by Nan Rossiter
“Actually, I was just reading about the accident,” Beryl said. She looked at her sisters. “There were some newspaper clippings in that drawer.” She looked back at Micah. “Our mom never talked about it, but I’d really like to hear what your mom remembers.”
Micah nodded but didn’t say more.
“I never knew anything about the other driver,” Isak said, looking up.
“I didn’t either,” Rumer added.
“His obituary is one of the clippings,” Beryl said quietly.
There was an awkward silence and Rumer looked up from peeling a carrot. “You really should stay for dinner, Micah. We’re having lobster ravioli in a vodka sauce that looks like it’s to die for; it’s from that new fresh pasta place in town.”
“Sounds tempting,” Micah said, “but …”
“No buts,” Isak chimed in cheerfully. “Just call your mom and tell her you’re having dinner with the Graham girls—she’ll understand.”
Micah looked at Beryl for support, but she just laughed and shook her head. “I know, they’re unrelenting. But honestly, I think you should stay, too—it would cheer us up.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” he said with a smile, “how can I possibly say no?” He went out on the porch to call home, and Isak and Rumer both grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
Beryl shook her head and, in a hushed voice, whispered, “You guys are crazy, you know that? We’re supposed to be getting ready for a funeral.”
“Hey,” Isak whispered, looking over her shoulder to see where Micah was, “we are getting ready, but that doesn’t mean our lives have to come to a screeching halt. Besides, I’m sure Mum’s looking down and smiling—and giving a thumbs-up too. In fact, she probably guided Micah over here.”
“His mom guided him over here,” Beryl whispered, taking down four of their mom’s blue Staffordshire plates.
“If I’m staying,” Micah said, coming back in the kitchen, “you have to give me a job.”
“Jobs are hard to come by,” Isak teased, “but you can set the table.”
Micah laughed as Beryl handed him the plates.
“These are kind of fancy,” he commented, admiring the plates.
“Well, dinner’s always a special occasion around here,” Beryl said. “Growing up, we always had candles, music, fresh flowers … and used special plates.”
“In fact, we need some music,” Rumer said, following the same train of thought. “Ber, want to pick out another album?”
“Somethin’ old and classy,” Isak said as she stirred the vodka sauce.
“I don’t think Mum has anything but old and classy.” She looked at Micah. “Want to help?” He reached for his glass and followed her into the office.
“Don’t mind the mess,” she said, waving her hand across the room.
“Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse.”
He peered over her shoulder as she flipped through the albums and she felt his arm touching her back. She breathed in his wonderful, clean scent—was it soap or aftershave? She couldn’t tell, but she could feel her heart pounding. “See anything you like?”
“They’re all great; it’s all the same stuff I grew up on. How about that one?” he asked.
She pulled the album out of the box, slid it from its sleeve, and carefully placed it on the turntable. “This was one of my mom’s favorites,” she said, gently setting the needle on the spinning disc. The record crackled to life and was followed by the unmistakable, melancholy voice of Billie Holiday singing “I’m a Fool to Want You.”
Micah took a sip from his glass. “My dad used to always listen to these old songs.”
Beryl nodded. “I know what you mean. We were listening to Frank Sinatra before you came and it brought back so many memories of dancing around the kitchen with my mom.” She shook her head. “It must’ve been so hard for her to carry on without my dad, but she never let on; she just tried to fill our lives and our home with happy memories.” She paused, suddenly realizing she was telling him something he already knew. “My sisters told me about your wife, Micah—I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” he said, pressing his lips together in a sad smile. “It’s been hard. I met Beth when we were in college. We had so much in common—my mom said we were like two peas in a pod. We’d both wanted a big family, but she had trouble getting—and staying—pregnant. She had two miscarriages before Charlotte, so when she was diagnosed with cancer, she didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the pregnancy. After Charlotte was born, she lived long enough to see her smile … and hear her laugh …” His voice trailed off, his eyes glistening.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again, wishing she had the courage to give him a hug, but she felt foolish and awkward, so she just laid her hand gently on his arm.
He looked up. “What can you do? Death is a part of life—as you well know.” He shook his head and smiled. “How’d we get on this subject anyway? I’m supposed to be cheering you up!”
Beryl laughed. “It’s my fault—I brought it up.”
Micah looked down at the spinning record. “Can they hear that in the kitchen?”
“Yup, my mom put speakers everywhere in the house. She liked being able to hear it no matter where she was or what she was doing.”
“She was a smart lady!”
As they walked past the desk, Beryl pointed. “Those are the clippings.”
Micah stopped to study them. He picked up the picture of her dad. “You have his eyes,” he said with a smile.
“That’s funny—everyone always said I look like my mom.”
“You do, but I can see your dad too. It’s funny how that happens. My brother Noah looks exactly like my dad, and I don’t think I look anything like my brother, but everyone says I look like my dad too. Go figure.”
Beryl nodded. “Well, look at us—somehow my parents managed to have a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.”
Micah laughed. “It’s like having chocolate, yellow, and black Labrador puppies all in the same litter.”
Beryl gave him a funny look. “Nice analogy!”
Micah laughed again. “Sorry.”
He picked up one of the other clippings. “Why did your mom save these?”
Beryl shook her head. “I don’t know. I just came across them and I haven’t really had time to figure it out.”
“Do you know who this is?”
“Well, it says he’s a painter.”
“He’s a very famous painter. He’s in his seventies now and I heard he lives up near North Conway, but he’s a bit of a recluse. Could your mom have known him?”
Beryl shrugged uncertainly. “Well, she worked at MacDowell Colony for a while after my dad died and”—she pointed to the clipping of the Old Man of the Mountain—“this caption says he was there in 1969.”
“Seems to me he stayed at MacDowell more than once. His paintings are pretty valu—”
“Dinner’s ready,” Rumer said, popping her head in the doorway. They followed her into the kitchen where steaming plates of lobster ravioli in creamy vodka sauce and colorful salads were already on the table.
“Need a refill?” Isak asked, holding up the red wine.
“Sure,” Beryl said.
They all sat down at the kitchen table with the late-day sun streaming through the windows.
“So,” Beryl said, “I think I found a clue.” She described the clippings and Micah elaborated on what he knew about David Gilead. Rumer and Isak listened intently and, between bites, asked questions.
Finally, Isak leaned back and took a sip from her glass. “I don’t know,” she said skeptically. “What connection could she have possibly had to him? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe she liked his artwork,” Rumer suggested hopefully.
“She worked at MacDowell,” Beryl reminded them. “They probably met there and became friends.”
“Do you think he’s the one who gave her the ring?” Rumer asked.
Micah looked up and B
eryl said, “I’ll get it.” She pushed back her chair and, moments later, returned with the ring and the card.
Micah studied the card. “This painting is definitely reminiscent of David Gilead’s work and the signature is spot-on.” He looked up with raised eyebrows. “From what he’s written, it seems like they were more than friends.”
Beryl shook her head. “How can that be? How could we have not known—unless we were too young and it ended before we were old enough to be aware of it?”
Isak sighed. “I guess that’s possible, but I wish we had more to go on.”
“Maybe there is,” Rumer said. “We still have a lot of papers to go through.”
Isak stood to clear the table and Beryl went to the office to get the clippings. She spread them out on the table and her sisters studied them.
“Dad looks like he’s about seventeen,” Isak said with a sad smile.
Rumer nodded and then pointed to the image of the artist. “Look at those eyes—talk about seeing right through someone!” Then she picked up the photo of Catherine Gilead. “I wonder if this was ripped by accident … or on purpose?!”
Beryl looked up and realized that Micah was standing at the sink up to his elbows in soapsuds and the dish drain was almost full. “Hey, you’re not supposed to do those!”
She reached for a towel and started to dry, and he smiled. “I can’t leave you with all this.”
“Are you leaving?” she asked, sounding disappointed.
He nodded. “Afraid so, I have to tuck in my little pal.”
“You should’ve brought her.”
“I would’ve, if I’d known.”
“You didn’t have any apple crisp.”
“My mom made two, so I’ll have some later—probably with vanilla ice cream,” he said with a grin.
“I’m coming to your house then.”
“Where’s our vanilla ice cream?” Isak teased, feigning disappointment.
Micah laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know—in your freezer?” he asked hopefully. He rinsed the sink, then dried his hands. “I do have to go, though.”
Beryl nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Bye, Micah,” Rumer and Isak called. “Thanks for doing the dishes, and thank your mom for the apple crisp.”
“Bye! Thanks for dinner,” he called back, slipping on his jacket.
Beryl pulled on her fleece and held the door for him. Then she looked back at Flannery lying on her bed with all four legs in the air. “Flan, do you need to get busy?” Flan grunted, clambered to her feet, stretched, yawned, and trotted out the door.
“She’s such a character,” Micah observed with a grin.
“She is, indeed,” Beryl said, nodding. “She helps keep everything in perspective.”
“Dogs’ll do that,” Micah agreed.
They stood by his car and he nodded to the two cars next to it. “I’m guessing by the New Hampshah plate,” he teased, “the cool Mini Coopah is yahs.”
Beryl laughed. “Yup! You sound like my sistahs.”
He laughed. “I usually try not to sound like a New Englander.” He opened his door and she saw the car seat in back. “A Honda wagon,” she mused. “I can’t remember the last time I saw one of these on the road.”
“It’s a vintage 1997,” he said proudly. “They don’t make ’em anymore. It has over two hundred fifty thousand miles on it. I‘ve thought about trading it in, but I’m having a little trouble letting go.” He paused. “It’s actually Beth’s car …” he added, his voice trailing off.
“I know what you mean,” Beryl commiserated. “It’d be like letting go of this old house—it’s so full of memories.”
Micah nodded and started to get in the car, but then leaned against the frame, hesitating. “Ber, I … I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” he stammered, “and I know you’re going to be busy … but …” He cleared his throat and shook his head. “What I mean is—”
“Micah,” Beryl interrupted with a smile, saving him, “if you get a chance tomorrow, could you call me—I know I’ll probably need a break from all this.”
He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She laughed. “Now, you better get going or Charlotte will be sound asleep.”
He waved as he pulled away and, with Flan standing by her side, watching him go, too, Beryl waved back and smiled.
“Ber, we found more stuff!” Isak called, hearing the screen door squeak and bang shut.
Beryl found them back in their mom’s office. Rumer held up a stack of white envelopes with a red ribbon around them, and Isak held up a small pile of lined notebook paper filled with their mom’s long, familiar handwriting. She handed the pile to Beryl and continued to sift through the drawer’s contents.
Beryl studied the top sheet. It was like all the others, but it was wrinkled and it had a stain on it—round like a cup. Beryl read silently:
I haven’t written anything in a long time—but an old friend came to see me today. He told me his wife had died. I told him I was sorry. At first, I wasn’t sure of his name—but, now, I know it was David.
As we sat together, I could see tears in his eyes….
“It’s very hard to lose a loved one,” I said, reaching for his hand.
He nodded as tears spilled down his cheeks.
The rest of the pages were held together with a rubber band and clipped to the top page was a blue envelope with their names written on it in their mother’s hand.
PART II
For now we see in a mirror, dimly;
but then face to face: now I know in part;
but then I shall know even as also I am known.
—I Corinthians 13:12
15
Beryl pulled her leg up under her as she sat in one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch. Taking a sip of her tea, she looked at the pond reflecting the pink and orange sunset stretching across the sky and leaned back, listening to the peepers and feeling oddly content.
“Do we need the porch lights?” Isak called.
“Not yet,” Beryl called back. “Candles would be nice, though.”
“Got ’em,” Rumer called from the kitchen. Moments later, her sisters joined her on the porch, Rumer bringing the candles, already lit, and Isak carrying glasses and a newly opened bottle of wine.
“Can the beasts come out?” she asked.
Beryl nodded and Isak held the door open. The old bulldog waddled out, plopped down at Beryl’s feet, and promptly lifted her leg over her head. “Not if you’re going to do that, though,” Beryl warned, nudging Flan with her foot. Flannery looked up indignantly, snorted, rested her blocky head on her paws, and looked gloomy. Thoreau, meanwhile, curled up happily on Rumer’s lap and purred loudly as she stroked under his chin.
“Okay,” Beryl said, taking a deep breath, “are you ready?”
They nodded and, with the candles flickering in the warm evening breeze, she opened the blue envelope, slipped out the stationery, and began to read—her voice soft and clear and, to her sisters, sounding remarkably like their mom’s.
To my beloved daughters—who are dearer to me than life itself!
It’s very odd to sit down at this old kitchen table—the scene of so many fond memories—and write a letter, knowing you probably won’t read it until after my time on this lovely old earth has passed—but who knows how things will turn out?
Perhaps the good Lord will spare me and allow me to tell you these things instead—though I don’t deserve to.
My life has been blessed, dear ones. Not only have I been given three lovely daughters to fill my days with joy and wonder, but in my lifetime, I’ve loved—and been loved by—two good men—yes, two!
Your father was everything to me, and when he died, I was devastated. I didn’t know how I would manage—how I would carry on and raise three little girls alone. But the Lord held me close in those dark days and gave me the strength I needed; I pray every day that you, too, will find Him to be a source of stren
gth and guidance, no matter what trial you’re facing.
I never expected to love again, but when David came into my life, I was surprised and swept away. Ours is the story I leave behind. Try as I might, though, I’m afraid bits and pieces are missing—as my memory has already begun to fail. Only recently has it occurred to me that you will come across these pages one day—and then you will know me fully—and I pray you will forgive me, just as I pray God will forgive us both.
Don’t be sad for me, dear ones! I’ve lived and loved with all my heart! And I will always love you—much more than you know!
Mum
Beryl handed the thin blue page to Rumer and waited while her sisters read it for themselves; then she pulled the rubber band from the stack of papers on her lap and took a deep breath. “Still ready?” she asked with raised eyebrows. They sipped their wine and nodded.
It’s funny how one knows, deep down, when something’s wrong. At first it was just little things—like trying to remember a name, or a word, or where I’d put something—but lately it feels as if long shadows, the kind that fall across the backyard late in the day, are slowly creeping across my mind. I can’t bring myself to say the words, but in my heart, I’m terrified that the lovely, silken days of my life will be lost in these long finger-like shadows—that my voice will grow silent, and a strange darkness will close in around me, stealing all that is dear. It is my fervent hope and prayer, however, that—by writing down my most intimate memories—they won’t be lost in the shadows forever.
As I write now, I find it so very difficult to believe that I could ever forget the first time I saw him—it is as clear to me as if it happened yesterday. It was one of those steamy August evenings when the air is so heavy all you can think about is standing in front of a fan or plunging into icy water. Unfortunately, there was no time for such frivolities; it was my second night working at MacDowell and I’d been assigned to serve dinner. I was late, and the hall was already crowded and busy. Some of the staff had unexpectedly taken off to go to a three-day concert in upstate New York, so we were very shorthanded. John pointed to my tables and I hurried over to deposit steaming bowls of garlic mashed potatoes and oven-warmed platters of rare roast beef on the rustic oak table boards. It was then that I saw him, sitting near the open windows, talking with another artist and sopping up his salad dressing with one of the hot, crusty rolls we serve. The late-day sunlight fell across his face, illuminating cheerful laugh lines that crinkled around his eyes. He was roguishly handsome—his nose angled straight and narrow, his chin chiseled and square—the combination giving him the look of an aristocrat. His hair was long, parted to the side, and fell carelessly over his eyes, and the back was cut in a thick dark wedge, forming a duck’s tail against his sunburned neck. As I watched him, he reached up to brush it back with one sweep of his long brown fingers—a gesture I would grow to know very well and, later on, when I was missing him most, ache to see again. Both men looked up when I set down their food and he smiled, his dark blue eyes reflecting the sunlight. Flustered and still trying to catch up, I said I’d be right back, hurried away, and returned with a blue ceramic bowl filled with grilled summer vegetables, swimming in melted butter, and a gravy boat brimming with rich brown mushroom gravy, which, I discovered later, was a hearty meal in itself when sopped up with those warm, buttery rolls. I set these down, noticed their glasses were empty, and asked if they’d like some iced tea. They both hesitated, looking perplexed, as if they hadn’t realized they didn’t have anything to drink, and I thought to myself: It’s not a hard question.
