by Darien Gee
This will show him not to mess with me, had been her triumphant thought an hour ago as she headed toward Madeline’s. But now Hannah contemplates running into the street and telling the movers to stop so she can unlock the house and put everything back in its proper place. To be honest, she probably would have done it if Madeline and Julia hadn’t engaged her in conversation. By the time Hannah looks out the window again, Philippe’s possessions and the truck are gone.
Hannah suddenly feels sick to her stomach.
“Hannah? Are you all right?” Madeline is standing by her table, clearing her empty plate.
Hannah can’t speak. What was she thinking? Madeline and Julia are staring at her, a look of concern on their faces. Hannah tries to force a smile, but instead realizes that she’s going to throw up. She puts her hand to her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Madeline puts down the plate and rushes Hannah to the bathroom where she promptly vomits into the toilet. Madeline’s hand is warm on her back, steadying her, her voice soothing.
When it’s over, Madeline brings out a fresh hand towel and places it on the side of the basin. “Take your time,” she says kindly. She offers a smile before closing the door behind her.
Hannah stares at herself in the mirror, horrified, and closes her eyes. He’ll never forgive her. He’ll never come home now.
What had she done?
When Hannah finally emerges from the bathroom, Julia and Madeline are speaking in low whispers. They straighten up when they see her. Madeline guides Hannah back to her table, and there’s a slice of white toast, no crust, and a cup of tea waiting.
“Only if you want it,” Madeline says. “I thought it might settle your stomach.”
Hannah wipes her eyes. Growing up, she and her older brother would get spanked and grounded if they so much as shed a tear, which of course only prompted more tears, at least in the beginning. Albert ended up as stony-faced as her father while Hannah seems to cry at the drop of a hat, especially these days. “Yǒng zheě wú wèi,” her father would snap, the Chinese equivalent to, Suck it up.
“I’m sorry. It’s not your food—it was really delicious.” Hannah reaches for the toast and breaks off a piece. She tries to smile, but can’t. She’s scared she’s going to cry again, make a fool of herself in front of these women. “I’m just not having a good day, I guess.”
Julia has come to the side of her table. “I can understand that.” She gives Hannah’s hand a squeeze and when Hannah looks up, she sees something in Julia’s eyes that’s both sad and haunted. “I can definitely understand that.”
Madeline’s not quite sure what to do about these two women gathered in her house. Yes, it’s a tea salon, but it’s first and foremost her house, her home, and Julia and Hannah are essentially in her dining room, both looking tearful. She doesn’t know what has happened to these two women, but something has.
What a life, she thinks as she hovers over a plate of double chocolate chip cookies before selecting a few and putting them into a paper bag. She takes another bag and puts in several muffins, her special blend of raspberries, blackberries, and gooseberries with a maple crumble topping. She’s about to fold down the tops of the bags when she decides to fill them with whatever else she can fit. She knows it’s unlikely that anyone else will come in today and she doesn’t want it to go to waste.
She hands a bag to Hannah. “Here’s your something chocolaty for dessert,” she tells her. “For when you feel up to it.” Hannah is about to protest but Madeline holds up a hand, stopping her. “It’s on the house. You’re my one millionth customer today.” She hands the other bag to Julia, who looks equally stunned but grateful. “You, too.”
“We’re both your one millionth customer?” Julia smiles, and Madeline is struck by how beautiful this woman is.
“I know. Can you believe it?” Madeline feigns disbelief. “What a day. In fact, I’m not sure it can get any better.” And she means that. This is one of the best days she’s had since moving to Avalon, and the company of these women has lifted her spirits considerably. Maybe if she hangs in there long enough, something will eventually come to pass.
Hannah sniffs, manages a small smile. “It can get better for me. I have nowhere to go but up.”
Julia is digging through her tote bag and Madeline tries to keep her curiosity in check. Call her nosy, but she can always tell when something interesting is about to happen.
“I know you don’t really know me,” Julia says to them, her voice dubious. “But I don’t suppose either of you might be interested in some Amish Friendship Bread by chance?”
Julia feels ridiculous even asking the question. But she was trying to make room in her cluttered bag for Madeline’s generosity when she sees the extra Ziploc baggies. She pulls them out and Hannah’s eyes widen in confusion. Or, possibly, revulsion.
“This isn’t the bread exactly,” Julia explains. “It’s just the starter. You let it ferment on your counter for ten days and then you can make the most wonderful bread with it. My daughter and I got it last week and we baked yesterday. I’m keeping one so we can bake again next week but I don’t know what to do with these extra bags.” She brings out a couple of Xeroxed sheets of paper. “I have instructions and everything. I know it seems silly, but it was actually a lot of fun. The bread is delicious.” She thinks of Mark’s delight when he tried a slice, catching Gracie in a hug after reading her note. Julia was on the outside, watching this happy moment, wanting to fit in but not sure how.
Madeline is the first to hold out her hand. “I’d love a bag,” she says. She takes it and gives it a squeeze. “Lots of bubbles. It looks like a good, healthy starter.”
Julia is surprised. “You’re done this before?”
Madeline nods as she gives the bag a poke. “Let’s see—the first time was back in 1996, I think. I got mine in a lovely porcelain container—kept it for years. I tried all sorts of variations but eventually ran out of people to give it to. Friends and neighbors would run in the opposite direction when they saw me coming.” Madeline laughs at the memory.
“It’s Amish?” Hannah asks, tentatively accepting a bag and glancing at the instructions. She looks at the page, perplexed. “Jell-O instant pudding? The Amish eat instant pudding?”
The women look at one another before bursting out in laughter.
“I did look it up,” Julia admits. “It seemed odd to me, too. Apparently it was started by a Girl Scout troop in Buffalo, New York, in 1990. I doubt it originated with the Amish, but who knows?”
“It seems a bit like a chain letter,” Hannah says. She looks ready to hand the bag back to Julia.
“I didn’t want to do it at first, either,” Julia tells her. “I haven’t baked in years and it just seemed like so much work. But we had fun squeezing the bag every day and adding ingredients on the sixth day. By the time the tenth day rolled around, my entire family—” Julia stumbles here for a moment, but keeps talking. “I mean my husband, daughter, and I, we were actually looking forward to it. We baked two loaves and ate most of one in ten minutes.” Maybe it was even five minutes, and Julia can’t help but smile. “Gracie took the other loaf and one bag of starter to school today.”
Hannah is finally persuaded. “I’m a terrible cook, but I need something to take my mind off things. This seems like a nice distraction.”
There’s the now-familiar tinkle of the bell and an elderly couple walks in, arguing and clutching a map. They seat themselves without a glance at the women and the husband orders a pot of Earl Grey.
“Well, back to work for me,” Madeline says cheerfully, pushing herself up from the table. She tucks a tea towel into her apron.
Julia checks her watch—it’s time to pick up Gracie. She pays the bill, leaving a healthy tip that still doesn’t equal Madeline’s generosity.
It’s awkward saying goodbye after their unexpected camaraderie for the past hour. Julia lingers, trying to think of an appropriate farewell, when Madeline breaks through
the awkwardness by catching Julia in a surprise bear hug. Madeline’s much stronger than her slender frame would have you think, and she smells wonderful—clean and fresh. Julia wishes she could stay in her arms forever.
Madeline does the same for Hannah, who is blinking back tears and smiling bravely at the same time. Then she gives the women a wave and shoos them out the door.
CHAPTER 5
Mark hasn’t seen his wife like this in a long time. The Julia of the past five years has been withdrawn, uninterested in holding on to old friends or making new ones. The Julia of the past five years was combative with him, shutting down for long stretches of time, sometimes refusing to talk to anyone other than Gracie. The Julia of the past five years hardly ever smiled, not even when Gracie learned to crawl, then walk, then ride a bicycle. And laughter? Forget about it.
Mark saw in the handful of grief support groups he went to that marriages didn’t always weather the death of a child. At first Mark hadn’t been worried, because they weren’t just husband and wife but best friends before Josh’s death—they understood everything about each other. Nobody else knew what they were going through, not even other grieving parents, because there was always something different about their loss—no family out there had the same set of circumstances, their exact situation, their children. Because of this, Mark and Julia only had each other. They were the only two people who knew what this really meant.
Then somewhere along the way the grief evolved. It was no longer their tragedy, their grief—it all became Julia’s. Mark understood this somewhat—after all, she and Josh had been close, almost quiet echoes of each other. The same wild and curly hair, the same mischievous grin. But Mark also gets that he’s the father, not the mother. While it does not take away from his grief, he knows it’s not quite the same.
Julia had carried Josh for nine months, then endured almost thirty-six hours of hard labor before he was born. She was the one staying up nights when Josh had colic. She nursed him for over a year. Mark understands the mother-child bond, that it’s a complex, primal relationship, so of course it makes sense that Julia’s loss would be different from Mark’s.
Still, he hadn’t counted on her drifting away, of letting go of the buoy they held on to together. She retreated and left him behind. He doesn’t love her any less for it, but he’s starting to wonder if the same can be said for Julia.
Can you love someone but not want to be with them anymore? That’s the question he doesn’t want to ask himself, but it lingers nonetheless. Mark is a patient man, but he’s no longer sure of what he’s waiting for or if the person in question even wants him anymore. He feels like he’s in the way, an inconvenient remnant of a life they once shared. He watches his wife wistfully, sadly, and it’s been dawning on him that the Julia of his memory no longer exists.
Or does she? Twice this week—twice!—he caught her smiling. Smiling! It wasn’t at him, which would have been nice, but that’s okay. And yesterday when he came home to find the kitchen a mess and both Julia and Gracie covered with flour, he actually heard her laugh. Mark wanted to join in, to hear what was so funny, but Julia stopped when she saw him, suddenly engrossed in checking the oven timer.
Mark punches in a higher elevation on the treadmill, then adjusts his speed so he doesn’t have to slow down. He’s still not sure what to think, but he’s feeling hopeful. At long last. The first few years had been the worst—the shock, the walking around in inconsolable disbelief, the pain in his heart so sharp he couldn’t breathe. Twice he thought he was having a heart attack. The first time it happened he didn’t care. He was almost relieved. It seemed appropriate, and he waited to die. But he didn’t.
The second time was different. It was four months after Josh’s death and Mark was in his office, trying to work and failing miserably, when he knocked over the ceramic pencil holder Josh had made one year at summer camp. It didn’t break, but part of it chipped off, and Mark felt a searing pain across his chest as he gripped the broken piece. He fumbled to reattach it, desperate for the pencil holder to be whole again. Then his lungs gave a squeeze. The pain was excruciating.
He managed to buzz his secretary who called 911. She gave him an aspirin and sat with him on the floor as he struggled to breathe, clutching the broken piece in one hand, waiting for the medics to arrive.
They took him to the hospital in Freeport where Julia met him, only days away from her due date. She looked terrified, her eyes wide, her lips white. It was at that moment Mark realized that he didn’t have the luxury to grieve for his son. Julia needed him. Their unborn child needed him. His business was floundering and it was his responsibility to keep it afloat, because that’s what fed his family and paid for the house.
“I’m okay,” he told the doctor who was reading the printout from the EKG.
“You’re not having a heart attack,” the doctor confirmed. “But I definitely don’t think you’re okay.”
Mark ignored him, accepted a prescription for sleeping pills, and got back to his life.
Keeping busy is the thing that saves him from losing it altogether. That, and Gracie, whom he calls his little spark plug because she’s so full of life and can change his mood in an instant. Gracie, who was born to grieving parents a week after Mark’s trip to the ER, four and a half months after Josh’s death. Gracie, who came into the world joyful despite all the sadness surrounding her. Gracie, who is okay with the pictures of Josh on the wall even though she’s not in them, who isn’t surprised to see her mother crying throughout the day. He knows from talking to therapists that the day may come when Gracie has questions or there may be a sudden explosion of emotion—resentment, possibly competitive behavior, or even the not-so-simple question if she is loved as much as Josh. Mark doesn’t dare say this aloud, but he is so grateful that Gracie was already on her way when Josh died. He wouldn’t want her to think for a second that she was a replacement child. He cherishes her, his little spark plug.
The machine beeps and the elevation starts to flatten. He slows his pace, cooling down, debating whether or not to do a few minutes on the rowing machine. He has some time before he’s due in the office for an eight-thirty meeting.
“Wow, it looks like the early bird gets the worm,” says a voice from behind him. The conveyor belt rolls to a stop.
Mark turns to see Vivian decked out in full workout regalia. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and he can tell she’s wearing a hint of makeup. He knows it makes zero sense to wear makeup to the gym, but at the same time, she looks good. Julia hasn’t worn makeup in years, but she doesn’t need it. Whenever he tells her that, even now, she just gets angry.
“Turns out I’m not much of a morning person,” Vivian jokes. “I just got here. If I’m lucky, I can squeeze in a five-minute workout.”
Mark is still a bit out of breath as he reaches for his water bottle. “Hey, it’s better than nothing.” He’s determined to keep things amicable, friendly. He doesn’t want weirdness even though it’s already weird to be standing there in their workout clothes. It feels odd, almost intimate, and he doesn’t like it. He wipes down the machine with his towel and steps off, heading toward the rowing machine.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the Cherry Hill project,” Vivian says, following him. “I think I found a way to maintain the openness of the house so it can still have those fabulous views. I also think we can upgrade some of the antiquated materials that were used in the kitchen by adjusting the color palette rather than replacing all of the …”
“Vivian.” He interrupts her, turning around. Be firm. “That all sounds great and I want to hear about it, but not now.”
She tilts her head to the side. “So when? I’ll be at appointments all day in Rockford. I promised the client I’d give them some recommendations by tomorrow.”
Mark drops his things onto a bench, irritated. Why did she wait until the last minute to tell him?
“I didn’t wait until the last minute,” she says, reading hi
s mind. She straightens up looking mildly irritated herself. “I sent you three emails and a couple of voice-mail messages.”
He remembers now, but he didn’t know she needed a response before tomorrow.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, glancing at the clock. His fifteen minutes have just evaporated and he needs to head to the showers if he’s going to make his meeting on time. “We’ll have to talk about this later.”
“My day’s already pretty full,” she says. “And I’m sure yours is, too. What about discussing this over an early dinner? I’ve always wanted to try that new restaurant, Roux.”
Mark knows Roux, because it was written up as one of the hottest new French fusion restaurants to watch. He’s been wanting to go there himself to check out the architecture and decor, but Julia hates going out. Plus Roux is forty minutes away.
“It’s halfway between Rockford and Avalon,” she continues. “This way you’ll still have the rest of the evening to spend with Julia and Gracie.” The smile on Vivian’s face doesn’t waver. “We can meet at five and you’ll be home by seven.”
If he stands here any longer, he’s going to be late. “Fine,” he says. “Roux it is. Five o’clock.”
When Mark walks into Roux, an apologetic Vivian is waiting by the bar, drink already in hand.
“This is what small town life does to you,” she says mournfully. She looks dazzling in a tailored wraparound dress and heels. It’s professional yet soft and feminine. “I forgot that most restaurants don’t start serving until five-thirty. They’ll seat us at the bar, though, until a table is ready.”
