She was not a morning person.
People kept telling her that her natural clock would tilt earlier as she got older, but they must have meant when she was a hundred.
She tiptoed into the en-suite bathroom and forced herself into the shower. The goat’s milk products were nice. She’d never had a desire to milk a goat, but she was glad there were people like Elly O’Dunn in the world who loved that stuff.
She returned to the bedroom, wrapped up in a bathrobe that was so fluffy she got lost in it. She finally dared to look at the clock.
Eight-thirty.
“What the hell?”
She’d expected five-thirty, max.
She jumped into the leggings and oversize sweater she’d packed for lounging and easy walks. In five minutes, she was downstairs, hoping she didn’t have to be sociable before she had at least a pot of coffee.
Olivia and Dylan greeted her warmly, offering her coffee and whatever she wanted for breakfast. Such a lovely couple, worth over a hundred million and here in their country kitchen with their coffee, toast and eggs and their big dog flopped at their feet.
Daphne accepted a mug of coffee but urged them to go about their Saturday routines.
“Do you need Russ for anything?” Dylan asked.
She frowned. Russ? She realized now she didn’t need him here in Knights Bridge at all. Maybe she’d known it all along, and she’d sent him here, then dragged him with her, as a way to manage her anxiety—and he’d indulged her, if not as politely as Julius would have. They’d both been frank with her, but she hadn’t listened, hadn’t wanted to listen.
Or she’d simply refused to acknowledge and deal with what was going on with her. The fear, the obsessing, the mind-reading. Looking back to the past, looking to where it had led her—where she was now, the good, the bad, the ugly. And where she was going.
Sixty might be the new forty, but it was still sixty.
What did she want to do with her life in the next five, ten, twenty years? Where did she want to die? Where did she want her ashes spread—she’d decided on cremation, so at least that was settled. She joked with her friends that she’d never be able to choose what outfit to wear in her coffin.
Gallows humor. On his good days, her father’d had it, too.
She didn’t have a stalker. She’d never had one in her forty years as a professional costume designer, and she didn’t now.
Anyway, Knights Bridge had enough rugged types to see to anyone who got out of line. She didn’t need Russ.
But no one would get out of line.
Olivia and Dylan seemed to sense she was lost in her thoughts and went out into the garden—as far as Daphne could tell, they were discussing chives.
She helped herself to toast with strawberry-rhubarb jam—both homemade—and more coffee. Once she chased away the cobwebs, she put on her tennis shoes and slipped out through the front door, hoping the bright sunshine and a good walk would help smooth the uneven edges of jet lag, jitters and melancholy.
She walked all the way to the Quabbin gate at the end of the road. The spring undergrowth sprouting up, the leaves budding out, the soft, damp ground and the trickle of a stream over rocks and sodden, browned leaves combined forces and took her back in time, to those strange, awful, wonderful days when she’d lived in this little town.
She’d come out here at nineteen and imagined herself in forty years. Where did she want to be? Who did she want to be?
You’ll never amount to anything. You’re a small-town girl.
Be happy with what you have.
A family gets one chance. We’ve had ours. Be grateful.
Who do you think you are?
What makes you think you’re better than anyone else?
Her father at one time or another, cautioning her, belittling her—fearing for her.
“A pipe dream,” she whispered, quoting him—and everyone else who’d guessed she’d wanted to escape and start fresh.
Some had tried to protect her from disappointment and warn her about the hardships she would encounter. Loneliness, failure, long hours, insecurities of all kinds—financial, emotional, career. Others had projected onto her their own ideas about women, especially young women, and what they could and should aspire to accomplish. Succeeding in what they imagined to be the dog-eat-dog world outside of home and hearth seemed risky and impossible, with nothing but rejection and heartache at the end.
But what could have been more dog-eat-dog than life with her father?
He’d dismissed her hopes and dreams because he dismissed her, but it was deeper than that. He’d given up on his own hopes and dreams.
She stood just inside the gate, imagining life here before Quabbin. Grace Webster, now in her nineties, had grown up in one of the lost valley towns. Her family had been displaced, forced out of their home. Even the graves of departed family members were moved to a cemetery specially created on the south side of the reservoir. Everything Grace had known growing up had been obliterated. Travel hadn’t been as easy or common in those days, and as close as Knights Bridge was to her hometown, she’d never stepped foot here until she’d had to move as a teenager.
A pregnant teenager, as it turned out.
That one had stunned Daphne when she’d learned about it last year.
But Grace had survived and made something of her life. Unmarried, her British pilot lover killed early in World War II, she’d let a loving couple adopt her baby—Dylan’s father, Duncan—and set about becoming a trusted, respected teacher in her new town.
Pull back the drapes of a seemingly perfect, easy life, Daphne thought, and there were always mistakes, struggles and fears. She considered herself fortunate to have taken charge of her own life, despite the odds and the lack of encouragement. She’d had a vision for herself. It hadn’t all worked out as planned, but if she’d stayed put in New England—if she hadn’t left...
You think you’re so high and mighty, Debbie, but you’re not. You’re my daughter. You can’t escape that fact, no matter how far you go.
There’s no running away from who you are.
Her father had smacked her on occasion, but his abuse had been more in word than in deed. She saw now how deeply miserable he was with his own choices and where they’d led him, the lack of control he’d felt at his circumstances. Easier to blame, lash out at others—his own daughter—to make himself feel better, however futile, however wrong, however much it sealed him in the cycle of self-recrimination and self-justification.
“Poor bastard,” Daphne whispered, shivering more from the onslaught of memories than the April morning chill. It wasn’t as bright and clear as yesterday, but it wouldn’t rain—it would be a good day for her class.
She turned back toward the gate and the road. She hadn’t come from a family like the Sloans, the Frosts or the O’Dunns. Her great-great-grandfather’s portrait might hang in the library he’d built, but his forward-thinking, entrepreneurial mind-set hadn’t been handed down through the generations. Her father had tried, in his own way, to live up to his ideas of what the Sanderson name meant. He’d inherited some money. It hadn’t been so much that he didn’t have to earn a living, but it had been enough that he could raise his children in middle-class comfort. He’d dropped out of law school and worked at a midsize regional bank, eventually rising to vice president.
But it hadn’t been enough to smooth his sense of entitlement and his deep, abiding self-hatred.
Nothing, Daphne saw now, would ever have been enough. Her father’s life had been a black hole of need and entitlement, and she’d determined at an early age that she would work hard not to be like him.
She splayed her fingers in front of her, noted the expensive rings and the excellent manicure she’d had in Beverly Hills—and the lines and discoloration. She could see her hands of forty years
ago, callused from sewing, nails split and uneven. She’d learned how to give herself a manicure from a library book. Knights Bridge had its own salon these days, but not back then.
Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back, but they spilled down her cheeks. She gulped in a breath, desperate to stop this nonsense. Crying, wallowing in the past.
He’d come to visit in California once.
Her father.
The memory was like an assault, almost knocking her over with its force, the surprise of it. She’d just celebrated her thirtieth birthday and had started seeing the man who was to become her second husband, a sweet guy, a whiz at special effects in movies. He could get lost for days in figuring out minute technical things—how to make viewers think they were seeing a real bomb explode, a real spaceship landing on a faraway planet...stuff like that. She’d needed to talk to him once in a while, but he’d get a glazed look, and she knew his mind was doing algorithms or some damn thing. He and Noah Kendrick, an MIT grad, would probably get along.
But she wasn’t distracted. The memory was still there, taking her back, back, back.
Daphne...that’s what you are now? You know we named you Debbie because your mother loved Debbie Reynolds? Funny you ended up in Hollywood.
What do you want, Dad?
To see you.
That hadn’t been all, of course. He’d told her he had lung cancer and less than six months to live. He hadn’t asked for anything. Money, forgiveness, understanding.
When he’d left for the airport, to go home to his latest girlfriend and his death, he’d given her a sardonic grin. I know I could be a real bastard when you were a kid. I hope it helped you more than it hurt you.
His last words to her.
She hadn’t come east for his funeral. She’d been on the tail end of a project and would have been replaced if she’d left for any reason. She’d slipped into a bathroom on the set and had a good cry, and she’d donated money to cancer research and the Knights Bridge library, in honor of the man her father had wanted to be.
“A nice passive-aggressive touch on your part, Debbie, dear,” she said aloud, laughing, sniffling back her tears.
It would have been easier if her father had been horrible all the time, but life was seldom as neat and tidy as that. People didn’t fit into airtight boxes.
She went around the yellow-metal gate and back out to the road. On a Saturday morning at home, she’d have breakfast alone on the patio amid her roses and bougainvillea.
“That’s where you’ll be next Saturday,” she said aloud, feeling much better as she walked up the quiet road to the Farm at Carriage Hill. What a transformation it’d had since she’d lived in town. Nobody around here had had much money back then. A lot of people had assumed Knights Bridge had gone underwater in Quabbin like the little towns of Prescott, Dana, Enfield and Greenwich. But it had survived the massive water project, and now it was a thriving, desirable place for people who had reason to live here.
“I don’t want a place here,” Daphne said emphatically, somehow needing to articulate that fact clearly to the trees, rocks and streams around her.
She met up with Olivia and Buster on the road and walked back with them to Carriage Hill, enjoying the moment and letting the past fall away.
Twenty-One
People from Boston to New York—professionals, students, teachers and the curious—had signed up for Daphne Stewart’s presentation at Moss Hill on her long career as a successful Hollywood costume designer. Once most of the attendees had seated themselves, Kylie slipped into the back of the room, taking a seat third in from the aisle in the last row. She planned to stay for the more informal, general morning session, then cut out. She’d skip lunch and the intensive, hands-on afternoon workshop for a smaller group.
Although Kylie was by no means an expert, costume design was part of her work as an illustrator, even if her costumes went on the fictional animals and people she drew. She was fascinated by the display Ava and Ruby had put together along the perimeter of the room, showing the progression of Daphne’s work from her early days in Hollywood to the present, and found herself eager to hear what she had to say.
Ruby and Ava sat in the front row, both dressed professionally and obviously nervous and excited about this long-awaited day. Their sister Maggie had volunteered to stay with Daphne in the small setup room. Nothing seemed to bother Maggie Sloan. Kylie assumed that as a caterer, Maggie had dealt with numerous situations in which she had to be “on” and could relate to Daphne, but she was also good with people.
Samantha Bennett, seated in the row in front of Kylie, turned around and grinned at her. “No way was I missing this. I thought Justin was going to drop me off, but he’s in the lobby with Mark. Hovering, the two of them. It’s those stupid rumors. Chris is here, too, but he would be since this is a big deal for Ruby.”
It was a nice show of support, but Kylie also suspected the three men had a genuine interest in Daphne Stewart and what she had to say.
At the same time, Kylie knew Mark and the two Sloans wanted to be on hand in case Travis Bowman or some other disgruntled type turned up.
Russ came in from the lobby and sat next to Kylie as Ruby and Ava got up to introduce Daphne. He crossed one leg over the other, sitting very close. Kylie tried to ignore her reaction to him—the ripples of awareness, the rush of sensations—and focus on Ruby and Ava’s short PowerPoint presentation on their guest of honor and her forty years in Hollywood.
Finally, Daphne took to the podium, in her full public persona as a Hollywood icon. She was addressing an audience who appreciated her contribution to movie history and her talents as a costume designer, and she obviously loved it. “I designed this little number for myself,” she said, gesturing to her simple black outfit. “I chose it for today because it didn’t require an iron or a steamer trunk, and I wouldn’t freeze to death. I lived in Knights Bridge for three miraculous years. I know how cold April can be.”
Everyone laughed. Kylie thought Russ smiled, but he was clearly on duty. The ninety-minute morning session was divided into two sessions with a fifteen-minute break—refreshments courtesy of the inexhaustible Maggie Sloan.
Kylie settled back, watching, listening, as Daphne dove into her talk. She was engaging, forthcoming and practical—no question she was a professional who demanded a great deal, not just of everyone else but also of herself, probably especially of herself.
When it was time for the break, Kylie jumped to her feet but waited to see if Russ planned to get up. She wasn’t about to try to go over or around him and risk tripping on his feet and landing in his lap. He smiled, as if he knew what she was thinking, and rose, stepping into the aisle. She started past him. He leaned in close. “I need to check on Daphne,” he said.
“Of course. Do your thing.”
Kylie headed out to the lobby, where tables were set up with drinks and snacks. She grabbed coffee, but as she added cream, she spotted Travis Bowman coming up the stairs from the lower level.
She shot through the crowd, spilling hot coffee on her hand as she came to him. “Travis, hi—I didn’t know you’d be here.”
But his eyes didn’t connect with her. She followed his gaze, saw Russ and two of the Sloan brothers—Justin and Christopher—converging on her and Travis. He swore under his breath, but he didn’t have a chance to do anything else. Russ and the Sloans quietly maneuvered him outside. Kylie noticed Daphne coming out from the meeting room, happily chatting with Ava and Ruby and two other young women, probably fellow graduate students. None of them seemed to have noticed Travis and the quick reaction by the Sloans and Daphne’s investigator.
Kylie abandoned her coffee and scooted outside, finding the four men at the breezeway between the two mill buildings.
Travis had his palms up, more in submission than self-dense. The Sloan brothers and Russ ha
d him encircled. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t heading for Ms. Stewart. I swear. I’m not a threat to her or anyone else. I just wanted to see inside Moss Hill now that it’s finished.”
“Bad timing,” Russ said.
“Yeah—yeah, I see that.” He appealed to Kylie, standing between and just behind Russ and Chris. “I’m not here to make trouble. You know that, right, Kylie?”
“I’d like to think that,” she said.
Russ kept his gaze on Travis. “You could have waited until after the class to talk to any of us.”
“I just thought...seize the moment, you know?” Travis went pale and shrank back, although he had nowhere to go. “Before I chickened out.”
He looked more pathetic than a threat. He was unarmed and outnumbered, and he’d never hurt or threatened anyone that she knew about when he’d worked for Sloan & Sons.
Kylie noticed Russ’s stance relaxed slightly. Justin Sloan, however, remained rigid. “Travis,” he said. “What’s up?”
Travis cleared his throat and seemed to summon his nerve. “I don’t work for you anymore, Justin.”
Justin gave no visible reaction. “Have you been talking BS about Moss Hill, Mark Flanagan and us?”
“I had some questions. No big deal.” Travis shrugged. “Easy for things to get blown out of proportion.”
“Why sneak around behind our backs?” Chris asked. “Why not come to any of us directly?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been sneaking around, talking trash, if that’s what you think. Things get exaggerated in this town. I left on not-so-great terms. I worked hard on this place and wanted to see it now that it’s open. And I guess I wanted you to know I’m not a loser.”
“You could have sent a letter,” Justin muttered.
Travis shook his head, almost laughed. “Don’t ever change, Justin. Come visit me in Syracuse anytime. I’ll buy you a beer.”
The Spring at Moss Hill Page 21
