“I didn’t say that.” Faith returned the voucher to him. “Besides, it’s not my decision.”
“Good, because rumor has it the others are full up. No room at the inn, as they say.”
“Can’t you stay with your father?”
“Ever since he downsized last year, he doesn’t have much more space than I had at the restaurant.”
“Why did he downsize?”
“Said he was trying to simplify things. Cut costs.”
“Really?” Was Bruce’s scaling back a result of his troubles at the paper?
“My mother really loved that house,” David continued. “She’d be sad to know he sold it. Anyway, staying with him in that confined space would be . . . counterproductive. Bruce and me, we’re like oil and water.”
“Come on. My mother and I aren’t exactly BFFs, and we’re managing. Given the circumstances, couldn’t you try to make it work?”
“It’s complicated, Faith. When my mother died, I lost my ally. She always got me, so much more so than he did. Maybe because she and I were more left-brain, ‘different drummer’ kind of people. Where with my father, things always came very easily. For example, one day he decided this town needed a newspaper and built the Beacon from nothing.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You built a business, too.”
“I did, eventually. But back when I first told him my plan to go and work in the islands, he wasn’t thrilled. He hated seeing me give up college. Chasing a pipe dream, I believe were his words.”
“What did you do?”
“I left anyway, without even saying good-bye.” He sniffed. “Not my proudest moment.”
“But you came back.”
David held up his hand. “I did. Prodigal son. Today, we’re a work in progress, and I’d rather not rock that boat. He did offer his couch, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather stay here. I do qualify, you know.” David waved his voucher at her again.
“Yes, you do. I guess if it’s okay with my mother, it’s okay with me.” Privately, Faith wasn’t so sure this kitchen would be big enough for both of them. But David’s presence might allow her to explore Bruce’s motives for insinuating himself into the inn’s—and therefore her mother’s—business. Before she could frame her first question, the slam of a car door scuttled her plan. “And there’s my mother now.”
The two went outside to help Connie unload the car.
“Would you believe the supermarket generator blew right after I paid?” Connie asked once she was inside, setting the last of the groceries on the counter. “The entire place went dark. All the shoppers behind me were out of luck.”
“I’m not surprised,” said David. “They’ve been running that generator nonstop. They’re the only game in town until the power is restored.”
“I don’t know where we’d be without your dad’s generator, David. On my way back, I saw a guy on the highway selling generators out of a trailer. He had a line of customers a mile long.” She left the room with an armload of paper products, leaving Faith and David alone in the kitchen.
“Desperate times, huh, Faith?”
Faith produced a net bundle from a grocery bag and dangled it in front of him. “What I desperately need is to have these onions chopped.”
“I’m on it.”
Despite her shock at David’s new living arrangements, Faith had to admit she enjoyed collaborating with him on the evening meal. His unorthodox training aside, the man clearly knew his way around a kitchen, chopping the vegetables for Faith’s chicken curry with the dexterity of a classically trained chef, then cleaning up in his own wake, methodically washing, wiping and storing utensils as soon as he finished with them.
“Do you mind?” he asked, a hand on the transistor radio. When Faith shook her head, David switched from the news station it had been tuned to since her arrival to a Spanish music station. Humming as he washed the last of the cookware, David then salsaed out to the living room to invite Fred and Mona to join them for a cup of tea. Dish towel draped over his arm, he fussed over the couple’s table, speaking in an exaggerated Italian accent, his antics reviving the subdued Fred.
Indeed, once David departed for some pre-dusk surfing, Faith realized that her time with him in the kitchen had been the first occasion she had truly laughed since Nadine made landfall. The ponytailed chef with the surfboards in his jeep brought considerably more to the table than a paper sack of kala jeera.
His absence afforded Faith a chance to discuss Mona’s earlier episode with her mother. “You should have told me when it happened,” she said, as she and Connie put out plates and silverware for dinner.
“I know.” Her mother shook her head. “It broke my heart to watch her. I wanted to talk to you about it. It’s one thing to be a bit forgetful, but if Mona’s a danger to herself or Fred, we might need to make a change.”
“It’s lucky David knows Fred and Mona. He helped to calm her.”
“Yes. I’d say he’s helped quite a bit.” Connie’s eyebrow arched as she set down a stack of plates with a clatter.
Faith resolutely tightened her ponytail. “Anyway, you’re right. We need to do something. Let me give it some thought.” She busied herself slicing some Italian bread Connie had bought home, refusing to take her mother’s bait. Transference or no transference, Faith’s stay at The Mermaid’s Purse had an expiration date, even if her mother’s departure seemed uncertain.
She had no intention of becoming too attached to the inn or to its newest boarder, no matter how much his presence seasoned the atmosphere.
38
With only the night’s dessert left to prepare—bananas baked with a splash of orange juice and sprinklings of brown sugar, nutmeg and cinnamon—Faith opted for a nap upstairs, far from the generator’s rumble, the inn’s life support reduced to a distant hum. On her back on the trundle bed, however, her thoughts meandered back to David: whether he had a girlfriend, what type of woman might attract him. Chic hippie, she decided, rolling over and punching her pillow. He probably wooed her with beach picnics, homemade wine and puka beads—which still would be a damn sight better than any of her recent dates.
Faith’s social life of late had been limited to texted banter with matches from her online dating profile that Ellie had set up as a joke. Faith found the matchmaking site a safe space from which to appraise the dating landscape without actually having to dive in—the way she observed her diners without ever leaving her kitchen.
At Ellie’s urging, she’d gone on a few dates recently, none memorable. Many wrongly assumed Faith’s presence on the site signaled a readiness to leap into their beds. She wasn’t a prude, but it took more than a swipe to hold her interest. There was plenty of action around the kitchen if that’s all she wanted.
One or two of the least terrible dates kept in touch, but, if anything, the experience sent Faith scurrying back to the safe haven of her kitchen, with its well-defined boundaries—well-defined, that is, until David appeared on the scene with his Caribbean woo-woo. Contrary to his earlier claim, he probably used that transference act as a pickup line.
At least the presence of another young man at the inn might be good for Gage. Faith felt for him: a teenager in a strange school in a strange town, a fish out of water while his parents navigated the tumultuous waters of divorce. Faith had suffered similarly through multiple moves, the threat of new partners in her mother’s life, wondering how they would take to her, how much of her mother they would take from her.
Faith propped up her head on her elbow. Was Gage still with the dad and his girlfriend? She had no clue what parenting a teenage boy entailed, let alone one whose parents had recently split. She knew only that Roxanne, by her own admission, appeared overwhelmed. Merrill and Grace might be good company for the single mother, she thought, looking forward to the residents meeting one another at dinner.
Rolling over, she thought about the sisters at the church and hoped the ailing Grace wasn’t overdoing it. Faith had only to look
at Fred to see the consequences of that.
On her back again, she rubbed her face. Though her body yearned for rest, her overactive mind wouldn’t cooperate. Finally, Faith sat up, a nap now out of the question. She decided to use the time to organize her things, which remained a jumbled mess in her suitcase. It took all of ten minutes to refold her belongings, place them in the bureau drawers Connie had assigned her, and slide her empty bag back into the closet alongside her mother’s three boxes from the airport. What prized possessions had made the journey with her mother to Wave’s End? Faith wondered, sitting down in front of the closet.
The first box rattled suspiciously when she picked it up: Connie’s crystals. Of course they made the trip. She set that box aside.
Faith pulled back a flap of the second carton and caught a vivid splash of serape: the fringed blankets that had draped her mother’s sofa and walls back in Albuquerque. Connie should spread them around The Mermaid’s Purse, she thought, visualizing the contrast of the brilliant Aztec designs against Maeve’s sedate calicos and making a mental note to suggest this.
The final carton marked Files and Contests had sides as soft as flannel from frequent handling during their many moves. Faith could predict the files it held, having managed her mother’s bank accounts and tax statements from the time she could wield a calculator.
Not that there’d ever been much to manage. Life with Connie had been a 1040A, with no schedules attached. Curious about her mother’s state of affairs without her, Faith tugged that carton open, riffling through familiar folders labeled Taxes, Rent, Utilities, Court (an unfortunate incident when, after one mojito too many, Connie had been moved to join a street protest; mercifully, the judge let her off with community service). As for the Contests folder, Connie had no doubt already filed her winning Mermaid’s Purse essay. Someday Faith would ask her to share it so she could find out what had so endeared her mother to Maeve.
About to close the box, she spotted one last folder at the back, its cardstock tab crudely lettered with a single name: AUDREY.
Faith frowned. She hadn’t seen this folder before, and yet the name seemed familiar. Curious, she flipped open the file, which contained a single document: a yellowed birth certificate, the embossed notary’s seal at the top corner rough under her finger.
This is a true certification of name and birth facts recorded in this office.
The certificate had been issued by a Dr. Robinson, an OB-GYN her mother saw for years, even after they had moved many miles from his practice. His office had an endless supply of lollipops, the fancy kind with chocolate centers, Faith recalled.
Though the field for the father’s name had been left blank, the mother’s name was filled in: Rita Hennessey.
Any agreement or difference between the child’s surname and the surname of its father does not imply legitimacy or illegitimacy.
Below this statement, someone had neatly printed the child’s full name: Audrey Hennessey.
Once again, the name stirred something in Faith, though nothing concrete came to mind. She couldn’t even determine the child’s age, since both the date of birth and the certificate’s issue date had been blacked out with thick marker. Frustrated, she took the paper to the window, holding it up to the light to try to decipher the blocked-out fields. Why would someone alter a birth certificate, and why had her mother saved this one?
Unable to make out either date, Faith was turning the certificate over to try to interpret it from that angle when the bedroom door opened.
“Thought you might be ready to—” Connie halted, her sweeping gaze registering first the folder on the floor, then her daughter holding a paper up to the window.
“Faith Sterling! Who gave you permission to snoop through my things?”
39
Connie strode toward the window and snatched the certificate from Faith, who dropped onto the bed indignantly.
“I wasn’t snooping. I used to take care of all that stuff, remember? And who’s Audrey, anyway?”
Connie scooped the folder from the floor and tucked the certificate inside, hugging it to her chest. “Someone I knew a long time ago.”
“Why do you have her birth certificate? Shouldn’t her parents have it?”
“For . . . safekeeping.”
Faith sat up suddenly. “Oh, my God. They’re dead, right? Did they perish in some horrible accident?”
“Oh, my goodness, Faith. Of course they didn’t.”
“Well, that’s a relief. So how old is Audrey now? The dates are blocked out.”
“What is this, an interrogation?” Connie forced a chuckle, her hand on the doorknob. “It all happened years ago. It really doesn’t matter.”
Faith leaned back on her elbows. “Wait a minute. Was this, like, some scandalous unwed mother back in the day?” she teased. “Because that’s not a big deal anymore.”
“Of course not. Some things are just . . . private. I promised a friend a long time ago I’d hold on to it for safekeeping. That’s all.” The finality of her tone indicated the subject of the mysterious Audrey was closed.
Faith frowned. “Come on, Mom. What’s the big mystery? You’ve never once mentioned a friend named Rita. We’re both adults here. Can’t you just be straight with me?”
Connie stared at her a moment, then slowly walked to the bed. She sat down next to Faith and opened the folder. “Actually, maybe it’s time I was.” With a trembling hand, she passed the certificate to her daughter. “It’s time I told you about Audrey, Faith. Because Audrey is you.”
40
Her blood pounding in her ears, Faith stared in confusion at the child’s name—her birth name—on the certificate she now gripped. For a split second, while her mother struggled to explain, she expected to learn she’d been adopted. What other explanation could there be?
But no. That’s not what Connie was saying at all. She wasn’t talking about adoption. Instead, she repeated these words: “Faith Sterling was Audrey Hennessey. And Connie Sterling was Rita Hennessey.”
Finally, after they’d gone around and around, Faith began to understand. In a quiet yet life-changing moment more than twenty years ago, a sympathetic sheriff had helped a distraught Rita Hennessey change her name and that of her child to the ones they answered to today: Connie and Faith Sterling.
“But why?” Faith’s fingers left damp prints on the brittle certificate.
“To protect us,” said Connie simply. When she attempted to take Faith’s hand, her daughter pulled it away.
“Protect us from what?”
“From your father’s temper. From everything.” Drawing a long, tremulous breath, her mother got up and gazed out the window. “I was desperate. This one night. You were barely four. Your father and I had a terrible argument.” She glanced back at Faith. “Do you remember us fighting a lot?”
“Fighting? I don’t think so. I barely remember him.”
“We fought all the time. I always tried to shield you as best I could. Anyway, that night, I couldn’t. He came home, completely out of his mind drunk, after losing a lot of money in a card game. He went crazy: cursing, throwing things, even putting his fist through a wall.”
“Where was I?”
Connie massaged her face, her back still turned. “You were . . . sleeping. In your room. Anyway, that night was the last straw. The next day, I left you with a neighbor and went to the police. And after what the sheriff said . . .”
“What did he say? Mom, please look at me.”
“He said . . .” Connie turned, her arms crossed across her chest, the strain of reliving the memory reflected in her trembling voice. “That the smartest thing to do would be to move the both of us far away.”
“And did you?”
“Oh, I certainly did. I got us a ride from the shelter one night, in a friend’s pickup truck.”
“Wait, we stayed at a shelter?” Having volunteered often in New York’s shelters and soup kitchens, it rattled Faith to learn she and her mother once needed
those services themselves.
“Just for a short while. Anyway, on that bitterly cold night, I picked you up out of your bunk and—”
“That’s where the bunk beds were,” Faith said softly.
“What?” Connie looked over at Faith, bewildered.
“I was thinking about those bunk beds the other day. I couldn’t remember where they were, except that you tucked me into the top one.”
“I did. There was a woman, Alice, in the next bed. She cried all the time.” Connie rubbed her nose. “Anyway, I wrapped you tight in a blanket and held you in my arms the entire way.”
Faith massaged her neck, trying to picture the scenario. “Where did we go?”
“That night? To another shelter about a hundred miles away.”
“How did you decide where to go?”
“Decide? I don’t know, Faith. I may have tossed a coin, for all I know. You used to like that game. I only knew we had to put as many miles as possible between that man and us. The main thing was we made it out of there.”
Faith sat a moment, digesting her mother’s words.
“And what happened after that?”
“We stayed at the shelter for almost a month. I got some piecework at a factory and saved up enough to move us again, to a small apartment near the train tracks.”
Reclining on the bed again, Faith stared at the ceiling. “This is surreal. Why don’t I remember any of this?”
“I’m grateful you don’t recall that nightmare time.”
“Did you ever talk to him . . . my father . . . after that?”
“No.”
“Did he ever come looking for us?”
“Not that I know of. But remember: the Internet didn’t exist back then. There was no Google to look up people and places. Besides, our new names made it that much harder for him to find us.”
It was as though her mother had signed them both into the witness protection program.
No wonder the name Audrey had felt familiar; her parents had addressed her that way for the first few years of her life—until the night she and her mother escaped her father’s wrath by jumping into the back of a pickup and speeding away on a New Mexico highway.
At Wave's End: A Novel Page 11
