Family Tree (29 page)

Celia's eyes narrowed. “I'm going to get dressed. It's going to take a few minutes. That should be long enough for you to say whatever it is you came to say.” She whirled around and slammed the door behind her.

Celia Swank. Celia? Really? Annie felt a burn of resentment toward the woman. Then she realized her resentment was for Fletcher.

“How long did you wait after I left?” she demanded. “Did you start nailing her as soon as I headed for the airport, or did you at least wait until my plane left the ground?”

“Annie, I'm sorry. I—”

“Sorry? Sorry? For what? You must be thrilled. You found someone who wants to follow you to Harvard. Good for you, Fletcher.” As she spoke, she backed toward the door, suddenly needing to flee. She groped behind her for the door handle and found it, stepping back into the hallway and nearly colliding with a guy carrying a tray of hot coffee.

“Watch where you're going,” the guy said.

Fletcher looked as if he wanted to say something more. Annie realized that it didn't matter what else he told her, what explanation he could offer. He was going to marry Celia Swank. End of story. It was the end of
their
story.

“All right, then.” The world felt different to her now—alien, inhospitable, cold. The way it had felt when her father had left. So much for the romantic, transcontinental journey to bare her heart. “There's nothing more to be said. Except, I guess, good luck with that.”

“Hang on, Annie, listen—”

“To what?” she demanded, scorched by humiliation. “You've told me everything I need to know. Good-bye, Fletcher.”

Now

A
nnie was awakened by the uncanny sense that she was being watched. She opened one eye, and then the other. The blur next to her bed resolved into a chubby, earnest face.

“Knox,” she said, gazing at her small nephew. His head was just about level with the height of her bed. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Mom said I have to be quiet,” he told her.

“Well.” She pushed herself up on one elbow. “You were very quiet.” She scooted over and patted the spot next to her. “Climb on in.”

He gave a fleeting smile and hoisted himself into the bed next to her. “Can Dug come?”

“Okay.”

Knox leaned over and said, “Dug, up!”

In a flash, the shiny brown dachshund bounded onto the bed, greeting them with ecstatic swipes of his whiplike tail. Annie smiled and twirled the dog's silky ears. “I like Dug. He's cute and gentle.”

“Yep.” Knox peered into her face. He was solemn, his skin impossibly soft, his eyes unabashedly searching.

“Hey, do you remember me?” she asked him. “You were really little last time I visited. You were still in diapers.”

“I'm a big boy now,” he said, showing her his undies, printed with some superhero she didn't recognize.

“Yes, you are. And you're very nice to visit me in the morning.” She sat all the way up, looping her arms around her drawn-up knees. The room had the same lace curtains that had hung in the same two gabled windows all her life. The bookcases and study nook brought back memories of novels she'd read, homework she'd struggled over, friends who had come for sleepovers.

“When I was little, this was my bedroom,” she told her nephew.

“It's the guest room now.”

“Am I a guest, or do I live here?” Annie wondered aloud.

He looked at her blankly. His chubby hand absently patted the dog's head.

“This room has a secret hiding place,” Annie said. “Want me to show you?”

He nodded eagerly. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted her feet on the floor. It was a relief not to have to think about every single movement these days. Her legs felt strong at last as she crossed to the built-in bookcase against the wall.

“Over here,” she said, releasing the hidden latches. The bookcase swung outward on hinges to reveal a space behind, now draped in cobwebs and dust bunnies.

Dug skittered into the nook, sniffing madly. A spider ran for cover.

“Spiders are yuck,” Knox said, taking Annie's hand.

Her heart melted a little at the moist softness of his fingers. “I think so, too, but they don't want to hurt us.” She found a flashlight in the drawer of the nightstand. “Hold that for me, will you?”

Knox eagerly complied, crouching down next to Annie. She showed him a little corner cubby where she'd stashed an old Hush Puppies shoe box. She blew away the dust and opened the lid. “See? Treasures.”

Knox eagerly inspected her trinkets, a collection of odds and ends left over from her childhood. Looking at the random objects, Annie was flooded with memories. Each item was attached to a specific moment
she could recall with perfect clarity. Her collection of honor beads from Campfire Girls were in an old blue Crown Royal pouch, reminding her of the clubby after-school meetings she'd attended with her friends. The engraved metal dog tags worn by her childhood pet, a loyal Lab named Bunky, brought on a sweet-sad stab of affection. She and her little nephew sifted through the box, examining the carnival prizes, key chains, a mood ring, a Mariah Carey CD, a love note from a boy in her sixth-grade homeroom. There was a book of matches and a packet of rolling papers, half gone. She paged through a packet of snapshots, feeling an ache of nostalgia. “This is what I looked like when I was about your age,” she said, showing Knox a Christmas-morning shot of her at the age of three or four, hugging both her new doll and her old dog. There was a shot of Annie driving the tractor when she was so small she had to stand up to reach the pedals. Another showed her and Gran in matching aprons, making something wonderful in the kitchen. The most recent, probably just before they got a digital camera, was a picture of Annie with Fletcher Wyndham on prom night. Ancient history.

“Look at us,” she said to Knox, remembering how handsome and grown-up Fletcher had looked. His rented tux wasn't a perfect fit, and it had a faint odor of benzine and mothballs, but he had shown up with a corsage and his heart in his eyes, and they'd danced the night away. The beaming young woman in the photo had no idea what the future held. “We were so happy. So clueless.”

Her nephew gave a solemn nod, but was more drawn to a cluster of Mardi Gras beads. There had been an early sap flow one year, and her dad had celebrated by throwing a Mardi Gras celebration for all the workers and friends.

“I'm hungry,” Knox said, draping the beads over his head.

“Me, too. Let's go make breakfast.”

He took her hand and they went down to the kitchen together, with Dug skittering along behind them. Holding on to his tiny fingers, she
decided that there was more healing power in a little kid's touch than in all the hours of therapy she'd had. Knox had an open mind and an open heart. He didn't judge, but simply observed, and he said exactly what was on his mind the moment he thought it.

They were the first ones up. Light from the rising sun flooded the room, touching the countertops and utensils with gold. Annie had always loved the way the kitchen looked in the morning, before anything had been touched. The copper utensils gleamed over the stainless-steel countertops. The glassware and baking pans were lined up in the cabinets. The empty table seemed to be waiting just for her. She stopped and took it all in, her senses filling not just with memories, but with a feeling of possibility. The daily nausea of fear was gone, just like that.

She touched her nephew's shoulder. “What's the best thing for breakfast?”

“Blueberry muffins,” he said without hesitation.

“I think we can handle that.” She fired up the gas oven.

Most of the ingredients and utensils were stored where they had always been. The big pantry still held the dry scent of flour and spices. The iron Griswold muffin pan, Gran's favorite, was in the baking drawer. Gran would never use any cast iron but Griswold, which was challenging, since the line had been discontinued decades ago.

Annie set her nephew on a barstool at the counter, and they got to work. She narrated the recipe to the little boy as she put together the ingredients—eggs and buttermilk, a dab of melted butter and the dry ingredients, the frozen berries. “I sound like Gran,” she said softly, “talking to me.” She smiled at Knox. “She was my grandmother, and my very best friend, all my life. Do you have a best friend?”

He nodded at Dug, who sat eagerly nearby, hoping for a morsel.

“That's nice,” she said. “Dug is a great friend to have. Let's see if he likes blueberries.” She tossed one to the dog and he sniffed it with suspicion. Then he lapped it right up.

She got back to work on the muffins, her mind settling quietly to the task. The work was restorative, giving her a sense that she was reclaiming herself. Knox happily helped her stir and fill the pans, and she let him steal a few more blueberries. While the muffins baked, she made a pot of pour-over coffee and set out the cream and sugar, the butter and jam. As the smell of the baking muffins filled the kitchen, Knox put his sticky hands on her cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, his eyes wide with apprehension. “Does your head hurt again?”

She took his hands, placed a kiss on each one, and summoned a smile. “I'm not hurt. I'm the opposite of hurt. This morning, you made me very happy. Being in this kitchen makes me happy. We took what we had and we made something, and it's going to be delicious.”

“When?”

She indicated the windup timer. “As soon as you hear the ding.”

The aroma of coffee and breakfast brought the rest of the household to the table. Annie dried her tears, but they nearly flowed again when she watched her family gathering around the counter. The sight of her mom pouring coffee, Beth loading up her tote bag for work, the other three kids digging in, Kyle reading some kind of farming journal, filled her heart. She was home with her family. A lovely sense of rightness enveloped her.

The older kids doled out hugs and hiked down the steep driveway to the school-bus stop, and Beth headed off to the academy. Knox declared that he was going to make a fort for his trolls, and got to work under the dining room table with a cardboard box and some Lincoln Logs. Annie, Kyle, and their mother lingered over second cups of coffee at the kitchen table.

“What are you reading?” Annie asked her brother.

He held up the journal.

“
Cannabis Selection Guide?
So you really are planning to grow pot.”

“That's right,” he said. “I'm going to plant a sunny acre on the south slope.”

“Seriously? Was it legalized in this state while I was asleep?” Annie asked.

Her mom shook her head. “No, and I keep trying to tell him it's a waste of time. If you put all that thought and energy into the sugarbush, we could probably turn things around.”

“I'm laying the groundwork,” Kyle declared. “The legislature's going to approve legalization for recreational use—there's a bill before them now—and when it does, I'll be ready. There's a fortune to be made, and I've got four kids to feed and educate.”

“Cool,” said Annie. She remembered smoking pot. She had gotten high just enough times to decide it wasn't for her. All it did was make her muzzy-headed and lazy. “Is Beth on board with this?”

“It's . . . a negotiation.”

“Ah.” Their mother scowled at him. “I suppose it could be problematic if the director of a school for wayward teens was a pot farmer.”

“Not after it's legalized,” Kyle said. “She'll come around.”

“And if she doesn't?” Mom asked, sipping her coffee.

Kyle went back to his reading.

Before her parents' divorce, Annie remembered tense conversations between them, sotto voce—as if she couldn't hear. The disconnect between Dad wanting to head to the tropics on an adventure and Mom wanting to stay at the farm had never been resolved. His yearning for something different had been like water in the cracks of solid stone, freezing and ultimately breaking the whole thing apart.

“Half of all marriages end in divorce,” Annie pointed out, peering at her brother over the top of the journal. “So, statistically, my divorce is good for you and Beth, right?”

“Beth and I are fine,” he said, getting up from the table. He cleaned up the breakfast dishes and went to work. He was logging today, taking
some of the spent maples to a mill over in Greensboro to be peeled, milled, and cured for lumber. The bark would be used to mulch the garden and orchard.

Annie felt a wave of affection for her older brother. He was devoted to his family. He never seemed to be looking beyond the life he had at something else, like a surf camp in the tropics . . . or a TV career in L.A. Annie envied Kyle his clarity in knowing what he wanted.

Yet based on the financials her mom had shared, she worried about the old place. What if it had to be sold? What if a developer bought it, or a big sugar operation?

After Kyle left for the day, Mom sorted through some mail, making a face as she showed Annie a mailing from a retirement organization, touting effortless senior living. “How did I get on this list? Oh, that's right. I'm old. When did that happen? When did I get old, and how did I forget to have a life?”

“Don't say you're old, Mom. You're not. You look fantastic. And just look around this room. You
do
have a life.”

The kitchen and breakfast nook were filled with family pictures, keepsakes, and artifacts from eight generations of Rushes. The walls were ice blue, hung with her mother's original paintings in frames that coordinated with the leaded glass of the bay window.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I do. Of course I do. Is it the life I want? I have no idea.”

“Now you're whining. Go paint something. You're always happy when you're painting. I'll watch Knox.”

“Maybe later. There's something I need to show you. Two things, actually, and I know you're going to have questions.”

“Okay.” Annie was curious as she followed her mother to the den. They turned on
Sesame Street
for Knox and then sat together on the sofa. Her mother handed her a thick, ivory-covered photo album with
Our Wedding
embossed in gold letters into the cover.

“Only if you feel up to it,” Mom said gently.

“I made blueberry muffins this morning. I'm ready for anything.” Annie's hands felt cold, though, as she laid the book in her lap. The photographer's name was printed on the inner cover under
Annie+Martin
.

Turning the pages slowly, she felt herself tensing as she took in the shining expressions of the people in the photos, assembled on the beach on a golden evening in September.

“We were all so happy for you that day,” Mom said.

“Everything seemed just right, didn't it?” Annie and Martin had planned the beachside ceremony together, focusing on good food, live music, and nonstop dancing. The barbecue meal had been hosted by Martin's family. Though the Vermonters and the Texans had little in common, they bonded over pulled-pork sliders, Texas sheet cake, and wine from the Santa Ynez valley. Annie perused a montage of the Rushes and the Harlows. “Even our families got along great, as far as I could tell.”

“We did,” Mom agreed. “The Harlows seemed like lovely people, and I could tell they adored you. Martin's mother told me how excited she was about the show, and how grateful she was that it had all started with you.”

Annie gazed down at a group shot of herself with Martin and his parents and siblings. It was like looking at a picture of a stranger. A stranger in a beautiful dress with a beautiful smile.