Logistically, there wasn’t much left to do at Gran’s. Bernadette and Dermot and Matthew had accomplished a lot.
“I could use your help going through all the papers,” Bernadette told me.
I nodded. “Okay.”
“The mail is piling up. Well, you know, you saw it. You could start to sort through all that. I’ve arranged to cover the store on Saturday, so we can stay over there together and figure it all out. Okay?”
I nodded again.
The parental dinner wasn’t quite as hard as I’d feared, I reported to Caleb later, in bed. He’d made it to Arizona.
“Oh, Ash, it’s beautiful. Wait till you see. You’ll be so happy.”
“I’ll be happy wherever we are,” I smiled down the wire at him.
“Hey, me too! Hmm, I do miss you.” His voice was dipping and growling.
“And I you.”
He would look at properties in the morning, texting me pictures and opinions. So I started my last Friday in Texas scrolling online property listings while waiting for any early reports from Caleb.
There was nothing from him, but there was an email from Lizzy. She’d been tracking her crate, and was anticipating it in another week. And based on the slides Caleb had shot of it, coupled with some advice from Wren, she’d been able to secure a top notch agent, who in turn had secured her a couple of exhibitions in the next month. Moira had begged again for her to come back to Carmel’s, but not to her arms, which was fine. Lizzy would have rejected either option. She was getting on well at the brasserie and had met a tall blonde who was flirting mercilessly with her.
All in all, she was in grand form.
And she had a postscript: “Wren has put aside her houses for the nonce. She barreled into a gallery there in Norwich trying to flog her stuff, and ended up talking her way into a job. She claims to be ecstatic about it all, but as this is Wren we’re talking about, is sure to change her mind. Happy thoughts going out to her, though, and to you and Caleb. Lotsa love, Lizzy.”
Right, I told myself. The mail pile wouldn’t shrink just because I ignored it. Carrying the stack from the hall to the breakfast room, I couldn’t help noticing on the way the house was colder and emptier than I’d ever imagined it could be.
Setting the recycling bin next to me, I got to work. A profusion of AARP-type bulk mails went out first of all. Following that, the credit card offers and local coupons. A bank statement and three bills stayed on the table, as well as four envelopes suspiciously sympathy-card-shaped, which I left for Bernadette. Over two week’s worth of mail, and only eight things worth saving.
I didn’t want to mess with the bank statement—and there I was, professing to be a grown up—so I opened the bills. Electricity, long distance, and, predictably, a statement from the hospital. At least the water bill was straightforward. I put the remittance slip and envelope with the ones for the long distance, and started to toss the rest. But the phone bill was close to fifty dollars. Gran never called long distance. Were they pulling something funny knowing it was the final bill?
So I read the itemization.
International calls: Ireland. The morning of her brain attack. Thirty-six minutes to a number not unfamiliar.
Kitty O’Connor.
On the morning leading to her death, Gran had phoned her estranged sister-in-law and found her at home.
And that’s where my mind stopped churning. It didn’t go into the implications, it didn’t try to recreate what their conversation was. It didn’t think to stand up and throw away the billing and not be sitting there gripping it when Bernadette walked in with some yogurt smoothies for us to share over lunch.
Sure, I tried to snap out of it. When Bernadette glanced into the dining room as she entered and said, “Wow, Ashlyn, you’ve been working so hard here. Thank you,” I looked up with an automatic smile. But I didn’t manage to say anything, or to put aside the papers. Bernadette’s round eyes narrowed at me before she sat down in the other chair.
“What is that?”
I stammered some. “It’s just, it’s a bill of Gran’s.” Handing over the payment voucher and the envelope, I added, “It’s due next week.”
But instead she took the detailed bill, scanning it to figure out the line items before saying, “She called her.”
Who? “Who called who?”
“Mom called that traitorous aunt of mine. I can’t believe she did it.”
“She told you?” She didn’t tell me she would tell Bernadette. She didn’t tell me she would call Kitty. She didn’t even email me afterwards, just started making a salad.
“No, she said she wasn’t going to do it, and then look, she did.”
“But. Gran told you about Kitty and … and Pappa?”
Bernadette’s eyes went all round again. “Oh, Ashlyn. You didn’t know she told me? I’m so sorry.” When she took my hand, I let her. “I thought you just didn’t want to talk about it.”
Brushing my eyes with my shirt sleeve, I said, “No, she told me she didn’t want me to talk to anyone about it. I, that’s what, on her last day ….”
“Ash. My poor girl.”
I shook my head. Sniffled. “I promised her. I didn’t think anyone else knew, and she said she didn’t want me to contact them, and didn’t want me to tell you guys. I promised her, there, there in the hospital, I wouldn’t. And then, right after. That’s when.” I sank, fetal, defeated, to the floor. Whispered, “That’s when she died.”
“Oh, my Ash.” Bernadette was holding me. “Okay, it’s okay.”
We rocked together, cried together.
“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay.” She wouldn’t let me shake my head ‘no’, holding it against her shoulder. “It is. It’s okay. Just cry, then we’ll talk, but just cry.”
I did what she told me to do.
Later, we took a walk around what used to be the farm. Most of it was half-completed subdivision now. With some work, Bernadette convinced me what Gran had meant with her requests for my silence was that she wanted to be the one to talk to Bernadette and her brothers about it all.
“She told Dermot and Matthew?” I was genuinely surprised.
“No, she was going to. But she wanted to do it in person.”
Bernadette believed Gran had felt my presence when she released herself from life, but also that she hadn’t been hanging on because of lingering concern about Pappa’s secret.
“But we both agree,” I said, stopping her in front of a cul-de-sac of framed out houses that used to be the path to the creek, “her call to Kitty was critical. That her hemorrhaging just hours later was related.”
“We do,” confirmed Bernadette.
“Then there’s no doubt if I had just kept all this to myself, Gran would never have known to call Kitty and then she’d still be alive. So it all comes back to me.”
“Baby,” Bernadette brushed my hair off my forehead but I shook her hand away. “There’s a reason you’re an artist and not a lawyer. The argument does not hold. You are not, could never be, the reason your Gran died. Directly or indirectly.”
She’d never called me an artist before.
“Ashlyn, you were the light of her life. She loved you.” Bernadette looked away. “Loved you more than the rest of us put together, I think. And even if this knowledge about Dad was the reason she passed on to him—”
I swallowed heavily.
Now she fixed her eyes on me, “Do you think it came to you by accident? You weren’t seeking anything like this, you were off secluding yourself for your work, and the knowledge found its way to you. You were fated to be the messenger, because you were the one she was most receptive to hearing it from. You didn’t kill your Gran, love.”
Sentimental hippie foolishness. But the stranglehold on my solar plexus loosened, and I could once again take a deep cleansing breath.
“Come on.” Bernadette took my arm in hers. “I’m showing you our secret fishing hole.”
Like I didn’t know where the secret fish
ing hole was. Just cause I hated fishing didn’t mean I wouldn’t accompany Pappa on his clandestine trips down there. I wouldn’t gut the poor creatures, but for a few youthful years, I’d eat them once they were charred over Pappa’s fire.
We went anyway. It was probably somebody’s backyard, now, but who cared. It was still peaceful. I climbed into the crook of the live oak, while Bernadette found a long stick and poked around the water. “There are still some mud puppies down here, if nothing else.”
“Jordie-cat used to always bring those back for Gran.”
“I remember. His mama used to do the same thing.”
We watched the water, listened to the wind in the trees. Communed.
“Bernadette?”
“Yes?”
“She told you the whole thing?”
She nodded. “On the Monday, I think. When we had lunch.”
“How was she?”
“Oh, goodness. She was upset some, but she was okay. Calm.”
And Bernadette told me about their lunch, and about Gran’s upset that Pappa had been severed from his family at the whim of his sister, and how secretly—she was laughing at herself about this, by then—she was glad of it because if Pappa had known his son was living in Ireland, he’d have returned, and Gran would not have had him herself. I nodded at the truth about Gran and Pappa I could see.
We got back to the house, and found separate bathrooms to wash our splotchy faces. I’d missed a message: “Ash love, check your email, see what you think. I’ll call you later.”
Bernadette said, “You’re sure about this moving with him thing, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“But so far away?”
“Now you sound like Frank.” I looked from the screen to her. “You know, you’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. And the hiking out there is supposed to be fantastic.”
We smiled at each other and dabbed at our eyes as I clicked on the links and photos Caleb had sent me. The first three places were fine, nothing bad but nothing great. The next one though, made Bernadette gasp.
“Oh, Ash. Click over there,” she pointed to the pics of the rooms. I enlarged them, and one by one we scrolled through the big open living area, the three bedrooms with great light, and the garden with a pinion tree in the middle and a small fish pond in the corner.
I looked at my mom. At the shot of an eat-in kitchen with walls three shades lighter than Gran’s kitchenette set. Back at my mom. “So? What do you think?”
“Ashlyn.” She closed her hand over mine. “I think he’s found your home.”
Acknowledgements
Ashlyn and Caleb’s story has been a part of my life for so many years, and it’s such a joy to bring it to the world at last. Without my grandmothers, the one a Texan, the other an immigrant, Ashlyn’s world would lack color and depth. I miss them both, but I know they would both be proud that I’m flying after my own dreams.
Jennifer and Jennifer, my sisters, know when to comfort and when to light a fire. Jen W in particular inspired me to never stop seeking the creative life I craved. Thank you for saying such nice things about this novel. My godmother Charlotte, my mom Karen, and my friend Karen all gave me background on their sculpture, sewing, and photography. Thank you for letting me pick your brains! Mom, you raised me without suspecting I would end up stealing your button jars; I can only repay you with my thanks.
R, D, K: nothing about my life as a writer would exist without my life as your wife and mom.
About the Author
Melanie Greene is a native Houstonian. She shares her life with her hometown hunk of a husband and children so amazing they defy superlatives.
You can find her at www.MelanieGreene.com
or www.facebook.com/MelGreeneBooks.
Follow her @dakimel
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Also by Melanie Greene
The Roll of the Dice Series:
Rocket Man
Ready to Roll
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organization, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
RETREAT TO LOVE.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2015 by Melanie Greene.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author. For information, contact Melanie Greene at www.melaniegreene.com
First edition: March 2015
Retreat to Love/by Melanie Greene
ISBN: 978-1-941967-06-5
Cover Design by The Killion Group www.thekilliongroupinc.com
Retreat to Love Page 27
