Secrets on Cedar Key

by Terri DuLong

  No wonder, I thought. He already had that third child that he was paying for, and it just happened to be a daughter. His daughter. Not mine.

  I forced myself to think back to that summer of 1993. For whatever reason, our marriage seemed to be on shaky ground. We argued a lot over seemingly trivial matters; we no longer pursued activities that we both used to enjoy; our sex life had come to a virtual standstill. Plain and simple, we were drifting apart. So when Andrew had told me about the offer to teach a summer class at Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts, I’d thought the time apart might do us both some good.

  I walked into the house, filled the kettle with water, and placed a teabag in a mug. Leaning against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, I remembered that when he had returned home almost three months later, things had seemed to improve.

  I had spent a lot of that summer with the boys at my parents’ home on Cedar Key. By the time Andrew returned in late August, both of us were refreshed and definitely happy to see each other, and there appeared to be a subtle shift in our relationship. Thinking about it now, I wondered if perhaps acceptance was what had been acquired. Acceptance of each other, acceptance of our life together, and acceptance of a marriage and love that had always lacked a certain romance and passion.

  The whistling of the kettle cut into my thoughts. After pouring water into the mug, I took my tea, along with the papers on the counter, and went back out to the patio.

  I let out a deep sigh and allowed myself to breathe in the warm October air. Butterflies flitted on one of the flowering bushes at the side of the patio. I looked above me to see a bright blue sky dotted here and there with white puffy clouds. I realized that the grief I had been feeling since the loss of Andrew had lightened. Did this mean that I no longer mourned his passing? Or even worse—did it mean I no longer loved him? Was the anger and betrayal that I felt able to supersede any love that we may have shared over twenty-six years of marriage? I had no answer for that.

  I took a sip of tea and then glanced at the papers in my lap, scribbled notes from the information that James Coburn had given me.

  I wondered if Bianca Caldwell had continued her teaching career after her daughter was born. Since she had not touched much of the money that Andrew had contributed, I assumed that she must have continued to work. I also wondered if any other family was involved in Fiona’s life. Perhaps an aunt or a grandmother. Although I realized that it was probably natural for her to want to speak with me, the thought of it left me uneasy. What, exactly, would she be hoping to hear about the father she had never known? With the anger and betrayal that I was dealing with, I wasn’t at all sure I was the person to give her a clear and unbiased picture of this man.

  I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see it was already noon. And here I sat, still in my shorts and tee shirt, no shower taken and no desire whatsoever to go into the yarn shop in two hours. It was then that I remembered the dinner date I had agreed to with Worth. This held no appeal for me either.

  I got up, went inside, and called my mother.

  “Are you very busy at the shop today?” I asked.

  “Not especially, no. Why?”

  I fibbed about not feeling so well, which really wasn’t very far from the truth. Except that my symptoms were more emotional than physical.

  “Oh, don’t worry about coming in, Marin. Chloe and I are just fine here, and I can close around four.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I just wasn’t up to going there and pretending everything was fine, and I still wasn’t ready to discuss what I’d learned this morning.

  “Thanks, Mom. Oh, and could you do me a favor? Could you tell Worth that I’m not feeling well? I was supposed to join him for dinner this evening . . . but . . . maybe you could ask him if he’s free on Friday evening . . . I’ll take a rain check.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Now, lie down and get some rest.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was because I felt guilty about not going into the yarn shop or because I just needed to keep busy, but I spent the afternoon preparing dinner for my mother and me.

  Comfort food. That was what I needed, and I proceeded to put together a batch of homemade macaroni and cheese. Putting that aside to slip into the oven later, I then prepared a salad and placed it in the fridge.

  I began removing all the ingredients necessary from the cabinets to make a chocolate cake. But not just any chocolate cake. Decadent. Sinful. So delicious it would send my taste buds into orgasm.

  By the time I poured the rich, dark batter into the cake pans, the entire kitchen was filled with the wonderful scent of chocolate. I had even melted a pound of truffles from Berkley’s shop to include in the batter. I carefully put the pans into the preheated oven, closed the door, stood back, and let out a deep sigh.

  I hadn’t even tasted it yet, and already I was sure my endorphin levels had notched up a degree. No doubt about it—chocolate had a way of easing a woman’s sadness. Who knew—maybe it could even promote world peace.

  I was just about to make myself another cup of tea when the phone rang and I answered to hear my eldest son’s voice.

  Oh. My. God. It suddenly hit me that eventually both of my sons would have to be told and learn the truth about their father.

  I pushed aside my concern as my motherly voice took over. “Jason. How nice to hear from you. Everything okay in Atlanta?”

  “Yeah, fine. Just calling to see how you’re doing. I called the yarn shop but Grandma said you were home today, not feeling well.”

  “Oh, no, nothing serious,” I fibbed. “Just a bit of a sinus headache. Probably all the fall trees and flowers in bloom. How’s your job going?”

  “Very well, but I’m still thinking about returning to grad school. Maybe next year.” He paused for a moment. “One of the reasons I was calling . . . I know you were counting on me being there for Thanksgiving. Especially since it’s the first year without Dad. But, well, I’ve met this girl . . . September Callahan . . . and . . .”

  I interrupted my son as I broke out in a chuckle. “Her name is September? Like in the month?”

  I heard Jason’s chuckle match mine. “Yeah. A bit unusual, huh? I’m not sure, but I think her parents might have been hippies. They now live in Manhattan and her father is an attorney, but . . . that’s her name.”

  I felt the smile cross my face. “Well, yes, it’s certainly different, but I like it. So are you saying you won’t be coming for Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah, September’s parents have a country home in Connecticut and they’ve invited me there for the Thanksgiving weekend, but . . . I don’t want you to feel bad.”

  I had been counting on both of my boys being with my mother and me for Thanksgiving, so I felt a jolt of disappointment. But I summoned up a happy tone and said, “No, don’t be silly. Of course you should go, Jason. Is it serious with this girl?” It was the first I was hearing about her.

  “Well, if you’re sure, Mom. We’ve been seeing each other for about six months now, so I think it could be leading to something serious. I met her at a dinner party through mutual friends.”

  Six months they had been dating? I had to admit, I felt a little left out and couldn’t help but recall that old saying, A daughter’s a daughter all of her life, but a son’s a son till he takes a wife.

  I forced happiness into my voice. “That’s just wonderful, Jason. I’m really happy for you, and I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time. Hopefully, you’ll be able to make it here for Christmas.”

  “Oh, thanks, Mom. Thanks for being so understanding. I have to get back to work, but I’ll call you again soon. Love you.”

  I hung up and then realized Jason had not given me an answer concerning Christmas.

  10

  “That was just delicious, Marin.” My mother wiped her lips with the cotton napkin. “And I can only imagine what that chocolate cake will taste like a bit later with a cup of coffee.”

  During supper I’d brought my mother
up to date on Jason’s phone call.

  “Oh, that is a shame he won’t be joining us, but at his age it’s to be expected.”

  As I began to clear the table, she said, “Do you think it’s serious with this girl, September?” A smile crossed her lips. “That’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”

  I nodded as I began filling the dishwasher. “I know. Can’t say that I know of anybody else by that name. Jason didn’t really confide in me about the seriousness of it. I think that’s where daughters and sons differ, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure about that. But then, I’ve never had a son.”

  I thought again of Andrew’s daughter. I hadn’t yet told my mother about the phone call with the attorney, and even though she knew I had called him that morning, she hadn’t asked.

  “Oh, before I forget. First of all, Worth seemed disappointed that you couldn’t join him this evening for dinner, but he said Friday evening was fine. And the window looks wonderful. He did a very professional job, Marin. I think you’re going to like it a lot. It really opens up that room, and now, of course, you have some natural light in there. He began working on the sill and said that should be finished tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good. I’m looking forward to seeing it. But even better, everything seems to be on track. Hopefully, I’ll be able to open in time for the Christmas shoppers.”

  “Yes, I would think so. And the catalogs arrived today from the various distributors, so you can begin looking through those to get an idea about the stock you want to order.”

  “Great,” I said as I pushed the button on the dishwasher. “Coffee’s ready. Do you want a slice of cake now or later?”

  My mother reached over to give Oliver a pat. “I think I’ll just have the coffee for now, and it’s such a nice evening, let’s have it on the patio.”

  Oliver walked over to sniff some bushes as my mother and I sat down.

  “Oh, I met Worth’s dog this morning at the park. A very pretty Labradoodle named Suzette. Oliver seemed to take quite a liking to her, and she returned the interest.”

  My mother laughed. “Yes, Oliver can be quite the ladies’ man.”

  I took a sip of coffee and then said, “It’s true. My suspicions were correct about Andrew. Fiona Caldwell is his daughter.”

  My mother reached over to pat my arm but remained silent.

  “She’s younger than Jason and John. Just turned nineteen in April.”

  “Oh.” I saw my mother press her lips together. “I guess I was hoping that perhaps if it was true, it had occurred before he even met you . . . but I guess not.”

  I shook my head. “No, it happened the summer he went to teach in Amherst, Massachusetts. Do you remember that? The boys and I spent a lot of time here with you and Daddy.”

  “I do remember. It’s none of my business, but were you and Andrew having a difficult time? Is that why he left to teach a summer semester there?”

  “I was giving that some thought earlier today. Yeah, probably. Although I wouldn’t admit it at the time. Not even to myself. But we weren’t getting along great. And now . . . I have to question my entire marriage.”

  My mother shifted on the lounge to face me better. “What do you mean by that?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think we ever had a marriage made in heaven. I think I see that now more than ever.”

  My mother shocked me by saying, “Does anybody?”

  “What?” I gasped. “You and Daddy certainly did.”

  “Oh, Marin. Your daddy was a good man. A hardworking man and a good father. But he was human like any other man, and that means he had his flaws.”

  I had never heard my mother say this before. “But you always got along so well. I can’t ever recall you fighting or name calling.”

  “No,” she said, leaning back in the lounge to look out toward the water. “I don’t think we ever did. At least not in front of you. But housewives in my time did what they were told. We didn’t speak up very much. Certainly not like today.” She let out a chuckle. “Well, my goodness, today the word obey has been taken out of almost all marriage vows. But when I was married . . . that word obey was taken very seriously.”

  I wasn’t sure what surprised me most—the fact that my parents’ marriage wasn’t what I had grown up to think it was or the fact that my mother was now sharing this with me.

  “So what are you saying?” I asked, not even sure I should be asking this question. “Are you saying you never loved Daddy?”

  “No, no,” my mother said quickly. “I did love him; of course I did. But, Marin, you’re a grown woman. You have to know the definition of love isn’t always neatly tied up in one little package. There are different kinds of love. The young, romantic, passionate love, which may or may not go on to become something deeper, something more enduring. And there’s the kind of love that grows between a man and a woman based on a mutual admiration and respect for one another. But yes, I did love your father.”

  I had a feeling that what my mother felt for Henry Foster was her latter definition of love. She had known him all her life, growing up on the island.

  I followed her gaze out to the water and softly asked, “Did you ever experience that romantic and passionate love?”

  To my surprise, she replied, “Yes. Yes, I did. Before your father and I married. I was a young girl of eighteen.”

  I refrained from saying anything, but I suddenly felt a stab of envy. I wasn’t sure that I could honestly say that I had ever felt that particular kind of love.

  “What happened?” I asked, uncertain if my mother would continue.

  But she did. “His name was Julian Cole. It was 1953 and your father was in the army. We had no commitment to each other, no engagement or anything like that. Just friends who had grown up together. Julian was a writer. A journalist, actually. He was from California and came here to write some articles about fishing communities in Florida. That spring of 1953 we fell hopelessly, desperately in love.”

  “So he loved you back?”

  “Oh, yes. There was never any doubt about that. From the first moment we met at the Island Hotel.”

  I was almost afraid to ask. “Why didn’t you end up together?”

  My mother let out a deep sigh. “I’m afraid it wasn’t a good time in our country. McCarthyism was going on. People were suspicious of one another. In Hollywood, it was a very dark time, with many actors losing their careers for being accused of communism. Most of it was false, and this was later proved. But it didn’t matter. Lives were ruined and the damage had been done.”

  “But I don’t understand. You said Julian was a writer. A journalist writing articles about fishing communities.”

  “That’s right, but although he wasn’t a communist, he was a liberal. He believed in equal rights for everybody, and the year before he had written for a progressive magazine. Articles supporting what unions wanted to do for the workers and other left-leaning topics. Actors weren’t the only ones singled out. Professors and writers were among the accused, and Julian was one of them.”

  I was soaking in this story as if it had happened to somebody else, but here was my seventy-eight-year-old mother telling me about a man who appeared to have meant the world to her.

  “The magazine he was working for contacted him that October and told him he had to come back to California, that charges were pending against him and he had to try to clear his name. But at the time, I knew none of this. All I knew was one evening he told me something had occurred and he had to leave the next day. He promised to be in touch as soon as he could. And then . . . he was gone.”

  “But you know why he left, so he did get in touch with you again?” I knew this story did not have a happy ending, and I felt sadness for my mother’s loss.

  She nodded. “Not until almost a year later. A letter arrived with a Paris, France, postmark. Julian explained he had never been formally charged, but many of the accused were leaving the country. Better to be safe than sorry, they felt. And so
. . . he left. He began a new life in Paris, writing for an American magazine that welcomed the news that the expats could provide. He begged me to join him there. Julian asked me to marry him and assured me we would have a good life.”

  “Why didn’t you go?” I whispered.

  “Quite simply, because of my sense of duty. Sybile had already left home the year before to go to New York and pursue her modeling career. Daddy was ill by then, and I couldn’t leave Mama alone to care for him.”

  “So instead you gave up your own life?”

  “I didn’t look at it that way. Until I received the letter from Julian explaining why he had to leave . . . I hated him for leaving me. Had things been different, we might have married right here in Cedar Key and eventually moved away for his career. But once I received his letter, I couldn’t help but feel that everything happened exactly as it was supposed to. Your father asked me to marry him the following year, and I accepted. And over time, I came to forgive Julian, and by forgiving him, it enabled me to learn the true meaning of forgiveness, because forgiveness and love go hand in hand.”

  “And you never saw him or heard from him again?”

  “When you were about ten, I saw an article written by him in one of the top American magazines. At the end was a small bio, which said he was married to a French woman, had one son, and lived in Paris. And last year . . . I saw on the Internet that he had passed away at the age of eighty-five in Paris.”

  I got up to squeeze my mother’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” I told her.

  “No, no. Don’t be sorry, Marin. We should only be sorry for what we don’t experience in life. Not for what we do—both the good and the bad.” She held out her hand so I could assist her to stand. “Okay, now I do believe it’s time for a piece of that wonderful chocolate cake, and perhaps you’ll share the rest of your conversation with the attorney.”