by Jean Stone
“Nope,” he said. “I checked. When we get it, it’s good for sixty days. I want to have it in my hand before you change your mind.”
As if there would be any chance of that.
5
If Brian hadn’t left her, Jo would not have moved back to West Hope, and her mother probably wouldn’t have married Ted, the town butcher, and moved into the new condos out by Tanglewood, and Jo wouldn’t have moved into her childhood home, which she and Andrew would now be renovating for their new life together.
If it weren’t for Brian, she also wouldn’t be parked outside West Hope Elementary, which was now the Middle School, too, waiting for Cassie.
She wondered if Cassie would have preferred the “pre-Andrew” Jo, the savvy businesswoman with a downtown Boston address and an awesome condo that overlooked the Charles. Of course, even Jo’s former life had been dull compared with the life of Cassie’s mother, Patty O’Shay, the once-famous cover girl, who’d become world renowned for her bright turquoise eyes and thick, shining dark hair, both of which Cassie had inherited.
Did Cassie—despite having rejected a recent chance to go live with her mother—quietly resent Jo? Did she harbor a divorced kid’s secret dream that one day her parents would get back together, the way Jo had once hoped her parents would have done? Jo had been nine when her parents split up; Cassie, much younger. Jo had “lost” her father; Cassie, her mother. Would those things make a difference?
She looked around the playground, the one-story brick school that had been new when Jo went there. She tried to remember being in sixth grade. It had been in the mid-seventies, a time of big changes. She recalled that her teacher, Miss Topor, had been pretty and smart and had a warm, wonderful smile, and that at the spring picnic at Laurel Lake Park, when Denny Barstow got a piece of hot dog caught in his throat, Miss Topor performed a new phenomenon called the Heimlich maneuver. The piece of meat shot from Denny’s throat, and the entire class stood and watched, silenced by their teacher’s heroism.
Jo also remembered that was the year her grandfather gave her a digital watch for her birthday—a new invention that had her classmates mesmerized, except Cindy Lee Farnsworth. Cindy Lee said her mother had wanted to buy her one when they went shopping at G. Fox in Hartford, but that Cindy Lee declined, saying she thought they were ugly and were meant for boys. (Cindy Lee hadn’t liked Jo since the fifth grade, when Carl Miller, the hunkiest boy in the school, wrote Jo’s name on the cover of his notebook.)
Later that summer Nixon resigned and everything tumbled. By the time Jo started seventh grade, the world was quite different, indeed.
She gazed at the beige door that she knew was locked now and realized there was little innocence left. Then the bell rang—the shrill sound was oddly the same—followed by a short pause, then the commotion of footsteps clattering toward the outside. The door burst open and a swarm of kids—little, big, blond, brunette, skipping, and meandering—appeared. It wasn’t long before Jo spotted Cassie, though she blinked to be sure it was really her.
When she’d seen Cassie this morning, Cassie had on a pair of jeans and a short denim jacket embroidered with sequins. Now she wore a way-too-short denim skirt and a pink, form-fitting top that rode high over her navel, exposing several inches of her flat young belly.
Jo got out of the car. “Cassie?” she called.
The girl looked at her, turned her head quickly away.
“Cassie?” Jo repeated, walking closer toward her. Around them, kids scattered, including Cassie’s best friend, Marilla, who wore a matching denim skirt, equally short, and a yellow top of similar exposing proportions.
Slowly, Cassie turned back to Jo. That’s when Jo saw the heavy black eyeliner and the silver-flecked blue eye shadow.
Jo decided that later she’d surely receive an award for not gasping out loud, for staying cool under duress. “Your dad thought we might like to go pick out paint for your new room.”
Cassie blinked, looked away again. “Sorry. I promised Marilla I’d go to her house to study for our biology test tomorrow.”
Jo scanned the lot. “Marilla seems to have vanished.”
With a shrug, Cassie said, “I can walk to her house.”
“I can give you a ride.”
“It’s right down the street.” But Cassie didn’t move, didn’t step away.
“Cassie?” Jo asked, sensing that this moment could redefine their relationship, could propel her into stepmother heaven or hell. “I think purple will be a really great color. Can we go later this week?”
The girl shrugged again. “Sure,” she replied, then flashed her dark-lined turquoise eyes. “I gotta go.”
Jo said okay, and walked back to the car, her heart racing as if she’d just given the Heimlich to a kid herself, as if she had spared Cassie from a confrontation worse than death.
Now all Jo needed to decide was what to share with Andrew and what to ignore for the sake of a (hopefully) greater good.
Lily and Elaine found an exquisite antique lace tablecloth that would look stunning on the altar at the Victorian-themed wedding. They also found a lace runner for the mahogany sideboard that would serve as a buffet table and three gleaming, tiered, silver dessert serving dishes. Whether or not Sarah used the pieces to decorate the Randolph/Barton reception didn’t matter. They would be added to the Second Chances growing “prop room,” as Lily called the storage space they now rented from Frank on the second floor of his antiques shop in the former town hall, across from Sarah’s boyfriend’s office.
God knew there would be no point in using them for Jo and Andrew’s “teensy-weensy wedding,” Lily had commented, and Elaine had shushed her, right there in the store.
Elaine had also bought the cedar grilling planks, a set of breading trays, and a sushi press. She’d skipped the copper Italian cookware, which she deemed too expensive, but bought several dozen parchment coasters, though she wouldn’t reveal what they were for.
Before heading back to West Hope they stopped for a late lunch in a small restaurant Lily had never been to.
When the waiter delivered their dim sum and tea, Elaine moved aside the chopsticks, picked up her fork, and asked, “So what’s the real reason we’re here?”
Lily smiled and gazed around the high-ceilinged, mahogany-woodworked room at the sunset-orange walls and the fabulous artwork in shades of deep red. A burnished gold light fixture shaped like an inverted cone was suspended from a thin cord over each ebony table. Red linens and a minimalist glass-cylinder centerpiece that held three long-stemmed wildflowers completed the urban-contemporary look.
“The real reason we’re here is to check out this restaurant. I read about it in New York magazine.”
Elaine’s gaze followed Lily’s. “Yes, it’s very pretty. But what I meant was, what’s the real reason we came into the city?”
Lily glanced at Elaine, scooped up her chopsticks, and plucked a tangle of glass noodles from a spring roll. “I told you. Family business.”
“You can’t stand Antonia. You’ve made it clear that any ‘business’ you need to do with her, you do on the phone. ‘No audience required,’ I believe is what you’ve said.”
Lily smiled. Sooner or later, she supposed, good friends know all your business. Especially old friends, who’ve witnessed your life cycles, the good and the bad, the up and the down.
“I’m not trying to pry, Lily. I just want to be sure everything is okay.”
The waiter stopped by and poured more lemon water. Lily wished she had ordered wine. “Everything’s fine,” she replied with a swift nip of the noodles that she then dropped into her mouth.
Silent chewing ensued. Then Elaine said, “Bullshit.”
Lily laughed out loud. “Lainey, you are full of surprises these days. You used to be so…”
“Compliant,” Elaine said. “Milquetoasty.”
It was true, of course, but Lily hated to say that. Instead, she leaned forward and whispered, “Can you keep a secret?” because, w
hat the heck, she simply had to tell someone.
Elaine smiled. “I’ve kept more secrets than anyone would imagine.”
Taking a small bite of her lunch, Lily chewed slowly, then swallowed and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Frank Forbes proposed to me.”
Elaine dropped her fork. “Proposed? You mean, he asked you to marry him?”
“You know very well what it means. We’re in the marriage business, aren’t we?”
“Oh, Lily, how exciting. When’s the big day? Shall we plan a big wedding? Oh, wait, not until after Jo and Andrew’s, okay?”
Lily held up her hand. She averted her eyes from her pink diamond. “Stop right there. I haven’t said yes yet.”
Elaine leveled her eyes on Lily. “Why not? Are you playing hard-to-get?”
She shook her head. Suddenly the reality of her situation was embarrassing, even to her. “Because I’m not sure, that’s why. Because I don’t know if I want to get married again.”
Silence returned. From the next table, Lily overheard the waiter ask if the party wanted dessert. Coconut ice cream on a slice of grilled pineapple, gingerbread drizzled with lemon curd, chocolate cake in a roasted pear sauce. She wanted to suggest that Elaine pay attention to the creative offerings of sweets, but she knew that wasn’t what Elaine wanted to hear.
Lily set down her chopsticks. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Promise you won’t tell the others. Or that you won’t judge me or lecture me or yell at me, okay?”
“Good grief, Lily, what is it?”
She let out a sigh. “If I marry Frank, Antonia gets to keep all of Reginald’s money. Unless I can convince her that she shouldn’t do that.”
Lily supposed she should feel better now that she’d gotten her dilemma out there in the open, out there amid the orange walls and red artwork and inverted conelike lights. She supposed she should feel better now that she’d shared her predicament with a trusted friend. But as Elaine just sat there, staring in disbelief, Lily did not feel better. She felt embarrassed, silly, shameful, like a childish thief, her hand caught in Aunt Margaret’s jewelry box, searching for the tiara that only good girls were allowed to wear.
6
Jo needed a night to herself. She needed a night to separate the Gilberts’ yellow-and-white wedding scheduled for Friday from the Randolph/Barton’s wedding Sunday from her own nuptials, which she’d had little time to think about other than to buy the pretty silk suit she would wear and to pick out a light plum-colored one for her mother and a color-matched yet more youthful style for Cassie.
She supposed she could make some time with what was left of the afternoon. But after her failed attempt to connect with Cassie, Jo wasn’t in the mood. So she did what she did best—she went back to the shop and back to work, her busywork, her refuge from her worries and from, she guessed, herself.
Luckily Andrew wasn’t there. He’d left a note that said the builders called: they were going to pour the footings for the foundation of the addition to the house, and he wanted to watch.
Jo tossed his note into the basket, wishing she had as much energy to put into the wedding plans as Andrew had enthusiasm for concrete.
An hour passed, then two. Then, just as Jo was about to lock up for the night, in walked Lily and Elaine, arms full of shopping bags and boxes, road-weary smiles on their faces and chatter evidently on their minds.
“We found the perfect lace for the Randolph/Barton wedding,” Elaine said.
“And beautiful silver dishes,” Lily added, “that you might want if only you weren’t having such a dinky reception.”
Elaine said, “Lily, stop it,” and Jo just laughed and said, “No matter how hard you try to humiliate me, I’m not changing anything.”
Lily dropped her bags and pouted. “Just a little pouf?”
“No pouf,” Jo said.
“At least let Lainey create a special menu,” Lily whined. “Like ice cream on grilled pineapple?”
Jo shook her head, realizing now that Lily had made her smile. “It sounds absolutely awful,” she said.
“What about edible name cards?” Elaine said, and Jo and Lily both turned to her.
“What?” Jo asked.
“What?” Lily asked. “You never mentioned such a thing.”
“I’ve only seen them done once. It’s best if the wedding’s small.” She rummaged through a bag. Jo wanted to leave but would not be rude to Elaine. Elaine finally pulled out a stack of parchment-looking coasters. “These are perfect,” she said.
“Perfect for what?” Jo asked.
“To use as dishes for the name cards.”
Jo looked at Lily, who said, “Don’t ask me.”
“Oh, never mind,” Elaine said. “You have to see them all made up. They will be beautiful, trust me.”
“Sure,” Jo said, “why not.”
Then Lily stepped forward, took the coasters, and said, “Edible name cards. Well, at least we can have them photographed for our portfolio. Get something worthwhile out of your wedding, other than pictures of your mother and new stepdaughter, lovely as they both might be.”
It was the word stepdaughter that erased the smile from Jo’s face. “I’d love to stay and chat,” she said, “but I have to get home. They poured the footings today for the addition to the house.” Which, of course, didn’t matter; she just wasn’t in the mood to discuss edible name cards, portfolios, or, most of all, stepdaughters. She only knew she wanted to marry Andrew without pomp, circumstance, or pouf. She only knew she wanted to shake her uncertainty over what to do, or not do, about Cassie.
She said good night and left the shop with Cassie on her mind. How would Cassie traverse the maze of puberty? How young was too young today to expect rebellious behavior? Jo supposed she could ask Elaine—Elaine, after all, had two girls who were pretty much grown up. How was Jo supposed to know? The world was so different than when she was young: She knew that kids now—at early ages—drank, got high, had sex. Some of them, anyway.
Would Cassie be one?
Should she talk to Cassie about birth control? Should she talk to her about her choice of clothes, her trashy makeup, the message she was giving boys without Andrew’s knowledge? Didn’t Cassie’s father have a right to know? Or, for that matter, did Jo have a right to interfere?
Elaine would have helped, but Jo was too exhausted to turn around and go back to Second Chances and risk hearing more things about her wedding that Lily did not like.
As Jo turned the corner and drove past the bookstore, she had a thought. She put on her directional signal and pulled into a parking space. What she didn’t know, maybe a best-selling author might.
Ten Ways to Love Your Stepchild.
Building Healthy Step-Family Relationships.
His Kids. Her Kids.
Jo stared at the books that sat on the kitchen table. Andrew and the builders had left by the time she arrived home. She’d called and said she needed time alone tonight if that was okay. He’d said sure, although he’d miss her, and what about those footings? They looked great, didn’t they?
She’d said yes, the whole thing looked exciting. The truth was she’d barely glanced in the direction of the backyard, where her grandmother’s clothesline once had been and now the family room and master bedroom would be taking its place.
They’d said they loved each other, then hung up, and Jo was left alone with the books.
His Kids. Her Kids. She sensed that being a stepmother was a task that would be more daunting than she had imagined. She’d never, after all, planned on being a stepmother. Once she had dreamed of having her own child, her own children. But the opportunities had passed along with the years, and now she was forty-three and it probably was too late.
Wasn’t it?
She pushed away thoughts of soft baby blankets and hand-knit booties and picked up the first book, sensing that the research would not be as simple as when she’d needed to learn about wedding planning.
Scanning the tabl
e of contents, Jo suddenly remembered that it had been at this same table where she’d once sat with her mother, listening to Marion’s awkward explanation about boys and girls and how babies were made. Grandpa Clarke had been out at a union meeting; Grandma had been in the living room, crocheting—eavesdropping, no doubt, in case Marion needed assistance. But Marion had done fine, filling in a few blanks that Jo hadn’t yet learned in health class at school and correcting a few missteps she’d heard at various sleepovers. Marion, however, was a real parent, a real mother, who’d been raising Jo all along.
Closing her eyes, Jo tried to remember what it felt like to be twelve, when Carl Miller liked her but she didn’t like him, because she liked Danny Peterson, who liked Alicia Barnes.
Jo smiled. She remembered going to Woolworth’s with her friend Sandy, pooling their coins to buy Maybelline liquid eyeliner and an eyelash curler, then going to Albert Steiger’s department store and trying on miniskirts that her mother would never have allowed Jo to wear.
Apart from the eye makeup that Jo and Sandy wore only to Friday night dances at the Y, rebellion had been confined to dressing-room giggles. If Jo had dared to buy one of those skirts, then wear it to school, Marion Lyons would have known about it before the end of first period. A teacher would have seen her and told another teacher who would have told the principal who knew Jo’s mother from church or the library board or the July 4 parade committee and who would have called Marion and let her know. It had been like that in West Hope—small town, few secrets. Apparently things were different today, or no one cared anymore, or mothers were no longer as strict as Marion had been.
Jo leaned back in the chair and looked around the kitchen, at the old cabinets that had once been painted white, then yellow, then blue, and were now white again; at the flooring that had once been hardwood, then red-brick-looking linoleum, then indoor–outdoor carpeting, and was now light-green vinyl.
Jo had grown up in the house in a whole different era, when life had boundaries and kids had rules. As much as she’d once longed to leave what she’d perceived as a stifling town, she knew that she hadn’t turned out too badly.
