Laurel was pale. Tiny beads of perspiration showed around the edges of her hair.
“But you knew about her.”
“Of course, I did. After all, there was you.”
Chapter Nine
Laurel opened the door wider.
Frannie entered. The flowered chairs were a cozy invitation and the lace panels that cascaded from ceiling to floor softened the light that filtered in. She tried to be patient, tried to hide the pain. Her lungs were on fire and her heart was in her throat, choking her, but she’d had lots of practice at hiding her feelings and she’d do it this time, too, because if she pushed too hard, Laurel might refuse to talk. So, she sat, but Laurel didn’t. She paced back and forth between the fireplace and the chairs.
“Why did the two of you let me believe that you were my mother?”
Laurel flushed a bright red. “Excuse me, I am your mother. Who raised you? Who cared for you when you were sick, comforted you when you were unhappy?”
Laurel had never been a fount of comfort, but Frannie figured she’d done the best she could, so she didn’t object, and instead, moved on, “You know what I mean.”
“It was your father’s decision. I abided by it.” She smoothed the front of her sweater and arranged a cuff. “You were so young. Barely three when your father and I married. You’d been with sitters a lot before that. You accepted me, and before long it was as if I’d always been there, at least as far as you were concerned.”
“You weren’t worried that she might show up one day?”
Laurel shook her head and Frannie gasped.
“Is she dead?”
“Yes.”
Disappointment. Silly ridiculous disappointment. She tried to shake it off. This was her chance to ask questions.
“So you adopted me.”
“Yes. Then we moved here. No one really knew us. Everyone just assumed.”
“Tell me what you know about her.”
Laurel stared at Frannie as if trying to read her mind. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Things, once told, can’t be untold. Your father never made a decision about you that wasn’t wrapped in love. Shouldn’t you respect his wishes? He isn’t here to defend himself, or his choices.”
“If father was still alive, he’d tell me the truth now.”
Laurel shrugged. “So be it, then.” She sank into the chair and focused on the large windows that overlooked the woodlands out back. “I never met Frances. She and your father met in college and married in haste with lots of time for regret later. You were born shortly before their first anniversary. Your grandparents didn’t approve and cut off his allowance. He told me it was a hard time when you were born. Not because of you, but because Frances was never right after.”
“Not right? Don’t stop there.”
“Unstable emotionally.”
“Like postpartum depression?”
“I don’t know. There were some drug issues, too, as I understood it. At least, the mental issues, regardless of cause, never went away. She’d get better, then bad again. It was terrible for your father. He didn’t like to talk about it.” She looked down at her hands and rubbed them together as if they were cold. “As I understand it, you weren’t even a year old the first time she ran away.”
“Why? Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. She took you with her. Your father searched high and low. She came back briefly, but then it happened all over again. They would reconcile, things would settle down, and then all of a sudden, she’d take off again. The last time, she was missing for almost a year. On and off, she wanted a divorce, but your father wouldn’t agree. Finally, he had to, for your sake if for no other reason. He agreed to give her a divorce if she gave up her rights to you.”
“And then?”
“She left and he never saw her again. A few years ago I heard she’d died.”
“A few years ago. Only a few years ago and I never knew? Never had the chance to know her. How could you keep this from me?”
Laurel’s eyes narrowed and her face flushed. “You ungrateful girl. No different than you’ve ever been so why should I be surprised?” She hit the arm of her chair with her fist. “Don’t you understand? Your father didn’t want you to know about her condition. To protect you, and when we began to see certain traits and behaviors, he feared you’d inherited her instability, and he didn’t want you to know.”
She was speechless, as if Laurel had reached her fingers into her mouth and snatched the words away.
Laurel stood and pointed her index finger at Frannie. “You see? I told you. What good did it do for you to know this?” She directed her finger back toward her own chest. “It hurts me. I feel like I’ve lost a daughter today. I did my best to provide structure for you, support, everything I could to keep you from her fate.” She gave a sigh, a heavy breath that was almost a groan. “It was Frances who signed you away. It was Frances who left you. I was the one who helped your father pick up the pieces. I helped him make a better life for all of us.” She jumped up and headed toward the bedroom door.
“When did she die? Where?”
Laurel paused at the open door, her hand on the knob. “I don’t recall. Somewhere up north. That’s all I know. Now, I need to rest.”
“This isn’t finished. I have to know it all.”
“Then you’ll have to wait.”
Reluctantly, Frannie stepped out into the hallway. Laurel closed the door and the lock clicked.
She leaned back against the wall, certain she would collapse without its support. A few feet away, on the other side of the wall, Laurel was surely going through her version of heartbreak. Maybe even regret.
Up north? Years ago. Under what name? Frances Denman? And where?
She pushed away from the wall and walked slowly, light-headed, touching the wall as she made her way back to her own room. Fragments of information and more questions chased each other in her brain and nausea threatened.
There were too many questions. She didn’t know where to begin. She suspected a good private detective could figure it all out relatively quickly. After all, the details were a matter of record somewhere. But a private detective? Who really hired those? Aside from in movies, that is. She had no idea how to go about it and was too overwhelmed to figure it out.
She fell back across the bed and closed her eyes. She wanted to know, but maybe not yet. She had a lot to digest as it was. She needed to think it through.
Exactly what ‘odd things’ was Laurel talking about? Moods. Didn’t everyone have moods?
True, certain things made her nervous. She was shy and withdrawn, a little awkward around people. Lots of people were. Sometimes her imagination carried her away.
That wasn’t instability.
She pushed upright. The anxiety, the rush of learning a chunk of her personal history, something as personal as her parentage, had left her weary and her stomach was irritable. She wished she had a glass of water handy to take her medicine, but she didn’t and she refused to get up. She breathed deeply to ease it, and rolled over onto her side. But she couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t even doze. After a few minutes, she gave up. She unzipped the suitcase and pulled the cigar box out. She flipped the lid and took out the photo of her and her dad. She was an infant wrapped in a blanket and her father held her. It was a close up shot, but only the tip of her nose and the curve of one small cheek were visible. And maybe a tiny fist. Her father was holding her and smiling at the camera.
Who was holding the camera? Frances?
****
She fell asleep, but in a light, fitful doze. The old dream came back. The baby was crying. Sometimes loud and demanding, sometimes with soft whimpers. She lay there, half in and half out of consciousness and decided the symbolism was beginning to make sense now. The baby was crying for her mother who’d gone away. The baby was Frannie.
Laurel had said Frances went away for good when she was little. Before she was
three, anyway. Sometime after she turned three, her dad had married Laurel.
She knew Mother wasn’t telling it all. Mother. Laurel. Laurel never did. She managed information like she managed her social life and her house—with a steel fist.
The mental instability. Had Laurel used that as a distraction? Maybe, maybe not, but she thought it likely. It was her mother’s…Laurel’s style. But Frannie had the gist of it now, and she was done dancing to Laurel’s tune.
The clock on her nightstand read 7:48 p.m. She’d actually slept several hours.
She went downstairs to lie in wait for Laurel. She needed to squeeze a little more info out of the woman who’d raised her.
****
Laurel hadn’t been a great mom, but she’d kept her alive and well and had been there for her when her life had fallen apart. Frannie’s hands trembled and she clasped them to still them. Intimidation? Laurel wasn’t in the room, but years of conditioning set the pattern. Every time she thought she had control of herself, that she had found some confidence, ultimately it failed her. Yet again, she was about to give in to the past as she told herself she had all the information she needed or would get.
The kitchen tile was smooth and cool beneath her feet. The lights below the cabinets had been left glowing, so there was plenty of low light to move about in. She put the kettle on to heat and pulled the tea canisters down from the shelf. Something calming. Soothing. She rubbed her tummy. For her, and it might mellow Laurel, too. They’d both missed supper unless Laurel had left while she was sleeping. She took a quick peek in the garage. The car was still there, so Laurel was still here, too.
She opened a package of Lemon Danish cookies. Laurel’s favorites. She arranged them on a decorative china plate with a couple of the scones. A dainty, yet elegant arrangement, the way Laurel preferred. As the tea steeped, she set out the fragile cups Laurel favored. She counted on the aroma to waft up through the stairway, perhaps up through the ductwork. Rituals were important. Tea and cookies in the evening after a major blowup was tradition. The equivalent of their shared peace pipe. Maybe a negotiation.
With the pot of steeped tea on the kitchen island and the soft lighting, Laurel appeared on cue. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. Her nose was rosy.
Frannie poured the tea, first in Laurel’s cup and then in her own.
“I smell citrus and lavender.” She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly. “My favorite.”
“One of your favorites.”
Laurel opened her eyes and smiled. Her voice was sad. “Yes. One of my favorites. You’re correct.”
“I am, and you know that I need better answers.” She dropped her voice and spoke to the plate of cookies and scones. “The more info I have, the easier it will be for me to find out more, and thus less distress for everyone else.”
“You are determined.”
“I am.”
“Wasn’t I mother enough? Was I so terrible?”
The forlorn voice, the red eyes, it tugged at her conscience.
“It’s not about you. I want to know about…Frances.” She’d almost said ‘mother’. How cruel would that have been? “I need to know. You said she died a few years ago somewhere up north. How did you find out? Who told you?”
“It was so long ago.” She shook her head.
“Not that long ago. Something like that, your husband’s first wife, would stick with you. I’m sure you recall exactly when and what you were doing when you heard.” She picked up a cookie and examined it, as if its form mattered. “I might have grandparents out there. I’ve never had any, none that I knew of. I might have cousins.”
“I should have known I wouldn’t be enough. No matter what I did or how hard I tried.”
Another diversion.
“It’s not about you. Love is inclusive, right? It doesn’t divide, it multiplies. I’d like more family. You can understand that.”
“I’m hearing platitudes and I don’t see how any good can come of this.”
Frannie sensed her pulling away and building up the barrier again. She laid it out as clearly as she could. “I’m going to pull this thread until the whole garment unravels. If you want to have anything good left to show for the past thirty years, you’d do well to help me.”
Laurel’s expression turned stony, as cold and remote as a sculpture.
Frannie picked up the china plate and held it out.
“Cookie?”
“You can’t imagine how hurt I am. You think I have no feelings.”
Civil. Keep it civil.
“I think you’re going to tell me what I need to know.”
Laurel closed her swollen eyes and drew in a ragged breath.
Diva.
“I met her once.”
“You met her? You said you never knew her.”
Laurel nodded toward the front of the house. “She showed up here one day. One meeting doesn’t constitute ‘knowing’ in my opinion.”
“She was looking for me?” Breathless.
She shook her head. “No. She wanted Edward.”
“And?”
“He was out of town. Actually, overseas on business. In Germany.”
“Wait. I remember that. I was in second grade. He brought me back that nutcracker soldier, and I took it to school for show and tell.”
“Yes, about then. She looked awful. I don’t know if it was illness, physical or mental. Maybe drugs, but whatever, she was terribly thin and not very clean. I was so grateful you were in school. I couldn’t begin to imagine how I’d explain her to you.”
Frannie’s head spun. She didn’t know what to think. She tried to listen, but the mental image of a gaunt, frail Frances on the doorstep asking for her ex, for Frannie’s father, while their daughter was in school, was almost too much for her to process. Perhaps Laurel realized this because her pace picked up and she rushed through the next part.
“She asked to see your father. I told her he wasn’t home. I said I’d tell him that she wanted to speak with him, but she wouldn’t say anything other than that she had something for him, or maybe it was that she wanted to say something to him. I think she was looking for some kind of favor. Probably money. Regardless, that’s what happened and then she left. I told your father when he returned home and he made the decision to leave the past in the past. That’s it.”
“Hold on.” Frannie waved her hands. “There had to be more. How did she expect Dad to contact her? Did she leave a phone number? An address?”
“I don’t remember. It was more than twenty years ago. Twenty-three? A phone number, I think. Does it matter? No, it doesn’t. In the end, your father chose not to respond and I agreed with him. It was the best decision for everyone.”
Her head was still spinning, now she was also speechless. What else? She had to ask Laurel now while she was talking.
“You said she died. When? Where?”
“Please, Frannie. Dearest. Sweetheart. I don’t remember.”
“Someone must have told you, right? Or did you read it somewhere? A newspaper, maybe?”
Laurel leaned forward. She put her hands on her face and then rested her forehead in her hands, her elbows on the table, a posture of exhaustion. “I don’t think I can take much more.”
“Did someone tell you?”
“Someone told me? Or was it in a letter? Some distant relative of your father who happened upon the information. Not someone I knew. Maybe that’s why I can’t recall who.”
“When?”
“Truly, I do not remember. It was a few years after she’d been here.”
“You said she went up north somewhere and died?”
“I’ll give it some thought and try to remember. I can’t do anymore tonight. Please, Frannie, please tell me you know I’ve tried. I’ve been honest with you. You believe that, right?”
She nodded. Reluctantly, she said, “Yes. Thank you.”
“I’m exhausted now. I hope you’re not leaving right away.”
Frannie looke
d at the clock. It was almost nine p.m. “No, I’ll go back tomorrow.”
“After lunch, then? Let’s have ourselves a nice lunch. You choose the restaurant.” Laurel gave a weary smile.
“Maybe brunch.” Inwardly, she groaned. She wanted to head straight back to the beach house, but there was a carrot dangling in front of her—maybe Laurel would remember more by morning.
****
It was past noon when she pulled into the driveway and parked under Captain’s Walk. As soon as she exited the car, she realized the air had changed. What had happened? It wasn’t only milder inland, but also here. Seventies. Blue sky. She left her suitcase and bag on the porch and walked straight out onto the dunes crossover. She stood at the end, overlooking the beach. A light wind, gusty, but warm, teased her hair. No chill.
She lifted her face and closed her eyes. The waves sounded gently forceful and rhythmic, and from somewhere nearby, a child’s laughter filtered in. Her jacket was too warm. She pulled it off, draped it over the back of the bench and leaned forward against the railing.
A few couples walked by in the sand. They waved and she waved back. A child chased a dog. A spaniel, maybe.
A man was holding tight to a kite string and far above his head, the kite danced in the more powerful winds aloft. The kite swooped low and Frannie thought he might lose it, but he made some sort of adjustment and it sailed high again.
She’d hadn’t stayed long with Laurel this morning. Laurel hadn’t recalled anything else, and, in fact, her good mood seemed to have fully recovered. Since Laurel wasn’t inclined to resume the discussion about Frances, Frannie wasn’t inclined to hang around, even for brunch.
“Hi.”
She jumped and spun around. “Brian? Where’d you come from?”
Chapter Ten
Brian pointed a short distance down the beach. Megan was near the water’s edge staring at the ground.
Beach Winds Page 9
