“If only all men were so easily commanded,” Nora remarked now, giving Henry an amused look. Unbidden, an image of her late husband came to mind. Oddly, she saw him in his fishing gear, waders and all. Now, there was a man who was not easily swayed by anyone, man or beast. Or, in Thomas’s case, fish. He’d never been one for pets, especially the kind that shed. He’d claimed he had allergies, but Nora had always suspected he simply didn’t care for animals underfoot. Steve’s pleas for a puppy or kitten had met with disapproval; the moment he had gone off to college, Steve adopted his first shelter cat.
Nora and Thomas had been high school sweethearts; they married the summer after graduation. With virtually no money but a lot of love—and, of course, the natural energy and optimism of youth—they scratched together enough money so that within three years of the wedding, Thomas was able to enroll in the local community college. After earning a degree in accounting, Thomas found a job with a small local accounting firm. As it had grown, so had Thomas’s position there and by the time he retired, he owned a decent share in the company’s future.
Nora had been a homemaker primarily, though around the time of her son’s fifth birthday, when he began to need her less exclusively, she began to take secretarial jobs, most notably at the local parish house and later at the family-run pharmacy in town. She was smart and good with numbers. More importantly, she was good with people, which made her invaluable to her more difficult employers. Nora would never forget Father Roger and his eccentric demands for Peeps with his morning coffee and pens with green ink. Every other secretary the parish house had hired quit within weeks. But Nora, amused rather than annoyed by the old priest’s habits, had lasted in the job for seven years.
The years of the Rowans’ long marriage had passed largely without misfortune—at least, without unusual misfortune. And then, in his early sixties, Thomas had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He died of the disease just months before the birth of his youngest grandchild, Lily.
The struggle had been short but intense; he’d spent his final days in hospice, with Nora by his side, relieved by Steve or Julie only when the need for sleep overcame her desire to keep vigil.
The older grandchildren remembered their grandfather with fondness. He’d taken them fishing and for ice cream; he’d taught them how to annoy their parents by sticking their fingers in the pudding bowl and making silly noises with their armpits. And he always had a pocket of loose change ready to dole out. In short, he’d been the perfect grandfather, offering guidance in the form of fun and companionship. Everyone missed him, but mostly, of course, his wife.
Those first years as a widow had been terribly difficult for Nora. She was still relatively young, in her sixties, and Thomas had been her one and only love. She had never lived alone and though she’d been involved along with her husband in making the important decisions for their family, she was used to working as part of a team. Thankfully, due to the couple’s careful spending and even more careful savings, Nora was in fine financial shape; that was one less worry in a life that suddenly seemed fraught and, even, at times, terrifying.
Grief was something that, until her husband’s untimely death, Nora had never known. At least, the kind of grief that came with the mourning of something or somebody lost forever. Nora had survived drastic change before, but not change of this magnitude. Her friends were as supportive as they could be; her son and his wife did whatever they could to help Nora meet the challenges of widowhood. But in the end only time, and a personal journey through all the stages of mourning, helped. Nora grew through the pain and into acceptance. She felt lucky to have done so. She knew that not everyone survived the loss of a beloved spouse or partner.
Now, twenty years after Thomas’s death, Nora found herself in relatively good health, aside from a few of the typical complaints of old age, like achy, creaky joints and a diminished ability to eat the spicy foods she’d once loved. She’d had cataract surgery in her early seventies, the only surgery she’d ever needed, though in her fifties a podiatrist had tried to persuade her to have bunion surgery. Nora had stood firm—if a bit painfully—and put aside her heels in favor of more comfortable shoes. No one, she declared, was taking a knife to her unless it was a matter of life and death. Or eyesight. Vanity, she could sacrifice, though truth be told, taking her beloved three-inch heels to the local thrift shop had hurt worse than the bunions.
All in all, Nora was enjoying her life—her “twilight years,” as some called them, though the term made Nora think of people stumbling through life in a zombielike fashion and she preferred to be bright-eyed and decidedly awake—in the house she and Thomas had bought so many years before. When Steve and Julie had retired there, Nora relinquished the largest bedroom, the one she and Thomas had used, in favor of a smaller room on the first floor. She rarely ventured to the second floor, there being no real reason to since Julie took care of the bulk of the housekeeping, but had easy access to the living room, dining room, den, and kitchen. As with many people her age, Nora was in the habit of waking early. She had always hated to feel useless—being not-needed was something akin to a sin in her mind—so she’d taken it upon herself to make the morning coffee for Julie and Steve. Nora preferred tea, English or Irish Breakfast, without milk or sugar. She was almost boasting when she swore she’d never tasted a sip of coffee in her entire life.
Nora had no desire to be “in the way” and with one notable exception had consistently refrained from voicing her opinions about matters not directly related to her. In this way, according to Julie, she’d been the perfect mother-in-law. And as a grandmother, she’d been wonderful to all four children, though she had a special fondness for Lily, a fondness that she had never bothered to hide.
Julie turned from the sink with a sigh. “Well,” she said, folding a dish towel, “that’s all done. I think I’ll head on up to bed.” Discerning her intention, Hank came to her side.
“I’ll be up early tomorrow to start the coffee and breakfast,” Nora assured her.
“And as soon as Henry gets bored with sitting on my lap, I’ll be up to bed,” Steve promised.
Julie met her mother-in-law’s eyes and the two women laughed. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” Julie said.
The women, accompanied by Hank, left the kitchen, leaving their favorite man sitting contentedly with his best and furriest friend.
7
Thursday, December 21
Becca sat on the edge of the couch, fully dressed in wool slacks, a Thinsulate T-shirt, a silk blouse, and a cashmere cardigan. She was hungry, and in desperate need of coffee, but not yet ready to join the other Rowans.
One was told by mawkish television commercials and sappy greeting cards—and Becca would know all about mawkish and sappy, being in advertising—that being in the bosom of one’s family, especially at Christmastime, should be comforting, but Becca was feeling anything but comforted. So far, every moment she had spent under the roof of her family’s house had been tainted by the secret she held from them. Everything was—wrong.
Absolutely everything her parents had done or said since her arrival the night before had gotten on her nerves, even completely innocuous things like her father using his pocket handkerchief to wipe his glasses—really, who used a pocket handkerchief anymore!—and her mother pretending to be the sweet, absentminded old lady. And that stupid braid!
Becca checked her watch. Time was passing, but she wasn’t quite ready to emerge. So she imagined what was going on in other parts of the house while she hid in the den. Her mother would already have taken a long walk with her dog, a big hairy beast she’d adopted about three years ago. Becca experienced a dim and only vaguely acknowledged sense of jealousy whenever she saw her mother catering to Hank. He was the youngest child and, with everyone else all grown and gone, the focus of much love and attention.
Her father, she knew, would have fed his monstrously hairy cat, Henry Le Mew, first thing that morning, before coffee or toothbrushing or toast
. Steve explained—unabashedly—that Henry would have it no other way, and besides, the cat needed to have something in his stomach before his twice-daily insulin injections.
Becca herself couldn’t be called an animal person. She thought it slightly crazy that whenever it was time for a checkup, her father loaded his protesting cat into his carrier and drove all the way down to a vet in Portland. Steve loved living the rural life, he said, as long as he had access to big-city medical people for Henry. What he wouldn’t do for that cat . . .
Becca’s mother, who was a far more relaxed person than her husband about pretty much everything, found the local vet, who dealt routinely with everything from horses to pigs to chickens, perfectly acceptable for her Hank. Plus, he was far less expensive than Henry Le Mew’s doctor. Julie wanted everyone to know that she loved to save money wherever she could.
At the same time that Becca admired this trait of her mother’s, she also found it incredibly annoying. Come on! How expensive could a box of plastic storage bags possibly be! To Becca’s mind, reusing plastic bags that had once contained food was way beyond reason. Had her mother never heard of food poisoning?
Becca sighed and checked her watch. It was almost eight-thirty. She hoped her father had already gone to his studio, cat by his side. She got the feeling that Henry Le Mew—really, what a ridiculous name!—didn’t much care for her. More than once she’d caught him giving her what could only be termed a malevolent yellow-eyed stare. And she didn’t think she was being in the least bit paranoid.
Becca lingered another few minutes in the den until the desire for coffee became too strong to resist. Besides, she couldn’t very well avoid the Rowan clan all day. She had come to this house with a purpose. She left the den, shutting the door behind her.
On her way to the kitchen, she encountered one of the twins. He was poking at the pasted-on fuzzy beard of one of the many wooden Santa Claus statues that filled the house. Think, she told herself. You should know the difference between them by now. This one is—
“Hi, Malcolm,” she said.
“I’m Michael.” He continued to poke at the Santa.
Becca cringed. She was glad David hadn’t witnessed her slip. It wasn’t the first time she’d confused her nephews and she was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last. Becca was aware that she was the only one in the family who regularly confounded the boys’ identities, and she did try to differentiate them, really. For God’s sake, they weren’t even identical; it shouldn’t have been hard to keep them straight. But she just didn’t seem able to do it. Something about not paying close enough attention, she supposed.
“Oh. Right,” she said, walking on. “Sorry. Michael.”
Becca came into the kitchen. David, Naomi, Lily, and Nora were seated at the table. Her father had indeed already gone to his studio. Perfect. Now she wouldn’t have to work to avoid him before coffee. She walked directly to the counter on which the coffeemaker sat, hoping the brew wasn’t the usual weak blend her parents favored and knowing that it probably was. Some things never changed, and they always seemed to be the ones you really wished would.
Julie came from the sink, where she had been rinsing a plate, and launched what Becca thought of as her first assault of the holiday.
“You’ve been almost like a stranger this past year,” she said, pouring coffee into a mug for her daughter. Naomi had made the mug for Julie’s birthday the year before; it was decorated with the profile of a Chinook dog like Hank. Becca thought it was ridiculous. “Your father and I haven’t seen you since . . . well, since last Christmas! Is everything all right, Becca? I mean, aside from . . .”
“Aside from what?” Becca was further annoyed by the meaningfully lowered voice, the trailing off of words. She held her mother’s gaze steadily.
“Oh, I don’t know, stress at work?”
Becca wasn’t at all sure her mother understood the nature of her job as vice president of a business-to-business advertising firm. “Work is fine,” she said. “And of course everything is all right. Why shouldn’t it be? I’ve just been very busy. Did I tell you I almost single-handedly landed the Loring account? You know that’s a biotech company, the fastest-growing in the business. They’ve got beautiful offices in Cambridge. The Loring account is the biggest account our firm has ever had.”
“Really?” Julie said. “That’s wonderful, dear.”
In spite of her words to the contrary, Becca didn’t think that her mother sounded very impressed. “Yes,” she said with emphasis, “it is wonderful. I worked very hard to land the account. I don’t think I was in bed before midnight for over three months. But it was worth it in the end. This is going to be excellent for the company.”
“That’s nice.” Julie toyed with the tip of her braid; Becca wanted to rip the braid out of her mother’s head. “Tell me, Becca. Do you have any time for fun? When was the last time you had a vacation, a real vacation, not a weekend visiting your brother and Naomi?”
“And Rain.”
“Of course. But a woman your age must want something more out of life than spending time with her family.”
And there it was, the old theme. When are you going to meet a nice man and get married? Have another child? Start working part-time and being a soccer mom in your off hours? All work and no play serves only to make Becca a dull daughter. “I’m fine, Mom,” Becca said, her voice tight. “Leave it alone.”
“Some adventure,” she went on, ignoring her daughter’s command, “maybe a trip to Europe, or a romance. Have you tried any of those dating services I see advertised on television? Those couples seem awfully happy. It’s all about compatibility, you know. I read an article the other day about the success rate of—”
“Mom!” Becca shot a glance at the family members at the table. No one seemed to be paying her any attention. She turned back to her mother and in a lower voice said, “Enough. If you’re going to grill me on my personal life every time we’re within ten feet of each other I—”
“Yes, dear?” Julie said with eyes wide and maddeningly calm. “You what?”
Becca hesitated. She could threaten never again to visit, but after what she had to say to the family this holiday, she might never again be invited to visit.
“I need my coffee,” she said and took a seat at the kitchen table.
Becca couldn’t help but feel like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Everyone around her was ignorant of what was about to befall the Rowan family. Not one of them could possibly guess that the holiday would not be an ordinary one. No doubt they were expecting, even looking forward to, decorating the large evergreen in the corner of the living room, and going to church on Christmas Eve, and the revelations of the Secret Santa exchange on Christmas morning.
Though still resolved in her intentions, Becca again felt nervous, as she had the previous night at dinner. It was one thing to make a resolution in the safety of her own home back in Boston, in her neat and orderly South End condo, but when faced with the very people whose lives she was about to interrupt . . . Well, that was quite another thing.
Becca reached deep down for the store of courage she believed she possessed—and didn’t find much there. Maybe the weak coffee was to blame. Next time, if there were a next time, she would remember to bring a bag of the strong blend she usually consumed by the potful.
“Where’s Rain?” she asked, aiming for a casual tone and afraid she’d betrayed some of her anxiety.
“Sleeping late.” Naomi laughed. “It’s no surprise. When I was sixteen I slept late any chance I could get.”
Becca bristled. What did Naomi’s childhood habits have to do with Rain’s? They weren’t even related, by blood anyway. Becca might have been having trouble finding the courage to forge ahead with her decision to tell Rain the truth about her parentage, but she was having no trouble at all finding a huge store of resentment. Resentment would give her the guts to see things through. Resentment was underrated as a motivator.
Lily was toying with a piece of
toast. Becca restrained herself from snapping at her sister. She wanted to tell her to eat the stupid piece of toast or throw it in the garbage. It really wasn’t like Becca to be so short-tempered with someone who’d never done her harm. She blamed her bad mood on the earlier confrontation with her mother. And on the lousy coffee. Why not?
Clearly, her younger sister was bothered by something, but even if Becca had wanted to ask her what was wrong and to offer help, she really didn’t know how. Only once had the sisters come anywhere near intimacy and that was when at eighteen, Lily had learned the truth of Rain’s birth. Lily had approached Becca, wanting to offer sympathy and needing to talk through such shocking news, but Becca had rejected Lily’s attempts at communication. Lily hadn’t tried again.
“Do you want some jam for that toast?” Becca blurted.
Lily startled at her sister’s voice. “Uh, no,” she said. “Thanks.”
Well, at least she had tried. Becca turned her attention to more important matters, like wondering if she had even one ally in the family, one person who would support her decision to reveal herself now as Rain’s biological mother. She doubted that she had.
She took another look around the table. David was engrossed in the local paper. David, she knew without a doubt, would be hostile to the idea. Naomi would, as well. She might look like a warm and fuzzy pushover with her pale hair and big blue eyes and cozily rounded figure, but her looks were deceiving. Becca had seen her face down her husband when others had backed away, intimidated by David’s occasional arrogance.
What about Olivia, who presumably was arriving later that day? Becca certainly couldn’t expect support from her. They’d never been close, and increasingly, Becca sensed from Olivia a feeling of envy, though what she might envy about her younger sister, Becca didn’t know. Could Olivia be jealous of her sister’s successful career? Maybe, but she and James had a pretty good business of their own. It was a puzzle, and one Becca didn’t really care to solve.
One Week In December Page 5
