Bella sighed deeply. There was so much of the story she just didn’t know; what she did know was that she wasn’t going to get the truth from Clara. And that was all right because at that moment, secure in her grandmother’s home on Kinders Lane, Bella almost didn’t care if she ever saw Clara Crawford again.
Almost.
Chapter 59
Frieda frowned at the screen of her laptop, on which appeared a long list of colleagues she was planning to contact yet again in the ongoing search for work. That was the downside of a freelance writing and copyediting career; no matter how good your reputation, the process of selling yourself never quite ended. But as important as the task was, her mind continued to wander to thoughts of Jack and of how she missed him. To thoughts of Aaron and of how she missed him, too. To thoughts of Bella.
Since breaking things off with Jack Frieda had made a concerted effort to spend more time with her daughter. She had met Bella at Wainscoting and Windowseats one afternoon, suggesting they catch the next showing of Beetlejuice, one of Bella’s favorite movies, at the old Leavitt Theatre in Ogunquit. She had suggested they visit the outlets in Kittery. She had suggested they go to the Funky Bow Beer Company one evening to eat pizza and hear a band called The Windmills.
Frankly, Frieda wasn’t sure her attentions were making a positive difference in Bella’s life—Bella hadn’t rejected any of her mother’s efforts, but neither had she showered Frieda with thanks—but her own conscience was partly assuaged and maybe that counted as “taking care of herself.” People said it so casually. “Bye. Take care of yourself.” Or they might say it meaningfully, as Frieda thought Jack had done when they had parted. Either way, the idea of taking care of oneself was a tricky one to figure out. She remembered what Phil had said to her at The Barn Gallery. You’re certainly not showing yourself the proper respect by consciously rejecting the possibility of happiness.
But what did happiness mean to her? Above all, Frieda thought, happiness meant knowing that her sole surviving child was safe and secure in her mother’s love. That came above all else; it had to. And yet . . . She remembered what her father had said to her when they had last spoken, that at least she had had the courage to hope for happiness.
It could drive you mad, Frieda thought, shaking her head. Everyone had an opinion on how she should be living her life. She knew these people, Ruby, Phil, Jack, and yes, even her father, cared for her, but—
“Am I interrupting?” It was her mother, come into the kitchen wearing a crisp linen blouse over a pair of capri pants.
Frieda closed her laptop. “No. Well, yes, but I could use an interruption from begging colleagues for job leads.”
“You’re not begging,” Ruby said. “You’re networking.”
“Sometimes it feels like the same thing.” Frieda sighed. “Sorry. I’m feeling a swamp of self-pity opening at my feet.”
“Things can’t be all bad. You were humming just now.”
“I was? I wasn’t aware.”
“Your father used to sing that song to you at bedtime when you were about three or four.”
“What song?” Frieda asked.
“The one you were humming. It’s called ‘The Tale of the Tadpole. ’ I can’t remember which children’s singer-songwriter made it famous and I can’t recall all the lyrics, but I’m pretty sure there was a line having to do with water drops and wavelets.”
Memory, Frieda thought, was a strange thing. The tune had remained with her but not the lyrics or its source. “Mom?” she asked. “Do you still have anything Dad built?”
“You mean his woodworking?” Ruby asked.
“Yeah. I mean, I know you don’t have any of his furniture.” Of course she didn’t. She had sold it long ago out of sheer necessity.
“My jewelry box,” she said. “Your father made it for my birthday the first year we were together.”
“I love that box. I never knew Dad made it.”
“Well, he did, and now I’m off. The Page Turners are meeting to talk about the fall reading schedule. We’re having dinner out, so don’t expect me back before nine.”
Ruby grabbed her bag and with a wave she left the kitchen.
Frieda got up from the table to make a cup of tea. So, her father used to sing to her. It was a sweet thing for him to have done. Aaron, too, had sung to the girls at bedtime. And as she turned the gas on under the teakettle, Frieda vowed she would make a point of not letting Bella forget anything about her father, not one little thing, not what stories Aaron had read to her or how when she was a roly-poly baby he had called her Baby Belly Button, or how many times he had bandaged her scraped knees, or how he had talked to anyone who would listen about how proud he was of his children.
Frieda went to the cupboard for a tea bag. There was a long evening ahead. She would suggest that after dinner she and Bella make popcorn and watch a movie on Netflix. Or maybe they could play Monopoly, unless memories of the fun times the four Braithwaites had enjoyed over board games would upset Bella. You just never knew what seemingly mundane activity might release a flood of painfully sweet memories. Still, Frieda thought, she and her daughter would be together, which was the important thing.
The most important thing.
Chapter 60
Bella had gotten out of bed that morning with the fixed idea of catching some sun and shortly after breakfast she had set out on her bike for the beach. It was a good thing she had left the house before ten. The tide was high and there was barely enough sand to accommodate the beachgoers who continued to arrive under burdens of chairs and umbrellas, coolers and boogie boards.
And it felt okay being at the beach alone this time. Bella actually felt kind of happy, and maybe it was because she and her mother had spent a really nice evening together. They had played Monopoly after dinner (which was an awesome chicken pot pie from one of the local farms), and while it was true that as they sat at the kitchen table buying and selling properties, landing in jail, and winning beauty contests Bella had wondered if her mother was thinking of Jack Tennant, it had been fun all the same.
In fact, in the past days she had spent more time with her mother than she had in months. And everything they had done—the movie at the Leavitt, shopping at the stores in Kittery, hearing The Windmills play at that brewery in Lyman—had been her mother’s idea. It was almost as if she was courting her, trying to get her to—what? Forgive her?
Bella, who had been lying on her back, sat up and put her arms around her knees. She and her mother had clung to each other after the accident; they had been each other’s most vital support through those long, trying days and those endless sleepless nights. And then, as the anniversary of the accident approached, something . . . Bella didn’t know how to put it unless to say that something switched off inside her. Almost against her will she began to retreat from everyone, especially her mother, to hold her feelings of guilt closer, to feel her loss as acutely as she had felt it in the moments after being told that her father and sister had been killed.
But now . . . Bella turned her face to the sun. Now, she thought, it would be good to feel connected again, to believe that she knew her place in the world, to believe that she had a place she deserved.
A high-pitched squeal of laughter brought Bella’s attention to three little boys playing in the sand not far from her. If building a sand castle was their goal they didn’t seem to be making any real progress, but they sure were having a lot of fun with their plastic shovels and pails. Bella remembered building sand castles with Ariel and their father, elaborate structures, using bits of shell and stones and seaweed for decoration. There were pictures of those sand castles somewhere back in Warden.
Beyond the little boys and their hovering parents Bella noted a group of four girls about her own age settling down with blankets and overflowing beach bags. She could hear their laughter, the kind of lighthearted laughter that was evidence of real friendship. She and Clara rarely laughed together. In fact, now that Bella had begun to give thei
r relationship some thought, she realized there were other odd things about it, like the fact that Clara never actually offered advice or sympathy when Bella talked about her father and sister. Bella would say, “I miss Ariel,” and instead of saying, “What is it about her you miss most?” or “When do you miss her the most?” or even “Poor you,” Clara would say something like, “I know. I miss Marc so much you wouldn’t believe it.” When Bella would say, “I dreamed again about the accident,” Clara would say something like, “I couldn’t sleep at all last night because I kept thinking about Marc.”
Bella dug her hands into the warm sand. It was almost as if Clara thought they were in a competition to determine who could be more miserable. Why couldn’t she be sympathetic, even sometimes? But maybe Clara couldn’t care or even pretend to care about someone else’s sadness because her own sadness was so big and . . . So obsessive. Bella winced. Here was a disturbing thought. Was she ignoring Clara’s troubles and promoting her own troubles as more important? She hoped not. She didn’t want to be a selfish person. She did ask Clara about her feelings. At least, sometimes she did.
Bella pulled her hands from the sand and watched as the tiny grains spilled from her fingers. She might be confused about her conduct with Clara, but there was no doubt she had ignored Kerri’s pain in the wake of Ariel’s death. That had been selfish. She had hurt her old friend and there were consequences for behavior, whether the behavior was conscious or unconscious, whether the motives behind the behavior were pure or self-serving. Sometimes you didn’t get forgiven for something you had said or done and there was nothing you could do about it.
And it was also selfish to try to keep her mother away from a friendship with Jack Tennant. Bella frowned. Being so absorbed in your own misery made you feel kind of stupid and pathetic. The next time Mom suggests we do something together, she determined, I’m going to thank her. I’m going to let her know I appreciate her paying attention to me. Isn’t that what I wanted? Her attention?
And as for Clara, Bella thought, she would try to listen the next time they met. Whenever that was. Oddly, Clara hadn’t been in contact for almost two days. Maybe, Bella thought, I should contact her. Maybe I should see if she’s okay. But she didn’t reach for her phone.
Almost as one the four teenaged girls Bella had been watching leaped to their feet and, linking arms, ran down toward the shoreline. I told my family that I didn’t miss Kerri, Bella thought as she reached for the water bottle in her canvas beach bag. But I do miss her. I really do.
Chapter 61
“Good morning, Ms. Hitchens.”
Ruby smiled at the young man who had just come out of the convenience store on Main Street. “Good morning to you, Calvin,” she said. Calvin Rogers had made a bit of a name for himself several years back when he successfully petitioned the town fathers and mothers to spend what money was available in their budget on fixing up the old community playground rather than on a cosmetic project. His motto had been: What’s more important than kids’ safety? And really, Ruby thought, what was more important? “How’s your summer going?”
“Awesome,” Calvin said. “I’m working at the news station up in Portland. Well, I’m interning. I’m not making any money, but I’m learning tons of stuff. I want to study media and broadcasting. It’s such an exciting field and so much is changing so quickly. The internship is a great experience.”
“That’s wonderful,” Ruby told him. “Money is good, but experience can be better.”
“That’s what my dad told my mom when she wanted me to turn down the internship and get a job at Hannaford. Well, gotta run. Nice to see you Ms. Hitchens.”
Calvin loped off and was soon lost in the crowds of summer visitors. Ruby, intending to continue on her way as well, suddenly spotted George across the street. He was chatting with Peggy Smithson, the woman who ran the food bank in nearby Oceanside. Peggy was in her mid-forties, divorced, and one of the most beautiful women Ruby had ever seen. Rumor had it that when Peggy was in her teens her mother had urged her to try her hand at modeling but that Peggy had turned her back on the profession with disgust after one too many people made one too many inappropriate offers. She had gone on to earn a master’s degree in social work and to solidify a reputation among the community for being a truly caring and compassionate person.
As Ruby watched Peggy’s animated gestures, as she watched George nod and smile, she felt a wave of something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Jealousy. Ugly, green-eyed, and unreasonable. She took a deep breath and called her mind to order. George wasn’t the one betraying their relationship by chatting with a neighbor. She was the one betraying their relationship by not giving George an answer to his proposal. What right did she have to feel jealous? Absolutely none.
As if in punishment for her unworthy thoughts, a dull wave of pain attacked Ruby’s leg. All the care George continued to give her and she couldn’t even grant him his dearest wish. Of course you shouldn’t marry someone only out of gratitude for the nice things he did for you, but gratitude definitely counted for something. And caregiving should not be repaid by ignoring the caregiver. There was no denying that the last three years had been tough on George, what with settling into a new job in a new town, caring for his aging and then dying father, and taking on such an important role in the life of Ruby’s family. He had done it all willingly, but that didn’t mean any of it had been without hardship.
Peggy Smithson put a hand on George’s arm. Ruby bit her lip. What would the good people of Yorktide say if she and George were to break up? She remembered as if it were yesterday how she had felt in the wake of Steve’s defection. She had sworn she wasn’t bothered by the pitying looks cast her way by the matrons of Yorktide, those solidly respectable women long married to solidly respectable men. She had sworn she wasn’t bothered by the smirks and the snide comments of the younger women, some married and some not, who saw in Ruby’s situation their own unspoken fears come to life. But of course Ruby had been bothered.
Stop it, Ruby told herself firmly. Stop allowing the past to intrude on the present. Send it back to where it belongs. It was stupid to fear the opinions of her neighbors, no matter what they might be. She was not a child. She was a grown woman. But Yorktide was a small town and people would talk—
With a start Ruby realized she had been standing in the middle of the sidewalk for a full two or three minutes; at least a handful of Yorktide residents would be commenting on her odd behavior over dinner that evening. With determination Ruby turned from sight of George and Peggy Smithson and walked on toward Clove Street and her destination, The Bookworm. Being in the presence of books was one of the few things that could soothe Ruby’s soul when it had been rattled. And it had been rattled.
Chapter 62
“So, what have you been up to?”
Clara had finally contacted Bella but had offered no explanation for her brief period of silence. Bella hadn’t asked for an explanation.
Clara, sitting cross-legged on the bed, shrugged. “Nothing,” she said.
“I went to the beach yesterday. The weather was gorgeous.”
Clara didn’t comment.
Bella restrained a sigh. The little room at the back of the cottage looked even messier and dirtier than it had been on Bella’s last visit, and that was saying something. Her eyes roamed over piles of clothes on the floor to the small trash pail stuffed with empty paper coffee cups, brown paper bags, and what looked like a pair of dirty white socks. And the top of the dresser was more cluttered than it had ever been, scattered with tubes of lip balm and crumpled tissues and hair ties and—Bella froze. Slowly she turned to face Clara.
“What are you doing with a hypodermic needle?” she asked. She could hear the fear in her voice.
Clara smiled. “Don’t freak.”
“I’m not freaking,” Bella lied. “I’m just asking a question. What’s a hypodermic needle doing sitting on your dresser?”
“If you must know,” Clara said with an ex
aggerated sigh, “it’s for my pain.”
“What are you saying?”
“For God’s sake, Bella, grow up! Don’t you get it?”
Bella swallowed hard. “Yeah,” she said. “I get it. Is it heroin?”
“It’s no different than the pills doctors prescribe,” Clara said quickly, “like oxycodone or fentanyl, except that it’s way cheaper and you can get it pretty much anywhere.”
“But . . .” Bella struggled to get a grip on her panic and distress. “But it’s not controlled,” she said. “I mean, no one is making sure each batch or whatever you call it is safe. Uncontaminated.”
Clara didn’t reply. She stared down at her hand and began to pick at a cuticle.
“Where did you get it?” Bella asked. “From the same guy who sold you the pill, the one with the ridiculous name?”
“No,” Clara said without looking up. “Someone else.”
“You’re not going to tell me who?”
“No.” Clara abandoned the cuticle and looked up at Bella. “Why?” she asked. “Do you want to buy some?”
“No!” Bella cried. “Clara, you’ll get addicted. It happens all the time.”
Clara waved her hand dismissively. “No, I won’t. I’m totally on it; don’t worry.”
“Is the needle clean? Did he sell you the needle, too?”
“What does it matter where I got it? It’s none of your business, Bella.”
“Uh, yeah, it is!” Bella argued. “We’re supposed to be friends. You invited me over to your place. You have drug stuff just sitting out in the open. You made it my business!”
Again, Clara had no response.
“You told me,” Bella went on, “that Marc is totally against drugs of any kind. What would he think of you shooting heroin?”
With a rapidity that surprised Bella Clara leaped off the bed and crossed the room to her dresser. “He won’t know,” she said as she picked up the needle. Her tone was oddly cold. “He doesn’t ever have to know.”
Home for the Summer Page 23
