A Mother's Heart (8 page)

She was at the flower shop, making a bouquet for a twenty-fifth anniversary party when the phone rang. She wiped her hands on her work apron, then hurried to answer.

“Faye’s Floral Fantasies.”

“Hey, honey, I’m home.”

Libby’s heart leaped. Sam was back!

“Yea! Did you have a good trip?”

“Yep. Are you okay? Not working too hard are you?”

Libby’s smile widened. “I’m fine. I’ll be through here in about half an hour. As soon as I pick Sammy up at school, we’ll be home.”

“Can’t wait,” Sam said.

“Oh. Just so you know, today was the last day of school so Kate is having a sleepover for the boys. They’re having a barbeque in the backyard and then supposedly sleeping outside in the tent she set up. Sammy is so excited.”

“Have they ever slept outside before?”

“Nope.”

Sam laughed. “I’ll bet the first time some dog howls in the neighborhood, they’ll be inside.”

Libby giggled. “Probably, but Kate’s a glutton for punishment. She seems to think that’s going to be fun.”

“So…we’re on our own tonight, then?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Fantastic. So…how about I take you out for supper?”

“That would be great!” Libby said.

“The diner or the roadhouse?” Sam asked.

“Oooh, the roadhouse. I haven’t had steak in ages.”

“The roadhouse it is,” Sam said. “See you in a few.”

Libby was still smiling when she turned around to find her boss, Faye, grinning at her.

“I bet I can guess who that was,” Faye said.

“Sam’s home,” Libby said.

“As soon as you finish that bouquet, call it a day.”

“Thanks,” Libby said.

A couple of hours later, Libby was on her way to Kate’s to drop Sammy off for the sleepover. She pulled into the driveway, then leaned toward her son.

“I need my good-night kiss early,” she said.

Sammy threw his arms around her neck and kissed her soundly, then grabbed his bag just as Kate walked out onto her porch.

“There’s Kate,” Libby said. “Be good and remember your manners.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sammy said, and then beamed. “Be sure and tell Daddy I said ma’am like I’m ’posed to.”

“I will,” Libby said. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Mama,” Sammy said, and then he was gone.

Libby turned the car around and headed home—home to Sam.

S
AM AND
L
IBBY
were on their way to supper when he took the wrong turn.

“Sam. Honey…you missed the turn.”

“Oh. Shoot. I’ll just circle the block and get back on track.”

Libby smiled, then leaned back in the seat. But when it came time to turn right, Sam kept on driving.

“You missed it again,” Libby said, with a laugh.

“I know. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Oh. Okay.”

A couple of blocks farther, Libby suddenly pointed.

“Oh, look, Sam! The old Turner place sold. I love that house. See how the white verandah wraps all the way around the first story, and then mimics it again with a tiny balcony across the second story?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Sam said, and gently tapped on the brakes.

Libby kept talking, unaware they’d started slowing down. “There’s something so solid and traditional about red brick and white trim. Even the shutters are pretty. All that cutwork makes them look like lace. Kate told me it was one of the first houses built in Azalea. Some banker built it for his wife. It’s never been out of the family before, but the last couple never had children, and so it’s been for sale ever since they died.”

“Ever been inside?” Sam asked.

“Only to the foyer once to deliver flowers,” Libby said, and then realized Sam was slowing down and pulling into the driveway. “Oh…you don’t need to slow down. I’ve seen it countless times. I wonder who bought it.”

“I did,” Sam said softly.

Libby gasped, and then stared at him in disbelief. “What? Why?”

“For you. Kate said it was your favorite house in the whole town. And since you’ve already agreed to marry me, I figured it was the perfect wedding present.”

Libby was in shock. “You bought it? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Sam said. “Want to see it?”

“Can we?”

He handed her the key.

Libby grinned, then grabbed the door. “Oh my gosh. I am so excited.”

They got out, then walked up the steps hand in hand.
But when Libby tried to put the key in the lock, her hands were shaking too much.

“You do it,” she said, and handed the key back to him.

He unlocked it, then let the door swing wide as he picked her up and carried her across the threshold.

“Aren’t people supposed to be married before they do this?” Libby asked.

“People are supposed to do lots of things,” Sam said. “But we’re not ordinary people, are we, sweetheart? We fell in love, then lost each other. We made a son together, but we’re still not married. Why go against the grain and start following rules at this late date?”

Libby giggled, then threw her arms around Sam’s neck and kissed him—and didn’t turn loose until she heard him groan.

“I love you, Sam. So much.”

“Love you more,” he whispered, as he nuzzled the side of her neck. Then he put her down. “Would you like to see the rest of your house?”

Libby sighed, then gazed around at the spacious rooms and the antique furniture, unable to believe this was all hers.

“Are all the rooms furnished like this one?” she asked.

“Yes, but you can do anything you want to change the—”

“Is there a bed in the master bedroom?” she asked.

He started to smile. “A four-poster that’s so high you have to use steps to get in it.”

“Don’t you think we should maybe try it out?” Libby asked.

Sam grinned. “Like I said before, we aren’t exactly the traditional type. I see no reason why we can’t start the honeymoon right now. We can worry about dinner and the wedding later.”

“I love you, Sam Holt. Please make love to me before I die from want.”

Sam eyed the grand staircase spiraling upward. “Are you gonna make me carry you up that thing?”

“Not if I can have seconds.”

A grin started spreading across Sam’s face. “We’re not talking about food here, are we?”

“No, Sam. We’re talking about my present. My Mother’s Day present. I think it’s time I began putting it to good use.”

Sam took Libby by the hand, and together they walked up the stairs and into the rest of their lives.

To Laura Iding, who excels at writing,
friendship and keeping me sane

D
EAR
C
LARISSA
(my name for you),

M
AGGIE
C
HESTERTON
gripped the steering wheel of her rented Vibe much more tightly than she needed to. She still wasn’t sure coming home to Princeton was a good idea. In fact, from the time she received the shock of her life—in an envelope from the New Jersey Adoption Registry—until now, sitting parked on Mount Lucas across the street from Clara Schultz’s house, she wasn’t sure she knew anything anymore.

She loosened her death hold and started tap-tap-tapping the wheel instead. So many memories while driving back into town. She’d been back only once, for her Princeton Day School fifth reunion; work had kept her from the tenth. Since her adoptive parents, Jane and Michael Chesterton had moved to London right after she graduated high school, there hadn’t been much to come back for. Her few close friends had left town. The only other person she’d really liked to have seen—her first boyfriend, Grant Conroy—hadn’t come to the fifth reunion. She’d been disappointed, but not surprised. Grant had been one of the few kids bussed to PDS from Trenton, and he made damn sure everyone knew he wasn’t a Princetonian. Given the rate at which he got into trouble, she doubted his high school experience in the exclusive private school had been something he was anxious to relive.

She’d passed a few places coming in to town that held some pretty crazy memories of him, as well as tender
ones. Like the Princeton Shopping Center, where he’d dared her to run naked with him in the little adjoining park after dark. Grant had always brought out the wild girl in her. He’d been angry and exciting, creative and destructive, and very, very bright. Who knew where he was now?

A pink blossom drifted down from the crab apple tree in the yard next to her car and landed on her windshield. She’d forgotten how beautiful Princeton was in May. Magnolias, forsythia, crab apples like this one in full pink bloom, dogwoods lending a touch of pure white, azaleas in many shades, pink to peach to purple. Practically every yard burst with color.

Her birth mother’s house across the street, which she’d been staring at nervously for about fifteen minutes, was tiny, nestled among three or four huge oaks and maples which made it look like a fairy-tale house in the woods. A steep discolored slate roof, dormers here, bay windows there, the house seemed to have started in several directions and never made any of them work. Maggie had pictured a neat nondescript Colonial, like most of the other houses in the neighborhood. This one delighted her.

And terrified her. It had been hard enough deciding to find out if her birth mother had registered to find her. Emotionally explosive to find instead of an impersonal report from the registry, a personal card from Clara written nearly ten years earlier. Deciding to follow up and visit took every last ounce of Maggie’s courage. She’d booked her reservation impulsively, taking an unheard-of week off from work—though she did bring her laptop since the office collapsed without her—then had agonies of regret mixed with excitement. What if Clara was a clingy mess of a person who’d intrude into Maggie’s well-ordered and very full life and make her crazy?

But then…what if she was everything warm and loving and supportive that Jane and Michael Chesterton tried to be, but…well, couldn’t quite get there.

Finally Maggie had concluded that if she didn’t go, she’d drive herself crazy wondering what might have been. Stupid to have thought she could inquire at the Adoption Registry risk-free. Once Maggie set that boulder in motion, it wasn’t going to come to a stop until it had rolled as far as it was going to roll.

She’d only told her ex-roommate Amy about the trip. Depending on what she found and how the relationship with her birth mother moved forward—or not—she’d decide when and what to tell her adoptive parents. The registry had confirmed that the Chestertons knew nothing of Clara and vice versa. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if they’d ever passed each other on Princeton’s streets, or met at a party without realizing.

It was possible. But while musing on these things was delightful, Maggie should probably remove herself from the vehicle, cross to 256 Mount Lucas and ring the doorbell, since meeting Clara Schultz was the entire reason she’d come to Princeton in the first place.

Ya think?

She got out of the car and made her way, step by step toward her birth mother’s front door, set back under tree limbs so it was like going through a tunnel.

Standing inches away, she stared at the dimly glowing cracked doorbell.
Okay, Maggie. Go.

Her finger made contact. The bell played a single tone, then made a bizarre agitated buzzing, as if it had choked on its own tune.

Silence. Breeze sighed through the leaves overhead. An ant crawled over a sill smudged with fine black dirt.

Then footsteps and the deep bark of what sounded
like an enormous dog. A metallic clank as a deadbolt shot back. The rattle of the handle. A muffled female voice inside. Maggie held her breath. The door swung open.

Yikes. Clara Schultz—if that’s who had answered—was not the tall, stylish woman Maggie had expected, or maybe hoped for. All of probably five feet three inches—which made five-foot-seven Maggie feel like a giant even in her sensible-heeled pumps—wearing pink flowered pajama bottoms, a blue-striped pajama top and a large white apron covered with paint splotches, she was standing looking at Maggie with her graying head of medium-length, tangled brown hair tipped to one side as if she were listening intently to something in the apartment behind her.

Or to voices in her own head.

Help.

Strangest of all, she barely seemed to register Maggie’s presence. The dog, a collie with matted fur, had no trouble registering Maggie’s presence, however, which meant Maggie had to find some way to keep the dog’s nose out of her privates without being rude. The woman didn’t seem to notice the struggle. She was still lost in whatever world she appeared to inhabit.

It seemed completely impossible that this woman could belong to Maggie’s gene pool, which made it suddenly easy to speak.

“Are you Clara Schultz?”

The woman lifted her head. Hers eyes were the exact shade of Maggie’s, unusually bright blue, which often had people guessing she wore color-enhancing contacts. That shared physical characteristic was enough to take away Maggie’s recent calm and bring back the initial shock.

“Yes. I’m Clara.” She pulled the black-framed half-glasses off her head and jammed them onto her nose, peered at Maggie as if she were looking over produce in the supermarket. “Who are you?”

“I’m…” Maggie would never go into a meeting of any kind unprepared. But faced with this extraordinary, plump, mismatched character standing in the doorway of her fairy-tale house while her dog explored forbidden areas, Maggie’s polished presentation fled in panic. “I got your note.”

“Wobbles, back.” Clara spoke softly, but the dog immediately retreated into the house, to Maggie’s unutterable relief. “What did you say now, a note?”

“You sent it through—”

“Oh, yes. The one about the…” She frowned and shook her head. “No. That’s been taken care of. What note?”

Dear God, was Clara Schultz all there?

“It was a card, really. From you. The agency sent it. I’m your…I’m Clarissa. Only I’m Maggie. Your…” She took a deep breath. Braced herself. “Daughter.”

“Oh-h-h-h.” Clara put a hand to her heart, then to her mouth, singing the syllable in a fluid mezzo. “Oh-h-h-h.”

“I…your note said just to show up, so…” Maggie gestured stupidly. “Here I am.”

“Yes. My goodness, so you are. Well.” Clara moved back from the door, catching her breath a few times in bizarre hiccups. “Well. My goodness. Please come in. My goodness.”

“Thank you.” Maggie stepped into the house, registering increasing dismay. The place was a shabby mess. Piles of newspapers, catalogs, books and various papers covered every surface and chair. Bookcases overflowed with books stacked vertically, horizontally and on the
floor. The smell of wet dog permeated the hallway, and, she guessed, the rest of the house.

It was about as far from her immaculately organized condo in Chicago as any place could get.

“My goodness, look at you.” Clara pressed clasped hands to her mouth. “Just look at you. You’re so beautiful.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.” She stood awkwardly under the scrutiny, understanding how necessary it must be. But instead of a wave of daughterly warmth, she felt slightly sick and claustrophobic. And guilty for feeling that way. This woman was her mother. Shouldn’t some portion of her subconscious recognize that and be overcome? Overjoyed? All Maggie could manage was overcritical.

“Well I shouldn’t stand here staring, come on in, let’s find you somewhere to sit.” Clara led the way into a small living room that would be cozy and welcoming if it were neat and beautifully arranged. The sofa—in fact, most of the furniture and the floor—was covered with large floral sheets, on top of which were stacked jars and tubes of paints, brushes, palettes, sketch pads.

“You’re an artist.” In front of a corner window an easel stood, turned to capture the natural light. Maggie headed toward it, wanting to see while dreading what she’d find. What were the chances her mother’s paintings would be as odd and haphazard as she was?

“Yes. Well, yes, I am.”

Maggie stepped over a tray on which lay the remains of a lunch she hoped had been prepared that same day and turned to look at the canvas.

“It’s not finished. Almost. Not quite.”

“Oh, how beautiful.” The words came to Maggie’s lips, but didn’t do the painting justice. It was extraordinary. The recognizable figure of a woman, sitting on the ground holding an infant, looking up at a bright red
cardinal in the branches of a tree. Lots of colors, very few lines, yet the look of pain and longing on the woman’s face nearly brought Maggie to tears.

Her mother was indeed an artist.

“You like it?”

“I love it.” Her voice cracked with emotion; she stayed hidden behind the easel until she could regain control. She’d wanted to be an artist, but her adoptive parents hadn’t considered sculpting a suitable career. Undoubtedly they were right, though beautiful work like this could still give her a pang of regret along with the pleasure.

“Do you paint?” The hope in Clara’s voice was unmistakable.

“I sculpt. Used to, that is.”

“You stopped?” Her surprise bordered on outrage, as if she were wondering what kind of true artist would give up the very thing that fed her soul.

Maggie cringed. “I had to make money.”

“Oh, dear. That is sad.”

“Yes.” She suddenly missed the feel of clay and stone under her fingers. “But it’s okay. I make a good living, and I’m satisfied.”

“Satisfaction is good. Joy is better. What do you do?”

Maggie stepped out from behind the easel, ready this time for the sight of her mother. “I’m an advertising executive.”

“Well my goodness.” Clara clasped her hands together and nodded, obviously trying to look thrilled at her daughter’s choice. “That is impressive.”

“I don’t know about that. I sort of fell into it. Do you show your work around Princeton?” She desperately wanted the subject changed.

“Oh. No. I don’t. No.” Clara shook her head so vigor
ously her glasses loosened from where she’d put them back on top of her head and landed on the bridge of her nose. “I don’t show anywhere.”

“Why not? I should think a local gallery would love to have your paintings. Heck, you might be able to get a show in New York. Do you have an agent?”

“An agent. Goodness no.” She frowned severely. “My art isn’t about money.”

“Oh, but your talent should be recognized. You can always—”

“Now sit down and I’ll make a cup of tea. Or well, do you drink tea? What time is it?” She looked at her watch, held it to her ear, shook it and looked again. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s close to six.”

“Oh.” She squinted at her watch again. “I guess it is. Well, then, six o’clock is cocktail hour in this house. Would you like wine? Or gin? I might have a beer somewhere…” She looked around vaguely as if hoping a frosty mug would magically appear.

“I’d like to take you out to dinner. Is Lahiere’s still around?” A sudden vision of her mother’s half-and-half pajama outfit surrounded by the elegant dark wood and low-ceilinged coziness of one of Princeton’s oldest and finest restaurants made Maggie almost want the invitation back. When she had planned to take her mom to dinner…well she’d had a different picture in mind.

“Oh, no, I’ve waited years to have you at my table. Please don’t deprive me of that.” Clara headed toward the kitchen, then turned back, nearly tripping over the fold of a sheet. “How long are you staying? I’ll make up the guest—”