Until There Was You

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE



“SO WHAT DO YOU think, Viv? Do I look like a girl?”

Vivian squinted through her bifocals. “Well, it’s nice to see you in a dress, even one so ill-fitting.”

“The saleslady said it was supposed to be loose.”

“She lied.”

Posey looked down at herself, the landscape unfamiliar in the sheath dress. But she wanted to look a little nicer these days. She certainly was feeling more…womanly, having a boyfriend and all. Especially one who complimented her. Was the dress a little Audrey Hepburn–inspired? Probably. She might like Liam to see her in it (or out of it).

“You might be right. Anyway, I was at the spa today. I didn’t think I’d like it, but it was kind of fun. And don’t I smell great?” She offered her forearm to Vivian, who frowned and turned her head away. “Well. I smell great, take my word.”

Sitting down next to Vivian, she sighed. The spa had been fun, but now she had to see her parents and the thought of the letter from her birth mother burned in her mind.

“What’s the matter with you?” the old lady asked. She’d gone psychic, apparently.

Posey hesitated. “Did anyone in your family ever keep a secret from you?”

“Of course. It’s the nature of families. Why?”

“I don’t know.” She paused. “Why didn’t you and your husband ever adopt, Viv?”

“Aren’t we personal,” Vivian murmured.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I’m aware of that.” Vivian gave her a lethal look, then turned her face away. “Ernest was against it,” she said eventually. “I wouldn’t have minded, but he was a bit of an ass about the subject. Anyway. It’s your birthday, if I recall.”

“How did you know?” Posey asked.

“A little bird who won’t stop talking told me. That girl needs finishing school. You both do. Here.” She handed Posey a box.

Well, knock her over with a feather. Vivian Appleton was not a sentimental person. In all the time Posey had known her, she had never given a compliment, let alone a gift. “Are you dying, Viv?” Posey said.

“We’re all dying. Open it.”

“This is so sweet. Thank you!”

“Thank me when you open it,” the old lady said, sitting a little straighter.

Posey untied the ribbons. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“I never believed that expression, did you?”

Posey laughed and opened the box. Her breath caught. “Oh, Vivian! It’s beautiful!”

It was an antique butterfly pin, wings sparkling with tiny, multicolored crystal beads. The butterfly’s body was gold, and it seemed to be smiling, the black jeweled eyes glittering.

“It’s not worth much,” Vivian said, looking away. “But it was mine when I was a girl. My aunt gave it to me for my tenth birthday. It reminded me of you.”

So uncharacteristic, all this thoughtfulness! “I love it.” Posey fastened it to her dress, then leaned over and kissed Vivian’s soft, withered cheek. “Thank you, Viv.”

The old lady stared straight ahead. “I signed with Down East Salvage this morning.”

The words hit Posey like a slap. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Down East Salvage? The thought of The Meadows being taken down was horrible enough…but those gorillas at Down East…how could— They wouldn’t— Oh, bieber, she was going to cry. Realizing that her mouth was still open, she closed it and sat back against the couch so she wouldn’t have to look at Vivian.

“They offered me ten thousand more than you did,” Vivian said, her tone brisk. “It would’ve been foolish not to take it.”

Posey’s throat was too tight to answer.

“I have the right to dispose of my property as I see fit, Posey,” Viv snapped. “I have my nieces and nephews to think of, you know, and they wouldn’t appreciate me—”

“It’s okay,” she said, taking Vivian’s hand. If she looked at the old lady now, she’d start bawling. “I understand.” She bit her lip to control the trembling of her mouth.

How could Viv’s Vultures just…erase a place like The Meadows? Pretend it never happened and slap up a bevy of soulless McMansions, and that gracious, beautiful house, built in the time of Mark Twain and parasols, of lemonade on the porch in the summer and sleigh bells on harnesses in the winter, would be gone.

Down East Salvage would strip the house down in days. Posey had seen them work—they used chainsaws, for the love of Elvis, and backhoes. Those beautiful gardens would be torn up, thousands of bulbs and plants crushed or thrown away. Down East would cut down the elm tree, she’d bet her life they would, never mind that it was three hundred years old. They would desecrate the entire place. They didn’t love The Meadows the way she did. They hadn’t been there twice a week for the past two years. They hadn’t made love out by the pine trees.

Posey would’ve taken months with that house. She and Mac would’ve lovingly removed every feature, from the marble fireplace in the dining room to the copper tub on the third floor. She would’ve cut out the lead-paned windows with her sharpest, smallest saw and coaxed them from the walls. Every doorknob, every light-switch plate, every heating grate would’ve been wrapped carefully until Posey found them new homes, where they’d be loved and appreciated. And when the beautiful shell of the house finally had to come down, Posey would’ve stood guard until it was done and paid her last respects.

Down East would use Dumpsters. They’d hire high-school kids, and they’d throw things out the windows into Dumpsters. She’d seen it happen on their job sites before.

“I have to get going,” Posey said when she could trust her voice.

“Yes. You have a birthday engagement, I suppose,” Vivian said.

“Dinner with my family.” She swallowed. “Thank you for the pin. It’s beautiful.”

“Go. You’ll be late, and it’s so inconsiderate.” With that, Vivian fished out her phone and began texting.

Posey tried not to think about The Meadows on the drive to her parents’ house.

But it was hard.

The whole week had been hard. She hadn’t seen her parents since learning about the letter.

Max and Stacia had always given all the right lip service on the rare occasions that the subject of birth parents came up. But Posey knew. If she’d ever said, “Hey, I’d like to find my birth parents,” they’d take it like a knife in the heart. Who, after all, had done the real work of parenting, staying up when Posey was sick, helping her with her science homework, taking such pride in her depiction of the turnip in Farmer Smith’s garden?

So she’d done nothing about the letter, aside from telling Liam. And, it must be acknowledged, Liam had been incredible. All that upset, all that churning, and he’d somehow made her feel…happy.

It was too bad about the run-in with the Tates. She wondered how that was going…?. He hadn’t called her, but tomorrow was Wednesday, usually the night they saw each other.

She pulled up in front of her parents’ house. Was her letter somewhere inside? How exactly would she ask about it?

“Look at you! You’re beautiful!” Jon announced as he answered the door. “Come in, birthday princess. Everyone’s here except Gretch the Wretch, even Brianna, OMG, you should’ve seen her face when she found out we were having pork knuckles for an appetizer. And listen, I tried to bring chicken cordon bleu and scalloped potatoes, but your mom said your heart was set on herring, so we’re stuck with the food from the Fatherland.” He paused for breath. “Why the sad face?”

“I didn’t get the rights to The Meadows,” she said, and you know, that was the thing about family. They hugged her and patted her shoulder, and Jon made her a vodka gimlet, and Mom set a plate of pork meatballs in front of her.

“They’re stupid if they didn’t hire you,” Brianna said, and Posey smiled. Brie was nothing if not loyal.

“Agreed,” murmured Henry.

“Well, it’s your birthday, so be happy,” Dad said, squeezing her shoulder.

“Thanks, Dad,” she said. He might’ve kept a secret for the past fifteen years, but he was her dear old dad nonetheless.

The door banged open, and there was Gretchen, dressed to kill in a slinky pink shirt and tight black skirt that clung to her curves. She gave a rather formal nod. “Hello, all.”

“Sweetie, have a seat!” Stacia said. “You look exhausted!”

“Is four half-days a week just too much?” Jon murmured to Posey.

Gretchen allowed Max to get her a drink. “Well, don’t just sit there,” Stacia commanded, ever the gracious hostess. “Get into the dining room. Essen und geniessen!”

“Come again?” Brianna said, examining a pork-liver ball at the end of a toothpick.

“Eat and enjoy,” Stacia said. “Come on, sweetheart, while it’s hot!”

When they were all seated around the dining-room table, Henry tapped his glass. “We have an announcement, and Jon said I was the one who should tell you.” He glanced at his partner and smiled. “Okay, here goes. Posey, we have a birthday present for you, but you’ll have to wait a little while before it gets here.”

“I hope it’s big and expensive,” she said.

“It’s expensive, but still pretty little. We pick it up in Guatemala next month.” He paused. “It’s a niece.”

There was a moment of silence. Posey covered her mouth with her hand. “A niece? Oh, guys!” She lunged up from the table to hug them both. Max and Stacia followed suit, engulfing the boys in hugs and sobs.

“She’s thirteen months old,” Jon said damply, “and her name is Elisabeta Rosa Josephina Juarez, soon to be Elisabeta Rosa Josephina Juarez-Osterhagen-White.”

“Rolls right off the tongue,” Brianna said, buttering another piece of bread.

“We’re going to call her Betty,” Jon continued.

“Betty White?” Brie said, grinning.

“Who better to be a role model? Anyway, she’s at Our Lady of Angels Orphanage right now, and we have a picture and everything. And of course, Posey, you’ll be godmother.”

“I can’t believe it. I’ve waited so long for grandchildren,” Stacia said, sinking back into her chair in a happy daze.

Henry handed Posey a picture, and her eyes filled with fresh tears. The baby had dark hair, long enough for the barrettes and ribbons Jon was sure to employ, and huge dark eyes. She was chubby, her expression solemn, and Posey’s heart swelled with love. “She’s so beautiful. Hi, Betty.” She grinned up at the boys, then looked at Brianna. “Pretty cool, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yeah. So cool.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t ditch you.”

Brie cut her a glance. “Feel free.”

“Sulk all you want, you’re stuck with me. You can help change poopy diapers and everything.”

“I’m counting the hours.” But she gave Posey a grateful look and didn’t make gagging noises when Jon described the mural of unicorns he was going to paint in the baby’s room.

Only Gretchen didn’t seem terribly interested. She duly admired the photo, then passed it on. Nor did she say boo during the entire dinner, or even sing “Happy Birthday.” Something was definitely up, and a warning wriggled down Posey’s spine like a cold fish.

Brianna’s mother picked her up right after coffee and kuchen were served, and Posey was happy to see Tina give her daughter a kiss. Home life had taken a turn for the better, according to Brie.

The family slumped around the living room in the usual high-carb, high-fat coma that Osterhagen meals induced. Stacia was still clutching the photo of Betty, murmuring about getting some baby things down from the attic.

“So,” Max asked, patting Gretchen’s hand, “you’re awfully quiet. Everything okay, sweetheart?”

She took a deep, measured breath, as if about to give a speech. “It’s nice that someone finally noticed, Papa.” She looked at Posey.

Ruh-roh, Posey thought. Something was about to hit the fan.

“I had a little surprise last night,” Gretchen said, ice dripping from her voice. “Dante happened to mention that he and Posey had been lovers. Isn’t that funny?”

Posey’s stomach contracted, the three helpings of potatoes threatening to revisit her. “Um…Gret, maybe we should talk privately,” she murmured. She glanced at her mother, whose face had frozen in horror.

“No! I think we should talk now, Posey!” Gretchen slammed her hand down on the armrest. “You were sleeping with my boyfriend and you never said a word!”

“More coffee, anyone?” Max said, bolting from his chair into the kitchen. No one else moved.

“She wasn’t sleeping with Dante!” Stacia protested. “She would never do such a thing!”

“Really?” Gretchen demanded. “Tell them, Posey.”

Posey glanced at her mother, then at the boys. Jon grimaced, Henry shrugged. “Okay, yes,” she said. “Dante and I had a very brief, uh, relationship. Which was over before he even met you, Gretchen.”

“And you never thought to mention it?”

“No!” Stacia gasped. “Posey! Dante Bellini? How could you?”

“Do you think I would’ve taken your leavings if I’d known?” Gretchen’s face was mottled with fury.

“Time for us to go, don’t you think?” Henry said. “Happy birthday, sis.”

“Want us to stay?” Jon murmured.

Gretchen turned on him. “No! She doesn’t get her little fan club to cheer her on, Jon! Go home! You’re not wanted here.”

“Watch yourself, young lady,” Max said sternly from the kitchen. His head popped into the living room. “But she has a point. No reason for you to stay, fellas.”

“Exactly, Pop. See you soon.” Henry took Jon’s arm and towed him out of the dining room.

“We’re thrilled about the baby,” Stacia said automatically.

“Congratulations,” Posey called.

Jon pulled a face—dismay and sympathy—and slipped out after Henry.

Silence fell over the living room. Stacia shredded a napkin, staring at the photo of Posey as Turnip as if wondering where that sweet child had gone. Max lingered in the doorway, his gaze bouncing between the three women.

“I can’t believe you lied to my face,” Gretchen said, her lips tight.

“I didn’t lie,” Posey said, glancing at the picture of Pope Benedict. Lies of omission are still lies, she could hear him whispering in his creepy bad-guy voice. “I mean, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think it mattered, Gret. That’s all.”

“How could it not matter?” she hissed.

“I’m so disappointed, Posey,” Stacia announced. “I’m stunned. Shocked. Horrified.”

“Okay, Ma, I get that. Look, Gret. It wasn’t— It didn’t have anything to do with the present.”

“Well, I think it’s disgusting,” her cousin said. “Dante crawls from your bed into mine, and you crawl from his into Liam’s, and I’m sorry, Posey, I guess I’m not like you, but I think that’s vile.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Posey protested.

“Liam? Now you’re sleeping with Liam? Oh, Posey, are you a sex addict?” Stacia asked. Max flinched and retreated once again, running the water to drown out the conversation.

“Ma, I’m not a sex addict! Come on! This is me, remember?”

“That’s right,” Gretchen snapped. “Posey who can do no wrong. Well, guess what? This was wrong. How dare you? You get everything, don’t you, Posey? You always have to have everything—Henry, Jon, a niecey-poo on the way, that fat kid who follows you around like a dog.”

“Don’t you dare—” Posey began.

“And now I find out you had Dante first, and I can’t take any more.” With that, Gretchen stormed out of the house, slamming the door. A second later, they heard the sound of a car peeling out of the driveway.

“I can’t believe what I’ve heard,” Stacia said, wringing her hands. “I’m stunned. Max, I’m stunned. Get me a sherry.”

Well, this birthday would certainly be memorable.

Max came back into the room and handed his wife her little cordial glass, then sat next to her, a wall of Teutonic solidarity. “You’ve upset your mother,” he said, his voice gentle but still stern.

“I’ve upset my mother, Dad? How about Gretchen has upset my mother?” she said sharply.

“We’ll deal with her later,” Max said.

“How could you keep this a secret? How could you even be with that man in the first place?” Stacia asked, tossing back her drink in one gulp.

Ironic, that Stacia now had a problem with secrets. Posey took a deep breath, then another. “Okay, let me explain. First of all, I always thought it was kind of ridiculous that you had such a grudge against Dante.”

“Oh! Now you’re taking his side?”

Stacia cried.

“Ma, calm down. He has a very successful restaurant. And so do you, in your own way. There’s room in the world for both.”

Stacia harrumphed.

“And secondly…” Posey’s voice trailed off. “Okay, secondly, it’s not like men are beating a path to my door. When he…asked me out—” made a pass “—I was flattered, you know? He’s a good-looking, charming guy. So we saw each other—” slept together “—a few times, and it just petered out. That was it.”

Stacia lifted a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Gretchen was so excited about him that I didn’t want to ruin things for her. Dante and I had a little talk and just agreed that some things are better left unsaid. I don’t know why he told her, since it obviously didn’t…mean that much.”

Posey clutched a throw pillow against her stomach. In hindsight, it was clear that she’d felt almost nothing for Dante, other than some basic attraction and the hope that they’d see something in each other…something special. It had had little to do with reality. She knew that now—now that she’d felt the real thing.

“And yes, Liam and I have been dating,” she added quietly. “For about a month.”

“Another secret. And here I thought we were so close,” Stacia sniffed.

Posey gave her mother a long look. “Speaking of secrets,” she said, sitting up a little straighter, “I was wondering if you could tell me about that letter.”

“What letter?” Max asked.

“The letter from my birth mother.”

The blood drained out of both parents’ faces, answering the question of whether Max knew about it.

“How did you find out about that? Did you find her?” Stacia asked, her voice shrill.

“No, Mom. Gretchen mentioned the letter. She read it when it first came.”

“What do you mean, she read it? That was none of her business!”

“Ma, she thought it was something about her parents. Can we stick to the point here?”

“You said you never wanted to find them,” Max said.

“I might’ve felt differently if I’d known my birth mother wrote to me, Dad! I can’t believe you kept that secret! Didn’t it occur to you that I’d like to know?”

“The letter wasn’t to you,” Stacia boomed. “It was addressed to me.”

That stopped Posey in her tracks.

“It’s true, honey,” Max said gently. “It came through the lawyer who handled your adoption, and it was addressed to ‘the woman who adopted my baby.’ We would never have hidden a letter that came to you.”

Posey exhaled slowly. “Okay. But it was about me, obviously.”

Her parents exchanged a glance. “Yes, of course it was,” Stacia said. “And we always agreed that if you ever said anything about wanting to find your birth parents, the first thing we’d do was hand you that letter. But you never did. So we didn’t say anything.” Stacia folded her arms across her massive chest and dared Posey to find fault.

Max came over and sat next to Posey and put his arm around her shoulders. As always, the smell of her dad was comforting, his big arm heavy and solid. “It was a tough time,” he said. “Your aunt and uncle had just died, you were getting ready for college. We wanted it to be your choice to find her, not to have this letter just come out of nowhere. We figured if she wanted to write to you, she would have. So we kept it secret. Maybe it wasn’t right, but…well, we thought it was.”

Posey nodded. In her heart, she knew her parents would never do anything to hurt her. Not on purpose. “I’d like to see it now,” she whispered.

Max and Stacia exchanged a look. “I’m sorry, Posey,” her father said. “We lost it in the fire.”





THE LETTER, WHICH Stacia coolly recounted with the help of an index card on which she’d noted the pertinent information, was more of a recitation of facts than anything. Posey’s birth mother had updated the family medical history: Posey’s maternal grandfather had diabetes. Her paternal grandmother had had breast cancer. Posey’s birth mother’s name was Clarice. She had brown eyes and brown hair. Her father’s name was Paul. He had brown eyes and black hair. They’d been in college (English for her, art history for him) when she got pregnant. Clarice had not seen Paul since they graduated. She had felt compelled to write after eighteen years because the baby she’d given away was now the same age she was when she’d had her. She hoped that “the baby,” as she called Posey, was happy and healthy.

And that was it.

“Nothing about wanting to meet me?” Posey said quietly.

Max squeezed her hand. “No, honey. Which is not to say that she might not want to meet you now, if you reached out.”

“So all of a sudden, you want to meet her?” Stacia asked, her voice tight.

Posey swallowed. What she wanted was a stiff drink. And Liam, maybe. Liam definitely. “I don’t know, Mom.”

“Well, I hate to be the one to point it out, honey,” Stacia said, “but she could’ve had any arrangement she wanted, and she chose a closed adoption. For whatever reason, she thought that was best.”

“I know.” Posey sat there for another minute. “I’m gonna go, okay?”

Her parents followed her to the door. “Are you going to apologize to Gretchen?” Stacia asked, her way of regaining the moral high ground.

“Not really high on my list of things to do,” Posey said tightly, and with that, she walked out to her truck, her steps shortened by her dress. The new sandals were already giving her a blister.

At home, she changed into shorts and a sweatshirt and poured herself a glass of wine. A healthy glass, one guaranteed to induce a buzz. She sat on the back steps, rubbing her dog’s head as he licked her ankle.

The sky was that sweetly painful shade of between, not quite dark, not quite light, the blue aching and melancholy. The birds quieted, a bat wheeled out from the belfry, and from the swamp, the frogs sang their nighttime song.

What a sucky birthday. Well, it hadn’t all been bad. A niece was on the way, and that was…that was unabashedly wonderful. She fished her phone out of her pocket and texted Henry and Jon, apologizing for the drama and telling them she wanted more info on her soon-to-be niece and would stop by tomorrow.

But still. As the sky darkened, it seemed that melancholy wouldn’t be put off. The Meadows would be ripped down. Gretchen was furious, her mother was furious and somewhere out there was her birth mother, who, one would assume, loved to read. Her birth father, who liked art and old things. They had dark hair and dark eyes, as did she.

Posey knew she was lucky. She had a brother and a brother-in-law and would soon have little Betty to spoil. She had Brianna as a surrogate sister, and she had parents who would lie down in front of a bus for her. She’d had everything she needed. She even had Liam, sort of.

But even so, even if she might never admit it out loud, it was hard not to feel a little lonely, picturing two dark-eyed people in their fifties who never wanted to meet her.

When the church bell rang, she just about leaped out of her skin, bolting off the back step, spilling her wine. Shilo jumped up, barking and running in a circle before dashing under the lilacs, and Posey stared up at the belfry. Her bell swung back and forth, right on time, and the deep iron tone rang out loud and strong into the night, reverberating in Posey’s stomach, filling the air. Nine cavernous, unspeakably beautiful clangs marking the hour, the sound so rich and profound that it felt like it might lift her right off her feet.

As the last note finally faded from the night, Posey raced inside, charged up the stairs, out onto the catwalk and up the skinny stairs to the belfry.

There was a note secured with duct tape, right on the lip of the bell.

Happy Birthday.

It wasn’t signed.

It didn’t need to be.