chapter Fourteen
Ben had headed out around two o'clock to a bachelor party given by his A.A. friends from Bangor. He asked her to tell Laquita that he would pick up the wedding favors from the printer while he was there. Gracie finished the pies around four-thirty. There was something comforting about rolling dough and arranging the strips in a latticework pattern the way Gramma Del had taught her to do. It made her feel connected to family and tradition and after so many years away from home that felt good.
She set the pies to cool on the counter then cast a sharp look at Pyewacket. "You wouldn't would you?" she asked the sleeping feline then set up a barrier just to be sure. Laquita had called awhile ago to say she'd swing by around five o'clock to pick up Gracie so they could shop for a wedding outfit for her which meant Gracie had less than thirty minutes to shower and change.
Apparently there was more to being her father's best man than she had realized. There was wardrobe, for one thing. Laquita had suggested that she wear a variation on the bridesmaid dresses and when Gracie asked where she could purchase one on such short notice, Laquita had laughed and said she'd show Gracie after work.
"Very funny," she said when Laquita pulled up in front of the big house on the hill that evening. A wicked wind drove the rain into the windshield at an alarming rate making the brightly-lit house look like a haven. "The Chases are selling bridal wear these days?"
"Not quite," Laquita said, "but you do need a dress and this is the best place to find one."
"I'm not following you. Don't tell me Mrs. Chase is a seamstress."
"Not that I know of," Laquita said as they both exited the car, "but my mother is."
Gracie felt like the slightly slow third-cousin twice-removed. "And your mother is—"
"Living here," Laquita supplied. "Along with my father, three brothers and my baby sister Storm." Plus three cats, two dogs, and a half-dozen parakeets. "I can't believe nobody told you. It was big news around here for quite awhile."
Gracie tried to imagine the stately mansion bursting at the seams with pets and children but that was more than her brain could handle. She wondered what Gramma Del would think of this remarkable turn of events. Somehow it made sense in a strange kind of way. She would never forget the sight of Mrs. Chase laughing at the kitchen table with Laquita's flamboyant aunts as if they all shared a particularly juicy secret. How long ago was that, she wondered. Another lifetime at least. Mrs. Chase had looked as comfortable at that old Formica table as she did in her own drawing room and Gracie remembered being struck by that fact. It had seemed most remarkable at the time.
"I can't go in there," she said, thinking about Noah and all that had transpired between them. "Especially not after those newspaper stories."
"Oh, don't worry. You won't bump into anyone. We respect each other's privacy. Mrs. C. gave my family the entire downstairs except for the main rooms. We have the garden extension, the rooms built off the kitchen, the old servants' quarters. I haven't seen Mrs. C in at least two months."
All Gracie could do was stare at Laquita in amazement. For a town that hadn't changed an iota in its two-hundred-plus year history, it had sure been busy the last ninety-six months. Next thing she knew, she would find out Ruth Chase had taken a lover and was planning to move to Monte Carlo.
"There's no way I'm coming here for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow."
"Will you stop worrying? I told you, we have completely separate living quarters. Besides, I hear Noah is taking his mother and Sophie out to some fancy restaurant in Portland."
They hurried through the downpour to the back door, the one she remembered so well from the days when Gramma Del cooked for the Chases. She even remembered the gouge the size of a quarter dug into the frame when six-year-old Noah accidentally hit it with a baseball bat. The kitchen itself was much the same as when Gracie had last seen it, a warm and inviting haven on a cold and rainy night. Rachel Adams had added touches of her own that had made it even more appealing. One wall was now lacquered a deep red and hung with shiny copper pots of varying shapes and sizes. The cabinets had been restored to their original pine and the floors tiled in a shade that reminded Gracie of toasted almonds. Pots of flowers hand-picked from the greenhouse graced the countertops, the table, the refrigerator. The smells of cookies and pies and breads were downright intoxicating. Huge piles of fresh vegetables awaited tomorrow's Thanksgiving feast while a big pot of chili simmered on the back burner.
The second that door closed behind her, she was five years old again with Gramma chopping carrots at the sink and Noah coloring at the kitchen table and Ruth Chase hovering nearby. Some of her happiest moments had been spent in this kitchen. Some of her very best days. She had to shake her head to physically drive away the memories.
"Rachel!" Laquita's voice rang out as they approached the back hall. "We're here for a fitting."
Two shaggy mutts bounded into the room, both with tails at full mast.
"They're the image of Wiley!"
"They should be. They're his offspring." Wiley was almost fifteen years old now. He spent his days sleeping at Ruth Chase's feet, dreaming of his youthful exploits.
Gracie knelt down on the tiles and let the animals sniff her hands and forearms before she started to pet them. It was one of the first things they'd taught her at veterinary school and it had saved her numerous trips to the ER. "Are they yours or the Chases'?"
"Both," Laquita said. "The lines get blurrier every year."
An alternate universe, that was what it was. Gramma Del, are you watching this? The Adams-Chase household! Can you imagine?
"Let's check out the sewing room," Laquita said. "They're probably all in there."
"Great." Gracie was a shameless snoop. She peeked in every room they passed as they walked down the back hallway toward the sewing room. She saw a beautiful den with two sofas and a fireplace. She saw three bedrooms, each one more handsomely appointed than the one before. Two baths. One Jacuzzi. A laundry room that would make the Maytag repairman proud. There wasn't a fingerprint or speck of dust anywhere. Gracie had seen operating theatres that weren't as perfectly maintained.
The sewing room was at the end of the hall, to the right of the door that led out to the garden. Shouts of female laughter spilled into the hallway. Gracie felt a sharp pang of envy that Laquita had been lucky enough to be part of such a happy family. When she was a little girl she used to wish she could be part of Laquita's family, just sneak into the little house by the river and blend right in with the crowd. Ben was a lucky man. No more lonely Christmases, no more New Year's Eves spent with a bottle of Scotch and a handful of memories. The Adams clan would see to that.
"Well, there you are!" Rachel Adams leaped to her feet to greet them. "We were wondering if the two of you had forgotten about us."
"You knew I had to work," Laquita said with the weary sound of affectionate exasperation Gracie had heard in the voices of countless other daughters over the years. "We didn't even stop for supper."
"Of course you didn't," Rachel said, enveloping her oldest child in a big hug. "You knew I was making chili for everybody."
Gracie stood in the doorway, feeling awkward and jealous and all points in between. The room was a jumble of midnight blue satin, ivory lace, a large black sewing machine near the window, tea cups, platters of cookies, and more adorable young women than you would find on the pages of Seventeen Magazine. They all looked like variations on Laquita with long shiny dark hair and deep brown eyes and lush figures.
Rachel stepped away from her daughter and opened her arms wide. "Gracie Taylor!" she exclaimed. "Welcome to the family."
So many familiar names attached now to almost grown-up bodies. Even Storm, the baby, looked like a young woman now and not a little girl.
"I feel so old," Gracie said with a laugh as they all trooped into the kitchen for bowls of chili and homemade bread. "What happened to all the little kids I remember?"
"They grew up," Rachel said with a shake of her head. "Sometimes I think that's why I had so many of them. I was hoping one of them would stay little for me."
For a moment Gracie understood. How hard if must be to watch your child grow up and move away from your circle of protection. Still, if appearances were any indication, Rachel and Darnell had done a great job with their kids. She asked about the boys—Morocco, Sage, and Joe—and wasn't surprised at all to hear they were in college and doing well. They were expected home any minute for Thanksgiving Day weekend.
"Laquita was our wild child," Rachel said, casting a fondly bemused glance at her eldest daughter. "Sometimes I think we asked too much of her and that's why she needed to rebel."
Laquita, who was about to bring a spoonful of chili up to her mouth, groaned. "Like Gracie really wants to talk about that," she said. "Helloooo, Rachel. I'm about to marry her father, remember?"
"This is a small town," Rachel reminded her daughter. "We don't have any secrets. Besides, I'm just commenting on how well you turned your life around."
Giggles erupted from the knot of teenage sisters at the far end of the table. Gracie's heart sank.
"I love the Gazette," the one named Cleo piped up, her lovely dark eyes dancing with mischief.
"Me too," said Vienna, her twin. "Especially that new column..."
They convulsed in laughter that garnered a sharp look from their mother.
"Quiet," said Rachel in a tone Gracie could only describe as maternal warning mode. "I'm sure Gracie has been teased quite enough about Noah's column."
Gracie couldn't help it. She groaned then rested her forehead on the tabletop. "Why does everyone think he's writing about me?"
The explosion of laughter from all quarters was answer enough but Cheyenne couldn't help adding a postscript. "You two are legendary around here," she said over Laquita's protests. "I mean, you both disappear on the same day a million years ago and you give Old Eb a million dollars and Noah goes off to Paris and you're a famous doctor in Manhattan and then boom! You're both home again for the wedding and Noah's carrying you through the rain..." She sighed melodramatically. "I mean, it's only the most romantic thing anybody's ever seen around here."
"Don Hasty and Joann told Sage that you two used to meet on the beach by the lighthouse every night during the summer. They could see you from Hidden Island." Storm seemed proud of her contribution to the legend. Gracie must have looked shocked because Storm quickly added, "But only when they used their binoculars."
"Out!" Rachel pointed toward the door. "Take your chili and eat in the den."
Cheyenne looked legitimately puzzled. "Why? I like it in here."
"So do we," Rachel said, "and we want Gracie to like it here too. I expect you back here in fifteen minutes to finish the beading."
Mother and daughter launched into a stream of friendly sparring that made the other girls roll their eyes and retreat with their bowls of chili.
"Don't you dare take that chili into the front room," Laquita warned, "or I'll kill you."
"Just cook for us," Cheyenne shot back. "That'll do it." She raced from the room before Laquita could retaliate.
"Like I said, Gracie, welcome to our family." Rachel reached back and adjusted her ponytail. Her hair was still very dark and lustrous with only the faintest icing of silver around the temples. "Not too many secrets allowed around here."
Gracie smiled weakly and concentrated on her chili. The truth was, she was beyond speech. The fact that so many people had known so much about her and Noah amazed her. Wouldn't you think one of them would have known Mona and Simon's secret too?
"There's plenty of chili in the pot," Rachel reminded them, "so help yourselves to seconds."
Gracie didn't need another invitation. She pushed back her chair and helped herself, amid a flurry of teasing comments about her rail-thin figure.
"We're all built like my mother," Laquita said with a loud sigh. "Hips the size of a VW."
"We're womanly," Rachel said. "Our hips are made for childbearing." She gave her daughter a stern look. "Your problem isn't genetics, 'Quita, it's the gallon of Ben and Jerry's you devour every week."
That led to another spirited discussion of calories, aerobic exercise, and quality of life. Gracie hadn't heard this much conversation since she lived in a dorm. The affection between Laquita and Rachel was obvious. Their teasing was gentle, funny, and inclusive. Not for one second did Gracie feel like an outsider. They meant it when they said she was family and she could feel her guard dropping with every second that passed in their company. She tried to imagine what it had been like for Laquita, growing up the oldest in such a big and boisterous family. She had always seemed older than her years to Gracie, self-contained and serene. A lot had been expected of her. In some ways she was almost a surrogate mother to her brothers and sisters which meant she had been responsible for other human beings since she was old enough to read. Gracie thought about the haven Laquita had created for herself and Ben, a soothing adult oasis of calm and quiet, and another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
#
Ruth listened to the sounds of laughter floating down the hallway toward the library where she had been sitting for hours. She loved the sounds of family, the sense that the house was barely large enough to contain the lives being lived within its four walls. In the early days of her marriage, she had believed that was how it would be for her and Simon. "We'll fill this house with babies," she had promised them on their wedding night. "Sons and daughters to carry on your name." That was one of many promises she had been unable to fulfill.
Rachel's family was on their way home for the holiday weekend. The boys were hitching a ride up from Storrs, while the girls made their ways in from various points on the eastern seaboard. They came home, though, each and every one of them, which was no small testament to Rachel and Darnell.
Wiley stirred slightly in his sleep. He spent most of his time now dreaming of days gone by. They had that in common. Lately Ruth had spent a good deal of time thinking about the past. She had made so many mistakes along the way, kept too many secrets and now it seemed as if they were all coming home to roost.
Don't blame yourself, Ruth. How could you have known it would turn out this way?
Noah and Gracie had been little more than teenagers at the time, barely old enough to drive, much less fall in love. Ruth couldn't have been expected to understand the depth of what they had felt for each other. She couldn't possibly have known the repercussions. Who could blame her for believing it was a teenage romance that time and distance would turn into a dim memory.
The paper lay open on her lap, folded neatly to the page with Noah's essay.
I waited at the edge of town for her... the marriage license was tucked in the glove compartment...
How well she remembered that day. Blazingly hot, too hot even for August. The air had hung heavy as a wet sponge. Simon had been agitated for days since Del's death. She remembered that the doctor had been worrying about him. "Watch him carefully, Ruth. Stress is the worst thing for that heart of his." Oh, how carefully she had watched him. She had watched him fall more deeply into a depression that not even the doctor's strongest mood elevating drugs could touch. "Give it time," she had begged Simon. "You're recovering from a heart attack and major surgery. Your body needs time to heal." But he was beyond hearing her. Del's funeral had cast a bright light on Noah and Gracie. When Noah defended her against her father, their relationship became fodder for town gossip.
Simon talked endlessly about Noah, about how he could do better than Gracie Taylor, how he owed it to himself to see the world and not settle for some plain little townie with a drunk for a father. Ruth told herself it would blow over in a matter of days. Gracie was getting ready to return to school in Philadelphia. Noah would go back to Boston and see if his father's influence could re-open the doors to B.U. one more time. Life would shift back into a more recognizable pattern.
When Simon took off in his Town Car that last afternoon, every fiber of Ruth's being had registered alarm and she did something she had never done before, she searched his desk. She wasn't certain what she was looking for but when she discovered a faxed copy of a marriage license in the names Noah Chase and Graciela Taylor on top of the copy machine and the carbon of a withdrawal slip in the amount of ten thousand dollars she knew exactly what Simon was up to.
She could have done something to stop him. She could see that now with the wisdom of hindsight. She could have headed him off at the bank or followed him to the Taylor house by the docks. But the truth was, she did neither of those things. She sat by the window in the library and she waited while her husband played God with the lives of two good kids who deserved better than the families life had parceled out to them.
Three hours later, her husband was dead, her son had vanished, and Gracie Taylor had left town for good.
The fire in the hearth was barely an ember. She considered calling Darnell and asking him to build a new fire but it was the night before Thanksgiving. She was sure he had many other things to do. There had been a time when she could tend to such chores herself without thinking twice about it but those days were gone. She was old now, in body and in spirit, and she was alone.
There were some people in this world who were meant to be together. She understood that now. You could call it fate or destiny or whatever New Age term you might care to conjure up, but it was a force that should never be trifled with. Simon had turned away from Mona when he was young and acquisitive, more concerned with social status than with love. He found her again in middle age, that dangerous time when a man begins to feel the cold breath of eternity at the back of his neck. Ruth had fought back the only way she knew how, with the oldest weapon in a woman's arsenal. She went away for awhile and when she came home they had a son named Noah. A man like Simon might walk away from his wife but he would never walk away from his son. She had counted on that and she had been right.
She closed her eyes as tears slid quietly down her cheeks. What should have been the happiest time in their lives had been filled instead with anger and bitterness. Simon felt trapped. He wanted to love Noah but he couldn't find it in himself to separate fatherhood from paternity.
Ruth had always believed that as long as Mona Taylor lived, her marriage didn't stand a chance but she quickly learned that happiness could never spring from tragedy. Mona Taylor's death had breathed life into Ruth's marriage but at a terrible cost. A husband whose heart would never belong to her alone. A son who grew up in boarding schools because his mother didn't want to rock the boat. A widower who found solace in a bottle of booze. A little girl who lived on the fringes of other people's lives.
She couldn't undo any of it. She wasn't a good enough woman to wish that she could. Her life had been an imperfect one but it had been her choice each step of the way. She had stayed with Simon because she loved him. She would make no apologies for that. But Simon was gone and she was here and her mistakes were settling in around her in a way she could no longer ignore.