“For that story you’re going to have to ask my mother, and no offense, but I think Didi Duncan has affected one of our nights already.”
“Affected? Is that a euphemism?”
“Ruined?” he asked with a noticeable grin.
“Ah, now that’s honest.”
Everyone else had cleared out from the field, some of them returning home while others had retired back to the farmhouse for hot chocolate and Gerta’s famous strawberry pie, leaving Brian and Trina alone amidst the lights. He had suggested they take a walk on this cold, dark night, and with the glow of the windmill guiding from behind them, she found him leading them far from its power, like magnets reacting negatively. At last they came to the edge of the woods, where Brian helped her up the sloping ramp of the stone bridge, the two of them coming to rest at its crest. They leaned against the thick rail while the stream ran noisily under them, cascading over ice and rocks.
“Like the sounds of your bar,” she said.
“Sorry, I don’t have a small bottle of Dewar’s with me to warm you.”
“I don’t mind the cold. I did ask for it, a traditional Upstate New York winter.”
“Ask and you shall receive.”
“Is that what the windmill advises? It seems to grant your wishes,” she said.
“It’s a special place,” he said.
“Is that why you led me away from it?”
He paused, looking away. “Sorry, this is all new to me . . . you, us, whatever this is.”
“And the windmill was Annie’s.”
“Truth of the matter, Trina, is everything in Linden Corners reminds me of her. Her house, her windmill, her . . .”
“Daughter.”
“Her life, not mine, yet she’s not here and I am.”
“It’s okay, Brian,” she said, “and I totally understand my role.”
“What do you mean, your role?”
“Everyone who loses someone has to eventually move on. There has to be a first one.”
“I’m not using you, if that’s what you think.”
She reached over and took his wrist, feeling the heat of his pulse even through the glove. “Definitely not,” she said, a hint of regret spoiling her expression. “That’s not how I meant it to sound. You and I . . . we’ve become victims of our own availability and vulnerability, with your friends thinking they were doing you a favor. And who knows, maybe they were, and not just for you. Like I said, some lucky girl has to be the first you date after Annie’s death, and you’ve certainly honored her and grieved her a long time. If either of us has anything to apologize for, it’s me. For the night I barged my way into George’s—call my motives premeditated, call it happenstance, but there’s no denying I wanted you that night. I wanted to feel your arms around me and I wanted to be comforted. Dealing with Richie is not easy, since his mood changes . . . ha ha, with the wind, and he just sits there . . . letting life slip by. I’m guilty of that too; it’s what I’m doing in Linden Corners. Hiding. Waiting for some sparks to get my life restarted. But it gets lonely in such a close-knit community, and I guess . . . well, I liked you; I liked your honesty.”
Brian was quiet after her speech, gazing into her eyes while moonlight bathed them. It cast a fiery glow inside them, and he felt drawn to their power, their heat. He leaned over and he kissed her, a gentle touch of his lips upon hers. When he pulled back, he said, “Guess I’m not the only one who’s good at making speeches.”
“Was that your way of silencing me?”
“No, that was good, real good to hear you speak,” he said. “I think I learned more about you just now than I did on our first date.”
“And I learned so much about you tonight too, Brian,” she said. “The way you so fully embrace this holiday and honor your family, it’s a special gift, Brian. Better than anything you could wrap up or buy. And I know you’ve said your mother can be difficult . . .”
“She makes Richie seem like the Prince of Linden Corners,” he said with a rueful smile.
“But you affected her tonight, I could see that, with your memory tree.”
“Are we really back to talking about my mother? Have we come full circle?”
“Well, actually, I think that means we should call it a night.”
He nodded. “Janey’s probably finished all the marshmallows by now. She puts so many in her hot chocolate she may as well label what’s in her cup melted marshmallows with cocoa sprinkles. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“That’s not necessary . . . Oh,” she said, her voice trailing off, remembering she’d arrived at the gazebo on foot and come to the lighting of the windmill via Cynthia, who was home tucking in Jake. So she accepted his offer and the two of them departed from the stone bridge, emerging from the trees to a starlit night made even brighter by the twinkling windmill in the near distance. Again they put the view in their rear mirror and returned up the steep hill, bypassing the sound of laughter and music coming from inside the farmhouse.
“You sure you don’t want to join us?”
“That’s sweet, but I think I’ve intruded enough for one night,” she said.
“Trina, you’re not intruding . . .”
She took his hand, squeezed it. “Brian, it’s Annie’s house, as you said, and I can imagine a ten-year-old who may not be ready for her dad to welcome a new woman into its kitchen.”
“Janey adapts well—”
She cut him off and said, “I don’t.”
Inside the truck they went, with Brian having to turn the engine twice before it caught. On the road, it was a quick trip through a darkened Linden Corners, the only sign of noticeable activity at the tavern. They didn’t stop there, Trina saying no to a shot of scotch, and soon Brian was turning into the parking lot of the Solemn Nights, its flickering VACANT sign seemingly redder in the wake of the bright-white spectacle glowing off the windmill. As Brian set the truck to park, Trina paused, uncertain of her next step. They’d been here before, just two nights ago, and had they not been interrupted, who knows what would have happened inside her room. Was she ready for a second attempt, or was the near miss the other night a masked signal?
“Brian . . . ,” she said, only to be silenced again, and again in the same manner.
His kiss was more urgent, and she returned it with zeal, their exchange heated to the point that the windshield grew fogged, like two teenagers were locked inside the cab. His touch was sweet, tender, and she felt pulled in by his strong arms, his comforting presence. With the cold locked out of the front cab of the truck, she felt as though she could melt right into him, and if only they could keep the cold at bay while they made it to her room, she might just give in to temptation. She knew, though, that the moment she ventured into the night, the passion would dissipate like her misty breath, and her heart would freeze up. As they pulled away from each other, she felt Brian’s fingers caress her cheek.
“I don’t object to rushing things,” she said. “Who knows what our lives have in store.”
“But,” he said.
“But what I don’t want to do is rush tonight.”
“Right. My family is waiting for me,” he said.
“You have a little girl to tuck into bed.”
“She’s growing up; she’s exercising her independence,” he said.
“No more distractions, Brian Duncan,” she said. “For us to share something so real and so personal, so intimate, neither of us should be just passing through.”
He nodded with an appropriate smile, but not before leaving her with a single last kiss and a personal invitation to the annual George’s Tavern Christmas party “next Saturday. Trust me, the whole town turns out and Gerta serves up a feast of food and pies that will lure even your father to the bar. I’ll see you then.”
“Not if I see you before,” she told him, and then watched as the truck pulled out and the taillights disappeared down the darkened road, until not even their red glow lingered in her eyes. Trina Winter hadn’t expected
to be gone from the motel for so long; it was just supposed to have been a quick trip to the gazebo, pick two names, and then return home. Pulled into the ceremony of the lighting of the windmill, lulled into the woods by her handsome suitor, she felt like tonight had been part fairy tale, part dream, complete with twinkling lights and a promise of brighter tomorrows. No glass slipper, though, just a pair of wet boots that helped her trudge through deep snowdrifts.
Inside the motel office, she took a look at Richie, asleep on the sofa with the television still flickering puppets on the walls, shadows in the dark. She made her way to her father’s side, and, instinct overriding any conflict that existed between them, she gently kissed his forehead. Then she pulled from her coat pocket one of the names she’d taken from the hat and set it on the table beside him. Still, she didn’t look at the name, and instead turned off the television.
Back in her room, she at last took out the second slip of paper and read the name of whom she’d be playing Secret Santa for. Her smile continued to light the room, even as she slipped under the covers. She turned out the lamp beside her and drifted off to a deep sleep that was alive, surprisingly, with dreams.
CHAPTER 14
BRIAN
Brian awoke that Monday morning to a cacophony of sounds, so much noise he imagined his life in Linden Corners had existed as one long dream, and now he was finally waking to the constant noise outside his Manhattan apartment. Garbage trucks doing battle with cabbies for ownership of the street, with horns blaring and the crush of recyclables winning out over all, sleep included. But as he opened his eyes, the familiar sights of his bedroom warmed him, even as he slipped the covers off and his bare feet stepped onto the cold planks of the floor. This had of course once been Annie’s room, and before that hers with Dan; it had taken months for him to even begin to think of it as his room, some nights giving up on sleep and retiring to the sofa down in the living room. Imposters had no place taking possession of other people’s homes.
And down the hall slept his parents, the takeover by the Duncan family of the Sullivan farmhouse in full assault mode. He’d been worried about Janey’s reaction to his parents’ arrival, but so far all had gone well, though Brian was first to admit he’d kept them all pretty busy this first weekend together, to the point that no one had time to think about the consequences of all living under one roof. The start of this week and the looming holiday would certainly test their mettle, and as worried as he was about his parents—his father, in particular, given his mother’s cryptic warnings—Janey was of course his first priority. She was still the child, this was her favorite holiday, and no matter how many new traditions they had established the past two years, he knew she remembered the little details from past ones that spoke of Annie’s influence. Not so with Dan, who had died in a car crash when she was so young. In truth, Brian was the only Dad she ever remembered.
A loud thud caught his attention again, reminding him of what had woken him.
Wrapping a thick blue robe around his shorts and T-shirt, he opened his door and listened for the direction of where the noise was coming from. He waited, heard nothing, instinct taking him to Janey’s room, where behind the closed door he found an empty bed, one freshly made. Only one aspect was different; her stuffed purple frog could not be found resting atop the pillows per usual, and he had to think Janey had it with her, much as she had the past few weeks. He nearly called out her name but remembered his parents were sleeping down the hall.
That’s when he heard the thud again, and this time Brian looked upward.
The attic.
What was Janey doing in the attic on a Monday morning? It was only seven.
He padded midway down the hall and opened the door to the attic, its squeaky hinges no doubt announcing his presence. Upstairs he ventured, where he found Janey sitting on the dusty floor amidst a series of cardboard boxes, a few of the lids tossed aside. No surprise, there at her side was the purple frog with no name. What did surprise him was the fact that she hadn’t heard him, her head practically stuffed inside one of the boxes.
“It has to be in one of these,” she said, apparently to the frog.
Its sealed mouth kept it from answering.
“Janey, what are you doing up here, and at this hour?”
She lifted her head from the box, her mouth clamping shut at the sight of him. She gazed down at the mess she had created, making a fast move for her frog, clutching him hard to her frame. “You scared me,” she stated.
“And you woke me . . . and maybe my parents. I repeat, what are you doing up here?”
“It’s for my Secret Santa gift,” she said. “So I can’t tell you.”
“Why not? You didn’t pick me, did you?”
“Silly, of course not. Gerta would have made me put it back in the big hat.”
“Then why can’t you tell me?”
“Because those are the rules. Cynthia said no trading and the only way to avoid doing that is not to know who people have,” she said, her familiar exasperation and complex answer hardly hindered by the early hour. “Aren’t you following the rules by not opening those gifts you keep getting? The person said you have to wait until Christmas Day to open them, right? You haven’t unwrapped them in secret, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“See? Rules.”
Brian sighed, settling down onto the floor. He was constantly surprised by whatever her mind figured out next, knowing silence was often the way to get to the heart of whatever she was thinking. Janey eventually came around to reveal what was bothering her, and he had to think now was going to be one of those moments. So much had been happening this holiday season, from the unexpected Thanksgiving announcement from Cynthia and Bradley to his surprise date with Trina to his parents’ arrival in Linden Corners; it was a lot of upheaval for a girl who’d seen too much of it already in her young life, making Brian feel like he’d lost control of the stability he ensured during the remainder of the year. Waiting on her, he reached out and shook the frog’s limp hand. Staring at the frog, he wondered what secrets it knew.
“Brian?”
His connecting with the frog seemed to have opened the floodgates.
“Do you know the story of how my parents met?” she asked. “I mean, where they were and what made them want to talk to each other?”
Brian admitted he didn’t. “Your mom, she didn’t speak much about him to me,” he said, the truth. He’d heard plenty of other stories about Dan Sullivan from others in town, including Bradley, and also from the surly Chuck Ackroyd, who had reason to dislike him, and if the stories were to be believed, Dan hadn’t been the prince Janey imagined. Ironically, Dan Sullivan might have been more frog. But none of the rumors concerning the last months of Dan’s life were Janey’s to know, not now and hopefully not ever. “All I know is that you were all that your father wanted, you and Annie and your lives together.”
“I see him sometimes, in my dreams.”
“That’s perfectly natural, Janey, and I’m glad that you do,” he said, intrigued by where this conversation was going. “Especially since his portrait is the last thing you see every night before you fall asleep, his and Annie’s. So your mind pictures them while you sleep. I’m sure they tell you tales of their lives.”
“Mama speaks in riddles,” she said.
“Does she, now?”
“Yes, when she comes to me in the dark of night and takes me to the windmill,” she said. “You know, when I’m sleeping.”
Brian smiled at her, smoothing down her hair and hoping it brought her comfort. He knew Janey spoke to Annie often, running to the windmill to tell her about her day at school or a special art project she’d made, telling her she hoped one day to have the same talent her mother displayed, and while it wasn’t realistic to think Annie responded, there was something about the sails of the windmill, as though their endless spins grabbed hold of those words and transported them to places where Annie could hear. He would never deny Janey thi
s fantasy world, because he knew she still needed her mother and that she always would, on simple days when the rain fell or on future days when she had something to celebrate, a graduation, a wedding, a baby of her own.
“Will you come with me for a moment?” he said. “I want to show you something.”
“Can I bring my frog?”
“Of course. He needs to hear this too.”
“Before we go, can I tell you something else?”
“Anything.”
“I’m thinking the frog needs a name.”
“Okay, that’s a good idea. What have you come up with?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, calling him ‘Nothing’ is almost like not having a name at all.”
Janey rolled her eyes with obvious amusement. “Silly, Brian.” Then she put her hands to her mouth. “Oops, I mean Dad. When you act all silly, it makes me think about when we first met and you did the silliest things . . . You know, when you would fall in the snow and make an angel . . . That’s when you were Brian to me. Names are weird, I think, because they can help you get to know people better, while other times they keep you from getting to know them. It all depends on what name you use.”
“That’s very insightful, Janey. I never really thought of it like that,” he said, imagining this had something to do with his parents and how to refer to them. “While I ponder that, are you going to join me downstairs? It’s almost time for you to get ready for school, and you need to eat and get dressed first.”
“What’s downstairs?”
“Well, first of all, everything.”
Janey considered his words, scrunching her nose in classic fashion. Only after they were halfway down the attic steps did she laugh and tell him she’d just got his little joke, and she called him silly again. Their fun banter kept them occupied until Brian led the way into the living room. With the curtains closed and the lights of their Christmas tree switched off, the room was dark, not yet awake on this early morning. Rather than draw the curtains, Brian bent underneath the tree and pressed the switch. It came alive with color and a shiny glint that lit their eyes.
Memory Tree Page 19
