Kindred Spirits

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  Except for her friends, she thought, correcting herself. After their fight, she went straight to Mary Kay’s house, where an emergency meeting was called. Beth sat on one side of her, Lynne on the other, while Mary Kay mixed her potent ginger martinis, famous for their healing and protective properties. Warmed by the vodka and ginger brandy, protected by friendship, Carol lowered her defenses and spilled about Jeff, about Michelle, about everything.

  Beth, a librarian, dismissed Michelle as a troublemaker who’d tried to get Philip Pullman’s books banned from her library because they sent a dangerous message to impressionable young readers. Lynne, then in her final remission, quietly pointed out life was too short to fight with your husband about idiots while Mary Kay came right out and laid her cards on the table: Michelle Richardson was a control freak with an overblown sense of entitlement.

  “Well, she isn’t all bad,” Mary Kay declared, her black curls bobbing in fury, her gray eyes flashing as she waved her martini glass like a queen’s scepter. “If it weren’t for her and her tedious PTA meetings, we may never have formed our little martini society.”

  Carol had forgotten that. It made her feel somewhat better.

  But putting Michelle in her place couldn’t change the underlying problems with her marriage and when Carol confided that she and Jeff hadn’t been sleeping together for months, the women wisely kept their counsel. Carol said the issue was her career. Jeff resented the disruption of their family life caused by her commute and overtime. He hated that she sometimes came in on the last train or spent the night in New York when she was in the thick of a case. It was hard on the kids, hard on him, he claimed. What was the point of having a wife if she cared more about her clients than her husband?

  To their credit, Mary Kay, Beth, and Lynne never once slammed him or even went so far as to suggest Jeff was out of line. They simply listened and refilled her glass, assuring her that Jeff didn’t mean what he said about finding her impossible to love. Of course he still loved her. She’d just misinterpreted because she was upset and tired.

  They stood by her like always, unquestioning and forever loyal. Not her husband—them.

  And that was when Carol decided her marriage was over.

  “I’m on your side.” Scott was leaning against her desk, arms crossed. His smile, turned up at one corner. He felt protective of her, though he was well aware Carol Goodworthy needed no man to fight her battles. Which only made him love her more.

  “I know you’re on my side.” She didn’t even have to think about it. From their very first interview when she was just fresh out of law school, Scott had been her advocate, her biggest cheerleader. “There was never any doubt.”

  “Tell you what.” He pushed the martini glass aside. “To make the trip home easier, why don’t you take the firm’s town car back to Connecticut.”

  She started to protest, but he put a finger to her lips.

  “Then, after you’re done cleaning out Lynne’s closet, I’ll have the car drop you off at my place where I’ll have dinner waiting, along with an ice-cold martini and a hot bubble bath. You can pour out your grief in my antique claw-footed tub while I whip up my famous veal chops. How does that sound?”

  The image of herself naked in Scott’s tub caught her slightly off guard, though why it should was surprising. They both knew they were heading in this direction. They’d been mentor and pupil, then colleagues and close friends. Recently they’d begun to share long discussions after hours in his office that led to drinks at the corner café followed by casual dinners and slow strolls back to the firm. He’d held her hands and brushed his lips softly against her cheek as they hugged good-bye. He’d have gone further if he wasn’t sensitive to the fact that she was still reeling from her shattered marriage. It seemed only natural that sex would be the next step. Scott Deloutte was not one to fritter away his precious spare time on platonic relationships with women, and Carol, as of the end of this month, would be officially divorced for one whole year.

  It was time to move on.

  “That sounds very nice. Very nice. However. . .” She ran her fingers over the thick silver Cartier watch on his wrist, under the cuff of his crisp, white shirt, the combination of which she found alluringly masculine. “There’s a certain serious issue we need to address first.”

  “Oh?” He cocked an eyebrow. “If you’re not ready, Carol, I. . .”

  “Gin or vodka?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you a gin martini man or a vodka martini man? You’ve never exactly stipulated.”

  He paused, processing the concept that she was fine with them sleeping together. “Gin. It’s the only way. James Bond notwithstanding.”

  Scott Deloutte was mature, kind, determined, and principled. More important, he shared Carol’s passion for the law. He understood why she threw herself into her work and, better yet, appreciated her dedication, found it exciting and tantalizing. He would no more have asked her to choose between him and her job than he would have demanded she choose between him and her children.

  He was everything she ever wanted or needed in a man. So what was her hesitation?

  She returned his knowing look. “Then I’d love to come back to your place next Friday for a hot bath and your famous veal chops. Thank you.”

  “Good,” he said, brushing a wisp of blond hair off her forehead. “I’ll do my best to make it worth your while.”

  There was a tingling along her arms, shooting up her neck as his fingertips grazed her ear, and Carol concluded that maybe, just maybe, the ordeal of going home might not be so bad after all—if Scott and a martini were waiting for her when it was over.

  Chapter Three

  Carol had to admit there was a certain thrill in coming home.

  Her excitement grew as the town car crossed the rusting metal bridge and she took in the breathtaking sight of the orange, red, and yellow fall foliage reflected in Kindlewah Lake, the ducks gathered on the rocky shore. Her old house was within sight, its graying dock peeking from behind a giant spruce. Boy, did she miss that place, the summers paddling around in the kayak, the winters skating on the ice.

  There was the Marshfield General Store, where she used to stop for last-minute groceries on her way back from the city. She loved its rickety wooden floors, she loved that it sold everything from milk and homemade bread to pesto, shampoo, caviar, and fishing tackle. And there was the small elementary school where she had spent so many days as a room parent, the playground where Jonathan had split his lip, the nearby high school where both her children, she was proud to say, had graduated at the top of their classes.

  Marshfield was a treasure, a Brigadoon tucked among farms and wooded hillsides too inconvenient from the Danbury train station to be overrun by New York commuters.

  She would never forget the Sunday afternoon when she and Jeff, fleeing the hot confines of their Brooklyn apartment, had stumbled upon it after taking the wrong exit off I-84. Amanda was a baby in the car seat and Jonathan a mere twinkle in his father’s eye. They hadn’t realized their joyride had been a search for a haven to raise their family until they drove into Marshfield’s town center and parked the car.

  She and Jeff left Amanda sleeping as they sat on the hood of their old Toyota, admiring the town green with its snow-white gazebo, the lush hostas and pink-flowered rugosas lovingly tended by the local gardening club. They studied the white clapboard Unitarian church, the brick town hall, the library, and the hardware store and waved to an old man walking his terrier—the constable, they would later learn. They let the cool evening summer breeze carrying its scent of freshly mowed grass caress their skin and fill them with satisfaction.

  “This is it, Carol. This is the place.” Jeff inhaled the country air and covered her hand with his. “I could open a practice here. We could get a house by that lake we passed. Have another baby. The cost of living would be so cheap, you could quit your job and get out of the rat race.”

  Because she loved her husband, she didn�
��t stop to wonder what it would be like to step out of the rat race, to cut herself off from the city that offered her the excitement and richness that fed her soul and nourished her mind. All that mattered at that golden moment was her daughter’s childhood and Jeff’s newfound contentment.

  She squeezed his hand. “Let’s do it.”

  With those three little words, she gave up everything. Twenty years later, she would take it back.

  “It’s right there.” She directed the driver to the church into which people were filing. The whole town, it seemed. No surprise there.

  Before she got out, she conducted a last-minute assessment of her armor. Black Donna Karan suit? Check. Blahniks? Check and check. Nancy Gonzalez tote? Check. Flipping open her compact, she swished her lips with another coat of gloss and pulled one side of her blond bob behind her ear. Together. Successful. And, most important, sane.

  Keenly aware of what kind of entrance she was making, she waited for the driver to come around and open her door. “Thank you,” she said politely, extending one long leg to the sidewalk.

  “Carol!”

  “Mary Kay! Beth!” She threw open her arms and rushed toward her oldest and dearest friends with the abandon of a giggling teenager.

  The next she knew, they were in a huddle, the three of them, hugging and crying and laughing at once. Two years. Two whole years had gone by since she’d seen them. The last time, Lynne had been there too. It made their reunion so bittersweet.

  “I can’t believe how glamorous you are.” Beth stood back and smoothed down her plain knit dress that hung too loose and too long. She’d always been so self-conscious of her generous curves, Carol thought, wishing she could convince Beth to cut that mane of hair and release the stunning woman within.

  “I’m overdue for a haircut.” Beth fingered her split ends. “It’s just. . . well, you could say it’s been a hellish week. I’ve been working on the reception nonstop.”

  “You’re amazing, as always.” Carol wrapped her in another hug, thinking how Beth was the kind of friend who ignored trivial things like her clothes and hair not because she was a doormat, but because she was quite the opposite.

  “I’m so, so sorry about Lynne,” she murmured into Beth’s ear. “I know how close you two were.”

  “My bestie,” Beth said, her voice thick.

  “And what am I? Chopped liver?” Mary Kay put her hands on her hips in faux indignation.

  “Oh, come here, you.” And Carol pulled her into their little group, Mary Kay’s floral perfume making her light-headed with nostalgia.

  “We’re so glad you’re back,” Mary Kay said, giving Carol a squeeze. “This is where you belong.”

  Beth nodded. “She’s right. It’s not the same here since you left.”

  “Yeah. The school board meetings are soooo dull. No one ever tells off Michelle Richardson anymore.” Mary Kay winked, teasing.

  Carol broke away and sniffed back a few tears. “OK. Where’s this Sam Drake I’ve been hearing about?” Mary Kay’s serious boyfriend had to be incredibly tall, if what Beth said was true about him towering over her. Even in flats, Mary Kay was almost five ten, her flippant excuse for not finding a husband being that she refused to date any man who couldn’t eat an egg off the top of her head.

  “He’s inside, keeping a seat warm for me. You can meet him at Beth’s house later and then give me your verdict.” She paused for effect. “You know, over a few martinis.”

  Beth gave her a sharp nudge. “Mary Kay. This is Lynne’s funeral. We shouldn’t be talking about martinis.”

  “And why not? You don’t think if Lynne were here, she’d be mixing up a pitcher right now?”

  A bell tolled somberly, jolting them into silence, their casual banter vanishing under the weight of the heavy bong, bong, bong. They remembered, then, why they were there. To bury their friend. To say good-bye to Lynne.

  “I guess it’s time,” Beth said. “You have your flats, Carol?”

  Carol patted her bag. “Am I sitting with you two?”

  Beth stared at her shoes, suddenly ill at ease. It was Mary Kay who stepped forward and took her by the elbow. “Actually, Jeff’s saving a seat.” She took a breath. “He’s with Amanda.”

  Amanda, the daughter who had quit speaking to her after Carol left Marshfield, because she blamed her mother for destroying their family.

  “That’s nice,” Carol said evenly. “It’s good she came. Lynne loved her like the daughter she never had. After I left, I bet Lynne and Amanda must have talked on the phone every day.”

  “Granted, Lynne was very important to her,” Mary Kay said as the three of them walked up the church steps. “But you are her mother.”

  They opened the heavy doors to a packed church, standing room only. An organ played “Abide with Me,” an empowering hymn Carol remembered from her own upbringing. Lynne must have chosen it, since she planned the entire funeral down to the flowers that adorned her casket and the songs that should be sung.

  I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;

  Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness;

  Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?

  I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

  They tiptoed down the aisle, Beth joining Marc, who was sitting next to their son, David, home from MIT, who was next to Beth’s parents, Chat and Elsie Brewster. Carol scanned the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of Amanda when someone next to her said, “Hey.”

  Jeff had stepped out of the pew, his blue eyes smiling sympathetically, and Carol felt the familiar jerk of her heartstrings. Nothing more than old habit, she told herself, trying to ignore how healthy he looked, younger and tanned, as if sawing off the old ball and chain had restored his muscle tone and improved his circulation.

  Though he should have been going gray like Scott, Jeff’s hair had somehow turned blonder. He reminded her of when he used to play every day at the New York Racquet Club where they were introduced by mutual friends and she’d quickly nicknamed him Vince Van Patten, although he claimed to never have heard of the California actor and semi-pro tennis player. He was too busy finishing his residency in pediatrics at Albert Einstein to have much use for TV sitcom reruns, he’d replied with such self-importance that Carol burst out laughing.

  “I saved a seat for you between us.” He waved his arm toward a gorgeous young woman in a slim black dress, her blond hair pulled severely into a clipped ponytail.

  She was Amanda, obviously. But nothing like the blithe free spirit Carol remembered. The last time she’d seen her daughter was the summer before she left for her sophomore year at college, and she’d been entirely different. Not a care in the world.

  Carol had mentally freeze-framed the picture so she’d never forget: Amanda in a blue sarong, her hair in straw-colored braids, daisies and yellow buttercups tucked in at the ends as she lay on the silver weather-beaten dock outside their house reading, her bare feet dangling in Kindlewah Lake as she hummed a tuneless tune.

  “Hello, Mother,” this strange new Amanda said, her gaze icy.

  “Honey!” It was all Carol could do to keep herself from reaching out and gathering her baby into her arms. “It’s so. . .” She extended a tentative hand.

  Amanda flinched. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Not here.”

  Stunned, Carol sat and rested her Nancy Gonzalez bag on the wooden church floor while her daughter lifted her chin and stared straight ahead, refusing to otherwise acknowledge her mother’s presence.

  Carol made another attempt. “I’m so glad you came.”

  Amanda flipped through her program, ignoring her.

  “Love the hair. I can’t believe how grown up you are. You look terrific.”

  Amanda inched down the pew.

  How could her own daughter treat her so? How could she act as if they meant nothing to each other? What about the dollhouse she’d made and the fairy houses they’d built out of moss and twigs in the woods? What about the nights the two o
f them stayed up reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince side-by-side on the couch, dissolving into tears when Dumbledore was struck down? Didn’t those moments count for anything?

  She felt herself trembling and looked down to see her hands shaking in her lap. Jeff must have noticed this too, because he linked his arm in hers.

  “Thank you,” she said under her breath, fighting the tears that should have been for Lynne, instead of for her daughter.

  He nodded encouragingly. “It’s going to be OK, Carol. Give her time.” He appraised her fitted black Donna Karan suit. “By the way, if I may say so, Amanda’s not the only one who looks terrific.”

  She smiled and blushed, instinctively sensing Amanda’s displeasure.

  The music ended abruptly and everyone stood as Sean, Kevin, and Kyle proceeded up the aisle. Mary Kay’s niece, Tiffany, trailed behind, head high and proud, though Mary Kay said she was overcome with guilt for leaving Lynne on the one night she should have stayed. That was absurd, especially considering the sacrifices Tiffany had already made, even taking a hiatus from her new nursing position in Boston so Lynne could have private care.

  Carol made a mental note to find a moment after the funeral to praise Tiffany to the hilt. Though Tiffany was Mary Kay’s niece by blood and daughter by adoption, the two women shared much in common, including big hearts under their colorful clothes and thick perfume. Sometimes it was easy to take their abundant generosity for granted.

  The family stopped before Lynne’s coffin, white and strewn with flowers from her own garden—purple, orange, and red mums, the last of the yellow Shasta daisies, black-eyed Susans, and the fading pink roses of summer.

  There was Lynne. She was really dead. She was really no more.

  Next to her, Amanda began to weep and Carol brushed a hand against hers. This time she didn’t flinch. It wasn’t anything, really, a trifle, but to Carol it was a start.

  The rest of the ceremony went by in a blur. Carol bowed her head and prayed, not to God, but to Lynne, wishing she was finally at peace. She hoped Lynne could see how much she was loved, how the whole town had turned out to say good-bye. It was inspiring to think one person, no one particularly special, rich, or famous—an elementary school art teacher—could touch so many, many lives.