by Darien Gee
The website has been dramatically updated from when she saw it last, almost ten years ago. There’s music and a collage of images that parade across the screen, then disappear only to be replaced by new images. The shoes are basically the same, with some modern twists, and she’s pleased to see that they haven’t changed the classic buckle shoe, which is the style she always wears, even though the price has gone up. There are more color choices, too, with names like Buttercup and Raspberry. She hadn’t planned on buying anything—that’s not why she went to the website, anyway—and the shoes come with a lifetime warranty so all Madeline really needs to do is mail hers back in to get resoled. But she wants to try a different color, like Orchid, and maybe a different sole, so she clicks on the appropriate buttons and orders a new pair of shoes.
After she’s given her credit card information and received a confirmation, her eyes skim over the tabs on the top menu bar. ABOUT US. She remembers what it used to say, and that one time even her picture was on it (they loved having family members model the shoes, and had hired a professional photographer who made everybody look good). She wonders what it will say now. She clicks on it, and holds her breath.
The Caitlyn Shoe Company. Madeline still loves the name. Named after Steven’s great-great-grandmother, Caitlyn Dunn, who sold handmade custom moccasins to her neighbors. The company grew slowly, taking its time when introducing new lines: buckle shoes, women’s pumps, gorgeous leather boots. Each pair handmade in a workshop in Devon, England.
The information contained on the page is generic, talking about the history of the company, their commitment to quality. The pictures of people have been replaced by pictures of storefronts and close-ups of these lovely, well-crafted bespoke shoes. In other words, there’s no information that’s of any real help to Madeline.
So while Steven was a shoe salesman, he was a shoe salesman with a capital S. A dollar sign S.
Madeline turns off her computer. She holds the printout of her shoe order in her lap and notices, as she has every day since she’s moved to Avalon, how quiet and still her house is when nobody else is in it.
In California, even though she lived alone (with one brief but disastrous attempt at a roommate), there was always somebody around, somebody stopping by, noise from the street, car alarms, an airplane flying overhead. She’d wake up twice a week to the sound of the garbagemen throwing—throwing!—the metal cans back onto the sidewalk. Chicago was the same way. But here in Avalon, there’s more silence and long stretches of quiet than Madeline is used to.
Which has been leaving her with lots of time to think.
Madeline feels her age, her exuberance from earlier in the day waning. Today it was a full house again from breakfast until afternoon tea time. She loves it, she does, but once everyone is gone, Madeline is exhausted. She needs help in the kitchen, or with the bookkeeping. Either or both, all of the above.
She looks at the printout of her order confirmation. THANK YOU FOR YOUR ORDER, MADELINE DAVIS DUNN! So cheerful, as if they know her or have some relationship with her, but Madeline knows that this response is automatically generated. She’s just another name, another customer, and nothing more.
CHAPTER 13
“I’m leaving!” Julia calls outs.
Mark made a special point of being home early today, not wanting to screw up again. He’ll never forget what happened that night he was late because of Vivian. Avalon was being pounded by rain and he became anxious when Julia hadn’t returned home by nine. He finally moved a sleeping Gracie into the car and went out looking for his wife. They drove all the way out to the cemetery, which was closed, and then randomly through the streets of their small town.
They had returned home, Mark worried out of his mind. For a second he thought Julia had left them. Then a woman called him out of the blue. She introduced herself as Madeline Davis and told him that his wife was fine, but resting in her home. The old Belleweather B&B turned tea salon, just a few minutes away. A few minutes away! How could Julia be so close and Mark not know?
He wanted to go get her, but the woman was quick to suggest that they just let Julia sleep, if Mark was okay with Gracie at home. Of course he was okay, but he was a little put out by this stranger who seemed to know something about him whereas he had no idea who she was. No idea at all.
Mark has come to the realization that Julia has secrets. Secrets she is not willing to share with Mark. He finally sees his wife emerging from her shell, but instead of returning to him, this Julia wants nothing to do with him.
When Julia finally came home late that night, she didn’t say what had happened and Mark didn’t ask. The next day Mark heard the shower running when he woke up. When Julia emerged, he saw she had cut her own hair. Julia used to cut her own hair—Josh’s, too—but for the past five years it had grown longer and thicker, a mass of beautiful curls that Mark loves. Now those curls are gone.
But she looked beautiful, so much so that it took his breath away. He didn’t know what to say to her. Waves of strawberry-blond hair that brushed her chin, softly framing her face. He could see how the weight of her hair, of Julia herself, had changed. She looked younger, lighter. He caught a glimpse of the back of her neck and was overwhelmed by a desire to press his lips against her skin, to inhale her once again, to simply smell his wife, but he didn’t.
Gracie clamored for a haircut, too, saying she wanted to look just like Julia, which is unfortunately impossible. Gracie takes after him with straight brown hair that tucks obediently behind her ears, hair that smoothes itself easily into a ponytail or braids. But still Gracie begged for Julia to do something—anything—so Julia had laughed and agreed.
Mark watched from a safe distance in the living room as Julia brought down the cutting shears, draped a towel around Gracie’s neck. It occurred to him that Julia had never cut her daughter’s hair before, sending Mark and Gracie to the Avalon Beauty Salon instead.
Julia did a quick trim, but gave Gracie bangs, which Gracie loved.
“Now it’s Daddy’s turn,” Gracie had announced when Julia was done.
“Sure.” Mark was game.
Julia shook out the towel in the sink. “Maybe some other time,” she said. Then she shooed Gracie into the tub.
Now, Mark steps around the corner, Gracie riding piggyback, her thin arms wrapped around his neck. They watch as Julia checks herself in the mirror, seemingly oblivious to either one of them.
“When will you be back?” he asks.
She gives a shrug. “I won’t be too late. A couple of hours. Four, max.”
He clears his throat. “Maybe we should invite your friends over for dinner sometime.” There’s supposedly another woman, too, another newcomer to Avalon. He wants to meet these women, see what they’re like and why Julia prefers spending time with them instead of him. How well do they know her? How well does she know them? Do they know about Josh?
Julia doesn’t respond, but gives Gracie a peck on the head. She’s about to turn away when Mark takes a chance and gives his wife a quick kiss. On the lips.
Julia is obviously stunned. She manages a weak smile, then backs away, grabs her things, and leaves.
If she had wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, it would have had the same effect on Mark. He hears the car start, then the sound of Julia backing down the driveway and speeding off.
Running away.
On the drive to Madeline’s, Julia pounds the steering wheel in frustration. Why did he do that? And in front of Gracie? Why?
Julia doesn’t know why there is so much anguish around a single kiss from her husband. They used to kiss all the time—deep, soulful, sexy kisses before Josh was born, and then snuck in here and there as they managed their busy lives as parents and launching Mark’s business.
After Josh’s death and Gracie’s birth, Julia would feign sleep in the morning, not wanting to open her eyes until she knew Mark was gone. The kisses were feather-light and timid. They soon became perfunctory, but they never stopped,
even though Julia rarely kissed him back. It became easier to avoid it altogether, which Julia had managed with some success until, that is, today.
Julia knows that their marriage is scarred, maybe irreparably. For a long time she was indifferent, but now she’s just sad. Is this her fault? Is it Mark’s? She knows the statistics about children being raised in a broken home. How about one that’s been ripped apart, turned upside down, missing a vital piece?
Some well-meaning person gave her an article about bereaved parents and she made the mistake of reading it. It talked about how, when a child dies, a branch on the family tree is broken. New branches can grow, but they’ll never replace the branch that has broken. For Julia, it’s not just the branch that has broken.
She feels as if the whole tree has been uprooted.
“I’ve made a decision.” Hannah twists her diamond ring and wedding band. They’re snug on her slender fingers but she doesn’t want to risk taking them off to get resized in case Philippe sees her without them.
Madeline lines a plate with cookies and finger sandwiches—Julia is helping with the tea. “You’ve made a decision about what?” Julia asks.
“I’m going to see Philippe. I tried to call him the past couple of days, but he won’t take my calls.” It’s coming up on three months since she last saw him. They’ve toured independently before, but always there was some sort of contact, phone calls or faxes, emails. But now there is nothing. She takes a deep breath. “I’m going to go to Chicago.”
She outlines her plan to them. Since she can’t get him on the phone and she’s not sure what the situation is with a female in their apartment, she’s aiming for neutral territory. Philippe is playing this weekend, so she’ll catch him after the performance. She doesn’t want to give him a chance to escape or come up with an excuse. Hannah isn’t quite sure what to expect, but she wants to see him. She wants to see what he looks like. Is he happy? Miserable? Does he miss her? Maybe seeing her will remind him that he still loves her, that he still wants to be with her. It’s possible, isn’t it?
“I’m not going to tell him I’m coming,” Hannah continues, then hesitates when her friends exchange a look. She hurries to add, “I mean, I’m not going to sabotage him or anything. I’m not the kind of person who would do that.” She stops herself. A sane person wouldn’t even be thinking that, would they? She feels her confidence waning and in its place, a swell of humiliation. She can’t imagine what they must think of her, these wonderful women who’ve become her friends unless, of course, they’re having second thoughts. “I’m so embarrassed you’ve had to meet me with my life being such a mess.”
“Life is messy, Hannah,” Madeline declares. Julia nods her assent.
Hannah bites her lip, grateful for their kindness but not convinced. “I know Philippe and I must look like two spoiled children to you …”
“Oh, let’s face it,” Madeline says. “First of all, both you and Philippe are musicians. And not just any musicians—you’re magnificent performers in the public eye. You have a rare gift that you’ve chosen to share with us. You put years into your training. And your passion is also your livelihood. It takes a certain kind of person to pull that off, Hannah, much less succeed. Quite frankly, I’m surprised you’re not completely unbearable!” She makes a face.
Hannah laughs and wipes her eyes, leaning over her cup of tea.
Madeline goes to her stereo and holds up a CD, her eyes mischievous. “Look what I found.”
Hannah recognizes the cover and puts a hand to her forehead, embarrassed. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” Madeline pops the CD out of the case. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to play under Lorin Maazel and Kurt Masur.” She comes back to the table and hands the CD cover to Julia.
As the melodious strains of Strauss begin to fill the room, Hannah feels her body relax. Even Julia has her eyes closed, her mind somewhere else.
Madeline lowers herself into her chair. “You and Philippe are just as human as the next person, Hannah. There’s no need to berate yourself for being human.”
Hannah appreciates the kind words, but she can’t imagine Madeline being as foolish as her. “I just wish I could be more like you,” she says. “You’re independent. You embrace opportunities. No regrets.”
Madeline raises her eyebrows as she reaches for a basket of freshly laundered cloth napkins. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” She starts folding. “Like I said—we’re all human. Everyone has regrets.”
Julia reaches over to take a handful of napkins. “Well, of course, but look at your life, Madeline. You carry yourself with such confidence and dignity, and you’re so kind and generous to everyone …”
Madeline interrupts her brusquely. “No, not everyone. You’re giving me way too much credit, Julia. Both of you.” There’s an unexpected edge in her voice. She continues folding the napkins a few seconds longer, engrossed in the task until she suddenly pushes her chair away from the table and stands up. “Excuse me.”
The two younger women watch her leave in bewilderment.
“Was it something we said?” Hannah asks, worried.
Julia seems just as surprised by Madeline’s abrupt departure but shakes her head. “I think she just needs a minute.”
The two women sit there, feeling Madeline’s absence, and continue to fold napkins.
There’s a turn in the music—a blaze of brass, reeds, and horns, the unmistakable fervor of violins. Hannah sighs. “I love this part.”
Julia tilts her head, listening intently. “Are there cellos playing in this piece?”
Hannah nods. “Yes. Cellos are wonderful solo instruments, but in an orchestra, we play more of a foundation role. We provide stability and structure to a piece. So while you may not be able to hear us, we’re there. You’d miss us if you took us away.”
“I wish I could have seen you perform,” Julia says. “I’m sure you were quite remarkable.”
Hannah blushes. She’s about to deny it but that would be a lie.
Julia folds a few more napkins, listening carefully to the music. “I’ve only been to a concert once or twice in my entire life but I’ve never had the opportunity to really appreciate it. Now that I know you, I want to learn more.” She gives a laugh. “Maybe I’m the one who should be taking lessons from you, not Gracie.”
“Why not?” Hannah asks. She hadn’t really thought about it before, but the idea of a mother-daughter lesson seems perfect for Julia and might give Gracie the extra incentive to practice. “It might be a fun thing for you to do together.”
Julia stares at her. “I never thought about that. It would be fun, wouldn’t it?” There’s a thoughtful look on her face.
“I think it would be a lot of fun. For all of us.” The two women grin at each other and Hannah summons the courage to ask Julia a question that’s been on her mind for the past few days. “I wanted to ask you something, Julia.”
“Sure.”
“Would you be interested in coming with me to Chicago? For one night? I know it’s awkward with this whole situation surrounding my marriage, but I could use a friend in case things go bad. I can get the tickets for free—they’ll be great seats.”
“Chicago,” Julia murmurs.
“I mean, don’t feel like you have to say yes,” Hannah says hurriedly. She doesn’t know if it’s too soon to propose something like this, which seems like the sort of thing you would do with an old friend or someone you’ve known for a long time. But Hannah doesn’t have anybody else and she’d love for Julia to be there with her. “I’ll take care of the hotel and everything—I have to spend the money even if it’s just me.”
Julia folds the last napkin and puts it into the basket. “You know, I think I will. I just have to talk to my husband, but since it’ll be on the weekend …” She nods, determined, a smile spreading across her face. “Yes, I’d love to come.”
“Really?” Hannah clasps her hands in happy relief. “I’m so grateful!” Knowing that Julia will be there
already makes her feel braver, more able to handle whatever might come. “I won’t see Philippe until after the performance, and there’s usually a backstage reception for season ticket holders and VIPs. It’ll give you a chance to mingle with other music lovers and musicians.”
Julia gives a shy shrug of the shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m up for mingling just yet,” she says. “I may just stick to you, or go back to the hotel.”
“Whatever you want,” Hannah says, wanting Julia to have a good time, too. It’s funny how things can change in an instant. Hannah was anxious about Chicago but now she’s looking forward to it.
A night off. The words take flight in her mind. A night where Julia can be an adult, a normal person without the pitying looks or the judgment. No Mark, no Gracie. She loves them and needs them, but right now maybe she needs this more.
Julia wants a break from her life.
Madeline returns to the parlor clutching a fat envelope. She wrote the letter when she first came to Avalon, when she seemed to have nothing but time. She places it in the center of the table and sits down heavily. “My regrets, girls.” She presses her lips together, tight.
The women stare at the envelope but no one picks it up. It’s addressed to Mr. Benjamin Dunn with a Pennsylvania address.
“It’s his last known address,” Madeline says. “Who knows if he’s even there? I have no idea if he’s even alive.” That, more than anything else, is her worst fear.
“Who’s Benjamin?” Hannah asks.
“My husband’s only child from his first marriage.” Madeline looks up at the vintage sign that hangs above the entrance to the kitchen. FRIENDS AND FAMILY GATHER HERE. She hadn’t thought about it much, just liked the sign’s charming and rustic feel, but now she sees the hypocrisy in that single, simple statement.
“Steven’s first wife, Erica, died when her car hit a patch of black ice one winter. Ben was seven when I became his stepmother three years later and he was an angry, hurt child. He was one of those kids that I suppose you’d describe as ADD or whatever they call it now. He and Steven were always at odds, in part because I think they needed a woman in that house to help make things right.”
