Memory Tree (18 page)

“I love you too, Janey Sullivan.”

She ran to the stairs while Brian started toward the kitchen, but when he looked back he found her still standing there. She wasn't done talking. He knew her so well sometimes, but he could only guess at what her mind was churning over now.

“You know something?”

“I know many somethings,” he said with a smile.

“Brian, I'm being serious.”

“Sorry, Janey, go ahead. What something would you like me to know?”

“I'm ten years old, but I've never ever in my whole life called anyone Grandmother or Grandfather,” she said, and then before Brian had a chance to respond, she went dashing up the stairs, closing the door behind her with a sound as loud as the one that had awakened him. He had a feeling that sound would finally stir his parents from their slumber. It was time to begin the day, and if Janey's thoughts were any indication, it would be a day that continued to reveal, and revel in, its holiday surprises.

Brian realized she'd left behind her purple frog. He picked it up.

“What name would you like to be called?”

Of course it remained silent, just as it had since being given to Janey all those years ago.

 

 

Several hours later, Brian found himself settled in the backseat of his parents' gleaming black Mercedes, his father in the unlikely role as passenger while his mother concentrated on the road ahead of them. Not that there was much traffic as they headed into downtown Linden Corners on this early Monday afternoon, but his mother took all of her roles seriously—wife, mother, driver, protector of the family.

“Kevin, I thought you were going to remain back at the farmhouse,” she said.

“Brian has to set up his bar, and I want to see him in action,” he said. “Don't you?”

“Another time,” she said, her tone indicating that Brian's job was the least interesting part of his life here. “If we're going to participate in the village Secret Santa event, I may as well get some shopping done while the weather remains decent. And before you suggest going with me, I'll take care of your gift too. Brian, you said the best places are up in Albany?”

“They have actual malls up there,” he said.

“Fine. I'll use the GPS.”

“Make sure you're beyond our borders before you use that; the one thing Linden Corners fails to embrace is technology.”

Didi pursed her lips, Brian able to see them in the rearview mirror. She stated that her jaunt would take only a couple of hours, so why didn't she pick up “Jane” at school and the two of them could go over to Cynthia's and discuss Christmas plans, especially as Kevin insisted he remain with Brian down at the tavern. They would rendezvous later for dinner, and so, plans set in motion, Brian and Kevin were dropped off in the parking lot of George's Tavern, Didi pulling out moments later and disappearing down Route 23. Brian imagined his mother's desire for a shopping excursion had more to do with her needing a break from small-town life, which he was fine with; it gave him some one-on-one time with his father.

Maybe he'd just get to the bottom of why they'd chosen to spend their holiday here.

“Dad, let me show you George's Tavern, formerly Connors' Corner, where I spend most of my time when I'm not with Janey,” he said, stepping up on the porch and taking out his keys. “It's not much, but it's mine.”

He noticed his father checking out the structure's durability, remarking that the outside needed a fresh coat of paint, with Brian assuring him it was in the plans for whenever spring decided to rear its bounty in this neck of the woods, as was replacing the floorboards, “so before you say anything about how loudly they squeak, I'm well aware of it. George's here has a rustic charm, and that's partly what keeps the regulars coming. That, and the fact it's the only drinking establishment in town.”

“Still, it can't be that profitable,” Kevin said. “I don't know how you make ends meet.”

“Dad, don't start. I'm content,” Brian said.

“Content is just a fancy substitute for happy, and not as convincing,” he said. “How you left a high-profile job in Manhattan to sling drinks for the local folks, I'll never know, and before you start to judge my capitalist ways, Brian, let me state that I'm very proud of the strength of your convictions. Many men would have run from the tremendous responsibility you've been thrown, but the way you are with Janey . . . so natural, and with all of the folks in this town. The life you've created here is quite remarkable. And truth be told—and don't let your mother know I said this—I'm envious.”

“You, Kevin Duncan, envious of another person?”

“People change, Brian; they evolve,” he said. “You, my son, best illustrate that.”

Brian liked the way this discussion was going; he just might uncover what his parents were hiding. With that in mind, he opened the door to the tavern and was affronted by the faint odor of stale beer and sawdust, and before he took off his coat he moved to the windows and thrust them open, letting in the cool winter air to swirl around and clear it out for a fresh week. He flicked on the overhead lights, went over to the cash register, and depressed the lever to open the drawer. He made a quick perusal of last night's receipts, deciding it wasn't so bad. The bar did well on nights that Mark bartended, usually drawing a younger crowd that seemed to drink a bit more. Funny to think that at thirty-six Brian was the elder statesman of the bar.

“What do you think?”

Kevin sidled up to the bar, grabbing a seat on one of the stools, and gazed around.

“I like it, rustic indeed. But I see the appeal. I can't imagine there's much stress.”

“Only on nights when I can't get Chet Hardesty to leave,” Brian said, stepping behind the bar and grabbing a handy glass. “So, stranger, what'll it be?”

“Your mother would tell me coffee.”

“You want coffee, the Five-O Diner is across the street.”

“What are you having?”

“My usual, seltzer with lime.”

“Still not drinking?”

“I stopped for health reasons. Don't see why I should start up again.”

“I'll join you in that seltzer.”

Kevin Duncan, businessman, entrepreneur, was known as much for enjoying a glass of whiskey as he was for his portfolio, and often meetings that affected the latter were done over healthy shots of the former. Before him was a different Kevin Duncan. Shorn of his pin-striped suits and rep ties, he was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, like an older, taller version of his son. For the moment Brian let the anomaly pass, pouring two glasses of the harmless bubbly, dropping wedges of lime into both. He slid one glass toward his father, who picked it up and took a quick sip.

“You charge for this swill?” Kevin asked with a laugh.

“Don't try the wine,” Brian replied.

Kevin told him to go about his business, he was just going to hang out and watch, and so Brian set about his daily routine, mopping the floor and washing down the tables and chairs, the soft yellow lights above the bar coming on. Sometimes he forgot to turn them on as night fell, so it was part of his routine. Brian felt self-conscious as he worked, the manual labor so far from anything his father had done, and in point of fact so far from the world he'd come from in New York. He'd once worked in an office where faceless cleaners came in during the night to make pristine his workspace by the next morning. Now that world was gone—Maddie Chasen, his coworker and fiancée; Justin Warfield, the boss who had screwed everything, Maddie included.

Despite it all, Brian had never been happier in his work environment.

“You really do like this,” Kevin remarked. “It's not just face-saving when you call.”

“Dad, nothing about Linden Corners is false.”

“So it seems,” he said. “Tell me again, about George. How you came to meet him.”

Brian smiled at the memory, finally putting down his dishcloth to face his father. “From the moment I walked in, I had this sense that I would be spending a lot of time here, an ironic thought considering at the time my doctor had advised me not to drink. But here I was, my first night in Linden Corners and staying at the Solemn Nights Motel down the road, when I realized I was bored. Imagine a restless New Yorker so accustomed to bright lights and a city that never sleeps, suddenly in this town where even the owls turn in early. So I came to the only place that was open, Connors' Corner.”

“So you strolled into a bar and asked for a seltzer?”

“Actually, it's what put George's trust in me,” Brian said, “the fact I didn't drink.”

“And then he passed away?”

“Only months after I'd arrived. He was a good man, one of the best I've known.”

“Of a heart attack?”

“Right here at the bar. He poured a beer—the last he ever would—and then he was gone.”

Silence fell between them, Brian searching for words that would keep the conversation moving forward. He felt that this was the moment of truth and that there was a reason that their talk had gone down the path it had.

“Dad, are you all right?”

Kevin paused, stared at his drink before speaking. “I had a heart attack, three months ago.”

Brian felt his own heart leap, irrational fear striking him. He thought of George, gone in the blink of an eye, and here was his father, alive, present, but having suffered the same problem. He wasn't even sure he'd heard right, and his father's continued, eerie silence only served to confuse him further. As though, like his bloodstream refused to absorb the bad stuff he served here at the bar, his mind refused to acknowledge this danger to his father.

“Dad . . .”

“I'm fine. I'm here, aren't I?”

“No wonder . . .”

“I'm surprised you didn't pick up on this before, the way your mother hovers.”

“I suspected something was up,” Brian said, “the way she called and announced you were coming here for Christmas. I asked to speak with you but she said you were resting.”

“Your mother would be happy if I were always taking it easy.”

“Dad, she doesn't want to lose you. Heck, I don't want to lose you.”

“The fool doctor in Philly says that I'm fine; the attack was mild. But he's advised me to . . . what was his phrase? Oh yes, I should slow down, take better care of myself, to avoid any further complications. So here we are in Linden Corners, relaxing.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Yes. Don't tell you mother what we discussed,” he said.

Brian crossed his arms. “Besides that?”

Before he had a chance to answer, the front door opened and in stepped the first customer of the day, and of course it was his new regular, Chet Hardesty. What was odd today was the package in his arms; usually the only thing Chet carried with him were some bills, and of course the baggage of unemployment. A cardboard box led him to the bar, where he set it down.

“This was on the front porch, nearly stumbled right over it.”

“Not another one,” Brian said.

“What's that, son?”

He gazed at the package, at his father, then back.

“Well, before I say, let me be sure,” he said, and went about removing the duct tape from the flaps. They popped open and Brian withdrew another package, this one wrapped in shiny green paper and the same style silver ribbon. Once again the message was all too clear, written in a bright red marker:

 

 

Brian stood staring at the fourth mystery gift for so long he didn't hear Chet clearing his throat until the third time.

“Uh, Brian, how about you look at your pretty gift later. A man's thirst comes first.”

It was what happened next that truly surprised Brian, because he saw his father spring into action by going around the back of the bar, dropping an apron around his neck. He sidled up to the taps and pulled out a glass, then said to Chet, “What'll it be?”

C
HAPTER
15

C
YNTHIA

 

 

 

T
he week before Christmas had finally arrived, and it was shaping up to be a busy one. Nothing like the complications of uprooting your lives during the busiest time of year, and, as Bradley had said, “tacking on the additional duties of the annual Christmas pageant.” On this Monday afternoon Cynthia Knight had the last of many errands to run before she was scheduled to return to her disheveled home, where large moving boxes were beginning to resemble makeshift furniture. Not that those were her concern today; only thirty minutes remained before company in the diametric forms of Didi Duncan and Janey Sullivan was expected at her home. While it would be rude to allow them to arrive first, especially since Bradley was still at work—his final week—she had to figure time was still on her side. She was only two miles from home. So she pulled into the parking lot at Nora's store, A Doll's Attic, and after gathering a sleepy Jake in her arms, she made her way up the stairs and into the musty consignment shop.

“Hang in there, slugger. Mommy's almost done.”

He didn't stir, good toddler that he was, on his best behavior. It was warmer today, so she hadn't bundled him up in his snowsuit.

As she walked through the front door, her cough provided much more of an entrance than the ringing of the bells. No matter how much Nora opened the windows to air out the contents of the store, its inherent, musty link to the past was far stronger.

“Cynthia, hi. What a nice surprise,” Nora said, emerging from behind the busy counter. She held an old book in her hands, and from the looks of it, she hadn't gotten very far. Either it was a recent acquisition, or she'd just started it, or her mind was elsewhere. Cynthia assumed the latter. “I was just thinking I needed an afternoon pick-me-up. Can you join me for some coffee at the Five-O?”

“I'd love to, but I'm short on time. Jake's been patient enough with me.”

“Okay, so then this is a business call?”

“Hate to be so brusque, but yes, and I'm due back at the house soon,” she said. “Janey will be there.”

Nora nodded. “And you want to know if I've made any progress on her stuffed frog?”

“Are you going to pull a Christmas miracle a second year in a row?” Cynthia asked, her tone as optimistic as her smile was uncertain.

“I wish,” Nora said with a shake of her head. “I realize how important it is for you to find out why Annie and her husband gave Janey that stuffed animal—trust me, I've dug all over the place—eBay of course, some old catalogs, other connections with shops across the country I've made over the last year, toy manufacturers, a whole network of Beanie Baby aficionados, the works. But Janey's frog, while unique to her, doesn't seem to be jogging the memory banks of any collectors. What I surmise is that Dan or Annie found it at a local flea market or perhaps a craft shop. I'm guessing it was made by hand rather than factory, and as such there wouldn't be any record. Sorry to say, there's no way of tracing its provenance.”

Cynthia nodded. She understood, even if she was disappointed by the outcome.

“We've got a week till Christmas, so I'll keep digging. I just don't want you to get your hopes up.”

“I guess that's one story that doesn't have a happy ending,” Cynthia said.

“Janey doesn't get many of those, does she?”

The remark wasn't intended to sound harsh, but still the truth of those words stung, creating a fresh burning inside Cynthia's heart. It was like she was losing a part of herself, knowing this was her final Christmas in a town she loved with a little girl whom she adored. She felt like she was breaking a promise to always help look after Janey, and now she was just weeks away from a new home in a new town, somewhere west of the life she'd known these past fifteen years.

“Nora, don't stress over it. What happens, it happens. You've done more than I could have asked,” Cynthia said. “Look, I really appreciate your efforts and I hope you'll send me a bill . . .”

“Don't be ridiculous, Cynthia.”

“Please, send me a bill. You are running a business, and I hired you.”

“We'll discuss it later,” Nora said, sounding as though she never wanted to hear another word about it. “Who knows, maybe I picked your name for Secret Santa.”

Cynthia laughed. “What are the odds? Ha. Okay, look, I've gotta run . . . Everything else okay with you?”

Nora looked away suddenly, her saddened eyes replacing the amused ones she'd flashed earlier. She didn't appear to want to discuss anything beyond business and Cynthia decided to respect that, at least for now. She really was running late. “Fine, Nora, I won't pry. So, I'll see you Saturday night at the annual tavern holiday party, yes?”

“You will indeed. I'm helping my mother with the food as much as she'll let me.”

“So you're a spectator?”

Nora laughed. “Thanks, I needed a laugh.”

“This is the holiday season; it's supposed to be special. Problems can wait till the New Year.”

“Which means what?”

“Bring Nicholas to the party and just enjoy yourselves, hang with me and Bradley if it will help ease some of the tension,” she said. “You can figure out the rest of the stuff when January rolls around. That's what it's there for, resolutions and all that pabulum. Okay, I've gotta run before Janey gets there first. Wish me luck—Brian's mother is joining us.”

“Yikes.”

Cynthia leaned over and gave her friend a hug.

“Thanks, Cyn,” Nora said. “Now, go. I'm fine.”

Cynthia emerged back into the light of day, only to see it begin to fade in the sky. Time was fast running away from her, on preparations for the upcoming pageant, on Christmas Day, but mostly on her remaining days in Linden Corners. As she drove through the tiny downtown area, she mused about all she saw and all she would miss, her eyes zeroing in on the gazebo, the site of so many past Christmas celebrations, Memorial Day picnics, and Independence Day fireworks, all of those holidays heightened by memories of people, of good food and laughter and special times. Driving like an old lady headed to church on Sunday, she absorbed it all like she'd never see it again, even watching it from her rearview mirror as it grew more distant. Only her arrival at Crestview Road returned her to the present, and instead of taking the turn up, she continued on and pulled to the side of the road beside the windmill.

Brian had lit it before leaving for work at the tavern, its powerful beam of light beginning to dominate the landscape as the sun dipped beyond the horizon and the night took shape. With Jake asleep, she got out of her car, leaned against the passenger door and just stared forward. She watched as the sails spun, ever so slowly in the nearly nonexistent wind. All around her a gentle quiet had settled in, on the roads and in her heart too, until she imagined she could feel every beat, hear the constant thrum. This visit to the windmill was unlike her, she more of a realist, and so seeking inspiration from its knowing sails was beyond her. She knew the windmill was a constant source of energy for Janey and for Brian, and for once she felt its spark. It was beautiful, no doubt, and the sparkle it gave off on this early night filled her with an inner warmth that mixed with regret.

She supposed only now was she appreciating what the old windmill did for others.

What it was doing for her now.

It was this land, this sight, that first drew a wanderlust-struck Annie to Linden Corners, where she met the first man she would fall in love with. But what really filled her days after moving here was the windmill itself, so much so that she was dubbed by the locals the Woman Who Loved the Windmill, and it was because of her it still stood; she had saved it once from being torn down. Had she done so out of her sense of loss for her husband, her dedication to all his family had done to preserve it? Given Dan's missteps in the final months of his life, she gathered Annie had done it for herself, and for Janey.

“Annie, I guess it's all going to turn out okay. I'm sorry we have to leave . . . but Janey is in the best hands possible. But you knew that, didn't you?” she asked aloud, feeling empowered by a fresh whipping wind that blew past her, “and besides, I know she will always have you looking after her. It's like those sails are loving extensions of your arms, and she comes here to feel your embrace. I feel it too, Annie, my best friend who I miss so much.”

Cynthia knew she was officially running late, but she couldn't leave just yet.

Jake was sleeping, as though understanding his mother's need for some alone time.

Time that, for her, moved ever so slowly, like the windmill's sails.

She thought of the day she had first met Annie. It had been the height of summer and all around her nature was painted in vibrant, verdant colors, and she'd heard this joyful exuberance coming from the field that separated the two properties. She had gone to investigate, and as she'd stepped over the stone bridge, she saw a woman dancing around the base of the windmill, Dan Sullivan standing just feet from her. She then ran to Dan and leaped into his arms.

“Whoa,” he called out, “not even the frogs in the stream can leap like that.”

And then he spun her around till her legs took to the sky, and then they kissed and they laughed like nothing else mattered in the world. Cynthia thought she had never before witnessed a more romantic scene, and now as the memories flooded her mind, her eyes began the gentle flow of tears.

 

 

She was late, having arrived back home at nearly four thirty that afternoon, the headlights of her car flashing onto another one, already silent in the driveway. Thankfully, though, neither Didi nor Janey had needed to wait in the car or on the porch, since Janey knew where they hid a spare key. When Cynthia walked into the house she heard the sound of guests making themselves comfortable, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee luring her to the kitchen.

“I'm so sorry I'm late,” Cynthia said. “Time can get away from you.”

“Think nothing of it. We were a few minutes late as well,” Didi said.

“Hi, Cynthia . . . hi, Jake,” Janey added, her lips coated with the remains of hot chocolate.

As though they'd been here far longer than Didi was politely letting on.

Jake was wide awake now after enjoying a good nap, and he gurgled at the familiar sight of a smiling Janey, who went up to him and started playing with his tiny fingers. It wasn't long before she had taken Jake off Cynthia's hands, bringing him upstairs to play with his array of toys. Cynthia was relieved at the chance for some peace and quiet in her kitchen, but any chance of that would have to wait, as she saw Didi pour one cup for Cynthia, then a refill of hers. She had a feeling Didi's inviting herself over this afternoon was anything but a social call.

Kevin might be the businessman, but Didi was far more imposing.

“Successful shopping day?” Didi asked.

“Mostly,” she said. “Bradley is impossible to buy for, so I usually just get him new dress shirts. But not this year.”

“What's different this year?”

“You have heard we're moving,” she said.

“Yes, and far away, I hear. A major decision in life.”

“Life is about opportunity; you have to seize it,” she said.

“Your husband's words?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, dear, it's just you sound like you're trying to convince yourself, not me.”

Cynthia held the mug close to her lips, hoping to hide her faltering expression. She needn't have bothered, her eyes like open windows to her troubled soul, which allowed Didi a chance to peek in. “Brian was right. You're very direct.”

“Honest,” Didi said. “Otherwise I find that conversations can get diluted, sidetracked.”

Cynthia set down her cup, the taste of bitter coffee on her tongue. It was almost as if the aroma's scent had lured her into a carefully orchestrated scene, Didi's agenda conducting itself. Cynthia steeled her nerves and straightened her back, her arms set forward on the table as though she were about to be interrogated. She eyed Didi carefully and decided they might as well get this over with.

“Fire away, Mrs. Duncan.”

“Please, dear, call me Didi, and I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable in your home. Which, I must say, despite all the boxes strewn about, is quite charming. Much more modern in its conveniences and furnishings than the farmhouse, as Brian insists on calling it. So, please, relax, I only want to ask after a few things. Call it a mother's concern.”

“What would you like to know?”

Didi didn't even hesitate. “Do you think Brian is truly happy?”

“I think Brian is a man who makes other people happy,” Cynthia said.

“Now, that's hardly the same thing, is it?” she asked. “My goodness, his father and I have been here barely three days and already we've gone and chopped down a tree, decorated it the same night, attended a village-wide Secret Santa drawing, then watched as Brian lit practically the entire countryside with the windmill, and now on what should be a quiet night he's off for a spell at the tavern. Don't mistake me, the beauty of those lights on the windmills—and his intent behind it—is not something I'll soon forget.”

“I know I won't,” Cynthia said.

“But you do see my point, don't you? Is Brian always so busy?”

Cynthia considered her words. “You left something out.”

“What's that?”

“All that he's done, he's done for Janey. And to an extent, the two of you.”