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SIOBHAN
After I got Nana and her cats settled in Dee’s old room at home, I had a few minutes to spare before heading to my studio. I brewed a cup of green tea, drizzled in a bit of honey, and stood in front of the picture window in the living room that looked out over the street and directly into the Vaises’ driveway. The rain had stopped, leaving shiny puddles on the asphalt.
Jimmy, on the other hand, was still across the street, carrying boxes from the sleek, black sedan to the house. He moved with that same panther grace I remembered from high school, but his hair was much shorter, though with the same glossy darkness it sported in his youth. I would have loved to see a paunch, some gray, a stoop to his stride, some sign that age had dimmed his appeal. But, no. The man he’d become jumpstarted my heart with the same speed the teen used to, as if time hadn’t lurched forward since those adolescent years.
I glanced at the clock and realized another ten minutes had passed while I stood there, ogling my former neighbor. Not entirely true, I told myself. I was dragging my heels because I didn’t trust Nana to behave while I was gone. I watched her dancing around the kitchen, humming and smiling like she’d just won the lottery, and feared I’d come home at nine-thirty tonight to find her hosting a kegger with a bunch of frat boys. I had to find a way to keep an eye on her. Only one idea came to mind, and I didn’t relish it. Still...
“Nana? Do you want to come to work with me? I hate the idea of you being stuck here all alone for so long.”
“Aw, honey, that’s sweet of you.” She shimmied from the kitchen to the living room and bumped her hip against mine several times, splashing spots of tea on my wrist. “I’ll be fine. I promise. Don’t worry. I already told you. I’m not going to be a bit of trouble. You’ll barely know I’m here.”
Pretty speech, but I didn’t buy it for a second. “Uh-huh.” I grabbed a tissue from the decorative box on the coffee table and dabbed at the droplets.
Meanwhile, she pulled the curtain away from the window and practically pressed her nose against the glass. “Looks like Jimmy’s moving into his parents’ house for good.”
“I doubt it. His parents sold the house last month. About time, too. They had it on the market for over a year. More likely he’s removing the last of their stuff before the new owners come in.”
I watched him remove a large box from the back seat of that sleek sedan, shift his body to accommodate the added weight and stride forward toward the stairs leading into the house, effectively making a liar out of me.
“Guess again. That boy’s moving stuff in, not out. I bet he was the buyer. Or the renter the Vaises finally got for their place.”
Not improbable. A lot of local residents either sold their homes to their kids for a song or left them in charge so they could afford to continue to live in Snug Harbor where many of us had opened or inherited local businesses. Decades ago, this sleepy seaside community was considered too far for most urbanites to visit. Thus, the residents grew up insulated and isolated from most strangers. Nowadays, though, the rich and famous, locked out of the Hamptons due to overcrowding, had moved farther east. Their migration had resulted in an explosion in business for goods and service, but also sent the real estate prices in this area skyrocketing. Locals who’d lived here for generations could no longer afford to stay where they’d grown up—unless Mom and Dad figured out a way to help their kids.
But Jimmy couldn’t possibly be moving in. Last I’d heard, he had a great job, a great apartment, and a great wife—all in Manhattan. My heart hammered. The last thing I needed was Jimmy Vais living fifty yards away—again. I sipped my tea and feigned nonchalance. “Well, maybe he’s helping Justin move in.”
Jimmy’s brother, Justin, was safe. He never made my tongue thick in my mouth or my stomach freefall with a smile or his more usual greeting, “Hey, how ya doin’?” The fact that Jimmy said the exact same thing to everyone he met—male or female, young or old—didn’t prevent my senses from drowning in want whenever he looked my way.
“Bah. Justin.” Nana’s tone turned disapproving. “That boy never took responsibility for anything in his life. I wouldn’t trust him with a goldfish, much less a house. Remember the summer I hired him to mow our lawn? He showed up the first Saturday, only did half the backyard, disappeared, and never came back again.”
“That was almost twenty years ago. Justin was thirteen.”
“Leopards don’t change their spots, Bon-Bon.”
Across the street, Jimmy Vais reappeared in view, this time without his heavy winter jacket.
“Mmm-mmm. Look at that physique! That’s a man who can hold his woman in his arms all night long—if you get me.” She jabbed an elbow into my ribs.
“I should go,” I said and turned away from the sight of broad shoulders, great biceps, and a rock hard chest packed in a long-sleeve black tee, which was tucked into faded black jeans. One desperate woman leering at the poor man was enough.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“No, don’t. It’s freezing out there today. Stay inside and get comfortable. I don’t want you to get sick. Relax. Binge watch TV and cuddle your kitties. Take some time to unpack.” In other words, behave yourself. Please. “That’s what I’d do if I didn’t have to work today.”
“How about I just watch you go from the door?”
I’d forgotten Nana always liked to wave goodbye until the car was out of sight. I guess old habits were tough to crack for someone her age. “Okay.” I grabbed my coat and purse and headed to the front door with Nana on my heels.
“Go on.” She practically pushed me outside. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
I paused in the doorway and took in the glimmer in her eye. Yup. She was planning a kegger. I knew it. She shoved me again, this time hard enough that I nearly tumbled down the cement stairs. I righted myself and headed for the van, snuggling into the fake fur collar of my coat to ward off the biting wind. God, I hated winter here!
While my face stayed buried and my imagination pictured half-naked twenty-something males chugging beer with my grandmother, I made it to the driveway before I heard her shout, “Yoo-hoooooo! Jimmy Vais! Welcome home, young man!”
I skidded to a halt. Oh, my God. She did not just do that!
“Hey, how ya doin’, Mrs. Bendlow?” he called back with a half-hearted wave.
“Bon-Bon, say hello,” she added in a shout so loud I was pretty sure the neighbors on the next block heard her.
I wanted to crawl into the garden and hide under the low-hanging branches of the weeping willow tree. Instead, I found myself waving a little too briskly. “Hi, Jimmy. Nice to see you again. Sorry. I’m in a rush. Gotta get to work.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied with no warmth.
I dove into my van, started her up, and pulled out as quickly as I could without burning rubber. I’m no soccer mom—or any kind of mom, for that matter. The van was the easiest way for me to carry all my equipment. I offered traditional services like wedding and special occasion photographs, but I also hawked beach photos to tourists during the summer, provided aerial shots for real estate and government agencies, and occasionally, played paparazzi for celebrity charity events. I needed a vehicle that served as a moving storage facility and a mobile dressing room, in case I had to change clothes in a hurry. Best of all, it kept the sleazy lecherous men at bay—the ones from out of town, looking for a little vacay action. In this day and age, a minivan was more effective than a wedding ring for chasing away the cheaters. Men automatically assumed I was a single mom with at least two-point-three kids, and none of those fun-in-the-sun players were looking for that much baggage.
For the rest of the drive, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white and sang along with the radio to keep from screaming my frustration and embarrassment.
Once inside my studio, I checked my appointment book. All the blank lines with no appointments mocked me. A few years ago, I worked sixteen-hour days in December and still had to turn clients away. Nowadays, though, everyone had the ability to take a photo with their phone and download it to one of a hundred sites where they could have their holiday cards printed and sent to them already embossed with their names. Thus, my busiest season had dried up to the few loyal customers who wanted portraits for grandparents and weren’t satisfied with the annual school photographs, or required evidence of milestones like “Baby’s First (or Second or Tenth) Christmas.”
Unless I filled all these holes soon, I’d end this year in the red for the first time since I opened my studio. I had nowhere else to cut corners. I’d already let my assistant go at the end of October when the frenzy of wedding season had died down with a whimper instead of a bang.
Around that same time, some real estate hotshot, certainly not Tanya Albright of Snug Harbor Realty, had shown up to offer me a whole lotta money for this space. Apparently a high-rolling reality television celebrity wanted to open a boutique here—like this town needed another shop where the rich and famous could buy pashmina scarves at a thousand percent markup. I was second-guessing my decision to turn him down now, but I loved my studio and its location. Giving it up would be like cutting off my right arm.
I checked the book again, telling myself I did so to be certain the Haley twins were my first appointment of the afternoon, but really, I kinda hoped I’d see a few more slots filled in. As if Santa might have sent an invisible elf to book me clients because I’d been a very good girl this year. Sadly, I was wrong. No new clients, no elfin magic, meaning there was no Santa. Either that or I hadn’t been as good as I thought.
The front door opened, ushering in a burst of icy wind, a harried-looking Mrs. Haley, and her two impish sons, Lukas and Lincoln, bundled up in wool topcoats that probably cost more than my monthly electric bill here.
“Oh, my God, it’s crazy out there today,” Mrs. Haley exclaimed as she leaned against the door to close it. “I hope the wind didn’t ruffle their hair too much. We came here straight from the salon. I need everything to be perfect.”
And she’d ride my butt to make sure she got that perfection. Still, she was a loyal customer—one of the few I had left. “Don’t worry. You and your boys are in good hands. Claire’s not in today.” Or tomorrow or the day after that, but Mrs. Haley wasn’t interested in how my financial woes had me cutting back on staff. All she cared about was results. “So I’m going to set up. Come on back when you’re ready.” Leaving Mrs. Haley to remove the boys’ coats and straighten up whatever stray wisps of hair her acute vision noticed on their perfectly coiffed heads, I opened the door to the rear room where I made my magic happen.
With the studio lights on, I arranged the sled, fake snowman, and red velvet blanket with white fur trim against the Christmas backdrop and took a step back to view my handiwork. I frowned as I surveyed the scene. Something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Do you have another background?” Mrs. Haley’s disapproving tone came from behind me and fell like a sodden blanket dropped onto my shoulders. “We used this one last year.”
Right. I glanced over at the boys, six years old and dressed like forty-somethings on their way to work at some investment banking firm: three-piece charcoal gray pinstriped suits, white shirts, red silk ties, shiny black shoes, hair slicked back and gelled into submission. Poor kids. They looked so formal. So stiff. So...not like a childhood Christmas. What was I going to do? Shove them in front of a screen with the green glowing numbers of the New York Stock Exchange in the background?
“Maybe we should loosen those ties,” I suggested with a hint of a question to the statement.
“Absolutely not! These photos are for posterity! I won’t have people wondering why I allowed my children to resemble hooligans for a formal sitting.”
Strike one. Why hadn’t I updated my background screens? Oh, that’s right. Funds were low. If this economic downturn kept up, I’d be taking pictures on the sidewalk before long...
Hey! The lightbulb went on inside my head—dim, but lit. Outside, the town had draped all the old-fashioned streetlamps lining the sidewalks with green garland and red bows. The cloudy day and blustery wind could actually work in my favor. Yes. My artistic eye visualized a bleak gray background, the only burst of color the boys themselves in their matching coats topped with colorful scarves blowing in the breeze.
“One sec,” I told the Haleys and raced to my closet, silently praying I still had those plaid sashes from the Scottish-themed wedding I’d photographed last spring. The green tartan peeked out at me from a box on the top shelf, and I stood on tiptoe to yank the fabric away from the cardboard.
Victorious, I waved my prizes at the boys.
“What are those for?” their mother demanded.
“Mrs. Haley, I’m going to make sure you have the most unique photos this year! Trust me. Your friends’ kids’ pictures will look like stick figure art next to what I’m going to create for you.”
“Oh.” Her satisfied purr confirmed what I’d always suspected. This photo shoot—and all the others—was about one-upping her friends and relatives. On that, I figured I could deliver.
I grabbed my high-performance DSLR camera and multi-flash. “Go get your coats,” I told the boys. “We’re taking some shots outside.”
The miniature business execs flashed such hopeful expressions my heart cracked. Were they ever allowed outdoors? Did they ever get to be kids? To play? Or did they spend their childhoods cooped up in a nursery with adding machines and stacks of books about accounting and the IRS codes?
“Outside?” Mrs. Haley’s dubious tone demolished the kids’ happiness faster than finding coal in their Christmas stockings.
I was really going to have to sell this idea to Mother Joyless if I had any chance at all of keeping this account. I flipped off the studio lights, the better to keep her from reading the anxiety in my eyes. “Trust me,” I said with false bravado. “This will only take a few minutes, but I promise you the results will be breathtaking.”
In the dark studio, my imagination went into overdrive, picturing what I could capture with a little creativity and the angelic faces of these two kids. My blood pulsed harder as my excitement grew. I could do this. In fact, I don’t know why I’d never thought of trying this kind of photo session before. Maybe desperation led to inspiration. Whatever. If I pulled this off the way I thought I could, by spring I’d have customers clamoring for my skills again.
♥♥♥♥
ALTHEA
I stood by the front door long after my granddaughter left for work, watching the activity across the street and puzzling over Jimmy’s cool behavior. Something troubled that young man, and I was determined to find out what. I rummaged in the kitchen, found the ingredients for a blueberry buckle cake, and set to work. In all my years of living, I’d discovered the best way to get a man to talk when he didn’t want to was to feed him treats.
My late husband, Archie, proposed to me after a few bites of one of my sunny lemon muffins. At the time, back in 1971, I was twenty-two years old, I’d lost my brother in the war in Vietnam, my parents were coming down hard on my freedoms in their effort to keep me safe, and I wanted out from under their thumbs. Don’t get me wrong. That wasn’t my only reason for marrying Archie. I loved him, and I knew in my heart he was the one for me. I was also eight weeks pregnant, which kinda helped my heart make up its mind about him. I didn’t tell Archie about the baby, though—I wouldn’t force him to marry me. Instead, I baked up a batch of lemon muffins and carried them over to the gas station where he worked at the time.
When I arrived, Archie’s smile tripped up my heartbeat. “Thea, what are you doing here? I thought I was supposed to pick you up after six.”
“You are,” I told him and held out the Tupperware container. “In the meantime, I made these for you. A little something so you don’t forget I’m waiting for you at home.”
He couldn’t help himself. Despite the black grease staining his fingers, he reached in and filched one of the treats from the plastic bowl. I winced, but said nothing. He took a big bite, and his eyes rolled up to the sky, his smile grew dreamy, and the deepest sigh of delight elicited from his pursed lips. After he swallowed, he said, “When we get married, I’m gonna have you make these every Sunday.”
No, it wasn’t that easy!
I played off the comment with false laissez-faire while inside, my belly and its new resident flip-flopped. “Hmmph! You haven’t asked me to marry you. And what makes you so sure I’d say yes if you did?”
His expression grew serious, and his tone flattened to somber. “My number got called up. I was planning on telling you tonight.”
I dropped the bowl, and the muffins spilled out to roll across the asphalt. Oh, God. No. Not Archie. Not now. The smell of funeral flowers and smoky candlewax still filled my nostrils every time I thought about my brother, Tim. About sitting in that ghastly front row with the uncomfortable chairs and a chorus of weeping women while my older brother lay stiff and lifeless in a shiny mahogany casket in the front of the dim room. Tim, the war hero. His picture and that stupid triangle flag—the gift from a grateful nation—was encased in a frame on my parents’ mantle, a constant reminder none of us would see Tim again, not in this lifetime.
I couldn’t bear the idea my only memory of Archie and the love we shared might soon be in a similar box. That wasn’t what I’d planned for our future. I wanted years together yet—decades—not weeks or months.
“We could go to Canada,” I said in my sudden desperation. “My cousin, Lonnie, moved to Toronto last year. We could stay with him.”
I knew, even as the words rushed out of my mouth, Archie wouldn’t run. For me to suggest it only insulted him. He was too honorable, too devoted to the idea of God and country, and would consider the idea traitorous. I didn’t care. He could have all the hurt feelings he wanted, as long as he stayed here. Not here in the literal sense. We didn’t have to stay in Snug Harbor, or even in the States. Or flee to Canada. All I wanted was him to be alive, to be with me, to help me raise our baby together.
God help me, I almost blurted out my secret right then and there.
He ran a hand up my bare arm, gentle as a butterfly. “I know you’re scared, babe. But if they call me to serve, I have to go.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. Tears stung my eyes, and I looked toward the sun to dry them. Buying time, I picked up the ruined muffins and stuffed them into the Tupperware bowl.
Archie knelt beside me. “Talk to me, Thea.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t speak. I was too afraid of what might come out of my mouth next. I might curse him for a fool for his willingness to sacrifice himself to the futile and bloody war. Or I could just as easily blurt that I was pregnant, effectively tying him to me in the most unfair way. Maybe I was worrying for nothing. Maybe he’d flunk the physical, or get stationed in Hawaii, or...I don’t know. Maybe Nixon would call an end to the war next week. All possible scenarios, though none of them were likely. I struggled to keep my twisted emotions in check.
“Finish your muffin,” I said with no emotion whatsoever, which was probably better than too much emotion. “I don’t want Gus to keep you late tonight ‘cuz you were out here talking to me when you’re supposed to be working.”
He popped the rest of the baked treat into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. That was when he said it. “Thea, will you marry me?”
I nodded.
That was it. My dream marriage proposal didn’t come with a candlelit dinner, a man on bended knee, or a sparkly diamond. A muffin, a question, and a nod while we stood outside Gus Elrod’s Esso station on the hot, oil-stained asphalt effectively changed us from two dating kids to an engaged couple. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
The timer on the oven beeped, jolting me back to the present. I pulled out the cake, whipped up the sugar drizzle, and poured it over the hot crumb topping. The aroma of cinnamon and blueberries filled the warm kitchen and warmed my heart. It felt so good to be home again!
I let the cake cool enough to transfer from the baking dish to a serving platter, then grabbed my coat before heading across the street with my home-baked welcome gift.
Jimmy’s black sedan still sat in the driveway, but the front door was closed, the vertical blinds in the bay window drawn so tight not a sliver of the meager afternoon light slipped through. Clearly, he had no intention of entertaining visitors today.
Luckily, I considered myself family. I’d known the Vaises for decades and Jimmy himself since he was three days old. I’d changed his diapers on occasion. And as far as I was concerned, since I’d seen his winkie, we were family. Or, at least, close enough to it that he couldn’t ignore me while I stood on the doorstep ringing the bell.
I don’t know if he used the same argument, but he did come to the same conclusion because he opened the door and offered a tired smile. “Mrs. Bendlow, hi. Sorry, but now’s not a good time—”
“I baked a blueberry buckle cake,” I rushed out before he could finish his statement and slam the door in my face. I held the platter up toward his nose, hoping the wind would whip some flavor-filled air toward him and weaken his resolve. “Then I remembered Bon—I mean, Siobhan—wouldn’t be home ‘til late. It’s supposed to be enjoyed while it’s still warm.”
“You could nuke it.”
I grimaced. “Sacrilege. You nuke a mass-produced box of chemicals that resembles a cake you buy at the supermarket. This beauty was made from scratch, with blueberries picked from my own garden.” Yes, they’d been picked by someone other than me, probably sometime in July, and frozen since the summer, but still, they were hand-grown in the garden I’d cultivated in the backyard since the seventies.
On a deep sigh, he slapped the handle to the storm door, and I knew I had him right where I wanted him. “I hope you’re okay eating off paper towels. I haven’t finished unpacking and I’m too tired to look for the box with dishes in it.”
“Paper towels are fine. Is your coffeepot set up?”
“First thing I plugged in. But I don’t have milk or sugar yet.”
“I drink it black.” I didn’t, but like I said, I wasn’t going to give him an opportunity to lock me out, leaving him imprisoned in whatever fortress of solitude he planned for himself right now.
“You’re not going away, are you?” Despite the animosity in his tone, he held the door open for me. “You’re still the ‘stubborn pain in the ass’ my father used to call you.”
Whoops. With one careless remark, the ogre had returned to remind me I was an unwelcome guest. He could bark all he wanted. I wouldn’t surrender that easy.
“Honey, your dad wasn’t as clever as you think. Everybody in this neighborhood called me that. And worse. It’s nice to be remembered for my good qualities.” I stepped inside and took in the dim living room with its sealed window coverings. “You oughta open the blinds. Let some light in here. The house will feel less claustrophobic.”
“No, thanks.”
So much for small talk. Oh, well. I just had to keep on my toes with this one. I strode toward the kitchen and settled on one of the high stools situated in front of the breakfast nook. “If you give me a knife, I can cut this while you make us some coffee.”
He stopped in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, his expression reflecting his impatience and suspicion. “Why are you here, Althea?”
“Funny,” I said, maintaining the cheery attitude. “I was about to ask you the same question. What’s brought you back to Snug Harbor and your parents’ old house?”
“A job,” he said, but he folded his arms over his chest, telling me there was a lot more to his return. I gave no reply, allowing judgmental silence to fill the room, until at last, he surrendered the details with a shrug. “I’ve been contracted to do a long-term project on the beach erosion for the hotels here. Since my parents were having trouble selling this place, I bought it outright so I’d have a place to stay while overseeing the details of the project. It actually turned out to be more cost-efficient for the firm.”
Uh-huh. And in my spare time, I moonlighted as an exotic dancer for the over-sixty crowd. I’d have to keep him talking if I planned to dig out why he was really back here in Snug Harbor. Well, I had all day. And all week, month and year should it come down to it. “When’s your wife coming to join you?”
His expression darkened to furious. “She isn’t.”
“Oh,” I said, amping up my acting skills to portray more pity than joy. “I’m sorry. When did you two split up?”
“A while ago.”
“What happened?”
The question jolted him as if I installed booster rockets in his back pockets, and he made a beeline for the coffeepot. “You said you need a knife?”
“Yes, please. And those paper towels.” I opted to temporarily change the subject, the better to distract him when I honed in again. “I’m new back in the neighborhood, too, you know. Just got home today.”
“Yeah? Where were you?”
“Prison.”
Clank! He dropped the knife on the counter, and the sudden noise erupting in the oppressive silence made us both flinch.
He arched a brow. “Who’d you kill?”
I suppose normal people would find our banter disturbing, but after months of conversations that revolved around cholesterol numbers and the disrespect of these kids today, I reveled in sharpening my tongue with a skilled adversary. “Ennui.”
“On-who?”
“Ennui,” I repeated while slicing into the cake. “You know. Boredom, world-weariness, tedium.” Okay, so maybe he wasn’t as skilled as I thought, but I could lower my game a bit. After all, I was doing this for Siobhan. And I wouldn’t rest ‘til my only granddaughter knew the happiness with her man that I’d experienced with my Archie.