by Susan Wiggs
It was a sharp contrast to the mornings Tess was used to. In the city, she would tear out of her cluttered apartment, stopping off for fast-food coffee and a donut as she raced to the office.
Yes, she missed the city. But she had to admit, Isabel’s coffee and freshly toasted and buttered tartines softened the blow. She spied a knot of people down by one of the sheds, gathered around a cider press. Phone in hand, she went down to join them. She had not yet surrendered the hope of getting a decent signal. Ernestina’s husband and two other workers, dressed in their coveralls and John Deere caps, worked the press, filling the air with the crisp scent of fresh cider.
At the center of it all was Isabel, as ethereal as a princess in a fairytale. This was her world, and the people who lived and worked here were her family. Although Tess was just getting to know her sister, she understood that being forced to leave Bella Vista would practically kill Isabel. And what would become of the Navarros, getting on in years, caring for their disabled son?
Finding their grandparents’ photo archive had given Tess a glimmer of hope that perhaps there was a way out of this. Magnus had clearly come from a family of means; perhaps the treasures were valuable enough to stave off the bank. But with the foreclosure looming over them like the blade of an ax, she worried that they would run out of time before they uncovered the mystery behind Magnus’s treasures.
She sipped cider, tasting heaven and easing her worries, if only for the moment. “Why do people drink anything else when they can have this?” she asked Isabel.
“Don’t let the wine growers hear you say that.”
* * *
Isabel opened the door and led the way inside. Hearing a voice, Tess had a sense of impending tension; some part of her knew what was about to happen.
“Hello,” Isabel called. “Ernestina, is someone here?”
The tension subsided into a dull sense of ambivalence. Tess could feel Dominic’s hand fall away behind her.
She stood unmoving as a slender, auburn-haired woman hurried down the hallway to throw her arms around Tess.
“Oh, baby,” she said, “are you all right? I came as fast as I could.”
“Hi, Mom,” said Tess, feeling a terrible combination of fury and relief. “I guess you got my messages.” For a moment, she hung on, taking in her mother’s scent of designer perfume from the duty-free shop, which she always used to freshen up after a long flight. No matter how old she got, no matter how much time they’d spent apart, Tess always sought security in her mother’s embrace. Never mind that it was an illusion, particularly in light of what she’d learned since coming to Bella Vista.
She stepped aside, turning to face Dominic and Isabel. “This is Shannon Delaney, my mother. Mom, this is Dominic Rossi and Isabel Johansen. I guess you’ve met Ernestina.”
“She was kind enough to receive me.”
Ernestina excused herself and left through the kitchen door.
Shannon gave Isabel’s hand a squeeze, then let go. “You’re Francesca’s daughter.”
Whoa, thought Tess. How would her mother know that? When had Shannon seen Isabel’s mother? Had they known each other?
“I am.” Isabel studied Shannon, wide-eyed.
“My God, you look just like her. Is she here?” asked Shannon.
Isabel frowned. “My mother passed away a long time ago.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“She died in childbirth.”
She died on our birthday, thought Tess.
Shannon put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. And I’m sorry about Magnus. Tess told me he had a terrible accident.”
“I didn’t tell you,” Tess said before she could stop herself. “I sent you an email, because you didn’t return my calls. Or my texts. Or my follow-up emails.”
Dominic cleared his throat. “Looks like you have some catching up to do, and I need to get home,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” He turned to Tess. “Will you be all right?”
“Yes, sure, fine,” she said. “Really.” God, was it that obvious that her mother made her crazy?
“Boyfriend?” Shannon asked, watching him go.
“No,” Tess and Isabel answered at once. They both sounded overly eager to clarify this.
“He’s, um, a family friend,” Isabel explained. “Please, let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll get you something to eat.”
“As you can imagine,” Tess said bluntly, “we have some questions for you.”
“Tess—”
“I don’t even know where to start. Maybe with this one. Maybe you could tell us how the hell the two of us came to be born on the same day.”
“What?”
“We have the same birthday, Isabel and I. Don’t you find that totally bizarre?”
“I didn’t know. My God.” Shannon’s mouth hardened and her posture stiffened as she followed Isabel into the kitchen. “Unfortunately, the two people who know the answer to that are no longer with us.”
* * *
Isabel had always enjoyed a house full of people. Feed your friends, and their mouths will be too full to gossip, Bubbie used to say. Feed your enemies, and they’ll become your friends. Throughout Isabel’s childhood, the Johansen household had been full of people coming over, sitting down for a glass of wine or a slice of pie, staying up late, talking and laughing. Bubbie and Grandfather had been determined that she should never feel like an orphan.
Except that, despite their efforts, sometimes she had. It wasn’t their fault, she reflected as she placed wedges of quiche on plates. There was just something inside her—an urge, a yearning—that made her long to be someone’s daughter, not the granddaughter. She never said so, though, not aloud. Yet somehow, they heard her. Somehow, they knew.
Perhaps, in the aftermath of Bubbie’s final illness and passing, that was why Isabel had become so bound to Bella Vista. Now she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Her heart resided here, her soul. She still loved having people over, creating beautiful food, watching the passing of the seasons. Even now, with all the trouble afoot and secrets being revealed like the layers of a peeled onion, she found the rhythm of the kitchen soothing.
She ground a dusting of nutmeg onto the quiche, then brought a tray to the long pine table. There, Tess was speaking intently and in low tones to her mother, but she fell silent when Isabel appeared.
Isabel thought about the mysteries of the mother–daughter relationship. She’d idealized it in her head, but clearly things were not always smooth.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she began, setting down the tray. “Like Dominic said, you’ve got some catching up to do.”
“We’ve got catching up to do,” Tess said. “Sit down. Please.”
Isabel liked the “we.” It made her feel less alone.
“This is the first real food I’ve had since the patisserie trolley at the Bordeaux airport,” Shannon said. She took a bite, and an expression of rapture came over her face. “They’ll probably close the borders of France to me for saying this, but I’ve never had a better quiche lorraine.”
Tess’s mother possessed a combination of Irish charm and whimsy and American directness. According to Tess, these traits had served her well in her profession and maybe in her social life. As a mother, perhaps not so much, judging by what Tess had said. With her auburn hair and English tea rose complexion, Shannon didn’t really look like anyone’s mother.
“Here’s a puzzle for you,” Tess said, showing Shannon the baby picture they’d found in Grandfather’s study. “How did Magnus end up with a photo of me?”
Shannon turned pale. “Call it impulse,” she said softly. “Sentimentality, I don’t know.” She gazed down at the image, her eyes misting. “You were so very beautiful, and I was so proud of you. I wanted Erik’s parents to have something, even if they didn’t know who you were. It’s such a lovely shot. I’m glad they kept it.”
“You didn’t include a letter? You didn’t tell them who you were? W
ho I was?” Tess sounded incredulous.
“I was afraid,” Shannon said. “I didn’t know Francesca was gone, and I didn’t want them to think I wanted anything from them.”
“Well, at some point Magnus figured out who I was and changed his will.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” said Shannon. “I swear. I’m so sorry, Tess. But I’m glad I’m finally here.” She helped herself to another wedge of quiche.
“Isabel’s an amazing cook,” Tess said, though she was merely picking at her salad.
“Thanks,” said Isabel. “I always thought I’d do it professionally one day.” She hurriedly sampled her quiche, wishing she hadn’t said anything. There were bound to be follow-up questions to that.
“Did you go to culinary school?” asked Shannon.
“I attended the Culinary Institute of America in Napa,” said Isabel. “For a while.”
“I believe your mother was a talented cook. She personally prepared nearly all the food at Erik’s funeral reception.”
“How did you know my mother?” asked Isabel, desperate for every last crumb of information.
“That,” said Shannon, her eyes glazing with jet lag and memories, “is complicated.”
“And why the hell have you been lying about my father all these years?” Tess demanded.
“That,” her mother said, “is even more complicated.”
Thirteen
Berkeley, California 1984
In the middle of a lengthy lecture on Russian literature—taught in Russian—Shannon Delaney bolted for the ladies’ room. Unfortunately for her, Wheeler Hall was a gigantic building with hallways a mile long, and she didn’t quite make it.
She puked all over the floor of the historic, marble-halled building.
Long ago, she’d ceased being grossed out by her own puking. Every day, something had made her throw up. Although the pregnancy books she’d read (and she had read them all) said that morning sickness generally lasted through the first three or four months of gestation, Shannon’s “morning” lasted all day. The nausea had been with her like a plague throughout her pregnancy.
As if being alone, pregnant and broke wasn’t hard enough, this baby, this tiny hiding stranger, seemed determined to make her life as difficult as possible. Shivering and damp with sweat, she hurried to the restroom to tidy up. Afterward, she went to the janitor’s closet between the restrooms and used her key to open the door. Yes, she had a key. Because not only was she alone, pregnant and puking, she earned extra money doing janitorial work on campus. It was the only way she could figure out to stay in school. She was just half a year away from getting her master’s degree and she refused to give up, even if it meant scrubbing the toilets of California’s most famous university.
The wheels of the mop bucket creaked as she pushed it toward the mess. Letting out a shuddering sigh, she got to work. Simple bending was an ordeal now that she was as big as a house. Everything these days was an ordeal—making ends meet, studying at night without falling asleep in her chair, explaining her predicament to her professors and fellow students. Nothing, however, compared to the task looming ahead.
She had to tell her mother. She’d been putting it off, but one of these days, Mom would visit from Dublin, and then, the jig would be up. Shannon was confident her mother wouldn’t judge her. God knew, having a baby out of wedlock was something of a tradition among Delaney women. But she’d be disappointed, for sure. And worried. Shannon hated worrying her mom.
She thought back to when she’d first met Erik Johansen last year, introduced by a TA named Zia Camarada, with whom she’d become friends. He’d swept into her life like a whirlwind, driving a red convertible Carmen Ghia and filling her days with adventure and her nights with more love and tenderness than she’d ever felt from a man before. With his striking Nordic looks and passion for life, he’d been like a force of nature. She fell for him fast and hard, so hard that when he said his wife had recently left him, she’d simply believed him.
Dizzy with love, she assumed the feeling would last forever. Erik was a California boy with nothing to his name except a liberal arts degree, the heir apparent to a huge apple farm in Sonoma, ably managed by his doting parents. He and Shannon had spent endless lazy mornings in bed together, in her little garret on the north side, fantasizing about their future. Under the cheap canopy of India print cloths she’d draped from the ceiling to hide the bare lightbulbs, they’d talked for hours about the life that awaited them. They would travel the world; she would pursue her dream of bringing precious works of art to museums and private collectors. Everything was golden.
Then one day he’d arrived, his usually brash air subdued. “I love you,” he’d said, and words had never hurt Shannon so much. They hurt, because some deeply intuitive part of her sensed what was coming next: “I have to break it off.”
It was a story as old as time. The wife who had left him was back—and she was pregnant. Erik owed it to Francesca to repair the marriage and take care of her and their child. A few weeks afterward, Shannon herself was a ball of misery, nauseous and alone, shocked to find herself pregnant, too—but determined not to tell him that she was as foolish as his wife.
Then Shannon did something stupid, something all the rule books cautioned against. She became obsessed with Francesca. Though it could only make the hurt worse, she simply had to see this woman, whose very existence had killed Shannon’s dreams. She went crazy one day and borrowed her friend’s VW and drove all the way to the tiny town of Archangel.
She didn’t have a plan. At the edge of the Bella Vista apple orchard was an old-fashioned building—a fruit stand. It was whitewashed and featured a front porch edged with carpenter Gothic trim, and it looked as inviting as lunch with a friend. But looks, she knew with painful certainty, often lied. There, she encountered a petite older woman with an accent, and the beautiful Francesca. It had to be Francesca. And she was beautifully pregnant.
“Can we help you?” Francesca’s voice sounded like liquid silk.
“Just...looking.”
“When is your baby due?” asked the dark-haired woman.
“March.”
“Mine, too.” Francesca smiled, smoothing her hand down over the graceful curve of her stomach.
They were both due in March. Erik had gone from one woman’s arms to the other’s. Numb with shock, Shannon fled. There was nothing but heartache for her here.
And that had been the last of it. She was on her own.
As she was mopping up a dull green hallway floor, a buzzer signaled the end of the class sessions, and students came pouring out of the classrooms. Undergrads. They all looked young and slender and carefree, barely affording her a glance as they headed out into the sunshine of the quad. As the last of them departed, she saw a man silhouetted at the entryway—and she froze.
It was Erik. She recognized his broad shoulders and manly stance, even though she couldn’t see his face. Her first instinct was to dive into the janitor’s closet to hide, but she could tell from the sudden stiffening of his posture that he’d spotted her.
“All right, then,” she said, leaning on the mop as he approached her. In spite of herself, she had a wild thought: He’s come for me. He came to his senses and realized he can’t live without me and here he is.
He stared at her. She could feel his astonishment as his gaze traced the ungainly curves of her silhouette. She was not one of those glowing, graceful pregnant women. She was ridiculous, in loose thrift-store clothes, her face splotchy, her hair done up in a careless twist. “How did you find me?” she asked.
“I got your schedule out of the graduate registrar’s office.”
Charmed it out of them, she thought. He had a talent for that. “We agreed not to see each other anymore,” she reminded him.
He ignored that. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. He kept his hands pressed firmly to his sides.
She tried to blot out the memories of those hands, and how tenderly they’d stroke
d her, cupped her face to tilt her mouth upward for a kiss. “We broke up,” she said. “How did you find out?”
“Your friend Zia. She thought I deserved to know. And she’s right. This...it changes everything.”
“Does it?” She waited for him to say that the pregnancy was proof of their love. It was Fate telling them they should be together after all.
He said none of those things. His face was taut with earnestness and frustration as he said, “I can’t be in your life the way you deserve, but I’ll take care of you. I will. You and the baby. You’ll never want for a thing.”
I’m already wanting, she thought, instantly skeptical. He was completely dependent on his family. Even if he had the means to support her, she didn’t for a moment think his wife would approve. Somewhere inside herself, Shannon found a reservoir of icy steel. “Just go,” she told him. “Zia should have kept her mouth shut. This is totally messed up, and it’ll never be sorted out. We need to cut our losses and move on.”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I won’t abandon you.”
You already have.
“I need some air,” she said, and walked outside together to a place they’d once considered their “spot.” It was a pretty little wooden footbridge on campus near a log cabin known as Senior Hall, and it was their spot because they’d shared their first kiss there, after a Def Leppard concert at the Greek Theatre the night they’d met. They had both been high on pot and Southern Comfort, and the electricity between them had been irresistible.
She’d been too stupid to ask him if he was married. He’d later confessed that he had been, but that his wife had left him. He hadn’t divorced her, though. She should have asked. For someone in one of the most selective grad programs on the planet, she should have been smarter.
Eric touched her shoulder, and she flinched away. He clenched his hands on the bridge railing. “I swear, I’ll make things right for you, as right as I can.”
“Given the fact that you already have a baby on the way with your wife.” The nausea rose up through her again. “How are you going to make things right, Erik? How? You made your choice—to stay with your wife. I don’t need anything from you, not a damn thing.” Except your heart, she thought with a twist of pain. And you won’t give me that.
