“Hey, Brett! You made it!”
She plunks her coffee cup on the counter, then rushes in to shake my hand. Looking me straight in the eyes, she smiles brightly. “Oh, and by the way, I’m Stella.”
I laugh with joy, sensing that Carrie has chosen well. Instead of taking her hand, I open my arms to her.
“I’m so glad to know you, Stella.”
“Same here. Carrie’s been watching out that window for you all morning. I haven’t seen her this excited since we got the kids.” She winks at Tayloe and chuckles. “How about a cup of coffee?”
Carrie raises her eyebrows. “Or a Bloody Mary? We also have Mimosas, or my mom’s famous brandied eggnog.”
I glance at the kids with their mugs of hot chocolate. “Do you have any more cocoa?”
“Cocoa?”
I place a hand on my stomach. “I’m probably being overly cautious.”
Carrie’s eyes travel to what I’m convinced is a baby bump. “Are you—? Could you be?”
I laugh. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure, but I’m ten days’ late. And I’m constantly tired … my stomach’s always upset …”
She throws her arms around me. “That’s wonderful!” She pulls back and looks at me. “It is wonderful, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea.”
Carrying a mug of hot cocoa, I follow Carrie into the family room where an eclectic mix of young and old mingle and chat. A misshapen Christmas tree takes up an entire corner of the room, and a real wood fire crackles in a mammoth fieldstone fireplace.
“Holy Toledo!” Mr. Newsome calls when he sees me. “Pull out the red carpet. I do believe a Hollywood starlet just arrived!”
He hugs me and we spin until I nearly collapse. I gaze up at him through a haze of tears. His beard is streaked with gray, and his once thick ponytail is now a short thatch of silver hair, but his smile remains radiant.
“It’s so good to see you,” I say.
A lovely woman stands behind him, her sandy hair still thick and curly. “My turn,” she says, stepping forward and pulling me into her arms. Her embrace is snug and safe, the first mother’s hug I’ve had in months.
“Oh, Mrs. Newsome,” I say, catching a whiff of her patchouli oil. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, my dear,” she whispers. “And for goodness’ sake, we’ve known you almost thirty years. Call us Mary and David. Now let me get you a plate. David made a terrific mushroom quiche. And you’ve got to try my pumpkin bread pudding. The caramel sauce is sinful.”
It feels like a homecoming. I bask in the love and attention of this eccentric couple, dressed in their ragg wool sweaters and Birkenstock sandals. My heart, empty after my mother’s death and Andrew’s betrayal, begins to fill.
By early afternoon, my throat aches from talking and laughing. The crowd has cleared, and Carrie, Stella, and I stand in the kitchen with Mary, chatting and putting away leftover food. From the next room, Carrie’s dad calls us into his den.
“Come see what I’ve got here.”
We make our way to the cozy, knotty-pine den, and Carrie’s kids gather around the television as if they’re expecting a Disney DVD. Instead, a freckle-faced girl and her dark-eyed friend spring to life. Carrie and I sit through two tapes, mesmerized, laughing and poking fun at ourselves.
David goes to his cabinet, studying shelves lined with DVDs. “Took me about six months to convert my old VHS film onto DVD.” He lands on a disc and pulls it from the shelf. “Here’s one you won’t remember.” He slides the disc into the slot and presses PLAY.
A pretty young brunette with a Farrah Fawcett haircut waves into the screen. She’s wearing a navy maxi coat that won’t button over her belly, pulling two towheaded boys on a sled. I leap from the sofa and kneel in front of the television set, my hand over my mouth.
“Mom,” I say, my voice thick. I turn around. “That’s my mother! And she’s pregnant … with me.”
Carrie hands me a box of Kleenex and I dab my eyes.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper. But close up, her gorgeous face is etched with sadness. “Where did you get this tape?”
“Shot it back when we all lived on Bosworth Avenue.”
“Bosworth? You mean Arthur Street.”
“Nah. We were friends from way back. We were your mother’s first customers.”
The hair on the back of my neck rises. I turn to him. “When, exactly, did you meet my mother?”
“We moved in Easter weekend … that would have been spring of …” He looks at his wife.
“ ’Seventy-eight,” Mary says.
I clutch my throat, paralyzed with a mix of urgency and fear. “Johnny Manns,” I say. “Do you remember him?”
“Johnny? Oh, hell yes! Played guitar at Justine’s.”
“He was a huge talent,” Mary said. “And gorgeous, to boot. Every woman on the block was a little in love with him.”
Here, in this very room, are two people who know my father.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Tell me about him,” I say, barely breathing. “Please. Tell me everything.”
“I can do you one better,” David says, rifling through his DVD library. He pulls a plastic case from the cabinet and studies it while he walks to the television. “I filmed him back when I tended bar at Justine’s. We were all sure this guy was going places.”
He presses PLAY, and my heart hammers. A crowd of young faces is pressed into a small, dimly lit bar. I scoot closer to the screen, watching as the camera focuses on a man, sitting on a stool. He has a head of shaggy black hair and a full beard and mustache. The camera zooms in, and the man’s brown eyes meet mine. I know those eyes. They’re the same eyes I see every time I look into the mirror. A moan rises from my chest and I clap a hand over my mouth.
“This next song is from the Beatles’ double album known as The White Album,” Johnny says. “Though credits cite Lennon and McCartney, it was actually written by Paul while he was in Scotland during the spring of 1968. The escalating tension back in the States between the black folks and the whites inspired him to react.” He strums a chord. “In England, the word bird is slang for ‘woman.’ ”
He picks the notes to the introduction riff. When he opens his mouth, the voice of an angel rings out. I let out a mangled sob. He sings of a blackbird with broken wings, longing to fly, longing to be free. The bird’s been waiting all her life for one single moment to arrive.
I think of my mother, saddled with two young children and a husband she didn’t love. She, too, must have longed for wings.
I think of myself, having waited all my life for this moment to arrive. The moment I could look into the kind eyes of a man, and know he is my father.
Tears slide down my cheeks. The song ends. The disc cuts to another scene at Justine’s, this time with a female singer. I don’t ask, I simply press REWIND and watch again, and again. I listen to my father’s voice, his words. I reach out and touch his beautiful face, his exquisite hands.
After watching four times, I sit silent. Sometime during the viewing, Mary has positioned herself beside me on the floor. David sits at my other side. He places the DVD in my lap.
“This belongs to you, doesn’t it?”
I trace my finger over the disc and nod. “He was my father.”
“C’mon, kids. Let’s play Uno,” Stella says. “First one to the kitchen table gets to deal.”
Once Carrie and her crew are out of earshot, Mary takes my hands in hers. “How long have you known?”
“I just found out. She left me her journal.” My eyes travel from her face to David’s. “Did you know?”
“No. Of course not,” David says. “Your mother was too classy to kiss and tell. But everyone knew he was smitten with her.”
A cry escapes me, a cry of relief and heartbreak. Mary pats my back until I can breathe again. “Was he a good man?”
“The very best,” she says.
David nods. “Johnny was the real deal.”
> I hold my breath. “Where is he is now?”
“Last we knew he was living out west,” Mary says. “But that’s been fifteen years.”
“Where?” I ask, suddenly light-headed. “LA?”
“San Francisco for a while. But we lost track of him. He may have moved on.”
“This will help. I’ve hired a detective who’s been trying to find him for months. You wouldn’t believe the number of Johnny Manns in this country.”
David snaps to attention. “Darling, his name was never Johnny Manns. It was Manson. He used Manns as his stage name on account of the mass murderer. The Manson name carried a horrible stigma in the seventies.”
The words settle on me in bits and spurts. “Johnny Manson? Oh, my God. Oh, my God! Thank you!” I hug David, then Mary. “No wonder I couldn’t find him.”
“Your mother probably never knew his real name. I only knew because I was the bartender that summer and I did the payroll.”
“I would have been searching forever if I hadn’t seen you again.”
A shiver makes its way up my spine. Goal number nine led me to Carrie, and Carrie led me to my father. Did Mother know this would happen? A lifelong friendship and a clue to my father. A twofer.
While Carrie and I trek to my car with Mary’s leftovers, I punch Brad’s number into my phone. “Do you mind?” I ask Carrie. “I’ll only be a sec.”
“Of course not,” she says, carrying a paper bag filled with homemade blackberry jam.
“I’ll put him on speaker so you can meet him. He’s a doll.”
Carrie raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
I bat my hand at her, and then I hear Brad’s voice.
“My dad is John Manson, not Manns,” I say. “And he’s living somewhere out west. You’ve got to tell Pohlonski. I just watched a video of him. He’s beautiful.”
“Where are you, B.B.? I thought you were in Wisconsin.”
“I am. I’m with Carrie now. You’re on speaker. Say hi.”
“Hey, Carrie.”
Carrie laughs. “Hi, Brad.”
“Okay, listen. Carrie’s parents lived on Bosworth Avenue. They knew Johnny Manns!” I give him a condensed version of the morning’s events. “Can you believe this? I’d never have known if I hadn’t reconnected with Carrie.” I look over at her. “She’s a gift, in so many ways.”
“This is a huge break. I’ll leave Pohlonski a message as soon as we hang up.”
“How long do you think it’ll take to find him?”
“I couldn’t say, but let’s assume it won’t happen overnight. Even now with this new information, it could take months.”
I bite my lip. “Tell him to hurry, okay?”
“I will. Hey, want to catch a movie when you get home? Or dinner? Or better yet, just come here. I’ll have dinner waiting.”
My heart goes out to him. I know how endless Sundays can seem when you’re alone.
“Option three sounds great. Oh, and I got a message from the animal shelter. My application was accepted. Want to help me pick out my pup next week?”
“Love to. Drive safely, B.B.”
When I hang up, Carrie gives me a sidelong glance. “Are you two dating?”
“No,” I say, placing a container of cookies on the passenger seat. “Just great friends. It’s really nice.”
“Careful, Bretel. I’m thinking this guy wants you.”
I shake my head and take the sack from her. “Brad’s got a girlfriend.”
She smiles at me. “Keep his friendship. You look happy when you’re talking to him.”
“I will,” I say. “And I am.”
Brad’s cozy duplex on North Oakley is a welcome respite after the long drive. Eva Cassidy plays on the stereo and I sit on a bar stool watching Brad shave cheese onto a Caesar salad. He keeps his eyes downcast, and when he laughs at my stories of Carrie and her brood, I can tell it’s forced. Finally, I hop from my stool and take the cheese grater from his clutches.
“Okay, Midar, what’s going on? Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”
He rubs the back of his neck and blows out a huff of air. “Jenna decided we should take a break.”
I’m ashamed to admit, a part of me shouts Hooray! We’re both single now, and who knows what might happen down the road. But looking at him, I see the pain in his face. He’s obviously in love, and it’s not with me.
“I’m so sorry.” I pull him into my arms and he clings to me. “You know,” I say quietly, “you could do something big, something that will prove you’re serious and committed.”
He pulls back. “Like proposing?”
“Yes! If you want her, Midar, make it happen, just like you told me to do. To hell with the miles and years between you—ask her to marry you!”
His turns his back to me and braces his hands on the counter. “I did. She said no.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sor—”
He lifts a hand to stop me. “Enough whining.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it on the counter. “We have reason here to celebrate.”
He strides through the kitchen, into the adjoining living room, and lifts a pink envelope from the coffee table. “I stopped by the office this afternoon,” he says, shaking the envelope at me. “Thought you might want this.”
GOAL #9, STAY FRIENDS WITH CARRIE NEWSOME FOREVER. I rush to him and stare at the handwritten envelope, desperate to hear my mother’s words. But I can’t celebrate when Brad is feeling so low.
“Not today,” I say. “Let’s save it for a time when you’re feeling better.”
“No way. We’re opening it now.”
He tears the seal, and I collapse onto the sofa, clinging to his arm as he reads.
“ ‘Dear Brett,
“ ‘Thank you, dear, for granting my wish (and yours, as well) by rekindling your friendship with Carrie. I’ll never forget how devastated you were when the Newsomes moved to Madison. I watched helplessly while dust gathered on your heart. Perhaps you understood then that true friendships were hard to come by. After she came to visit you, you two drifted apart, though you never told me why.
“ ‘Sadly, I don’t believe you’ve ever had another friend as true as Carrie. It wasn’t until I became ill that I realized what a shallow pool of true confidantes you have. Aside from Shelley and me, I don’t detect any other genuine friends.’ ”
“She didn’t mention Megan,” I say. “Or Andrew. Do you think she knew, even then, that they weren’t real friends?”
Brad nods. “I suspect she did.”
He returns to the letter. “ ‘I’m hopeful Carrie will fill this void. Enjoy and nurture this friendship, my dear daughter. And please, make a point to say hello to Carrie’s parents. David and Mary were my first customers when we all lived on Bosworth Avenue. They were fans of your father’s, too.’ ”
I clap a hand over my mouth. “She’s talking about Johnny, not Charles. She’s giving me a clue here, just in case I’d missed it.” I turn to Brad. “Why the hell didn’t she just tell me flat out? Why is she putting me through this scavenger hunt?”
“I admit, it does seem strange.”
“She was always so straightforward—or at least I thought she was. Why all this nuance and innuendo? She’s making me crazy.” I take a breath and unclench my fist. “On the bright side, I’ll finally find him now.”
“Let’s not get too excited. It’s still a long slog. It could take months … or longer.”
“We’re going to find him, Brad.” I grab my mother’s letter and shake it at him. “She might be playing games with me, but she would never set me up for a disappointment this big.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.” He slaps my knee. “C’mon, dinner’s ready.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’m just turning out the lights to my office Friday afternoon when Megan calls. Since spying her at Andrew’s loft, I’ve ignored her calls and messages. I’m about to pitch the phone back into my satchel but at the last minute decide, What
the hell.
“Hey, chica,” she says with her aging-cheerleader voice. It’s hard to imagine I actually found that voice cute at one time. “Shel tells me you’re getting a dog today.”
I slide my key into the lock and twist it until it clicks. “That’s the plan.”
“Perfect. I’ve got this client who’s buying a condo on Lake Shore Drive, but the building doesn’t allow pets. He’s sick about it, but he has to get rid of Champ. And Champ is, like, a fucking show dog. He’s a purebred greyhound. Very classy. Anyway, he said you could have him. Can you believe it? He’s giving you his fucking show dog!”
I throw open a set of double doors. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”
“What? Why? This dog is valuable.”
I dance down the stairs and breeze out the door. Brilliant sunlight brushes my face, along with a snap of December wind. “I don’t want a show dog, Megan. Sure, they look great, but they’re too high-maintenance. All that grooming, and training, and competing. It’s exhausting, keeping up with their needs.” My rant is gaining speed, but I can’t seem to slow it down. “After a while you start to resent them—their finicky diets and their special soaps and their fancy shampoos. It’s too much! And to top it off, they have a complete lack of respect for your needs! It’s all about them! They’re selfish and—”
“Jesus, Brett, calm down. We’re talking about a damn dog here.”
“We’re talking dog all right,” I lean against my car door and expel a deep breath. “How could you, Meg?”
She sucks in a breath, and I picture her inhaling a lipstick-stained cigarette. “What? You mean Andrew? Newsflash: You guys aren’t together anymore. And when you were, I swear to God I never so much as peeked at his package.”
“Oh, wow, what a pal!”
“I cannot believe you took all of his furniture. He was so fucking furious. And then you wouldn’t return his calls. He threatened to have you arrested for home invasion.”
“I heard the messages. I only took what was mine, Megan. He knows it.”
“Lucky for you, I calmed his ass down. I told him he could afford new furniture. He’s a goddamn attorney, for shit’s sake.” She pauses. “He does have money, doesn’t he, Brett? I mean, last night when the waiter left our check, Andrew just sat there, like he expected me to pay.” She giggles. “Of course, he thinks I’m loaded, being a successful Chicago realtor and all.”
The Life List Page 15
