“Righto,” he said and smiled. The front gate squeaked and he disappeared.
“You’re finishing up?” Annie said and lifted a brow.
“I know, I know. We have a long way to go, yet.”
“Mom, did you love him?” Annie asked. “The writer?”
“Oh, Annabelle. I suppose I did.”
“I’m sorry it couldn’t have been more,” she said, thinking of the last two decades and their quiet country life. Never a boyfriend in all that time. Or no boyfriend important enough for Annie to meet. “I’m sorry you and the writer didn’t see things through.”
“Oh. Well.”
Laurel flushed and for a moment Annie saw Pru. Only a glimmer, the briefest of snapshots, but there she trembled beneath the stern and polish.
“That would’ve been nice, in theory,” Laurel said. “But then I wouldn’t have you. So everything worked out as it should.”
“That’s a sweet sentiment, even if it’s total crap. If you’d stayed with Win, there’d be some other kid you were grateful to have.”
“Excuse me!” said a voice. The mustachioed head of the inspector popped up over the fence. “I find myself challenged in accessing the building.”
“Huh. They told me it’d be unlocked. I’ll come check it out.” Laurel turned to Annie. “Do you want to go in with me? It’ll be the first time I’ve stepped inside in almost thirty years.”
“Uh, sure,” Annie said, neglecting to mention that she’d already been, twice, and that she could get them in without a key.
“All right,” Laurel said and exhaled loudly. “Let’s do it. This is going to be … this is going to be something.”
With a watery smile, and as she had so many times for so many years before, Laurel took her daughter’s hand and guided her along the way.
Fifty
Subject:
Like lightning
From:
[email protected]
Date:
Nov 15, 2001 04:35
To:
[email protected]
I’ll bet you didn’t expect such a fast reply.
I was at my computer when your e-mail came through. That chime was the best dang thing I’ve heard this year, other than that one time you said “yes.” When I got the e-mail I swear I could picture exactly where you were. It almost felt like talking.
Your poor mom. But stop worrying! Charlie Vietnam and me—two different people. Two different Americas. We’re better organized now. We have our crap together. That’s what they tell us anyway.
Do I think it’s weird she never told you about him? I dunno, I guess. But you probably haven’t told her everything about you, right? Does she know you’ve been slinking around town with that old man for instance? Sorry, I’ll never not think of him that way.
Y’all are close but she’s still your mama. Had a big ol’ life before you came around. Prob a mess of secrets, too. You figure to tell our kids everything you’ve ever done? Every heartbreak you’ve ever had? I reckon not. Keep me out of it if you do.
I don’t know why she won’t say more about your dad. Whatever her reasons, I’ll wager they have to do with love. Your mama has nothing but goodness inside. You’re made the same way.
I guess you have to ask yourself why you care. Why it matters to know his name. You’ve managed a-okay till now without it. More than okay, as it happens.
Well, love, gotta go. I’m not supposed to be on this machine. Guess what? We’re almost there! I’ll send you postcards from Kandahar. Sounds like a novel. Maybe you can write it.
All my love,
ES
Fifty-one
WS: Do you care to explain why you’ve moved your portrait out of the dining room?
GD: I don’t recall there ever being a portrait in the dining room.
WS: Come now, Mrs. Spencer. You know the one. The glorious Boldini. It was there a week ago and now, poof, disappeared with the wind.
GD: Boldini? Hmm, the name sounds familiar.
WS: Surely you’re not going to lie about this! It’s the most fetching portrait the old bastard ever did, as far as I know. Unless there’s some other lady in some other country hiding some other portrait in her broken-down home.
GD: He was a bastard, wasn’t he? Oh, I adored the man!
WS: So he did paint you.
GD: Perhaps. It’s all starting to seem familiar.
WS: There’s not a person alive who finds creeping dementia so convenient.
GD: You’re mistaken, though. About the painting. There’s never been a portrait of me on the premises.
WS: You’re truly going to claim the Boldini wasn’t in your dining room?
GD: It wasn’t. Ever. Not for a single second.
WS: Note to manuscript. Writer’s assistant looks at GD agog.
PRU: I’m not your assistant.
GD: Who’s GD? Surely you’re not calling me goddamned.
WS: Simply your initials. Though it’s also a highly appropriate coincidence.