He feels guilty even thinking this way.
He loves Mom. He’s grateful to Mom. He wishes more than anything that she were alive. But he’d also, more than ever, really like to get out of Reno for a while, and he’s starting to feel like maybe he’s actually ready to think about a move.
If Mom were still here, he thinks she’d approve.
He’s fallen behind the others—VB’s in the lead now, heading to the snack bar—and Amy turns to check on him. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
But he stops thinking about cities to think about lunch. The snack bar’s pretty crappy, the usual hot dogs and chips, and VB groans. “I had a hot dog yesterday. I don’t know if I can handle another so soon.”
Anna laughs. “There’s a little restaurant not far from here. Excellent chef. Let’s go there. My treat.”
The three Reno-ites, Gore-Tex-clad ducklings, follow her outside. It’s still raining, but there’s intermittent sun. Anna leads them a few blocks to a French bistro, a fashionably distressed hole-in-the-wall, all heavy wooden farm tables and butcher-block paper placemats, where the staff clearly knows her. They’re the only people there. Amy sits down and looks around, blinking. VB picks up a menu as if it might bite her, and peers at it. When she speaks, she sounds strangled. “This is—a bit much. There must be something between this and hot dogs.”
“We’re here,” Anna says, “and I love this place. Let me be generous. I’m not trying to atone for anything. I’m just buying lunch. Sometimes lunch is only lunch.”
Jeremy picks up his menu. Anna, deftly, covers the price column with her napkin. “Don’t look at that. Just look at the food.”
“Okay.” He does. It looks delicious: consommés and pâtés and reductions and truffle oil and artisanal cheeses. His mouth waters. “This reminds me of Fourth Street Bistro. In Reno. Mom took me there for my birthday.”
Anna winces. “And that’s a good memory, I hope? Jeremy, I’m not trying to be your mother—”
“Of course not. You didn’t know. And even if you had. Like you said. It’s just lunch. And yeah. It’s a good memory.”
The waiter arrives with water and warm, aromatic bread, and soft herbed butter, and cunning little bowls of yuppie olives. The four of them smooth over the social awkwardness by eating. Jeremy wishes Aunt Rosie was here, because he feels more comfortable with her than with any of the others, even Amy, but she had no interest in the museum. She went to church with Hen and Tom and Greg instead. Yesterday, when the plans were being made, Anna offered to pick up the others and bring them here.
He wonders how Mom and Anna would have gotten along, if they’d ever met. But he thinks he knows. He can just see Anna walking into the library, being polite enough but clearly viewing Mom and the other staff as The Help. He can just see Mom, afterward, rolling her eyes, hear her complaining about the Rich-Lady types. She got them in her book groups often enough. “They’re not stupid, but too many of them are wearing blinders made of money, and they don’t even know it. And listen to me, with all this ‘they’ stuff, as if those women aren’t just people like the rest of us.” She’d laugh and say, “Do as I say, Jer, not as I do.”
But Anna is different. Nice enough. Generous, certainly. Really pretty smart when she talks about CC. But also from another planet, in ways Jeremy can’t quite pin down, and maybe it’s just the money, but maybe it’s something else. He doesn’t know.
He still hasn’t told her about the Mom-Percy CC connection. He will tell her, he wants to tell her, but not with the others here. She’s working so hard at being nice to them, and he doesn’t want to drop any bombs today. They all need a break. The information will keep, like so much else.
They busy themselves with the bread and olives, and then with appetizers. Amy’s ordered a chilled fruit soup that clearly delights her, and Jeremy’s pretty happy with his crab cakes, although he’d have done the sauce differently. It’s a ginger tomato sauce, and he isn’t sure those work together. He thinks something else would be better with the ginger. Something tart and sweet. Orange zest, just a hint, maybe, so it wouldn’t overpower the crab.
VB’s picking at her house salad, looking miserable. Jeremy still feels sorry for her. “Hey, Prof Bellamy, you want some of my crab cake?”
She glares at him. “Would you please call me Veronique? Or Vera? It’s what your mother called me, and you’re not my student anymore.”
“Yeah, okay. Sure. Would you like some crab cake?”
“No. Thank you. I’m crabby enough, wouldn’t you say?” Amy giggles, and Jeremy blinks. VB tried to make a joke. Oh, Lord. And he knows he should laugh, but her delivery was so flat that he can’t. “I’m sorry I’m grouchy,” she says. “I want to get home, that’s all.”
“You all leave tomorrow?” Anna asks.
“Yes. I need to get back to my cats. Amy, have you registered for fall semester?”
She has. She reels off a string of courses which immediately makes Jeremy’s ears glaze. He feels Anna’s eyes on him. “And what about you, Jeremy? Are you looking forward to getting home?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess. Not really. I have to figure things out. Things I don’t really want to think about yet, because they’re too much work.” They’re all looking at him. He sighs and says, “I think maybe, in a few years, or sooner if I can swing it, I want to try living in a real city. Here, or San Francisco.” He looks down at the crab cake. “Maybe go to culinary school.” He blinks. Actually, he thinks maybe he does want to do that, and it’s the closest thing he’s had to a plan of his own for years. Maybe forever. “But, you know, none of that right away. I have to figure out what to do with the house first. What to do with Mom’s ashes. It’s stupid to be hung up on that, but I am. Have been.”
“Culinary school’s a lot pricier than UNR,” VB says, frowning.
“Yeah. I know.” She thinks he’s a shitty student. Well, he has been a shitty student.
Anna clears her throat. “When the time comes, talk to me.”
VB jerks back and turns bright red. “Oh God, that wasn’t what I meant. I wasn’t suggesting that you—I wouldn’t—I—”
“I know you weren’t.” Anna’s voice is mild, completely matter-of-fact. “Jeremy, you know I have resources. Talk to me if I might be able to help. That’s all. I’m not promising anything right now. We’ll see what it looks like when we get there.”
“Um,” he says, but fortunately the main course comes, and they all busy themselves with their food again. Thank God for food. They share little bites of what they’re eating, and Amy, teasing, asks Jeremy to critique it, and he does—cautiously, because Anna likes this place and he does, too, and he doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but he does have opinions—and the chef comes over and they chat about local markets and spices and preparations, and, Jeremy has to admit, it’s a hell of a lot more fun than talking about Cranford.
After the chef’s left, Anna claps her hands. “Dessert. I want chocolate, and I’m not going to let the rest of you sit there and watch me eat it. You have to have dessert, too.”
Amy nudges Jeremy with her elbow. “You could open your own restaurant. With a CC theme.”
“Or Guatemalan,” says VB. “If you ever decide to research the culture. That would give you a fun reason to travel there.”
“Or only desserts,” says Anna. “I’m definitely going for the chocolate decadence. What are the rest of you having?”
* * *
Veronique’s working her way through a deliciously tangy lemon ice—the least expensive of the dessert options, because she’s still appalled that Anna’s showering them with charity like this—when Amy asks the question she’s been dreading. “What about you, Professor Bellamy? You’re going back in the fall, right?”
“Veronique,” Vera says. “In this context. Unless you think you won’t be able to revert to formality if you ever take one of my classes again.” Why is the child even asking about this, in front o
f Percy Clark’s mother?
Raised by wolves.
“Yes, I’m going back in the fall. I’m teaching 101 and a British lit survey.” Not Women & Lit. She doubts she’ll ever be asked to teach that again.
“I thought you wanted to retire?” Jeremy says. “Mom says you did.”
Dammit, Melinda! Why did you share that with him?
“I’m working through my retirement options,” Veronique says crisply, because she doesn’t want to admit to money problems and then have this creepy rich woman throw money at her. Let Anna Clark find other ways to salve her conscience.
Anna frowns. “Were you hit by the downturn?”
Everyone was hit by the downturn, you nosy bitch, not that it’s any of your business. Just because I offered you chocolate yesterday, when I didn’t even know yet how addicted you are to it, doesn’t make you my friend. “Somewhat,” Veronique says, trying to sound unconcerned, “and there are also property considerations.”
Jeremy, who’s been working his way through a massive chunk of bread pudding, stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Hey.”
“Hey?” Amy laughs.
“Hey yourself,” Veronique says, and she’s about to start talking about Elizabeth Gaskell to change the subject, but Jeremy cuts her off.
“I should’ve thought of this before, except I couldn’t have, because I hadn’t thought seriously about leaving Reno. Okay.” He puts down his fork, puts one hand on Amy’s shoulder and the other on Veronique’s. “You two are friends. Amy and I are friends. Veronique and Mom were friends.”
He doesn’t consider himself my friend, Veronique thinks. Well, no, of course not. “Yes?”
“Okay. So. I have this house that’s paid for, but I don’t want to sell it, partly because I grew up there and partly because I want to put Mom’s ashes in the garden, which means I don’t want it—you know, out of the family. But I don’t want to live there right now, either, and I don’t want to rent it to anybody who might trash the place.” He taps Veronique’s shoulder. “You want to retire, but you’re still paying for your house and you don’t think you can sell it right now.” He taps Amy’s shoulder. “You’ve talked about finding a house to share with friends. So”—grinning and expansive, he gestures at both of them —“Amy and her quiet, responsible friends, who are a whole lot like nuns, honest, can move into Veronique’s house and pay the mortgage. Veronique can move into Mom’s house and not have to pay anything. And I can move out of Mom’s house and go to San Francisco or wherever without worrying about strangers living in the house, and that way I’ll feel comfortable putting Mom in the garden, too.”
He sits back, clearly pleased with himself. “Musical houses! What do you think?”
Veronique feels dizzy. “I don’t know if I want to live in your house. I love your house, Jeremy, but it’s not mine, and it would just remind me of your mother—”
“Tell me about it.”
“—and I don’t want to move. I hate moving.”
He waves this away. He’s flushed now, excited. “We’ll help you. People my age are really good at moving. It’s a free house!”
Anna raises a finger. “Not quite free, no. Property taxes. Utilities. Insurance.”
Jeremy looks taken aback, but then says, “Taxes are low in Reno. Mom always said so. You’d have to pay all those on your own house, too. Or maybe I can pay the property taxes, or the estate can. We’ll talk to Tom. Amy? What do you think? V, her friends really are very quiet. They hardly party at all. They’ve never destroyed anything.”
Terrific, Veronique thinks. This is worse than any scheme Anna could have suggested, because it’s halfway plausible. “I have to think about it.”
“Sure. Sure you do.” He smiles. “But think about being there and not having to teach. Or grade. And you’ll have some money, right? I mean, for property taxes and all that other stuff, on whichever house? And food?”
Veronique ignores this. When did her financial profile become an appropriate topic of conversation? “And where would you be living, sir? And how would you be paying for it?”
“Dunno. Haven’t figured that part out yet.” He picks up the fork again and dives back into the bread pudding. “It needs work, obviously.”
“It’s cosmic,” Amy says, beaming. “Very Comradely of you, Jeremy.”
Jeremy puts his fork down again. “And Aunt Rosie’s house is paid for, I know that much, and I don’t know if she could sell it, but maybe the two of you could live in Mom’s house. Then she’d be less lonely without Uncle Walter.”
Oh, joy. Living with Rosemary would be Veronique’s idea of hell. “Jeremy, this isn’t a comic book, and we’re not chess pieces. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t think this is the right time to have this discussion.” She glares at Anna, who raises an eyebrow.
“I believe that’s my cue to use the powder room. I’ll pay the check on my way back. Think about places you might want to go this afternoon.”
Home, Veronique thinks. My home. But she shivers. Fall’s coming: change, change, and she has to go back to teaching again and has to hold it together, and she suddenly realizes, with an ache of longing, that yes, she’d infinitely rather move into Melinda’s house than have to grade one more stack of undergraduate essays.
It can’t happen that soon, of course. She has to teach for at least another year. Jeremy has to figure out his culinary school scheme, if indeed he still wants to do it in another six months or even two minutes. It can’t happen soon, and probably it can’t happen at all. It’s too easy, too neat, and it can’t be that easy or neat. Life doesn’t work that way. She knows that. She has to stay realistic about this. But she’s moved that Jeremy even offered. Melinda would be proud of him; this is something Melinda herself would have done. Something of Melinda has survived. And for that reason, if no other, Veronique feels a slight easing in her chest, and allows herself to name it hope.
* * *
After the sterile propriety of the Unitarian service, Rosemary’s immensely relieved to be back in an Episcopal church. It’s a pretty little place, dark wood and stained glass, with a much more diverse congregation than any in Reno. There are blacks here, Asians, a few same-sex couples of both genders—even not knowing them, you can tell they’re together by how they touch each other’s shoulders, how they pass the Peace to each other with kisses and long hugs—someone in a wheelchair with something that looks like cerebral palsy, lots of kids. It’s a lively, happy place, clearly a healthy congregation.
Rosemary has always loved this set of readings. Abraham bargaining with God to save Sodom and Gomorrah: “For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it.” Paul urging the Colossians to faithfulness: “As you have received Christ Jesus the Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving.” And Jesus, in the Gospel, proclaiming the power of persistence: “Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.”
Greg preaches well, talking about how sometimes it takes a lot of work to perceive God’s generosity. Sometimes it feels like you have to haggle, to accept some hard bargains. Sometimes it feels like you’re banging at 3 A.M. on the door of a stranger who doesn’t want to get up and help you. And it especially feels that way when you’re in pain: grieving, struggling with loss, trying to make sense of tragedy.
He looks directly at Hen and Rosemary and Tom as he says that. He tells a funny, bittersweet story about having to propose to his wife three times before she accepted, and notes that as much as he adores his wife, he believes that God’s even kinder and more loving. And then he looks at Hen and Rosemary again. “Sometimes we just have to keep trying. The important thing is not to go away, not to lose faith, not to take another offer or try a different doorway, some other place where it costs you less but you’ll never get what you need.”
It’s a good homily. Afterward—after the controlled chaos of coffee ho
ur, with kids darting around adults to grab the best cookies first—Hen and Tom and Rosemary drive to Pike Place Market. Veronique’s chocolate is gone. They all want more.
“I needed that sermon today,” Rosemary says. “I wish Greg had preached at Percy’s funeral.”
Tom grunts. “The Clarks wouldn’t have known what to do with it. I don’t think the Sodom and Gomorrah passage would have been a pastoral inclusion. Anyway, you know funeral texts usually aren’t that week’s lectionary.”
“I know. I didn’t say it was a realistic wish. I’m glad we got communion today, though, even if it was fish food.” Hen laughs, and Rosemary says, “Hen, how would you have handled that funeral yesterday? I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Do you even do funerals for people outside the parish?” Tom asks. “I mean, I know you do them for former members nobody’s seen for ten years, but total strangers?”
“Nobody’s a stranger to God. That’s the Episcopal take on it. If the Clarks had come to St. Phil’s and asked for a funeral, I’d probably have agreed. I’d have to run it past the vestry first—”
“No,” Rosemary says. “This funeral. You told me Anna wrote asking your prayers on the day of the service. What if she’d asked you to officiate?”
“I’d have helped her find someone in Seattle.”
“What if she lived in Reno, or you lived in Seattle? What if she said she didn’t want someone in Seattle? What if she really wanted you to do it?”
Hen scrunches up her nose. “Is that a parking space?”
“Hen! Stop changing the subject!”
It is a parking space. Hen backs in with a small crow of triumph, and they all get out and dodge raindrops until they’re in the market. Tom peels away to go buy salmon for dinner, leaving Rosemary and Hen to find the chocolate. First, though, they find the craft booths: gleaming silver, skeins of woolen yarn glowing in the dim light, hand-turned wooden bowls. “I think,” Hen says, peering at a display of earrings, “that I might have tried to include today’s Gospel. I’d have suggested it, anyway. Because that reading doesn’t just talk about God keeping promises, the opening doors and so forth. It compares divine love to human parental love. Jesus asks the parents in the crowd, ‘If your daughter asks for a fish, would you give her a snake instead? If your son asks for an egg, would you give him a scorpion?’ If imperfect human parents work so hard to give good gifts to their children, he says, how much more will God give us? And I’d have talked, I think, about how hard parents—most parents, anyway, and certainly the Clarks—try to love their kids, and how sometimes the kids do hideous things despite the parents’ best efforts. And it’s not because they did anything wrong. It’s because we have free will, and sometimes we misuse it. But God loves and forgives us even when we’ve done hideous things, and we have to try to forgive our children, and ourselves, when they do hideous things.”
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