by Jean Stone
Despite her many trips to and from Seranak House, this was the first time that she paid attention to the view of Lake Mahkeenac.
She stood and watched, as if peering down into a snow globe whose ice had melted and yielded to the sweet pastels of spring. The water was so still, in contrast to her life.
Was Frank sitting on the dock, thinking about her?
Was Sondra there? Oh, God, she thought, is Sondra there?
“I need some time away,” Frank had said. “I’m not sure what I want right now.”
He wasn’t sure if he still wanted to marry Lily or not.
He’d been sure once, but now he wasn’t.
“Mrs. Beckwith?” a voice called out from the portico of the house. “Did you think of something else?”
Lily raised her hand in a half wave and said, “No thanks, I’m fine.” Then she continued walking toward her car, a lump growing bigger in her throat, her eyes now clouded by tears that at least prevented her from staring at the lake.
She could always go there, she supposed. She could cruise around and around the lake until she saw Frank’s truck parked by a cabin on the water. She could bang on the front door and demand that he come out, that he come back to her.
But that would get her nowhere, just as it would get her nowhere to drive to Mount Rose, Connecticut, and find the place where Billy Sears now lived.
She held her key up to the car door and beeped the lock. She got inside, hooked her seat belt, and stared out the windshield at the lake, wondering why her period was a full week late again, if—again—it was because she’d lost someone she’d loved.
35
Boston didn’t look the same. When Sarah, Sutter, and Jo arrived on Sunday night, it seemed to have more tunnels than when Jo had lived here, a more intricate web of ramps and exits and other ways of getting lost. Sarah suggested it wasn’t as much that the streets were different, but that Jo had changed.
Two hours earlier, Jo had hugged Cassie good-bye at Mrs. Connor’s, grateful for the time they’d shared, the girl talk, and the hope that maybe they could be a family after all, which now seemed to depend as much on what Andrew was up to in New York as it did on her.
Trying to put it all aside, she’d hugged Cassie again, then climbed into the backseat of Sutter’s BMW. Suddenly—or rather it seemed that it was sudden—there they were, sooner than she’d hoped, checking into the Holiday Inn in Brookline. Jo had hoped that staying there and not downtown might keep her detached from the hustle and the bustle and the reason they were here.
She got into bed without even opening her suitcase, then pulled the stiff sheet around her chin as if she might actually go to sleep.
Instead, she lay in the cold hotel-room bed, wishing she’d gone to dinner with Sarah and Sutter, wishing Andrew was beside her, wishing she’d never filed the complaint that had led to Brian’s arrest.
It was only money, after all.
And it had been her own stupid fault, hadn’t it? Maybe he had scammed her, but she’d given him her money willingly, hadn’t she?
She wondered if his attorney would make her look as foolish as she’d feel once she was on the witness stand.
Was it too late to back out?
“He’s done it to you, he’ll do it to others,” the police had told her a million years ago when Brian finally was found.
Which, of course, she told herself, was exactly why she was there.
Rolling onto her side, she studied the lights of Beacon Street filtering through the window and listened to the rumble of the T as the transit cars chugged back and forth into the city, back and forth, back and forth.
She wondered if Brian was already in town and, if so, where he was staying.
She squeezed her eyes together, surprised to feel a small tear trickle down her cheek. She thought she’d been controlling herself so well. She thought she’d become quite good at not thinking about Brian or not wondering how she would react when they came face-to-face.
Andrew hated that he was in New York and Jo was in Boston. He hated that she’d shut him out of that part of her life, though he supposed if he’d been her and Brian had been Patty, he wouldn’t want Jo involved either.
Still, he couldn’t shake the thought that he was supposed to be Jo’s knight in shining armor, the one love of her life who would make up for all the rest.
Wrong.
He sat up on the side of the creaky bed in Antonia’s guest room and reassured himself that at least when he saw Jo again he would be bearing great news: After spending the whole weekend trying to convince them, the bankers finally agreed to the start-up loan for Second Chances, the magazine, based on the chunk of money that Antonia had committed.
Snapping on the porcelain lamp on the nightstand next to the bed, he checked his watch: three-fifteen. In a few hours he and Antonia would go back to West Hope to spread the exciting word. They’d leave Frannie in Manhattan, where she’d hunt for the perfect editorial suite of Midtown offices; his job as Executive Editor would be handled via e-mail, FedEx, and all the other communications vehicles of the century from his cottage in the Berkshires. Or from Jo’s house, if they could ever get together.
When they returned to West Hope, he would also call Winston College and call off his search for gainful reemployment. Teaching was great when Andrew had needed the change, but the rousing mire of media trenches was where he knew he belonged. A magazine for second weddings now…who knew where that could catapult them for the future.
He looked at his watch again, then sat there, swinging his feet like a little kid, hoping Antonia would rise early in the morning so they could be on their way.
Billy Sears was in his cadet uniform, his black hair trimmed in the standard U.S. Army flattop, his blue eyes bright with promise, his freckles stretched across his cheeks from the big grin on his face.
He didn’t say anything to Lily, just held out a hefty bouquet of lilacs.
Lilacs?
“No!” she shouted. “Go away!”
He went away, and in his place stood Frank, not in a uniform at all, but in khaki Dockers.
“Where’s Billy?” she asked. “I want to talk to Billy.”
“You sent him away. You said you wanted me.”
She woke up in a sweat. She lay there in her child’s bed, her heart beating rapidly. She jumped up, went out to the living room, snapped on the Mad Hatter lamp. The clock read five-fifteen. She sat down on the sofa, next to her plush rabbit. She realized she was trembling.
“Billy,” she said softly, because in that moment she needed to hear his name spoken out loud. She wondered what he looked like now—was his hair still black and short? Had his freckles blended with the patina of middle age? Did his bright blue eyes still hold promise?
Would he still smile if he saw her?
Lily supposed that later she would wonder if her actions were propelled by her foolish dream or by a supernatural force: Aunt Margaret, maybe, who might think that now was the time for Lily to set her past to rest. Perhaps the sign was from her father, who’d always liked Billy, the smartest in his class.
Maybe it was Eleanor Forbes who was trying to protect her son.
Lily supposed she would think about all of that later. Right now the only thing that she needed was to march over to her closet and decide what she would wear.
If Billy lived in West Hope he could be Cassie’s teacher, Lily thought as she drove south on Route 8, past the general store in Otis, through New Boston, along the West Branch of the river, over the line into Connecticut. She’d left her apartment before most people ate breakfast, because she knew she’d need to see him before he went to school. If she waited until the afternoon she might change her mind. Besides, later that day she would have eighteen five-year-olds for fittings and rehearsals for the wedding.
She’d dressed in jeans (two-hundred-dollar Yanuk jeans that were brand-new and a little tight), an Emilio Pucci cashmere halter, and a Dior aviator jacket. If she was going to do this, she nee
ded the support of her fashion friends.
Her real friends, of course, were the ones she would have wanted, the ones she’d come to depend on to accompany her on her adventures. But her real friends were unavailable: Jo and Sarah were in Boston, and Elaine was not the one to ask to go with her on the journey to find her long-lost love, who now was married and had five children. Five.
She pushed that thought from her mind and continued driving with controlled determination until she saw the sign: Entering Mount Rose.
She pulled onto the shoulder and sat quietly.
His mother said he had several acres right along Route 8. Surely she could find a rural-route mailbox displaying the name Sears. Surely she could find it if she continued driving, if she wanted to keep going.
Unless this was the one jaunt that Lily had conjured up, that Lily would not complete.
A farmer’s tractor chugged down the road just then. He stopped and waved at Lily, who put her window down.
“You okay, miss?” the farmer shouted above the putt-putt of the tractor.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just resting.”
He tipped his John Deere cap and chug-chugged away, leaving Lily on the roadside, trying to decide what she should do.
36
Jo ordered tea and rye toast without butter, which now sat in front of her, untouched. If she was alone, she would not have bothered with breakfast. If she was alone, she would have stayed in her room, clutching what felt like a sack of golf balls in her stomach, unable to deal with what was ahead.
But she wasn’t alone. Sarah and Sutter were with her, sitting across from her at an umbrella table in the cheery, sunlit atrium restaurant at the Holiday Inn.
“Have I thanked you for coming with me?” Jo asked.
“A dozen times,” Sarah said.
“A dozen and one,” Sutter added.
Jo smiled. They were an ideal couple, Sarah and Sutter, if there was such a thing. Elegantly beautiful in that exotic, Cherokee way, burnished and clean-skinned and soft-spoken and patient. She wondered what it might be like to be that…well, at ease with someone, two pieces of life’s jigsaw, perfectly fit. She wondered if she and Andrew really had what it took and if they could manage not to let the rest of life get in the way.
She wondered what it was like to be so secure with a man that you didn’t feel you needed to marry him to know you’d be together always.
“How did you sleep?” Sarah asked.
On their drive from West Hope to Brookline, Sutter had reviewed the process of what Jo could expect to happen. Jury selection had taken place last Friday. This morning would be opening arguments. Jo would no doubt take the stand this afternoon. She tried to push away that thought and hold her stiff smile. “I slept neither well nor much. I don’t know if I’m more nervous about testifying or about seeing Brian.”
“You don’t have to look at the defendant,” Sutter said. “Keep your eyes straight ahead. When we’re in the courtroom, keep your eyes on the judge. When you’re on the stand, keep your eyes on the attorney asking the questions.”
It was good advice, she supposed. But Sutter didn’t know Brian, didn’t understand the pull he’d once had on her heart.
“I’ll check Brian out for you,” Sarah said. “Then later I’ll be able to tell you how crappy he looks, how haggard and ugly and old.”
Jo laughed in spite of the golf balls in her stomach. “Maybe his hair is gray or gone and he has three double chins.”
“Oh, we can be sure of it,” Sarah said. “And he probably has a severe case of adult acne to boot. And no teeth. Definitely no teeth.”
“And his pants will be too short.”
“And he’ll have gained thirty pounds.”
“And he’ll have a nervous twitch he can’t control.”
“And when the judge instructs him to stand,” Sarah added, “he’ll stand up and fart. Really, really loud. And his face will turn beet red.”
Jo laughed.
Sarah laughed.
Sutter shook his head. “God help me if I ever get on the wrong side of you girls,” he said.
But Jo kept on smiling, so grateful to Sarah for lessening her pain that she dared take a few bites of her rye toast and chew and swallow and feel pretty darn good—until Sutter checked his watch and said, “I hate to break up the party, ladies, but it’s time for us to go.”
“Dad! Some lady’s here to see you!”
The child—a girl (was she the youngest? She didn’t look as old as Cassie)—had opened the front door of the L-shaped ranch set at the far end of a driveway where the mailbox, indeed, had block letters that read SEARS. In a town like Mount Rose, Lily supposed, no one cared if someone knew your name.
She waited on the front step because the little girl had apparently been taught not to let strangers into the house. Through the window of the door, however, Lily saw into the living room, which had a big fireplace and a mantel crowded with photographs, family pictures of the kids she hadn’t had.
In the distance she heard voices: “Where’s your homework?…Here’s your lunch…. Do you have band practice today?”
Lily shifted onto the left heel of her Louis Vuitton boots. She wondered if the kitchen smelled like eggs and bacon cooking, if Billy’s wife was pouring orange juice into cartoon jelly jars.
And then Lily heard footsteps. She sucked in her breath and held it until the face appeared—not Billy’s, but a woman’s.
“May I help you?” the woman asked, opening the door. “My husband is in the shower. We’re running late this morning.”
Lily didn’t know what she’d expected, what kind of woman she’d thought Billy might have married. Someone like Lily, perhaps; someone tiny and fair, sparkling and vivacious. She did not expect a rather tall, heavyset brunette who had clear, makeup-free skin and wore corduroys in May.
“Mrs. Sears?” Lily asked.
“Yes,” the woman confirmed. “How may I help you?”
“I know this is a bad time,” Lily said, glancing nervously at her watch. “But I was passing through town…”
“Honey? Who is it?”
She wouldn’t have recognized his voice; it had been too many years, and though he’d been twenty-two, apparently Cadet Sears hadn’t had a real man’s voice as yet.
But it was him. Suddenly standing next to his wife, his black hair now shot with gray, his freckles faded, his blue eyes, though, still bright, it was him.
“Lily?” he asked. “Lily, is that you?”
Mrs. Sears (Joanna, Lily had been told) said Lily should come in and have coffee, that she would get someone at school to take Billy’s class for an hour or so to give them a chance to visit, it had been so many years.
The kids (Lily was introduced; she didn’t remember one single name) and Mrs. Sears departed in a flash, leaving Lily and Billy sitting in the family room, where more photographs were on display, where more memories—his, not hers—had no doubt been made.
“So,” he said, “I can’t believe it’s you.”
“It’s me,” she said, crossing her legs. She felt a pang and wondered if it was a leftover heartstring being pulled, then realized it was the too-tight waistband of her new jeans.
“You look terrific.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
He drank his coffee; she held on to her mug.
“Well,” he said, “what brings you to Mount Rose? Or through it, I should ask?”
She considered making something up but then decided what the hell. “I wanted to see you,” she said.
He laughed. “Me? What for?”
She sipped her coffee then. “Old times’ sake, I guess. I was mean to you, Billy. I wanted to apologize.”
He laughed again. “God, no one’s called me ‘Billy’ since 1981.”
Like a man, she supposed, he’d dodged the part that dealt with her emotions. “I said I’m sorry,” Lily repeated. She studied his face, looking for a reaction. But though she still saw sweetness there, she could
not read anything else. Either it had been too many years, or she’d never really known him.
“You were the first girl I ever slept with,” he said.
She smiled. “Well, I was a virgin too.”
He stood up, walked to the sliding glass doors that provided a wide view of his “several acres.” “So what’s this about? Have you come to tell me there’s a kid I never knew about?”
She winced. She hadn’t expected that. She thought about the weeks she’d been convinced that she was pregnant, about the mix of relief and sorrow when she found out she was not. “No, Billy. I just stopped by to say hello.” She stood up, set the coffee mug down on the table. “It’s better if I go now. You have a nice life and I’m happy for you. I have a nice life too. But I wanted to say I’m sorry for the way I hurt you way back then.”
She started toward the front door by herself.
“Lily?” he called after her.
She stopped, turned around.
“Thanks,” he said. “I know we were young and pretty stupid, but, yeah, you hurt me for a while. Then I got over it, because that’s what kids do, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Lily replied, “that’s what kids do, Billy.”
She closed the door behind her and went to her Mercedes, wondering what had taken her so long to put the past where it belonged.
37
The courtroom was cold.
Jo wished she’d worn her long-sleeved, powder-blue cashmere suit, but she’d opted for the nondescript beige linen dress, hoping it would render her less noticeable. She filed in behind Sutter, whose shoulders blocked her view, and in front of Sarah, who said she would catch her if she tripped and fell or if she passed out, the way Lily had at Frank’s mother’s funeral.
Sutter stopped, turned, and gestured that Sarah, then Jo, should step into the row on the right. It occurred to Jo that she’d be flanked by Cherokee bookends, which, for some reason, felt very safe.
The wooden bench was as cold as the air in the room. Sarah took Jo’s hand, patted it a few seconds. Jo was surprised that her touch was warm.
