Authors: Eileen Goudge
Before Claire could greet her, Justin jumped up to announce, “Hey, Andie, guess what? Claire’s moving here. Isn’t that awesome?”
CHAPTER TEN
I
F THIS WAS
a TV movie, Andie thought, they’d all be crying and hugging each other, with Claire making some corny speech, saying how thrilled she was that she finally had the brother and sister she’d always dreamed of. Instead she was quietly explaining over a glass of wine that she was doing this for
herself,
for the opportunity to go into business.
“It’s a lot to take on, I know.” Claire sat on the sofa, sipping her wine. She looked nervous but excited, too. “The place needs work and we’re on a pretty tight budget.”
“It doesn’t look too bad, from the outside,” Gerry said.
“It’s more than you think. But the good news is that Matt—my contractor—says it isn’t going to cost an arm and a leg.”
“That
is
good news.” Gerry was looking at Claire as if she’d hung the moon.
Andie thought,
I’m going to puke.
“As for the financing, it turned out Kitty had some money coming in, enough to get us started.”
“If you need any help …” Gerry started to say, but didn’t finish, as if thinking better of it.
“We’ll be okay.” Claire looked a little embarrassed.
“Well, you can count on us to help with the heavy lifting.”
Andie felt her heart sink.
“Yeah, I could mow your lawn. You wouldn’t have to pay me or anything,” Justin put in.
Claire turned to him. When she smiled at Justin, it was with her whole face, not just her mouth. “For now would you settle for all the cookies you can eat?”
Justin’s eyes lit up. “Maybe Grandma could help out, too. She’s always talking about how much she misses her job.”
“Grandma’s too old,” Andie said.
But her mother said thoughtfully, “You know, that’s not such a bad idea. I’ll talk to her about it, see what she thinks.”
If this were
Little House on the Prairie,
Andie thought, they’d all be pitching in to raise a barn. She became uncomfortably aware that her mother was eyeing her, as if waiting for her to say something.
“Um … I could probably get Simon to do a write-up for the paper,” she said.
It didn’t pay to make waves. She’d been in the doghouse since the wedding, never mind that it had been an innocent mistake. How was she supposed to have known it was Aubrey’s wife?
“That’d be great—though I won’t need it for a while,” Claire told her. “Even if everything goes smoothly, we’re looking at at least two months.”
“A tearoom …” Gerry gazed dreamily off into the distance. “You know, it’s just what this town needs. A real getaway, like something out of my mother’s era.”
“With profits to match,” Claire answered with a laugh. “I just hope it’s not too far off the main drag.” She bent down to pet Buster. His tail was thumping against the table leg and there was an ecstatic look on his face. Even their dog had defected to the other side, thought Andie.
“It might work to your advantage,” Gerry said. “You could even put tables out back. I’ll have Sam take a look at the garden—she knows more than most landscape architects. It could be a real oasis.”
Claire sat back, folding her arms over her chest. Her look of bright anticipation had dimmed ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t want this to take up too much of your time. I know how busy you are.”
Andie wanted to shake her. Couldn’t she see how hard her mother was trying? She wanted it to be about
her,
not some stupid tearoom. Was Claire really that clueless?
Gerry had apparently gotten the message. Her cheer seemed forced as she asked. “When’s the big move?”
“Next week. Matt says he can have the place livable by then. But I suppose that depends on your definition of livable. I just hope it doesn’t mean a cot and a Coleman lantern.”
Andie prayed that her mother wouldn’t invite Claire to stay with them. A wave of relief swept over her when Gerry said, “Those rooms at my mother’s are just sitting empty. I’m sure she’d love to have you.”
Claire shook her head. “I’ll be better off where I can keep an eye on things.”
“I have an extra bed in my room,” Justin piped.
Andie should have been angry at him, but all at once she felt proprietary toward her little brother: Justin, flapping about in his jeans and T-shirt three sizes too big, who had to be reminded to bathe and who right now smelled more like dog than Buster. He was a pain in the ass, sure, but he was the only brother she had.
Claire’s expression softened. “Thanks, Justin. If I get tired of sleeping on a cot, I just might take you up on it.”
“Here’s to Tea and Sympathy South.” Gerry lifted her wineglass. Her cheeks were flushed and her hand a little unsteady. “I’m sure it’ll be a huge success.”
“With all the cookies I can eat,” Justin crowed.
“Oh God, that reminds me—dinner. All we have are leftovers.” Gerry looked chagrined.
“Never mind. I should be going.” Claire abruptly rose.
“Don’t be silly.” Gerry jumped to her feet as well. “I’m sure there’s enough.”
“Mom, when was the last time you checked the fridge?” Andie’s voice was tinged with exasperation.
But her mother wasn’t going to let go of Claire that easily. “Okay, then, what do you say we order Chinese?”
“We had it the last time,” Andie reminded her.
Claire surprised her by saying, “I have an idea—why don’t
I
cook?”
“I’ll help.” Justin catapulted off the sofa.
Andie rose heavily. “I’ll set the table.”
In the kitchen her mother peered dubiously into the refrigerator. “We have eggs,” she said. “I think there’s some cheese, too—oh yes, here it is.” She turned with an apologetic look, holding out a chunk of moldy cheese wrapped in Saran. “I’m afraid it’s pretty slim pickings.”
Claire didn’t seem to mind. “I’ve worked with less.”
Suddenly she was all business, peering into cupboards and poking through the spice rack. She unearthed some potatoes, an onion, a can of artichoke hearts. Before long butter was sizzling in the skillet, and the kitchen was filled with tantalizing smells. While she peeled potatoes and chopped the onion, Gerry made a salad with what was left of the greens. When the contents of the skillet were nicely browned, Claire carried it to the table and plunked it down.
“What is it?” Justin asked.
“A frittata,” she told him. “Which is just a fancy word for eggs and potatoes and anything else you want to throw in. I’ll show you how to make it sometime, if you like.”
“It smells delicious.” Gerry settled into her chair.
Andie’s mouth watered. It
did
smell wonderful. She sampled a bite. It tasted even better.
Before long, every scrap was eaten and the skillet picked clean. Justin gave a loud burp, then clapped a hand over his mouth, giggling. For once, his mother didn’t scold him.
“Better than any restaurant.” Gerry beamed at Claire. “They’ll be lining up at your door.”
Look at me,
Andie wanted to cry.
I’m here. I’m your daughter, too.
She jumped to her feet instead. “I’ll wash up.” She could win a few points doing that, at least.
“Thanks, honey,” her mother said distractedly as she rose from the table. “I was thinking Claire and I could pop over to your grandma’s. I can’t wait to give her the good news.” She turned to Claire. “If you’re not in a rush.”
Claire smiled. “Sure, why not?”
“Can I come, too?” Justin wanted to know.
Claire ruffled his hair. “If it’s okay with your mom.”
“Don’t you have homework?” Gerry was already reaching for her coat, on a peg by the door.
“I did it already.” Justin ducked his head, but not before Andie caught the guilty gleam in his eyes: He was lying.
Claire turned to Andie. “Want us to wait for you?”
“No, it’s okay.” She tried not to sound hurt that she’d been an afterthought. “Tell Grandma I said hi.”
Then they were trooping out the door, leaving her with a sink full of dirty dishes, a pile of homework, and something she’d done her best not to think about until now—a period that was overdue.
Andie was reaching into the cupboard under the sink for the detergent when she abruptly burst into tears. Claire might not turn out to be her worst problem. What if she was pregnant? What then? Her life would be ruined.
Before she knew it, she was picking up the phone and punching in her father’s number. Luckily, he was home.
“Daddy?”
“Honey, what’s wrong?” The concern in his voice was almost more than she could bear, reminding her of when she was little and would come to him with a scraped elbow or skinned knee.
“I’m fine,” she sniffed.
“You don’t sound so fine.”
“Oh, Daddy.” A sob broke loose, and she quickly muffled it with her hand. “I miss you so much.”
“Me, too, sweetheart.” It wasn’t like the other times she’d called when he’d been too busy or distracted to talk. This was how it had been before the divorce—and before Cindy.
“Are you busy?” she asked even so.
“Not especially. Cindy’s up at the club—it’s her bridge night. I’m just clearing some stuff off my desk.” There was a pause, and she listened for the familiar background noise of her father in his den—the shuffle of paper and faint clatter of his keyboard—but there was only the sound of his breathing. “What’s up?”
“Claire’s moving here.”
He was silent a moment, then said, “Well, that
is
something.”
“It’s not that I hate her or anything.” It occurred to Andie then that her mother wasn’t the only one who’d kept Claire a secret all these years. Now she was shocked to hear the five-year-old Andie’s voice coming out of her mouth. “Oh Daddy, why didn’t you tell us? If I’d known all along, it wouldn’t have been so bad.”
Her dad sighed heavily into the phone. “I would have, sweetheart, but it wasn’t my place. I had to respect your mother’s wishes.” He paused, and she could hear the sound of a drawer closing. “What’s she like? You haven’t told me much. All I know is that your brother thinks she walks on water.”
“Nice. She’s nice.”
“Well, that’s a start at least.”
“Daddy,” Andie drew in a watery breath, leaning her head against the wall. “Would it be okay if I came to live with you?” She hadn’t meant to ask; the words were out before she realized it. Now she felt a stab of guilt. Her mother would be furious. And her father …
God, please don’t let him say no. I don’t think I could stand it.
But for once there wasn’t another call he had to take, or somewhere else he had to be. He didn’t reach into his grab bag of excuses, either. Instead, in the Daddy-voice she remembered from when she was little, he said the words that were like sweet music to her ears.
“Of course you can, sweetheart. Any time you like.”
MONICA’S MANSION ON THE HILL
b
y
Simon Winthrop
The wrought iron gates guarding the entrance to LoreiLinda open with the magic words
Monica Vincent is expecting us.
As we pull up in front, we’re unprepared for the sheer sprawl of it: more Greek temple than mansion, with grounds that might have been a botanical garden closed to the public year-round. We’re struck, too, by how quiet it is; even the birds seem to know better than to make a peep.
We are greeted at the door by Monica’s assistant, Anna Vincenzi. If there’s a resemblance, it’s because Anna is her sister. Monica shortened her name to Vincent when she moved to Hollywood more than a dozen years ago, her ticket to stardom a face mere mortals would kill for. Though her first movie,
Holy Smoke,
was a self-described “unholy mess,” she fared better with her second feature film. For her starring role in
Tender
she was nominated for an Academy Award as Best Actress. The rest is history. She went on to make more than thirty films before her star crashed to earth, in 1996, with a boating accident that left her paralyzed from the waist down.
The auburn-tressed Monica is as lovely as ever. As she’s wheeled into the luxuriously appointed living room where we’ve been kept waiting, it’s like Cleopatra being borne in on her pallet. There is nothing about her that evokes pity. When asked about her famous reclusiveness, she dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “If it’s Garbo you want,” she says, “you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Miss Vincent, as she insists on being called, even by her sister, is still in the game and ready to fight another day. It’s a feistiness that becomes increasingly clear as we sit with our drinks—soda for us, something stronger for her—in the pink light of the setting sun, looking out over the valley she once called home and now jokingly refers to as her prison …
“So, what do you think?”
Andie looked up from the newspaper to find Simon eyeing her eagerly. They’d stopped at the bookstore on their way home from school, where she’d snagged the last remaining copy of the morning’s
Clarion.
Apparently word had gotten out, and there’d been a run on it the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the scandal involving Sister Beatrice.
“I love it,” she said. “But I’m not so sure Monica will.”
She’d be none too pleased with the veiled references to her drinking and quotes on everything from ex-husbands and old flames to the sad state of today’s movie industry.
“She can sue me if she likes. I have it all on tape.” He spoke blithely, but she knew it was only a cover. He was anxious, not so much about Monica, but about whether or not the piece would be picked up by one of the wire services.
“Uh-oh, speaking of the devil.” She nudged Simon, who glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of Monica wheeling in through the door. “Look where she’s headed.”
Monica, dressed in a black turtleneck and slim black trousers that made her look like a spider in its web, was going straight for the newspapers and magazines by the register.
“She’s obviously gotten the four-one-one,” he observed dryly.
“What are our chances of sneaking out before she spots us?” Andie muttered under her breath.
“About a million to one.” He didn’t look too concerned. Then she remembered: Simon thrived on controversy.