Lizzie broke off a piece of lasagna with the edge of her fork. “Did Grandma Jane date a lot?”
“Define ‘a lot.’”
“At all.”
“Not so you’d notice,” Hayley said. “A dinner here and there. The occasional black-tie thing.” Professional engagements for the most part. Or at least that was what Hayley had always believed.
“Didn’t she ever fall in love?”
“If she did, she didn’t tell me.”
“Is she gay?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So why didn’t she have a baby with one of her professor friends instead of going to a sperm bank when she decided she wanted a kid?”
Why indeed. She had only asked herself the same question every day for the first eighteen years of her life.
“You know your grandmother,” she said finally. “She’s a scientist. She doesn’t believe in leaving anything to chance. She wanted a genius child who would be guided by logic, intellect, and the life of the higher mind and the sperm bank promised they could deliver one.” She lifted her glass of iced tea in salute. “Instead she got me.” A former wild child who loved tattoos, piercings, and boys with double-digit IQs who thought the life of the mind was something you got around to when you were too old for anything else. “I’m surprised she didn’t sue the sperm bank for false advertising.”
Lizzie giggled, a sound Hayley hadn’t heard in a long while.
“And you wonder why I’m a worrier,” she said, laughing along with her kid. “If your grandmother couldn’t control her destiny, what chance do I have?”
Mumbai, India
John Roman Lassiter IV, professor of antiquities and dean emeritus of the Colchester School for Applied Studies, had the voice of a 1940s radio announcer: a vibrant, rich baritone that made a woman’s spine tingle.
The first time Jane Maitland heard him speak she had been enduring a dinner party, engaged in conversation with Arnold Rosenblatt, the man responsible for isolating the effects of noise on indigenous populations of hualanim fish off the coast of Indonesia. A thoroughly fascinating topic and one that usually would have commanded all of her attention and intellect, but this voice, a truly mellifluous, wonderful voice, rose up from the din and ensorcelled her.
How strange to think that after a life lived in happy solitude and singular independence, the sound of a man’s voice could change the landscape with the ferocity of a tsunami.
Nothing, not even motherhood, had ever swayed her from her course. She loved Hayley deeply but her inadequacies as a mother had manifested themselves early on. She had watched younger parents with their children and envied the easy intimacy they shared with their offspring. For a brief moment in time she had wondered if she had done the right thing, if her decision to raise the child alone hadn’t been the ultimate manifestation of selfishness and not the gesture of deep generosity she had intended it to be.
Those early years were an experiment doomed to failure. Hayley had traveled with her to South America on a research grant, endured an endless expedition in the Bering Strait, and somehow managed to survive a harrowing storm off the coast of Cape Hatteras where Jane had been monitoring the effects of an oil spill on various marine migratory patterns.
It became abundantly clear to everyone that she couldn’t mother a child alone and pursue her vocation simultaneously. Certainly not with any degree of success in either field. By the time Hayley started high school, it was obvious that the girl needed a stable, traditional school environment and Jane had turned to her sister Fiona for help.
She chose to believe her decisions had been wise and nurturing and that her willful, scattered, loving daughter had benefited from the presence of two strong women in her life rather than the absence of one man, but as the years wore on, she grew less certain.
Had she done the right thing? She wasn’t sure she would ever know. So many decisions made in times of stress and uncertainty, decisions made with a kind heart and generous spirit, decisions that could never be undone. Who could say what was right and what was wrong?
She had been thinking a great deal lately about her professional legacy as well, the lifetime of knowledge that she would leave behind as a foundation for future generations. In the shadow of her eightieth year, she had expected many things to come her way: more acclaim, greater responsibility, the gathering awareness that as her time grew shorter, the decisions she made would grow in importance.
She had never expected love to be part of the equation.
But there he was, seated across from her at the breakfast table in her rented flat, reading his copy of the Times with his glasses perched on the end of his regal, aquiline nose, humming something soft and Mozartian while she sipped her coffee and sifted through the documents involved in their return to the States.
The swiftness of it all still had her feeling dazed. After the funding for her tour was cut off, she had been bombarded with lecture opportunities from every major university and oceanographic lab on the planet. She had settled on a four-month lecture/study appointment with a research group in southwestern Australia when a prolonged bout of indigestion sent her to see Dr. Athalye at University Hospital and the landscape of her life was thrown into sharp, uncompromising focus one last time.
She didn’t want some attorney on retainer telling Hayley the things her mother should have told her a long time ago.
In a strange way there was comfort to be found in knowing her time was limited. Each minute, every hour, became more precious. You strove harder, cared more deeply, loved with an intensity that the young and healthy couldn’t possibly understand.
John cried when she told him and, to her surprise, his tears unlocked her own sorrow and she cried with him. She cried for the first time in almost forty years and a feeling of deep joy washed over and around her, lifting her up higher and higher to a place a scientist would tell you couldn’t possibly exist.
When he asked her to marry him, she said yes without hesitation.
He looked at her over the top of his paper and smiled. She felt like she had been smiling back at him all her life.
“Everything in order?” That voice! That mellow, dark-coffee-with-cream voice!
“For the most part. I need to confirm our flight plans but everything else is as it should be.”
“Will your daughter meet us at the airport?”
Ah, the lone cloud on the bright horizon finally appeared. “I’m having a car service pick us up, John. Lakeside is a fair distance from Newark Liberty.”
He considered her with steady gray eyes set in a tanned and lined face few women would consider handsome. His skin was rough and leathery. His eyes were surrounded by a network of lines and wrinkles that were testament to every one of his seventy-something years on this battered and aching planet. There were times when she believed, foolishly, romantically, that he could see into her soul. The thesis, of course, was wrong on many levels. Not the least of which involved the existence (or nonexistence) of a soul. But somehow she continued to believe.
“Our engagement must have come as a considerable surprise to her.”
That tangled and terrible web…
“John, that’s an announcement I feel better making in person.”
He nodded. “I understand.” Even though he had told his own children by phone. Their excited shrieks of delight still echoed in her head. “You’ll present me as a fait accompli.”
“I shall.” She inhaled a deep breath. “I think it best if I met with Hayley alone when I did so.”
Some of the joy in his gray eyes dimmed. Her heart ached but there was no hope for it. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. I had looked forward to taking this first step with you toward building an extended family.”
“And we will do precisely that, John, but first there’s something I need to tell my daughter.”
“About us?”
“There is that.”
His eyes saddened. “About your health.”
She leaned across the table and took his hand in hers. “No,” she said with all the love in her heart, “about her father.”
East Hampton
Everyone said Tommy Stiles gave great interviews. He could be funny, irreverent, sincere, bawdy, and painfully honest in a way that made for juicy sound bites and lots of fun for the reporter sitting opposite him.
But not today.
“Cut!” Angela Deming gestured toward her television crew with a sharp wave of her hand. “Take five, guys.”
“There’s a load of stuff in the kitchen,” Tommy said. “Tell Greta to make whatever you want.”
“If you can’t give ’em a good interview, give ’em food,” Angela said as soon as the crew left the room.
“Works for me,” Tommy said.
“What’s wrong? I’ve been lobbing softballs and you’re not even managing to hit a single.”
“Maybe I’m in a slump,” he said, struggling with his signature affable grin. “I thought I was hitting doubles at least.”
“No,” Angela said with a rueful smile. “Trust me, not even close to hitting doubles.”
“It’s been a long day, Angie. I’m pushing sixty. A single doesn’t sound half bad.”
“So what’s going on? You should be able to do twenty minutes on your benefit concert in your sleep.”
“What time is it?” he asked. “Nine, ten o’clock? I’ve been doing this since eleven this morning. I’ve spoken to a hundred and fourteen reporters and bullshitted my way through eight satellite interviews with morning-show hosts and lunch-hour talking heads. I’m sorry, Angie, but I’ve got nothing left.”
“Okay, so enough with the benefit.” She considered him across the room. “So when’s the wedding?”
His signature smile faltered but he recovered before even a pro like Angie could notice. Every now and then practice really did make perfect. “Sooner the better. Willow’s about to start the second trimester so we need to move it forward.”
“Just an old-fashioned kind of guy, Tommy?”
She meant it in a gentle, teasing kind of way but for some reason the words hit him hard.
“I love her. She’s carrying my child. We plan to get married.” He leaned forward, dropping all pretense of the affable smile. “Something wrong with that?”
“Coming from anyone else, I’d say it was the biggest con job this side of Milli Vanilli.” She nodded as the crew reclaimed their positions at camera, lighting, and sound. “But it’s you, so…” She spread her hands wide in a gesture meant to convey bewildered understanding.
It was the wrong day for bewildered understanding. Right now Finn was down in South Jersey talking to a thirty-eight-year-old single mother who could very well be his firstborn child. So much time wasted…
“When did family become a joke?” he said out loud, as much to himself as to her. “When I was thirteen, a girl showed up at my door. She was maybe twenty or twenty-one, a college student. She was looking for my old man. Turned out she was his first kid by an ex-girlfriend and she wanted to see the son of a bitch who didn’t want her in his life.
“I’m fifty-nine years old. I’ve made some mistakes along the way but mostly I’ve been damn lucky. The women I loved still love me even if they don’t want to live with me. My kids don’t have to deal with anger or custody fights or divided loyalties. We’re all in this together. In what twisted universe is that a joke?”
Angie’s dark eyes were glittering with excitement. Amusement was okay. Laughter was even better. You never wanted a reporter’s eyes to glitter with anything even close to excitement.
“Your children keep a relatively low profile as far as rock star offspring are concerned. I know Beryl is a successful jewelry designer, but we don’t really know much about the others.” She gave a small gesture toward her crew to start filming again.
She had touched a nerve, a big one. His children were his Achilles’ heel. Not fame. Not fortune. Family.
They were each terrific in his or her own way. Maybe it was time to talk about them, to tell them publicly how proud he was.
The bases were loaded, the ball was in the strike zone, and he was going to hit it out of the park one more time.
6
Rhoda, their eighty-pound rescue dog, was waiting for Hayley and Lizzie at the front door.
The Labrador mix leaped up, put her paws on Hayley’s shoulders, and gazed at her with the kind of adoration usually found on Hallmark cards circa 1957.
“I know, I know,” Hayley said, ducking an enthusiastic dog kiss. “You want to go out, don’t you, girl?” She grabbed the industrial-strength leash from the peg near the door and hooked it to Rhoda’s collar.
“Want me to walk her?” Lizzie, stifling a yawn, asked.
“Not at this hour,” Hayley said. “I’ll walk Rhoda. You feed Murray, Ted, and Mary, and make sure the litter boxes are in good shape.” The littermates had been found in a discarded cardboard box behind the bakery three years ago and instantly adopted into the family.
“Ugh.” Lizzie looked less than pleased. “We should get one of those self-cleaning litter boxes like you see on television.”
“Win the lottery and we’ll talk,” Hayley said as Rhoda danced around in a state of urgent excitement. “And make sure Mr. G has clean water.”
Mr. G was a thirty-two-year-old Amazon parrot that had once belonged to her late father-in-law. Named after the famous Lou Grant character on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, the parrot had the same irascible demeanor and salty vocabulary of both his former owner and his namesake.
“Don’t look so put upon, Lizzie. Following an eighty-pound dog with a Ziploc bag isn’t fun either.”
Twenty minutes later all of the pets had been tended to, the house was locked up for the night, and Lizzie was racing for the back stairs.
“Lights off by eleven,” Hayley called out as her daughter whizzed by. “Not a second later!”
“I know, I know,” Lizzie tossed over her shoulder. “You say the same thing every night.”
“Because you push it past midnight every night. Tomorrow’s a school day. You need your sleep.”
She had to admit there was something painfully ironic about a C+ mother advising her A+ daughter on anything to do with school.
Hayley had gone AWOL more times than she could count and her grades had reflected that. If the sun shone brightly in Cincinnati, she had taken the day off to celebrate. Her daughter actually liked going to school and sought out summer classes.
She swung open the door to the family fridge and found a place for their leftovers and Aunt Fiona’s care package amid the Tupperware UFOs.
She started a pot of decaf, then sat down at the kitchen table to sort through the mail. Tonight had been special in so many ways that she hated to see it end. The real estate agents had loved the cake—far more than she herself had loved it, to be honest—and the association had mentioned wanting her to handle two more gigs for them before the month was over.
And, of course, there was the whole Tommy Stiles thing, which by itself was enough to fry her brain cells. She would forget all about it for ten or fifteen minutes and then the whole improbable, deliriously wonderful thing would come back to her and she would be overwhelmed with excitement all over again.
She might never be able to rationalize why a world-class rocker would hire a single mother from South Jersey to bake a cake for him, but she had a signed contract in her hands and the promise of money in the bank by this time tomorrow.
Even a world-class worrier had to admit it was looking good.
But the best thing of all was spending an evening with Lizzie. Away from home, away from the bakery, away from all the distractions that went hand in hand with everyday life, Lizzie had opened up a little about how much she missed her father and that insight had moved Hayley deeply.
You don’t miss what you never had.
That was what she had told Lizzie and for Hayley it was true. She had never known what it was li
ke to have a father figure, a man who towered above the rest and made you feel safe and secure. The Michael Goldstein that Hayley knew was terribly flawed, but the Michael that Lizzie loved was the father who made the monsters in the closet disappear and she missed him.
Lizzie had been the reason she had stayed with Michael as long as she had and, strangely enough, Lizzie was the reason she ultimately left. Michael had chosen to live a risky life and sooner or later the danger he thrived on would have crept into their home and threatened their daughter’s safety.
How did you explain to a fourteen-year-old who was missing her father that sometimes being alone was the better choice? The gray areas of life were invisible when you were fourteen. Your world was cast in black and white. The people you loved were good and true and would keep you safe from harm. How did you explain to that fourteen-year-old that sometimes the people you loved made terrible, selfish decisions and the only way you could protect yourself was to walk away before it was too late?
She remembered how it felt to be fourteen. Any day now Lizzie would wake up, take a look around her, and discover she was living with a slacker cake-baking mom whose math skills were limited to the number of tablespoons of flour it took to fill a measuring cup and the Great Adolescent Rebellion would begin. They probably wouldn’t speak again until Lizzie was old enough to vote.
She was glad she had let herself be talked into stopping for dinner at Olive Garden. Over the years she had grown so good at saying no, at being sensible and responsible and cautious, that sometimes she did it without even thinking.
She stood in the hallway, listening to the faint click-click of the keyboard coming from Lizzie’s room. That noise was the sound track to their lives. Blogging. E-mailing. Creating websites. Doing whatever else your average wunderkind did.
Maybe Hayley worked her too hard. It was so easy to sit back and let Lizzie take care of the contracts, the billing, the website. Right now she was probably uploading the photos of the cake they had just delivered to the Cumberland County real estate agents.
Just Desserts Page 7
