by Nan Rossiter
“The house doesn’t have to be spotless,” Beryl said. “It is what it is.”
“It won’t be spotless, that’s for sure,” Isak retorted, looking at Rumer. “We should probably leave around two—just to be safe—especially if it’s raining.” She started to jot notes on her paper but continued to talk. “Ber, you’re going to stay here and work on your eulogy, right?”
Beryl nodded.
“We should also get some pictures of Mum together for the service. Maybe you could start on that if you have time.”
“I have to check on the shop too.”
Isak looked up. “Are there any more croissants?”
“I don’t think so,” Beryl said, pouring hot water over her tea leaves. She put a slice of bread in the toaster. “Anyone want a piece of cinnamon toast?”
“I will,” Rumer said, getting up to pour a cup of coffee. “Isak, do you want coffee?”
Isak looked up. “Yes, please—to both.”
Beryl put in two more slices, reached into the cabinet for the cinnamon and sugar, and when the hot toast popped up, immediately spread butter on it and then generously sprinkled the sugary mixture on top—Mia had always said, When it comes to cinnamon toast, timing is everything. She brought a plate over to Isak; then she and Rumer both took big bites of the warm, sweet toast—it was heavenly. “Mmm!” Rumer said, nodding her approval. Beryl smiled and looked over at Isak, whose toast sat untouched as she continued to write.
An hour later, Isak and Rumer left Beryl sitting at the old kitchen table alone, listening to the rain, and staring at the blank Word document on her laptop that she’d already titled and saved as “Mum.” After ten minutes of staring at it, she got up to look out at the rain. She could see the raindrops splashing on the pond, and she pictured the frogs and peepers sitting happily on their lily pads, enjoying every drop. “Oh, Mum,” she whispered with tears in her eyes. “Where do I begin?”
She sat back down and tried to picture her mom’s face, but the image that kept coming to her mind was the one that always broke her heart. It was of her mom, sitting alone at the end of the hall in the nursing home, watching her go—and waving tentatively with the sweet smile that said she loved her with all her heart. Tears spilled down Beryl’s cheeks. “This isn’t working,” she said, pushing back from the table again. As she did, she heard car doors slamming, followed by cheerful voices drawing closer to the house. She looked out and saw five hooded figures with umbrellas and trays of food climbing the porch steps.
Wiping her eyes, Beryl hurried over to open the door. “Come in! Come in!” she said.
The ladies were all laughing at their damp dilemma and shook their heads. “We can’t—we have more!” One at a time, they handed her their covered casseroles and hurried back to their cars. They returned with coffee cakes, rolls, a large meat platter, deviled eggs, a big bowl of fresh fruit, and a tremendous chef’s salad with three kinds of dressing.
“Oh, my goodness!” Beryl exclaimed. “Look at all this food!”
Finally, the ladies all bustled into the kitchen, leaving their umbrellas on the porch and filling the house with life, while Flannery nosed about happily. They pushed back their hoods and Beryl realized she knew each one—they were all teachers from the elementary school and they each came forward to give her a hug.
“I’m so sorry, Beryl dear,” Mrs. Williams said. “Your mom was such a lovely person.”
“Oh, hon,” Mrs. Conn whispered. “We loved your mom so much.”
Mrs. Bayers smiled sadly and looked in Beryl’s eyes. “Your mom was such a dear person. We’ve missed having her visit our classroom.”
And Mrs. Shemeley came forward and gave her a long hug. “It’s so hard to lose your mom,” she said softly.
Finally, Mrs. Coleman put her arms around her. “If you need anything,” she whispered, “you let us know.”
Beryl nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“It’s okay to cry,” she said gently. The ladies all smiled and nodded and began chatting at once. Beryl wiped her eyes and they each explained what they’d brought.
Mrs. Shemeley smiled. “Bill made his famous lemon chicken—and he said if you need a pie or anything, let him know.”
Beryl nodded, trying to absorb everything. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, suddenly remembering her manners.
“Oh, we’d love to, but we can’t stay,” said the chorus of voices. “Thank you, though.” They pulled on their hoods and each gave her another hug as they made their way to the door. “Please give our condolences to your sisters and their families. We’ll see you on Saturday. Don’t forget to let us know if you need anything.” And as quickly as they came, they were gone.
“Thank you,” Beryl called after them.
They waved and hurried through the rain to their cars. “You’re welcome!” they called back.
Beryl watched as they pulled away and then turned to make room in the fridge. She reached for the meat platter but stopped, pulled out her phone, and slowly typed: don’t get cold cuts! She hit Send and, within seconds, Isak had written back: too late! Beryl shook her head and mumbled, “Told you to wait.” She pulled a slice of provolone off the tray, tore it in half, popped the bigger half in her mouth, and gave the smaller one to Flannery. “C’mon, Flan-O,” she said, “let’s go find the photo albums.”
She went into the family room and pulled two big albums off the bookshelf. As she did, a folder that had been tucked between them fell to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Beryl knelt to pick them up, but then stopped and stared. Scattered across the floor were a dozen black-and-white photos of her mom sitting next to a handsome dark-haired man, whose contemplative smile and sparkling eyes would steal any woman’s heart. The photos had obviously been taken aboard a sailboat, and in all of them he had his arms around her or his head against hers. Beryl looked at the folder; the year—1986—was scrawled on the tab, and when she opened it, she realized there were two more pictures that hadn’t fallen out. The first was of the man, standing alone next to the mast, looking out to sea, and the other was of the gorgeous forty-four-foot sloop on which they’d sailed. The name Sweet Indiscretion was painted on its bow and, under the name, was painted its home port—Bermuda! She gazed at her mom’s face and smiled—she’d never seen her look happier.
She gathered the pictures together, slipped them back into the folder, and was carrying everything to the kitchen, when she heard a loud knock on the door. Flannery bolted in front of her, trying to get to the door first and almost tripped her in the process. “Flan,” she said in frustration, “could you not do that?!” She set everything on the table and opened the door.
An older gentleman was standing on the porch, holding the most beautiful blue hydrangea. He had raindrops dripping from the brim of his hat. “I was beginning to think no one was home,” he said. “Is this the Graham residence?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” Beryl answered.
“That’s okay,” he said, smiling and holding out the plant. “This is for you.”
Beryl looked surprised as she took the plant from him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, tipping his hat.
She brought the tremendous, wet plant inside, set it on the counter, slid out the damp card, and stared at the words: In memory of your beloved mum. With deepest sympathy, David.
27
It was still raining when Isak and Rumer pulled in the driveway, and Beryl slipped into her jacket and went to help. “You’re not going to believe what I found,” she shouted as they carried bags of groceries from the car.
“What?” they asked breathlessly.
She looked at their wet hair and jackets. “You have to be completely dry before I show you so you don’t drip on them. In the meantime,” she said, opening the fridge door, “we have plenty of food! All the teachers from the elementary school were here, and they said to tell you how sorry they are. You should’ve waited. They really ou
tdid themselves.”
“You’re right, we should’ve,” Isak said wearily, hanging her jacket on the back of a chair.
“Where’d that come from?” Rumer asked, seeing the hydrangea.
“The florist delivered it,” Beryl answered, showing them the card.
“No way!” Rumer exclaimed.
“I guess we don’t need to worry about getting in touch with him,” Isak said.
“I guess we don’t …” Beryl said, still feeling the sting of their disagreement.
“Okay, I’m dry enough,” Rumer said, toweling her damp hair. “What’d you find?” Beryl pulled out the folder and spread the pictures on the table.
“Holy Sh-ugar!” Isak said softly.
“You can say that again,” Rumer whispered.
They studied the photos for several minutes. Finally, Isak sighed and said, “Well, a picture is definitely worth a thousand words!”
“How the heck did she pull off a trip to Bermuda without us knowing?” Rumer asked.
“The folder says it was in 1986—so we must’ve all been in college.”
“Unbelievable,” Isak said. “I wonder if they went anywhere else.” She studied the photo of the sailboat. “Sweet Indiscretion,” she murmured. “That’s very telling,” she said with a smile. “What I’d really like, though, is to find David’s drawings. They must be in the house somewhere.” She glanced at the clock. “Anyway, how’d you make out? Did you get anywhere with the eulogy?”
“I started it,” Beryl said with a sigh, “and that’s the hard part.”
“Find any other pictures? Because we can’t use these,” Isak said with a grin. “Can you imagine?”
“That would certainly surprise everyone,” Beryl said, laughing. “The reserved, little tea lady with her famous, very handsome … and very illicit lover.” She handed them some of the family pictures she’d pulled from their old family albums, including some from Mia’s childhood.
“Are you sure this isn’t you?” Isak said, holding up a picture of their mom when she was twelve years old. “It looks just like you!”
Beryl laughed. “It says 1954, silly, so, no, it’s not.”
“These are great, Ber,” Rumer said, handing them back to her. “Now we just need to get some poster board to put them on.”
“I’ll stop and get some on my way to the shop, and I’ll make copies of the story so we each have one.”
Isak nodded. “I’m going to clean the bathrooms before we leave.”
They all got to work—cleaning, dusting, vacuuming, and pulling the couch out into a bed.
“Any idea where the cot might be?” Isak shouted over the vacuum.
“Mum used to keep it in the closet in the spare bedroom,” Beryl called back.
Isak disappeared into the room where they’d just put fresh sheets on the double bed. When she didn’t reappear, Beryl went to check on her. “Did you find it?”
“I did,” she said with a smile, “and, behind it, I found this …” She held up a large, old-style drawing tablet. “And this!” She pointed to a large, flat package wrapped in brown paper leaning against her leg. “Let’s go into Mum’s room—the light’s better. Call Ru!”
“Rumer, come quick!” Beryl hollered down the stairs.
Rumer switched off the vacuum and ran up the stairs. “What’s the matter?” she asked, her face filled with concern.
“Come see,” Isak said excitedly as she leaned the painting against the bed. Then she picked up the tablet and, after a brief hesitation, opened it up and slowly turned the pages as her sisters looked on. They were stunned by its contents. Each page was a drawing of Mia in a different pose … and in varying stages of undress. And as they came to the last few pages, it became clear that the artist had finally convinced his model to pose nude.
Isak whistled softly. Rumer and Beryl both nodded in agreement, and Isak glanced at her phone—it was two o’clock. “Damn! We have to go, Ru, but I want to see what’s in the package too.”
“We have time,” Rumer insisted eagerly. “Go ahead.”
Isak laid the ensconced painting on the bed and picked up the end of the dry, yellow masking tape. It practically crumbled in her hand as she pulled it away, leaving a brown stain where it had held the paper closed for many years. Isak slowly removed the paper wrap while Beryl lifted the painting by its hanging wire and leaned it against the headboard; they all gazed at it in amazement. It was a portrait of Mia sitting next to a window. She was wearing a beautiful ochre-colored robe that had delicate embroidery stitched around the collar. The robe was open, allowing the late-day sunlight to fall seductively across her body—and making the entire painting glow in an ethereal light.
28
“Do you want a coffee?” Isak asked, spying a Dunkin’ Donuts in the airport terminal.
“Sure,” Rumer said.
They stood in line and when they reached the counter, Rumer was about to order her usual hazelnut with cream, but at the last minute, she had a change of heart and ordered a hot cocoa with whipped cream. Isak gave her a funny look and she responded with a grin, “You only live once!”
Isak shrugged and ordered her usual, no-nonsense black.
“Anything else?” the woman behind the counter asked.
Rumer eyed the crullers.
“Nothing for me,” Isak said, pulling her wallet out of her bag.
“I guess not,” Rumer said, deciding to show some measure of restraint as she reached into her shoulder pouch, but Isak motioned for her to put her wallet away. “I’ve got it,” she insisted.
Rumer shrugged. “All right, but next time it’s on me.”
Sipping slowly from their hot cups, they studied the flight schedule monitor nearby and realized that Will and Rand’s flight had been delayed. Finding seats near a window, they settled in to wait and Isak checked her phone. She’d received a text from Meghan around four o’clock telling her they were on their way, but that they were thinking of stopping somewhere for dinner. Isak had texted back that there were all kinds of restaurants off I-84, especially off exit 32 in Southington, but there also was plenty of food at Grammie’s if they could wait. Meghan had written back that she didn’t think Tommy could wait—he was starving. And Isak had sent back a smiley face and said she was looking forward to seeing them, but Meghan hadn’t replied—hardly like her.
Isak tried to put it out of her mind and imagined the hugs they’d be sharing in a few short hours—and the surprise on her sisters’ faces when they saw how grown up their niece and nephew had become, especially Tommy, who’d been sporting facial hair the last time she saw him. Mum would’ve loved seeing everyone, she thought sadly.
She stared at her phone, willing her daughter to write back, but the screen stayed ominously dark. “What’s the matter?” Rumer asked, glancing over.
“Nothing,” she said, looking up. “I just thought Meghan would respond to my last text. I always worry when I don’t hear back right away.”
“She probably fell asleep,” Rumer reassured her. “She’s been up late studying for exams and everything.”
“You’re right,” Isak said with a sigh. “I don’t think moms ever stop worrying, though. Do you think Mum ever stopped?”
They looked at each other. “No!” they both said, laughing.
“She had good reason to worry,” Rumer teased, “with you in the house!” She licked her whipped cream and continued, “We just got Rand a phone last year. He drove us crazy until we did. Will was the holdout—he didn’t want the extra expense. But I wanted him to have one so I could reach him, or he could reach me if he had a problem. So we made a deal with him that he always had to answer if it was me calling, even if he was in the middle of a video game or hanging out with his friends. But I can’t tell you how many times he hasn’t kept his end of the deal—and when he doesn’t, I always imagine the worst, like he’s been abducted or hit by a car. It drives me crazy, and I get on his case about it, but he just complains that I worry too much.
”
“Maybe you should take it away for a week,” Isak suggested.
Rumer nodded. “I’ve thought of that, but then I really wouldn’t be able to reach him.”
Isak laughed. “It’s a vicious cycle.” She paused thoughtfully. “If you think about it, that’s nothing compared to the stuff we pulled. My kids are so good compared to how I was. I don’t know what Matt and I did differently, because Mum was a good parent—strict and always there for us—but when I think back to some of the crazy things we did—the parties we had and the amount of alcohol we consumed—I honestly think we’re lucky to be alive.”
Rumer smiled. “Remember the time we said we were sleeping over Jenny Hollister’s house and the boys told their parents they were camping, and then we all met at the abandoned barn?”
“I remember,” Isak said, smiling, but then looked puzzled. “Was Ber there?”
“No, she was too young.”
“I was in tenth or eleventh grade,” Isak reminisced with a smile, “and we got Sue Burton to buy us a case of beer.”
“And Jenny’s sister bought us some Boone’s Farm—and then Adam Wiley showed up with a dime bag …”
“Adam Wiley,” Isak said wistfully. “Damn, he was cute. Did you know we spent the night in the hayloft?”
Rumer laughed. “Everyone knew that!”
Isak laughed too. “Oh, well, we had some good times. But I’d absolutely kill my kids if they ever pulled something like that.”
“I’m sure they’ve had their share of fun—fun you don’t know about!”
“You’re probably right,” Isak said, looking at her messages again. “Okay—if Meghan’s asleep, I’m texting Tommy.” She sent him a quick note that asked: how’re you doin’? Then she waited expectantly and, after ten more minutes of staring at her dark screen, she whispered, “Okay, that made it worse.”
Beryl sat in front of her laptop with a pot of English tea steeping beside her. She glanced up, realized she’d forgotten all about the tea, and poured herself a cup. Then she wrapped her hands around the steaming mug and leaned back to reread what she’d just written. She made a few edits with one hand and took a sip, wishing she had a scone. Then she remembered the cookies and got up to get one. As she sat back down, there was a knock on the door.
