“The pyracantha bushes are out of control.”
“The red berries do look pretty against the white snow, though, don’t they? In the spring the birds get drunk on them.”
“Birds get drunk?”
“They roll around like sailors on a weekend pass. It’s kind of funny to watch,” she said. “And in the summer, the berries are always good for the bees when the flowers start to dry out.”
“My mother once sent me out to pick pyracantha berries to make them into jelly,” I said. “I don’t know if it was intentional or not, but she didn’t bother to tell me that the berries were poisonous. Fortunately, they were bitter and didn’t taste good, so I only ate a handful and ended up throwing them up.”
Elyse frowned. “I’m sure it wasn’t intentional,” she said softly. “I’ve made jelly with those berries before. If you prepare it right and you add enough sugar, it tastes like apple jelly and you cook the toxins out. Of course anything is palatable with enough sugar.”
“Speaking of palatable, this is all delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it. I forgot to mention, there’s a piece of apple pie in there. I wrapped it in foil. I had to stash away a piece for you or else it would have been eaten. I guess funerals make people hungry.”
I was really surprised at her consideration. “I love apple pie. Thank you again for thinking of me.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “So you came over to the house earlier.”
I looked up. “How did you know that?”
“We have neighbors with too much time on their hands. They said you were with a young lady.”
“Yes, I was.”
“You don’t need surveillance cameras when you’ve got neighbors like mine. If you had driven to my house, they would have given me the license plate number. Did you need something?”
“I had a question for you. I don’t know if you would remember, but when I was little, did we have a young pregnant woman live with us?”
Her brow furrowed. “A pregnant woman? No.” She slowly shook her head. “I could always be wrong, but it was always just the four of you.” Her answer made me sad. “Why do you ask?”
“The young woman I was with, she came by to see if anyone remembered her mother living here. She said she thought her mother had lived here when she was pregnant with her.”
Suddenly Elyse’s expression changed. “Come to think of it, there was a young woman staying with you for a short while. She was pretty, had dark, almost black hair. I think she came a few months before your brother passed.”
“Why was she living with us?”
“I don’t know. It may be that her family was very religious and embarrassed. That used to happen a lot in my day. She stayed until she gave birth, then left a short time after that without her baby. She never came back. I don’t know how I could have forgotten that, except it was such a difficult time, with your brother passing.”
“Do you remember her name?”
Again her brow furrowed, then she said, “No. It was too long ago. I didn’t ever really see much of her. She didn’t go out much, or it was after dark when she did, like she was hiding. I usually just saw her when she would answer the door. She helped out around the house, did dishes and cooked meals. Looked after you.” She looked at me. “Your father would know. Is it important?”
“It is to my friend.”
“You could always just give your father a call.”
It was strange to think of that possibility. In the alienation of my youth he had always seemed to me like a mythical creature.
“I haven’t talked to him since he left. I don’t even know where he lives.”
“He lives in Mesa, Arizona. It’s a suburb of Phoenix.”
“I’ve been there,” I said. “Several times. On book tour. There’s a famous bookstore near there in Scottsdale—The Poisoned Pen.” I wondered how close I had unknowingly come to my father’s house.
“I have his contact information,” Elyse said. “I spoke with him at your mother’s funeral. He gave me his phone number. He also asked me to contact him if I saw you.”
I don’t know what surprised me more, that he went to my mother’s funeral or that he asked about me. “Did you?”
“Not yet. I thought I’d talk to you first.”
“May I have that number?”
“Of course. I don’t have my phone with me, but if you give me your phone number, I will call you with the number when I get back to the house. It’s one of those new smartphones. I know there’s a way to share things, but I don’t know how to do it. I’ll just call you with it.”
“I’ll write down my number,” I said. I walked over to the cupboard and found a pen I had left in there and wrote down my cell phone number. “Here you go,” I said, handing it to her.
She looked at it and smiled. “Jacob Churcher’s personal phone number. Think I could sell this on eBay?”
I smiled back. “If you can get anything out of that, you’re welcome to it.”
She laughed. “You’re still delightful. Well, I best be getting back. I’ve been on my feet all day and I need to get them up.”
I stood with her and walked her to the door. “Thank you for dinner,” I said. “And for the information.”
“You’re very welcome. Have you ever wondered if people come into our lives for a reason?”
“I can’t say that I have,” I said.
“Well, you might just give it a thought.” She turned and walked out the door. I shut the door behind her.
My mind was reeling. How could I not have remembered Rachel’s mother? Then again, I was young and I had other things to worry about. Then a thought struck me. Could she have been the woman I was dreaming about? Was that why Rachel seemed so familiar?
After I finished eating, I cleaned the dishes and went back into the front room to decide whether or not I wanted to dive back into the mess or just call it a night. I received a text from Elyse with my father’s contact info.
As I looked at the address, I had a strong desire to see him. I played around with the idea of driving to Arizona as I drove back to my hotel.
That night I dreamt of the woman again. Only this time the dream was more real than ever. I could feel her soft hands on my face. Her lips, kissing my cheek. I was crying. I don’t know why, but I was. And she was gently telling me that everything would be okay.
CHAPTER
Twelve
December 15
I woke excited to tell Rachel what I’d found out about her mother. At least I think it was that. It had been a while since I’d looked forward to seeing any woman, engaged or not.
I got to the house early, even though I’d stopped and picked up a couple of lattes. As I pulled up, Rachel’s red Honda Accord was already there, idling in front of the mailbox. When she saw me she turned off her car and got out. She was also carrying coffee cups. She laughed when she saw me. “Looks like we’ll be well caffeinated.”
We made our way into the house and took our beverages into the kitchen.
“I didn’t know what you liked to drink,” Rachel said, taking off her jacket. She was dressed in denim jeans and a black V-necked tee that accentuated her petite yet curvaceous form. “So I got you something sweet, their signature hot chocolate, and something bitter, the caffè misto. You pick first. I can go either way.”
“Sweet or bitter. That ought to be an easy choice.” I took the caffè. As I looked at her, I thought she was even more gorgeous than I remembered. “I got us a couple of pumpkin spice lattes.”
“Perfect. We can drink them all. Then work much faster.”
“Before we start, I need to tell you something. You’d better sit down.”
“That is so cliché,” she said, sitting down. She looked anxious. “Is it something bad? Did I do something wrong?”
I thought her second question was kind of telling. “No. I have good news. The elderly lady I told you about remembered your mother.”
Rachel screamed.
Then she came around the table and hugged me. When we parted, she looked me in the eyes. “What did she say?”
“She said a few months before my brother died, there was a young pregnant woman who came to stay with us.”
“Did she know her name?”
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
The excitement left her face. “Then I still have nothing.”
“But she said my father would.”
“You said that’s a dead end.”
“It was. But she gave me my father’s contact information. He lives in Mesa, Arizona.” I took a deep breath. “I’m thinking of driving to Arizona,” I said. “Maybe it’s time I confronted him. I’ll ask him about your mother as well.”
“Thank you.” She looked down a moment, then blurted out, “May I go with you?”
I looked at her in surprise. “You want to go with me to Arizona?”
“I’d like to talk to your father in person.”
“Will your fiancé be okay with that?”
She frowned. “Yeah, I’ll need to talk to him about it. He won’t be happy.”
“You’ve been looking for your mother for half your life. Why wouldn’t he be happy for you?”
“Because I told him that I would be back by today. He’s not exactly spontaneous. And he has a work social he wanted me to help cook for.” She breathed out in exasperation. “I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, we have a lot of work to do. Come on.” She grabbed a coffee and took it into the front room.
The room looked less daunting with someone helping me. A few minutes after we started working, Rachel said, “That is such a beautiful piano. Is it really a Steinway?”
I nodded. “It’s a pearl in this oyster. My mother’s uncle left it to her when he died. I was really young when she got it, so I don’t remember life without it.”
“Can you play it?”
“A little,” I said. “I used to be pretty good.”
“Play me something.”
“All right.” I sat down on the bench and began to play James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain.” When I finished, I turned around on the bench. “Well?”
“That was beautiful,” she said. “I love that song.”
“Me too. It has soul.”
“Like you,” she said.
We went back to work.
I came across three boxes filled with piano music, most of which I remembered. I dusted off the boxes and stacked them by the piano to send home with the instrument.
I found some more vinyl albums of my parents that I had grown up with. The soundtracks to South Pacific and Camelot, Herb Alpert’s Whipped Cream and Other Delights; the picture of the girl on the cover had wrought havoc on my potent teenage male hormones. I lifted the Herb Alpert album to show Rachel. “Ever seen this? The cover is pretty iconic.”
She shook her head. “She’s pretty. Can we play it?”
“Yes we can.” I put on the album, and the sound of brass filled the room.
“This music makes me happy,” she said.
I looked at the simple joy on her face and also smiled.
Around one, Rachel drove to a nearby deli to get us something for lunch. I was able to fill three more trash bags by the time she got back. I saw her walking up to the door and I opened it for her.
“Thank you,” she said, walking in. She carried the food to the kitchen table. “Sorry that took so long. There was a long line. I also got us a couple of Cokes,” she said, handing me a bottle.
We sat down at the table. When I looked up, Rachel had her head bowed in prayer. A moment later she looked up and smiled at me.
“Do you always pray?” I asked.
“I always give thanks,” she said.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d prayed.
We both started eating. A minute later Rachel said, “So, I called Brandon while I was waiting in line at the deli.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t happy.” She groaned lightly. “Actually, that’s putting it mildly. He was livid. He tried to talk me out of it.”
“Because of me?”
“No. He didn’t want me to be gone any longer. And he was worried about the cost of gas.”
“He was worried about the gas money but not about you driving to Arizona with another man?”
She looked at me sheepishly. “I didn’t tell him about you.”
“Okay, so he was worried about gas money but not about you driving alone to another state.”
“He cares,” she said. “Men just aren’t expressive like that.”
“Don’t pin that on us,” I said. “Most men are highly protective.”
“If it was you, would you have been upset?”
“If it was me, I would have gone with you.”
She breathed out softly. “Well, we’re going. I’ll deal with the fallout later. I shouldn’t have called him. It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.” She frowned. “The thing is, I’m really easy for him to manipulate, because I feel guilty a lot. I feel guilty about everything. It’s like this crushing weight on me. I can’t even take the last cookie on the plate without feeling guilty.” She shook her head. “Brandon doesn’t feel guilt very much. I once asked him why he didn’t feel guilty like I did and he just laughed.”
“Are you sure you want to go?”
“I feel like I need to. And I feel like I can’t let him stop me from doing this. If I missed this opportunity, I might not forgive myself. I might not forgive him. I can’t be sure that I wouldn’t always resent him. And that wouldn’t be good for our marriage.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” I said. “So, it will take about nine hours from here. If we leave by noon, we could make it by night.”
“We could leave earlier.”
“I would, except I can’t leave until after the piano movers come; but we’ll leave right after.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be packed.”
CHAPTER
Thirteen
By six o’clock we had cleared out more than half the room. We stopped at my mother’s doll collection, about six boxes filled with American Girl dolls and accessories. I don’t know when she had started purchasing them, but since she’d only had boys, they were clearly just for her. Rachel said that if I was planning on throwing the dolls away, she wanted them.
We were both getting tired and hungry, so I locked up the house and took Rachel to dinner at an Italian restaurant I’d driven past a few times. I guessed that the restaurant must have been pretty good since the parking lot and dining room were always full.
The hostess led us to a small, candlelit table in the corner of the room. I slid out the chair for Rachel, then sat down across from her. She looked a little anxious.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she said. As she looked at the menu, she looked even more upset.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded unconvincingly.
“Is it that you’re uncomfortable being out with me in public?”
She set down her menu. “No. Otherwise, I never would have offered to go on a road trip with a complete stranger.”
“I’m not a complete stranger.”
She grinned. “You’re not?”
“For the sake of argument, do we ever really know anyone?”
She laughed. “Now you’re going existential on me. You and I don’t have history.”
“But we just sorted through decades of history together.”
“That’s true.”
“And we both like James Taylor.”
“Yes. That is telling.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“Actually, it’s just that this place is too expensive. We can go somewhere else.”
“No, no. It looks good.”
“We’ll go Dutch.”
“I can afford it,” I said.
“I just don’t want to take advantage of your kindness.”
“That’s refreshi
ng.”
“What?”
“Someone who doesn’t want to take advantage of me.”
She paused for a moment. “I think people like you probably get taken advantage of pretty often.”
“People like me?” I said.
“Kind people.”
I took a deep breath. “Maybe I am a complete stranger.”
She smiled, then lifted her menu, pausing a moment to look over it. “Have you ever had—I can’t pronounce it—gu-no-chee?”
“It’s pronounced nyok-ee. The chi is pronounced hard, like k. It comes from the Italian word nocchio, which literally means a knot in wood.”
“So, it’s hard to pronounce, but is it good?”
“It usually is. American restaurants don’t always get it right.”
“I’ll take my chances. What are you having?”
“I think I’ll have the spaghetti vongole, that’s spaghetti with clams. I’d recommend the Chianti to go with your meal.”
“Are you trying to impress me?”
I set down the menu. “Yes. Is it working?”
“I’m very impressed. I’m just a small-town girl. The Pasta Factory in St. George is the best Italian in our area.”
Just then the waiter came up to our table with water and bread. After we had ordered, I said, “So, tell me about yourself.”
“What would you like to know?”
“All of it.” I meant it. I wanted to know everything I could about this woman.
“Okay. So where do I start?”
“At the beginning,” I said. “Then go through the middle and end at the end.”
She smiled. “Like I said, I live just a little northwest of St. George in Ivins. Have you heard of Ivins?”
“No.”
“It’s just a little place. My parents moved there twenty-five years ago. It’s beautiful, with the red rock and Snow Canyon, but when we moved there, it was mostly just poor people and farmers. We were sort of poor. I’m sure my parents moved there because it was cheap and isolated.
“It’s changed. Now there’s a lot of money coming in and big developments growing all around us. We used to be out in the middle of nowhere; now we’re in a subdivision with big homes. Most of their garages are bigger than our house. The old people got pushed out and the new people moved in.
The Noel Diary Page 7
