Looking for Peyton Place Page 6

  Joanne nodded. “I loved your mom. She was always good to me, and she had a great sense of style. Watching her go downhill was heartbreaking. She kept wanting to be here, but it got harder for her.”

  “Because of the stairs?” I was thinking of the balance problem.

  “And illness. If it wasn’t a cold, it was the flu. She was in bed half the time, and she hated that. She also hated forgetting people’s names. She hated losing her train of thought in the middle of a sentence. The computer was a whole other issue. We had to make sure we were with her when she was entering sales. Poor Phoebe. The strain has taken a toll.”

  I might have asked about that toll—to wit, my sister’s behavior and health. But Joanne was a stranger to me, which made prying seem like a betrayal of Phoebe. So I simply nodded and said, “The store looks wonderful. Very upmarket. How much of it is your doing?”

  “Not much,” she confessed. “Phoebe does the buying.” She looked past me as Phoebe joined us, and said softly, “You wanted me to remind you about New York.”

  “All done,” Phoebe said with flair. “I made the reservations.”

  “Reservations for a buying trip?” I asked.

  “Yes. Do you want to go somewhere for lunch?”

  By way of reminder, I held up the bag with the salads—to which, making light of forgetfulness, she tapped her head, rolled her eyes, and led the way out back.

  The deck was warm, but the sun had already shifted enough to bring shade to the wide, weathered planks. A slight breeze came off the river, carrying the scent of wildflowers—yellow wood sorrel and musk flower, blue vervain, purple loosestrife. I spotted a patch of forget-me-nots; it had been growing there forever.

  Sitting at a small table, we opened our salads and bottled teas. “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Your cold seems better.”

  “It was only a cold.” She lifted her fork. It hovered over the salad for a minute—hovered or shook, I wasn’t sure which—before she set it back down, put her hand in her lap, and asked, “Where did you go after you dropped me here?”

  That hand had shaken, I decided. She was covering it up.

  Nonchalantly, between bites, I listed my stops in town, concluding with the one at the house to put groceries in the fridge.

  “Then where?” Phoebe asked with neither an acknowledgment nor a thank-you.

  “The clinic. I wanted to talk with Tom Martin.”

  “Why?”

  “To thank him for taking care of Mom. Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I will.” She glanced at the discarded bag. “Any napkins in there?”

  I checked. “No. Are there some inside?”

  “In the office.” She started to rise, but seemed to struggle holding the arms of the chair at the same time that she was moving it back.

  “I’ll go,” I put in quickly to curtail that struggle. “I have to use the bathroom anyway.” I left before she could argue.

  “They’re on top of the fridge,” she called after me.

  The office was on the second floor. I used the adjoining bathroom, which had been renovated since I had been here last, and quickly glanced around the office on my way out. It had been renovated too, and was neatly organized, with two desks facing opposite walls, built-in cabinets and shelves, appropriate spaces for computer, fax, and phone. One of the desks was clean, either Joanne’s or a spare. The other, marked by a framed picture of our parents, was Phoebe’s. It held a mess of papers and wasn’t organized at all. A corkboard covered the wall behind it, and was covered with Post-its. There seemed to be duplicates. I saw variations of MAKE RESERVATIONS FOR NEW YORK written on four separate sheets. Apparently, New York was something Phoebe didn’t want to forget.

  From the looks of those Post-its, New York was also something she didn’t trust herself to remember. I wondered how many other of these notes served the same purpose, and whether this was compensation for a faltering memory.

  Phoebe used Post-its; Mom had used notebooks. Long before she was ill, she had jotted down thoughts, notes, and reminders in a spiral bound journal, one journal per year. And there they were, in order, occupying a place of their own on the bookshelves to the right of Phoebe’s desk.

  Another time I would read through them. After all, Mom was a writer. I was willing to bet that there was something of her to be gleaned from all those entries.

  For now, though, knowing Phoebe was waiting, I took a pair of napkins from the top of the waist-high refrigerator and returned to the deck. The warmth hit me first, and pleasurably, then the smell of newly cut grass wafting from the mower that droned several houses up. Birds were at a feeder by the riverwalk now—goldfinches, the male a bright yellow and the female a bland yellowish green. They came and went, vanishing into the willows at times before flitting back, at other times flying all the way across the river. On this sunny day, th’other side was at its innocuous best. I couldn’t make out homes through the trees, though the riverbank was littered with fishermen. Both sexes, all ages. I counted a dozen, and those, in the small patch of bank I could see through our own willows. As I watched, a thin young man caught something, unhooked it, and dropped it in a pail. This fishing wasn’t just for sport. It was for dinner.

  The setting was a throwback, yet not—old-fashioned, but very real. Warmth, smells, birds, fish, and leisure—it was idyllic, I had to say.

  A Trojan horse, came a whisper. I quickly turned my head, thinking that someone was being very funny. But the buzz had come from a fly.

  Swatting at it, I turned back to Phoebe. She had eaten some of her salad while I was gone, but the fork was now idle against the rim of the plastic tray. She was slouched lower in the chair, her head resting against its back and her eyes closed. I let her rest while I ate. When I dragged my chair deeper into the shade, though, the small sound made her bolt upright. Her eyes flew to mine. She looked blank one minute, irritated the next.

  “You must be tired,” I said, and passed a napkin across.

  Relaxing in her seat again, she took the napkin, studied it, then set it down. With her hands on the arms of the chair, she eyed me with caution. “Tell me where you went this morning.”

  I shot her a curious look. “Didn’t I already do that?”

  She didn’t speak for a minute, seeming to process my question and regroup. “Well, tell me how it felt. Was it embarrassing?”

  “Embarrassing?”

  “Seeing Middle River. Knowing you come from here. It must be a pretty ridiculous place compared to Washington.”

  “I don’t compare the two. Middle River is what it is. It doesn’t embarrass me.”

  “But you pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  “I don’t. It’s my hometown. I’ve discussed it in interviews. It isn’t a secret.”

  Phoebe furrowed her brow. “Did you say you went to the clinic?” I nodded. “To see Tom?” I nodded again. “What did he say?”

  “We have Washington in common, so we talked about that. He’s an impressive man. I think it’s remarkable the Meades were able to lure him here.”

  “He came because of his sister,” Phoebe said. She picked up her fork, then put it down and picked up her iced tea instead. The bottle went to her mouth with passable steadiness.

  “He didn’t mention a sister. Does she live here?” I asked.

  Phoebe’s eyes lit. She was obviously pleased to be the informant. “She moved here with Tom. She’s retarded and was institutionalized for a while, until Tom took her out. He can take care of her here.”

  I was touched. “That is the kindest thing.”

  “So don’t expect anything,” Phoebe warned.

  I didn’t follow. “Expect?”

  “By way of a date. The two of you might have lots in common, but he doesn’t date. He spends all his free time with his sister. She’s his mission in life. Some people wonder about that.”

  “Wonder what?”

  Phoebe gave a sly s
mile. “Whether they have something going, y’know?”

  It was a minute before I realized what she meant, the idea was so contrary to my impression of Tom. “That’s disgusting, Phoebe.”

  “I’m not saying I think it,” she argued, “just that some do. You know how they are. They go looking for anything remotely perverse. I like Tom. He’s very attractive, don’t you think?”

  “I do, and we’ll be friends. But anything more?” I shook my head no. There was no chemistry at all.

  “How’s Greg?” Phoebe asked.

  “Fine. He’ll be leaving for his trip in another day or two.”

  “Why aren’t you going with him?”

  “Because I’m here.” But that wasn’t really what Phoebe was asking. I sighed. “I’ve told you before. We’re not an item.”

  “Why not? What’re you waiting for?”

  “Nothing,” I said calmly. “I’m not in a rush.”

  “You should be. Look what happened to me. Miscarriage after miscarriage, because I waited too long.”

  This was the first I had heard about Phoebe’s age being a factor in those miscarriages—but then, it was something we didn’t often discuss. Painful subjects were generally off-limits during those weekends we spent together. But I was curious now that she had raised the issue. “I wouldn’t call early thirties old,” I said. “It’s very much par for the course in Washington.”

  Phoebe was suddenly irritated. “Well, Washington is not Middle River. Maybe those women are different.”

  “Did your doctor really blame it on age?”

  “He didn’t have to. It was obvious.”

  I didn’t think it was obvious at all. Very few of my friends had children yet; they were busy building careers. But I knew plenty of women in their late thirties, even in their forties, who had successfully carried babies to term. Conversely, I had heard of plenty of younger ones with a history of miscarriage.

  I wondered if exposure to mercury could cause miscarriage. Nearly every article on the subject mentioned the vulnerability of young children. Pregnant women were advised not to eat fish that contained high concentrations of mercury, because even a small amount could affect a fetus.

  It struck me that as a Washingtonian I knew far more about the politics of mercury regulation than I did about what mercury actually did to the body.

  I had to learn more.

  Back at the house, I turned on my laptop and used Phoebe’s dial-up to access the Web—and how not to check e-mail first? I told myself I had to do it for work; that was the premise. But of course there was more to it than that. So here was TRUTH #2: Ego is involved; we want to be wanted. In my case, given my childhood isolation, I view e-mail as a party. Granted, it’s one I throw for myself. But how nice to enter my little cyberhome from wherever I happen to be, and find all sorts of greetings from friends.

  I wasn’t disappointed now, though the notes in my in box weren’t only from friends. I quickly deleted the spam and filed a handful of work-related messages that needed no reply—one from my editor acknowledging receipt of my revisions, one from my agent wishing me a good trip. My publicist wanted to know if I was interested in speaking at a fund-raiser in Idaho the following spring, but since that was my serious writing time, I respectfully declined.

  Having saved the best for last, I read notes from my three closest friends—Amanda the graphic artist, Jocelyn the college professor, Berri the professional volunteer—each asking her version of how the drive had gone and how my reception in Middle River had been.

  Greg had sent a quickie. His were always quickies, often just a note in the subject line. This one said, Did you arrive? I clicked on “reply,” typed in, Yup. Are you packed? and sent it back.

  Done playing, I pulled up Google, but I had barely typed in mercury poisoning when I heard something on the stone drive. Recognizing the sound, I smiled and rose from the kitchen table. I was on the side stairs when my niece and nephew, Lisa and Timmy, dropped their bicycles and ran toward me.

  I hugged both of them at the same time. This was my homecoming. If there was one single reason for me to spend time in Middle River, these two were it.

  I held them back and looked from one tanned, beaming face to the other. “I hope you noticed,” I said, “that I’m not even leaning over. You two are getting so tall. What is happening here?”

  “I’m turning thirteen in three months,” Lisa pointed out.

  “And I’m gonna be tall like my dad,” said her brother, not to be outdone.

  “You are both gorgeous,” I decided, “and so sweet. You’re just what I need my first day back.”

  “Mom says you’re staying the month?” Lisa asked.

  When I nodded, Timmy complained, “But that’s not fair. We have to go back to school in three weeks.”

  “We can do plenty in three weeks,” I told them. “First, though, I’m making limeade,” which I knew they loved but their mother hated, “and then I want the details of Girl Scout camp,” this to Lisa, “and I want to know what you’ve been doing that kept you from e-mailing those details sooner.”

  “Robert Volker,” Timmy said with displeasure.

  “Oh, you’re so smart,” Lisa sang in insult, but she was blushing.

  “Robert Volker.” I was testing the name, gently teasing, when Timmy broke away. “And you have to tell me about baseball,” I called after him. “Did you win the series?” He was jogging deeper into the driveway. “Come back here, I’m not done with you.” Suddenly, though, I understood.

  “This car is cool,” came the boy’s awe-filled cry as he circled the BMW. “Oh wow.”

  Keeping an arm around Lisa’s shoulder—I wasn’t ready to let her go—I drew her with me toward the convertible.

  From the opposite side, Timmy looked over at me, eyes wide. “Take us for a ride, Auntie Anne?”

  Lisa had started the Auntie Anne stuff. She had been two, suddenly talking, but consistently putting an ee sound on the wrong word. No one ever corrected her, least of all me. I like being called Auntie Anne. To this day, it makes me feel warm and special and loved—all of which I wanted to wallow in for a while. I figured that if I could distract them long enough, maybe with a batch of sugar cookies to go with the limeade, they might forget. I wasn’t yet up for driving topless through town.

  “Later,” I told him. “Let’s visit first.”

  But Lisa freed herself and ran to the car. “I love this, Auntie Anne. It must be awesome to drive. Three years from October, I can do that. Will you bring it back then?” With barely a breath, she said to her brother, “Wouldn’t it be awesome if we had a car like this?”

  “Can we go for a ride—please, Auntie Anne?” Timmy begged.

  With his close-cropped sandy hair, his broad shoulders, and the promise of height, he was very much his father’s son. Conversely, Lisa was a Barnes, with her long black hair—worn in a ponytail now—and her slender build. Both children had their dad’s personality. I had always liked Ron Mattain. He was a decent, good-natured sort, far easier to take than my sister.

  But I’m being unfair. People always like Sabina. She can be kind and funny and sweet, simply not to me. The same is true of Phoebe, if on a lesser scale, and part of me knows I deserve their hostility. I was awful to them growing up. Totally aside from my gawking at them around the house, they were the butt of more than one of the scathing little editorial pieces I wrote when I was the high school correspondent for the Middle River Times.

  I had tried to make amends with the vacations I planned, but if Sabina’s remarks this morning meant anything, I missed the mark. She was right. This definitely was TRUTH #1: I should have been here while Mom was sick. They had shouldered the full responsibility—and it was all fine and good to say that they hadn’t let on how bad things were, or that we sisters weren’t close, or that I hadn’t felt welcome. Alyssa was my mother. I should have helped out.

  Our family was shrinking, the older generation now gone. This was no doubt why having siste
rs suddenly seemed important to me, and I don’t just mean having sisters. I mean being close to them. The ill will between us had never bothered me before. Now it did.

  Of the truths I acknowledged while I was in Middle River, that would be another, but not just then.

  “Please,” Timmy pleaded, standing on the far side of the car.

  Lisa joined his entreaty. “We could go for a ride and then talk.”

  “And where will you sit?” I asked pedantically. “This car only holds two.”

  “We’ll share the passenger’s seat,” Timmy said.

  “We’re very small,” added Lisa.

  “Take us for a ride now, and I’ll wash your car.”

  “I’ll make you dinner. I am the best cook.”

  “Is that so?” I asked Lisa, thinking that at not-quite-thirteen, she had remarkable confidence. “What do you make?”

  “Chili.”

  “Ah. That’s tempting.”

  “Wait’ll the guys see this,” Timmy said as he ran a worshipful hand along the rim of the open car. He raised expectant eyes and waited.

  Had anyone else asked, I might have said no. But I adored these two children and loved spoiling them. If Middle River saw me driving through town in my vintage BMW with the ragtop down, surely it would know I was doing it for the kids. I certainly wasn’t doing it to impress the natives. I didn’t care what Middle River thought of me.

  Besides, I was suddenly in the mood for a ride. “Okay,” I said in surrender. “You twisted my arm.”

  In short order, with both children belted into the passenger’s seat, we set off. It was a perfect afternoon for a drive, just warm enough so that the breeze coming at us felt good. Warmth and breeze were nothing new for me; I experienced them all the time in D.C. What was different here was the lack of urgency. Time was ours for the taking. We were tooling around, with nowhere special to go. I could hear my engine (beautifully smooth, I might add), the occasional lawn mower, the hiss and click of a sprinkler, the kids shrieking at friends. It was fun. Novel. Restful.

  I cruised down Willow all the way to the end and turned this way and that under a dappled canopy of leaves, along back roads on the outskirts of town, the kids waving at everyone they saw. We drove along the river for a while, then turned inland and headed back toward the center of town, which was about when I realized I needed gas. So I swung into the filling station at the very bottom of Oak.