Home for the Summer

by Holly Chamberlin

  Frieda continued to page through the album until she came across a photograph of Ruby in a hospital bed, cradling her newborn child; Steve was perched next to her, gazing down at his infant daughter. The look of love and awe on the faces of her parents was unmistakable. Frieda wasn’t sure she had ever recognized that look as clearly as she did now.

  Yes, Frieda thought as she closed the album. Her early childhood had been a happy one, which was probably why when it ended the day her father left Yorktide she had felt so entirely devastated. Even though Frieda had sensed that her father was unhappy, the thought of his walking away from her and her mother had never, ever crossed her mind.

  A crash of thunder made Frieda jump. She looked to the window to see that the sky was an ominous steely gray. A moment later sheets of rain came lashing toward the earth. Frieda had always been fascinated by how a rainstorm could break so suddenly—Rainstorm. Frieda got off the couch and selected another album from the bookcase; a quick flip through showed that the photos it contained dated from later years. She took out another album and about halfway through it she found what she had been hoping to find. Under the first of three photos on the page was a line in her mother’s distinctive handwriting, confirming that the pictures had been taken at Great Pond in Cape Elizabeth the summer Frieda was eight. The first photo showed Frieda and her father before they started out onto the water. They had indeed been wearing life vests over their shorts and T-shirts. They were holding hands. Frieda realized that she must have taken the second photo, as it showed her father seated at the back of the canoe, his paddle in the water. He was smiling. The third picture clearly had been taken after the rainstorm had subsided and they had reached dry land. Frieda stood onshore holding her paddle, the expanse of Great Pond behind her. She was grinning in spite of the fact that she was decidedly soaked.

  Frieda looked back to the first photo. She believed that her father had been happy to be with her at Great Pond that long-ago summer day. She believed that her father had wanted to be with her. That counted for something. Bad times that followed upon good times simply should not be allowed to taint those earlier happy experiences.

  Carefully Frieda closed the album and returned it to the bookcase. She would return at another time to look more closely and to remember more carefully. At the moment her heart felt as full as it could feel without breaking.

  Chapter 54

  The promised thunderstorm broke out only minutes after Ruby arrived at Phil’s house. She was now comfortably seated in the kitchen’s breakfast nook. Phil had switched on every light in the room; spectacular displays of forked lightning across a spooky gray sky were not enough to dispel the gloom that had settled over Yorktide that afternoon.

  “I do love a thunderstorm,” Ruby said. “Funny, I hate human drama, but I love when Nature plays the diva.”

  “Within reason, of course,” Phil said, setting down a plate of small brioche buns and a pot of tea. “Let’s not forget earthquakes and tsunamis. They’re not exactly fun.”

  “Of course,” Ruby said as Phil took a seat across the table from her. “Speaking of human drama, I finally told Frieda about George’s proposal. And she told me that she did indeed break things off with Jack at Bella’s request. Wait, ‘request’ isn’t quite right. Bella threatened to do something awful and unspecified if Frieda didn’t comply.”

  Phil frowned. “They’d barely gotten to know each other. It’s a shame they weren’t left alone to grow close. Have a bun. They’re decadent.”

  “It is a shame,” Ruby said, putting a brioche on her plate. “I told Frieda she was wrong to let Bella dictate her choices. I’m surprised she didn’t walk away. Telling a parent she’s doing something wrong in relation to her child is risky business, but I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

  “I suspect she didn’t walk away because she knows you’re right. I hope she’ll be able to gather up the courage to follow her heart.”

  “And speaking of matters of the heart, I ran into one of Steve’s old flames this morning in the post office.” Ruby grinned. “Emily Bainbridge. It’s been over thirty years since her affair with my ex-husband and she still can barely meet my eye.”

  “At least she has enough class to feel embarrassed by her past sins.”

  “And she’s certainly paid the price for them!” Ruby shook her head. “That husband of hers filed for divorce the second he found out she’d cheated on him. Well, he was no prize, but since then nothing much has gone her way. Remember what happened with her second husband? Died leaving her with massive debts. And her son from her first marriage landed in prison for grand theft auto. It’s too bad, really. She’s a nice person.”

  Phil poured more tea into Ruby’s cup. “How you can be so generous with the people who hurt you I’ll never know.”

  “Emily wasn’t the one who hurt me,” Ruby argued. “Steve was the one who hurt us both. Besides, look who’s talking! I’ve never heard you say one bad word against Tony’s parents or any of the people who cut you two off when you needed them most. We’re both old softies when it comes to forgiveness.”

  “Guilty as charged, I suppose. So, what are you going to do about George?” Phil asked. “He deserves an answer, and sooner rather than later. And yes, I know I’m hounding you, but old friends are allowed to hound.”

  Ruby sighed. “Phil, why can’t things just stay the same? Well, good things at least. I know that’s a stupid question that has no possible answer, but sometimes lately I feel stupid. I feel as if I’ve forgotten all of the life lessons I’d learned over the years, at least the most important ones.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ruby,” Phil chided. “You’ve forgotten nothing.”

  Ruby shrugged. “Maybe I’m just tired.” She took another bite of the brioche and felt her animal spirits lift. “These buns really are delicious. Did you make them?”

  “No,” Phil said. “I picked them up at a little bakery on my way back from Kittery this morning. Do you remember Tony’s brioche?”

  “I certainly do. I loved when he used it to make French toast. Those brunches you two gave in your little house at the end of Patrick’s Lane were legendary. The best mimosas ever. And Tony’s Eggs Florentine! I’ve never been able to order Eggs Florentine at a restaurant after being spoiled by Tony’s.”

  “The good old days, eh?”

  Tony and Phil. Steve and me. “Yes,” Ruby said. “But these days aren’t so bad, are they?”

  Phil reached across the table and took Ruby’s hand. “No,” he said. “These days are just fine.”

  And it’s important, Ruby thought, to remember that.

  Chapter 55

  It was a long shot but a shot worth taking. Seated at the kitchen table, Frieda opened her laptop, selected a search engine, and typed in her father’s full name—Steven Jacob Hitchens. After his name she typed the words furniture maker.

  Nothing. She amended her father’s name—Steve Hitchens—tried the word craftsman and waited. Nothing. Twice again Frieda attempted to discover some mention of her father as artist but to no avail. Well, she thought, I knew I’d probably come up empty-handed. It was just that while flipping through the second album in search of pictures taken on Great Pond Frieda had come across a photo of her father standing proudly next to one of the beautiful pieces of furniture he had designed and built; under the photo her mother had written: Bespoke desk in oak for the office of Arthur Jameson, Esq.

  Frieda had always known that people—not only her mother and Phil—considered Steve Hitchens gifted. But for a very long time she had succeeded in blocking out the fact of her father’s talents, favoring instead only negative thoughts and impressions about the man who had virtually abandoned her on the cusp of adolescence.

  But now . . . Frieda shook her head and remembered the photo of her and her father holding hands on the shore of Great Pond. She highly doubted it was possible to treasure memories of earlier good times without first forgiving the sins of later, trying times. And as understanda
ble as a negation or a “forgetting” of happy memories might be, it didn’t feel right. Not now. Not since Steve Hitchens was becoming an individual, a person in addition to the famously neglectful father.

  A person who might have been alone in the hospital after his heart attack, with no friend to visit with flowers or his favorite magazines. A person who might not have had anyone to shop for his groceries and keep his place clean and tidy when he was released and sent home to recover. Assuming her father had a place to live; it had never occurred to Frieda before that he might be essentially homeless. The thought made her feel slightly ill.

  She supposed there were people—self-righteous ones—who would say that if Steve had been on his own during his convalescence he had gotten what he deserved; she supposed there were people who would say that he was only reaping what he had sown. But Frieda felt that was too harsh a judgment. She sincerely hoped her father had someone special in his life, a lover or a best friend, even a good neighbor. She remembered how wonderful he had been to Phil and Tony all those years ago when Tony was sick and dying. No one deserved to suffer alone. No one.

  The landline rang then, startling Frieda from her reverie. It was her father.

  “I was just thinking about you,” she said when she had greeted him.

  “You were?” he asked.

  “Yes. I was remembering how good you were at designing and building furniture. Dad? What are you doing now? I mean, for work. For that matter, what are you doing for fun?”

  “Same as I’ve always done,” her father said promptly. “This and that.”

  “Not making furniture?” Frieda ventured.

  “No.”

  “According to Mom,” Frieda said, “you were really talented. It’s Phil’s opinion, too, and he should know.”

  “I was okay,” Steve said. “Nothing more.”

  “But—”

  “Look, Frieda,” her father interrupted. “I don’t have the right to brag. I haven’t earned it.”

  Frieda wasn’t sure she could argue that. “Okay,” she said. “Dad? Is there anyone special in your life now? I mean . . .”

  Steve cleared his throat. “I know what you mean, and no. But thank you for asking. I suppose it’s normal that you have a lot of questions.”

  “Yeah,” she said. But how many of those questions would her father be willing to answer? And how many of the answers was she really prepared to hear?

  “And you, Frieda?” her father asked. “Has your heart been touched again?”

  For a moment Frieda didn’t know how to answer truthfully. Finally, she said, “I thought that there might be something between me and an old friend from school, but it didn’t work out.”

  “I’m sorry. At least you were courageous enough to hope.”

  Was I? Frieda wondered. Had she been truly courageous? Or had she seen the struggle that lay ahead and chosen to back away from the challenge, using Bella’s fears and her own feelings of guilt as her excuse?

  “Frieda? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m here.”

  “Do you know what I was thinking about the other day?” Steve asked. “I was thinking about how your mother and I argued over what to name you. Of course I was going to let her have her way in the end. She was the one doing all the hard work. But I still thought I had a right to voice my opinion.”

  This was news to Frieda. “And what did you want to name me?” she asked.

  “Mary. It was my paternal grandmother’s name. I never met her, but my father had a photograph and I thought she had such a kind and gentle face.” Steve laughed. “Maybe not the best reason for choosing a baby’s name but . . .”

  Frieda smiled. “I think it’s a very good reason, Dad.”

  “Maybe. But Ruby’s favorite painter won out. I remember hoping that you would live a far less difficult and fraught life than Frida Kahlo lived. I was the one who insisted that we at least spell your name differently, but I guess it wasn’t enough to ward off tragedy. And my walking out the way I did certainly didn’t help make things easy for you.”

  Frieda felt tears pricking at her eyes. “I’m all right, Dad,” she said a bit gruffly. “How are you feeling? I mean, physically.”

  “Not bad considering. I’m not what I used to be, but none of us are.”

  “Have you had chest pains again?” she asked. “Do you see a doctor regularly?”

  “My health is not for you to worry about, Frieda. I wouldn’t have told you about the heart attack if I thought it would upset you.”

  Frieda pondered that for a moment. Had her father really thought that she wouldn’t care he had been ill? Well, why wouldn’t he have thought so?

  “I went through a few of the old photo albums the other day,” she said. “I hadn’t looked at them since college.”

  It was a moment before her father replied. “Strolling down memory lane can be dangerous, Frieda,” he said. “Comforting, too, I suppose, but it’s a journey that should be approached with caution. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

  “I know. But it was okay actually,” she told him. “I remembered so many things I thought I’d completely forgotten.”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  Like the obvious fact that you and Mom were in love, she replied silently. “Like that old couch with the awful orange slipcovers.”

  Her father laughed. “That was a third-generation hand-me-down,” he said. “My aunt had passed it on to her son, my cousin, who then passed it on to your mother and me when we married. Money was tight, so we were grateful for the couch, no matter how hideous.”

  “And there were photos of the three of us at what looked like an animal petting zoo. You know, sheep and goats in a pen and you, me, and Mom in the midst of the herd.”

  “That wasn’t a petting zoo,” her father corrected. “That was a local fair, one where farmers brought their livestock and vegetables for display and competition. I remember this one very aggressive goat sticking his nose into the pocket of your jacket. I guess he was looking for food. You were a little freaked for a moment and then you started to laugh. Maybe his nose tickled.”

  Frieda smiled. “What else do you remember about that day, Dad?”

  “There were rabbits,” her father said. “Bunnies. And boy, did you want a bunny after that. Neither your mother nor I was all that keen on keeping a rabbit. It was quite the struggle to get you to accept no for an answer. Phil and Tony were with us that day, too, by the way. It was probably one of them who took the pictures of the three of us.”

  The three of us. “Good times, right, Dad?”

  “Yes,” her father said. “They were good times.”

  “Dad?” Frieda said, gathering her courage. She knew that bringing up such a potentially explosive topic was a risk; she had no idea just how far her father was willing or able to go with this renewed relationship. “When you would call Mom when I was a kid, why didn’t you ever ask to talk to me?”

  “Because of those good times,” he said without hesitation.

  “I missed you.”

  “And I missed you, so much that I knew all it would take to bring me back to you and your mother was the sound of your voice. And that would have been a mistake, Frieda. I knew I could never settle into the role of husband and father again and be good at it. I knew I’d only wind up hurting you both far worse than I’d already hurt you.” Her father sighed. “I’m sorry if that sounds stupid or if it makes me sound weak, which I fully admit that I am. But it’s the truth.”

  “If only you could have visited once in a while . . .” Frieda wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “Same problem. I had to stay away. I did it for my own sake, I’ll admit that, but also for your sake, Frieda.”

  “I think your staying away was a mistake, Dad,” Frieda said earnestly but not angrily. “I can’t bring myself to believe it was good for either of us, or for Mom.”

  “I won’t try to convince you that it wasn’t. And honestly, I’ve never been
able to convince myself that because of my decision I didn’t lose out on a slew of wonderful experiences with you. I did miss out. But that’s the past. It can’t be changed. Look, Frieda, I should be going.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Frieda said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Her father cut her off. “Don’t apologize, Frieda. Ever. You have nothing for which to be sorry.”

  Frieda wiped another tear from her cheek. “All right, Dad. Take care, okay?”

  “You, too, Frieda.”

  Carefully Frieda replaced the receiver. She wondered if she had gone too far by asking her father difficult questions. She wondered if he would call her again or if he would retreat from her curiosity, however natural it was. But what was done was done. What was said was said. Her father was right. The past—even the immediate past—couldn’t be changed. But the future could be modeled on a brighter plan. Couldn’t it?

  Chapter 56

  Dingding!

  “Whose phone is that?”

  “Mine,” Bella told her grandmother. “It’s nothing.” Just another text from Clara. Where r u? It was the fourth text she had sent that day.

  Bella, her mother, and her grandmother were in the kitchen, trading off turning the crank of the old-fashioned ice-cream maker. When it was Bella’s turn, Ruby and Frieda worked on a crossword puzzle. When it was someone else’s turn, like it was now, Bella flipped through the latest copy of InStyle (not stolen from Clara’s housemate) and tried to ignore the phone. She had never felt the tyranny of communications technology before this summer. Did a person really have an obligation to be always and immediately available to other people? Ariel hadn’t thought so. She had hated Facebook and Instagram and Snapchat and the culture of oversharing. Ariel had thought that privacy was a very precious thing.