“Don’t be sorry. I had you. That was all that really mattered, in the end.”
“I’m sorry about Michael, too.”
“Don’t be. I got the girls out of it. They’re all that really matters in the end.” The bitterness in her voice made my stomach ache.
Blythe continued the story, and as much as I didn’t want to hear it, I knew the telling of it gave my sister something intangible that she needed.
We continued to see him during the Sunday window. Not every scheduled Sunday, mind you, because often he had to meet an obligation at the command of his wife. But sometimes, he would pick up us and take us all to the Swap Meet, where we perused old things that smelled of mildew and dust.
As Blythe talked, fuzzy memories came to me, ones long forgotten. I remembered the two of us traipsing behind him as I held Blythe’s hand. I felt afraid. The noises of the crowds, shouts and murmurs, voices and more voices. So many people. Bumping into us. An elbow to my head. A knock of my shoulder. We were trapped in a sea of pants, coats, and boots. Smells overwhelmed me: cooking grease, wood smoke, boot polish, stale cigarettes, spilled beer. Old ladies stopped to fuss over us, and when they knelt to get a better look at my freckles, I spotted whiskers angrily poking out of their chins and thought of witches in the fairy tales Blythe read me.
Hot months brought hot, bare legs, sticky next to my face, smelling of unwashed skin, baby oil, patchouli, and other scents I could not name. Rays of summer sun sizzled the tender, exposed area of my scalp where my hair had been parted precisely by Blythe and made into pigtails. Later I would have a stinging sunburn there, then flakes that Blythe would brush out at night with a comb. Other times it was cold and I had to bury my hands in my jacket pockets instead of holding onto Blythe, so I made sure to match her steps, my feet only inches from hers at all times because I knew the crowd could swallow me and take me away from my sister. My sister was home. I did not want to lose my home.
I was five, Blythe went on, when one winter Sunday I refused to go with them. Blythe tried to convince me to come by saying there might be ice cream today if we were good. When that didn’t work, she used guilt as a tactic. “Dad will be so disappointed if he doesn’t get to see you,” she whispered, so our mother wouldn’t hear.
Nothing could penetrate my resolve. “He doesn’t care, you know, if we stay or go.” I folded my hands over my chest. “I’ll stay and read the books you got me from the library. This Sunday. And next. All the Sundays. I’ll never go to that place that smells like old lady’s sweaters ever again.”
“Honestly, Bliss, where do you get these things?” Blythe stood looking at me, pulling on her ponytail, trying to figure out what to do with me, the expression on her face somewhere between amusement and irritation. But she knew me better than anyone. And she knew when to give up. “Fine, but don’t forget to eat a little something. You know how cranky you get if you don’t have a snack in the mid-afternoon.”
Blythe continued to see our father every other Sunday, but I refused. Now, sitting in Kevan’s peaceful home with the glow of the fireplace warming my hands and face, I thought about this bold declaration I’d made as a five-year-old. It was, quite simply, me. I refuse to do things I don’t want to do; whether out of conviction, stubbornness, strength, or weakness, I could not say. No one has ever been able to dissuade me from my own ideas, my own ways, not even my sweet and sensitive sister whom I love more than anyone in the world. While she cries, I give them the finger. While she complies, I rebel. Which one is better in the long run, again, I couldn’t say. But I know this: Blythe has a home with people who love her. I do not.
My sister’s muffled voice and Clemmie’s laughter from the kitchen, then the sound of a car coming up the driveway, pulled me from my musings. I went to the window. It was Kevan’s Range Rover, coming up driveway with Henry, Moonstone, Mrs. Pennington, and Sam. Sweetheart’s head was near the window, looking out like a tourist on a bus. That dog was enough to break my heart.
Chapter 19
MOMENTS LATER, my friends headed toward the house. Henry had his hand resting on Mrs. Pennington’s back, as if protecting her from the snow. Sam, behind them, his eyes darting about, seemed to be taking in the scenery and the house. Sweetheart was close by his side with her nose in the air, sniffing. Moonstone was chattering away to Kevan, who nodded his head every so often, obviously listening carefully.
Ciaran came into the room with his arms loaded with firewood. After plopping it into the basket by the fire, he came to stand beside me at the window. He stroked my wrist with one of his fingers, once, then twice. “What had you so deep in thought?”
I wouldn’t tell him of my further thoughts on Cinderella or my father. Too revealing. Instead I chose a safer subject, one that would not reveal so much of the inner workings of my heart. “Yesterday, driving out here, I had the sensation we were all characters in The Wizard of Oz,” I said. “All of us in search for some character attribute we think will elude us.”
“What quality are you looking for?” he asked.
“Not me. The others.”
“Ah. Right. Of course.”
Without saying anything further to Ciaran, I walked down to the mudroom to greet my friends. I did not need to look back to know that he did not follow me. The attraction between us was like an invisible electric current. I knew when he was near.
Amidst much chatter and taking off of outer layers, Mrs. Pennington gave me a warm hug. She smelled of an exotic perfume, more spicy than sweet, and wore a light blue sweater made of expensive cashmere that draped just so over black silk pants. Her makeup was understated but perfect, with a pink lipstick that complimented the flush in her cheeks. A flush that was not there yesterday, I thought. I inspected Henry with a careful dart of my eyes. He seemed about twenty years younger than the last time I’d see him. Had their dinner last night turned into something more?
Mrs. Pennington squeezed my hand as we walked toward the front room. “Your meddling has caused me to have a terrible hangover.”
I looked at her, surprised. “My meddling?”
“Henry and I closed the bar down last night. I can’t remember how many glasses of wine I had, which is not typical for me, I can assure you. I’m completely mortified.” She laughed and squeezed my hand harder, giving me the distinct feeling that she felt the absolute opposite of mortification.
“My sister met Kevan at that same bar. It must be something about the place mixed with this high altitude that turns proper ladies scandalous.” I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Pennington stumbling anywhere, but perhaps the wine and the altitude had made her daring and wild?
She leaned closer, whispering in my ear. “You can’t imagine what I’ve done.”
“Do tell,” I said. We entered the front room. No Ciaran. Where had he gone? I glanced back into the hallway. Sam, Henry and Moonstone had stopped to examine a painting with Kevan as their tour guide. Sweetheart was at my heels, wagging her tail, but stopped when she saw Shakespeare, back at his perch by the fire. Shakespeare rose to his feet as Sweetheart approached him tentatively, tail wagging. Then, as if they’d already worked it out between them, both lay down by the fire, side by side.
“Let’s just say I didn’t wake in my own room this morning.”
I coughed. “Oh. Well.”
She smiled and pushed back a lock of hair from where it had fallen just over her eyes. “And we skipped breakfast.”
It was my turn to blush. My matchmaking scheme had worked. I knew it. I was right about the two of them.
“In my experience, it’s the quiet ones who are the best in bed,” whispered Mrs. Pennington.
I blushed further. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. I believe it’s because they spend so much more time observing than talking. They know how to make a woman respond. But goodness, I have a headache. Moonstone suggested a little hair of the dog, but I have no idea what she me
ant. Is it some kind of hippie herb?”
I laughed. “No. She just means have another drink as a cure for your headache.”
As if on cue, Ciaran entered, carrying a bottle of champagne and a bottle of white wine. I made introductions quickly, avoiding Mrs. Pennington’s gaze for fear she’d see the attraction between us. Two could play at the matchmaking game. The others had come in by then, as had Blythe and the girls. Introductions were made and gratitude expressed to our host and hostess for the invitation. While all this was going on, Ciaran moved to the bar, setting the bottles on the counter. He smiled at my new friend, then took her hand and brought it to his mouth like a man from another century. “You’re positively stunning, Mrs. Pennington.”
Mrs. Pennington curtsied. “Oh, please, call me Lauren.” Mrs. Pennington, reduced to a shy schoolgirl in less than thirty seconds, I thought. No wonder I was unable to resist him. He was like one of those super-human strains of bacteria in a science fiction novel that took out an entire continent. Or, like the norovirus on a cruise ship. There was nowhere to hide.
“Lauren, has anyone ever told you that you look like Grace Kelly?” Ciaran let go of her hand but remained close, seeming to take in her every detail.
“Well, I can’t lie. I have heard it once or twice.”
I sighed. I had my analogies wrong. Ciaran wasn’t like a strain of bacteria but more like the love potion in Midsummer’s Nights Dream.
“Did I hear something about a hangover?” he asked her.
Once again, she giggled. I looked at him, amazed. How had he heard us? We’d spoken quietly, so much so we’d had to lean into one another. “I’m afraid so,” said Mrs. Pennington.
“I have just the cure,” he said. “But you have to trust me, because the ingredients are a little strange.”
“Well, I suppose I could take a chance on your suggestion. As long as it doesn’t make me feel worse.”
His face lit up as he offered her his arm. “Follow me. I have to search for some of the ingredients in the kitchen, and I think there’s a blender in there, too.”
“Something blended?” said Mrs. Pennington as they walked toward the kitchen. “My favorite.”
Blythe approached me then, quietly asking me to stay and entertain our guests. “I have last-minute things to do for the dinner,” she said. “It’s best not to have anyone underfoot.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me?” I asked.
“No, you’re more use to me in here. Try and keep Kevan and Ciaran civil.”
After I promised to do my best, Blythe left for the kitchen. My nieces, apparently uninterested in the adults, scooted off to watch a movie in the television room while they waited for dinner. I took a good look at Sam. He looked well rested and was dressed in a pair of the slacks and one of the new sweaters I’d gotten him. No one would have believed that three days ago he was living on the streets. I turned to examine Henry once again. He had clearly gotten some action the night before. I think I would have known even if Mrs. Pennington hadn’t already spilled the news. His face seemed relaxed, and his stiff British posture less ramrod straight. There was just a slight curve on either side of his mouth, like a permanent half smile.
I sidled right over to him, taking his arm and guiding him over to the bar. “Henry.”
“Miss Heywood.” He nodded with a slight tilt of his head.
“How was your night?” I asked with the most innocent voice I could conjure.
“You can’t possibly believe I’ll give you the satisfaction of the details, do you?”
“Oh, come on, Henry. You’re no fun at all.” I sat on one of the bar stools and motioned for him to do the same.
Kevan was behind the bar now. “What can I get everyone to drink?”
Moonstone asked for a glass of wine and informed us that Sam wanted a root beer. “Sweetheart isn’t thirsty,” she added. Sweetheart had already found a spot near the fire, looking at us all with her chin perched on her paws. At the sound of her name, she wagged her tail.
“A little hair of the dog for you?” I whispered in Henry’s ear. “You’ve given poor Mrs. Pennington a hangover.”
He gave me a look meant to wither the hardiest of hothouse lilies, before resting his forehead in his hands. “Women can never keep a secret.”
“Is it a secret?” I asked, enjoying torturing him more than I should.
“No, no, of course not.” He stuttered and flushed. “Just, please, don’t make a big fuss about it. I don’t want her to feel embarrassed.”
I felt bad for teasing him, and relented, although Mrs. Pennington seemed anything but embarrassed. “I’ll behave. I promise.”
He let out a thankful sigh, as he took a bottle of beer from Kevan. After Kevan had walked away with the other drinks, Henry leaned closer to me, whispering. “You really do need a young man.”
“Why’s that?” I whispered back.
“It’s amazing what it does for one’s attitude.”
“You mean sex?” We continued to whisper.
“Miss Heywood, vulgarity in a woman is not attractive. But yes, that, amongst other reasons. Some love in your life might help with your bossy disposition.”
“Oh, Henry, you say the sweetest things.”
He sobered, glancing sideways at me before continuing to speak in the same hushed voice. “Speaking of young men. The brother. He’s looking at you like he wants to eat you for Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t like it.” Henry took a long swig from his beer.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Be careful, Miss Heywood. Not to sound like a sad country song, but he’s a heartache waiting to happen.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Henry.”
“No?” He cocked his head, examining my face. “Oh for pity’s sake, you slept with him already, didn’t you.”
I remained silent, tracing the paisley pattern on the cocktail napkin with my fingers.
“This is not what I meant by finding a young man,” he said.
“I can handle it, Henry. It’s just right for me. I’m having fun. No strings attached.”
“Miss Heywood, it continues to surprise me how little self-awareness you possess.”
“Self-awareness?”
“A woman who rescues a homeless guy and his dog is not someone capable of having a casual affair with a playboy.”
“How do you know he’s a playboy?”
“I follow the news, Miss Heywood.” He took another sip of his beer, and then wiped the bottle clean of condensation with the cloth cocktail napkin. “Not to mention that it’s obvious from the moment I spotted him. Men like that are never satisfied with one woman. They live for the chase.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter because I have no expectations. I don’t even believe in all that love nonsense. Not for myself anyway.” I smiled at him, desperate to change the subject. “I believe in it for others, though, like you and Mrs. Pennington. And Blythe and Kevan.”
“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love overnight?” he asked.
“Henry! Are you in love?”
“I’m not a one-night-stand type of fellow, Miss Heywood.”
“I know you’re not.” I patted him on the shoulder, speaking without a hint of teasing in my voice. I could tell he was serious and that it pained him to speak openly to me about his feelings. The poor fellow was eager to talk, I thought, if he was confessing to me. “Blythe says she fell in love with Kevan after only three days. So, yeah, I guess it’s possible. Plus, I’m a little in love with Mrs. Pennington as well. When you guys get married, will you adopt me?”
He chuckled. “Oh, Miss Heywood, you don’t need anyone to adopt you. We’d just get in your way. You’re what my mother would have called a force to be reckoned with.”
“Is that a good thing?”
He smiled and patted my hand. “Most of
the time.”
Chapter 20
LATER, AFTER STUFFING ourselves the same way Blythe had so expertly stuffed the turkey, Ciaran insisted that he would do the cleaning. Henry, not to be outdone by chivalrous behavior, chimed in with his pledge of support. Sam was up first and began collecting plates, but Kevan stopped him, asking if he would come in the other room, as there was something he wanted to discuss with him. Earlier we’d agreed that Kevan would offer him the caretaker position after dinner. Rori and Cole excused themselves and headed back to Cole’s mother’s house—he’d arrived back at the house just before dinner—to deliver a package of food Blythe had put together.
“Please be careful on the roads, Cole,” said my sister.
He promised her he would, reminding her gently that he’d lived here all his life, before the young couple left the dining room hand in hand.
“Mrs. Pennington?” Clementine asked in a small, shy voice, very unlike her usual spirited tone. “It’s stopped snowing now. Would you like to help us build a snowman?”
Mrs. Pennington set her napkin on her empty plate. “Miss Clementine, I would love nothing more.”
Clementine beamed at her as Lola chimed in that she would like to help as well, and the three of them scampered off. At the doorway, Clementine slipped her hand into Mrs. Pennington’s. The look the older woman gave to the child brought tears to my eyes, remembering how she’d wanted a child but hadn’t been able to have one. Family finds us. This phrase came to me, like it was on a banner over Clementine’s and Mrs. Pennington’s heads.
Blythe, Moonstone, and I retired to the front room where we proceeded to chat about this and that—a movie we all wanted to see, how Moonstone’s inn was faring, when and where Blythe and Kevan would get married. As evening turned the picture windows to black, Blythe told Moonstone of Kevan’s plan to offer Sam a job.
“So he’s staying? Here, in Peregrine?” asked Moonstone.
“If he wants to, of course,” said Blythe.
“He’ll want to,” I said.
Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2) Page 19
