More Than You Know

by Nan Rossiter

  “Thank you,” they replied.

  Micah turned as the older couple came up behind him. “Do you remember Beryl?” he asked.

  “Of course,” they said, smiling and giving her a hug.

  “We know all the Graham girls, Micah,” his dad teased, winking at them. “You do remember that I taught English and coached cross-country at the high school they attended?” Isak and Rumer both laughed and started to stand, but Asa Coleman put up his hand. “Stay put. We just came over to say hello and how sorry we are. Your mom was a sweet lady … and she certainly knew her tea!”

  Maddie Coleman smiled too. “Your mom was such a lovely lady and a dear friend. She used to come into school and help the first graders with their reading. She was a generous soul and we all miss her.”

  Beryl smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Coleman,” she said. Then she looked down at the little girl clinging to Micah’s leg. “Who is your little pal?”

  Micah scooped her up onto his hip. “This,” he said with a grin, “is Charlotte.”

  “Hi, Charlotte,” Beryl said softly.

  The little girl blinked at her with solemn blue eyes and Micah asked, “Can you say ‘hi’?”

  “Hi,” the little girl whispered, then buried her face in the collar of Micah’s jacket.

  Just then, Lexie came out from the kitchen with their appetizer and some plates, and Micah realized they hadn’t eaten. “Well, I guess we’d better let you guys have your dinner.”

  Beryl smiled. “Micah, I’m not sure if you’re planning to come … but the service is this Saturday at eleven.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  They said good-bye and Charlotte waved shyly over her father’s shoulder. Beryl waved back, and when she sat down, Isak and Rumer both looked at her quizzically.

  “What?” Beryl asked.

  “He called you?”

  “Yup,” Beryl said matter-of-factly, reaching for a tortilla chip and dipping it in one of the salsas. “He just wanted to say how sorry he was and find out about the arrangements.”

  Isak looked at Rumer. “You saw the look on his face, right?”

  Rumer nodded. “Mmm-hmm,” she said, reaching for a chip.

  “What are you talking about?” Beryl asked, frowning.

  “The way he looked at you,” Isak said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she protested. “Micah’s married and owns a bookstore in Quincy Market.”

  Rumer shook her head. “Uh-uh,” she said with her mouth full.

  “Ber, Micah’s wife passed away three years ago,” Isak said. “She was diagnosed with cancer right after they found out she was pregnant, and she refused to have any treatment because she didn’t want to jeopardize the baby’s health. She died six months after the baby was born, and now Micah’s raising that sweet little girl all by himself.”

  “He doesn’t own the book store anymore either,” Rumer added. “I think he’s working for a small publisher.”

  “How do you know all this?” Beryl was incredulous. How did her sisters know more about Micah Coleman than she did?

  “Facebook,” Rumer said. “I told you to join.”

  Beryl groaned. “I have no interest in joining Facebook. I manage just fine keeping in touch with the people I care about.”

  Isak looked up. “And who are these people?”

  Beryl took a sip of her beer and tried to think of some names.

  Rumer grinned and teased affectionately, “Well, Ber, there’s always Millie, Ethel, Ruth, Betty …” Beryl gave Rumer a wilting look that clearly said shut up and Isak looked puzzled, but Rumer quickly covered her tracks. “I was just teasing… .”

  Lexie appeared with their sandwiches and asked if they needed anything.

  “I’ll have another drink, please,” Isak said, eyeing her sisters’ beers, which were still three-quarters full. “How about you two lightweights?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” Rumer said. “Ber, you know how to drive stick, right?”

  “Yup,” she answered with a grin.

  “So,” Isak said, ignoring the comment and eyeing Beryl curiously, “when was the last time you saw Micah?”

  Beryl shook her head and held up one finger while she swallowed a bite of her sandwich. “Mmmm … the last time I saw him was when Mum and I went to Boston for her first appointment, and that has to be”—she looked down, calculating—“almost three years ago …”

  “Well, the years haven’t touched him. He’s still cute and I love his glasses,” Rumer commented.

  “Just look at his father,” Isak mused. “I had a wicked crush on Mr. Coleman when we were in high school, and now he must be in his early seventies and he’s still incredibly good looking.” She sighed. “Some men age like fine wine—they just get better. And it’s genetic, Ber. Micah looks exactly like his dad did when I had him for English, so he’ll probably be good looking when he’s old too.”

  Rumer took a bite of her sandwich. “Did you and Micah ever date?”

  Beryl shook her head and took a sip of her beer. “Nope … just friends.”

  “Didn’t he have a crush on you, though? I vaguely remember hearing that he was going to ask you to the prom.”

  “I don’t know where you heard that, but he never did.”

  “Who did you go with?” Rumer asked. “I can’t remember.”

  Beryl took a sip of her beer. “Jimmy Dixon.”

  “Oh, yeah, now I remember.”

  “How could you forget?” Beryl teased. “You were just talking about how cute he was.”

  “Well, maybe that’s why Micah didn’t ask you—maybe Jimmy beat him to it.” Rumer paused thoughtfully. “Did Micah even go to the prom?”

  “I don’t think so,” Beryl said thoughtfully. “He was still working at the shop when I left to get ready.”

  “That explains it,” Rumer announced with absolute certainty.

  “Maybe it also explains how Jimmy Dixon turned out to be gay,” Isak teased.

  “No way!” Beryl exclaimed. “How do you know that?”

  “How do you think?” Isak asked.

  Beryl looked puzzled, but then saw the goofy looks on her sisters’ faces and groaned. “Facebook …”

  10

  Beryl hung a small sign on the window of the door, switched off the lights, and, carrying a box of chamomile in one hand while cradling Thoreau in her arms, locked the door. “Don’t you have a cat carrier?” Rumer asked.

  “It’s at my apartment and he hates it,” Beryl answered, setting the old cat gently on Rumer’s lap. “Don’t worry, he likes riding in the car.”

  She walked around to the driver’s side and got in. Isak was sulking in back because, after her second drink, they’d refused to let her drive. “That’s all we need in the paper: ‘Woman Returns Home for Mother’s Funeral and Is Arrested for DUI.’ ”

  “Especially with what happened to Dad, Isak, Mum would turn in her grave—and she’s not even buried yet.”

  Isak had resisted but soon discovered she had no choice. “Whatever,” she grumbled, climbing into the backseat.

  As they drove, Thoreau peered over Rumer’s shoulder, realized there was a third person in the car, and jumped in back to say hello. Isak spoke softly to him and stroked his head. “Do you think animals know when their owner has died?”

  “I don’t know,” Beryl said. “Thoreau hasn’t seen Mum in a long time, but he was definitely more attentive and affectionate with her before she went into the nursing home. It was almost as if he knew there was something going on.” She paused. “It’s hard to tell with Flan, though. She’s had time to adjust to living with me—but she loved visiting Mum in the nursing home.”

  “You took her to visit Mum?” Isak asked in surprise.

  “Yup,” Beryl answered, looking in the rearview mirror and watching Isak gently stroking Thoreau’s soft head. “Maybe you and Matt should get a pet to fill your empty nest.”

  “Matt and I should get something,” Isak said, “but I don’t
think it’s a pet. Counseling might be better.”

  Rumer glanced over her shoulder. “It can’t be that bad. Matt’s a great guy and he worships the ground you walk on.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” Isak mused. “I don’t know,” she said sadly. “Lately, I keep thinking I really need to eradicate the word sad from my mind, because it feels like it’s becoming my daily mental mantra—sad, sad, sad. I never seem to look forward to anything.”

  Beryl eyed her sister with new concern. “Maybe you should mention this to your doctor; there are things that help with depression. Maybe it’s not you and Matt—maybe it’s you.”

  Isak shook her head. “I don’t want to take anything.”

  “Isak,” Rumer said, “you do know alcohol is a depressant, right?”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said with a yawn, “but I don’t care—having a glass of wine at night is the only thing I do look forward to.”

  “Well, it sounds like you both just need some time to adjust to not having the kids around,” Beryl said. “It’s a shock to any marriage. You never know, you might enjoy it.”

  “I don’t know about that. I still take out four plates when I’m setting the table—and Tommy’s been in college for three years!”

  They pulled into the yard and heard the familiar chorus of peepers, whose song had reached a feverish crescendo on the warm spring night. “That sound will always remind me of this place,” Rumer said wistfully. “I wish we didn’t have to sell it.”

  As they walked up to the house, they heard a long insect-like beeeep coming from the edge of the woods. Every few seconds, at regular intervals, it happened again—and then, from across the driveway, a second long beeeep replied. “What is that?” Isak whispered.

  “It’s a pair of woodcocks,” Beryl said softly. “That was another of Mum’s favorite sounds.” She unlocked the door to let Flan out and the woodcocks grew quiet, but they soon resumed their conversation.

  When she came back in with Flan, Beryl asked them if they’d like a cup of chamomile, but they both shook their heads and retreated—Rumer to the porch and Isak to her old bedroom—to call home. Beryl put the kettle on and plopped a tea bag into a large mug with the words World’s Best Mom painted on its side. She sat down on Flan’s bed and leaned back against the oven, waiting for the water to heat. The old dog immediately wriggled onto her back for a belly rub, and Beryl obliged and thought about Micah and the news her sisters had shared. It was so sad that his wife had died at such a young age, leaving him to raise their little girl alone. It was almost like her mom’s situation.

  The teakettle started to sing and she pulled herself up. She could hear Rumer on the porch, arguing with Will, and she whispered a prayer that her sister and her husband would find some way to work things out.

  11

  Beryl woke up to the sensation of four paws landing lightly on the bed and then a small, warm body curling up beside her. She looked down and saw Thoreau lying in a long shaft of early-morning sunlight, licking his front paws with his eyes closed in contentment. She reached down to stroke his head, and he pushed it up against her hand and purred softly. “You are such a mush,” she whispered. They lay like that for a long time and she must’ve dozed off, because the next thing she heard was a flushing toilet. She looked down, realized Thoreau was gone, and rolled onto her back to stretch. Then Rumer came back in the room and threw a pillow at her.

  “Gettin’ up, lazy bones?” she teased.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she answered with a yawn.

  “I always sleep best in this old bed,” Rumer mused. “Maybe I’ll have it shipped to Montana.”

  “That’ll be good for your marriage,” Beryl teased.

  “Hey, after last night, who knows if he’s ever coming back.”

  “He’ll come around.”

  “I don’t know,” Rumer said, sitting on the edge of Beryl’s bed. “He was pretty p-oed when I told him Isak wanted to pay for their airline tickets.”

  “Well, I can understand how he feels, but Isak’s right—your son should be here for his grandmother’s funeral.”

  “Isak’s right about what?” called a voice from the hall. She peered into their room with raised eyebrows. “When are you guys going to learn?” she added with a grin. “I’m always right!” Then she ducked as two large pillows careened toward her head.

  “Ber, do we have eggs?”

  “Yup.”

  “K … I’m making scrambled. Y’all interested?”

  “Yup,” they both answered with a grin. Rumer pulled on the sweatshirt with the torn neck that she’d found in her dresser drawer and shuffled down the stairs while Beryl headed to the bathroom.

  When she joined them in the kitchen, the kettle was already clicking and Rumer was making coffee. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” Beryl announced regretfully, “but another thing we need to take care of is Mum’s obituary.”

  “Well, Ber,” Isak said, “you’re the writer. Do you feel like doing it?”

  “If you want,” Beryl said. Her writer’s mind immediately searched for the words and phrases that would best describe their mom: generous, steadfast, faithful …

  “Oh, and Tommy said he’d be honored to give a eulogy,” Isak continued as she whisked the eggs, “and Meghan said she’d be fine with a reading. They’re coming in Thursday.” She looked up. “Ru, what did Will say?”

  “He said he’d let me know by tonight,” she answered cryptically.

  “Okay, but no later, cuz we really need to figure this out.”

  After breakfast, they lounged around the table, sipping their coffee and tea, and Beryl rubbed her feet on Flan’s belly. “Do you guys feel like going to church?” she asked hopefully.

  Isak shook her head. “No … I don’t think I want to see anyone before the service. Besides, going through this house is going to take at least the whole week and then some. Do you have any idea what we’re going to do with all the furniture?” She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked around, shaking her head in dismay. “I honestly think we’re going to have to hire one of those estate companies.”

  “That’s what I suggested,” Rumer said, looking at Beryl. “Really, Ber, we have no way to dispose of—or move—any of this furniture. What are we going to do with it all?”

  “Well, I was hoping the people who buy the house might be interested in it… .” She looked around too. “Isn’t there anything you guys want?”

  “There are things I might want, but I’d have to arrange to have them shipped. Nothing is ever simple,” Isak said.

  “No, it’s not,” Beryl agreed, “not when you live thousands of miles away.”

  Rumer shook her head. “Well, I can’t even begin to think of paying to have something shipped. Maybe we could get one of those storage units.”

  “That costs money too,” Beryl said. “In this miserable market, though, maybe we don’t have to worry, right away, about having the house completely empty. Who knows how long it will take to sell. But we’re not getting anywhere just sitting here.”

  Rumer yawned, “You’re right.”

  “We need a plan,” Isak said, sitting up. “Breakfast dishes, showers, and you said we need boxes—any idea where we can get some on a Sunday?”

  “There’s some at the shop,” Beryl said, “and maybe the grocery store. They have those boxes with the handles that eggs come in. And whoever goes to the store can get some of those big black garbage bags too.” She paused. “You guys can shower first. I’ll clean up.”

  “Go ahead,” Rumer said, nodding to Isak. “You cooked. I’ll help Ber.”

  An hour later, Rumer and Isak went to the store and left Beryl sitting on the front porch with her laptop open, Flan at her feet, and Thoreau curled up in the wicker chair beside her, basking in the sunshine. She began to work on her mom’s obituary, distracted by the thought that her sisters would forget something. They had a key to the shop and instructions to retrieve the remaining chocolate croissants from t
he freezer, as well as any boxes that might be piled in the storeroom. “Don’t forget the garbage bags,” she called. Rumer gave her a thumbs-up as Isak peeled out of the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust floating across the yard. Beryl shook her head. “That girl will never grow up!” she said with a sigh, scratching Flan’s head.

  “Now, where was I?” she murmured, pulling her legs up under her and running her fingers through her still-damp hair. “Mum,” she murmured with a sigh, “I don’t think this will ever be a truly complete story if we don’t figure out who David is …” She started to tap away on her keyboard, writing down their family history from memory. When she finally had a rough draft laid out, she stood to stretch her legs and went inside to make a cup of tea. While the water heated, she went into her mom’s office to see if she could find something with her grandfather’s middle name on it.

  She sat at her mom’s desk and looked around the room—there were papers everywhere. Feeling oddly intrusive, she pulled open the top drawer; it was filled with papers, too, but in an envelope in the corner she found a small key with a tag attached to it with string. The tag had something illegible scribbled on it. She looked at it closely; it was old and definitely not a house or car key. Just then, the kettle started to sing, demanding her attention, and she dropped the key back in the drawer and went to the kitchen. As she did, Rumer and Isak came through the screen door, laughing and clumsily carrying piles of flattened boxes.

  “There’s more in the car,” Isak said, nodding in that direction while making her way into the living room. Beryl turned off the kettle and headed out to the car.

  “So, how’d you make out with the obit?” Isak asked, coming up behind her.

  “Pretty good, I think. You’ll have to read it.” She lifted out the rest of the boxes, and Isak reached for the sack with the croissants while Rumer reached for the rest of the bags.

  “We bought lobster ravioli and vodka sauce for dinner,” Rumer said with a grin. “And cranberry chicken salad wraps from 12 Pine Street for lunch.”