Margaret and I sat in the waiting room outside of the ICU. It had been hours since Martin had disappeared behind the swinging doors through which only immediate family were allowed to pass. I sat feeling helpless as I watched Martin’s brothers’ wives breeze past us.
“What did Dr. Doyle say, again?” I asked Margaret, who was sitting quietly, her back straight.
“The home-visit nurse couldn’t control his pain,” she said patiently for the fourth time. “So they brought him in to see if there was anything they could do for him here.”
“Have you talked to Dotty?”
“Not since she was trying to track down Martin.”
I tossed the catalog I was paging through onto the coffee table and paced around the small room. Memories of sitting in the ER waiting for news of my father flooded me. “It’s driving me crazy not to know what’s going on.”
“Sit down, Olivia.”
I sat, digging my fingernails into my palms.
Margaret reached over and took one of my hands in hers. “When the pain gets to be this hard to manage . . . It might not be long now.”
Fat tears spilled from my eyes.
Margaret squeezed my fingers. “You know,” she said, her voice sounding tight, “I went on a date or two with Henry before he and Dotty fell for each other.”
I looked over at her. She had a sweet smile on her face.
“He was so handsome. He used to play at all the dances, and Dotty and I would go to watch the band. She had a crush on the guitarist. Wouldn’t give Henry the time of day. So he asked me out—and when I said yes, he asked if I had a friend who would want to double-date. Said his parents wouldn’t let him step out alone with a girl, which was probably true—things were different back then. But I could tell from the moment we sat down at the diner that he only had eyes for her.”
“Were you mad?”
“Oh, Lord, no. He was never my type. Too full of mischief. And someone had already captured my heart.”
“Your husband?”
“Dotty and Henry were so sweet together.” Margaret took a deep breath. “I’ve been lucky to have such good friends.” She looked over at me. “I know you’ve grown very fond of Martin. You should—”
Dr. Doyle pushed his way through the swinging doors and headed down the corridor.
“Jonathan!” I called, hopping up to chase him. “How is he?” I asked when I reached him.
“Livvy, you know I can’t—”
“Jonathan Doyle, you’ve known me long enough to know how close I am to the McCrackens,” Margaret said sternly, crossing her arms.
“Sit down,” Jonathan sighed, flipping his white coat out of the way. “Henry’s in a coma. The medication put him under.” He reached out and took one of Margaret’s hands. “I’d start preparing.”
Margaret stilled. “We should get going.”
“No,” I said. “Why?”
“I appreciate it, Jonathan. Have one of the nurses call me if anything changes.” Margaret folded her coat over her arm. “Come on, dear. Let’s get home.”
• • •
After a long, silent drive, Margaret pulled into the back parking lot behind the inn. She turned off the ignition and sat back in her seat. I stared into what I knew was the orchard as it lay hidden in darkness.
“He’s not going to come out of the coma. It’s the pain medication. It will keep him under as his body slows down. We should get a good night’s sleep. It could be days. And we need to get things ready for the funeral.” I wondered if she was saying this more for herself than for me, to try to make it feel a little more real. “I know tomorrow is supposed to be a day off, but could you come to the kitchen around nine? We can go over things then.”
I nodded, feeling the tide of grief rising inside me.
“Do you want to stay at the inn tonight?” she asked, placing her hand gently on my shoulder.
I wanted to say yes, to be safe in the inn—warm and comforted by the sound of Margaret’s squeaky rocking chair and the scent of vanilla that always dominated the kitchen. But I thought of Martin. He wouldn’t be able to find me if I wasn’t in the cabin. “No, but thank you.”
“I’ll come if there is any news.”
I didn’t start crying until I saw the honeyed glow of the Christmas lights through the trees. Though it was cold when I came in, I flushed at the memory of my last moments there with Martin. Even the scent of the cabin reminded me of him: tree sap and cinnamon. Sitting down on the floor near the tree, I hugged Salty’s soft body to mine and let my tears soak into his thick ruff.
• • •
Three long days had passed. Dotty called Margaret from the hospital every morning and again at suppertime. I wanted to go to the hospital, but Margaret said that with the extended McCracken family gathering there we would only be in the way. I spent the time baking restlessly. The inn was officially closed until New Year’s Eve, so I had the kitchen to myself. I baked coffee cakes and tea rings, muffins, scones, and shortbread. I made a special batch of hermits, because Dotty loved molasses. I worked my worry into baguette dough. Margaret came and worked beside me most afternoons, baking casseroles, cutting them into small portions, and freezing them in tiny aluminum tins. Every time I looked at one of those containers I could only think about how alone Dotty would be without Henry.
I spent the evenings wrapped up in an afghan, trying to read, but I couldn’t focus on anything more demanding than travel magazines. I went to bed early, snuggled up with Salty, and gazed at the Christmas lights, thinking about Martin—and sometimes, guiltily, about his kiss. But then my thoughts would turn to Henry and the fact that I would never see him again, and I would be lost in grief. I couldn’t help but think back to my own father and the days that followed his death. The empty house after the funeral. Sitting in the living room, hugging one of his quilted flannel work shirts. How even now, after so many years, I still felt like something was missing. I didn’t want Martin to have to know that the pain never goes away, that it just becomes a part of who you are.
• • •
A blizzard was forecast for Thursday, and Margaret sent me home early, telling me she didn’t want to have to worry about my getting blinded by the snow and lost in the woods. I walked to the cabin reluctantly, not wanting to spend another evening at the cabin alone, hoping that Martin would come by. But the sky was dim, the smoke from the chimneys at the inn white against the dark clouds, and I knew that even if I had wanted to go out, most of the town would be closing early.
The cabin was dark except for the blue glow of the television when I was awakened by the sound of sharp knocking. I had no idea what time it was. I didn’t see anyone when I opened the door. Then I peeked out onto the porch. Martin was standing there, looking out into the orchard, snow clumped in his hair and on his shoulders, his fist wrapped tightly around the handle of his fiddle case.
He turned to face me. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. He wasn’t wearing a coat.
“Hey,” I said.
Martin held up the fiddle. “I thought you would play with me. Mark and Ethan wouldn’t. They said . . .”
“Of course. Come in.”
His glasses fogged in the warmth. He placed the case on the coffee table and began to unhitch the latches.
“Martin, you’re soaked through. How long have you been outside?”
“I don’t know.” He began to tighten the horsehair of the bow. His hands were shaking.
“Let’s get you warmed up first.” I turned toward the woodstove. It had cooled down as I slept. I grabbed a couple of towels off a shelf and handed them to him. “Take off those wet shoes. I’ll get the fire going.”
Martin ignored my instructions and drew out a long, slow note on the fiddle, then a double stop, two strings droning together. From his spot by Martin’s feet, Salty lifted his snout into the air and let out a low, lonesome howl. I sat down on the floor, biting at the inside of my cheek, and listened to Martin play Henry’s tune for Dotty. My stomach hollowed, then filled with wave after wave of grief. When the bow hit the ground, I turned to look up at Martin. He was staring at it as if he had never seen it before, still holding the fiddle pressed into the soft skin below his collarbone. His face crumpled, his open hand trembling. I moved toward him. I took the fiddle out of his hand and gently placed it back in its case. Then I took his hands in mine. They were flaming red and felt like ice.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly, rubbing his left hand between my palms. “We just need to get you warmed up.” I led him to the couch. He sat, his face held so carefully that I thought if I moved him the wrong way he would break. I bent down, carefully untied his laces, and slipped off his sneakers and socks one by one. I held his feet in my hands, drying them with a towel and holding them between my cupped palms. I stood and took off his glasses and rubbed the towel gently over his hair. “You need to take your shirt off, okay? Then we can sit by the fire.” Martin sat motionless. I reached behind him and slid the shirt, wet and heavy, up his back and over his shoulders. I let it fall to the ground in a soggy heap. I wrapped the afghan around his back and then took his hand in mine.
He looked so young, and so vulnerable. His dad is gone. My mind flooded with images of my own father’s passing—the principal standing in the doorway of my classroom. Being led down the hospital hallway by a nun. Not knowing what to say when she asked me about last rites. I tentatively reached up to smooth the hair out of Martin’s eyes. My hands lingered on his cheeks. Martin stepped closer and pulled me to him, his coarse chest hair rough against my cheek. He pressed his lips onto my crown. “Olivia,” he choked.
I pulled back a fraction, confused, waiting.
His hands twisted in my hair, and he crushed his lips to mine, his tongue searching. My face flushed from the heat of the fire, his mouth on mine, and the feel of his naked chest beneath my palms. I felt his jagged breath in my ear as one hand fumbled with the zipper of my fleece. My mind raced. I had dreamed about this moment for weeks, but it had never been like this. I could feel Martin’s despair in this kiss.
But any thoughts of Henry were pushed away as Martin slid the jacket off my shoulders, revealing the thin white camisole underneath. He locked his lips on mine as his hands worked up my back under my shirt. They were still cold. He stroked my shoulder blades and released me just long enough to pull the tank over my head. He held me tightly against him. The sensation of our bare skin pressed together and the need to be closer pushed past the overwhelming feeling of loss. We moved toward the bed. When we were at the foot of the futon, he slipped his hand into the waistband of my pants, his fingers questioning. I reached for the zipper of his brown corduroys in answer, easing them over his narrow hips. On the bed, our bodies tangled. Urgently, we explored each other with hands and lips. Martin hesitated only when he rolled on top of me, pressing his hips, questioning. I reached between us and guided him in.
“Livvy,” he breathed into my ear. He nuzzled my hair before bringing his lips back to mine. We stayed like that, joined and kissing. Martin began to move, slowly at first, then pushing deeper and deeper inside me as if he couldn’t get close enough. I wrapped my legs around his hips, and as his pace quickened, I felt myself stirring, slick. Martin tilted his hips, and as if he had turned the burner to high, it pushed me over the edge. Martin followed a moment later, and a sob choked out from someplace deep within him. He collapsed, his full weight on me, buried his face in my neck, and wept. I pulled the blankets over us, stroking his hair, finally letting my own tears stream down my cheeks.
I woke up once in the middle of the night. Martin was wrapped tightly around me, legs tangled with mine, one hand cupped around my breast, his breath warm and heavy on my neck.
When the sun beamed through the cabin window, Salty was in bed beside me. The woodstove was blazing, and Martin was gone.
• • •
The kettle had just whistled when I heard a knock at my door. Margaret stood on the porch. She looked exhausted, her eyelids heavy.
“Henry,” she said.
I nodded.
“Did Martin tell you?” She didn’t look surprised.
“Do you want to come in for some tea?” I asked, tilting my head toward the kitchen table.
Margaret surprised me by coming in. Dressed in last night’s yoga pants and fleece, I kicked my camisole under the futon.
“Don’t bother.” Margaret sat down at the kitchen table, leaving her coat on. I threw another log onto the fire. “You did a nice job with the cabin. Brian never would have recognized it.”
“I remember you told me he used to hang out here—wood carving?”
“It’s good for a man to have a hobby. Keeps him out of your hair.”
My laughter somehow brought back the tears, and I quickly brushed them away.
Margaret dug into her handbag and fished out a tissue. “It’s a sad day.”
“When did you lose Brian?”
“It’s been three years.”
“Is that why you want to sell this place? Does it remind you too much of him?”
“You can never be reminded too much of someone you love.” Margaret traced her pearl necklace with her fingertips. “No, I’ve been thinking of selling because I’m ready to retire. But now that Henry has passed—I’m glad I went through it before Dotty did. I’ll know what she needs.”
I poured the tea into pretty china teacups, one of the few things I’d kept from my grandmother’s house.
“Milk?” I offered.
“No, thanks.” Margaret took a sip as I spooned sugar into my cup.
“Sorry I don’t have anything else to offer. I usually eat in the kitchen.”
“I barged in on you at six thirty in the morning. I wasn’t expecting breakfast.”
“Is it that early?” I wondered what time Martin had left.
“The wake has to be tonight so they can hold the funeral tomorrow—otherwise it will have to wait until after Christmas because the church won’t have a burial during the holidays. Dotty didn’t want to put the family through that.”
“Of course not. Will people have time to get here?”
“Most of the folks Henry knew are here in Guthrie. And the family is already here for Christmas.” Margaret’s eyes glistened. “You know that man arranged to have his grave dug before the first frost? Can you imagine that? He was always so damn practical.” Margaret sat up in her seat and put her hands on her lap. “I’m headed over to the McCrackens’ shortly. I was hoping you could box up the food for after the wake. I can have one of the boys come pick it up.”
“Sure, anything.” I stirred the tea with a spoon, even though it had already cooled. “I could drop it off.”
“Let one of the boys come get it. Everyone likes to feel useful in times like these.”
“Okay. I’ll have everything ready by two?”
“Good. The wake is from four till seven. The funeral will be at nine tomorrow morning.” Margaret stood and buttoned her coat.
I stopped her before she reached the door. “Margaret, would you do me a favor?” I handed her the fiddle case. “Martin will want this later.”
Margaret gave my shoulder a little squeeze before taking the fiddle in her hands.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching as she stepped carefully into the newly fallen snow.
“Margaret!” I called.
She turned. “Yes?”
I ran down the snowy steps in my wool stockings. “I’m sorry about Henry.”
Her lips turned up in the gentlest of smiles. “You know, Henry was very fond of you.” Margaret reached her arms out and pulled me into her embrace. Her lilac scent surrounded me as I let myself rest in her arms. Her eyes were damp when she pulled away.
“I’ll have everything ready by two,” I said.
“Good girl,” she said, and turned toward the inn.
• • •
The wake was held at Burke Funeral Home, in the center of town. When I arrived, the parking lot was already full, the line of mourners waiting to pay their respects spilling out onto the front steps. I took my place among them, picking fur off my black coat. I longed to be with Martin, to stand beside him. A wave of nausea flooded me when I stepped into the foyer and through a wall of lilies. I couldn’t stand the scent of them since my own father’s wake. I held my breath and moved forward. One of the undertakers took my coat and led me to the visiting room. It was a long room, softly lit, with flowers lining the aisle and Carter Family gospel tunes playing quietly in the background. The casket was up front, where Dotty and her three sons stood, receiving visitors. Martin looked different in his black suit—more urbane. His hair had been cut since last night, and he had shaved. For the first time I could picture him in a city. He was leaning down to talk to an elderly woman. Tears threatened at the backs of my eyes. I moved with the crowd into the room.
I stepped out of the receiving line to look at the dozens of framed pictures of Henry that lined a table in the back. Pictures of him as a young man, looking so much like Martin, with his band in the grange hall. His and Dotty’s wedding pictures. Holding each of his sons as an infant, his eyes full of wonder. Christmas photos with all of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There was even one from this Thanksgiving of Henry, his grandsons, and me, all with stringed instruments in our hands.
“That’s a great picture,” said a woman beside me. I dabbed at my eyes with a handkerchief before turning to face her. She was striking, and fashionable in an artistic way.
“Thanks,” I said. “He was teaching me to play the dulcimer.” I could feel Henry’s hand on mine, sliding across the strings.
She swept her asymmetrical blond bangs out of her eyes. She wore a vintage black dress and knee-high black leather boots that skimmed her slim calves.
Not from Vermont, I thought to myself.
“Have you signed the guest book?” she asked, gesturing to the podium in the corner of the room. “I’m in charge of it.” She glanced back at the family and then at me. “I’m a little nervous about messing it up,” she confided, leaning in toward me.
“Don’t worry, the McCrackens are sweethearts,” I said gently. “No one is going to mind if you miss a few names.”
She smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t sound like you’re from here. Have you known the family a long time?”
“Only since September,” I said, looking over at Martin, “But I’ve grown very attached to them. They’ve made me feel very welcome.” I smiled. “I’m from Boston originally. That’s the accent,” I clarified. I held out my hand. “Olivia Rawlings.”
“Sylvie Ford,” she said, her slender hand cool in mine. “From Seattle.”
I felt an itch at the back of my memory.
“Martin’s fiancée.”
The noise of the room grew muffled as if my head had been pushed underwater.
At this time yesterday, he had been in me.
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know if I was asking a question or making a statement. My palms began to sweat.
She dropped my hand and rubbed hers together. Her eyebrows pinched slightly. “Martin, the youngest. You must know him if you know Henry.”
At that moment I didn’t know if I knew Martin at all.
“This is only my second time out here.” She smiled apologetically. “I haven’t had the chance to get to know the family. That’s why I feel so stressed about the guest book.”
“The McCrackens are very kind,” I said as I turned from her to look up to the front, where Martin was talking to Tom. I was too far away to read his expression. “You have nothing to worry about.”
Sylvie swept her hair out of her eyes. “Thanks.” Her gaze followed mine toward Martin.
The look of affection in her expression made me blanch. I turned my head away in a lame attempt to hide the fact that my heart was breaking. I felt myself flush and wobbled a bit on my feet.
Sylvie looked at me, her face awash with concern and then confusion.
“Oh, God—I’m being so selfish, blabbing on. I’m so sorry for your loss. Who are you in relation to the family?”
“I’m nobody,” I said, turning away from her. “Please excuse me.”
I walked out of the room, cutting through the line of mourners, and pushed my way out the door, gulping for fresh air.
“Livvy?” I heard Hannah’s voice through the static buzzing in my ears. She put her hand on my shoulder. “I was hoping to run into you here. I’m sorry I haven’t—are you okay?”
I looked up at her, my eyes burning, and shook my head. “Did you know?”
“Did I know what? Look, you’re freezing. Let’s get you inside.” Hannah threaded her arm through mine and led me toward the door, asking a waitress from the diner if we could cut in line. “I’ve felt terrible since we argued. I—”
“Did you know that Martin was engaged?”
“What? No!” Hannah looked around, smiling apologetically to the people around us. “I mean, there was some talk years ago, but I haven’t—who is it? Is she here?”
I couldn’t form the words.
“Livvy, you should—”
Hannah’s husband stepped up to us, wrapping his arm around Hannah’s waist. “What are you doing out here? I dropped you off so you could sit down. You know what the doctor said.”
“I’m going to stay here with Livvy for a minute, sweetheart,” she said. I looked down and saw that she had left the bottom three buttons of her coat unbuttoned to accommodate her growing belly.
“I’m okay, Hann. Go on in.”
“You sure?”
I nodded but couldn’t make eye contact. Her arm slid out of mine just as we reached the door. Jonathan led her down the aisle, his hand on her lower back.
If Hannah hadn’t known, it was possible that it wasn’t known all over town, either. Yet. By now half the town would be speculating about who the pretty blond woman was by the guest book. And if Sylvie was as candid with everyone else as she had been with me, word that Martin was engaged would be spread before dawn.
With each step toward the open casket I felt as if I were shrinking, my insides growing tighter. Martin’s eyes met mine briefly as I moved forward in the line. Soon it was my turn to pay my respects. I reluctantly climbed the three steps up to the stage and dropped slowly to my knees in front of the casket.
He looked gone. Everyone always talks about how good the dead look, what an amazing job the undertakers did. All I could see was Henry and the absence of him, his face hidden under layers of pancake makeup, as if he were onstage. I fingered the white handkerchief in my hand, fighting the temptation to spit into it and wipe his face clean. His suit looked all wrong. I wished they had dressed him in his robin’s-egg blue cardigan, let his shock of white hair be windblown, as if he had just stepped in from the fields.
I could feel the push of the people lined up behind me, the McCrackens waiting to receive me ahead. I leaned in toward the casket.
“I’m trying to remember everything you said the other day, but I can’t seem to remember any of it. What did you tell me I should do?” I pressed the backs of my hands roughly to the corners of my eyes. “When you said to be patient, I wasn’t expecting this.”
I imagined Sylvie at the back of the hall, beside the guest book, introducing herself to one of the guests. From behind me I heard someone clear his throat. I stood up, smoothing down the skirt of my dress. I reached into the bodice and extracted the wooden noter I had tucked into my bra strap. I placed it into the pocket of Henry’s suit. “If there’s a heaven, then there’ll be tunes to play,” I whispered as I kissed his cool, papery cheek.
It was time to face the family.
When I turned away from the casket, the McCracken family was standing, watching me. Dotty, Mark, Ethan, and Martin. I wrapped my arms around Dotty and pressed my face in her neck.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
“I know.” Dotty looked down the line of her children at Martin and whispered, “I am too, dear.” She took both of my hands in hers and looked at me for a long time. “He thought of you like a long-lost daughter,” she said urgently.
I looked down at my shoes. “He was a very special man.”
She squeezed my hands before letting them go. I hugged her tightly and moved on to Mark. He clasped my shoulder, his eyes soft. “Thanks, Livvy. You brought Dad a lot of happiness over these past few months.”
Ethan threw his arms around me and gave me a bear hug. “You’re one of us now, Livvy,” he said into my ear, “no matter what happens.” He kissed my temple. “Come have a tune with us anytime, you hear me?”
I turned to face Martin.
His arms hung heavily at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
I folded mine, not trusting that I could refrain from reaching out to touch him. “I’m so sorry—” my voice broke.
“Livvy—”
It was only the second time he had called me that. I felt my insides crumble and my heart began to race.
Martin drew me into his chest, his cheek resting on the top of my head. I breathed him in, but he smelled different somehow. It might have been just a trace of cologne, but to me it was the scent of Seattle, and of a Martin I didn’t know.
“Liv—”
“Not here, okay?” I said, not looking at him.
Martin looked over my head at the long line of well-wishers waiting patiently.
He let me go. I stood still, not wanting to pull away. Martin cupped my cheeks in his hands. “Henry really loved you,” he said, his voice strained. “We all do.”
I squeezed his arm once and stepped away, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying. With my eyes fixed on the exit sign, I walked straight through the crowd and pushed out the door into the cold, dark night.
I passed Margaret in the driveway, on her way in.
“Olivia,” she called.
I turned to face her. “How could you do this to me?” I said. I could feel myself shaking with anger.
Margaret looked taken aback. “What on earth did I do?”
“You knew. You had to. You’re Dotty’s best friend, for God’s sake, which you loved to remind me of all the time. How close you were, how I was just a blip in the McCrackens’ life but you were family. Well, I might have believed I was just a blip if I’d known that Martin had a fucking fiancée!”
Margaret grabbed me by the elbow and moved us down the path. “Watch your tongue,” she snapped.
“Don’t you mean hold my tongue? Isn’t that what everyone does around here? Everyone talks about everything unless it’s to a person’s face. Please, just put me out of my misery and tell me how long I’ve been making a complete ass out of myself. How long have you known? Does everyone in town know? They will by dinnertime, right?”
“Settle down, Olivia. You’re making a scene.” Margaret stood stiffly, her hands tightly clutching her purse.
“Apparently I’ve been making a scene for some time now, so everyone should be used to it.” I threw my arms down. “What’s wrong with you people? Why is everything such a big secret around here? I mean, look at you. Are you selling the inn or aren’t you? And what the hell is the thing between you and Jane White?”
Margaret’s face grew pale in the moonlight. “That’s enough,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You know what, you’re right. That is enough. I’ve had enough. You don’t have to worry about me or my making a scene any longer.” I turned and marched toward my car, the tears hot against my cold cheeks, each step fueled by adrenaline and shame.
• • •
I made it as far as Concord, New Hampshire, driving as fast as my station wagon would go without shaking, not knowing where I was headed. Then I remembered Salty, who was alone in my dark and chilly cabin, waiting for his supper. This is precisely why I never wanted a dog, I groused to myself as I turned onto an exit ramp. I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to see Margaret or risk seeing Martin, although I was sure he was busy with Sylvie and his family. Somewhere along the Connecticut River my anger turned back into tears, and I had to pull over when my vision became too blurred to drive. When I could take a deep breath without choking, I pulled out my cell phone and made a quick call.
“I need a favor. Can you help me?” I asked.
• • •
Alfred was standing in the open doorway when I pulled into his driveway, Salty by his side.
“I can’t thank you enough. I would have called Hannah, but things have been . . . difficult between us. And I didn’t want to make her trudge out to the cabin.”
“I’m glad you called. You had a lot of folks worried about you.”
I glanced up at him, my eyebrows raised. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Hannah called, and Margaret. Sarah was worried.” Al led me into his house. It was what is affectionately known as a double-wide, but it had been added onto so many times that it had lost its trailer shape. I flopped down on one end of a well-worn couch and reached for the beer that he set in front of me.
Al handed me a large canvas bag. “Jeans, gray cardigan sweater, yoga pants, a bunch of T-shirts, fleece jacket, rubber boots, Salty’s leash. I added a bunch of socks and underwear, in case you forgot.” Al sat cross-legged at the other end of the couch. “And I found the stuff you asked for, although I’m not sure if it’ll work. It’s from the eighties.”
“I don’t think those chemicals go bad,” I said, turning the package of hair dye in my hands. Chestnut brown. “Thanks, Alfred.”
Alfred looked down at the canvas bag. “So, are you going to tell me where you’re going?”
“Just away,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
Alfred sat back, taking a long draw off his bottle. “And what will you do for Christmas?”
“Anything but watch Martin and Sylvie exchange stocking stuffers.”
Alfred stretched his leg out, poking my thigh with a gray-wool-covered toe. “You want to talk about it?” he asked gently.
“Can we not?”
“It might make you feel better.”
“Or it might make solid this feeling of total humiliation and I’ll be scarred for life.” I drained the bottle. “More alcohol, please.” Alfred shook his head but came back from the kitchen with a bottle of Maker’s Mark and two glasses full of ice.
“You are a true friend,” I said, pouring the whiskey. “To Henry,” I said with my glass raised.
“To Henry,” Alfred said, and clinked his glass against mine.
After a few drinks, my curiosity got the best of me. “So, did you know? About Syllllviiiiie?” I drew the word out. I was trying to get used to saying it without feeling like someone had sucker-punched me.
“I knew that Martin had a girlfriend awhile back. I knew that Henry wasn’t crazy about the match—I think because she grew up on the West Coast. Henry kept hoping Martin would come home.” Alfred took a drink. “I only know all of that because Dotty and Margaret would talk in the kitchen. You know how those two are.”
I nodded, thinking about them, sitting in the rockers. It had been a long time since Dotty had paid us a visit.
“There was a little gossip around the farmer’s market last fall. Martin had missed a few holidays, and folks were speculating that some girl had finally pinned him down. It was big news until the owner of the feed store got arrested for selling pot. When Martin showed up here last summer without her, I think everyone assumed she was out of the picture.”
“But there she was, in charge of the guest book.” I poured myself another glass and pulled the blanket Al had draped over my legs up higher.
“That must have come as quite a shock.” Al pulled my foot into his lap and gave it a little squeeze.
I held up the whiskey bottle. “This is helping.”
Alfred bowed his head. “Anything you need, Liv. So, how long are you going to be gone?”
“Don’t know.”
“But you’re coming back.”
I drained the last drops of bourbon from my glass, reached down into my purse and pulled out a white envelope. “Can you give this to Margaret after the funeral?”
“What is it?”
“It’s just a quick note.” It was actually instructions on how to dip the chocolate truffles and garnish the petits fours for New Year’s Eve, and where to find the cranberry loaves and date nut bread I had made for the New Year’s Day brunch baskets. Someone else would have to make the muffins. I felt sick about abandoning her during the holidays. I needed her to know that at least she wouldn’t have to start from scratch.
Alfred gave me a long, appraising look. “Make me a promise. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, hiding my face behind the glass.
“You’ve got the energy of a fawn about to leap into the woods.”
I laughed. “With my fluffy white tail.”
“And your big, brown eyes, yes.” Alfred stood up. He tucked the blanket around my legs. “Are you going to be warm enough?”
I waved my hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll bring you coffee by seven thirty. The funeral’s at nine.” Alfred leaned down and kissed my cheek. He smelled like whiskey and Old Spice. It was comforting.
“Livvy, there are a lot of folks around here who care about you, not just the McCrackens,” he said from the doorway.
Eternal rest give to thee, O Lord: and let perpetual light shine upon them.
I slipped through the side door and into the back of the church while the priest sprinkled the casket with holy water. He swung the censer in the sign of the cross, filling the air with frankincense and myrrh. The pews were tightly packed; the mourners huddled together in their winter coats, as if to protect themselves from death. I stood in the back, leaning against the wall. The casket—Henry, I reminded myself—was in the center, close to the sanctuary. I could see the straight back and dark brown hair of Martin seated in the front row, Sylvie’s blond head beside him. I wondered if they were holding hands.
Mark and Ethan gave the readings. When the priest finished reciting the Gospel passage, he invited the brothers up to say a few words about their father.
Mark stood at the podium, flanked by Ethan and Martin. Martin held his fiddle, the bow swinging off his pinkie. My heart ached when I saw his face. He looked stunned and sad. I wrestled with my longing to be up there with him, and the fact that it wasn’t my place.
“One of the many gifts that Dad gave us was the love of music, and all the old songs.” Mark nodded to his brothers. “This was one of his favorites.”
Martin pressed the fiddle into that spot under his collarbone, and Ethan began to sing.
I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger
I’m traveling through this world alone
Yet there’s no sickness, toil nor danger
In that bright land to which I go.
I pulled the handkerchief from my coat pocket and wiped at my cheeks. I hadn’t bothered with makeup. Ethan’s voice was rich, like a cello, and held as much grief as the notes pouring from Martin’s fiddle. Martin leaned over the fiddle, his waist bowed, hair swept over his glasses. He looked broken.
I’m going home to see my Savior
I’m going home, no more to roam
I am just going over Jordan
I am just going over home.
When the last note of the fiddle rang through the silent church, Martin followed his brother back to the pew.
The priest continued the Mass, preparing the Host for the parishioners.
The family knelt and bowed their heads in prayer. They filled up eight pews on both sides of the church. Four generations at least, stitched together like a sweater knit in the round, with Henry’s casket in the center. I let my gaze settle on Martin, the sandy brown hair that tapered into a V at the back of his neck. My mind drifted to how soft it had felt against my cheek, how sweet it had smelled. Not for you, I reminded myself. I pushed my back against the church door, taking one last look before I slipped out quietly and into the bright morning sunlight.
• • •
The ring of the bell at King’s Chapel woke me from my nap with a start. I had been sleeping almost nonstop since I had arrived in Boston the day before. Jamie had put me up at the Parker House, saying it would be “safer” than staying at the Emerson during the holidays. I knew that meant that Mrs. Whitaker was probably hosting the Christmas Eve dinner or Christmas Day brunch and would be spending a lot of time at the club. To assuage his guilt, he booked me the Harvey Parker Suite. It had its own dining room, along with a butler’s pantry and kitchen. I should have refused, but it was on the fourteenth floor and had the prettiest view of the white steeple of Park Street Church. The Hancock Buildings, both old and new, shined brightly in the distance.
Promptly at three there was a knock on the door. Jamie was standing in a three-piece tuxedo, complete with black silk bow tie, holding a bottle of chilled champagne.
“Merry Christmas, darling,” he said as I stepped aside to let him in. He bent down and placed a lingering kiss on my cheek before making his way into the pantry. I felt underdressed in my yoga pants and white T-shirt. I followed him, hugging my gray cardigan to my chest.
Jamie popped the cork and filled two champagne glasses.
“It’s so good to see you,” he said warmly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get away last night. It’s a difficult time of year.”
I took a long swallow of champagne and walked toward the seating area.
“I have to admit, I’m surprised you’re here. Christmas in Vermont sounds lovely.” Jamie put his glass down and slipped out of his coat, laying it carefully across the back of an armchair. “Aren’t you happy there?” he asked as he sat down.
I ignored his question and climbed onto his lap, straddling his legs. I undid his cuff links. They clinked against the glass tabletop. I pulled at the end of the bow tie, unknotting it and sliding it slowly from around his neck.
Jamie fumbled with the buttons of his vest. “Because if you’re unhappy, Livvy . . .”
I unbuttoned the top two buttons of his starched white shirt and licked his neck.
“Oh dear God,” he gasped. “My offer still stands.”
I popped the last button open and slid my hands across his chest, against his white undershirt. With Jameson it always took a long time to get to skin. “Not happy with the new chef?” I asked, breathing into his ear.
“I missed this,” he said, cupping my breasts. He moved to kiss me, but I turned my face away, offering him my neck instead. His hair smelled expensive.
“So you want me back in your kitchen?” I teased, as I sucked at the skin where his neck met his shoulder.
“Their bûche de Noël has nothing on yours.”
“So how long was she at the Emerson before you tasted her bûche?” I asked innocently as I took his hand and pressed it between my thighs.
“It’s a he,” he moaned, wrapping his free hand around me and clutching my butt. “The bedroom?”
“About four miles from here, to the left.”
Jamie took my hand and I grabbed the bottle of champagne on the way, drinking from the bottle, the bubbles harsh against my throat. “I don’t have much time,” he breathed, a cool, smooth hand snaking under my shirt and stroking my belly.
I leaned into him, trying to block out the memory of Martin’s hands. I reached down and pulled off my own shirt. Jameson unzipped the fly of his tuxedo pants. I crawled onto the bed so I didn’t have to watch him take off his shoes and socks.
Jameson lay down, his face hovering over mine, and kissed me.
I started to cry. I rolled him onto his back and a fat teardrop landed on his throat.
Jamie stroked my hair. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” I choked, burying my face in his shoulder, unable to stop the flow of tears once they had started.
Jamie rolled me off of him. “Sweetheart?”
I faced the window. The lights on a building across the way blinked red.
Jamie turned me around to face him, his expression full of concern.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, rubbing my nose with my bare forearm. “I shouldn’t have called you.”
Jamie looked at me, his pleasant club-president smile almost masking the disappointment in his eyes. “I was glad you called. You can call on me for anything. You know that, right? Now talk to me.”
I sat up, my arms crossed over my breasts. Jamie retreated into the bathroom, emerging with a cream-colored bathrobe. He handed it to me and stepped into his tuxedo pants. Grabbing his discarded clothes, he led me to the other room.
We curled up on the couch by the fireplace, and I told him everything—about the Sugar Maple, Margaret and the pie contest, meeting Martin and getting to know Henry. About Henry dying, and about learning of Sylvie.
“I feel like such an idiot,” I said, wiping my face on the sleeve of the bathrobe. “I should have known. I should have assumed he wasn’t available in some way. Those are the only men I’m ever drawn to.” I grabbed the angora throw on the back of the couch and hugged it to my chest. “All those times I thought something might happen between us, I thought he was just being a gentleman.”
“It sounds like he was,” Jamie offered.
“Yeah, but now I don’t know what to think. Maybe he never liked me at all. Maybe I was just a comfort, something to take his mind off everything. Wasn’t that what I was to you?”
“Not quite,” Jamie said, his ears turning pink. “You never exactly made me feel comfortable, Livvy.” He stroked the back of my neck lightly with his fingertips. “I’d say you kept me on my toes.”
“Or on your back,” I said, squirming out of his embrace and hopping off the couch. “But you never loved me in that way people sing about.”
“I’m very fond of you; you know that.”
I paced the long length of the sitting room. “Do you think she knows? Your wife? Or is she really dumb?”
“Hush, now,” he said, scowling. “Agatha is a brilliant woman.”
“So how on earth could she not know that her husband was banging the help? I mean, seriously, Jamie, we had a good time together. You couldn’t have been up for much when you got back to the mansion.”
“We did have a good time, didn’t we?” The corners of Jamie’s lips lifted a fraction, and his eyes lost their focus. “To answer your question, Agatha’s and my relationship is . . . complicated. I think she sees what she wants to see and ignores what’s inconvenient for her.”
“I wish I could do that,” I said, collapsing back on the couch.
“Wish you could do what?”
“Pick and choose what I see. Because all I can think about right now is Martin crawling into bed with his fiancée, and it’s . . .” I was crying again.
“Come here,” Jameson said, and scooted over to sit next to me. He rested a warm arm over my shoulder. “You like this man.”
The church bells rang. Jamie glanced at his watch. He took back his arm and stood. “I’m sorry, Livvy. I really am. And I’m sorry I have to leave you like this.”
He stood and pulled on his shirt, buttoning it quickly. I sat watching him, knowing it would be the last time. I scooped up his cuff links from the coffee table and slid them into his cuffs.
“I am sorry I called you. I didn’t mean to be a tease,” I said as I buttoned his vest, smoothing my hands over his chest.
“Stay as long as you like. I mean it. Order anything in the dining room. The manager knows it’s on my tab.”
I walked Jamie to the door. “I meant what I said, Liv—the door is always open at the Emerson.”
“Thanks. I’m afraid it would feel like taking a step backward.”
“Well, that’s probably the best perspective, at least for my marriage’s sake.” He cleared his throat. “Let me know. I could make a few calls. Perhaps the St. Botolph Club?”
“I doubt I’ll be in Boston for long,” I said, although the idea of moving even from the hallway back to the living room was exhausting.
Jamie hesitated in the doorway.
I gave him a small nudge. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”