Barefoot in the Sand

by Holly Chamberlin

  Arden opened the beautifully wrapped box to find inside a hand-painted silk scarf just long enough to tie jauntily around the neck. The colors were mint green and pale blue.

  “I asked Deborah to tell me your favorite colors. And I got it at the little boutique in town, so if you want to exchange it—”

  “Never,” Arden said firmly. “It’s perfect. But would it be too corny to say that the best birthday present I could ever have is my daughter being here with me?”

  “Corny, yes. But I’m okay with that.”

  Arden reached for Laura’s hand. This was the first birthday they were spending together as mother and daughter. To suppose it might be the last was impossible. Even if they were physically apart on the exact day, from this time on they would always be united. They had to be.

  Next, the birthday song was sung, the cake was cut, and the champagne was poured.

  “Do you remember a particular birthday from your childhood?” Gordon asked after a time. “Mine all sort of blur together.”

  Deborah frowned. “I remember being taken to an amusement park with some friends for a birthday outing. It didn’t go well. I got totally sick from one of the rides, two of the other girls went missing for over an hour, causing my parents to completely freak out, and then, when we were finally all back in the car heading home, another girl threw up all over the back seat. It seems the hot dogs, cotton candy, and ice cream she had eaten were a bit too much.”

  “Ugh,” Laura said.

  “What about you, Arden?” Gordon asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do remember one birthday in particular. I was nine. I was going through a ballet phase, obsessed with the costumes and glamour, the idea of the handsome prince and the lovely princess. Ballet lessons weren’t an option, I remember, not at that time in Port George. But my mother had a few old recordings of some of the classics, and I played them over and over. The sound mustn’t have been very good, but I wouldn’t have known the difference. Anyway, that summer my parents surprised me with tickets to see Swan Lake in Boston. It was so exciting. We got all dressed for the occasion and spent the night in one of the big hotels close to the Public Garden. The performance itself had me transported. I went around in a sort of trance for what seems now like weeks, humming the tunes, envisioning myself as Odette.” Arden smiled. “It was the best gift my parents could have given me.”

  “I’m glad you have that memory,” Gordon said sincerely.

  “I know that things between you and your parents went south after a time,” Deborah offered, “but it’s good to know your youth wasn’t entirely spent in misery.”

  “Are you sure you’re not being a bit overly nostalgic?” Laura asked.

  “No, I don’t think that I am. My parents weren’t always wrong. They weren’t evil people.”

  Deborah shook her head. “I’m never comfortable when the term evil comes into the conversation. I can’t get my head around what it means in this day and age. Maybe the same as it always did? I just don’t know.”

  “I suspect it means different things for different people,” Gordon said. “No longer entirely involved with a satanic being or force. Maybe having something to do with psychological illness and cultural mores.”

  “Ted Coldwell used the word sin in reference to Herbert Aldridge’s criminal deeds,” Laura told them. “Not that he was ever charged with a criminal offense, but according to Ted lots of people in Port George assume Aldridge is dirty, corrupt.”

  Neither Deborah nor Gordon responded.

  Arden shifted in her chair. Maybe Laura’s grandfather was “dirty” and “corrupt,” maybe he was guilty of criminal behavior—hadn’t she herself suspected as much for years?—but to hear the supposition from the mouth of her child, Herbert’s granddaughter, felt deeply unpleasant, especially today of all days.

  “I don’t think we should be passing judgment,” Arden ventured. “Bandying about terms like evil and sin, guilt and punishment.”

  “Well,” Laura responded forcefully, “be that as it may, the bottom line is that parents shouldn’t get a medal just for doing the right thing, like for ensuring their child enjoys her birthday. That’s just basic stuff in the job description. Food, clothing, education, a roof over their heads.”

  Arden could feel the anger emanating from her daughter but had no idea how to calm it.

  “I have a policy,” Gordon said suddenly. “Never talk about sin, evil, or even plain old meanness after six in the evening. It’s not conducive to a good night’s sleep.”

  “Nor is a second piece of that decadent chocolate-hazelnut cake,” Deborah declared. “As much as I want another piece.”

  Laura said nothing but looked appropriately chastened.

  The party wound down soon after, and as Arden made her way back to Juniper End with Laura, she felt a sliver of melancholy winding its way through her. If Laura sensed her mother’s unhappiness, she respectfully ignored it, for which Arden was glad. It had been a lovely evening overall, and if there had been moments of tension, well, that was only to be expected.

  Life, Arden thought, opening the door of Juniper End, was not all a night at the ballet.

  Chapter 67

  Laura was having difficulty getting to sleep. Her conscience was bothering her again. She was sorry she had been so negative about Herbert Aldridge earlier. He was Arden’s father, and in spite of what he had put her through she clearly retained some warm feeling toward him. After all, Arden had known the man far better than Laura had—which was not at all—and most people were complicated, an ever-shifting mix of positive and negative qualities.

  Even her parents—Rob Smith and Victoria Aldridge—weren’t perfect human beings, no matter the almost-mythic proportions they had been taking on in Laura’s romantic imagination this summer. She pictured her teenage parents making love among the trees, her mother in a party dress, her father in jeans with a shirt and tie. The imagined picture was both touching and heartbreaking, sweet and a wee bit ludicrous, as romantic love was always seen from the outside.

  Laura sighed aloud. She had never enjoyed a true, life-changing romance. She had talked herself into thinking that Jared and a few others before him were her soul mates, but deep down she had known—hadn’t she?—that she was kidding herself, willing something beautiful to sprout from rotten seeds.

  Some might consider Laura lucky to have achieved the age of thirty-six without having endured the messier, painful aspects of true, life-changing romance. The realists, the practical, the coldhearted. How many of them were there, really? Laura suspected not all that many, in spite of claims otherwise. Romance was a human addiction; it fascinated and compelled while it tore apart anyone even remotely involved in the story. Laura thought again about the famously ambiguous end of Villette Arden had told her about. Had Monsieur Paul been shipwrecked in that mythic seven-day storm—a destroying angel—or had he been returned safely to his dear Lucy? The narrator was vague, almost taunting: “There is enough said. Trouble no quiet, kind heart.... Let them picture union and a happy succeeding life.”

  Desperate readers had written to Charlotte Brontë, begging to know the fate of these fictional lovers. Had Lucy Snowe married Paul Emanuel after all, or had she gone bravely into her future alone? Charlotte had told her publisher she had never meant for Lucy Snowe to have a happy ending. She had written the book during a time of her physical decline and depression. Arden had explained that some scholars thought that Lucy’s troubles were a reflection of the author’s own.

  Suddenly, Laura wondered why Arden hadn’t included Villette among the books discussed at the “Star-Crossed Lovers” event. The novel meant so much to her. But maybe that was the very reason to exclude it from open discussion.

  That dreadful ambiguity, Laura thought. What had happened to Rob Smith? Would he have married the mother of his child had he not gone missing? Would Victoria have gone through with the wedding, facing the possibility of being cut off from her parents, on whom she had always been so
dependent? There was no way to know.

  Laura shifted under the covers. The night was warm; she wished she had thought to open the window before climbing into bed but was too groggy from cake and champagne to get up. The sound of padding footsteps came to her attention. Her mother wasn’t yet asleep, either. Laura hoped Arden wasn’t upset about her daughter’s earlier harsh remarks. In so many ways Arden was still a mystery to Laura, still a person very much apart.

  For example, that morning Arden had met with a loan officer at her bank. Laura would have been more than happy to accompany her mother, for moral support if nothing else, but Laura hadn’t even known that Arden had made an appointment. Laura wasn’t a part of her mother’s life, not in a day-to-day, reliable way. Arden Bell wasn’t used to having someone on whom she could rely—at least, not a family member. Would she ever need her daughter?

  “Oof!” Laura cried, as a heavy object covered in fur landed on her stomach. It was Ophelia. “You’re getting as big as Falstaff,” she murmured as the cat made a job of settling for the night.

  Within moments, both Laura and Ophelia were asleep.

  Chapter 68

  “I’m sorry again about the things I said at your birthday party.”

  Arden smiled. She had never seen a person look so contrite. “It’s all right. Emotions run high on special occasions. It’s to be expected.”

  “Still, I hope I didn’t ruin your good time.”

  The two women had finished dinner—salmon; green beans; roasted red potatoes—and were settled in the living room with the cats, Laura in the comfortable armchair and Arden curled in a corner of the couch. Arden had put on a CD of Ella Fitzgerald’s songs; it seemed that Laura, too, was a fan of the old standards. The windows were open to the balmy evening air. Arden sighed in contentment. There was little that could improve this moment, other than the physical presence of Laura’s father.

  “You haven’t told me about the place where you were sent to live out the pregnancy,” Laura said suddenly.

  “It’s odd you should ask about that today of all days. Only this morning at the shop I was thinking about someone I met there. I remembered that her favorite book was The Secret Garden. It’s been years since I last read the story. Did you read it when you were young?”

  “Of course. And I loved it. So, what was this place you were sent to called?”

  “The Two Suns Retreat and Spa.”

  Laura laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What a ridiculous name for a—for a prison!”

  “I won’t argue with you there. Anyway, it was more like an exclusive boarding school, with the cool-girl clique, and the random bully, the nerd faction. We had a large communal bathroom and ate our meals together in a cafeteria, but luckily, we each had our own room.

  “The main building had been a private residence once, in the style of Le Corbusier but executed by someone without the talent. Courses were offered but not required, things like basic geometry and current affairs. As far as I know, the courses didn’t count for anything back in the real world. But I guess it was important to keep up the pretense of this—incarceration—being a character-building, educational time. There were walking trails and a tennis court and an indoor pool. And I read voraciously, as always. There was a library and I’d brought some of my own books, including, of course, the copy of Villette Rob had given me for my birthday.”

  “And you were there almost your entire pregnancy?”

  “Yes, from late August until shortly after you were born. I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas there as well. I couldn’t go home, of course. There were some very dark days that fall and winter, but I never totally despaired. I clung to Lucy Snowe as a sort of predecessor in pain. ‘Life is still life, whatever its pangs.’”

  “Thank God for fiction. Did your parents call you? Send letters?”

  “At first my father called every Sunday at four o’clock on the nose. After about five or six weeks of miserable, clipped conversations, he told me he thought I didn’t need checking up on any longer, and that if I wanted something, I should call him. I never did.”

  Laura shook her head but made no comment. “What about your mother?”

  Arden hesitated. It was difficult to reveal the extent of Florence Aldridge’s deteriorated mental state to anyone, let alone to the granddaughter she had never known. “Mother,” Arden began finally, “would send me letters in which she chattered on about what was happening at the country club and tell me about the new hat she had bought, or the holiday parties she and my father were attending. She never once mentioned the pregnancy. It was as if she had blocked out the truth of where I was and why. At first, I was devastated by what I saw as a lack of concern with my welfare. Then, I reminded myself that pretending was my mother’s way of handling—unpleasantness. I remember wondering how she was dealing with the women in her social set. I’m sure she was terrified of the truth being found out.”

  Laura sighed. “I’m so sorry,” she said feelingly. “For both you and for Florence. Please believe that.”

  “I do.”

  “Tell me about that girl you mentioned earlier, the one who loved The Secret Garden.”

  “Her name was Alice Davidson. She was from the San Francisco area. She was younger than me, sixteen to my eighteen. She had the most gorgeous hair. It was dark red and thick and wavy. Thinking back now, I realize we didn’t really get to know each other well, but what we did know was enough to make us care. Other than Rob, Alice was my first real friend.”

  “Did you talk about the fathers? Did you tell her about Rob?”

  “Yes,” Arden said after a moment. “But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about his disappearance from Port George. I couldn’t bear to make it more terribly real than it already was. I just said that my parents had broken us up and that neither of us was happy about it.”

  “Do you think she believed you?”

  “Yes. She was very young in some ways, even more naïve than I was.” Arden frowned. “She had been seduced by an older boy she had met at church. She told me she had liked him a lot but wasn’t ready to get serious.” Arden frowned. “He didn’t care for her refusal and . . .”

  “Disgusting.” Laura shook her head.

  “Yes. Still, she wanted to have the baby, so her parents sent her to Two Suns. Poor Alice. It was so much more horrible than what had happened to me. I had found true love. I couldn’t bring myself to show her my birthday present from Rob, not after I heard her story. It seemed cruel.”

  “What happened to Alice? I mean, she had the baby and then what?”

  “She didn’t have her baby,” Arden said quietly. “She suffered a miscarriage. She was mad with grief. I was allowed to visit her in the infirmary, and even though she had known all along that her baby was going to be taken away from her the moment he or she was born, she had counted on that birth. I didn’t know what to say to make her feel better. Maybe there was nothing I could have said. A few days later someone came to fetch her. Maybe a parent, I don’t know. Anyway, one morning she was just gone.”

  “You must have been devastated,” Laura said gently.

  “Nearly. Alice and I thought we still had a few months to spend together. I don’t recall either of us planning anything specific for the future, the days post life at Two Suns. We never talked about keeping in touch. The moment seemed enough, until it was torn away from us.”

  Laura sighed. “It’s like Jane and Helen in Jane Eyre. Two orphans—you both might as well have been—finding solace within an institution of misery. And you’ve never heard from Alice afterwards?”

  “No. I’ve thought often of her through the years, but I never actually considered searching for her. What if she had worked hard to put that part of her life behind her? What if my contacting her only brought her pain?”

  “How would you feel if she reached out to you? I found you. Others could, too.”

  “I’d be glad to hear from Alice,” Arden said after a moment.

  “You c
an’t know for sure she wouldn’t feel the same.”

  “True. But sometimes the past is best left to itself.”

  “Sometimes. What kept you going all those months? Besides Alice, of course.”

  “The thought of you,” Arden said firmly, “the child Rob and I had created. And the belief that Rob would write to me, apologize for having gone away. I swore to myself that I would forgive him anything, as long as we were reunited. In that way as well, I related closely with Lucy Snowe. ‘My hour of torment was the post-hour. ’”

  “But he never did write to you.”

  Arden laughed weakly. “No. He never did.” Suddenly, the memories were all too much. Arden put her hands over her eyes and sighed deeply.

  A moment later, she was wrapped in her daughter’s arms.

  Chapter 69

  “Before we get down to business,” Ted said, “I want to share with you something I remembered the other day. A nice memory.”

  Laura smiled. “I could use one of those right now.”

  “There was a pond on the Aldridges’ property, as you know. One afternoon I was visiting with my parents and I came upon Victoria kneeling by the edge of the pond. When I asked what she was doing, she said she was trying to catch a frog. She’d begun to put together a terrarium in her room. Of course, this was all top secret. Florence would have been horrified to learn there were slimy creatures living in her impeccably clean home. Anyway, I managed to catch the frog for Victoria, but she was suddenly terribly upset when she realized that the little guy was being kidnapped from his home and family, and she begged me to release him.”

  Laura smiled. “So, my mother had spunk even before she started to date Rob in spite of her parents’ rules! Building a terrarium behind their backs.”

  “And she was always kind, letting the frog go free.”

  “I wonder if Arden remembers that afternoon? I’ll ask her when I get back to Eliot’s Corner. So, why did you ask me here today?”