“I’m glad your parents were able to visit you in France several times,” Liz said.
“I think about that a lot. Especially lately.” She brought the ring that hung around her neck up to her mouth. “My parents loved the French countryside, especially my dad.” Her eyes glistened. “Some days it feels like I have nothing left but memories.”
“Well, we can make some together in the next few weeks,” Liz said.
“Great idea. Let’s start by opening some wine.” Lola took a bottle of rosé and another of sparkling cider from the fridge. She handed them to Peggy and asked Liz to bring the three wine glasses and a plastic cup that were set out on the counter. “Let’s sit on the back porch. I’ll grab some snacks for us too.” She disappeared inside the walk-in pantry. She came out carrying a tray filled with cheeses and salami, along with a loaf of french bread.
They walked through the dining room to get to the back porch. Aunt Sally’s flowered wallpaper hung in tatters. The old chandelier hung lonely above the spot where the dining room table had once been. “Isn’t it awful without the table?” asked Lola.
“Lonely,” Peggy said.
“I forgot about the chandelier.” Liz chuckled. “Your mother loved that thing.”
Lola laughed. “Yes, she did. Tacky as it is, she thought it made the house fancy.” The chandelier’s plastic, diamond-shaped crystals had dulled from dust and age.
The covered porch, directly off the dining room, faced the back yard. An unruly lawn and overgrown azaleas and rhododendrons had replaced Uncle Jimmy’s tidy yard. However, a set of garden furniture, including a small table and four chairs, were arranged attractively on the old porch. Lola explained she’d bought them at a used furniture store. “I couldn’t live without a table. Even for a short time.” She chuckled, pointing to the wine glasses Liz had set on the table. “And I had to buy some good wine glasses. Very French of me.”
“The French have their priorities straight,” Liz said.
“We like to think so anyway,” Lola said. “I’m about to give in and buy a kitchen table for the dining room as well. I just need to figure out what in heck I’m doing. I hate limbo.”
As they sat around the table, Lola poured wine for the three of them, plus cider for Beth. Peggy made her sit at the table and sip from the glass. Beth sat primly, sipping like a little lady, but after a few moments appeared bored and slipped from her chair. She skipped over to the steps leading to the yard. “Mama? Play?”
“Yes. Just stay close where I can see you,” said Peggy.
“Oh, Beth, I have something you might like,” said Lola, pointing toward the corner of the porch where several small tin pails and plastic shovels were stacked. “I found them out in the shed. They were mine when I was little. My mother never threw anything out, apparently.”
Beth ran to them and picked up a shovel and bucket. “Mama? Okay for me?”
“Yes. Cousin Lola found them for you. What do you say?” Peggy asked.
“Thank you, Cousin Lola.”
“You’re very welcome,” Lola said.
Beth hopped down the steps. When she reached the yard, she plopped down in the middle of the grass, singing to herself.
“So, tell me, what made you decide to come for a visit?” Lola asked, sitting back at the table and sipping her wine.
“Like you, I’m in transition—trying to figure out what I want to do next,” Peggy said. “My marriage has ended. Unexpectedly.”
“I’m so very sorry to hear that,” said Lola.
“Yes. It’s been hard, especially because of Beth. She doesn’t really understand what’s happening. My husband always traveled a lot for work, often gone for lengths of time. I’m afraid she thinks this is one of those times.”
“Will you share custody?” Lola asked.
Peggy shook her head, staring out into the yard at her daughter. “He moved to New York. With his mistress.”
Lola cocked her head to the side. “I see. Well, good riddance.”
“That’s what I said.”
“But it hurts,” Lola said.
“Yeah,” Peggy said. “Especially at night.”
“For me too.” Lola patted Peggy’s shoulder. “Now that you’re here, we can cry into our wine together. How long can you stay?”
“At least two weeks,” Liz said. “Probably more.” She chose a soft, creamy cheese and spread it on a piece of bread, then smothered it with fig compote. The mixture melted in her mouth. She washed it down with a sip of rosé. “God, that’s good.”
The talk went from Peggy’s marriage to Liz’s work and circled round to Grant. They were on their second glasses of rosé by then, and the talk flowed easily between them. Like we’ve known her forever.
Lola had listened with rapt attention as Liz told her about Grant’s discovery of the hidden box. “How fascinating. I wish my mother were here right this moment. She would probably remember this Mike Huller.” Suddenly, she rocked back in her chair and let out a gasp. “Wait a minute. Huller?”
“Right,” said Liz. “Mike Huller.”
“The Hullers owned one of the sawmills when I was a kid. They went back several generations here if I remember correctly.” She closed her eyes for a moment, repeating the name Mike Huller three times. Her eyes flew open. “Yes, that’s it. He was my age. They called him Mikey back then. He was in the class above me in high school, but I can see his face. Dark hair. Big guy. Very handsome. Football star and all that. I can see the back of his letterman’s jacket walking down the hallway of the high school. He went steady with Wendy something…” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “It’s on the tip of my brain. Wendy…Atkinson. That’s it. Wendy Atkinson. I’m fairly certain they got married. How in the world I know that, I can’t tell you. My mother probably mentioned it in one of her letters. She was always writing to me about the people here. I never had the heart to tell her I didn’t even remember half of them. Honestly, I haven’t thought of any of these people in years.”
“I wonder if that’s the wife he refers to in the letters?” Peggy asked.
“I don’t know. Grant didn’t tell me her name, if it’s mentioned at all,” Liz said. “But if the Hullers owned the sawmill and he’s your age, Lola, he might still live here.”
“It’s likely. They were an old-time family here,” Lola said. “Rich because of the mill. They lived out on Schumacher Road in a huge house. My parents were invited to a party there once and Mama talked about it for months.” She clapped her hands together. “This is remarkable, isn’t it? Your history with Grant and your connection with this town—that it should all happen at once seems like fate.”
“That’s what I think too.” Peggy’s cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes sparkled. So are Lola’s. Maybe this distraction is what they both need.
“You do?” Liz asked. “I thought you disapproved.”
Peggy smiled. “I guess River Valley’s softening me already.”
“Grant will get here tomorrow,” Liz said. “Should we ask around town about this Mike Huller?”
“I know exactly what to do,” said Lola. “We should call Ellen White.”
“Who’s Ellen White?” Peggy asked.
“My favorite English teacher when I was in high school,” Lola said. “She was a friend of my mother’s. They exchanged gardening tips and battled over who made the better pie. She’s lived here all her life. She knows everyone and everything. She’ll know if Mike’s still here.”
“Great,” Liz said. Was this the right thing? Is this what Grant needed? It had to be. He needed to know the truth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Grant
GRANT SAT IN the living room of Hadley’s condo with his feet on the coffee table, drinking a scotch and listening to his sisters’ chatter as they put together a lasagna for dinner. Lasagna. Not an accident. They were trying to cheer him up.
When he’d presented the box to them, their initial reaction had been denial. This can’t be, Grant. It’s
ridiculous. Dad is your dad. But after looking through the letters and photographs as carefully as Grant had, they had to admit the evidence was damning. Not to mention the simple math.
He shifted to gaze out the window. A seagull perched on the railing, looking at him with one eye. Such a judgmental bird. The girls joined him in the living room. Hadley sat next to him on the couch. Kristen curled up in the chair.
“Are we sure we want to spread Dad’s ashes at the docks?” Hadley said.
“I don’t know. I think we should spread them where he was the happiest,” said Kristen.
“That was probably his easy chair,” said Hadley.
“Well, that’s in the dumpster, so we need another idea,” Kristen said.
What had mattered to their father? He’d hated his work on the docks and the men he worked beside. Obviously, he was not a family man. Grant couldn’t recall a time he joined them at the park or beach. It was always their mother who took them places and attended their activities.
“I remember a good day,” said Hadley. “A day where he seemed happy.”
“Really?” Grant asked. “Because I can’t think of one.”
“It was my tenth birthday,” said Hadley.
If Hadley was ten, Grant would have been fifteen and Kristen six.
“I asked Mom if we could have a picnic down at the state park for my party.”
A shadow of a memory surfaced. Hadley’s birthday was in August. It was sunny that day. The waves had been mild and the air warm and still. “Yes. I remember that day,” Grant said. “We had chocolate cake. Right?”
Hadley nodded. “Mom made it and wrote happy birthday on it with one of those decorating kits.”
“Pink icing?” asked Grant.
“That’s right,” Hadley said. “And we had sandwiches and sodas.”
He remembered their father had sat in a lawn chair with a beer in his hand, face tilted toward the sun. He’d rolled up his jeans to mid-calf. His white feet were buried in the sand. Next to him, Mom lay on a blanket, reading a book. A large straw hat cast dark shadows on her face as she turned the pages one by one.
“I sat in that ratty lawn chair he usually kept out back, right?” Grant asked. “Am I remembering right?”
“I think so,” Hadley said. “We built a sand castle. Kristen, your job was to fill the water bucket and bring it back to the river we’d built around our castle.”
Kristen shook her head. “I don’t remember any of this.”
“You were too young,” Grant said. “But it’s coming back to me. You’re right, Hadley. He seemed happy that day. He and Mom didn’t fight, other than at the end when she told him he’d had too much beer.”
“He shoved her in the parking lot right before we went home. She fell and scraped her arm,” Hadley said. “She didn’t want him to drive.”
The awful drive home. Hadley had cried without making a sound. Kristen had fallen asleep, her warm sunburned cheek resting on Grant’s shoulder. Dad’s head flopped from side to side in the front passenger seat. He’d passed out the minute they’d reached the highway. Mom had won that argument. She’d driven them home.
“But up until then, he had a good day,” Hadley said. “I think we should spread his ashes down on that beach.”
“It works for me,” said Kristen.
“All right. We’ll do it in the morning then,” Hadley said.
The aroma of the baking lasagna drifted into the room. “I want to look for this Mike Huller.”
Hadley gave a world-weary nod. “We know.”
“As long as you’re prepared going in that he might not want to see you,” Kristen said.
“Well, it can’t be any worse than the rejection I’ve faced all my life from the man I thought was my father.” Grant had meant to sound glib, but instead he sounded bitter, even to his own ears.
“He might not be alive. You have to keep that in mind too,” said Hadley.
“It’s possible,” Grant said. “But he looked pretty young in those pictures. I’d say mid-twenties. So there’s a good chance he is.” The man in the photographs appeared muscular and healthy. Maybe he’d remained so. “He’d be in his early sixties now.”
“It’s beyond weird to think you might have brothers or sisters out there.” Kristen hoisted her feet onto the coffee table and kicked Grant’s foot. “And you have to promise to never love them more than us. No matter how cool they are.”
Grant smiled. “They couldn’t be cooler than you two.”
“I’m scared,” Hadley said.
“Of what?” Grant asked.
Hadley shrugged. “Change, I guess. Who am I if I’m not Dad’s caregiver? Long-suffering middle child burdened with the responsibility of caring for her nasty father? Who are you if you’re only our half-brother?” Her voice wavered. “It’s too much to understand. How could this huge lie have existed in our family? How much did Dad know?”
“He must have known,” Kristen said. “It would explain so much.”
“It seems likely that he did,” Hadley said. “I mean, Grant’s right. The timing just doesn’t make sense otherwise. I can’t believe none of us ever thought it through before this. She had to be about four months pregnant during the time of their wedding if we look at when Grant was born.”
“Mom said they had a whirlwind courtship,” Kristen said. “She told me they’d only known one another a month before they went down to the courthouse.”
“Do you think she tricked him into marrying her?” Hadley asked. “Or do you think he knew?”
“He had to know,” Grant said. “Or he knew when I was born five months after their wedding. No denying it then. Which explains why he hated me.”
“It would explain a lot of things. For one thing, it would explain Dad’s power. It always seemed odd to me, given how much smarter Mom was than him, that he had the upper hand. She came into the marriage with a deficit.”
“And she never caught up,” Kristen said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Liz
THE EVENING WITH Lola passed quickly. They enjoyed grilled chicken, german potato salad, and fresh greens tossed in balsamic dressing. They continued to chat and share stories until Lola asked if they’d like to read the stack of letters from their grandmother to Aunt Sally while she made coffee and served dessert. Liz had been having such a fun time she’d forgotten the reason for their visit.
“Yes, we’d really like to see them,” said Liz.
Lola left and returned a few minutes later with a small stack of letters. “There aren’t many, but the tale they tell is chilling. Read them, and then I’ll share with you what else I know.”
Beth was happily playing with her dolls on the bench at the other end of the other end of the porch.
“You start,” Peggy said. “Then pass them to me.”
They were arranged chronologically and all addressed from Marcia Bingham to Sally Porter. My grandmother Marcia to her sister Sally. So weird to have their letters in front of me.
She slipped the first one out of its envelope. The stationary was thick with the initials M.B. embossed on the top.
August 17, 1969
Dear Sally,
I’m terribly sorry to hear about the fire in your shed, but I’m glad it wasn’t in the house. Losing boxes of keepsakes and letters is nothing compared to you or Jimmy or that precious girl of yours being hurt. I shudder to think about it.
Yes, I have a duplicate of the photo of mother and daddy from their wedding. I’ll look once I get unpacked and make sure to get you a new copy. You were so clever to keep track of it all the years we were in and out of foster care, not to mention making a spare for me. As far as the letters from me, I can’t imagine anyone would have ever cared to read them, so I guess it’s just as well.
We arrived in Southern California yesterday afternoon. My in-laws had the guest wing ready for us. Imagine a large apartment—two bedrooms, two baths, and a cathedral ceiling in the sitting room. It’s more space than we ne
ed. Despite the furniture, the sitting room echoes. The temperature outside is warm, but inside feels as cold as a funeral home.
I hope to take Karen to the beach later today or tomorrow. I have no car of my own, so it may be impossible to get anyone to take us. They have a driver named Edward. Josephine said I could use him whenever I want, but for some reason, I don’t think that will be the case.
Karen did well on the trip. She’s such a placid girl; nothing seems to bother her much, especially if she has a stack of books to read. She read four chapter books on the drive from Portland to Los Angeles. She’s only six! I don’t think I could even spell my name at that age. I’m grateful for the good schooling she’s had already. Sometimes I wonder what you and I would have become if we’d had more opportunity. But as Warren says, it’s not helpful to look back, only forward.
Speaking of Warren. To answer your last letter, no, his mood has not lifted. I don’t know what happened between his father and him. All I know is that Markham told Warren we had to move here if he wanted to continue working for the company.
To be truthful in answer to your question, I didn’t want to leave Oregon. It’s my home and I loved it, even though it’s rainy and damp in Portland much of the time. We’re in a strange land here. The smog is terrible. My eyes haven’t stopped watering since we arrived.
To make matters worse, Josephine is as scary as I remembered. Although the house is giant, our wing is not private. Today she’s managed to pop over twice already. The first time she criticized me for still being in my pajamas at 8 a.m. The second “pop by” she snatched Karen from the breakfast table to take her shopping for a school uniform. They insisted we enroll her in private school here. I would’ve thought the schools in La Cañada were adequate, being some of the best in the state. Josephine insists on a snotty private school.
I wonder how I got here. My marriage has gone cold. I’m afraid of my husband’s family. Warren appears as defeated as I feel. I wish I were with you and Jimmy. At night when I can’t sleep, I close my eyes and imagine you and me and our girls swimming at your river spot. Maybe soon we can come visit.
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