipal lot.”

And then, Morgan leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. Emma responded readily.

“Good night, Emma,” Morgan said softly, pulling slowly away.

“Good night,” she breathed. And then he turned toward his apartment above the gallery, and she turned the other way and began to walk toward the parking lot.
He kissed me,
she thought, and a very big smile broke across her face.