Another Yesterday

by Angela Christina Archer

  “Are you in any kind of trouble?” she asked as she moved around me, makin’ her way toward her desk.

  “No, ma’am. I just need a place to stay.”

  “And the baby is?”

  “My daughter.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Helen eyed me once more and clicked her tongue. Hesitation hitched through her shoulders as she fetched a ledger book and flipped it open to the middle pages.

  “I hope you don’t take offense to my asking . . . but seeing as how I have a few guests, and myself of course, to look after I just need to know . . .”

  “About what?”

  “The child’s father. Are you running away . . . is he going to show up, looking—”

  “He’s gone.” I adjusted Rachel in my arms, hoistin’ her up a few inches back onto my shoulder. She kicked her legs for a moment, lettin’ out one soft cry before she fell back asleep.

  Helen swallowed hard. “Gone isn’t exactly an answer. It’s actually kind of vague.”

  “I don’t think it is. But he’s no longer in our lives so ya don’t have to worry about him showin’ up. He won’t.” My eyes shot down to the floor as I fought tears, blinkin’ them away.

  “My apologies for asking.”

  I shook my head, reluctantly meeting her gaze once more. “It’s all right. I understand why ya did.”

  She grabbed a pencil and flipped another page in her logbook, glancin’ at me with her eyes and without movin’ her head. “So just one room for one night?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  With a deep sigh, she etched a few notes in her book, and slapped it shut, fetchin’ a key from the back wall. She moved around the desk, motionin’ me to follow her up the stairs to the second floor and down a long hallway lined with several tables filled with flowers.

  “This is my favorite room. It’s on the corner and has windows on two of the walls instead of just one like the others. One view is of the beach and the other is the gardens.”

  “There are gardens, too?”

  “Well, not this time of the year, but I help the flower shop owner by growing some of the local blooms. It saves her some money and makes my inn look beautiful.” Helen stuck the key into the door lock and twisted it, popping the door open for me to enter.

  From the four-posted bed topped with a huge white comforter and draped canopy, to the long white curtains hangin’ from the windows, breathtaking seemed like too tame of a word to use.

  “It’s . . . it’s stunning in here.”

  “Thank you.” She walked up beside me and laid her hand on Rachel’s back. “I’m afraid I don’t have any cribs to bring up. I actually haven’t had a baby in here in a long time. It’s mostly couples or families with older children.”

  “It’s all right. She’s slept in the bed with me before.”

  “There are a few extra pillows in the closet, if it helps, and if you need even more I can bring them up.”

  “I’m sure what we have will be fine.”

  She ducked her chin and turned to leave, but stopped and faced me once again. “My dining room is still open for dinner if you want to come down after you dry off. It’s not much, just a bit of stew—my mother’s recipe—and some home-cooked cornbread.”

  “That’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, it’s open for another twenty minutes if you change your mind. It might help you warm up. Let me know if you need anything else besides the pillows.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “I hope you enjoy your stay and have fun while you’re here.”

  As she shut the door behind her, I glanced around the room. My eyes filled with tears, brimmin’ until they streamed down my cheeks.

  Have fun.

  What was fun anymore? Surely, the word held meaning, but what was that meanin’? Webster’s dictionary defined fun as enjoyment, amusement, or lighthearted pleasure. To me, though, it meant nothin’. To me, it meant only the pressure to act a certain way as though nothin’ had happened or to smile as though nothin’ bothered me or to live as though I’d gone through none of what I had.

  So many had told me in the last couple of months my life would get easier, time will heal my wounds, and I will laugh again and I will go on livin’ and I will love again. Each statement, and especially the last one, always felt like the rug was yanked out from under my feet. I didn’t want easier and I didn’t want my wounds healed.

  I wanted to not have them at all.

  TWO

  Rachel

  February 1996

  “How is the book review coming along, Rachel?” With excitement behind his baby blue eyes, Walter Gilmore leaned against the doorframe of my office and sipped his usual afternoon pick-me-up. With the faint, sour odor of espresso, it was obvious as to the haste of his question, and fueled by the caffeine, he didn’t have much time for anything, even taking a breath between his words. He wanted another best seller to bring attention to the Gilmore Publishing Group, and he wanted me to find this precious diamond just as I had several times before.

  I understood his desire. I, too, longed for not only a paycheck, but also the recognition just as much as he did. A top editor in the literary world, I wanted my email to flood with authors just vying to receive a contract from me.

  Of course, I also wanted to write my own novel. With different characters and worlds swimming around me day in and day out, who wouldn’t? I had notions of love and adventure swirling inside my head just as much as any writer. However, time was never my friend. Especially when there were bills to pay. So, if I couldn’t write my own book, I would help others write theirs.

  “I’m almost finished with it.” I leaned back in my chair and tapped the pencil eraser against my lips. With one eyebrow cocked into a high arc, I tilted my head.

  “And?”

  “And I think we’ve got another hit on our hands. This writer is amazing, and she’s created a wonderfully detailed fantasy world. Her voice is beautiful, and character point-of-view transitions are seamless. For a debut novel, I have to say, I’m impressed. She’s going to need minimal edits, at best.”

  He clasped his hands, rubbing them together for a moment. “Wonderful! You sure have an eye for talent.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “I also wanted to let you know I received another call from Susan Bradbury this afternoon. She’s quite taken with the sample edits you sent back to her and is pushing me to offer a contract buy out.”

  “I’d love the opportunity to work with her. All of her novels have spent weeks, if not months, on the Times Best Seller list. She’s an editor’s dream.”

  “And a publisher’s. From the tone in her phone call, I’d think it’s safe to say she feels the same way about you and the Gilmore Group. She’d be a good name to have to really build this company and drive us forward.”

  “You might find other authors will follow suit.”

  “I can only hope.” He chuckled, and his belly jiggled as he rested one hand on his hip. “Anyway, last thing before I go, I wanted to ask you if you can meet with me on Monday morning in my office. I’d like to speak with you about a few manuscripts in your slush pile and to get a general idea of your schedule for the next few months.”

  “Certainly, Sir.” While a part of me didn’t know if I wanted the answer, I asked anyway. “Is there a problem with my numbers this month?”

  “No, no, not at all. I just wanted to go over some things with you and talk to you about some changes around here in the management department.” He gave me a wink.

  “Oh, okay. Well, yes, Sir, I can meet any time.” Excitement swelled in my chest, pounding with my heartbeat. After Sam Nelson, one of the Managing Editors, had retired, the gossip mill around the office was a buzz about who would take his place, earning the coveted promotion.

  “How does first thing in the morning sound? Around eight o’clock? I’ll have Marge stop for coffee and some of those bagels everyone se
ems to go crazy for around here.”

  “Sounds perfect, Mr. Gilmore. I’ll be here eight am sharp.”

  “Excellent. Are you still planning on leaving early today?”

  “Yes, if that’s okay.”

  “Oh, sure, it’s fine. Have a nice weekend, Rachel.”

  “Thank you, and you, too.”

  With a slight nod, he sauntered away from my desk. His lumbering steps made his tall, thick frame and broad shoulders sway down the hallway through the mess of cubicles, and people scrambled from job to job at their desk as they saw him coming. Although, he was a gentle man, kind and caring and slightly more casual when it came to the demands of his employees, everyone knew a lack of drive never boded well if you wanted to stand out in this company.

  A squeal whispered through my exhaled breath and I bounced in my chair. Rachel Grey-Levine, Managing Editor for Gilmore Publishing Group certainly had a nice ring to it.

  A nice ring indeed.

  I glanced over at the manuscript sitting on my desk. The thick stack of papers had taken me nearly three days to get through, and yet, I’d loved every minute of them. Another best seller sat in front of me and another great writer was about to become a great author—the best part of my job, and not to mention another notch in my career belt. Of course, the long hours and thousands of emails each day weren’t exactly what I called glamorous; however, the perks far outweighed the annoyances.

  A box popped up on my computer screen reminding me of the time, and I leapt forward, flipping the last ten pages back onto the stack before clipping them all together. The loud thump of the papers hitting the desk as I straightened out the sheets echoed through my office and as I reached for my briefcase, my telephone rang.

  I jerked the headset from the cradle. “Rachel Grey-Levine.”

  “Rachel, it’s Momma.”

  “Hi Mom. How are you?”

  “Oh, I guess, I’m as good as can be expected.” She sighed a deep breath.

  “Mom, I’m really sorry, but I can’t talk long. I was about to leave the office, so I don’t miss the train.”

  “I still don’t know why ya just don’t get a car, dear. Then ya can come and go whenever ya wanted and not by the schedule of some dirty train car.”

  “If you have a car, you need someplace to park it, Mom. Plus, Paul and I don’t need a car. We get around just fine without one. And the train isn’t dirty. It’s actually quite relaxing. I’m able to sit and get some work done while someone else handles the driving.”

  “I guess that’s just a New York thing.” Her tone changed with the words New York, as though she crinkled her nose, even if she tried to hide it and I couldn’t see it.

  “Mom, I know how much you don’t like New York, but it’s my home.”

  “It’s where ya live. It’s not your home.”

  I snorted. Years of this same debate had taught me just to change the subject. “Well, home or not, I still can’t talk long.”

  “Oh, all right, dear, I’ll keep it short. I just wanted to call and wish you and Paul a happy anniversary.”

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  “Do y’all have special plans for tonight?”

  “Actually, yes, that’s why I’m leaving early, and I can’t be late. We are heading up to Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend to his parents’ beach house.”

  “Oh, that sounds romantic.” She paused for a moment. Her voice pitched as though she was talking to a baby. “Maybe some time away will help get ya thinkin’ about some other things ya could add to your life.”

  And there it is. The second topic I dreaded every time I heard her voice.

  If it wasn’t about my choice of residence, it was about the fact that we haven’t had a baby yet. Eight years of marriage and no children played out as nothing more than the worst nightmare of her life, which she reminded me of whenever we talked—like a broken record I desperately wished I could yank off the record player and toss in the trash.

  “Mom, we’ve been over this a million times. Paul and I aren’t going to have a baby. We don’t want children.”

  “I know ya said that before, dear, I was just hopin’ maybe you’d changed your mind.”

  “Nope, I haven’t, and I’m not going to, either.”

  “But children bring such joy to a—”

  “Mom, I know what you’re going to say because you’ve told it all to me before—hundreds of times, actually. It’s not going to change my mind, though. We don’t want children. I’m just beginning to gain ground in my career. In fact, I think I’m going to get promoted to Managing Editor on Monday.”

  “Oh, well, that’s nice, dear. Congratulations.” Her voice sounded as though someone had shot her dog. “But ya know women all over the world have children and a career all at the same time. Ya don’t have to give up your job and stay home.”

  “I know I don’t.”

  “Well, then, what’s the problem?”

  I exhaled a deep breath. While I’d given her a thousand reasons over the last few years, I had never given her the truth.

  And I never wanted to.

  Was it fair of me to keep it a secret? No. It gutted me every time I had to lie, but it was all I knew to do.

  Career aside, I actually did want a baby. All of our friends had daughters and sons, and in spending time with them I’d seen how the love for a child can change people and how that bond can form in the deepest depths of your soul. I craved such a connection. Craved it so much that when the doctor told me how hard it would be to get pregnant, I did the only thing I knew how—forced myself to not want one. Sure, Paul and I discussed in vitro, adoption, and even finding a surrogate. But each of those options came with risks I didn’t know if my heart could take, not to mention a price tag we couldn’t afford.

  “Mom, I’ve told you before, I simply don’t want children, and neither does Paul.”

  “Well, I guess I just don’t understand why.”

  “You don’t have to understand it. You just have to accept it.” Although I hadn’t meant for it, my words cut through the air. Silence filled the other end of the telephone, the unspoken words almost seen through the line along with the sadness in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “It’s all right, dear.”

  “I just wish you’d quit bugging me about having a baby. I’m not like you. I wasn’t put on this earth just to be a mother to someone else.”

  “Ya say that as though it’s a bad thing.”

  “I didn’t mean it’s a bad thing. Some women are born to be mothers, and some aren’t. I happen to be a part of the latter group.”

  “Sometimes women can change, ya know. Lord knows I wasn’t the perfect momma when ya were little, but I changed, and now there isn’t anythin’ I would undo when it comes to havin’ you. I think ya might find if ya think about it, deep down you’ll see somethin’ is missin’ from your life.”

  “Mom, nothing is missing in my life. I have a wonderful marriage, I love my husband, I love my job, and I live in a beautiful home. I have nothing to complain about or nothing I feel as though I still need.”

  “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll stop askin’ about it. Just remember one thing, though, there is never a chance to have another yesterday. I learned that long ago, and I’d hate to see ya have to face regret in the future.”

  “I’m not going to have regrets, Mom.”

  “Well, then, since you’ve obviously made up your mind, I guess for my upcomin’ birthday I’ll wish for a visit from ya instead of a grandbaby.”

  “Mom, I’ve told you, Paul can’t be too far away from the city for his job.”

  “Well, ya could still always come by yourself. It’s been forever since you’ve visited Shadow Brook and the inn. People ask me about ya all the time, I’m sure everyone would love to see ya, just as much as your daddy and I would.”

  “I know. I know. We’ve both just been so busy.”

  “Can ya at least think about it?”

&n
bsp; “Yes, I will.” I glanced at my watch. Crap. “Hey, listen, Mom, I’ve got to make this train, otherwise I have to wait for a later one. I wanted to get home early for a chance to pack and surprise Paul. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “All right. Have fun this weekend and tell Paul that your daddy and I say hi and happy anniversary.”

  “I will. Kiss Dad for me. Bye.”

  Before she uttered her farewell, I dropped the headset back into its cradle. Even though I cringed at my behavior, annoyance still tickled through my skin. Always one who knew my buttons, my mother pushed them every second of every day like this proverbial little voice in my head that wouldn’t go away no matter how much I begged.

  If it wasn’t one thing, it was another—the never-ending carousal of topics, my career, my city, a baby, and the fact that I hadn’t visited them since I left the small town of Shadow Brook nearly ten years ago. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to go back to my hometown. I’d loved that place my whole life. I just didn’t need the stress and the questions.

  I tossed the clipped manuscript into my briefcase and wretched open the bottom drawer of my desk to fetch my purse. Tucking it under my arm, I grabbed the handle of the case and marched from my desk toward the elevator.

  “Rachel? Rachel, wait?” Marlene Jones, another Assistant Editor, called after me. She trotted to my side, nearly tripping on her vaulted high heels. “Lord, I hate these shoes.”

  “Then why do you continue to wear them?”

  “Uh, hello, they’re Manolo Blahniks. I paid nearly a thousand dollars for these shoes. I’m going to show them off.”

  Marlene’s sense of style vastly outweighed her salary. Between her shoes, her clothes, and the expensive handbags she always carried around, how she ever afforded her apartment and her wardrobe, I’ll never know. Although, I sincerely doubted I wanted to. Always on the arm of older rich men, she had an eye for the quintessential sugar daddy, and I often wondered exactly who was footing the bill for things.

  “Suit yourself. I couldn’t suffer for fashion, but I’m not like you.” I glanced down at my own half-priced shoes as I pressed the down arrow button by the elevator door, tapping my foot as I waited. “So, did you need something?”