He could see the resemblance between Helen Peterson and Lucy. Her hair was short and styled, her eyes brown rather than blue, but the bone structure and shape of the face was the same. She’d remained as slim as her daughter. Today she wore a light blue skirt and short jacket over a white blouse.
He shook hands and mused that although the two were sisters they didn’t look much alike. Marian was shorter, plump, darker-haired.
“We missed you at church,” Helen told Lucy, studying Adrian quite frankly. “We thought we’d stop by to be sure you were all right.”
“I took Adrian to the service at Saint Mary’s so he could meet Father Joseph.”
“Are you Catholic?” her aunt asked.
Lucy’s eyes rolled.
He shook his head. “Mom was raised Catholic, though. She grew up in Nova Scotia. My grandmother is French Canadian.”
“Really.” Lucy’s mother actually sounded interested. “She sounded so very British.”
“My grandfather was.”
They all looked at him and waited. Apparently he was expected to elaborate.
“Ah...Grandpère emigrated when he was a teenager. He let my grandmother decide on the church, but he talked about home a lot. That’s what he always called England. Home.” Adrian pictured his grandfather, tall and white-haired and invariably dressed in rumpled tweeds like any country squire. He smoked a pipe, too, although he chewed thoughtfully on it more often than he actually lit it. “He graduated from Cambridge with a first in English literature and was...a gentleman, I guess you’d say. Mom loved his stories. I suppose those were what she reached for, when she got confused.”
“That makes sense,” Lucy mused. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Beth from Little Women... And of course she’d have loved My Fair Lady.”
“But Elizabeth Taylor?” her mother asked.
“My grandfather admired her,” Adrian said, recalling his grandmother’s pique when Grandpère had rented several Elizabeth Taylor movies to share with his grandson. Cleopatra and The Taming of the Shrew. “Wait. Wasn’t she in Little Women, too?”
“All the pieces go together, don’t they?” Lucy observed.
Did they? As far as he was concerned, the missing years gaped horrifically, and he sensed that those pieces would never be found.
Lucy invited her mother and aunt to lunch. What else could she do? “I’ve made burritos,” she told them.
“Beans?” Aunt Marian said. “You know they give me...” She cleared her throat. “Indigestion.”
“No, no,” her mother said. “Everyone’s coming to the house. I have a turkey roasting. It’s Sunday.” A cardinal sin, apparently. “How could you forget?”
“I didn’t forget, Mom!” Lucy’s cheeks colored. “I just...well, didn’t call you. I’m sorry.”
So, she’d ditched her family for him. It should bother him, how pleased he was to know that.
Her mother and aunt left at last. When Lucy came back from seeing them out, Adrian said wryly, “I can guess what everyone in the family will be talking about this afternoon.”
Lucy made a face. “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. I should have known if I didn’t let her know in advance Mom would come by to find out why I wasn’t at church.”
“Close family?” The idea was foreign to him.
“You have no idea,” she said in a tone of loathing. Giving herself a little shake, she went to the refrigerator. “What can I get you to drink?”
As they poured drinks, he asked, “If you don’t like having all your family nearby, why do you live here?”
She slipped by him into the dining room, enabling him to catch a scent he hadn’t noticed outside. Lavender, maybe?
“I ask myself that at least every other day.” Setting the drinks on the table, she sighed. “It just...happened.”
“Happened?”
Dumb question; of all people, he knew how easily life just happened. Hell, hadn’t most of his been in lockstep with his father’s expectations?
Again, she whisked past him, not being obvious, but also clearly self-conscious about being too close to him. Adrian was glad, until he remembered how obvious her dislike had been earlier. Maybe he repulsed her.
When he offered belatedly to help, she handed him a bowl of salsa and a basket of chips, warm from the oven, then carried the casserole dish with the burritos to the table.
Once they’d sat, Lucy continued as if there’d been no interruption. “I came home from college thinking I’d work here for the summer, put away a little money for first and last month’s rent when I moved to Seattle or Portland. Somewhere more exciting. I started cooking at the café, and then I had the chance to buy it, and...” She spread her hands.
They dished up, and he wasn’t surprised to find her burritos were delicious. She admitted to making the salsa herself.
“What about you? I know your father was an attorney.”
“Yeah, I think it was a given that I’d go in to law, too.”
“Do you like it?”
Head cocked slightly, she asked as if she really wanted to know. Instead of the brusque, “Why else would I do it?” he might have returned to someone else, he found himself hesitating. Did he?
Adrian couldn’t quite imagine doing anything else. It wasn’t as if he’d been fixated on some other career, beyond the usual fancies any kid had. He remembered wanting to be an airline pilot at one point, a veterinarian at another. That dream withered, given that his father had never let him have a pet. Even earlier, he’d been determined to grow up to be a ferryboat captain. He supposed that had come from living in Edmonds, where they saw the ferry come and go all day long. One summer, he remembered begging to walk down to the beach beside the ferry dock almost every day.
“Mostly,” he finally said, dishing up a second burrito and adding salsa and sour cream. “Although in law school—” He stopped.
“What?”
After a moment, he shrugged. “I thought I’d go into criminal law. Most law students go through a phase of imagining themselves saving the world, or at least some lives. I ended up wooed into corporate law.”
“By money.”
He studied her suspiciously, trying to decide whether she was disgusted or simply neutral.
“That’s where the money is.”
Lucy only nodded, applying herself to her plate.
“Do you dream of doing something else?”
She pursed her lips, as if giving serious thought to the question. “I love to cook. I’ve always imagined I’d end up an executive chef at a chic restaurant in Seattle or some other city. Someplace people actually appreciate variety and unique flavor combinations. Where they don’t grumble because you don’t have that potato soup on the menu every day.”
Adrian grinned. “Didn’t you tell me it was one of your best?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.” She sounded indignant. “If you want to eat the same thing every day, you might as well stay home. If you’re going to eat out, shouldn’t you want to try something new?”
“Not necessarily. I have favorites at some restaurants. Don’t you?”
“No, but I’m an adventurer.” She went very still, a couple of creases appearing in her forehead. In a much smaller voice, Lucy said, “About food. I guess not in any other way.”
She sounded sad, as though she were disappointed in herself for not living more recklessly.
Adrian sought for a way to comfort her, an unusual impulse for him, and finally settled on distraction.
“Why my mother?” he asked.
Her gaze flew to his. “What do you mean?”
“You obviously felt sorry for her. You’re kind, so why not offer her a meal now and then? But you did more than that. Something about her must have drawn you.”
Sh
e hesitated, and he wondered if she was reconsidering some glib answer, as he’d done earlier.
“A lot of things,” Lucy said finally. “I loved it when she talked about books, and gardens, and when she told stories. I’d swear she’d known Bonnie Prince Charlie. Although I have to say, she made me curious enough to read a biography about him, and she was way more sympathetic to him than he deserved.” She sounded indignant, as though it were his fault his mother had been such a romantic.
“At least you didn’t have to dress up as him,” Adrian said involuntarily.
Her eyes widened. “You did?”
He couldn’t remember ever telling anyone else about the dramas he and Mom had reenacted. With a grimace, he said, “I’m afraid I wore kneesocks and an old plaid skirt of hers. I endured it only because she let me stick a steak knife in the sock. Seems as if I had a plastic sword, too.”
Lucy giggled. “Oh, dear. That’s a picture.”
“Not a pretty one.” He should have been embarrassed. Why had he told her? Oddly enough, her laughter let him enjoy the memory.
“Who else did you act out?”
“Oh, King Richard the First. White cross cut out of an old pillowcase, pinned on...I don’t know, a red vest of Mom’s, maybe?” He was thinking less about the memories than about Lucy, who listened as if she imagined herself playing out the productions with him and his mother. Her mouth, he thought irrelevantly, was very kissable when it curved like that. Almost at random, he continued, “Let’s see... I was supposed to be Winston Churchill once. I read a speech into a pretend microphone. Paper towel roll, I think. My dad had a hat that looked enough like Churchill’s bowler hats, I guess, to satisfy Mom. I didn’t get what he—I—was saying, except that it was supposed to be noble stuff that would make his countrymen strong in wartime. Churchill wasn’t anywhere near as much fun as Richard going to the Crusades.”
Once again she chuckled. “History lessons wrapped in fun.”
“I suppose they were. They seemed like games to me. And I’m not so sure Mom really thought she was teaching me anything. I think we acted out stories for her benefit.”
“But you enjoyed them, too.”
“When I was younger. By that last summer, I was starting to get embarrassed. Guys didn’t dress up. I think—” He moved his shoulders uncomfortably.
Lucy finished for him. “Soon, you would have told her no.”
He nodded. “I was thinking about that earlier. I felt so protective of her. But what would have happened when I got to be twelve, thirteen, and didn’t want my friends to notice how weird she was?”
She looked at him with understanding. “So now you feel guilty about something that didn’t happen.”
“No.” He scowled. “Oh, hell. Maybe. Because I was starting to have stirrings of dissatisfaction. They made me feel disloyal. Then she disappeared, and I never faced any of those decisions. Which made me wonder—” He let out a ragged breath, surprised at the force of long-ago emotions.
“You thought it might be your fault,” Lucy said softly.
“Yeah. I suppose... Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his chin. “Stupid, huh?”
“Natural, don’t you think? Kids are egocentric enough to believe somewhere inside that everything happens because of them. Did you think your mom had gone away because she sensed that you were ashamed of her? Or did you think your father had gotten rid of her because he didn’t think she was good for you?”
“I don’t know,” Adrian said slowly. “I just felt guilty. Shocked and lonely and scared, but guilty, too.”
“And I suppose your father—” she named him as if he were Attila the Hun “—didn’t talk to you about her or what happened.”
He gave a grunt that masqueraded as a laugh. “Our sole conversation about Mom took about five minutes. After that, he froze me out if I tried to ask about her.”
“What a...a creep!” She pressed her lips together. “I suppose I shouldn’t say that about your father, but honestly.”
“She did embarrass him. I knew even then. As far as he was concerned, a problem was solved. Years later, he looked irritated when I mentioned something that happened when we were still a family. ‘Old history,’ he said, like that meant it wasn’t worth acknowledgement.”
He could tell Lucy wanted to burst out with another condemnation of his father and barely restrained herself. Watching her struggle amused him enough that he was able to relax.
“It’s okay. You won’t hurt my feelings,” he told her.
“Honestly!” she exclaimed again. “It’s a wonder you’re not in psychotherapy.” She flushed. “That is, maybe you are. I don’t mean there’s anything wrong—”
Adrian laughed. “No. I’m not.”
Maybe he should be, but the truth was that he’d learned it was easier to cut off that part of his life. Two weeks ago, if someone had asked about his mother, he’d have likely shrugged and dismissed the question. Old history.
God, he thought. I’ve become him.
Not a welcome realization, nor the first time he’d had it.
He couldn’t pretend to know who he’d become since coming to Middleton, though. All he seemed to do was talk about his feelings, at least around Lucy. And think about ’em. Some kind of floodgate had opened, and the past was rushing through. He’d tried surfing in Hawaii once, and hated the panic that had clawed at him when he fell from the board and the waves flung him over and over until he didn’t know up from down.
A kernel of that same panic knotted in his gut, and he didn’t like the sensation now any better. This was idiotic. He hadn’t changed because his mother had unexpectedly turned up or because he’d spent a grand total of two days in this godforsaken town. All he was doing was a research job. He’d find out what he could about his mother, then file the memories where they belonged and do what he had to for her.
End of story.
He asked Lucy...something. He couldn’t have said what, but it got her talking about Middleton with a fondness she didn’t seem to realize she felt. And put the conversation back where he wanted it: superficial, pleasant, unmemorable.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER ADRIAN LEFT without asking when he would see her again, Lucy resolved to stay away from the hospital on Monday. The hat lady had her son now and no longer needed Lucy. If Lucy kept showing up there, it might look as if she were seeking him out.
If only she weren’t attracted to him, it wouldn’t have occurred to her to worry about any such thing. Since she was, she’d become ridiculously self-conscious about everything she said and did. So...the best thing was to avoid him, unless he actually came looking for her.
Having loaded the dishwasher, she added soap, set the dial to Wash and gave a firm nod. She then stood there without the slightest idea how she’d spend the rest of the afternoon, never mind all day tomorrow with the café closed.
Talk about ridiculous. Of course she had things to do. On her days off, she always had a long list of household chores and errands, never mind plans for what she’d do if only she came up with a spare hour, which she rarely did.
The trouble was, she’d gotten up extra early this morning to clean house, since she was having company, and she didn’t really need groceries. Most every business in town was closed on Sunday and she had no particular errands to run anyway.
She could be lazy and read. Pour some lemonade and take it and her book outside, since the day was so nice.
But despite the early-morning housecleaning and the cooking, Lucy still felt...restless. She wanted to think over everything she’d learned about the hat lady and her son, but she wanted to be doing something while she thought.
Maybe...why, maybe she’d dig out the flower bed under the front window that she’d dreamed about for so long. She hadn’t decided what to put in it yet, but digging the sod out and a
mending the soil would be plenty of work for one—or even two—days. Think how much fun it would be then to go to the nursery and pick out the plants.
A pang struck her, because the hat lady wouldn’t be with her to help decide. But this could be...well, a sort of tribute.
No, she decided hastily, having been struck by a deeper pang, not a tribute. That sounded like a memorial, and the hat lady could wake up anytime. Thinking about her as if she were dead was just wrong.
Still, if she did recover, she’d like knowing that Lucy had finally started the garden they’d so often talked about. And this single bed beneath the window was only the beginning; there’d be more the hat lady could help with.
If her son didn’t sweep her away to a nursing home in Seattle.
Adrian wouldn’t do that if she really recovered, would he? If so, Lucy decided she’d have her for visits. The hat lady could see all her friends and favorite haunts, and they could plan the garden.
A bed on the other side of the porch, Lucy was certain about that, and ones extending to each side of the walkway. She wanted an arch covered with roses and clematis, too, right there where her concrete walk turned in from the sidewalk. She’d always wished she had boxwood hedges, too, but they took so long to grow...
Well, it’s past time you start, she told herself, and quit just imagining. She couldn’t even think why she had hesitated so long. Had she become too used to plodding along day to day, not taking time to do anything just to please herself? Or was it the other way around, that she’d been secretly afraid starting a garden was an acknowledgement that she wasn’t going anywhere after all?
She found both possibilities disquieting, but refused to examine them too closely. Today, she would make a beginning.
Leaving the dishwasher running, Lucy went to her bedroom and changed into her oldest jeans and a T-shirt with a tomato-sauce stain down the front she’d never managed to get out.
The gardening gloves she found in the garage out back were stiff from disuse and the shovel was rusting. The tire on the wheelbarrow looked a little low on air, but was still rolling. None of that was going to stop her. The gloves would become pliable, and she could take some steel wool to the shovel another day. And if she really started gardening seriously, she’d want a better wheelbarrow anyway. Maybe one of those garden carts, deep and stable.
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