At Last (The Idle Point, Maine Stories)

by Bretton, Barbara

  He had no idea that Laquita was praying for a miracle.

  Everyone had said she and Ben would never last, that the age difference would put an end to them before they had a chance to get started but they were wrong. The only reason she ever wished Ben could be younger was so she could have him with her longer. Other than that, she wouldn't change a thing.

  Except to give him back his daughter.

  #

  "Can I get you anything else, Mrs. C.?" Rachel Adams wiped away an imaginary streak from the crystal-clear library window of the house on the hill. "Another pot of tea or some of that pumpkin bread maybe."

  Ruth Chase smiled and shook her head. "Nothing, thank you, Rachel. I'll be more than fine until dinner."

  "Are Noah and Sophie eating dinner with you?"

  Ruth's smile widened and Rachel smiled back at her. Grandmotherhood was proving to be as delightful as everyone had said it would be. "Sophie loves your Greek salad. If we have some feta, perhaps you could—"

  "Done," said Rachel. "It's good to see the little one smile after all she's been through."

  "That it is." She pointed toward a stack of books near the doorway. "I found some wonderful books on the Renaissance for Storm. She's welcome to keep them as long as she likes."

  Rachel thanked her. "I'll send her in to get them as soon as she comes home from school."

  "No hurry," said Ruth. "They're here waiting."

  Storm was Rachel and Darnell's eleventh and last child. Storm was fourteen years old, beautiful, and more charming than the law allowed. Ruth thoroughly enjoyed having the child living under her roof. In truth she enjoyed all of the Adamses, including their extended family of brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, and the scattering of in-laws. Ruth had first opened her home to them three years ago, right after the flash flood that had washed away the home by the river and everything in them. Two of the Adams children had been badly hurt, as had Darnell himself when he tried to save them, but God was kind that day and let them live. The Urbanska family hadn't been that lucky. All six of them, lost to nature's fury.

  The town had leaped into action. The fire department organized a food drive. The police department collected donations of money, clothes, household goods. Families took shelter where they could but the huge Adams clan faced being split until Ruth heard about their plight and offered her home. "I'm rattling around this place like a marble," she said when Darnell expressed reluctance to accept her generosity. "I'd love the company. Why should all those bedrooms go to waste?"

  Darnell and Rachel finally agreed but with the proviso they be allowed to work around the house to earn their keep. The plan worked out so well that a temporary arrangement quickly turned into a permanent situation that was highly agreeable to all.

  If someone had told her twenty years ago that the family of hippies who lived down by the river would move into her house and turn it into a home, she would have laughed out loud. If someone had told her that her son would return at last from Europe with a beautiful little daughter in tow, she would have been astonished. Life, she had learned, was nothing if not surprising.

  Like the fact that Rachel's eldest, Laquita, was marrying Ben Taylor. Ruth was too old to be shocked by much of anything but that news did give her a moment's pause. The age difference alone was reason enough to think twice, but given both Ben's and Laquita's personal histories—well, there had certainly been more than a fair share of gossip about both of them. Still, there was no denying that something about them seemed right, as if each supplied what the other lacked, and together they were stronger than anything life could throw their way.

  Rachel had mentioned that Ben invited Gracie home for the wedding. Once, a very long time ago, Ruth had seen Gracie and Noah together, embracing in the shadows of the lighthouse and she had felt a pain in her heart that still had the power to take her breath away. They 'd never stood a chance, of course—Simon would have seen to that—but the sight of them together had reminded her again of how powerful young love could be.

  Ruth had been a widow now for a little over eight years and in that time she had discovered many things about herself. She had learned that the human heart was very adaptable. The pain of losing Simon so suddenly had never really left her but the unbearable grief had faded with time until it became as much a part of her being as her pulse or respiration. You could live with pain, Ruth discovered. To her surprise, it was possible to go on.

  Living with regret was something else entirely. She had many regrets. Some of them were as wide and deep as eternity.

  The first year without Simon had been difficult. In one tragic afternoon she lost her husband to death and her son to circumstance, leaving her to deal with the aftermath alone. Simon had always been the one to deal with the unpleasant aspects of life. He paid the bills. He took care of keeping the cars in good running order, made sure insurance policies were up to date, kept tabs on household repairs, and still managed to write for and publish the Gazette even though readership wasn't half of what it used to be.

  "Sell, Ruth." That had been Ed Hinkemeyer's advice when they met to discuss her financial future a few weeks after Simon's funeral. He showed her the latest offer from the Boston newspaper syndicate that had been their most persistent suitor. "You want my advice? Take the money and run."

  She had come very close to doing just that. The Gazette had fallen into disfavor. The reputation it had enjoyed during those heady days after Simon's Pulitzer was a thing of the past. Now it was just another daily tabloid dose of town news, police blotter updates, and supermarket circulars, like every other small town New England paper. Letting it go had seemed the better part of valor and Ruth had been prepared to do exactly that until the day she went into the office to speak to the employees. Bare unadorned numbers in a ledger were replaced with names and faces who came with families and stories, and she knew she had no choice but hold onto the Gazette a little bit longer.

  For one thing it made her feel closer to Simon, as if she were somehow making up for a lifetime of mistakes. They had both been very good at making mistakes. She was grateful he went to his grave not knowing anything about hers.

  Her broken hip this spring had slowed her down but so far it hadn't stopped her. She had let Noah think she was more frail than she was, which was probably being manipulative but she was certain the circumstances warranted such measures. She had caused so much damage already. She wouldn't cause any more. This was a time for healing. Her last chance to get things right, to know that just once she had thought of Noah's happiness before her own.

  She had asked him if he would take over some of her responsibilities while he was home and he agreed. He needed a place to be right now, both for his own sake and for Sophie's, and that place might as well be Idle Point. It would do him good to drop in at the Gazette, to take Sophie to school in the morning and pick her up in the afternoon, to show her where he used to go sledding on the rare Christmas break when they stayed home. It would do them all good to be a family again.

  #

  "Take a seat, Gracie," Ben said after she took off her coat and let a suspicious Pyewacket out of his carrier. "I'll fix you a cup of coffee."

  "You don't have to do that," she said. "I can—"

  "Sit." He pointed toward the beautiful pale cream and yellow sofa near the front window. "You're the one who just spent eight hours on the road."

  She was reasonably certain she had stumbled into some kind of alternate universe. Few other explanations seemed to fit. If the cottage didn't still boast the same slanted hallway floor and staggered ceilings, she would think her father had razed the old house and built a new one from the ground up. This house was quiet and serene. Soft white walls, white curtains, white sofa with the faintest touches of yellow and green. Tables of bleached oak. The hardwood floor had been sanded then stained the palest maple and polished to a comfortable glow. The house breathed happiness and exhaled contentment, much as her father himself. Her father's reading glasses rested on the c
offee table, next to an empty cup. A copy of the latest Tom Clancy lay open on the end table nearest Ben's chair. She couldn't remember ever seeing her father read for pleasure. Gracie had always been the one with her nose in a book, letting the magical words inside transport her to Singapore and Tibet, the African coast and the North Pole. Her father had found his escape in a bottle of booze.

  If she had ever wondered whether the change in Ben was real or an illusion he managed to maintain for a weekend visit every now and again, she had her answer. This oasis of calm and control told her everything she needed to know. She looked about for signs of Laquita and found a nursing textbook on the bookshelf near the television, a copy of the newest Danielle Steel, a small lipstick in a silver-toned case, and three back issues of U. S. News and World Report. She had no doubt Laquita was responsible for most of the changes in Ben's life and she wondered what changes Ben had brought about in Laquita's life as well.

  He seemed so happy, so filled with plans for the future. If Laquita only loved him half as much, they would be guaranteed a wonderful life. But then when did life ever come with guarantees?

  "Laquita had a pot of chowdah on the stove," Ben said as he came back into the room with a tray piled high with goodies. "I put some in a bowl for you, a few crackers. You look like you could use a good meal."

  "I've always looked like I could use a good meal," she said, laughing.

  "You take after your grandmother," he said and there was a fondness in his tone she couldn't remember ever hearing before. "She ate and ate and stayed skinny as a broomstick."

  Do I really take after Gramma Del, Dad? Can you tell me if her blood and yours really flows through my veins? She pushed the thought from her mind. What did it matter? All that mattered was the fact that they were there together in that strange yet familiar living room, on this cold November evening, with a bowl of good chowder for each of them and the sounds of the ocean winds beating against the house.

  Asking for more might be tempting the gods.

  "I hate to eat alone," she said. "You look like you could use a good meal yourself."

  He glanced at the clock on the mantel. "It's after six," he said. "Wouldn't hurt to have some supper with you."

  She followed him into the kitchen where he fixed himself a bowl of chowder too. She found a can of cat food in her bag and emptied it onto a paper plate for a grateful Pyewacket. There was so much history between Gracie and her father, so much that was dark and hurtful, that this simple act of breaking bread together in the house where she had grown up was nothing less than a small miracle. They sat down opposite each other at the old wooden table where Gramma Del had made a thousand meals and she saw her life moving past her eyes. The last time she had seen this room, this table, was the day she lost Noah forever. She had left the letter for him right here, not six inches away from her right hand, tucked between the salt shaker and the sugar bowl. How many letters were here when you finally came home, Dad? Did Noah read his? Did you ever wonder why I never came home again?

  How many nights had she spent wondering if she should have stayed and confronted Simon and Ben and forced all of the secrets out into the light but she had been a product of her upbringing, raised on a diet of keeping family secrets hidden away in the shadows.

  She told herself not to ask for the moon, to be satisfied with this tiny piece of it, but she couldn't help wishing for answers to the questions she could never ask.

  #

  "...parents work for Mrs. Chase at the house. The youngest, Storm, is almost fourteen... doing Thanksgiving dinner there..."

  Gracie tried hard to pay attention but the combination of warm soup, a cozy sofa, and exhaustion were taking their toll. She had already nodded off three times while her father was talking and she was determined not to nod off a fourth time.

  "You should get a little shut-eye," he said, reaching down to scratch Pye behind his left ear. "You're out on your feet, Graciela."

  She started to protest but he was having none of it. "Get some sleep. We'll have plenty of time to jaw tomorrow when Laquita's home."

  Gracie barely stifled a yawn. "I wanted to stay up and see her tonight."

  "She won't be in until after two," Ben said. "I don't think there's a way in hell you could stay awake that long."

  She looked at the clock. It read ten-fifteen. "You're right," she said. "I'll never make it." She stood up and battled that yawn one more time. "I really enjoyed this, Dad."

  He stood up and gave her an awkward pat on the right shoulder. "So did I."

  "Am I sleeping in the sewing room?"

  "No," he said. "Laquita fixed up Gramma's place for you. We figured you might like a little privacy."

  "That's wonderful," she said, appreciating the gesture. "What a nice thing to do." Mending fences was hard work. They would all benefit from a little breathing room.

  "It is yours, after all."

  She stopped mid-stretch. "I keep forgetting that."

  "Things have changed, Graciela."

  "I know." She hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm glad."

  Ben helped her unload the Jeep. She carried a squirming Pyewacket across the rain-soaked yard then deposited him in the front room.

  "You sleep well," her father said, giving her an awkward pat on the shoulder.

  "You too." She looked away for a moment. "Please apologize to Laquita."

  "We'll see you at breakfast?"

  She nodded. "Absolutely."

  She went to lock the door after him then remembered where she was and she laughed softly. She was back home in Idle Point.

  #

  Mornings were the worst. Sophie didn't like mornings at all and no matter how many times Noah told her it was time to get up, she burrowed more deeply under the covers and clung to sleep as if her life depended upon it.

  "Come on, Soph." He shook her tiny shoulder. "You're coming to work with me today and we can't be late." Okay, so that wasn't strictly true. His family owned the Gazette. He could be as late as he wanted.

  She opened one sleepy eye. "No school today?"

  "No school for three days," he said as she sat up and yawned, tiny fists pressed against her mouth. "You're on suspension?"

  "What's that?"

  "A punishment," Noah said, "for biting your classmates." He reminded her of the fact that Mrs. Cavanaugh was still quite displeased with her behavior but he couldn't tell how much of an impact that news had on his little daughter.

  "Can I play with a computer?"

  "Sure," he said, "but you can't go to the office and play with the computers if you don't get dressed."

  I'll be damned. He watched as she ran barefoot to the bathroom and started brushing her teeth. A little good old-fashioned bribery and he was in business. Why hadn't anybody told him that logic and reason were for the birds? Bribery was the only real way to a child's heart. There was a lesson to be learned there and it wasn't one that Dr. Spock would have embraced.

  The truth was, he barely knew Sophie. Each day he learned something new about her, something that reminded him either of himself or, now and again, of Catherine. Or what little he knew of Catherine. Their affair had lasted only six months. They had parted amicably when Catherine’s acting career took her from London to Sidney. Neither one of them had suggested Noah join her. He had that effect on women.

  He took a little pair of jeans out of the closet, a white shirt with a lacy collar, a pink sweater, and laid them down on the bed. He tapped on the bathroom door. "Sophie, do you need help in there?"

  "Go away!"

  Five years old and guarding her privacy. He had kept the bathroom door open until he was twenty-two. "Okay, Soph," he said, stepping away from the door. "I'm here if you need me."

  He waited. And waited. And waited a little bit more. Finally he knocked on the door again and was treated to an explosion of words uttered in such a thick English accent that he couldn't understand any of them. Temperament? A problem? Something only a woman wo
uld understand? He was stumped. He and Sophie not only had a bit of a language problem, they had a gender problem as well.

  It was going to be a long day.

  He was determined not to run to his mother with every problem he encountered with Sophie. He had been away from home for eight years. He had built an independent life. His mother had had more than her share of problems while he was gone and she hadn't run to him for help. The least he could do for her now was work out his own difficulties with his daughter.

  Unless Storm was around.

  Sophie liked Storm Adams. Storm was much the way he had remembered Laquita at that age: remarkably self-possessed, quiet, almost Zen-like in her acceptance of the vicissitudes of life. The antithesis of his livewire daughter. Seeing your home and belongings swept away in a flash flood had to have been a devastating experience but you would never know it by Storm. His mother seemed very fond of Storm. She encouraged the girl to use their personal library anytime she liked and he had noticed Storm reading quietly in a corner of the room the last few nights.

  He stepped out into the hallway. No sign of anyone. He walked over to the landing and looked down at the foyer where Rachel Adams was polishing the mirror that hung over the small table where they stacked outgoing mail. She caught sight of him and looked up.

  "Morning, Noah. Breakfast's ready when you are."

  "Thanks, Rachel," he said. "Is Storm around anywhere?"

  Rachel shook her head. The movement made her hip-length ponytail sway. "Band practice this morning." She grinned up at him. "Girl trouble?"

  "You could hear her down there in the foyer?"

  "Couldn't understand a word but the intent was pretty clear."

  "I think she's having a problem with her hair."

  "It starts early," Rachel said, barely containing a laugh. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a crinkled circle of soft hot pink fabric. "Your secret weapon."