Christmas on Honeysuckle Lane

by Mary McDonough

  “And now it’s just the three. Well, we should include Anna Maria and the three cousins. The next generation. The Reynolds family’s future.”

  “Yes. Oh, look! Remember this?” Emma reached onto another shelf and picked up a small brass elephant from a group of small sculptures in the shapes of animals. “Mom and Dad got this in a flea market in Paris, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Andie laughed. “Remember how Danny used to mispronounce elephant? ‘Ephelant’ he used to say.”

  “That was pretty adorable, actually,” Emma said, returning the elephant to the company of his friends.

  “You know, I always wished I could go with Mom and Dad on their adventures,” Andie said suddenly. “Even when I was very young I knew I wanted to be somewhere else. Though it took me long enough to act on that desire.”

  Emma smiled. “There were obstacles in your way. Like those parental expectations.”

  “What about you?” Andie asked. “Did you want to jet off with Mom and Dad?”

  “No,” Emma said. “Not really. But at the same time I felt kind of abandoned when they left. And I absolutely hated having a nanny here with us when Mom and Dad were gone. I felt angry all the time, like what right did this stranger have to tell me what to eat and when to go to bed. They were all nice, I suppose. Still, I couldn’t wait for Mom and Dad to come home.” Mostly Dad, she thought. It was always Dad for me when I was young.

  “Danny didn’t like when Mom and Dad went away, either,” Andie said. “I remember one time when he cried for three hours straight. He was little, of course. In fact, it might have been the first time Mom and Dad took a really long trip. I guess the poor kid thought they were never coming back. I remember I felt so bad that I couldn’t comfort him. I tried, but nothing seemed to work.”

  “You didn’t mind the nannies, did you?” Emma asked.

  “No,” Andie said. “I didn’t. I did what they told me to do, but I never made any sort of personal connection with them. They didn’t even register enough for me to dislike them. I suppose that’s odd.”

  “I think it sounds smart,” Emma said. “It was an effective way of coping with a stranger in the house who suddenly had the authority to send you to bed without your supper if you acted up. I wish I had been able to detach like you did, instead of feeling so grumpy about it.”

  Andie smiled. “You felt what you felt. You were only a child.”

  “So were you,” Emma pointed out. “But you were already on the right path, weren’t you?”

  Andie shrugged and pulled another paperback from the bookshelves. “The Count of Monte Crisco: A Chrissy Clarke Culinary Mystery,” she read aloud with a laugh. “Now, who do you think was reading this?”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Hi, Jack,” Daniel called, though with his window up there was no way Jack Wiseman, driving past going the other way, could hear him. Still, Jack would have seen his wave, as Daniel had seen Jack’s tip of his ubiquitous Greek fisherman’s cap. It was one of the things Daniel loved about life in Oliver’s Well, the strong sense of community.

  Daniel was driving back to his home on Little Rock Lane from a private cooking lesson for a young woman recently out of college and sick of eating takeout for dinner. “I can’t even make pasta properly,” she had moaned. “It always comes out in a lump! My mother tried to teach me the basics, but I never paid attention. Help!” The woman was the daughter of a frequent client, and a good one at that, so Daniel had put on his apron and gone to the woman’s rescue.

  It wasn’t something he did often, give private lessons on the basics of cooking and baking, and he didn’t advertise such services, but on occasion someone like this young woman approached him, desperate for knowledge. They were prepared to pay well, and without exception these private students were eager and attentive learners. With a business to grow and two children to raise and someday send to college, Daniel wasn’t picky about how he earned his money. Besides, he’d discovered that he enjoyed the teaching experience. It was less physically taxing than catering parties for fifty or more people, and the look of pride on a student’s face when he or she managed the first medium boiled egg or apple pie or classic white sauce was ample payment of another kind.

  On the subject of teaching, Daniel thought as he came up on the high school he and his sisters had attended. He remembered his high school years as if they had only just taken place. On the very first day of his freshman year, Emma, a junior, had declared that she would look out for him. She briefed him on what teachers gave less homework than others and what food to avoid in the cafeteria and what other kids to stay away from because they were bad news. And she had gone about it all discreetly, so Daniel hadn’t felt he was being coddled in public. No teenaged boy wanted his big sister hovering over him, threatening his burgeoning masculinity and very fragile male ego.

  Those four years had been happy ones overall. He had done well in his classes, played a fairly important role on the junior and then varsity soccer team, and kissed his first girlfriend by the time he was a sophomore. That she dumped him a month later hardly mattered because two weeks after that another girl caught his eye. Thinking back on his mildly lothario days, Daniel felt a surge of paternal protectiveness. There was no way he was going to let his daughter date until she was at least sixteen. And as for Marco, well, he was going to get a very stern lecture about responsibility and respect for women the moment he hit puberty.

  Daniel’s attention was briefly caught by what he thought was Emma’s car just turning into the parking lot of the one Chinese restaurant in town. But another glance told him that the car was an older model Lexus, not Emma’s. Good, he thought. That means she’s likely at the house, getting down to business. Daniel still couldn’t shake his irritation, the feeling that his sisters were simply going through the motions, not really caring the way he did about the family’s belongings, the Audubon prints their father had treasured, the Bullock desk that had been in the Carlyle family for almost two hundred years. Those things were important; in fact, they were more than just things. They had meaning. They deserved respect, and only partly because they had been respected by Cliff and Caro. They were . . . they were visible manifestations of continuity.

  An ambulance from Oliver’s Well Emergency Corp was coming up behind him, sirens screaming, lights flashing, and Daniel quickly pulled the car to the side of the road. At least they had been spared that at the end, he thought, easing back into traffic, the mad dash to the hospital. Caro had died at home, peacefully, in the surroundings she loved, unlike her husband, who had passed away in the ER. Caro had been with her husband at the end; Daniel had been there, too. When the attending doctor pronounced Cliff dead, Caro had asked Daniel to give her a moment alone with her husband. And when a few minutes later his mother had come out of the cubicle where his father was already growing cold, Daniel had seen a profound change. He had known right then and there that Caro Reynolds would not be long for this world.

  Daniel’s lips tightened. He would never forget the final days of his mother’s life. Anna Maria had been a blessing, supportive, kind, willing to do some of the less pleasant work of caring for a dying person when the wonderfully competent private nurse they had hired for Caro took her breaks.

  “Do not go gentle into that good night. / Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” There had been no rage in his mother’s final moments, no protest against the imminent arrival of death. The nurse had left the room to give Daniel and his mother privacy, allowing them to be alone together when Caro breathed her last. She was still beautiful at the end, still the elegant woman Daniel had always loved and even at times had adored.

  The nurse, as if sensing her patient’s passing, had come back into the room immediately. “I’ll close her eyes,” she had said softly, but Daniel had refused. “I’d like to do it,” he told her, and he had, gently and finally. He remembered thinking, I’ll never see those eyes again. My mother will never look at me again, with all the love she had for
me. It was only then that he had broken down in a wave of hot tears.

  Daniel felt his hands tighten on the wheel. He wondered if an adult could be considered an orphan. That’s how he felt, orphaned and unmoored now that the anchors of the family, Cliff and Caro, were gone.

  His children missed their grandparents, too. Cliff and Caro had been a fixture in their lives since the day they were born. Never a week went by without Sophia and Marco spending an afternoon at the house on Honeysuckle Lane; never a week went by without Grandma and Grandpa having dinner at their son’s home. That is until illness and death had gotten in the way.

  Not surprisingly, at least to Daniel, Rumi was the grandchild most affected by her grandmother’s death; Caro had in some ways been a second mother to her, both before and after Andie’s escape from Oliver’s Well. If Rumi was a bit spoiled by the attention she got from family members seeking to make up for Andie’s absence, well, that was understandable. Daniel had come to feel very protective about his niece. In some way he regarded Rumi as his own child.

  Daniel turned onto Little Rock Lane and a moment later pulled into the driveway of his home, noting that Anna Maria’s car wasn’t there. He looked at his watch. Of course, he thought. She would be taking the kids to pageant practice. He got out of his car and realized he was looking forward to a good cup of espresso before dinner that night with his family. Sometimes, he thought, inserting his key into the lock of the front door, it was the little pleasures that helped soothe the deepest pain.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Rumi.” Andie smiled and enfolded her daughter in a hug.

  “It’s so good to see you.”

  Rumi put her arms around her mother for about a second before she pulled away. “It’s been a while,” she said, not quite meeting her mother’s eye.

  “Yes,” Andie said, closing the front door. “It has. You look well.”

  Rumi shrugged. “I’m okay.” She turned then to greet Emma, with, Andie saw, a lot more enthusiasm than she had shown her mother. Sophia and Marco then gathered around their cousin, each vying for her attention, Sophia with a braided bracelet to present to her, Marco holding up his finger to show Rumi a new blister. Rumi told Sophia the bracelet was awesome and squealed in mock horror over Marco’s blister, which was exactly the response he seemed to have wanted. It was good to see her daughter so loved and appreciated by her family. Andie remembered what Daniel had told her about Rumi’s determination to keep Caro’s George Bullock Regency desk in the family. The Family. It mattered differently to mother and daughter, Andie mused. But that was all right. Rumi was her own person, not meant to be a clone of either parent.

  “I’m starved, Uncle Daniel,” Rumi said, linking her arm in his. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Come help me put it out,” he said, “and you’ll see.” Together they headed toward the kitchen.

  Emma had set the large dining room table with their mother’s everyday dishes, still finer than Andie’s own serviceable crockery, and now they took their seats, Daniel at one end, where his father had sat, Anna Maria on his right, Rumi on his left. No one, Andie noted, sat in what had been Caro’s place, opposite Daniel.

  Daniel had prepared a pork roast with apples and onions, roasted potatoes, and a salad of winter vegetables. Andie brought her own meal to the table, a hearty homemade ratatouille over brown rice.

  “My mother always has to be different,” Rumi announced. “If suddenly we all went vegetarian she’d be chowing down on a turkey leg before you could say ‘pass the gravy.’ ”

  Daniel laughed, but he was the only one. Andie pretended not to have heard her daughter’s remark. “That’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing,” she said to Rumi. “Is the center stone an amazonite?”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “Did you get the necklace in town?” Andie asked.

  “Actually,” Rumi said, fingering the stone, “I made it.”

  “Really?” Emma said. “I didn’t know you were interested in crafts and design.”

  Rumi shrugged. “I’m not. I just like jewelry.”

  “So do I!” Sophia piped. “Someday I’m gonna have lots.”

  “I do some beadwork,” Andie said, smiling at her niece. “And sometimes I embroider, nothing fancy, things my friends and I use in our daily lives. I find that making something by hand is a good way to open my mind to a larger creative energy. As my favorite poet and prophet says, music, poetry, and dance—all of the arts, really—are a path for reaching God.”

  “It’s not like that for me,” Rumi said quickly. “I just do it for fun. It’s not like it’s important, not like studying to be a dental hygienist.” Then she laughed and looked around the table. “I’m not like Mom, always needing to be in the spotlight. I just want to do my job, get paid for it, and come home at the end of the day.”

  Andie, aware that she had been insulted, but unwilling to argue her daughter’s completely untrue remark, simply smiled.

  Daniel took a sip of wine and then carefully sat his glass at the top of his plate. Looking at no one in particular, he said, “They say that people who are insecure need a lot of attention from others.”

  Andie’s hand tightened on her fork. But before she could respond to her brother’s pointed remark, her sister spoke up.

  “They say that, do they?” Emma said, arching her brows. “Well, maybe they are right after all. I seem to remember more than one occasion where you, Danny, threw a bit of a tantrum when you thought Mom or Dad or even Andie and I weren’t paying enough attention to you.” Emma turned to her sister and smiled. “Do you remember the time he dropped to the floor and began kicking his feet because Dad didn’t look up from the newspaper fast enough when Danny wanted to show him a drawing he’d made? And the time he threatened to hold his breath ‘forever’ because Mom didn’t notice he’d put his own cereal bowl in the dishwasher?”

  Andie, not one to enjoy laughter at the expense of another person, was nevertheless grateful for Emma’s deft intervention. She smiled as Sophia and Marco hooted with laughter, oblivious to their father’s frown.

  “Oh, Danny,” Emma said, “don’t take yourself so seriously.”

  Anna Maria, Andie saw, seemed too busy with her meal to get involved with a sibling tussle. Either that or she was simply being smart. Rumi’s expression was hard to read; Andie realized she wouldn’t be surprised if Rumi suddenly flew to her uncle’s defense. To forestall further unpleasantness, Andie cleared her throat and raised her glass. “I’d like to offer a toast,” she said.

  Daniel was the next to raise his glass. “All right,” he said. “To what?”

  “To us. To the family. To being here together for Christmas.”

  The others echoed, Rumi and Daniel loudest in their cries of “Hear, hear!”

  To herself, Andie repeated this very important bit of wisdom: “Resolutely train yourself to attain peace.”

  CHAPTER 13

  After dinner had been eaten, the dishes put into the dishwasher, the knives (Daniel’s personal set) washed and carefully stowed in their traveling case, and the pots washed, Emma retreated to her parents’ bedroom where she now sat propped up in their king-sized bed. The carved frame was made of walnut and must have cost a small fortune, especially for a newly wed couple. Then again, maybe Caro’s family had helped with the purchase.

  Emma was trying to concentrate on one of the books she had loaded into her Kindle, a biography of the fascinating Frida Kahlo, but her mind wouldn’t behave. It kept wandering back to dinner, hearing Rumi’s insulting remarks about her mother, watching in retrospect Daniel’s whispered asides to his niece. Really, she thought, Daniel was too much of a conspirator with Rumi, encouraging her borderline disrespectful attitude. It annoyed her, but she felt she had no right to intervene—well, except in the rather childish way she had at dinner. Still, she wished someone would step in to help mother and daughter get past this difficulty that seemed to have suddenly sprung up. As far as she knew there had never been trouble
between them in the past.

  Emma wondered what Anna Maria felt about the situation. She was an emotionally astute woman; at the same time, one who refrained from interfering where her help might not be welcome. Maybe now was a time that Anna Maria should interfere, Emma thought. If Daniel would listen to anyone it would be his wife.

  “Knock knock.”

  Andie was standing in the open doorway wearing a voluminous caftan-style garment in a swirling blue and green pattern. “Come in,” Emma said, patting the mattress. “Join me.”

  Andie got into the bed and settled next to her sister. “I could never stay in here,” she said, glancing around the room. “Too many memories, like how I would climb up and wiggle down between Mom and Dad when I had a nightmare.” Andie laughed. “Mom always told me I was being silly and took me right back to my own bed.”

  “I don’t feel that way,” Emma told her. “About the memories. Now that Mom and Dad are gone . . . Well, to me the room feels almost neutral. Free of memories, if that makes sense.”

  Andie nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It makes sense. Just not for me.”

  “Besides,” Emma went on, “I couldn’t bear to stay in my old room, not after all the times Ian shared it with me over the years. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not at all sorry I broke up with him. It’s just that I don’t need any reminders of Ian Hayes under the family roof. That part of my life is over. He’s been texting and calling me nonstop, by the way.”

  “What does he have to say?” Andie asked.

  “Things like, ‘Hope you’re having a good time with the family, ’ and ‘How’s Danny’s business?’ and ‘Did Andie get there safely?’ Nothing weird but . . .”

  “Hmm. You told me once he has no family of his own, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well,” Andie said, “we’ve become his family over time. It’s normal he’d be reluctant to cut all ties so cleanly. He’s in denial. Be patient with him, Emma.”