Eclipse of the Heart

chapter 29

One month later, Logan's gift was a big box of children's books. Amanda had grown used to getting the packages every Friday, even as she recognized that they were a masterful way of both softening her toward Logan, and also reminding her that he wasn't going to give up the request for some sort of custody.

She squealed with delight as Mrs. MacDonald opened the box. Nothing could have pleased her more. She began lifting out the crisp volumes. Big, colorful picture books. Illustrated children's classics. New stories she'd never heard of. She spread them out over the kitchen table. It was a wonderful collection.

"Now that's what I call excitement," Mrs. M. said with a smile.

"I love books." Although she wouldn't say so, she was thrilled to think that Logan might place the same importance on books for their child that she did. "Do you think I could add these to the library?"

"Sure." Mrs. M. cocked her head as the doorbell rang. "That must be the yard guy. I need to let him into the storage shed at the main house."

The library was a small room with French doors that opened toward the beach. Sunlight poured through the glass in thin streams of gold, and picked out the jeweled tones of books lining the walls. The Oriental carpet on the floor reflected the same rich colors. Comfortable maroon leather chairs with plump ottomans filled the corners, and a sliding rocker invited one to cuddle with a child. Everything gleamed with cleanliness and sunlight, but the space always seemed sad and empty.

It had taken Amanda a few days to figure out why the room seemed lost in the past, until she noticed there were no recently published books on the shelves. The collection had stopped breathing several years ago, and she wondered again what had happened to the family, presumably Logan's, that used to live here. The books stood on their multi-colored spines like sentinels that were never relieved of duty. No one took them down to pore over their treasures. No one escaped through them into another world of imagination and drama.

Today, though, she had a happier errand. Rubbing her aching back, she placed her box of new books on the console table by the doorway. The children's section was opposite her, to the left of the French doors, where natural light would be available to a browsing child. She could almost picture a small boy with Logan's dark hair sitting cross-legged on the floor, his gray eyes bent to a book as he was transported to another life.

Luckily, the shelves weren't completely full, although each shelf had only a small blank space. She would consolidate the existing collection so that she could place her new books all together. That would make it easier to remove them when she left the lighthouse.

She waddled over to the bookcase. Now that she was well into her eighth month, she understood the ungainly gait adopted by pregnant women. Her center of balance had shifted, and not in a good way.

Although she'd browsed in this library on many a long afternoon, she hadn't checked out the kids' books. She leaned over, delighted to see many old friends among the volumes. The best of children's literature. She saw Anne of Green Gables and The Secret Garden for a daughter. Tom Sawyer and Pendragon for a boy.

Classics. Poetry. Humor. Love. All spread out before her.

She had to bend over since the books were lower down on the shelves, where a small person could reach them. It wasn't easy to do with her stomach in the way. But she had a compulsion to get this chore done today.

She eased a book out of its spot.

The Giver, by Lois Lowry. Eerie. Unforgettable.

She grabbed the boxed set next to it. Little House on the Prairie, by Laura Ingalls Wilder. A tale of self-sufficiency. Just what she needed to remind herself that she could accomplish whatever she needed to do.

She grabbed a couple more and then had to walk the books across the room to the little table. Retrieving anything from the floor was impossible in her condition. On the way back, a glint of silver sparkled from the back of the shelf where she'd emptied the books.

She bent down to check it out. A silver picture frame? How had it fallen behind the books?

Well, she'd rescue it. The lighthouse could use some photos, even of people she didn't know.

She removed a few more books and another picture frame was revealed. What in the world? Had someone deliberately placed the frames back there?

Moving as quickly as she could, she cleared the shelf. For some reason, she was worried that Mrs. MacDonald would appear and demand that she stop re-arranging the library. Why, she couldn't say. But now that it was clear the frames had been deliberately hidden, her actions seemed sneaky, as if she were revealing something that was intended to be concealed.

She cleared the shelf, lugging the books back and forth to the table, and then carefully removed the first frame from the back of the shelf.

A young man, maybe a teen, stared up at her. He was standing on the beach, with the wind blowing his dark hair, and a grin creasing his face. One arm held up a bright red windsurfing board.

Logan Winter.

Her heart stopped.

He looked so happy.

What had changed him from this joyful teen into a solemn and unsmiling grown man?

Amanda stared at the picture. Could this be someone other than Logan? A brother? A cousin? Even though, as far as she knew, he didn't have any family.

With trembling fingers, she pulled out the next frame.

For a long moment, her eyes refused to focus as her mind grappled with a decision. Did she really want to see what would be revealed? Did she have any right to pry into the secrets someone had carefully hidden?

The baby kicked her, the jolt a reminder that the secrets might be a history of this child's family. Something he or she would want to know some day.

Amanda focused on the picture in her hand.

A family laughed at the camera.

A tall man in middle-age, with dark hair frosted with silver. He had one arm around his wife, a beautiful woman with lovely eyes and a strong smile.

On one side of the man stood the same teenaged boy, and yes, it was Logan. That was the exact same grin she'd seen on his face when—her memories faltered. She forced them into her mind. That was how he'd looked at her when he'd been laughing at her Christmas tree sweater—one of the few lighthearted moments she'd seen from him.

Next to the woman stood a younger girl with long, dark hair, probably a younger teen.

Logan's family.

Amanda's heart clenched around the realization. What had happened to them? Why did he never mention them?

"I'm not surprised you found them." Mrs. MacDonald spoke from the doorway, startling Amanda so that she almost dropped the frame.

"I—Who—" She waved toward the bookshelf.

"I put them there," Mrs. MacDonald said calmly. "He had ordered me to dispose of every photograph."

"Logan." Amanda didn't need to phrase it as a question.

"He's the only one left."

Amanda gasped, even as a twist of pain stabbed her abdomen. She reached out to grab the shelf to steady herself.

"What happened?"

"Are you all right?" Mrs. MacDonald frowned anxiously. "You look very pale."

"The shock," she whispered. "My baby." She flattened her hand against her stomach. "I need to sit down." She trundled over to the rocker, and lowered herself carefully.

She stared at Mrs. MacDonald. "I feel heartbroken," she whispered, "and I don't even know what happened."

"Oh, dear." Mrs. M. clasped her hands together. "I didn't think about you getting into the children's section. I should have."

"Please don't blame yourself." Amanda tried to control her breathing. In. Out. A vise seemed to be squeezing the middle of her body. She needed a distraction. "Tell me why you hid them."

"I couldn't eliminate all trace of—" Mrs. M. hesitated, and tears sprang into her eyes, magnified by her thick glasses.

"Logan's family," Amanda breathed.

"Yes." Mrs. MacDonald took off her glasses and blotted her eyes with the bottom of her apron. "I knew this moment would arrive someday."

"That's why you saved the photos."

"Of course," Mrs. M. answered. "The time to tell about the family would be when a child came along. That's when someone would look at the children's books in here. They'd find the photographs. Until there was a child—" She shrugged sadly. "What difference did it make? Who would care?"

Amanda shifted uncomfortably on the chair. The emotion in the room seemed to take up all the oxygen. She struggled to draw a deep breath. "I always knew there was something—odd—about his refusal to speak of a family."

"It's not odd." Mrs. MacDonald's shoulders slumped. "It's tragic."

Amanda clutched the photo. "They're all dead."

The housekeeper nodded, her face suddenly sagging, as if she'd given up the effort to remain stoic. She sank down onto the leather chair at the right of the door.

"Mrs. MacDonald," Amanda whispered. "I've changed my mind. I don't want to know. Nothing can be done. I have enough to worry about."

"Someone needs to know," Mrs. MacDonald said in a suddenly fierce voice. "Someone needs to help that man with his pain and loneliness."

Someone who loved him would care. Amanda closed her eyes as the words echoed in her head, momentarily pushing aside her pain and her worry about her baby. Love didn't hide behind denial. It didn't wait for a convenient time. It didn't run away when the going got tough.

Love survived, no matter what happened. A glimpse of her father flashed in her mind. He was bending over the bassinet in the kitchen where Julie lay. Even then, she'd been sickly.

Her father straightened up and looked at her mother. His eyes were sad, but his voice strong when he said, "We will find a cure for her. Don't worry."

Then he seemed to notice Amanda standing there by the back door, waiting to say goodbye to him as she did every day. He slung a comforting arm around her. "You, pumpkin, are the best big sister anyone could have. Right?"

She'd nodded, although she wasn't sure he was right. What was she able to do for Julie?

Her father lifted his heavy briefcase, kissed all three of them in turn, the baby, Amanda, and then her mom. He walked out the door.

He died that day.

After that, Amanda never had any hope that they'd find a cure for Julie. Her father had promised—and then he hadn't fulfilled his promise. They hadn't been able to depend on him.

But she'd been wrong about that. In the intervening years, medical science had made a lot of progress in treating lung disease. Amanda and her mother had never stopped looking for better treatment.

Her father would have continued to look also. She could finally admit it. Maybe she'd also been wrong to be so unforgiving of him for leaving them.

Today, looking at the photo of Logan's family, Amanda began to see things in a different light. Parents did the best they could. But tragedies still happened. She was able to see that clearly with respect to Logan's family, but she'd never given her father the same latitude.

Now, for the first time, Amanda admitted that her father would have also done his best for his kids. Fate had intervened, but what happened wasn't his fault.

Thinking about her own child, Amanda could glimpse how her father might have felt on that long ago day. He'd been doing what he could to provide for his family. Just as she would do for the baby she now had to protect.

She might not succeed. Her father hadn't succeeded. Logan's parents hadn't prevented their son from experiencing a tragic loss.

But it was time for her to forgive her father.

He'd left them, but his love survived in the love the three of them still shared for each other. And yes, in the love they had for his memory.

Now she needed to provide a family for her child. Even if Logan's side of the family could only be remembered in photos and in stories, those memories would be better than nothing.

She opened her eyes and looked directly at the housekeeper. "You're right," she said. "Please tell me what happened."

Mrs. M.'s lips trembled. "The family was visiting my house, where I lived with my husband, Bob. We used to live on the Winter's estate in the suburbs of Boston. I was the housekeeper, of course, and Bob handled all the outdoor responsibilities."

Amanda nodded, clutching her stomach, as if she could at least prevent the baby from hearing the awful tale which was about to unfold.

"Bob had retired, so I did as well. His health wasn't good, and we moved to a home in a nearby town." She clutched her apron, smoothing it between her fingers, as if looking for comfort in the cloth.

Amanda began to rock back and forth in the slider. There was nothing she could say.

"It was Bob's birthday. The family—Logan, his mom and dad, and his sister, Lauren—came to celebrate the birthday with us. It may sound odd, but that's the type of people they were. We'd been with them for a long time, and Bob was in a wheelchair and we didn't go out much." She lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. "For some reason, who knows why, I'd run out of milk. I was embarrassed."

She bowed her head. "It was my job to be prepared for such things. But they made light of it. Logan immediately said he'd run out to the store. I went with him to show him the way."

Tears ran down her wrinkled face like needles of pain.

Amanda laid a hand on hers. "You don't have to go on. Please don't distress yourself further."

Mrs. MacDonald looked up, her blue eyes swimming. "They were going to play music for us after we had the cake. Mrs. Winter was a violinist, her husband was a clarinet player, and Lauren was a singer."

I'm the son of two musicians. I know how to maintain a rhythm. The words rang in Amanda's ears. She swayed with sudden dizziness.

"We returned from the store." Mrs. MacDonald closed her eyes. "The house was gone."

"Gone?" Amanda choked on the word. The rocking chair began to tilt, and the pain in her mid-section intensified.

Mrs. MacDonald opened her tear-filled eyes. "Logan let out a roar, a cry of agony I can hear to this day. He ran forward, although I tried to stop him."

Amanda could picture him, an eager young man thrown into horror, confused, but hoping against hope that he could find something that would deny the truth of what he was looking at.

"How old was he?"

"Twenty-two," Mrs. M said heavily. "He was twenty-two years old when he saw his sister's foot, still clad in the red cowboy boots he'd given her for eighteenth birthday, sticking up out of the rubble." She dropped her head into her hands, and her shoulders shook with sobs.

Amanda rocked back and forth, silently, her arms wrapped around herself. She pictured Logan, his cool gray eyes, his ever-present composure. She heard him say, "It's not in me to love someone, Amanda."

Now she knew how he'd reached that point.

"He dug into the rubble," the housekeeper continued, "flinging it everywhere." She waved her arms about, as if demonstrating Logan's desperation. "But nothing," she said, "was attached to Lauren's foot."

"That's enough, Mrs. M!" Amanda couldn't bear to hear any more. She pushed herself to her feet and wrapped her arms around the older woman.

"It was a gas explosion," Mrs. MacDonald said, as if, having started, she was unable to stop. "They were doing construction without a permit on the house next door."

"Oh, my God." Four people dead out of carelessness.

"He never said another word about his family."

"Who can blame him?" Amanda whispered.

"We had the funerals. He never shed a tear that I know of. I thought he was in was shock."

She shook her head. "The day after the funerals, he returned to college. I tried to keep in touch, and he told me to wait. When he finished his exams, he came to see me." She paused in her recital. Her eyes became unfocused, as if she were looking into the past. "I tried to get him to talk. I thought the shock might have…settled a bit."

"'There's nothing to be said,'" he told me. "'I'm moving to New York. I could use a housekeeper.'"

"You were already retired!" Amanda knew that was not the point, but she was shocked that Logan would expect Mrs. MacDonald to return to work.

"He was right." Mrs. M. nodded. "I needed something to do, just as he did. And, although neither one of us ever said a word about it, I think we needed each other. We weren't related by blood, but we were all the family either of us had left."

"Then why did he send you here with me? I'm not family to either one of you."

"I think he cares for you more than you realize," Mrs. M said simply. "Maybe more than he realizes. I don't know how things will work out, but if he is to have any future, it must involve you, or at least the baby."

"That's not true," Amanda whispered. "He could marry and start a family with anyone."

"But would he? Is he capable of taking positive action like that? When he's buried himself behind his wall of pain, and refuses to let anyone breach it?"

"Mrs. M., you must not allow yourself these hopes." Amanda tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs seemed squeezed by the enormity of the baby.

Mrs. MacDonald broke down in noisy sobs, hiding her face. "They were such a happy family. I loved those two children as if they were my own."

Amanda looked at the old woman, bowed and defeated. The photos had reminded her too well of the tragedy. Maybe they never should have been unearthed. But a new life was coming, and there was always hope in the renewal of birth. In that moment, Amanda knew she'd just taken on another responsibility.

"Mrs. MacDonald," she said softly. "I hope you have a name for my baby to call you. Something appropriate for a grandmother."

Mrs. MacDonald stared down at her clasped hands. "We never had children," she said. "I don't know why."

A sudden release burst out of Amanda. She looked down at the water dumped on the floor.

"Mrs. MacDonald," she gasped. "I think you're going to become a grandmother today."