Should she try again? Go back to Joy Jayhawk’s house and say, “Look, I realize this must be quite a shock, but we are sisters”? There had been nothing in Joy’s face, not a hint of Oh my God, I know who you are! Just a dulled anger.
She was about to turn the car around and go back, but go back and what? Ring the doorbell like a lunatic until Joy answered? And then what?
For starters, for an immediate plan, she pulled into the parking area of a small white restaurant—Mama’s Pizza, according to the sign featuring a cartoon of an old woman in a chef’s hat tossing a pizza in the air. She could sit and think, decide what to do, over a slice and a Diet Coke.
She headed inside, the jangle of a bell on the door announcing her arrival. The place was cozy and sweet, and reminded Rebecca of an old-fashioned candy shop. The long counter was lined with jelly jars full of penny candies and chocolates, and silver scoops hung from a post on the wall. There were pastries—cannolis, Rebecca’s favorite—neatly wrapped whoopie pies with red-and-white-polka-dotted ribbon ties, and baskets of green apples and yellow-green pears. Ten or so round tables covered with red and white cloths dotted the room. The walls were lined with paintings for sale by local artists, of lighthouses, the ocean, houses, lobster. There was no one in the restaurant—or behind the counter.
“Can I help you?”
A tall woman, about fifty years old, with remarkable green eyes, appeared from a doorway and stood behind the counter. Her hair was much longer than Rebecca’s and completely gray, but appeared to be lit from within by different shades of gray, from a pale charcoal to silver to almost white. She wore a fabric sling around her body, and if Rebecca wasn’t mistaken, there were two furry gray-and-black-spotted ears poking out. A cat? Or maybe it was a tiny dog, like Charlotte’s toy Chihuahua. Was the woman attachment-parenting a pet?
A hand with silver and gold rings on every finger patted the furry head. “Poor baby is recovering from surgery. Her right ovary almost exploded. If I hadn’t brought her to the vet just when I did, poor kitty would have died.”
Rebecca burst into tears. She had to stop doing that. She covered her hands with her face and tried to stop, but she was hundreds of miles away from home, and home suddenly seemed a nebulous nowhere.
The woman came around the counter and patted Rebecca’s shoulder. “There, there, dear,” she said. “Suzy will be just fine. Won’t you, Suzy.” The woman nuzzled her nose into the gray fur, then led Rebecca to a table, under a painting of a yellow house. “Sit, dear. I just made a pot of Earl Grey.”
Which was how Rebecca came to be drinking Earl Grey tea, real lumps of sugar and all, in the kind of old-fashioned china cup she’d inherited from her mother’s mother. As the woman went back and forth between the kitchen and Rebecca’s little table, bringing a silver cup of cream and a plate of tiramisu, she learned the woman’s name was Arlene Radicchio, and she was German, but had married an Italian man.
“I assume you’re not in tears over Suzy,” Arlene said, setting a box of tissues on the table. “If you want to talk, I’m known for being a good listener.”
Rebecca thought of telling this woman everything, but this wasn’t a city of eight million; it was a town of six thousand. She was in Joy’s territory. “My dad died last week. We were pretty close.”
“Ah. I’m very sorry. I lost my dad some years back. I found myself crying all over the place. Once I burst into tears while placing meatballs and onions on a pizza. That was my father’s signature order.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said.
Arlene patted her hand. “Time makes it easier. So does fresh, hot pizza. Lunch is on the house. What would you like, hon?”
Rebecca loved being called “hon.” Jane, the Whitman, Goldberg & Whitman receptionist, called everyone “hon,” even Marcie, who wasn’t hon-like at all. The only time Marcie Feldman had ever made a personal statement to Rebecca, it was to complain under her breath to Rebecca that she was “no one’s ‘hon.’” No doubt there, Marcie.
“I appreciate that,” Rebecca said. “I’ll have a slice with green peppers and spinach. And a Diet Coke. With lime, if you have.”
“A slice?” Arlene repeated. “We only serve whole pizzas. We have an individual size, which is about four slices, medium, which is six slices, and large, which is eight. Extra large is twelve.”
“The individual pie, then. With peppers and spinach.”
Arlene smiled. “You must be from New York. I’ve heard that New Yorkers call pizzas pies. I’ve always liked that.”
Rebecca nodded and was about to say something when a singing baritone interrupted her.
“‘When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.’” A teenage boy poked his head out from the back room. The smile on his comical young face was so bright, so contagious that Rebecca laughed.
“Hi there,” she said. The teenager tipped his baseball hat at Rebecca, then pulled his blond head back.
“That’s my son, Matteo, the cello player,” she said. “He’s a senior in high school. But every day he comes home for lunch for Mama’s pizza. He was accepted to Juilliard, isn’t that something? He starts next September.”
“Juilliard! That’s very impressive.” The kid could sing, too.
Classical music, and the beautiful sounds of a cello, soon followed, and Arlene began twirling around, her hands held up as if dancing with an imaginary partner. The bell jangled on the door. Rebecca turned around. A good-looking guy in his early thirties walked over to Arlene and said, “May I have this dance?”
Arlene beamed and gave the man her hand. They did something of a waltz until the teenager stopped singing and shouted, “Bye, Mom!”
“Bye, hon,” she called out.
“I’ll take the usual,” the man said. He turned to Rebecca and smiled a polite smile, then picked up a local newspaper and thumbed through it.
“This young lady is from New York City,” Arlene told him, gesturing her chin at Rebecca.
“Rebecca Strand,” she said, surprised that his good looks even registered, given how crazy everything was right now. He was fine featured but rugged at the same time, with great hair, dark sandy blond and wavy. And brown eyes, like Rebecca’s. He wore jeans and a navy T-shirt and had a tool belt slung low around his waist. Construction worker? Handyman?
“Theo Granger,” he said with a smile.
He was eye candy, but no match for the painting above her table, which Rebecca couldn’t take her eyes off of. It was of a sweet little house, pale yellow with white shutters and a blue door. It also reminded Rebecca of a candy shop. There were flowers everywhere and wind chimes, and a white picket fence. It was so charming. She could see herself living in that little yellow house, learning to be herself.
She had no idea where that thought came from.
“I like it, too,” Theo said.
She shot him a smile.
“Your pizza’s ready, dear,” Arlene said, bringing it over on a tray. “Enjoy.”
She could feel Theo watching her. But when she glanced at him, he was flipping through the newspaper. Then Arlene handed him his pizza in a box, he said a throwaway “Nice to meet you,” and was gone. Rebecca stared after him through the windows.
“Hot, huh?” Arlene said. “If I were twenty years younger … And he’s single, too, by the by. Are you just visiting?”
Just visiting. Rebecca nodded, her momentary glimpse of spirit sinking, her shoulders slumping. She wouldn’t be able to stay in this little dream of a restaurant all day and night. She’d have to decide what to do. In the meantime, she took a bite of pizza. “This is exceptional,” she told Arlene.
“It’s the fresh Maine air. When I toss up the dough, it mixes with the air. That’s why it’s so good. That’s the secret ingredient—not the sauce.”
Rebecca smiled. And believed it.
The bell on the door jangled.
“Hey there, Joy,” Arlene said. “The usual?”
Rebecca glanced up. There was
Joy Jayhawk, staring at her.
“Actually, no, Arlene,” Joy said. “I just came to find—” Her cheeks pinkened.
“Rebecca,” Rebecca finished for her.
“Rebecca.” She stared at Rebecca, expressionless. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. There was a bit of anger. And sadness. But something else, something that could be both good and bad: resignation.
Rebecca had seen that expression on the faces of so many couples in mediation. “Fine, you take the furniture. I take the dog. No, you take the goddamned furniture. I’ll take Jo-Jo.” And then the mediator would work his magic. Michael was much better with strangers than with his girlfriend. “Tell me about the furniture,” he’d say to the husband. “Which pieces do you love?” And the husband would say, “I don’t even know what we have. Well, I guess I like the big leather chair in the living room.” And then the wife would cut in with, “Yeah, you sat in it enough, doing nothing.” Which would lead to a thirty-second argument that Michael would allow, then handle. “So you won’t miss the chair, right?” he’d say to the wife. The wife would shake her head, then burst into tears, then say he could have the chair and the stereo system and the Wii. But that she needed Jo-Jo, that the husband could have visitation rights for the dog. And the husband would agree. Done.
Joy did not look particularly agreeable. But this wasn’t a coincidence. Joy had gone looking for Rebecca’s car in Wiscasset’s small downtown.
Joy sucked in a loud breath and pushed her blond hair behind her shoulders. “Okay, I’m sorry I shut the door right in your face. I’m not usually a rude person. I’m sort of having a bad day. Bad week, really. Bad few months, if you must know.” She bit her lip and glanced at the floor. “I’m leaving in a few hours for a weekend singles tour of Portland with a small group of people. You’re welcome to come, but it’ll cost you three hundred dollars since I had to book you a single room at the inn.”
Rebecca was so pleased, so relieved, that she rushed over to her and took Joy’s hands. “Thank you so much!”
Joy, regardless of the tight smile on her pretty face, was studying her. Aha, Rebecca thought. She’s curious, too. She’s looking at my face, at my features. Looking for herself. She wants to know.
Joy pulled her hands away and took a giant step back.
“Although, I guess you should know, I’m not technically single,” Rebecca rushed to say. “I mean, I’m not married, but I’m not single. And, oh my God, do I know from bad weeks.”
Joy was once again expressionless. “Four o’clock in my driveway.”
Rebecca smiled and nodded, and Joy turned and left, the little bell jangling after her.
I did it, Dad, she thought toward the ceiling. Contact has been made. More than contact has been made.
“Are you a friend of Joy’s?” Arlene asked from behind the counter.
“Not really,” Rebecca said.
“Complicated?” she asked, sprinkling dough with flour.
Rebecca nodded.
“The best things in my life are,” Arlene said, tossing the dough high in the air.
five
In the backseat of her car, parked in the lot at Mama’s, Rebecca took everything out of her suitcases and stacked her clothing and toiletries on the seat, then repacked a pair of jeans, her favorite black pants, a couple of sweaters and her two favorite shirts, the heels and cowboy boots, and zipped up the suitcase. She put the leather box in her tote bag. All packed and ready for Joy Jayhawk’s weekend singles excursion to Portland, Maine.
She’d actually once gone on a singles getaway, at the constant begging of her friend Charlotte back in their single days. It had been a weekend camp of sorts for professionals in their twenties and thirties. Rebecca hadn’t been remotely attracted to any of the guys, so she’d ended up with her nose in a novel most of the time, their group leader popping by way too often to remind her she had to be “in it to win it!” Charlotte had slept with the guy she’d been ogling on the bus ride up, who’d ended up sleeping with at least three other women in two days. On the ride back, Rebecca had assured Charlotte that she’d meet her Mr. Right in a less forced environment. Charlotte nodded tearily, then stared out the window and didn’t say a word for three hours, until they’d arrived at Port Authority. “We should do this again!” she’d said with “You gotta be in it to win it!” determination. And then she’d met her husband the next day.
Rebecca wondered how many singles could fit in a minibus. Six? Three men and three women?
She supposed she would be an extra, paired with Joy, sort of.
This time it was easier to find her way back to Maple Lane. She pulled up in front of Joy’s tiny house just as a Land Rover did. A good-looking man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, opened the backdoor and then a little boy hopped out and raced up the path to the front door shouting, “Mommy! Mommy! I’s going to be miss you this weepend!”
Joy came out, a breathtaking smile on her face. She scooped up the boy and held him tight, then her gaze slid to Rebecca’s car, and Rebecca smiled, but Joy turned her attention back to the child.
So Joy had a child. She assumed the man was her husband. The Jones on the mailbox.
If Joy had a child, then Rebecca had a nephew.
A nephew! And a cute one at that. The boy, three, maybe four years old, had dimples in both cheeks and a mop of wavy brown hair, lit with gold. He wore a red T-shirt with a huge 3 on it and blue jeans and red sneakers. He was absolutely adorable.
“Mommy, look what I made you!” The boy turned to the man standing by the car. “Daddy, where’s the apple tree I made Mommy?”
The man produced a green piece of paper from the backseat. Joy could see a brown tree (well, it was more like a brown line) and red dots. He walked over and handed the paper to the boy, who thrust it at Joy. She set him down and kneeled next to him. “I love it!” she said. “Let’s hang it up on the art wall.”
The boy beamed and followed her into the house. A minute later, they were back. “I’m going to miss you, but I’ll see you very soon, okay?”
He wrapped his tiny arms around her. “’Kay, Mommy.”
“Okay, champ,” the man said. “We stopped home to say good-bye to Mommy and now we’re off to ice cream.” He put the boy in the car seat in the backseat of the vehicle.
Rebecca waited for him to walk over to Joy for their goodbye, but he didn’t. He got in the driver’s side, pulled the door shut, and left.
Well. It looked like Mommy and Daddy didn’t talk much. Or hug good-bye. Or say good-bye. Or kiss good-bye. Were they divorced?
Again Joy’s gaze settled on Rebecca’s car, and Rebecca saw the spark of anger flare again. I have enough shit in my life, and now you’re here, it seemed to say.
They stared at each other, and then Rebecca got out of her car. “Thanks for asking me to come. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. And I know it probably wasn’t easy for you.”
“I really don’t know why I did ask you to come,” Joy said, pulling a tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm from her pocket and slicking it on. Rebecca could smell a mixture of vanilla and raspberry. “Crazy thing to do, really. You could be a psycho killer for all I know.”
Rebecca laughed. “My boyfriend said the same about you.”
“Men and what they know wouldn’t fill a—” She stopped abruptly as if she realized she was talking too chummily with a total stranger. Or the potential enemy. With a gesture at the minibus, she added, “I’m picking everyone up. They’re either local enough or on the way down to Portland.”
“You have the Strand eyes,” Rebecca blurted out, unable to take her eyes off Joy’s face. “Round and light brown, like our father’s.”
The hint of anger returned. “Like your father’s,” Joy corrected. “Look, Rebecca, I’d appreciate if you didn’t say things like that, okay? I don’t know why I came after you. I really have no idea why, considering that I don’t want to talk about Daniel Strand. It just seemed wrong to be so rude, I guess. You trave
led a long way.”
“Well, I can understand your reaction. I mean, having a half sister you’ve never met show up on your doorstep …”
The minitruce declared, Joy headed to the minibus, and Rebecca trailed along, carrying her bags. The little orange bus was exceptionally clean inside. There were three rows of three seats. And one bucket seat next to the driver’s seat. Rebecca opted for that.
“You can put your stuff on the back row,” Joy said.
Rebecca did, then sat down on the passenger seat. “Your son is beautiful. What’s his name?”
Her features softened for just a moment. “Rex.”
“Rex. I like it. He’s what, three?”
“Three and a half.” Joy glanced at Rebecca’s ringless fingers. Joy wore a wedding band and a beautiful diamond engagement ring.
“I don’t have kids. Yet. I live with someone, but we’re not married. I’m not even sure if we’re still a couple, actually,” she added, staring at her hands.
“I know all about that,” Joy said as she backed out of the driveway.
“Are you and your husband having—”
Joy held up her right hand. “First rule of singles tours is that the host does not talk about her pathetic love life, separation, and possible impending divorce, even though her husband still lives in their house, albeit in the basement.”
That sounded very hard. “Well, I’m not really on the singles tour,” Rebecca pointed out. And I want to know everything about you.
“But we’ve just pulled up in front of Maggie’s house,” Joy said, “so from here on in, they lead the show with what’s talked about. We maintain a positive attitude, especially when it comes to discussing romantic relationships, okay?”
“Got it,” Rebecca said with a smile. She looked out her window at the pretty blue Cape. Someone waved at Joy from the screen door. Maggie, presumably.
“Victoria, the Love Bus is here!” the woman called behind her.
The Love Bus. Cute, Rebecca thought. She remembered the testimonials from Joy’s website. It was funny to think of this little orange minibus bringing couples together.
The Secret of Joy Page 6
