Laura sat alone at the café table for a while; she still felt too shaky to get up and leave. Shaky and raw and sad. She was eager to tell Arden what she had heard from Rob’s oldest sister, though Laura would withhold that Frannie had long hated her. Arden suspected as much already. Only after the waitress approached Laura with the offer of a refill—an offer Laura declined—did she get up from the table and make her way back out onto the streets of Port George. Suddenly, the sweet little town seemed not so sweet, replete with dark shadows and dangerous secrets. Like every other small town everywhere, Laura thought. If only people would admit that.
Chapter 45
“Are you sure you don’t want me to dump that water out back?” Deborah asked, eyeing the brimming bucket with something akin to suspicion.
Arden shook her head. “It’s all right. I’ve already gotten rid of two buckets. A third won’t kill me.”
“Good. What I mean,” Deborah added hastily, “is that it looks darn heavy.”
The bucket was heavy. There had been a big rain during the night, and Arden had come into the shop that morning to find several puddles on the floor; the ceiling above each of the puddles was visibly damp. She had immediately called Deborah and Gordon, more for moral support than for practical assistance. By the time they arrived at the shop, Arden had finished mopping. Luckily, stock had not been damaged, but luck didn’t hold out forever.
Gordon joined them; he had been talking on his phone to the roofer who had dealt with a problem at Gordon’s house the year before. “Matt says he’s tied up for the next six weeks at least. Unless the roof is on the floor, he’s not available.”
Arden shook her head. “I knew I’d need to have the roof fixed before long. Why didn’t I do something before now? What if the roof fails and I can’t afford to keep . . .”
Deborah reached out and put a firm hand on Arden’s arm. “We won’t let you lose the shop,” Deborah said calmly. “I’ll start a Go-FundMe campaign. Believe me, no one in Eliot’s Corner wants Arden Forest or you for that matter to go away. Or, God forbid, to have the shop replaced by a corporate giant, though to be sure they must have their uses. Just not here.”
“I can’t ask my neighbors for money!” Arden protested.
“Why not?” Deborah asked. “You’re not planning a jaunt on the Riviera with your Mediterranean lover, you’re raising money to fix the roof of an important building on Main Street. Everyone in town is invested in the future of this place.”
“She’s right, Arden,” Gordon said. “This is not about charity. This is about you being able to continue to offer all that you offer to your neighbors. Essential stuff. Books. Conversation. Free cookies at Christmas. And it’s about continuing to honor Margery’s legacy.”
“Let me think about it,” Arden begged. “Please. Don’t do anything just yet.”
Deborah shrugged. “If you say so.”
“Let me ask around,” Gordon suggested, “talk to a few other roofing guys and see what they say. Maybe there’s a temporary option, a stopgap as it were. I mean, we don’t even know what exactly is going on up there until we have an expert take a look.”
“You’re right. Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m imagining it to be.” Arden managed a smile. “Thanks, you two.”
Gordon and Deborah went on their way after that, Deborah to her office and Gordon to a parts shop—more of a dump, really—in a neighboring town to source material for his work.
Arden put her hands over her eyes and sighed. She wouldn’t know how to go on if she lost this shop. It had always been so much more than a source of income. A home. A haven. A passion. A reason to get up in the morning. A place in which to meet with other members of the Eliot’s Corner community, young and old, and share hopes, tell personal stories, seek advice or solace, and, of course, to talk about books.
And for it all Arden had Margery Hopkins to thank. Though, like Arden, Margery had kept much of her life before coming to Eliot’s Corner a secret, she had shared enough of her story to be an inspiration to Arden, an example of a woman who refused to give in to tragedy.
“When my fiancé was killed in action during the Korean War,” Margery had told Arden, “people said, ‘You’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you, you could marry some other nice man, have a family, be happy.’ But they were wrong. Carl was the only man for me.”
“You are happy though, aren’t you?” Arden had ventured. “In spite of your loss.”
“I am,” Margery had promptly replied. “I’m proud that I’ve been true to Carl, and I know I’ll meet him again when I die.” Here, Margery had smiled. “And I love my bookshop. I have everything I need.”
Arden took her hands from her eyes. Margery had understood the need for secrets, for a past to be kept inviolate. Still, Arden wished she had been able to be honest with her friend; she wished she had been brave enough to tell Margery about her child.
But she hadn’t, and at the moment what mattered most was the future of Arden Forest.
Arden looked lovingly around the shop, at the books neatly shelved; the table of new releases; the display of paperback versions of last year’s hardcovers; the standing racks of leatherbound diaries and notebooks; and finally, at the counter behind which Arden stood as if at the wheel of a ship, the commander and caretaker of this vessel.
“I promise you, Margery,” Arden said aloud, her voice determined, “that I won’t allow Arden Forest to close its doors. I promise.”
Chapter 46
Laura was walking along Main Street when suddenly she knew with absolute certainty that she was being followed. Her skin began to tingle and her heart to race. She was furious. She was curious.
Laura halted and turned around. Not very gracefully, a figure several yards away scuttled around a corner. She was sure it had been a woman, middle-aged, maybe in her sixties, though it was hard to be sure. It had definitely not been the elderly, frail Florence Aldridge. The woman had been wearing a bucket hat and large sunglasses, an effective if clichéd means of hiding the details of her face. Laura thought she had been tall, at least average height.
The woman was not a threat, at least not a physical threat. Laura knew that in her gut.
She turned around and resumed her way along Main Street. In spite of the woman’s almost comic performance, the incident had left a nasty taste in Laura’s mouth. Not long after she had left her husband, he had begun to stalk her, lurking in a doorway across the street when she came home from an evening out with a friend, leaving nasty voice mails on her phone, even showing up in her classroom one memorable afternoon. Campus security had seen to him then. Finally, Laura had been compelled to get a restraining order against Jared.
During the nightmare weeks of Jared’s pursuit, Laura had gone from being dreadfully frightened to being supremely angry. By the time the restraining order was issued, she was reveling in fantasies of clobbering Jared over the head with a lamp or a baseball bat (not that she owned a baseball bat) until he had learned his lesson.
The cowardly pest did stop his vicious little campaign of intimidation—and Laura’s anger did abate so that she no longer dreamed of acts of violence—but not before any shred of affection for her soon-to-be ex-husband she might still have been holding on to was gone, obliterated, buried forever.
Laura had almost reached the Lilac Inn when fear finally began to make its insidious way through her defenses. Damn, she thought. Maybe someone had discovered her true identity. Maybe someone knew the podcast story was a pretense, a cover for another more important goal. She half regretted she hadn’t dashed after that woman and demanded to know who she was and what she was after.
The honk of a car horn made Laura jump. She felt exhausted. The meeting with Frannie earlier had taken a lot out of her. And there was no shame in retreating when it seemed wise to retreat. To rest. To be still. To recover. To slide under the cool, clean sheets of a bed and sleep.
Moments later, Laura pushed open the wrought-iron gate that kept passe
rsby from trampling on the beautifully kept lawn and garden of the bed-and-breakfast she was calling home for a time. When she reached her room, she fell onto the neatly made bed and was asleep within moments.
Chapter 47
The cats were taking one of their daily naps. Quiet reigned in the cottage and the sun was shining brightly. For this, Arden was especially thankful because since the morning she had discovered the puddles of water on the floor of the bookshop, she had lived in dread of rain. One big summer storm, the kind that knocked out power lines and caused the Eliot River to flood, and she could be in big trouble. Of course, her mind might be somewhat put to rest if only she could find a roofer with five minutes to spare.
As good as his word, Gordon had gotten estimates from a few local contractors; unfortunately, without having identified the exact problem, the estimates were all over the map. Even so, the lowest figure was prohibitively high. After sharing this information with Arden, Gordon had offered to loan her the money himself; there would be no interest and she could set the terms of the repayment plan.
Arden’s immediate reaction had been to accept. It would be a quick and easy solution to her problem. But reason came to the rescue before she could commit herself to a folly. She remembered Gordon saying that he felt closer to her now that he knew the truth of her past. Accepting Gordon’s offer of a loan might give him the false impression that she was ready to take a further step in their relationship, and she wasn’t.
And what if she couldn’t stick to the repayment plan? Money could destroy even a healthy relationship between friends. Polonius might have been an annoying babbler, but he was right when he advised that one should neither a borrower nor a lender be.
She had thanked Gordon sincerely and declined. He didn’t protest her decision, and since then things had gone on as usual. Still, Arden wondered if she hadn’t inadvertently issued a death blow to the relationship. She sincerely hoped she had not because other single women in Eliot’s Corner would be more than happy to walk hand in hand with Gordon through life. How long would it be before Gordon, a human being with the human need for companionship, turned his attentions to, say, Jeanie Shardlake, a forty-five-year-old artist whose work was shown in galleries in Portland as well as Boston, or, say, to Martha Benbow, fifty-two, who had inherited her family’s construction business and taken it to greater heights than her forebears could have imagined? Both women were intelligent, hardworking, creative, and kind. If Gordon entered a romantic relationship with either of those women, or, indeed, with any other woman, Arden’s friendship with him would be dealt a blow.
But she was not in control of Gordon’s emotional life. She was only in charge of her own. And right then, Arden’s foremost concern was that she hadn’t yet heard from Laura, who had been planning to meet with Rob’s sister Frannie that morning. Arden hoped the meeting hadn’t been difficult for her daughter—or, indeed, for Frannie. Arden remembered Rob telling her that even as a small child his older sister had displayed a level head and a strong sense of responsibility. “Sometimes,” Rob had said, “I wish she would lighten up a bit and have some fun. But that’s Frannie.”
Certainly, Arden thought, Rob’s younger sisters, Maureen and Abby, had been much more inclined to fun. They had seemed absolutely delighted to be included in their brother’s big secret romance. Maureen, only a few months younger than Arden, had been totally into the new wave scene—which made her a bit of a standout in Port George—dressing like Cyndi Lauper and never without her Walkman. Maureen’s dream was to move to New York, that mecca for both high and low culture, get a job in Tower Records, and hang out in the dance clubs at night.
Abby had been sixteen the summer of 1984. Unlike Maureen, she seemed uninterested in pop culture, at least, as far as Arden—Victoria—had been able to tell. Abby had had her heart set on going to art school. She was rarely without a pencil and sketchbook. Victoria had seen some of Abby’s work and had found it impressive.
Arden filled the kettle with water, placed it on the stove, and went to the cupboard for a tea bag. She had often wondered what had come of Maureen and of Abby. She supposed that Laura might find out in her investigation. They might have married, had children, become grandmothers. Abby might have gone to art school, and Maureen might have made a career in the music industry. Or, like their brother, they might have—
Arden put her hand to her forehead and frowned. She wished Laura would hurry back from Port George. She realized that she felt genuinely lonely, something she hadn’t experienced for years. It was because for the first time in an age she hadn’t been on her own. She had been living side by side with her child. Her home, her castle and safe haven, had always felt so full and complete, but now it felt empty of an essential element. Another human being.
A particular human being. Laura.
Chapter 48
“So, until I can get a roofer to tell me exactly what’s going on, I’m kind of stuck.” Arden paused. “Gordon offered to loan me the money for repairs. He said there’d be no interest and that I could set my own repayment plan.”
Laura’s eyes widened. “Wow. That’s very generous. What did you say?”
“I said no. Money can come between friends.”
Laura didn’t press for a further explanation. She remembered what Arden had told her about not feeling she had a right to be happily in love. To accept Gordon’s generous offer might create a bond her mother might not be able to accept.
The two women were sitting at the table in the yard after a dinner of pasta and salad, during which Laura had told her mother about her meeting with Frannie Armitage.
“How does Frannie look?” Arden asked suddenly. “Can you tell that she’s a person who has suffered?”
“Who among us hasn’t suffered? But, no.” Laura went on, lying for her mother’s peace of mind, “I wouldn’t say she looks particularly worn. Aging comes to most of us.”
“Well, I’m grateful she didn’t mention the idea of my having had a baby. That’s a blessing. It would have made things even more awkward for you.”
“And they were awkward enough, believe me. I caught her looking at me pretty intently at one point. I couldn’t help but think she was seeing a resemblance between me and my father. But she said nothing.”
“Frannie probably thinks about her brother every day, about their childhood together. From what Rob told me, it was pretty idyllic.” Arden shook her head. “What are you supposed to do with memories of childhood? The good stuff, like Christmas mornings, and birthday parties, and trips to the beach? Is it dangerous to cherish them, to relive them, to memorialize them? What’s the point? The past can’t actually make the present any better or worse, but it can, if you let it, taint or distort what’s decent about the present. Always remembering. Those happy memories of early times can make the bad or challenging times that came after that much darker.” Arden sighed harshly. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess thinking about Frannie and the Smiths has put me in a melancholy mood.”
Laura reached across the table and gently squeezed her mother’s hand. “Memories matter. Why don’t you tell me about some of the good times when you were little?”
Arden was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice had softened. “Christmases were pretty magical. My mother went all out with decorations. We had three or four real trees, with lots of glittering and glistening ornaments. The house felt alive then, like it never really did for the rest of the year. Our cook made all the traditional dishes, from plum puddings to roast goose, cookies of all sorts, and even homemade candies. I can still taste her caramels when I close my eyes!”
“Taste and smell are such powerful carriers of memories.” Laura smiled. “Proust reminds us of that.”
“Yes.” Arden paused. “My mother was so glamorous. She was always dressed to the nines, heels, pantyhose, designer bag. And always makeup. She never, ever left the house without lipstick.” Arden smiled. “Sometimes, not often, I wonder what she would think of me going around
the way I do, no makeup most days, sneakers and jeans, an old leather satchel I’ve had for ages. But maybe she wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe by the time I left Port George she’d given up on my ever being the sort of daughter she wanted me to be. Whatever that was. Like her? Or not like her at all, not an emotional wreck.”
“Maybe she would be genuinely proud of you and all you’ve accomplished.”
“Maybe. I just don’t know.” Arden smiled. “I remember, too, that she had a large collection of jewelry but wore a few pieces on repeat. There was one particular piece that fascinated me; I’d only get to see it on very special occasions, and only once did she let me try it on. It had come down through her own mother’s family. It was a Victorian snake bracelet, gold with turquoise and garnet.”
“So, supposedly the bracelet would have come to you eventually?”
“And then to you, yes.”
“I’m not really fond of snakes, to be honest.” Laura smiled. “They scare me. Anyway, what do you remember about your father? I mean, before . . .”
Arden nodded. “I understand. My father was tall, six foot two inches, and he stood very straight, shoulders back, like he was a high-ranking officer in the army. But he never was in the army. And he had very thick hair that waved back from his forehead, the way the hero’s hair does in romance novels.”
“What color were his eyes? I don’t know why I want to know. I don’t like your parents very much, not surprisingly. But I suppose they are my family, so my curiosity is to be expected.”
Her mother looked closely at Laura. “Yes,” she said firmly. “They are your family, in spite of everything.”
Laura felt chastened. “Tell me more about your father.” She still would not say “my grandfather.”
“His eyes were blue. His hair was blond, like mine. My mother, too, was a golden girl, blond and tall and slim. Her eyes were also blue, but that icy blue that can be so unnerving. I thought she looked exotic, I don’t know, like Freyja from the Norse myths.”
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