An Accidental Woman

by Barbara Delinsky

  A soft purring started. Poppy absorbed it with her face in the fur. Unable to resist, she raised smug eyes to Griffin’s.

  “Okay,” he said, butt against the wall for balance as he put on one boot, then the other. “That’s it. A guy can only take so much rejection in one day. I’ll leave you three ladies to yourselves.” He went out, closing the door behind him.

  Poppy stroked the cat’s head with the bare finger of one hand and used the other hand to unwind her scarf. “So did you meet Victoria?” she asked her mother.

  “Oh yes. She woke up for that. Then she went right back to sleep. So now she’s awake. She seems to be interested in you, only you.” Maida smiled. “And so, my dear, does Griffin.” She took the scarf out of Poppy’s hand.

  “Griffin,” Poppy informed her, “is interested in using my shower, my desk space, and my phone. I don’t know what he told you, but the truth is no one else in Lake Henry will do that for him.”

  She might as well have saved her breath, because Maida had already reached her own conclusion. “He seems like a nice person,” she mused. “He behaved well enough during Lily’s problems last fall. I wish he weren’t a reporter. But John’s one, and Lily’s doing just fine with him. I suppose if I can live with one journalist son-in-law, I can live with a second.”

  “Don’t get used to the idea, Mom.” Poppy tucked her gloves in her pocket. “I am not marrying Griffin.”

  Maida held out a hand for Poppy’s coat. “Oh, I know that, Poppy. You aren’t getting married at all.” She took the coat when Poppy slid out her arms, and hung it on a hook by the door. “You’ve been saying that since you were five. For the longest time, I worried that it was something your father and I did to turn you off to marriage. Then I realized you just loved him that much.”

  Poppy had. George Blake had been gentle and kind, old-fashioned in the most positive of ways. He believed in wearing overalls, in cooking with fresh butter, fresh cream, and fresh eggs, and in doing the books in longhand in a large leather-bound ledger. When Poppy pictured her father, she could smell warm sun, damp earth, and ripe apples.

  When she pictured her mother, she smelled tension. It hung heavy over her memories.

  “There’s a contradiction here,” she challenged. “You know I’m not getting married, but you say you can live with Griffin as a son-in-law.”

  “Wishful thinking,” Maida replied.

  Poppy knew she was being humored, but it was odd coming from her mother. Maida was a perfectionist. She liked things just so. More typically, she would have urged Poppy to encourage Griffin because, after all, getting married and having children was the ideal. That she didn’t argue now—that she had actually been honest enough to acknowledge that she wouldn’t necessarily get her way, and to do it with grace, gave Poppy pause.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. There had been an issue of headaches the summer and fall before. Poppy didn’t want to think that a doctor had diagnosed something dreadful, which had in turn mellowed Maida. Maida certainly seemed healthy enough.

  “I’m fine,” she confirmed.

  “You look rested. You’re tanned. But you’ve never been bored down there before.”

  Maida grew reflective—and Poppy wasn’t used to that, either. She and her mother had never been friends. They had never shared their innermost thoughts. She doubted Maida did that with anyone. Yet, there was a pensiveness now, and a quiet, “This year’s different. Lily’s back, and she’s married. I want to see her happy. Rose is being hard on Hannah, which makes me uneasy, because . . . well, just because. So I was down in Florida thinking that I could be here giving Hannah extra attention. And now there’s you and Heather.”

  “Me and Heather?” Poppy countered. “Heather and Heather.”

  “What’s happening there?”

  Poppy wanted to tell her the latest, but she couldn’t. And it wouldn’t have mattered had Lily, or John, or Cassie been there instead of Maida. She closed a lid on that particular Pandora’s box, locking in the meaning of those three mouthed words. “Nothing’s happening. Heather’s sitting in jail while the people in California put together enough of a case to get her sent back there.”

  “Back there?”

  “There,” Poppy corrected.

  “Did she come from California?”

  “No. I don’t want to talk about this, Mom.” Leaving a hand on Victoria—her ally—she went to the phone panel. “Oh my.”

  “What?”

  “Griffin left a list of every call he answered. I need to use this man more.” He had even switched on the audio, so she would hear if another call came in. He had also left his own papers in a pile at the end of the desk, and his briefcase was on the floor nearby. It was either a statement of trust or an invitation for Poppy to take a look.

  Not up for deciding which, she wheeled past the phone bank and followed the scent of bay leaves and sage down the hall. The closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the smells grew. Once she crossed the threshold, they became positively divine.

  She opened the oven to peek. Victoria stirred enough to lift her head and sniff right along with Poppy. “Ahhh,” Poppy sighed with satisfaction. “No one does pot roast like you do.”

  “Nothing’s fresh there,” Maida cautioned, more like her exacting self now. “I had to get everything from the freezer or the pantry, not that it’s the season for Mary Joan’s red potatoes anyway, so I had to use canned ones. But I walked in the door, put the meat in the microwave to defrost, and had the whole thing starting to cook before I unpacked.”

  Poppy was used to Maida’s doting. She was forever sending Poppy cooked food, uncooked food, clothes, candy, and books. Still, Poppy was touched by the effort made now. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “I wanted to.” She grew serious. “It was lonely down there, Poppy.”

  “But you have lots of friends.”

  “Friends aren’t my girls.” Seeming embarrassed, she turned to the counter. Opening a bag, she began to put fresh oranges in a large wooden bowl. “You’re all good girls.”

  “Well, that’s quite a statement,” Poppy blurted out. “You wouldn’t have said it so long ago. You hated what Lily was doing.”

  “I was frightened,” Maida confessed. She didn’t look at Poppy, just continued arranging oranges in the bowl.

  “What’s changed now?”

  Maida added an orange to the pile, set it here, set it there, studied the arrangement. “I don’t know. At my age, well . . .”

  “You’re only fifty-seven.”

  “Almost fifty-eight.” She removed that orange and two others, and put them back in different spots. “I used to think that was old, but here I am with three daughters who’ll be in their forties before I know it.”

  “I’m only thirty-two.”

  “My point is, the three of you are grown up.”

  “We have been for a while.”

  “I’m trying to accept that.” She looked up from the bowl. “If you’re adults, that means I can’t control you. I can’t tell you what to do. You have to live your own lives. Make your own mistakes.”

  There it was. That was Maida. Afraid of mistakes. Afraid that her life wouldn’t be perfect.

  She went on. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. I worry a lot. You can’t change the thinking of a lifetime in a few short months.”

  “Be glad you’re not Heather’s mother,” Poppy said, and was suddenly curious. “What if you were her, reading about all this in the paper? What would you be thinking?”

  “Are we assuming that Heather is not Lisa?”

  “Yes,” Poppy said with only a glimmer of guilt. They were talking hypotheticals, after all. Still, she tossed in one fact. “Heather’s mother left when she was little.”

  Maida thought about that for a minute, then asked, “What kind of woman does that?”

  “I don’t know. But let’s say there was a reason. Let’s say the separation was necessary. So what would you, as Heather’s moth
er, be feeling?”

  “Exposed,” Maida immediately said. Then she followed it up with a quieter, “Frightened. Worried. Confused. I’d be wondering what she did to bring this on herself.”

  “Would you go to see her? Would you support her? Would you scrounge up money to help with her defense?”

  “That would depend on the nature of the relationship, on why she left all those years ago.”

  “We’re talking mother and daughter,” Poppy said impatiently. “Would you support her?”

  Maida let out a reluctant breath. “Well, that would certainly be the right thing to do.”

  “But would you do it?”

  “I’d have to know the truth about what she’d done,” Maida said.

  Poppy could have screamed, because she didn’t want waffling. She didn’t want conditions. She wanted an answer. A definitive answer. A positive answer.

  What she wanted, she realized, was for Maida to say that if she were Heather’s mother, she would love Heather no matter what. Poppy wanted Maida, the perfectionist, to express this kind of unconditional love. That would have made Poppy feel better when she had phoned Maida the other day.

  But it was asking too much, and that upset her. She was relieved when Victoria chose that moment to jump off her lap and go to her food.

  Maida, too, was distracted. “How did she know it was there?”

  “We showed her before. She remembers.”

  They watched in silence while Victoria ate. After a minute, the cat went to the litter box. She didn’t enter, just sniffed the lip of the box. Then she returned to her food.

  “How does she do that?” Maida asked. “Is it by smell?”

  “Smell, memory, whiskers. I would think that since she lost her sight, her other senses are heightened.”

  “I take it she’s an indoor cat.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t let her out.”

  “And Griffin brought her for you? What a sweet thing.”

  “Well, he didn’t bring her for me, exactly. He brought her in to show her to me, and she seemed to like the place, so it made sense to let her stay. But it’s just for the time being, until Griffin leaves.”

  “I think he brought her for you.”

  “He didn’t. Trust me.”

  Maida went on as though Poppy hadn’t spoken. “He knew you needed a pet.”

  “I don’t need a pet.”

  “You were always good with our cats. Do you remember that tabby?”

  “I do. We called her Tabby. But that was then, Mom. My life is pretty busy now. I’m in and out all the time. I have plenty of responsibility. I don’t need a pet.”

  “He saw this one and knew you’d take care of it. He knew you would understand her special needs.”

  Poppy didn’t like the sound of that. “What needs are those?”

  “This cat’s blind. That takes understanding. You know what it is to have special needs.”

  Poppy bristled. “The handicapped cat for the handicapped girl?”

  “No,” Maida replied with care. “The handicapped cat for the girl who understands. That’s all I meant, Poppy.”

  But Poppy couldn’t get the other out of her mind. “The handicapped cat for the handicapped girl,” she repeated. She wondered if Griffin had thought that, too—and was suddenly furious that Maida had pointed it out. “Did you have to say that?”

  “I didn’t say it. You did. That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “I’ve made a life here, Mom. I’ve made a life that’s good and full. I’ve gotten used to being in this chair, and part of the reason is that people around me accept that I’m here and don’t talk about it or question it or even . . . even notice it. I don’t know why you have to throw it in my face.” She wheeled around and headed out of the kitchen.

  “I didn’t, Poppy,” Maida called, following quickly.

  “You did. You took something innocent on Griffin’s part and made it into something so . . . so pathetic that it makes me feel like a cripple.” She wheeled her chair in an abrupt one-eighty and faced Maida. “No one else makes me feel that way. Why do you have to do it? Why can’t you accept me as I am? Why can’t you treat me like I’m normal? It’d help, y’know. It’d help a whole lot!”

  Doing another one-eighty, she wheeled off toward her bedroom. Once in that wing of the house, though, she turned into the weight room and pulled the door closed. For a minute, she sat fuming with her jaw clenched and her hands tight on her wheels. Then she heard a sound at the door.

  Had it been Maida’s voice there, she might have asked for time alone. Angry as she was— hurt as she was—she knew she had overreacted.

  But the sound she heard wasn’t Maida’s voice, just a plaintive, questioning meow.

  Poppy slid the door open only enough for Victoria to slip through. The sight of the cat brought a whisper of calm. Sitting back, Poppy watched her explore the room. She walked along two walls first, getting a grasp on the width and length. Then she moved in toward the equipment, finding one piece after another. She walked around each, using her whiskers, nose, and paws to plot height and shape. She rose on her hind legs to explore the weights, and jumped onto the seat of the recumbent bicycle. Seconds later, she was down again. When she reached the parallel bars, she stepped daintily on the thin runner and walked its length. At its end, she sat and turned toward Poppy.

  “You’re a smart one,” Poppy said softly, feeling fully in control again. She came forward, putting her elbows on her thighs. “Tell you what. You can have that one. It’s yours. Walk on it all you want. Sit there. Grin. That one’s yours, the others are mine. Does that sound like a fair deal?”

  * * *

  Victoria seemed to agree, but it was the only fair deal Poppy felt she struck that day. She had dinner with Maida, but it was a quiet one. She loved having Victoria with her, but if Griffin had been playing matchmaker, come morning, the cat was his. And then there was the issue of Heather. Once Poppy had finished brooding about Maida, and finished brooding about Griffin, she brooded about Heather—and not only about the identity issue. Now, hours later, in the privacy of her own home, she heard Heather’s words again and again. Is it too painful being Poppy?

  Chapter Eleven

  Though Griffin watched the clock for much of the evening, he wasn’t idle. After leaving Poppy’s, he picked up sandwiches at Charlie’s and shared them with Billy Farraway in the bobhouse. Later, heading back to the cabin, he took his time. With starry skies now and a three-quarter moon shining on a fresh coat of snow, the night was a deep, brilliant blue. He pulled up his collar, stuck his hands in his pockets, and just stood for a while. The light of an occasional airplane crossed the sky, along with a slower-moving satellite or two. Once in a while the sound of a truck echoed across the lake, but for the most part there was silence.Oh, he heard a loon or two—Billy did love his pipe. Otherwise, though, the lake was beautifully quiet and still.

  Then he saw a fox. At least, he guessed it was a fox from its skinny dog size and large bushy tail. Holding its head down in a way that few dogs did, it walked through the snow across the lake. It stopped once to look his way, then continued on toward the shore and disappeared into the trees.

  Growing cold, Griffin went inside. He built up the fire and checked his watch. He made coffee and checked his watch. He opened the door, looked out again, and checked his watch.

  When it was late enough, he put on his warmest things and walked to shore through the footprints that he’d made on the way to the cabin. He climbed into the truck, let it warm a minute or two, then drove off. When he was at just the right spot, he pulled over, set his blinkers, and called Poppy.

  “Hey,” he said, feeling a lift at the sound of her voice. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” She didn’t sound so much sleepy as deep in thought.

  “No. I’m awake.” She sighed softly. “Lots on my mind. Uh, I thought you didn’t have cell reception.”

  “I don’t on the island. I’m sitting here in the truck on the side
of the road at the exact spot where I know the reception starts. You learn these things.”

  “What time is it?” she asked, and must have looked at the clock, because she answered herself. “Nearly eleven. It must have been cold crossing the lake.”

  “Not as bad as it’s been. There’s no wind. But I didn’t want to do it earlier. I wanted to make sure your mother was gone. How did it go?”

  “How did what go?” Poppy asked with a sharpness that reminded him about her visit with Heather. But first things first.

  “Dinner with your mother.”

  There was another pause, then a surprised but gentler, “It was okay. Thank you for asking.”

  Relieved that he’d hit on something safe, he said, “She was perfectly lovely to me. But I sense that you and she don’t always get along. I guess it’s a usual mother-daughter thing. You know, competition. Woman versus woman. Generation gap. Pull and tug of who’s in charge.”

  “I guess,” Poppy said, but she didn’t pick up on anything he’d offered, and her tone suggested something else was on her mind. “Griffin? I have to ask you something.”

  His heart beat a little faster. He was ready for a personal question, like whether he was seeing anyone in Princeton, or whether he liked Lake Henry, or what he really felt about her being in a wheelchair. He could answer these questions. He truly could.

  “I’m listening,” he said. “Ask me whatever.”

  “Did you take this cat with me in mind?”

  Well, it was a personal question, albeit not one of those he had anticipated. He wondered if the cat was sick and Poppy was trying to break it to him gently. “Is something wrong with her?”

  “No. She’s sleeping up here on the bed, right beside me. Charlotte wasright. She’s a lap cat. But she’s also blind. So I’m asking whether the instant you realized that, you thought of me?”