“Ugh!” Willow moaned. “You mean like an ‘open marriage’? That’s so gross!”
“I’m not going into any details, Willow. Let me just say that Boyz and I are both attractive people who enjoy being attractive. The most important thing is that whatever we do as individuals, as a couple we are absolutely devoted to you. We will never stop loving you, we will never stop putting you first in our thoughts and in our hearts.”
“Yeah, right,” Willow muttered, but she flushed and her eyes filled with tears.
“Come over here, Willow,” Autumn said, patting the cushion next to her.
Willow stuck her bottom lip out stubbornly.
“Come on, honey. Come on.” Autumn’s voice was so low and sweet, Darcy thought she’d sit next to Autumn if invited.
Willow gave Darcy a quick sideways glance.
Darcy read the message. It had been a long night for Willow, with lots of drama and the scare of Henry’s cut and Willow’s sense of failing to keep the boys safe, not to mention seeing her mother with another man. Willow needed her mother now. Whatever Autumn had looked like a few hours ago, right now, Autumn was Willow’s mother, completely focused on her. And Willow needed Autumn.
“I’ve got to get home,” Darcy said. “I’ll let myself out.”
Before anyone could say anything, Darcy rose and left the room, heading for the kitchen and the back steps. She caught a flicker of movement in her eye—Willow moving over to be embraced by her mother.
By the time she reached her own back door, tears were pouring down her face. She collapsed at the kitchen table, burying her face in her hands. She had no single memory of her own mother hugging her when Darcy was a teenager. Darcy had been living with Penny then, and Penny had been a fascinating and loving person, but not much of a toucher. Boyz seemed like an overtoucher, if that was such a thing, and maybe Autumn was, too, but her connection with Willow was clear and powerful.
Darcy wished she had someone to put his arms around her now.
18
Going with Mom to Boston for shopping. Sorry can’t do story time. xo W
Darcy sat at her kitchen table Friday morning, reading Willow’s brief text.
It surprised her, how her mood plummeted, like an elevator with its cables cut.
“Muffler,” she said to the cat who sat in the middle of the table staring at her, “we’ve been dumped.”
Muffler lifted one paw and industriously licked it, paying no attention to Darcy.
“Et tu Brute?” Now her coffee didn’t even taste good, and her first cup of coffee in the morning was one of her favorite pleasures in life. “Everyone is ignoring me,” she said pathetically. “But I do know,” she added, saying it aloud, as if someone were listening, “that Willow is not my daughter. She’ll return to Boston, and I’ll never see her again. I’ve allowed myself to get too involved with a summer person.”
As a practical matter, she needed to find someone else to help with story time.
They had plenty of volunteers, but she needed to check her list and call someone.
“Enough whining,” she told herself, and rose from the table to begin the day.
She chose one of her favorite sundresses to wear to work, mostly white, with scarlet poppies on green stems growing up from the hem. She slipped on a red silk headband, kissed herself in the mirror, and set off for the library.
The day was full of minor crises—all the copies of Shrek had been checked out, and Nanny McPhee had been misshelved, so it showed up as in on the computer, but displeased mothers and frantic circ staffers had to search through the shelves to find it. A little girl locked herself in one of the restrooms and wouldn’t come out because she didn’t want to be with her stepmother, and Beverly Maison spilled a cup of iced coffee down her new shirt.
At the end of the day, Darcy was delighted to leave the library. A lecture on coastal erosion was taking place in the Great Hall that evening; Darcy had planned on attending but decided she wasn’t in the mood. As she walked home, her mind flooded with concerns she’d shoved into a mental compartment for the day.
Nash. They didn’t always get together on Friday nights. He was usually beat and they both worked on Saturdays. And when they did get together, would they talk more about the house he wanted to buy?
Susan Brueckner. Should Darcy tell Susan about what Willow saw? Did she need Willow, the eyewitness, with her when she spoke with Susan? But, no, Willow had been nearly traumatized, seeing her mother naked on the dining room table with Susan’s husband. The girl didn’t need any more shocks from the grown-up world.
Maybe Darcy should simply let it go. After all, she hardly knew Susan and Otto. They would be leaving after Labor Day. Darcy might never see them again. Maybe Susan already knew about Otto’s escapades, and Darcy would only bring unwanted attention to a situation the Brueckners had already worked out for themselves.
Mimi. Darcy should talk to Mimi about this. Mimi was wise. She’d seen everything twice, it seemed, and Mimi viewed life with more than a pinch of good humor and goodwill.
Impulsively, when Darcy came to Mimi’s house, she stopped and knocked on the door. She’d invite Mimi over for a drink in the garden, or maybe Mimi would invite her in for a drink in her own back garden. Mimi would break Darcy’s spell of gloominess. She’d make Darcy laugh, and without Willow there, Mimi and Darcy could talk without inhibitions.
The moment Darcy knocked, she wished she’d texted or phoned instead. If Clive wasn’t home, Mimi would have to struggle down the hall to open the door. But she couldn’t unknock the door, and while she stood dithering about, the door opened.
Clive was there, and he looked worried. His brown hair was rumpled and he had dark circles under his eyes. Several small stains marked his shirt, a handsome but wrinkled blue button-down hanging out over his jeans.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Clive, it looks like I’ve come at a bad time.”
“Mimi’s ill.” He kept his hand on the door, as if it were holding him up.
He spoke so quietly, Darcy wasn’t sure she understood. “Excuse me?”
He cleared his throat. “Mimi’s not well.”
Darcy heard him this time. The words struck like a blow to her abdomen. Mimi was worse than “not well” if Clive looked like this.
“Oh. I—I’m sorry to hear that, Clive. Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t know.” He ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up all over. “She—I— Why don’t you come in a moment.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Please. Intrude.” He held the door wide.