Ivy Secrets (4 page)

“Morning, Tess,” Dell responded as she straightened Annabelle Lee, a calico-dressed, black-button-eyed beauty with layered cotton strips of tea-dyed hair—one of Dell’s rag dolls that leaned lazily against the cash register: “You’re out early.”

“No work today. Jenny’s coming on the eleven-thirty bus.” Tess had been cleaning and airing out and crossing off calendar days in anticipation of Jenny’s arrival: Jenny’s visit was the one time of the year when Tess felt totally whole, completely happy.

Dell studied Tess with cautious, knowing eyes. “It will be good to see her.”

Tess walked to the window and gazed through the bars, up toward the sidewalk above. “Yes,” she answered. She looked at the wooden sign that hung from a wrought-iron bracket at the top of the stairs that led to the basement store. Old Book Shoppe, the sign read. Dell Brooks, Proprietor. She remembered that she, Charlie, and Marina had told Dell that the sign should read Proprietress. But that had been back in the seventies, when Women’s Lib was being birthed, and the Smithies had all the answers. Dell, however, hadn’t complied. “I know who I am,” she’d said. “I don’t need any ridiculous soapbox movement to justify my existence.” Tess now wondered how Dell had learned to be so self-confident, and why, over the years, more of it hadn’t rubbed off on her.

“Coffee?” Dell asked.

Tess turned back with a smile. “Not today. I’m too excited. I can hardly wait for Jenny to get here.”

Dell nodded. She plucked a feather duster from the counter, swiped it across a stack of yellowed newspapers, then over the top of the small straw hat perched on Edwina’s orange-yarn braids. The dolls, Tess knew, were alive in Dell’s soul, were part of her meager family, with their sunny, permanent smiles, their dependable dispositions, and their inability—in Dell’s words—to give her any grief. “Jenny’s fourteen now,” Dell said.

“I think I’ll teach her to blow glass this year.”

Dell continued with her work. “Making something as basic as Christmas tree ornaments should be easy for her.”

Tess stiffened. She’d come here to share her excitement with the woman she’d known so long, the woman who knew so much. She didn’t come here for Dell to remind her that she now stamped out cookie-cutter trinkets instead of one-of-a-kind designs, that she had relinquished her artistic talents in order to make a halfhearted living. She didn’t come here for Dell to remind her that she had almost depleted the money from her parents’ estate on her house, her studio, and the business of living, and that within a few weeks, Tess Richards—once a child of great wealth—would be dead broke.

The worst thing about confiding a secret, Tess thought, is that the person you’ve told—no matter how trusted—can
always throw it back in your face. She gazed back at smiling Edwina and cheerful Annabelle Lee and wished that Dell was as nonjudgmental as her dolls. But Tess knew that Dell wasn’t usually this harsh. She was merely in a mood this morning, one of her postmenopausal snits that Dell proclaimed as one of her rights. Postmenopause, and perhaps a lingering loneliness sparked by a husband who abandoned her two decades earlier and perpetuated by the solitary existence in which Dell seemed content to remain.

The sound of footsteps now coming down the stairs put a stop to the conversation. The door opened; the bell simultaneously tinkled. A tall man with a square build and a ruddy, outdoor complexion entered. Reddish-brown hair peeked from beneath his police chief’s hat.

Tess felt a flush creep into her face.

“Morning, Dell,” the man said. He turned to Tess and nodded a brief “Tess.”

She returned the nod.

“Morning, Constable.” Dell’s wide grin suggested the special love she had for Joe Lyons, the city of Northampton’s police chief, who also happened to be her nephew, the one family member—save for her dolls—who had always accepted Dell, always been good to her. It didn’t matter that Dell and Joe were a cornucopia of contrasts: the love was there, the bond was deep. “Sit down,” Dell said, removing yet another doll from one of three small round tables jammed into the space between book racks. “I’ll get coffee. Hazelnut this morning.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt …” Joe began.

“No interruption,” Tess said, then turned toward the door. “I was just leaving.” Joe Lyons made Tess uncomfortable, had always made her uncomfortable, since they were twenty-year-olds: the Smithie and the townie; the idealist and the realist. That one night years ago when Reagan was elected had only added to her discomfort. They’d watched the early returns together at Dell’s and had a heated left-wing-right-wing argument, fueled by too much wine. Joe walked Tess home that night. On the front porch he kissed her. In the living room his hands moved over her. And Tess had liked it. She liked it when his fingers slipped beneath her sweater and caressed the fullness of her breasts; she liked it when he reached below and touched her—there. But when
she heard the snap of the buckle on his jeans, Tess no longer liked it, for Joe had married two years earlier, and he had an infant son.

“You’d better leave,” she’d said.

He’d stood still a moment, looking deeply into her eyes, looking hurt, expecting, probably, for her to change her mind.

She had not.

Since then, the sight of Joe Lyons embarrassed her, for Tess was certain he thought that one look at him made the desire wash over her once again. It did not matter that Joe had been divorced nearly a decade, that Joe Lyons was free. It did not matter because Joe had never come to Tess again; he obviously didn’t want her and probably never had. Joe Lyons was no different than any other man in her life … including the biggest jerk of all, Peter Hobart, the man whom Jenny called Father.

She tugged the door open.

“Tess, wait,” Dell called. “I’m happy for you that Jenny’s coming.”

“Jenny?” Joe asked. “Charlie’s daughter is coming again?”

Dell looked from Joe to Tess, then back to Joe. “For the summer, Joe. Same as always.”

Joe removed his hat and rubbed a line of sweat from his forehead. “Make sure she’s careful,” he said with a slight frown. “I’ve heard that Willie Benson is back in town.”

Tess’s throat closed. A low buzz hummed in her ears.

“The word is, his folks couldn’t afford to keep him at that private retreat any longer. He’s been seen at the old state hospital,” Joe explained. “Says he’s ‘playing’ there.”

Dell shook her head. “Such a pity.”

But Tess didn’t want to hear about pity. Or about Willie Benson. She clutched her skirt, said a hasty good-bye, and left the shop, racing up the stairs as though she, not Jenny, had a bus to catch.

      She stood by the roadside, looking toward Route 5 for the broad shiny front of the Peter Pan bus, trying not to think about Willie Benson, the cartoonish little man who’d been deinstitutionalized from Northampton State Hospital in
the late seventies, who’d apparently then been cloistered in a private facility until his family’s money had run out. Until now. Tess had long since forgotten her guilt about Willie. The best thing to do, she rationalized now, was not to overreact to Joe’s news. Chances were that Willie Benson wouldn’t know Jenny was Charlie’s daughter. And besides, the man was dim-witted and probably didn’t remember that he’d once been obsessed with Charlie.

It’s over and done with
, Tess thought.
Let it go. The way you’ve had to let go so much of the past.

She shook her head and turned her attention to the sparse group that waited there at the bus station. She thought about how much time in her life had been spent watching for people arriving, waving at people leaving. From the time Tess was a child, people seemed to come and go from her life. No one ever stayed. The only time anyone had been waiting for her was when she returned to Smith after her parents were killed. Charlie and Marina had stood on this very curb, watching for the bus that brought Tess back from the funeral … back to Northampton, which since then had become home. Charlie and Marina—the ones with the looks, the boyfriends, and the parents still living, parents who would love them when no one else was left. Tess had tried hard not to let them see her hurt; the pity of others would only have intensified her pain. Yet Charlie and Marina had waited here and watched for her.

Now, Tess watched and waited for Jenny.

She looked up the street, at the trendy Sunday brunch restaurants whose windows were filled with crusty breads and gigantic muffins and over whose doors were colorful flags that read OPEN. These tiny cappuccino-café-au-lait spots seemed to have sprouted like dandelions in spring, like the small shops filled with eastern trinkets, leather goods, gourmet ice cream, and natural foods that now lined Main Street. In the past few years, Northampton had evolved from a cultured town into a clutter of tourists, many of whom bought pottery and bath oils—and Tess’s own handblown ornaments—and who not so subtly stared at the men holding hands with men, and at the women who didn’t always look like women.

But the Smithies, Tess knew, hadn’t changed. They still paraded through town in twos or threes or fours, dressed in
sweatshirts and clogs, with long, shiny hair and intense expressions that made you almost believe they were going to save the world. She adjusted the shoulder strap of her large canvas bag, wondering if any of them would even be able to make a difference. Charlie certainly hadn’t. Marina—if one could believe the headlines of the checkout counter tabloids—apparently was at last trying. As for Tess, well, it was all she could do to save herself—from the pain of failing as an artist, and failing as a woman.

The familiar rumble of the huge white-and-green bus turned Tess’s attention back toward Route 5. The broad-shouldered driver sat straight up, directing the wheeled dinosaur toward the small stop. The banner above the windshield read Northampton/Amherst, but Tess knew that with a turn of the roll, the destination could be changed to Springfield or Boston or New York City—worlds beyond her own. As the bus wheezed to a halt beside her, she wondered if she would ever venture from Northampton again, if she would ever have the courage to change her life. Then she thought of her studio and Grover, her dog, and her small, quiet house on Round Hill Road, and quickly dismissed the idea of leaving from her mind. Somehow, she would find a way to keep her life here; somehow, she would find a way to pay her bills.

Dell would help her, if Dell could afford to. But used books were not in demand these days, and Tess suspected that Dell, too, was struggling.

Somehow, Tess would find a way. There was barely enough money to last through the summer; after that, she would probably end up waiting on tourists at their Sunday brunch tables, a fallen artist, a worthless, middle-aged nobody. It wasn’t supposed to be that way.

The metal door whooshed open. She shielded her eyes against the glare and stretched her neck, looking for Jenny’s mass of dark hair and big, bright eyes that had a way of smiling at you. Charlie, Tess thought for the millionth time, had certainly ended up the lucky one. Somehow, it had never seemed fair.

An odd-looking woman in a black body suit and wooden beads emerged, followed by a man in baggy white pants and a Kurt Cobain tank top. Then a beautiful young woman slowly descended the stairs wearing large sunglasses
and a somber look on her face. Tess tried to look behind her, but the girl pushed her way forward.

“Aunt Tess,” the beautiful young woman said, as she pulled off her glasses. Her eyes were big, but not as vibrant as Jenny’s; her full, wide mouth was not smiling, not as Jenny’s would be, as Jenny’s always had been when she saw Tess.

The girl stepped forward. “It’s me,” she said. “I’m here.”

Tess stood for a moment. She blinked. “Jenny?”

The girl nodded.

“Jenny,” Tess repeated, trying to grasp the change—changes—in this older, somehow sadder, girl-turned-woman. Tess opened her arms and Jenny stiffly stepped into them. Immediately Tess’s nostrils were filled with the scent of Jenny—a grown-up scent that oozed from her hair and skin—and then Tess was aware of something else—breasts!—pressing against her own. Jenny had hardly had any last year, Tess was sure.
Maybe that’s why she seems so tentative
, Tess thought.
Maybe Jenny is self-conscious, aware of the changes in herself.
Tess suddenly remembered those awkward teenage years, and knew the last thing she wanted was for Jenny—
her
Jenny—to feel awkward with her. They were allies, after all. Pals.

“My God, girl,” Tess exclaimed as she pulled away. “You are extraordinary.”

Jenny swept a thick lock of hair from her face. Her pale lips stopped short of a smile.

Tess studied her a moment, trying not to gape. Jenny had developed the same creamy-skinned beauty as her mother and the same well-proportioned body her mother had been blessed with in youth. A twinge of envy sparked through Tess, then she forced it away.
If Jenny feels awkward she needs a friend
, Tess thought.
Not an ogling adult.
Tess drew in a breath and hugged the girl again. “Well, it really is you, I guess, so we’d better get your bags.”

Jenny moved toward the baggage compartment. “I have four suitcases,” she announced.

“Four? Good Lord, you used to come with one.”

“I’m almost fifteen, Aunt Tess. I need more stuff.”

Tess started to ask which of the bags the driver was tossing onto the pavement belonged to her, when Jenny
stepped forward and claimed the bags herself, a teenager with everything under control.

“Can you carry this?” she asked as she handed a duffel bag to Tess. “I can get the rest.”

Tess started to protest that they should call a cab then stopped herself as she watched Jenny juggle the remaining three bags comfortably on her newly rounded hip. Undermining Jenny’s sense of control would be as bad as ogling.

Tess took the duffel bag. “Grover missed you immensely.”

“I missed him, too,” Jenny said. “Are we going right home?”

Home
, Tess thought. It didn’t matter that Jenny looked different; Jenny was Jenny, and home was never more so than in summer, when Jenny was here. Tess started up the street. “Home it is. Hopefully we’ll find enough closet space to get you unpacked.”