Homecoming (4 page)

Even at that, she looked older than she was. Her pinched expression and the permanent lines etched between her brows definitely added to her years. From the few pictures Jill had seen, the sour expression had always been there. Even as a child, a camera had never caught her genuinely smiling. Maybe she had good reasons to seem so unhappy. If she did, Jill wasn’t privy to them.

“I’m going to head to bed,” Jill said, starting for her room.

Annoyed, her mother impatiently waved her aside. Jill hadn’t realized she’d blocked her view, and she moved four feet, just to be sure she was out of the way.

“Are you leaving in the morning?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

With a scowl, her mother said, “I’d like to know your plans, Jill. I’ve got a life too.”

“Yes,” she said, decisively. “I’m leaving in the morning. Probably before you’re up.”

“All right. I’ll see you next time.”

Jill stood there for a second, not sure if she should go for a hug or not. Sometimes her mother wanted one, sometimes she acted like she was being molested if you tried to touch her. Not wanting to screw up, Jill opted out. “Okay, then. See you.”

There were no complaints as she went down the hall, so she’d made the right choice. Nearly forty years of guessing had to result in some successes, and she gladly took the win.

As she closed the door to her room, she conceded that she’d fibbed a little with Lizzie. Her dad was still out trying to find female companionship most nights, but she’d told the truth about his increasing failure rate. At least, she assumed he was striking out more often. His snoring presence, before midnight on a Saturday, was a pretty recent phenomenon. Jill would never know if her mother liked his being home more or not. There was truly no way to tell.

***

The poem said that April was the cruelest month, but Jill voted for February. It had been cold since November, and wouldn’t even begin to truly warm up until May—maybe even June if they didn’t get lucky.

She sat with her defroster running, trying to decide where to go for breakfast. Back to town was the smart move, but that would put her close to the blacksmith’s shop, and she wasn’t sure she even wanted to see Mark. Why bother to invite her, then go out of his way to hide?

Softening, she conceded that he’d always been a hider. His passiveness was one of the parts of his personality that she’d liked. Getting nothing but grief at home, it was nice to hang out with a kid who never pushed, never argued, never gave anyone a bit of trouble. Mark praised every decision she made, loved every musical group she favored, every book she read. Maybe Lizzie had been right. That might have been a crush. Poor guy! It’d be just like Mark to pick a clueless lesbian to crush out on.

Making up her mind, Jill headed for town. If Mark didn’t have the guts to face her, he’d have to run from his own shop.

The town was just waking up, with a few cars on the main road and a bunch of tourists driving around, probably looking for the cross-country ski trails. People from all over came to Sugar Hill to rent equipment and trek over the bucolic landscape. Or they might have simply been driving around, sightseeing.

To her, it was just home. Home back to at least her paternal great-grandparents. Her mother’s side were newcomers, down from Canada around the early 1900s. But Sugar Hill was also a town captured in amber.

In the sixties, an investment banker with local ties created a charitable entity dedicated to preserving small-town Vermont life. Over the years, the Foundation came to own most of the few businesses, along with a good portion of the land. A significant minority of the population worked for the Foundation and its businesses, the only thing keeping the town buoyant. Tourism was their lifeblood and, without complaint, they had to allow for slow-moving groups of hikers and bicyclists to stop and take pictures in front of one of the covered bridges. That was the only real downside of living in a picture-postcard, once-common way of life.

The barn door of the shop was open a crack, and Jill could see Mark building a fire in the huge hearth. He must have been making a lot of noise, for he didn’t pick his head up when she closed her car door. When she crossed the threshold though, his head snapped up and she was pretty sure he was actually going to take off. Then he shuffled over to her, looking like a kid being sent to the principal’s office.

The years hadn’t been unkind. Mark actually looked better than he had when they’d graduated from UVM. Work had made his shoulders broader and square, and his bare forearms rippled with muscle. He’d put on a little weight, but he’d needed to, always being bean-stalk thin. And he finally had a decent haircut, with his wavy dark red hair lying down neatly. The mustache and goatee were a surprise, with the hair there brown with a little gray mixed in.

“I’m sorry I was such a wuss,” he grumbled, staring at the aged stone floor.

She put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him in for a hug, with his body relaxing against hers as they held each other for a minute. “It’s all right. I know you hate parties.”

Jill released him and he moved back over to his big, brick forge. The same one old Mr. Rooney and his predecessors had labored at. The fire had started, but without him tending it, it wasn’t up to snuff. Jill watched as Mark expertly arranged another course of kindling and paper, then added a split log as the small pieces caught. He stepped back as the flames rose, then clapped the dirt from his hands.

“Yeah, I was uncomfortable, but that’s no excuse.” He shrugged. “I saw you come in and was going to come over, but I thought I’d wait until you were finished talking to Lisa.” Shrugging again, he said, “Then you got waylaid by Beth, and I couldn’t stand to be in that big crowd any longer.”

“Where’d you go?” she asked gently.

“I was out in the backyard for a while, then went down by the river.” His eyes met hers.

“You saw me go to my car, didn’t you.”

“Yeah. But by then it was too late. That would have really looked stupid.”

Jill once more gripped his shoulder. “I’ve seen you eat paste. You don’t ever have to worry about looking stupid around me.”

He started to laugh, finally loosening up a little. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He poked at the fire, acting like it needed constant attention. “Lisa told me you don’t have kids, my dad told me you were gorgeous, my mom told me you were single, and Beth told me you had a big job at the U. Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah.” She put her hands on his shoulders, just to hold him still. “I was hurt. Very hurt, when you ditched me after we graduated. But I’m over that. I love you and I love your family. I’d like to see all of you again. What do you think?”

“I…” He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and chewed on it for a few seconds. “I’d like that.” Their eyes met. “You
know
that, right? You know I never wanted to…” His cheeks flushed, their color almost matching his hair.

“I know Lisa’s not crazy about me. I can’t say why, given that I barely said two words to her in high school, but…whatever.”

“Maybe that’s it,” he said, clearly guessing. “She was a year younger. Maybe she wanted you to notice her.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She wasn’t going to tell Mark that she’d always thought Lisa was a prissy jerk, but he couldn’t have been dumb enough not to have noticed by now. Lisa was a decent looking girl, but she had an ugly mean streak that she always wrapped up in her religious convictions, which she wore on her sleeve. “Are you guys still involved at church?”

“Oh, yeah. Lisa spends most of her day over there, when she’s not dragging the kids around. She’s got a hand in everything.”

“I bet she does.” The fire had settled down, and Jill watched Mark tend it for a few seconds. “I recognize some of these machines,” she said, when she had his attention again. “But some of them are new.”

“Yeah, this TIG welder’s pretty new. Old man Rooney did everything by hand. But I’m trying to expand the business.” He went over to a side bench and picked up a graceful candelabra made from forged iron. At the end of each curved rod was a marker for a lobster trap. “I’m making these for a woman who runs a shop up in Maine on the coast. She sells all I can make.”

“Nice,” Jill said, admiring the piece. “This wouldn’t fit in my house, but I’d love to have one of your creations.”

“I’ll make you whatever you want,” he said, eager, as always, to please.

“How much does the lobster buoy go for?”

“Four fifty.”

She almost dropped it. “Four hundred and fifty dollars?”

He winced as he took it back. “It takes me at least twenty hours labor for this. That’s not including materials.” He tapped the buoy. “These are antique. Not that plastic stuff they use now.”

“Hey,” she said, placing a hand on his back. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I just can’t imagine people having that kind of money to spend on a lamp.” Gripping his heavy flannel shirt, she pushed him a bit. “And you’re not going to give me something that costs four hundred and fifty dollars!”

She poked around the shop, finally holding up a wrought iron toilet paper holder. “What do you charge for this?”

“Fifty bucks,” he said, his voice reflecting uncertainty.

“Can I buy it? It’ll fit perfectly in my bathroom.”

“Take it. Please,” he said, almost begging.

“Deal.” She slipped the piece into her coat pocket. “Next time, I’m going to take the forge if you skip out on me.”

He looked like he thought she was serious, and it dawned on her that despite being invited back, things might not have changed a bit. “Are we going to be able to be friends again?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, the epitome of indecision. Thank god he’d changed his mind about being an accountant. He’d still be trying to close the books from his first year in practice. “I think so. I hope so. Can we see how things go?”

“Yeah. No problem.” Jill put her arms around him and gave him a brief hug. “But I’m going to reestablish a relationship with your mom. I promised I would, and I always keep my promises.”

“We both promised we’d always be best friends,” he said, looking at her with true pain in his eyes.

“Maybe we will be,” she said, cuffing him on the chin. “I’m ready when you are.”

***

The first of May turned out to be a perfect day for a wedding. Jill stood on a slight incline next to a gorgeous, turn-of-the-century building they called a barn. This barn, built to house coaches and wagons, was beautifully shingled and roofed with copper, now turned green with age.

Jill turned to watch her co-worker, the VP of Legal Affairs, shed her super-serious work demeanor to dance like a woman possessed. Co-workers’ weddings were often revelatory, and this one was going according to form.

Cari Hunt, one of Jill’s employees, sidled up next to her. “Did you have any idea Karina could dance?”

“I had no idea she could smile, much less dance.”

“Too true,” Cari agreed. “I think she might have had one too many glasses of champagne.”

“No such thing at your wedding.” Jill held her flute up. “But I’m stopping at two. I’ve never been an afternoon drinker.”

Cari was avidly watching the dance floor, but she narrowed her eyes and said, “I can hit any afternoon pretty hard if I’m with a group. But then I go to sleep by about seven. No matter where I am,” she added, laughing. “My friends almost left me on an island last summer when I was so trashed they couldn’t wake me.”

“You can still get away with that,” Jill said. “When you do that in your forties, don’t be surprised if your nearest and dearest show up for an intervention.”

Cari’s amused expression showed she was fairly sure she was never going to age. “I’ve got plenty of time left to be a screwup.”

Jill noticed that her speech was less crisp than normal. And admitting to your boss that you were a screwup was never a great idea. To save the kid from further indicting herself, she said, “I need to find the bathroom. Catch you later.”

“If you’re not gonna finish that champagne…”

Clutching the flute to her chest, Jill waved her off and walked towards the barn, stopping abruptly when she got close. Lizzie Davis was standing by the entrance, surrounded by a small group of people, all late middle-aged, all prosperous looking. Squeezing money out of people on a Saturday afternoon? Jill hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like to work for a foundation that ran and operated a farm, but it must have been worlds different from working at an art museum, Lizzie’s previous job. However, no matter the organization, they all needed people donating on a consistent basis to keep the doors open.

Moving across the drive to stand under one of the tents the wedding party had rented, she watched Lizzie work. It was always interesting to see someone you knew plying her trade, even though she had to admit she barely knew Lizzie at all. When Jill and Mark had left Sugar Hill for college, Lizzie was just in second or third grade, simply a kid who got in the way when they were at the house. The main thing Jill recalled was that Lizzie was terminally afraid of the dark, threw a fit about going to bed, and was always trying to get Mark to notice her.

As Jill watched her try to charm big bucks out of some well-heeled folks, she didn’t see much of Beth the Brat. Instead, a composed, mature woman cocked her head, listening patiently as one of her guests asked a question. Jill stepped back to look at her as she would a stranger—not too great a leap in this case.

Somehow Lizzie had escaped the various shades of orange or red hair that her siblings had, as well as the freckles. Those looked adorable on kids, but must have been tough for a woman trying to look mature. She wore a fashionable, not flashy, dress, and heels low enough to let her walk along the gravel paths without twisting an ankle. She could have passed for forty, in a good way, not having any of that overly-enthusiastic, self-deprecating, flustered stuff that so many young professionals struggled with. No, Lizzie had grown into an adult. A true adult—at least when she was at work. She’d definitely acted her age at Mark’s party.