He said, “We should take down the hardware then. No need to have it hanging out and looking like we left something undone.”
“Take the hardware down, by all means. Could you pick up some vertical blinds?”
She tossed her head and put her hands on her hips. He figured she was annoyed again, but he noticed how her hair looked when it brushed her shoulders. Silky hair. It picked up the sunlight.
“Nothing high-end, though. Something that will work until the house is sold.”
Sold. That stung. Subdued, he answered, “Whatever you say. Any other orders?”
Fran went into the kitchen and started slamming through the cupboards. He was no longer in the mood to harass her, but she was still worked up and he couldn’t resist a last jab.
“Don’t break those cabinet doors.”
She stopped mid-movement and looked over at him. She said coolly, “You never answered my question. What about those strips of paper with verses? I found a couple more. Why does my uncle hide them around the house?”
“Ask him.”
Astonished, she said, “That’s insensitive.”
“I didn’t say when to ask. You might have to wait awhile.”
She was still holding on to the cabinet door handle, and staring fire at him. She spoke in a civil, but icy tone. “Thank you for the clarification, Mr. Donovan. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not a tea guy unless you’re talking a tall glass of iced tea. What is it with you and tea?”
“What is it? Lots of people drink tea, even the hot kind in cups.”
“Sure they do.” He picked up his shirt and took his time sliding his arms in and buttoning it. He couldn’t help himself. “I hear it’s supposed to be calming. You know, that means it calms people down.”
“Sure.” Her eyes narrowed. “Tea can be very calming depending on the blend, and whether anyone needs calming.”
“Chamomile. Is that it?” He grinned, surprised he’d remembered the name. He saw instantly that she’d taken his grin to mean something else entirely which amused him all the more.
“Chamomile? Yes, I’m familiar with the properties of Chamomile tea. I happen to be drinking Samurai Chai.”
“Samurai?”
She kept her eyes fastened upon his face as she slowly, deliberately eased the cabinet door closed. “Maybe one of these days I’ll give you a lesson in the art of tea.”
Her voice sounded different. He didn’t know how to describe it, but her body had changed. Even as she gave the appearance of imminent eruption—that was it, her voice had a smoldering quality—she stood taller, straighter, ready to take on anything, anyone. He suspected he was about to meet the real Fran.
Chapter Eight
It was fun sparring with Brian. It didn’t come naturally to her. She preferred peace. Obviously, petty bickering was Brian’s preferred pastime.
After he’d left she ran through their conversation in her head. She usually thought of snappy comebacks when it was too late, but she was proud of the Samurai line she’d delivered. His baby blue eyes had seemed to take on a whole new focus. Even now, it made her smile.
Then, well, she’d realized what was happening. The swagger that had suddenly come over her, that caused her to broaden her shoulders, to lift her arm, to shift her hips, to all but pose between cabinet and counter, practically preening—that was a cliff she didn’t want to go over. She reined it all back in. Brian left soon after. She felt deflated.
She’d do better to take care of business, the real business she was here for. Like going through Will’s papers. Reluctant to read his truly personal papers, she’d put it off, but there might be creditors she didn’t know about or maybe a storage unit that held treasured items he’d lose if she didn’t pay the rent.
Frannie sat at the roll top desk and began searching through the drawers.
There were several packets of letters. Judging by the yellowing of the envelopes, some were much older than others. She picked up the first bundle and the thick rubber band disintegrated. The letters cascaded to the floor and scattered. She knelt to pick them up, and with each one, her curiosity grew. Letters from home? Faded ink. Aged postmarks. She couldn’t help herself.
A letter dated 1959 began, My Dearest Son. This will reach you at sea. It was a newsy letter, but she didn’t know the people involved.
In the act of re-folding the pages, she stopped herself.
She should’ve known these people, or at least, she should know about them. They were her people, too, whether she’d met them or not.
Uncle Will’s mother would’ve been her father’s grandmother. Her own great-grandmother. Frannie did some quick math. If her dad was still alive, he’d be in his mid-fifties. Uncle Will was about thirty when her dad was born.
Except for a handful of tales, her dad hadn’t said much about his family. Her mother certainly never had. There might be distant cousins she didn’t know about, but not all families stayed close. Her family was proof.
She flipped through Uncle Will’s stash of letters. Clearly he hadn’t saved every letter he’d ever received, still there were quite a few and she was beginning to see a pattern. All of these were from his mother and each contained some special news among the usual chatter. In 1960, Millie wrote Will that he was now an uncle to his newly-born nephew, Edward. Her dad. A year later, Will’s sister, Penny, got married.
The part about her Dad’s birth felt really special.
She hadn’t known her great-grandmother, Millie, but these letters did mean something to her. She gathered them up and found a fresh rubber band in a kitchen drawer.
****
Frannie curled up that night with Millie’s letters. The penmanship was strong and clear. What did they call it? Cursive? She didn’t think they taught that in school now.
In 1982 the big news was that her dad had eloped, and the subject was worthy of the entire letter. Per Millie, in his last year of college, Edward had met a woman. Millie didn’t call her a young lady, but a woman. The reference seemed to be that she was questionable in some way, but he married her. His parents threatened to stop paying for college and he said fine, he’d drop out. They backed down. Millie seemed to approve of that outcome.
Her grandparents. Marshall and Anne. Her middle name was Anne for her grandmother. She had a vague memory of them. They died when she was six or seven, but this letter was from 1982 and grief wouldn’t arrive on the scene for several years.
So, her mom and dad had caused a scandal. They’d never shared that with her. What else didn’t she know about their young-and-in-love days together?
Feeling a little sneaky, and hoping for some juicy tidbits, she snuggled down to finish the letter. It ended too soon. She fumbled for the next one, which was dated a month later. When she pulled the folded pages from the envelope, a small faded photo fell out.
You asked for a photograph of Edward and his bride, and it took some doing, but here it is. She’s a pretty enough thing. Anne hints that she’s wild, yet won’t explain. Can’t blame her for worrying. A mom’s a mom no matter how old her children get. Same goes for a grandmother—no surprise I’m worried, too. When I have the opportunity for a private chat with Marshall, I’ll ferret out the details about Edward and his wife.
She picked up the photo and saw a much younger, very handsome version of the father she remembered, but the woman next to him, no matter how hard she stared, she couldn’t make her look like Mother. She turned it over. Someone had scrawled in pencil, January 26, 1982. Edward and Frances.
Frances. Could Laurel have had a nickname?
Not likely. Her middle name was Marie. Maiden name was Parker.
Frances.
A first marriage, then? Prior to Laurel?
At first, she refused to consider the implications, but though she tried to keep reading, her brain wouldn’t allow her to move on. She was Frannie. Specifically, Frances Anne Denman. Who would name their baby after a former wife? Laurel wasn�
�t generous or understanding by nature. Not at all.
She shivered. She folded the letter carefully and put it back into the envelope. She added the photo, too, and slid it into the bundle and placed the bundle into the nightstand drawer. Drawer closed. Everything was tucked away, safely out of sight.
The thermostat indicated the heat was working fine. She pushed the sheet over the sliding doors aside to get a glimpse of the night. Must be windy because she was shaking as the cold worked its way in through all of the cracks and crevices. Frannie put water on to heat. She measured out the rooibos. The fruity fragrance of the dry tea leaves gave immense comfort. She thought of Brian. After all of his teasing, Brian and tea would be linked in her mind for a while. Better to think about him than about other things.
Foolishly, ridiculously, she wished he was here. She could talk to him. He might make fun of her, but he would listen.
But this. How could she discuss this with anyone?
She poured the tea in her cup and stood with her face over it, letting the steam waft up. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, holding it in for as long as she could, and then released it slowly.
Frances.
The chill, damp fingers of a winter night were skipping down her spine.
She knew it was truth as surely as she knew anything. She picked up the cup and attempted to sip, but her lower lip trembled and maybe her hand did, too. Tea dripped down the front of her nightgown. With both hands she sat the cup gently down on the counter.
Undeniably true.
She pressed her fingers to her temples. She needed to reason this through. She’d seen her birth certificate. For school, for her driver’s license. What else? A birth certificate was the kind of thing you looked at once, then hardly ever thereafter. Most people probably didn’t know where their birth certificate was, unless they kept papers like that in a safe deposit box or something. She presumed Laurel still had hers.
How could this have happened?
She went to the nightstand and reclaimed the letters. Back at the counter, and with careful deliberation, she removed the rubber band. She reread the letter about her father’s marriage. His first marriage.
The next letter was postmarked 1983 during her birth month. In it, Millie announced Frannie’s birth to Will who was now a great-uncle.
She thumbed through the remaining letters. There were big gaps between them. Most had news about people she didn’t know and mundane news at that.
The next letter was early 1986. It announced the marriage of Edward to Laurel and referred cryptically to things in the past being best left in the past.
What had happened to Frances?
She sat on the stool reading all of the letters and then re-read them. Suspend thought. Suspend emotion. She was good at holding it in no matter how fiercely it burned inside of her. She’d had lots of practice.
Frannie spent the last hours before sunrise curled up on the sofa. She opened the window blinds wide wanting to see the day, wanting the night to be done. As soon as the sky began to lighten, she yanked down the sheet.
She needed to talk to Uncle Will. If only Uncle Will were able to converse. Blink once for yes and twice for no? She didn’t know what questions to ask, except one: why hadn’t anyone told her Laurel wasn’t her birth mother?
That left Mother. Laurel. In Raleigh.
And she had a lot of explaining to do.
****
Frannie had hoped the sight of the rising sun would soothe her, inspire her, anything except keep this hard anger knotted up inside her.
Somewhere out there in the winter cold, a woman named Frances might still be alive. Might be a mile away, maybe a thousand miles.
She stood in the hot shower, feeling the tension ease in her neck and back, but nothing could erase the dark smudges from under her eyes.
Brian arrived early. She opened the door and stood aside without a word. He entered carrying a long box. He stopped and eyed her warily.
“Something wrong?”
She sighed heavily. “No. Yes. It doesn’t matter.” She turned away running her fingers through her hair. Was Frances out there? Or with another family? Why did she care? Was she so desperate to put Laurel out of her life that she was ready to replace her with a total stranger?
Father had loved Laurel. She should at least respect her for his sake.
Father. He’d never mentioned Frances either.
“Fran?”
She said, “I have to go to Raleigh.”
“Do you want me to skip painting today?”
His movement was awkward when he knelt to set the paint cans in the hallway.
“You’re limping. I noticed you doing that before.”
“Old injury. The cold tightens it up.” Suddenly, he stopped. He was looking at Will’s desk. She’d left it open.
She stammered, feeling an irrational need to justify the intrusion. “I put it off as long as I could, but it’s time.”
He turned his back to fetch the ladder. When he faced her again, his expression was clear. “When will you be back?”
Out of nowhere, she blurted, “I’m exhausted. I was up all night.” She sat heavily down upon the couch.
After a pause, he asked, “Do you have to go?”
She nodded.
“Not safe to drive if you’re that tired.”
“True.”
“You sure it’s not something you can take care of over the phone?”
She smiled but there was no happiness in it. “No, this is something that has to be discussed face to face.”
“Then put if off a day or two. Does the timing matter that much?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “Make yourself a cup of that fancy tea you like and then go do what you girls like to do when you’re down.”
She frowned. Doubtful, she asked, “What’s that?”
“Manicure and pedicure, right? That’s what Maia does.”
It tickled her somewhere deep inside. She was worried about a mother who wasn’t hers, and a missing Frances. The suggestion of a manicure, coming from Brian, was almost too much.
“Thanks for the advice, but I’ll pass.”
“Then a movie with a big bucket of buttered popcorn.”
She slumped, leaning her head against the back of the sofa. “I haven’t seen a movie in… I don’t know how long.”
“Well, then?”
Her spirits rose. Over the prospect of a movie? Sort of.
Brian added, “Get Maia to go with you.”
Not an invitation to go with him. She covered up her brief confusion by saying, “Nice of you to offer her up. It’s not like she’s busy or anything. Seriously, your sister is sweet, but I don’t think I know her well enough. We’re not really friends. She sold me a painting. I don’t think that’s an invitation to hang out.”
He sat in the chair. “Maia told me how much she likes you.” He waved his hand. “No worries. I don’t discuss other people. Privacy. I demand my own and respect that of others.” He shrugged. “I only mention it because you don’t seem to know many people around here.”
“Well, that’s true. Only Uncle Will.”
“It’s a pretty lonely place in the winter.”
“I like quiet. No problem there.” She sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not up to the drive today. Too far and I’m too tired. I could use some fresh air, though. Maybe I’ll go pay my uncle a visit.”
She noticed the long box Brian had brought with him was on the floor near the sliding doors.
“What’s that?”
“Your new vertical blinds.”
She didn’t want to seem ungrateful. She tried to show some interest. “Need some help hanging them?”
“No. I’ve got it handled. Want to approve them first?”
She shook her head.
“Yeah. You’re too tired. You’d better stay local.”
****
It was a bit of a drive to Morehead City and the mainland, but distance was relative and the
off-season road belonged to her. She rolled down her window for a few miles to allow the cold air to blow through.
She’d been all caught up, racked up, overwrought, too much so to think clearly. She owed Brian a thank you although he didn’t fully understand the favor he’d done her. It wouldn’t hurt anyone for her to slow down. She’d take another look at those letters tonight. Now that she was more familiar with them, the information wouldn’t be such a shock. She might notice details she’d missed last night. She’d do it cozied up with a blanket on the sofa, or maybe business-like at her uncle’s desk. Until then, she’d try to put it out of her head.
****
He was sitting in his room in a wheelchair, situated such that with little effort he could see out through the window or into the hallway. He wasn’t looking at either, but stared straight ahead, his head tilted to the side and his face expressionless. He could’ve been asleep except that his eyes were open. His hands were half-fisted, fingers curled, lying empty on the armrests.
His face might be expressionless, but an aura of gloom and despair surrounded him. If she stepped into that energy field—a minefield of negative energy—every happy thought, every dream would be sucked right into it, like a void. A black hole. What was she doing here? She couldn’t help him out of his dreadful state. She had nothing to offer.
She coughed and said, “Uncle Will?”
He blinked, but otherwise didn’t move.
Frannie moved to stand in front of him. He was wearing pajamas with a robe.
“Hi. How are you doing?”
Still nothing. Perhaps his eyes shifted, but that might have been imagined or a reflex.
She looked around, “Where’s Janet?”
No answer. She dragged a chair over. That ugly pink vinyl-covered chair. She sat so that their eyes were at the same level. “I’m here to give you a painting update.”
This was going to be another one-sided conversation. She forced animation into her delivery.
“So, remember I told you I was giving the inside of your house a fresh coat of paint? Well, I am and it’s looking good. Remember Brian? Not only did he do house repairs for you, but he’s a painter, too, and doing a beautiful job.”
Beach Winds Page 7
