Authors: Eileen Goudge
“This is the second period I’ve missed.”
Finch frowned. “You should see a doctor.”
“The only one I know is my mom’s.”
“We’ll find someone, don’t worry.”
Andie was instantly reassured by her use of “we.” The thought of having to go through this alone was almost more than she could bear. “I still haven’t told Simon.”
“Don’t you think you should?”
“He won’t take it seriously. He’ll say the test can’t be wrong.” Simon was, first and foremost, a reporter. He dealt in facts, not speculation.
“Okay, then why don’t you wait until you’re sure? One way or the other,” Finch was quick to add. “In the meantime, you should at least
see
him. You don’t know for sure that there’s anything going on with him and Monica.”
An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness; it seemed like the loneliest sound in the world. Andie thought for a moment, then said, “You’re right. This is stupid.”
The truth was, she missed Simon almost as much as she’d missed her mother. She missed his backpack bumping companionably against hers, and the look on his face when she’d sneak up on him in the library, the way he’d blink up at her in happy surprise. She even missed his dumb little gifts: the Skittles he knew she loved; a box of colored paper clips; the key ring he’d given her to celebrate her getting her learner’s permit.
“Why don’t you call him when we get back to the house?” Finch quickened her step.
Andie shot her a narrow look. “Did Simon put you up to this?”
“Who me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But from the suddenness with which Finch darted ahead, Andie had a pretty good idea he
had.
For some reason, it didn’t make her mad. She smiled at her friend’s retreating back in the darkness.
But Simon wasn’t home when she called. The only thing his little brother (Andie didn’t know which one; they all sounded alike) would tell her was that he was out. With Monica? She didn’t dare ask. Nor did she leave a message, since she knew from experience that there was less than a 50 percent chance he’d get it.
The following morning she and Finch rose just after dawn. With the sun a fat peach in a watermelon sky, they saddled the horses—Andie on Punch, and Finch on Cheyenne—and set off. They rode all the way to the creek, where they stopped to let the horses rest. By the time they returned, sunlight was warming the barn’s weathered boards and they were both starving. As they rubbed the horses down, Andie thought of toast slathered in butter and Maude’s peach jam.
Fortunately, Maude was up and about, coffee brewing and a pot of oatmeal steaming on the stove. Andie helped herself to a heaping bowl, and two slices of toast with jam. Halfway through breakfast, Hector ambled in yawning and asked Andie if she’d like a lift in to town. She was quick to take him up on his offer, asking if he’d drop her off at Simon’s.
A short while later she was getting out at the entrance to a run-down trailer park. She looked around in dismay. She’d imagined Mariposa Gardens to be like the mobile home park her dad’s sister, Aunt Teresa, had lived in at one time—nice, double-wide trailers with well-tended yards. Here there were only patches of dried brown grass where the yards weren’t scuffed completely bare. As she walked along the sparsely graveled drive, she saw that the cars in the tiny carports were mostly older models marred with dents and patches of primer. The only signs of life were the clotheslines from which laundry flapped dispiritedly, and the toys scattered about—Hot Wheels, an inflatable swimming pool half filled with scummy water, a rusty Tonka truck overturned in the dirt.
No wonder Simon hadn’t been in a rush to have her visit.
The few people out and about—a man trying to start his car, the sound of its engine like the moan of a dying beast; an old woman in flip-flops and a faded housecoat taking out the trash; and a towheaded boy of around ten perched on the tailgate of a battered yellow pickup sporting a bumper sticker that read
IF YOU CAN READ THIS, EAT MY SHIT
—glanced at her without interest as she passed. It was obvious Simon’s neighbors were used to seeing strangers wandering about at odd hours.
Near the end of the drive, she spotted Simon’s beat-up squareback parked in a carport that was little more than a sheet of corrugated plastic propped on aluminum poles and felt a wave of relief wash over her. If he’d been at Monica’s the night before, he wasn’t there now. She climbed the steps of the trailer, distinguished from the ones on either side by the window box from which tendrils of ivy straggled forlornly, and knocked on the door. Inside, a dog began to yap.
The door cracked open and something small and white and furry came hurtling out—Bartlesby, the mutt Simon had adopted from Lost Paws, where she volunteered. She bent to scoop him up.
“Andie! What are you doing here?”
She straightened, holding the wriggling dog in her arms, to find Simon gaping at her. “I was in the neighborhood,” she told him.
He looked flustered as he stepped back to let her in. He was wearing a faded Monterey Jazz T-shirt over rumpled pajama bottoms, and, with his hair flopping down over his brows, looked all of about twelve. He offered her a tentative smile. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. You didn’t return any of my calls.”
“I called last night. You weren’t home.”
Andie glanced about. A pair of dark-haired boys who bore a striking resemblance to Simon lay sprawled on the carpet in front of the loudly squawking TV. A third, younger than the other two, sat at the table a few feet away, slurping cereal from a bowl while a little girl alongside him drank milk from the carton.
“Junie!” Simon stalked over and snatched the carton from her hands. “How many times have I told you to use a glass?”
“I couldn’t reach!” she whined.
He fetched a glass from the cupboard. Ricki, whom Andie recognized from school, wandered in just then, barely glancing at her as she plopped down on the couch.
“Guys, this is Andie,” Simon announced.
“Hi,” she said, lowering the dog onto the carpet.
The boys mumbled something without tearing their eyes from the TV. Ricki, a lanky dark-haired girl in leggings and a baggy black sweatshirt, lifted a hand in greeting while Junie flashed her a milk-mustachioed grin, crowing, “It’s Simon’s girlfriend.”
Color rushed up into Simon’s cheeks, and he shot Andie an apologetic look. “They’re not very big on manners.”
Andie glanced down the narrow hallway. “Your mom asleep?”
He nodded. “She works the night shift. Don’t worry, a bomb could go off, and it wouldn’t wake her.”
Andie watched Bartlesby race over to the table, where the milk Junie had spilled was dripping onto the floor.
“About last night,” she said. “I would have left a message, only I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”
“That’s funny, considering all the messages
I’ve
been leaving.” Simon’s tone was dry, and his hazel eyes large with reproach. He poked at his glasses, which had slipped down his nose.
“Maybe I should have called you at Monica’s.”
Simon’s face flushed an even deeper red, and he cast a nervous glance at his brothers and sisters, who’d gone from watching the Power Rangers to eyeballing them. He grabbed Andie’s arm and steered her to the door. “Come on, we can talk outside.”
“Watch out for Mrs. Malcolm,” Ricki warned with a laugh. “Her TV’s on the fritz again.”
“Do we look like fugitives from
The Young and the Restless?”
Simon shot back.
The screen door slapped shut behind them with a tinny rattle. He led the way to a pair of aluminum folding chairs tilting to starboard on the scrap of lawn under a huge old chestnut. He gallantly chose the one with the most broken straps.
“Sorry about that. We don’t get much company,” he said.
“I didn’t come for coffee and cake.”
“Why
did
you come?” He sounded hurt, and she wondered if she’d been too quick to judge him—like when her mother had jumped to conclusions about that stupid CD.
“I thought we should talk.”
“About Monica?” She caught an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
She looked down at her shadow stretching over the stunted brown grass. “I’m sorry. It was a stupid crack.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you had to find out sometime: Monica and I are eloping to Vegas. We figured, why wait until I graduate? There’s no time like the present. Who gives a shit about college when I can live like a king, lounging around the pool all day sipping piña coladas?”
She looked up to find Simon regarding her with a deadpan expression.
“Piña coladas?” She giggled.
He cracked a smile. “It sounded good.”
Andie felt foolish all of a sudden. “Come to think of it, you and Monica would make a cute couple.”
“Yeah, I could visit her behind bars when she gets arrested for having sex with a minor.”
She laughed at the idea, at the same time seeing his knee-jerk wisecracking for what it was: a front. The truth was, Simon was ashamed—of
this,
which made it all the more understandable that he’d jumped at Monica’s offer.
“I really
am
sorry,” she said. “I should have trusted you.”
“Okay, I’ll let you off easy this time—considering it’s your first offense.” His smile widened into a grin. “By the way, I thought you’d be interested to know that Monica wasn’t bullshitting when she said she knew the dean of admissions at Stanford. It’s all set. I’m meeting him in a few weeks.”
“That’s amazing! You must be psyched.” Andie was happy for him—even though it would mean their being separated. No way was she getting into Stanford with her grades.
“Just for the record, she never laid a hand on me.”
“Not even make a pass?”
He smiled mysteriously.
“Should I be jealous?”
He put on an innocent expression. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’d cheat on his girlfriend?”
Andie drew in a deep breath. She might as well get it over with. “There’s something
you
should know—I think I might be pregnant.”
He didn’t say anything at first, just sat there staring at her in disbelief. Not Clark Kent or even Carl Bernstein, just a lanky kid in a faded red T-shirt and pajama bottoms that bagged down around his ankles. Someone who looked after his brothers and sisters and took in stray dogs.
“You
think,
or you
know
?” His voice was surprisingly calm.
“I took the test—it was negative.”
He sagged with relief. “Well, then.”
“I won’t know for sure until I see a doctor.” It hit her full force. “Oh, Simon, what if I am?”
He regarded her gravely for a long moment, then rose with a creak of nylon webbing and sank down on one knee, taking her hands in his. “We’re too young to get married. It would only make things worse. How do you think my mom ended up in this shithole with six kids? But I
can
promise you one thing: Whatever happens, I won’t let you down.”
Her heart swelled until she felt as if she could be lifted up and carried over the treetops like a balloon. “I don’t want us to get married,” she said in a small cracked voice. “But thanks for not asking.”
He flashed her his familiar lopsided grin. “You’re welcome.”
She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and glanced up to find an old woman with her hair in curlers peering out the window of the trailer next door.
Andie smiled, asking in a low voice, “Do you think we’re giving your neighbor her money’s worth?”
“Are you kidding? The show hasn’t even started.” Simon rose to his full height, pulling Andie into his arms. He smelled muzzily of sleep and T-shirts from the bottom of the drawer. When he kissed her, she grew weak-kneed, forgetting the old lady until he pulled back to whisper in her ear, “We’re doing her a favor, you know. Why spend money on a new TV when she has
this
?”
Andie knew then that it was going to be okay. Whatever happened. For at this particular moment, with the sun climbing over the treetops and Mrs. Malcolm settling in for the rest of the show, there was no doubt in her mind that Simon loved her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
T
HE FIRST STRAWBERRIES
of the season were small and as sweetly tart as candied rind. Claire had bought several flats from a small farm off Route 128 owned by an old man and his middle-aged son, Chester and Chuck Dunlop, with whom she’d arranged to get regular deliveries when Tea & Sympathy opened in a month. That’s how such business was conducted around here, she’d discovered, in the barns and farm stands scattered over the fields and groves that stretched in a broad green band across the valley floor and produced an embarrassment of riches: cherries, peaches, apricots, plums, grapes, and berries in summer; apples, pears, persimmons, and pomegranates in the fall, with citrus fruits being in abundance nearly year-round. The opening-day menu had been planned in accordance and would include strawberry tarts, blueberry scones, apple-lemon turnovers, and Kitty’s famous orange cake drizzled in orange syrup, which Gladys Honeick, a Tea & Sympathy regular, had once described as a trip to heaven and back for seconds.
Kitty had been on Claire’s mind a lot these days. She always made it seem so effortless, as if the people who flocked to Tea & Sympathy were neighbors who’d happened to drop in just as she was taking something from the oven. Even her past failures seemed amusing in the retelling, because Kitty was, well, Kitty, and it wasn’t just her baked goods that drew people in. What remained to be seen was whether they’d feel the same about
her.
Claire pondered this as she stood in her kitchen slicing strawberries. Her fingers were stained a deep crimson and her apron polka-dotted with red. Boiled jars filled every inch of available countertop, and a kettle on the stove emitted a fragrant steam. Even so, she felt a kind of panic at the thought of what lay ahead. Tomorrow would be the test run. She’d invited her new friends and family for tea: Gerry and the kids; Aubrey, who’d said he’d be delighted, but would have to duck out early; and Mavis, who’d be here in any event. Not to mention Sam and Ian, Alice and Wes, Laura, Hector, Maude, and Finch. And Matt, of course.
Matt.
She warmed at the thought of him—his large calloused hands, his mustache tickling her. In her mind she saw his clothes at the foot of the bed: jeans and shirt and boots and socks and underwear in a heap that seemed to give off a heat all its own.
They’d fallen into a sort of routine. On days when he didn’t have to pick up his kids he’d hang around after work, and they’d sip beers at the kitchen table until the light had faded and the sun was a rusty streak across the horizon. Matt would pry off his boots, and she would slip out of her shoes to prop her aching feet on his lap. Invariably, they’d wind up in the bedroom.
She grew even warmer remembering the night before. Even her trick of mentally summoning Byron failed to bring the usual cold dash of guilt. It was as though this thing with Matt were happening to someone entirely separate from herself. As if the person she’d been in Miramonte had been discarded like a pair of shoes that pinched or a dress that no longer fit. At the same time, she didn’t want Byron to be cast aside as well. She still wanted the life they’d planned together those summer evenings out on the porch—the house, the kids, the two careers. The question was, where did Matt fit in? If this was nothing more than a case of spring fever, why did she feel so torn?
It wasn’t just Matt—there were his kids. He’d brought them by a few times, letting them play in the yard while he finished up. Yesterday Tara had hung around the kitchen watching her bake while her brother, Casey, helped his dad with the garbage-can enclosure Matt was building alongside the garage. Claire had been making cookie dough for the deep freezer, and the little girl had been so fascinated with the whole process she’d tied an apron around her and let her cut some of the dough into shapes, which they’d frosted with colored icing and decorated with sprinkles once they were baked.
That night after he’d dropped them off at their mother’s, as he and Claire lay snuggled in bed, he’d said softly, “They like you.”
“They’re sweet kids. I’ll bet they like everyone.” She wasn’t going to let him make a big deal of it.
“Tell that to Casey’s teacher. Last week he called Miss Hibberd a butthead.”
Claire smiled. “How do you know she isn’t?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“That they
don’t
take to everyone.” Matt nuzzled her neck. “The other day Casey wanted to know if I was going to marry you.”
Claire’s heart began to pound. “What did you tell him?”
“That I couldn’t because I was marrying Miss Hibberd.”
He grinned, his teeth a flash of white in the darkness, and she’d felt herself relax. Talk of marriage, even in jest, made her nervous.
Now, in the broad light of day, marriage—to anyone— was the furthest thing from her mind. She glanced over at Mavis, cracking walnuts at the table. Thank God for Mavis—for her crabbed hands in perpetual motion, her cheerful if somewhat off-key warbling, and her steady stream of household tips, like using salt to scrub stubborn pans and milk to remove red wine stains. With Mavis everything had to be done the old-fashioned way.
Claire tuned in to hear her snort in contempt: “Ever see an expiration date on one of those bags?” She tossed another shell onto the growing pile. “Milk, you know what you’re getting. Fruit, you can see when it’s spoiled. But for all you know those supermarket nuts could be as old as the shelf they’re sitting on.” She shook her head. “It never ceases to amaze me what people will put in their mouths.”
“Most don’t know any better.” Claire recalled her revelation, early on in life, that food was more than just three basic groups.
She’d been in the eighth grade. One day she’d been home sick with a cold and, bored out of her mind, had happened to tune in to a cooking show: Julia Child demonstrating the perfect way to roast a chicken. For Claire it had been a turning point of sorts. She’d fooled around in the kitchen before, using the Betty Crocker kids’ cookbook (with recipes like pigs in a blanket) from Gran Brewster, but after that began experimenting in earnest. She’d snipped recipes from magazines and pored over cookbooks. She’d discovered James Beard, Maida Heatter, and Craig Claiborne, along with old standards like
Joy of Cooking
and
Fannie Farmer.
She’d learned the proper way to mash potatoes and to tenderize a roast. She discovered that curry wasn’t a single spice but a number of them ground together, and that parboiling string beans with a teaspoon of sugar will keep them looking fresh picked. Along the way, she found her true love: baking. It was what eventually led her to Tea & Sympathy, which had gained a devout following with such retro desserts as devil’s food cake, icebox cookies, and black-bottom pie.
“Nonsense,” Mavis huffed. “If I’ve told Gerry once, I’ve told her a thousand times: It’s as easy to make macaroni and cheese from scratch as from a box.” She shook her head in despair, her rusty hair floating about her head. “How my daughter, who grew up on home-baked bread, could eat the way she does is a mystery to me.”
“If everyone turned out like their parents, it’d be pretty boring.” Claire thought of Lou and Millie.
Mavis cocked her head, smiling up at her thoughtfully. “Maybe it skips a generation. Heaven knows you’re more like me than either of my children.”
“I guess there’s something to be said for nature versus nurture,” Claire replied, more than a little uncomfortable with the subject.
“Though I’m sure your folks can take their share of credit for the way
you
turned out,” Mavis was quick to put in.
Her parents, who still didn’t know if they were coming. Millie kept insisting she wasn’t well enough to travel, but the other day Lou had let drop that they’d visited Aunt Lucille and Uncle Henry in Monterey. Claire hadn’t pressed the issue, but it hurt even so.
Lifting the lid off the kettle, she said with a wistful smile, “I used to think of families as being made of whole cloth, but they’re not, are they? They’re more like”—she looked up from the simmering contents of the kettle, her gaze falling on the basket of remnants by the sewing machine—“scraps stitched together.”
“Like a quilt. Yes.” Mavis smiled, setting aside her nutcracker to survey the mound of cracked nuts on the table. “Well, now. That should be enough to supply the entire western hemisphere.” She rose to her feet, wincing only a little. The new prescription her doctor had given her must be working, though Claire suspected it had as much to do with her indefatigable spirit—Mavis was not one to go gently into that good night. “While you’re finishing up with that, why don’t I get started on the dough?”
They had three dozen tart shells ready for the freezer by the time Mavis’s friend Olive Miller arrived to pick her up. Claire glanced out the window as they were pulling out of the driveway in Olive’s big blue Plymouth—two old ladies perched on the front seats like a pair of nuthatches on a fence, so busy chattering Olive narrowly missed backing into the mailbox. Claire smiled. These past weeks she’d grown closer to Mavis than she’d been to either Gran Brewster or Nana Schilling. Even with Gerry, she felt more at ease. The only one she wasn’t sure about was Andie. She and her friend Finch had dropped by earlier in the week but hadn’t stayed long—an encouraging sign, though Andie had hung back, letting Finch do most of the talking.
The following afternoon, hours before the guests were due to arrive, Claire was in the kitchen making spreads for sandwiches when she heard the tinkle of the bell over the front door. Thinking it was Mavis, she didn’t stop what she was doing until she heard a polite cough and turned to find Andie poised hesitantly in the doorway.
“Hi. I was wondering if you needed any help.” She was dressed in jeans and a cropped T-shirt that showed her navel—an outie like Claire’s.
Noting how self-conscious she looked, Claire felt a tug of sympathy. She could remember when she’d been that age, feeling like she’d been turned inside out, her every thought and emotion on display.
“Right now, I could use six hands.” She gestured with a laugh toward the loaves of banana bread cooling on the counter, the strawberry tarts just out of the oven, and brownie batter in a bowl. “Check the broom closet—I think there’s an extra apron. Oh, and the good plates and teacups are in the hutch. You can set them on the table out front while I—” She paused, smiling. “Hey, thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” Andie ducked her head, fiddling with one of the dozen earrings in her ears. She was cutting the crusts from sandwiches and arranging them on the lovely old Meissen platter Sam had given Claire when she looked up and said, “Your kitchen smells like my grandma’s. I used to love spending the night at her house when I was little. We always made sugar cookies. She had all these cookie cutters in the shapes of animals.”
Claire wordlessly walked over to the long cupboard by the fridge, rummaging inside until she found what she was looking for: a battered shoebox that made a faint, tinny rattling as she carried it over to the table. “My housewarming gift from your grandmother,” she said.
Andie pried off the lid, reaching inside to finger a cookie cutter in the shape of a bear. She smiled at the memories it evoked. “They’d be perfect for kids’ parties.”
“Kids’ parties? Now
there’s
an idea.” Claire could envision it: birthday teas for preteen girls, like grown-up versions of the pretend tea parties they played at when they were little. “How would you like to be in charge? We could split the profits down the middle, fifty-fifty.”
Andie’s gaze met hers, still a bit wary. “Sure, why not? It might be fun.” A small smile surfaced. “I’ll talk to Finch. I’ll bet she’d like to go in with us.”
“Your friend seems nice.”
“Finch? Yeah.”
“She’s not from around here, is she?”
Andie stiffened a bit, as if Claire were suggesting she was a misfit. “She’s from New York.”
“That must be it. She seems so”—Claire searched for the word—“sophisticated.”
Andie’s face relaxed. “She’s adopted, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“It’ll be final in a few weeks.”
“How nice for her.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty happy about it.” They went back to work cutting up sandwiches, and after a minute or so Andie ventured, “It must be weird for you—having two mothers.”
“I don’t think of Gerry as a mother.” Claire paused in the midst of chopping parsley. “She’s more like a friend.”
Andie looked relieved.
A little while later, when Gerry appeared with Justin and Mavis in tow, the tables out front were covered in the flowered tablecloths Mavis had stitched and the good china laid out. There were platters of sandwiches, banana bread, gingersnaps, brownies, and strawberry tarts with a bowl of fresh strawberries on the side. Noting Gerry’s look of admiration as she surveyed the room, which Sam had brightened with flowers from her garden, Claire couldn’t help feeling proud. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel the tiniest bit optimistic that Tea & Sympathy would be a success.
“Not so fast, young man.” Gerry lightly slapped Justin’s hand as he was reaching for a brownie. “I want to take a picture first.” She reached into her voluminous shoulder bag for her camera, and after snapping off several shots, herded everyone together for a group photo. Andie hesitated at first, then stepped up alongside her brother, wedged in so tightly against Claire she could easily have given him a black eye with her elbow. “Okay, smile everybody!” Out of the corner of her eye, Claire saw Mavis blink and recoil as the flash went off.
Gerry used the rest of the roll on the room itself. “I can’t believe what you’ve done with this place,” she said when she finally lowered her camera. “I hardly recognize it.”
“Matt deserves most of the credit.” Claire felt her cheeks warm, thinking of how handy he was in other areas as well. “Some of it he’s not even charging me for. I think he’s afraid I can’t afford it.”
She glanced about at the wainscoting, and the rows of shelves behind the display case, which she’d picked up for a song from a deli going out of business, on which her collection of vintage teapots was displayed. Another of Matt’s ideas had been the built-in cabinet alongside the counter with its miniature drawers in which different kinds of loose tea were stored: Lapsang Souchong, China Oolong, Blue Flower Earl Grey, and Blood Orange Sencha, to name a few.