Yes, now his eyes were definitely turned her way.
“The shade is neutral, but with a little color. I was going to keep it off-white, but Brian convinced me to try it and I have to admit it’s gorgeous.” A little over the top, maybe, but anything for a reaction. “If you don’t like it, we’ll put it back to off-white, but I hope you’ll reserve judgment until you’ve had the chance to see it.”
This time his attention focused on her, unmistakably. She saw his lips move and thought he might be trying to smile, but he wasn’t.
“Home.” His head bobbed forward as he said it and his hands shook.
“Home,” she echoed softly. “Soon, I hope.” She felt like a liar. She reached over and touched his hand and then withdrew hers quickly, surprised she’d done that.
“Hello, Ms. Denman.”
Janet stood in the doorway with a tray. She entered and placed the tray on an adjustable table, which she positioned in front of Will. “He didn’t like what they served for lunch.” She pulled up her own chair. “You’re getting real particular these days, aren’t you, Mr. Will?”
Uncle Will shook his finger at Janet, but didn’t speak.
“What about your van, Uncle Will? Do you want me to sell it?”
Where had that question come from? To make him care, or to express that he cared about something, other than going home? She couldn’t ask the question uppermost on her mind. When they’d met a year ago, why hadn’t he said anything about Frances?
Because he assumed she knew?
The old man with the sunken cheeks glared at her. The spoon Janet held hovered nearby, ignored.
“No.”
Hardly a syllable and raspy, but he left no doubt. No.
“So I shouldn’t sell the van?”
Janet was glaring, too.
“No. Van.”
She shrugged slowly, casually. “Up to you. But if you plan on driving it again, then you’d better eat and get your strength back. Why don’t I ask Brian to drive it every so often? How’s the physical therapy going?”
“Every day, he does therapy. Plus we do exercises.”
“Good. Keep it up.” She was suddenly out of steam. “Can I bring you anything the next time I come to visit?”
His watery hazel eyes fixed upon her again. A speck of pudding marred his chin. His jaw tensed. He pointed at her and clearly said, “Sister.”
She’d had in mind some special food or personal item, not a person. She started to correct him, to remind him that he didn’t have a sister, but caught herself.
“You mean Penny?” Wasn’t she deceased?
He shook his head ‘no’ then ‘yes’.
“Mr. Will, you need to eat your dinner.”
“I’ll be on my way.”
Janet followed her out, saying, “I’ll be right back.”
She confronted Frannie in the hallway. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Well, that is, he looked so sad when I arrived. I thought he could use a bit of stimulation.”
Janet stared. “That’s not necessarily a bad idea, but don’t overdo it.”
She nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Frannie went out the front door and climbed into her car.
What now? Had she secretly hoped to get answers from Will? If so, she knew now there was no help coming from him. Not at this time. Maybe never.
She sat in the car in the rehab parking lot and watched the traffic go past. The sky was a steel gray blanket of clouds and the late winter trees were drab.
Was there some tiny memory of Frances buried deep in her brain? Did she remember a time before Laurel? No. And there was no one else to ask.
****
Frannie expected Brian to still be painting the bedroom, especially since his bike was parked next to her car. She didn’t expect to see a child sitting on her porch.
She’d entered by the side door, so her first view of the child was of her back through the window fronting on the ocean. She opened the door and looked outside. The girl was bundled up in a coat and knitted cap. A purple scarf was around her neck and her hands were stuffed in her pockets.
“Hello?”
The girl turned to look at Frannie. She pouted, or glowered, and without a word, she looked back toward the ocean.
The wind was kicking up and the gusts were icy. In between, it was actually nice. The sun was like a gift that kept trying to warm the day. The clouds had cleared away, at least here on the edge of the ocean.
“Fran?”
Brian was in the living room. She closed the front door.
“Is she yours?”
He was holding a paintbrush. “Yes. Megan. Her mother dropped her off unexpectedly.”
She hadn’t had any idea that Brian was married. Not that it mattered, but still, she felt a twinge of disappointment. More than a twinge. She looked toward the porch, then back again.
“Why is she outside?”
He shrugged. “What she wanted. I guess she’s mad.”
“Mad? Are you going to leave her sulking on the porch? The wind is cold.” She left it implied that as her father, it was his responsibility to make her do what was best for her regardless of her mood.
“Give it a shot. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
“Fine, then.” She stuck her head out of the door again. “Inside. Now.”
She stood there, holding the door ajar, until the girl rose and did as she was told.
“Hang your coat over there. I’m fixing tea. Who wants some?”
“I’ll get back to painting.”
She fixed her eyes on Brian. “We’ll all have some. How about that?”
He stared at the brush he was holding. “Do you have a plastic bag? Like a sandwich bag?”
“I think so.” She opened the drawer next to the fridge. “In here.”
Brian wrapped the bag around his paintbrush and put it into the fridge. He saw her questioning look and answered, “It’ll keep fresh until I’m ready to get back to work.”
She found three mugs and pulled down the chocolate chip cookies. One thing she knew about was sweets and tea. Creature comforts for human creatures. This little girl had an aura that cried for comfort.
The child’s hair was stringy and mussed, probably the result of that knit cap—pressure combined with static electricity—but the sad eyes stole her heart.
“My name is Frannie Denman. This is my uncle’s house, but he’s away right now. You’re Megan?”
She pulled her lower lip in and said softly, “Yes.”
Brian spoke, “She’s ten.”
Frannie heated the water and then poured it over the tea to steep.
“Here you go.” She placed the plate of cookies within everyone’s reach, then went back to pour the tea into the mugs.
Brian’s features had softened. Not exactly smiling, but he looked less grim. Megan looked about the same. She touched the warm ceramic.
“Careful not to burn your mouth.”
“Megan’s mom had some kind of last minute thing so she brought her. I’ll finish up here and we’ll get out of your way.”
“She isn’t in my way. She can watch TV. Or do you have homework to do?”
Megan muttered, “Oh, great,” and rolled her eyes.
“That’s rude,” her father said. “It’s not Ms. Denman you’re mad at so don’t take it out on her. It’s unfair.”
“People are always telling me life is unfair.”
“Life may be unfair. That’s why it’s important to do what we can to keep it civil and as fair as we can make it.”
“Okay.” She said it with the second syllable drawing out and ending with a huff. She looked at Frannie. “Sorry.”
“You are welcome to visit any time, Megan. When will you mom be back?” She said it with a polite smile, but the tension was tangible between Brian and his daughter. She felt like she’d stepped into something potentially combustible.
“Later. Not sure when.” Brian said the words and kept his eyes
on Megan. “I’ll get back to work.”
“Me, too. Get to work, I mean.” She touched her laptop lying nearby.
Brian looked surprised. “You work?”
“I’m making an inventory of Uncle Will’s property and expenses.”
He rubbed his jaw and kept his mouth shut. He turned and left the room. Frannie noticed he’d barely touched his tea.
Talk about rude. Like father, like daughter?
Megan distracted her. “Is your name really Frannie?”
She looked up from the computer. Her workspace was the kitchen counter. Megan was across the room on the sofa.
“Yes, it’s short for Frances. I’m Frances Anne.”
“Megan Lee.”
“Pleased to meet you, Megan Lee.”
She giggled. “No one calls me that.”
“Same here. Mostly just Frannie.” She giggled a bit at the memory. “When I was little, my dad called me Frannie Annie.”
“Really? Like….”
“Like what?”
“Well, like everywhere? In front of people? Weren’t you embarrassed?”
“Oh, gosh no. I adored my father.”
Megan looked doubtful. That lower lip had eased out and pushed up. Frannie closed the lid of the laptop and walked over to sit on the sofa.
“Your dad is a good house painter. Does your mom work?”
“No. She did, but she lost her job. She’s looking for a new one.” Megan arranged the sofa throw around her legs. “What about your mom?”
That startled her. “My mom? What do you mean?”
“Did she call you Frannie Annie, too?”
“No, always Frannie.” Suddenly tongue-tied, she’d almost tacked ‘my stepmother’ onto the end, as if it were fact.
Megan must have sensed the withdrawing because her little face became closed again.
“I guess I should get back to work.”
Megan nodded, already focusing on the television.
She’d barely settled back at the laptop, when Brian reappeared.
“That room is done. When I come back tomorrow, we’ll move the stuff back in.”
“Sounds good.”
“Question for you. Do you mind if Megan stays here while I take my bike home and come back with the car?”
“It’s fine, yes, but I have a better idea.”
“Which is?”
“Will’s van. It needs driving.”
Brian chewed on his lower lip, considering. “If it starts. It’s been sitting there awhile. Salt air is corrosive to the soft engine parts.”
She pulled out her key ring and worked to detach the van’s key. “Give it a try.”
She walked outside with Brian while Megan watched TV. The engine turned over and purred, first try.
He smiled at her. “Sounds good to me.”
She looked aside, avoiding his blue eyes and his smile, and saw papers scattered on the center console and across the passenger seat. An old paper coffee cup was on the floor. General disorder.
She frowned. “It’s kind of a mess.”
Brian shrugged. “Not so much. I’ll bag the papers and anything that looks worth keeping and bring them back to you. Maybe put Megan to work.”
“Thanks.” She nodded.
“It’s a great idea. This van needs to stay usable, ready for Will when he comes home. I’ll get someone to bring me by later to pick up the bike.”
“Seriously, Brian. Do you think he’ll ever be able to drive it again?”
“Drive? Probably not, but it means more to him than that. Drive or not drive, it means independence to him.”
“Sure.” She shrugged and walked away, feeling stung. Independence. Everyone wanted it, but it was harder to hold onto than people admitted. She knew that, for sure.
****
The crepe myrtles were flourishing. The lawn was still immaculate. Glimpses of the Denman home through the trees were attractive and impressive.
Nothing had changed here.
Frannie sat in the parked car and held the letter to her heart like a talisman—a talisman more than thirty years old and fragile. She slid it into her purse. Better safe than sorry. She exited the car half-expecting the front door to open and Mother to pop out, ready to rule, fully prepared to subdue anyone or anything inclined to be unruly. When Frannie pushed the car door closed, it gave a thud. All the way to the house, she watched for the front door to swing inward and Laurel to appear on the threshold.
She was thirty and afraid of her mother. No more excuses about wishing she could be dutiful and loving. Today she admitted she was a coward who needed a secret charm to carry with her into battle. Or, perhaps more appropriately, an ace in the hole, to be revealed if Laurel tried to continue the… Myth was the kindest word she could think of.
What was Laurel to her anyway? Her mother? Stepmother? At the very least, she was the woman, the mother, who’d raised her. She was also a last link to her father.
Frannie unlocked the front door and let herself in.
No Laurel in the foyer. Not in the living room, not in the kitchen. She went down the long hallway to the garage. No car. No maid. No Laurel.
Perhaps a reprieve? She kicked off her shoes and went upstairs. As long as she was here, she could grab a few things to take back with her to Captain’s Walk.
Her room was as tidy as ever. The bed was made and the bureau was dust-free.
She opened the closet door and flipped on the light. The closet was almost as large as Uncle Will’s smallest bedroom, and incredibly neat—small thanks to her. She pulled out her roller suitcase, tossed it on the bed and unzipped it, throwing it open. She went through the drawers, gathering an item here, a shirt there. Shoes. What shoes did she need? She wouldn’t mind having those fur-lined booties. Winter wasn’t over yet. She headed back to the closet.
Custom shelving ran from floor to ceiling. The safe was secured on a lower shelf. She’d brought her sapphires with her, still in the sock and tucked in her coat pocket. But maybe she wouldn’t put them back into the safe. Not yet.
She pushed aside a couple of purses and caught sight of an old cigar box tucked into the shadows of a dark corner. The box. She hadn’t thought about it in a long time. It held only a handful of small treasures and it was stashed in that dark place because Laurel was all about organization. In the same way that the carefully planned closet sections organized and controlled the shoes and clothing, Laurel had solutions for every potential untamed action. Frannie climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged with the old box balanced on her knees.
So little here. A letter her father had written her at camp was on top. Had she been ten? About Megan’s age. Below that was an old bar of hotel soap, still in its wrapper, from a trip they’d taken once upon a time. In the bottom lay a tarnished silver bracelet. She cherished it because of the engraving. To Frances with all my love.
Her heart shivered.
To Frances, not Frannie. Was ‘with all my love’ a strange thing to say to your young daughter, especially when there was a wife, Laurel, on the scene?
She tried to remember when her father had given it to her. She hadn’t thought about the ‘Frances’ part back then. It was her proper name, after all.
The sounds of movement downstairs got her up and moving. She added the cigar box and a few more items to the suitcase and then zipped it shut.
“I saw your car.” Laurel stood in the open doorway. “If you’d called ahead, I would’ve had lunch waiting for you.” She made a point of staring at the suitcase. “You’re going back so soon?”
“I am.”
“Not right away, surely.”
“That depends.”
“Come down to the kitchen. Martha made some fresh scones.” She treated Frannie to her almost-laugh. “Cranberry. Terrible on the waistline.”
She couldn’t help herself. She had to respond in the way she always had in that special code language that families have, responses that said all was well, or wasn’t. “But so goo
d on the way down.”
Mother smiled and took that as an invitation to move further into the room.
Frannie asked, “When did it go so wrong between us? Was it always this way and I don’t remember?”
“What do you mean?”
“Adversarial. That’s our relationship and has been for a long time. Even when we were doing the mom and daughter things.”
She touched Frannie’s shoulder. “We can’t help being who we are, but that doesn’t mean we don’t care.”
Another cue, one with which they were both familiar, and she almost gave the expected response, but instead, she said, “Was my father married before he married you?”
Laurel paled except for a bright splotch high on each cheek that grew redder. She stepped back.
“What? Why do you ask that?”
Frannie persisted. “Was my father married before he married you?” She watched Laurel’s face and after a long silent moment, she added, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”
Laurel strode across the room and back again, agitated.
“We never told you. Why would we? It was brief, a disaster of a marriage.”
“Who was she?”
“I never knew her.”
“You know her name.”
“I refuse to discuss this. If your father had wanted you to know, he would’ve told you. You’ve never respected me or my feelings, but I hope you still have some respect for your father’s wishes.” She turned away and marched out of the room.
“Wait.” She couldn’t allow Laurel to walk away, taking her knowledge with her, knowledge Frannie had more right to than anyone. She followed her down the hall and across the open area that overlooked the foyer. The master suite was on the far end. She heard the door close as she reached the corner.
She started to call out ‘Mother’ but couldn’t say the word. She leaned against the door, fighting the desire to beat her fists upon it. Uncertain, she called out, “We need to talk.” She took a deep breath. “Please, I need to know about Frances.” She whispered against the door, “Please.”
Laurel opened it slowly, saying, “Understand, it was your father’s wish. He thought that moving here to the city after we married was like a fresh start. He wanted to save you a lifetime of explanations. Questions. Fretting over a woman who didn’t want you.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. That sounds hurtful. I don’t mean it that way. It is simply fact.” She added, “I never knew her.”
Beach Winds Page 8
