Memory Tree (10 page)

“Cynthia Knight, if Bradley could hear you now!”

“Again, changing the topic,” she said. “Okay, back to business. This job I've got for you. It concerns a frog.”

Nora took a sip of her wine and grimaced. Cynthia wondered if it was the frog or the wine that didn't agree with her. “A frog, really? How does that relate to A Doll's Attic?”

“You found Thomas's rare-edition book last year, right?”

“Actually, Brian found it . . .”

“Regardless, Nora, you find things. Old things that help people understand their past, or just learn to appreciate it more.”

“Sometimes it's not the toy you remember but who gave it to you, the intent behind it.”

“Exactly my point,” Cynthia said, taking a sip of her white wine. She too pursed her lips. “Ouch, guess I know why the bar does such good business with beer. Anyway . . . I'm not sure if you've ever noticed that Janey has this stuffed pet frog; it's purple and has no name.”

“I haven't,” Nora said.

“She's had it as long as I can remember, even back as a baby.”

“Must be kind of ratty after ten years,” Nora said. “How can I help? Are you looking for a new one?”

“No, I want to know the frog's provenance,” Cynthia said. “Somehow it's important to Janey, a piece of her past . . . a connection to her birth parents. We all know that Janey remembers Annie; she was old enough to share so many experiences with her mother. But it's Dan Sullivan who is a bit of a mystery to her, and I think the frog holds some kind of importance to her. Why else would she be carrying it around all the time these days? It's the equivalent of a security blanket.”

“Maybe she's scared; kids act that way,” Nora offered. “I remember how silent Travis grew after his father and I split,” she said. “Only after we came to Linden Corners did he remember how to speak. And I credit more of that to his grandmother than to me, and I suppose, somewhat, to Nicholas. He's a good influence on Travis.”

“Just not on you?”

“We're still talking about Janey.”

“Right, sorry,” Cynthia said. “So what do you say? Will you look into it?”

“I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for. I'm guessing this is a secret mission?”

“Just go over to Brian's. Don't you and Gerta have dinner with them on some Sunday nights? Ask to see the frog, or I don't know . . . you'll think of something.”

“Why tomorrow night? What's the urgency?”

“Because I want to know the story of that frog before Christmas,” she said.

Nora rolled her eyes. “Here we go again. Last year Thomas and the book, this year . . . a frog.”

“Speaking of, so Nicholas . . . is he one, or a prince?”

“You don't let up, do you now?” Nora asked.

“That's what friends are for.”

“I'm sorry, when are you moving?”

“Ha ha,” Cynthia said. “Now who's changing the subject?”

Pausing, staring over at Nicholas as he engaged in small talk at the bar, Nora sighed. Cynthia watched her friend, wishing she could help but also knowing that Nora was a complex woman, one some found a bit too icy on the surface. But once you got to know her, you sensed the little girl that dwelled inside her, a forty-plus woman with a teenage son, divorced and living with her aging mother and dating a man who lived on the wrong side of the border between New York and Massachusetts, all while overseeing a shop that embraced an adult's misty-eyed sense of yesteryear. Nora wasn't the type to reveal much, and it was only when a second glass found its way to them—courtesy of Nicholas, who quickly slipped back to his place by the bar with barely a word—did Nora finally speak her mind.

“Nicholas has asked me to move in with him,” Nora said.

Cynthia of all people could understand. Moving out of Linden Corners meant a return to reality, to the real world, and why would anyone want to do that when inside the borders of their little town spun a wondrous, time-worn windmill whose sails reminded them that while some people only managed to dream their dreams, those who lived here got to live them.

C
HAPTER
9

T
RINA

 

 

 

W
ord of the Secret of Linden Corners Christmas celebration and its game of Secret Santa eventually made its way to the Solemn Nights, even if it took two days. Trina Winter had immersed herself in busywork to the point of making up jobs like straightening up the files and replacing the coffeemaker on the side cabinet, helping to distract her from the ups and downs of her frustrated patient, not to mention her own thoughts about a man named Brian Duncan, two men linked by the unlikely source of a windmill. She and Brian had spoken once since their date ended with one last kiss when he dropped her off at the motel, where they had said all the appropriate things about how nice a time they'd had over dinner, discussed plans to get together again, but ended the call with only a tentative agreement of “sometime in the coming weeks.”

“Before my parents arrive,” Brian had promised.

“See, look at that, spending the holiday with parents. More in common.”

She wasn't sure why she'd said that, probably just a way to fill the silence.

After that, they'd ended the call, neither of them talking about the stolen kisses up on the banks of the river, as if by not speaking of them they could pretend they hadn't actually happened. Suddenly Trina had conjured all this work that needed to be done around the Solemn Nights, and so it was only when Martha Martinson appeared in the door of the front office on Tuesday afternoon bearing two brown bags filled with lunch did Trina get pulled back into the world of Linden Corners.

“Have you put your name into the big Christmas hat yet?” Martha asked, setting the bags down on the counter.

“I'm sorry, what's that?”

“Surely you've heard about our village-wide Secret Santa game.”

Trina blinked, her mind absorbing what she'd just heard. “Everyone?”

“Well, most everyone. That's the way we do things here in Linden Corners, population seven hundred plus, give or take a plus,” she said. “In fact, I think we even convinced that grump Chuck Ackroyd to put his name into the hat, and if anyone in town could play Scrooge, it's him. Old Chet convinced him, telling him it was probably the only gift he'd likely receive this year. Mean, but perhaps truthful. So what about you, Trina?”

“Me? I hardly know anyone in town. To pick a random name and have to shop for them, I wouldn't even know what to get.” She hesitated, pushing back her hair like she did when she was uncertain. “And I doubt Richie would partake either; I don't see that as being his cup of tea. Like daughter, like father.”

“You leave Richie Ravens to me,” Martha said.

“Let me guess: you've brought lunch over to bribe Richie.”

“Martha's tuna salad never fails,” she said. “How's he doing, anyway?”

Trina shrugged with indifference. “He's Richie, as enigmatic and stubborn as ever. Talks when he wants to, watches television the other times. See for yourself.”

“That I'll do.”

Martha barreled her way past the office counter, her sizable frame entering the apartment at the back. Trina followed, where she saw Richie dozing, his head back against the edge of the sofa, his left leg outstretched, the plaster cast no more colorful than it had been last week. That's how few visitors came to see her father—Mark had checked in a few times, sometimes Sara at his side, but otherwise, no one else. She recalled a time as a kid when she fell off her bicycle and broke her arm, and when she got back to school nearly every one of her classmates and teachers had signed the cast, turning the white plaster into a rainbow of get-well wishes. Kids tended to have large networks of friends, and Trina had to wonder what it was about adults that saw their worlds shrink. First Martha's comment about that Ackroyd guy, now Richie. Just how did a man like Richie Ravens end up a recluse, with so few friends, and seemingly nothing to his life beyond this motel and this sparse apartment? His choice, or life's?

“Look at you, lazy bum, sleeping like the sun ain't worth your time,” Martha said while standing over him, her shadow more imposing with her hands set against her hips.

Richie's eyes flickered open, and when he saw who hovered above him, his mouth turned down in a grimace. “Well, look at what the cat dragged in,” he said.

“Yeah, and I also brought you some lunch, so you better wake up.”

“Speaking of cats,” he remarked.

“Nah, that was our special, ran out early. Brought you tuna salad.”

Trina saw a hesitant smile cross Richie's lips.

Martha pulled up a seat and plopped down with a thud, where she leaned in close to her friend. “So Trina's taking good care of you,” she said, more statement than question. “Must be nice to have a caring daughter willing to spend her days tending to the likes of you.”

Richie didn't have anything to say, but he did gaze over Trina's way. Martha followed his eyes there.

“Trina, if you want, I'll hang with Richie for a couple hours if you want to take a break.”

“Oh, I should stay, really, there's actually a couple of midweek reservations and I'm not sure what time they're scheduled to arrive.”

“Ah, how hard can that be? Take a credit card, hand over a key.”

“Trina, it's okay, Martha and I got some catching up to do,” Richie said, “Gotta tell her that it was her greasy French fries that caused my slip.”

“Now, don't you go telling tales, Richie Ravens,” she said with a laugh.

Trina supposed he was in good hands and so went to gather her purse and coat, hearing a bit of laughter coming from Richie's apartment, an actual sound of happiness that made Trina's heart tug. She'd been doing her best with a man she barely knew, asking questions about his life but really wanting to know more about his regrets. Had he missed out on raising her, or did he just accept it as his lot in life and move on, putting, like he said, failure behind him? She wondered if a man so used to independence even believed in regrets. Weren't they reserved for those people who missed out on their dreams, people who should have done more to ensure their coming true rather than sitting around and waiting for them to happen? Trina herself should know that answer; she'd run out of her own dreams long ago, her life now a series of missed opportunities. Mark had said on Thanksgiving that life was better when you had something to look forward to, but she in turn knew she had a tendency to live in the moment, chasing nothing but empty tomorrows. Maybe she was more her father's daughter than she'd originally thought.

“Now, Martha Martinson, you know I wouldn't partake in such a thing.”

Trina laughed. She was not someone who “partook” of things.

“The entire village is doing it,” Martha said.

“And as I always remind you, the Solemn Nights is purposely outside the village limits.”

“Richie Ravens, you've been an ornery one since you arrived here in Linden Corners.”

“And I'll be an ornery one when I leave it.”

Trina made her exit before she overheard too much, not wanting them to discover her and think she'd been eavesdropping. She wished that she'd left sooner and not heard his flippant remark about leaving, questioning whether there was any truth to it. He'd never said anything to her, and she had to wonder, did he have a plan, or was it just a shapeless idea that lived inside the back of his brain? And for that matter, if she wanted to examine the dark space between truth and speculation, just what was her exit strategy for Linden Corners? Richie's cast was expected to come off just a few days before Christmas, which would mean his physical therapy would begin shortly after the holiday. He'd get stronger, more mobile, his reliance on help—meaning Trina—less with each passing day. Then it was back to his old life, fending for himself.

And back to her old life too.

“Oh joy,” Trina said to no one.

In her mind flashed an image of Brian Duncan, he pulling her up the last few feet to the top of the hill, and she remembered how his touch felt, his arms locked around her as they shared a kiss. While that initial kiss had been her doing, she had worried that she'd made the wrong move and brought ruin to their night. When he kissed her back, she let her fears take to the cool wind. The moment was all that mattered.

And at this very moment, she had no idea where she was going.

The idea of the windmill sparked her mind, because she had been wondering why not one man, but two, had a certain fascination for something most would consider a relic. Should she head over there and experience it for herself, or was it the kind of place where only an invitation produced its magical effect?

 

 

A few minutes later, Trina was still uncertain where she was going. Being relieved of her duties was unexpected, and she thought about hopping in her car, traveling to get her nails done, or to go shopping . . . anything to distract her mind. Just like the busywork she'd created at the motel had. But the day was so beautiful, with a sun-drenched blue sky painted with fluffs of white clouds floating high above her. If Christmas was just three weeks away, you wouldn't guess it from the breath of fresh air Mother Nature was swirling down on this little town. In a way, Trina Winter felt gypped by the weather because, despite her ironic name, she'd never really experienced a blast of Northeast winter, where snow and ice buried the area in deep drifts and created slippery sidewalks. She'd missed out on times when you sought refuge from the cold with blazing fires and hot toddies, that warm someone to share them with. Wasn't that how Christmas was supposed to look up here? Here she was in a town that embraced Christmas, its heart worn on Santa's sleeve, and Trina had to be cooped up with a Scrooge.

Forget her nails or a new pair of slacks, Trina once again found herself walking toward Linden Corners, determined footsteps taking her fast into the small downtown area. As a yellow school bus passed her, she realized the day was winding down and even with the lack of snow on the ground, it was still December and that meant darkness would creep up on her quickly. She found her feet had directed her to the front steps of A Doll's Attic, Nora Connors' store, and without hesitation she opened the door to the jangle of bells.

“Hello?” she asked, not finding anyone behind the counter.

“In the back, be right out,” she heard, only to see Nora emerge from the stacks toward the rear of the store moments later. She wiped away flecks of dust, which no doubt came with a job where the past came back to life. She smiled when she saw who her customer was. “Trina, what a nice surprise.”

“Thanks, good to see you too,” she said, gazing around at the organized clutter of the consignment shop. “I was just passing through, so I thought I'd finally check out your store.”

“Feel free to look around. Is there anything in particular you're looking for?”

Trina was silent a moment as she saw a shelf of games she remembered playing with her older stepbrothers. She couldn't imagine ever wanting to roll those dice again, with those competitive boys or with anyone else for that matter. What was the point? You couldn't recapture the moment or the feeling of closeness; it was all just manufactured nostalgia. But she supposed it was best to keep her mouth shut. Her philosophy didn't exactly jibe with Nora's business model.

“Oh, no, just thinking about Christmas,” she offered. “Been a long time since I've bought Richie a gift and I'm fresh out of ideas.”

“What does he like?” Nora asked.

“Close your eyes, what do you see?”

“Ah,” Nora said with a nod. “For the man who has nothing.”

“And proud of it.”

“Have the two of you put your names into the Secret Santa exchange?”

“No, and I don't see us participating,” she said. “It's not Richie's bag, so to speak, and I guess it's not mine either. What about you? Your cup of tea?”

“When your unstoppable mother is one of the organizers and you have a thirteen-year-old child who counts his gifts, you go with the flow,” Nora said. “Otherwise . . .”

“I thought I sensed a kindred spirit.”

“Speaking of tea, I was about to make some. Care to join me?”

“No, really, I was just stopping in mostly to say hello and . . .”

“And over tea you can tell me about your date with Brian.”

Trina allowed a small smile to let Nora know she saw right through her friendly offer. “Then definitely no tea.”

“We're only looking out for our friend, Trina. We don't mean to be . . . pushy.”

Both women were saved from further posturing by the opening of the door, the jangle of bells announcing a shift in the air. Trina spun around to see who had spared her further grilling, saw a young girl bounce inside.

“Hi, Nora.”

“What a surprise! Hi, Janey. What are you doing here? . . . Are you alone?”

“A bunch of us were playing over at the gazebo after school, but I needed to see you.”

Trina felt her heart lurch, and her eyes darted nervously Nora's way. She knew the name and now she had a face to go along with it. This little girl was clearly Brian's daughter—who else went by such a name?—whom Brian had spent so much of their dinner talking about, almost to the point that Trina had thought she could imagine her. But here she was in the flesh, and not even Brian's effusive description matched the energy coming off the girl standing before her.

“Sorry to interrupt, Nora, but I need your help.”

“What about your Dad?” Nora asked.