Joy was short—just like Rebecca. Just like Daniel Strand.
“You bought a house?” Joy asked.
“Renting on a month-to-month lease.”
Joy just stared at her. “Oh. Is this what you wanted to tell me?”
Rebecca shook her head and gestured for Joy to come in.
“Cute place,” Joy said, glancing around as she followed Rebecca to the kitchen.
“Do you remember that first day we met, when you came to find me at Mama’s? I saw a painting of a little yellow house just like this on the wall, and something about it made me feel happy when I was so confused and didn’t know what to do or where to go or how to feel. And then one night, I was walking Charlie—he’s my new dog—and I saw this house. And so I rented it.”
“Did all this stuff come with the place?” she asked, eyeing the retro toaster and the coffeemaker.
“All of the big furniture, like this table and the chairs. But I kind of went nuts in Bed, Bath and Beyond. Coffee? It’s Sumatra.” She recalled Joy mentioning on both tours that it was her favorite coffee.
Stop trying so hard, Joy seemed about to scream. “Sure,” she said, and poured her own.
They sat at the kitchen table, and Rebecca looked for her father in Joy’s face. She caught it in expressions, like when Joy said, “Oops,” after adding too much sugar to her coffee.
Joy Jayhawk-Jones was Daniel Strand’s daughter. Rebecca had no doubt. Not in her heart. Not in her head.
“Daniel Strand was five feet four inches tall,” Rebecca said. “Did you know that?”
Joy shot her a look that said, That was random. “I figured he must be pretty short. My mom is five seven. I’m five three.”
“I’m five two.”
“I guess neither of us would ever find a man shorter than we are,” Joy said. “I once dated a guy who was five seven, and I thought that was short.”
“Did you ever ask your mother about it?”
“About dating a short guy?”
“If your father was short, I mean. Did you ever ask her about him at all?”
Joy sipped her coffee. “The basics. When I was younger, I asked more. I remember asking why he wasn’t around and what happened. She told me she’d fallen in love with someone who already had a family, someone who lived far away. And even though he wasn’t in our lives, that didn’t mean he didn’t love me. Just that he couldn’t be in my life.” She snorted. “I believed that at six and seven. By ten, I called my mother on the bullshit.”
“Did she change the story?”
“Nope. She didn’t when I was sixteen, either. That’s her story today, too.”
Rebecca got up to top off her coffee. “It’s a nice one for a child, I guess. I mean, it’s the only one you could tell your child in that situation, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. My mother loves me, which is why she came up with it. But Daniel Strand most certainly did not love me.”
Rebecca took a deep breath and sat back down. Here goes. “Speaking of Daniel Strand. I heard from his attorney yesterday. His estate has been settled and he left me one point three million dollars.”
“Holy shit,” Joy said. “Are you serious?”
“‘Holy shit’ is exactly what I said yesterday. I’m dead serious. And I want you to have half of it.”
Joy stared at her. “What the hell for?”
“You’re his daughter, same as me.”
“Hardly the same as you, Rebecca. He didn’t raise me. He wasn’t my daddy.”
“All the more reason, then, why you should have half.”
She pushed the mug away. “I don’t want his money. He’s not my father, never was. Why would I want his money now that he’s dead?”
Rebecca knew she could argue this till she was bright blue, and Joy would argue back the same thing. “You’re being stubborn at your own expense. Literally.”
“You sound like my husband. That’s exactly what he would say.”
“And? Maybe we’re both right.”
“Maybe you both aren’t me. Maybe I have something called pride.”
It was Joy’s pride that would insist on the DNA test. Rebecca got up and retrieved the package Michael sent and handed it Joy.
“What’s this?” Joy said.
“Open it.”
Joy pulled out the plastic bag, the letter from Michael still attached. She read it, her expression tightening with each line.
“I believe you’re his daughter,” Rebecca said. “My father believed you were his daughter. He wrote you letters on every one of your twenty-six birthdays. He believed you were his daughter and he turned his back on his most basic of responsibilities. Even if you aren’t his daughter, by the slight chance, I think he would want you to have half that money.”
Joy stared at Rebecca. “That’s a mighty generous outlook you’re ascribing to a man who did turn his back on his most basic of responsibilities. Don’t confuse your own generosity with his, Rebecca.”
“Okay, mine, then. I know you’re his daughter. I know you’re my half sister. I can see it in you, Joy. I can see it in your eyes, and the shape of your face and your expressions. But my father, this man I loved like crazy, told me that you are his daughter. Of how ashamed he was of what he’d done. He would want you to have the money.”
Joy gripped the mug between her hands. Had it been a delicate teacup, it would have broken to bits. “Well, I’ll tell you what I know. I know what my mother told me. Some I believe, some I don’t. What I believe is that a man named Daniel Strand was my father. That’s about it. She showed me the one picture she has of him, which she then painted and hung in our house. And when I looked at that picture, when I look now at the painting, I don’t think, Oh, wow, that’s my dad. I thought and still think: Oh, there’s a stranger sitting on the beach, staring at the ocean. Key word here is stranger, Rebecca. I don’t want his guilt money. What I might have wanted from him is impossible to have now.”
“I know,” Rebecca said. “I understand that.”
Joy picked up Michael’s letter and then let it drop on the table. “So your asshole boyfriend thinks my mother was a whore?”
Whoa. “No. I mean, he just … he’s a lawyer, Joy. A divorce lawyer at that. He’s just being … a lawyer.”
“Did you buy a pair of scissors on your shopping spree?”
“No. Why?”
She dug into her bag and rummaged around, pulling out a baggie full of pipe cleaners, plastic eyes, a glue stick, and a small pair of turquoise blue child’s scissors. She took out the scissors and cut off a snippet of the bottom of her hair. “This enough?”
Rebecca stared at her. “I—Actually, you don’t need a hair sample. Just a swab of your cheek. The lab analyzes yours and mine and they determine if we share genetic material.”
“Fine,” she snapped. She opened the plastic bag, took one of the long cotton swabs from its own protective wrapping and scraped it in her mouth, then sealed it. “Here. Send this to your fuckhead boyfriend. Let’s find out if Daniel Strand is my father. If he’s not, then the money is a moot point, isn’t it?”
But then I will be, too, right?
Joy got up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked to the door. Rebecca followed her. “Joy, I—”
“What? What? First you come barreling into my life with a box of letters from my father, a man I’ve never met. Now I have to prove he is my father? What if he’s not, Rebecca? Then I have to ask my mother who is. And then what? Then I’m left with the same nothing, except it’s a new, even more nothing nothing.” Tears filled her eyes and she wiped her hands across her face. “Call me when you get the results,” she said, then turned and left, the screen door banging shut behind her.
Rebecca was soaking in a bubble bath when she heard the doorbell ring. She glanced at the digital clock on her new shower radio, which hung from the hot water knob. It was just after eight o’clock. Which meant she’d been soaking for over an hour. After Joy had left this morning, Rebec
ca had been an emotional mess and needed something to do, but the house was so clean that she headed outside and decided she needed to plant, to get down on her hands and knees and dig in the dirt. She’d driven to a greenhouse and nursery, asked for a quick course in Gardening 101, and brought home some bulbs—daffodils and tulips, and planted them in the front and backyard until her shoulders ached.
And then she’d gone into the kitchen and ripped open the other swab packet, scraped her own mouth, resealed it, and then read the fine print on labeling the samples and packaging and sending. With dirt under her nails and her hair in a haphazard bun on top of her head, she drove to the post office before she could turn around and dump the whole thing in a garbage bag.
Take it out of your hands, she’d told herself. The truth is the truth.
This was definitely a case of “it is what it is.” Or “what will be will be.” In eight to ten business days, she would know.
She wrapped herself in her white terry robe (Bed, Bath & Beyond truly did have everything), and her hair in a towel, and went downstairs to answer the door. She had a feeling it was Maggie, who’d said she’d try to stop by that night to see what Rebecca had done with the place.
It wasn’t Maggie. It was Theo. She was suddenly self-conscious with her turban-wrapped towel atop her head and very fresh-scrubbed, completely unadorned face. Theo had never seen her without mascara and her trusty Clinique Black Honey lipstick. But at least she wasn’t dirty and grimy and covered in soil like she’d been an hour ago.
He grinned. “Sorry to get you out of the shower. But there’s something for you in the backyard.”
“What is it?”
“A surprise,” he said, and followed her into the living room, where sliding glass doors opened onto the backyard.
And there, by the fence he’d built, was a wooden doghouse, painted a sunny yellow like her house, the name Charlie painted in black, flanked by little white bones.
“Oh, Theo,” she whispered. “What can compete with this?”
And before he could say anything, she grabbed him and kissed him. In their tangle of hands and heads and mouths, her towel fell off, her hair dropping in wet tangles around her shoulders. He untied her robe and his hands slipped around her waist, and then slid up her rib cage. They stood there, looking into each other’s eyes, his hands just underneath her breasts. Without taking his eyes off her, he closed the curtains, then kissed her again.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, snaking his hands through her wet hair.
And suddenly, they were on the fluffy yellow rug in front of the fireplace, where his clothes came off, her robe came off, and he made her forget all about cotton swabs and hair snippets and anger. All she felt was utter pleasure. And utter rightness.
He was gone. With the morning light streaming in through the filmy curtains, Rebecca woke up in her bed, where she and Theo had made love for the second time, and where they’d fallen asleep, her head on his chest, his arm across her stomach.
But he was gone. Disappointment hit her in the gut. And in the brain. Theo didn’t strike her like a “love ’em and leave ’em” type. The type to skulk away at three in the morning while the woman lay sleeping.
There was a note on the pillow. Rebecca grabbed it and sat up.
Sleeping Beauty: Have to be at a jobsite at seven. Wish I could cook you breakfast. Until the next time, which can’t be too soon.—Theo
She pressed the note to her heart and closed her eyes, a burst of happiness exploding through her body.
fifteen
Too soon couldn’t be that night, since Rebecca had a date with The Bitter Exes Club of Wiscasset. She was feeling anything but bitter herself. Her evening with Theo, during which very few words were exchanged (Rebecca realized she hadn’t even thanked him for the doghouse), had crowded out most other thoughts, most other people.
Like Michael.
Her boyfriend, Michael. With whom she lived in New York City. With whom she worked. And from whom she was taking a sabbatical of sorts. But taking a sabbatical wasn’t supposed to include cheating on him. Guilt grabbed her by the gut and wasn’t letting go.
“Oh please,” her friend Charlotte had said on the phone that morning. “Your relationship is in the toilet. What you did isn’t so much cheating as it is self-exploration. How are you supposed to figure out how you feel about Michael and whether or not you want to come back to New York if you don’t have some experiences that challenge all that?”
But wasn’t that rationalizing the cheating? Was Michael supposed to be what Marianne’s mother called “flexible”?
“Plus, he threatened you with a dangling cheat,” Charlotte added. “‘If you don’t come home right this minute, I’m going to kiss my gym crush.’ Please, Rebecca. You really think he wasn’t fucking her when he said that?”
Rebecca didn’t know. Really. Michael was very into the letter of the law. She believed he’d break up with her before he’d cheat on her. Feelings for another woman would tell him what he needed to know, would be all the “self-exploration” he’d require. He’d told her, hadn’t he, that there might be someone else in the event of their breakup.
“No, he told you there might be someone else if you didn’t wush back and be his widdle girlfwend and pawawegal,” Charlotte said, and Rebecca ended up spitting her coffee all over her cream-colored sweater. “Right, it’s all your fault he’s going to cheat on you.” She’d snorted. “I’m telling you, Rebecca. You give Michael way too much credit. You always have.”
Why had she called Charlotte? She could have been lying in bed, tracing the imprint of Theo’s lips on her own, on every inch of her. She could have been reliving every moment of their magical night, which had been as sweet and tender as it had been hot, hot, hot. But then her gaze had slid over to the photo of her and Michael on her dresser (granted, it was sort of hidden behind the dancing ballerina jewelry box and she could see just part of Michael behind the edge of the box, but she could see most of herself). And so she’d called Charlotte and told her she’d slept with another man. Charlotte was a straight shooter.
“And I’m giving it to you straight, Rebecca. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just doing what you need to. You’re not married.”
But that didn’t mean she hadn’t cheated. She and Michael were in a committed relationship.
As Rebecca parked in front of Maggie’s house, behind Ellie’s black Toyota, she wondered if Michael’s mother’s wedding dress was still hanging on the back of her office door at Whitman, Goldberg & Whitman. But as she glanced up at Maggie’s house, she suddenly thought of the first time she’d seen this tidy blue Cape, her first day in Wiscasset, when Joy had invited her on the tour and the orange minibus had pulled up in front. She smiled at the memory of Maggie announcing to Victoria that the Love Bus had arrived.
To ring the doorbell, she had to shift the huge tin of cookies in her arms, cookies she’d baked herself. She’d made chocolate chip and peanut butter chip, both Marianne’s recipes, and they came out perfect.
“You’re glowing,” Maggie said when she opened the door. “Which means you’re either pregnant or you had a facial or you got laid.”
Rebecca laughed. “I’ll never tell.”
Rebecca was happy to see Maggie and Ellie—who was chatting with a woman on the sofa—casual for once. Maggie’s shiny brown bob was in a cute low ponytail, and she actually wore jeans and a V-necked cable-knit sweater. Ellie’s dark hair was loose, but she, too, wore jeans under riding boots and a floppy, dark green mohair sweater. She’d never seen these women comfortable; they always tried so hard to look sexy.
“Rebecca!” Ellie ran over and wrapped Rebecca in a hug. “You are glowing.”
She glanced at herself in the mirror on the entry wall. She was glowing. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her complexion seemed clearer and lit from within. And she looked happier than she had in a long, long time.
“It’s the house, isn’t it?” Maggie said. “You’re lo
ving it?”
That and one perfect night with Theo. “I am. It already feels like home.”
“I’m so glad you came tonight,” Ellie said. “We need help. Serious help. Let me introduce you to everyone.” She led Rebecca into Maggie’s living room, a spotless rectangle with two white textured sofas that faced each other (you could tell Maggie didn’t have children) in front of a fireplace. Next to a huge silver beanbag (upon which a man was sitting), there was a basket of yarn and two bamboo knitting needles with what looked like a baby blue blanket on it. Was the guy a knitter? “Over here is Lucy—she’s the bookkeeper at my real-estate agency—who finally told her boyfriend that if he didn’t propose by the end of summer, that was it. And it’s almost October, and you’ll notice there’s no ring on her finger.”
Lucy burst into tears. She was in her early thirties and had the particular type of short curly hair and appliqué sweater (little dancing moose) that made a woman look fifteen years older.
Maggie touched Lucy’s shoulder. “Oh, honey. You’re doing the right thing.”
Ellie nodded. “Or you could be like me—and get the guy to propose after whining and pleading and showing him pictures of diamond rings when he really doesn’t want to, but then he does propose, because his father dies and he’s low and you’re suddenly his best friend, but then he gets his spirit back and he realizes you’re really not the one. Or not the one yet.”
“It’s the yet that’s the problem,” Rebecca said, sitting down next to Lucy. “Because it’s so hard to know what it really refers to. ‘I don’t know how I feel about you yet.’ Or ‘I’m not ready for marriage yet.’”
The man on the beanbag nodded. “And sometimes someone will go ahead and get married even though there’s still a yet—on both counts. Because they want something else, like security.”
“Oh gosh, I just realized I didn’t even introduce you two,” Ellie said. “Rebecca, this is Darren Doyle. He’s the assistant manager at Rite Aid.”
The Secret of Joy Page 21
