Memory Tree (4 page)

“Cyn, you don't have to do that . . .”

“Relax, Brian. You cooked; I'll clean.”

“You cooked too,” he reminded her.

“Shush yourself, Brian Duncan,” Gerta told him. “Me, Nora, and Cynthia will clear the table and get dessert ready. You menfolk can watch football or whatever it is you do.”

“How'd I get dragged into cleaning?” Nora protested.

“And what should I do?” Janey asked.

“You go have fun until dessert is ready. We'll call you.”

“And then before we cut the pie, we play my Thanksgiving game, right?”

“Ugh,” Travis said with a roll of the eyes.

“What's that?” Nicholas asked.

“Oh, it's a tradition I learned two years ago at Brian's parents' house, where we go around the table and everyone gets to say what they're most thankful for.”

“Sounds perfect. I know I'm thankful for much,” Nicholas said.

Cynthia noticed he was staring at Nora when he said those words. A wineglass, tipped to her lips, hid Nora's nervous smile, making Cynthia wonder if there was trouble between them. Nora was a cautious, reserved woman by nature, and it had been surprising for them all to watch the effortless charms of Nicholas Casey steadily win her over this year.

But Janey's game of thanks would have to wait for Gerta's famous pies to be set out. For now, Janey and Travis went outside into the falling light of the day if for nothing else than to escape all those adults, while the men—Bradley, Brian, and Nicholas—dodged KP duty. So the kitchen was full with Gerta, fussing with the six freshly baked pies she'd brought over, and Nora, pouring herself a fresh glass of wine, keeping Cynthia company as she attacked the dishes like a woman on a mission. A plate went crashing into the sink, the sound unmistakable. She'd broken it.

“Whoa, Cyn, you all right?” Nora asked.

“It slipped from my hands,” she said, again her voice betraying her. It seemed everything that came out of her mouth sounded unconvincing, not least during dinner, when Janey, sitting beside her, had told her how happy she was that the Knights were with them today, her especially. Cynthia knew that Janey missed her mother, Annie, every day and every starlit night, and while Cynthia had tried to be there for her best friend's impressionable daughter, she feared that since Jake's birth she'd been less attentive to Janey's needs. The rest of the meal had lingered, which had Cynthia feeling like she had a hole in her stomach; perhaps that was why she'd eaten so much, a poor attempt at filling it. She allowed herself a rueful smile at her own joke, knowing the emptiness she felt stemmed from what was still to come, not just today but in the coming weeks.

“Here, I think you need this more than I do,” Nora said, handing over a glass of red wine while taking over before the sink.

Cynthia accepted the glass, took a sip before setting it down.

What was wrong with her? Why was she feeling so guilty about her choices?

And besides, it wasn't just about her, but about Bradley and Jake as well. Their family.

Change was unavoidable; it was coming as sure as tomorrow was.

The scent of baked goodness stirred her from her inner turmoil. Just then she saw Gerta peeling the tinfoil off her signature strawberry pie, its fragrant smell filling the kitchen. She realized that as much as life changed with each rising sun, there were moments in time, slices of life, that were just like Gerta's pies—unforgettable. Cynthia made her way over to Gerta and gave her a sweet hug.

“My goodness, dear, not that I'm complaining, but—”

“That's it,” Nora said, tossing down a wet dishcloth onto the counter. “Cynthia Knight, tell us right now what's going on.”

“I . . . I . . . can you wait a few minutes? Bradley has an announcement.”

“That sounds . . . ominous.”

Cynthia grabbed for the glass of wine, not really drinking it, just using it to hide behind. Two could play at that game, she thought as she watched Nora's brow furrow. But all answers would have to wait, as Janey came in from outside, her cheeks reddened from running down the hill toward the windmill and up again, announcing that she was starving and so was Travis. Kids, full of energy, growing fast, needing a refuel of sugar. Gerta smiled with anticipation, telling them to round up the rest of the troops, and moments later the friends were gathered back around the table, where pies were laid out in formation, coffee cups and plates at the ready.

And so began their game of Thanksgiving testimonials.

“Well, I suppose I'm thankful for another year,” Thomas Van Diver began, “and to have another holiday spent inside the place I once called home. I suppose there's not enough thanks in the world.” Gerta, sitting next to him, agreed with him, thankful for the gift of another year and for the year she had spent with her daughter and grandson, ending by thanking everyone for being there, especially Brian for hosting.

“I do have three other daughters and six more adorable grandchildren,” Gerta added, “but today of all days I know that family means more than blood relatives.”

Travis was thankful for the food and six kinds of pies, his shadowed eyes unwilling to meet others. Thirteen years old, a child of divorce, he was perhaps the most unsettled of them all here, and Cynthia could hardly blame the boy for his reserve. The exchange progressed to Nora, who was thankful that her life had settled down and that her business, the consignment shop A Doll's Attic, was seeing some decent traction in an otherwise depressed marketplace, and watching her son blossom in his new school. Then she paused, looking like she'd left something out, and then gazed over at Nicholas.

“And for Nick, who somehow puts up with me.”

Nicholas Casey appeared to take her comment in stride. “I'm very thankful for being part of this celebration, something the fractured Casey family doesn't seem to value much. So thanks to all,” he said, “and to Nora, and Gerta, I'm thankful like Travis for your fabulous pies despite the protests coming from my waistline.”

His attempt at levity energized the room, and Cynthia found herself smiling, even as she realized the round-robin game was fast making its way to her and Bradley. Even Jake was part of this moment, sitting on his father's lap, his blue eyes seemingly transfixed by the flicker of the orange candle in the center of the table. But before it came to them, it was Janey's turn. If this ragtag group of friends and family represented a living, breathing entity, then surely Janey Sullivan was its beating heart, and as she began to talk, a silence settled over the room.

“First of all, I'm thankful for all of you being part of my life. I'm a lucky girl.”

She paused, and Cynthia could see Bradley, thinking it was his turn, about to open his mouth. She grabbed his arm, caught his eye, and silently told him to wait. Janey wasn't done.

“But I guess I wouldn't know any of you if not for two people, and it's them I most want to give my thanks to,” she said. “My mother and my father, who you know as Dan Sullivan and Annie Sullivan. They gave me life and they gave me things like wishes, and they gave me the gift of hope, and they instilled in me that dreams are possible, so long as you open yourself to them. I know that when we go to sleep at night we're supposed to allow our minds and bodies to rest, but sometimes I think . . . I think . . .” She hesitated, her lips quivering, as though she were unable to get the words out, a rare instance for the garrulous Janey. Cynthia wanted to reach out to her but knew to baby her in this moment would only make it worse. “Sometimes I think dreams are real, and that the people we see in them still exist. I dream of those I've lost, and so I'm thankful that they remain with me.”

No one said a word for a moment, not until Jake opened up his mouth and emitted a cry.

Laughter ensued, especially as Janey added one last comment: “Oh, and I'm thankful for Jake, who is like a little brother to me.”

Cynthia's heart melted right there, and she nearly let a tear escape from her eye.

Bradley's comforting hand on hers stopped it.

“Uh, I guess it's our turn,” Bradley said, using his best lawyer voice. “Thanks can mean many things in this world today, and not enough people express them. So I applaud Janey's game, and her bravery for speaking so eloquently. So, on behalf of Cynthia and Jake, we are thankful for our friends, and for all that we share. But we are also thankful for memories made, memories shared. Knowing that they keep friendships alive even when we're apart, when life takes us . . . elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Janey asked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I guess there's only one way to say this,” he said. “Cynthia and I—and of course Jake—have been given a new opportunity. A new job and all that comes with it, including a new home and . . . gosh, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

It was Cynthia who finally finished his thought. “We're leaving Linden Corners.”

Again, silence hung over the surprised group, interrupted only by the abrupt ringing of the telephone. The scrape of Brian's chair against the hardwood floor snapped Cynthia back to reality, and she watched as her friend—silent, confused—retreated to the kitchen to answer it. She heard him wish the person on the other end a happy Thanksgiving, and then heard several “uh-huhs” and “okay, sure,” and lastly, “fine, we'll settle later on which day. Yup, great, we'll talk later. Thanks. Bye.” During the entire exchange, no one said anything, and the group all turned eyes toward Brian, who looked a bit pale in the cheeks.

“Brian, is everything okay?” Nora asked.

“Yeah,” he said, sitting down at the head of the table. Cynthia, at the other end, held his gaze, and she could see a mix of emotions coursing through him. Had their announcement done that, was it because of the phone call, or maybe it was a combination of both? Only after he made his own announcement did Cynthia realize how upside down Brian and Janey's life was about to become. She and Bradley and Jake might be leaving town, but company was coming.

A door closing, a window opening. Time advancing.

“I can't believe it,” Brian said, his voice toneless, as though he were speaking to himself, despite speaking aloud to the group before him. “My parents are coming for Christmas.”

C
HAPTER
3

T
RINA

 

 

 

O
n a scale of one to ten, today's Thanksgiving celebration, if you even dared use that word, had to rank a four. She'd experienced worse and she supposed she'd had better, even though she was hard-pressed right now to recall one. The Ravens family wasn't exactly known for its ability to bond, and this was never made truer than by the fact that the man she sat across from, her father, was a virtual stranger to her. Fortunately, there had been two other guests at the dinner table to help ease any tense conversation. Trina Winter and Richie Ravens had little to say to each other; such was the history between estranged biological father and diffident, difficult daughter.

The scene was the back office and makeshift apartment at the Solemn Nights Motel, just off Route 23 on the eastern outskirts of Linden Corners, and in addition to Trina and her father, assembled for their makeshift reunion were her cousin, Mark, whose late father, Harry, had been Richie's brother, and his pregnant wife, Sara. Sara had brought dinner, courtesy of the Five-O Diner, where she worked, and Mark had brought the pie, saying it had come from some woman named Gerta Connors. All Trina had had to provide was the beverage, sparkling cider for her father and Sara, beer for Mark and herself, though Trina throughout the day found herself thinking about a healthy shot of whatever the local tavern down the street had on offer. Had she not known the bar was closed for the holiday, she'd already be making plans to escape.

Instead, it was dessert time.

“It's pumpkin,” Sara said, “a special request of mine.”

“Let me guess, a craving?” Trina asked.

Sara rubbed her considerable belly. “I've had stranger.”

“Sara, you're eight months pregnant. I think the cravings have lapsed,” Mark said with a genial smile, dimples lighting his face. Then, as an aside to Trina, he added, “Right about now she'll eat anything. Just look at how she cleared her dinner plate.”

“Is that remark directed at my appetite or at Martha's cooking?”

“I'm not sure I'm safe with either answer,” he remarked.

Sara nodded appreciatively. Pregnant wives always got their way, and Mark seemed to have developed an understanding of said fact to the point that he leaned in to his wife, giving her a quick kiss. Trina couldn't tell if the two of them had just had an argument and the fastest makeup in history, or if their interaction was just how they were: cute banter, sickening display of affection. It was enough to make Trina wish she were anywhere but here.

But that had been true since her arrival a week ago and each night as she went to sleep in her motel room right next door to the office. What was she doing here, and why had she agreed to come care for a father she barely knew? Their relationship subsisted on the occasional phone call, even letters back when they were more fashionable. No e-mails, since her father was one of those old-world men who preferred old-world ways. His only acknowledgment of the modern world seemed to be his forty-five-inch flat-screen television, which had been on all day—football games—and it was this that continued to command his attention now. He'd missed the entire exchange between Mark and Sara. Trina wished she'd inherited her father's sense of obliviousness.

“Richie, you about ready for pie?” Trina asked.

Her father, whom she never called father because she also had a stepfather, who had been more of a role model growing up than he, gazed up absently from his frayed couch. He was sixty-seven, sallow of face, with sunken cheeks and thinning hair that had lost its battle with the bald a while ago. He also at the moment had a cast on his left leg, reaching from his ankle to his calf. He'd broken his leg in three places. “What's that you ask?”

“Pie, Uncle Richie,” Mark said.

“Wouldn't be Thanksgiving without,” he said with a nod. “Do you mind if I take it here? It's too much effort to get up again and hobble over to the table.”

Mark tossed Trina a quick look, as though seeking approval from her.

Both his doctor and the physical therapist had said it was important to keep Richie active and not let him get too complacent. But Trina was too drained to argue with him at this late hour, so she gave in, her expression showing obvious displeasure. She suggested that Sara make herself comfortable in the other chair; it would be dessert in front of the Cowboys game. So while Mark helped his wife get settled, Trina made her way to the small kitchen, which required her to pass through the front office of the motel. All was quiet, the only sign of life coming from the neon red VACANCY sign in the window.

In the kitchen, she took hold of pie plates and small forks, surprised that her father even had such specific items. His kitchen wasn't exactly one fit for a gourmet. Figuring it was easier to serve here and carry the plates back into the living room, she set about cutting the pie when Mark came up behind her.

“You doing okay, Trina?”

“Sure, why wouldn't I be?”

“I sense sarcasm.”

“Gee, and I was going for a direct hit.”

Her bite didn't seem to have any lasting effect on him, but then again, that matched all she had heard about her cousin on her father's side. Mark was patient, good-natured, understanding, a smart guy with lots to look forward to, and add to that his ambition. He was working two jobs to achieve his goals. He was handsome, with an easy, winning smile, and, as far as she could tell from the few times she had seen him since her arrival, a perpetual dark scruff laced his cheeks. And now with his pretty, perky wife and a baby on the way, Mark Ravens was one of the family overachievers. Neither Trina nor Richie fit that mold.

“You know, you're doing a good thing here,” he said.

“What, caring for someone who doesn't want to be looked after?”

“It's hard for Uncle Richie; he's been on his own for so long.”

“His fault, not mine.”

“Trina, it's not about fault.”

“Well, who told him to climb up on the roof and try and clear the gutters? At his age?”

“Like I said, he's independent. Like father, like . . .”

She held the knife in front of him. “Don't go there.”

“Still, it's nice you're here.”

“It's just what a thirty-year-old single woman wants, to suddenly be the de facto manager of a roadside motel in a town that doesn't seem to need one. I mean, Mark, we've got two guests right now and no reservations for the next two weeks. Even the days here are solemn.”

“He makes a killing in the summer season, lots of weekend antiquers. It will also pick up right before Christmas.”

“Oh God, can I endure Christmas here too?”

“Uncle Richie's going to be out of commission for a couple of months, so yeah, I guess you're going to settle in. I mean, first the cast has to come off, then weeks of physical therapy appointments. But don't worry, Trina, Christmas in Linden Corners can be real special. Sara and I were married last year on Christmas Eve in the village gazebo, with practically the entire town as our witnesses. You just have to get involved; otherwise, Linden Corners can seem like a lonely place.”

“Sure, I'll keep that in mind, from behind the front desk.”

“Sara and I will relieve you sometimes, help you get out and about,” he said. “You know I'm pretty busy between my two jobs, but Sara is around. She's cut back on her hours at the Five-O, since the baby's due date is a month away.”

“A Christmas wedding and a year later, a Christmas baby. You sure didn't waste time.”

“If you want to keep life interesting, Trina, you have to have things to look forward to.”

“Okay, Mr. Optimism, let's get this pie served so you and your bride can escape.”

“It's hardly an escape . . .”

In a rare display of affection, she touched his arm and let her hand linger. “Look, Mark, I know you and Sara had other plans with your friends. I appreciate your being here.”

“Family first,” he said. “Uncle Richie's not a bad guy, just quirky.”

“More like stubborn.”

“See, you two are finding more common ground with each passing day.”

“You want a pie in your face?”

With his easy laugh filling the kitchen, Mark grabbed hold of two plates and returned to the living room. Trina hesitated a moment, steeling herself for the final leg of what had been an awkward holiday. When she arrived with the last two plates, she saw that her father had already plowed down half of his slice, not bothering to wait for everyone else. Silence had also fallen over them, the three of them seemingly engaged in the game. She went and sat by herself at the collapsible card table that had served as their Thanksgiving dinner table. A candle had burned down to a nub before being doused. Trina Winter, surrounded by blood relations, by family—more concept to her than reality—realized she was the only one here whose last name was not Ravens. Even Sara had that over her.

Again, she wondered just what had possessed her to accept this assignment.

What had Mark said? Life was about having something to look forward to.

She couldn't recall the last time that had happened to her, and she knew prior to her arrival here that she'd been going through the motions. Work, home, sleep, rinse, and repeat, and be careful along the way that you don't yawn yourself to death.

Richie's phone call to her had happened at just the right time.

Funny, she'd needed an escape from her life, and now that she was here, she was still on the topic of running.

She took a bite of the pie, felt an involuntary smile cross her face. The smooth, savory pumpkin filling was the best thing she'd tasted all day, and for once, Trina's sour expression wavered. Mark's comment continued to taunt her. For one's life to be fulfilling, one needed something to look forward to. In this foreign place called Linden Corners, where not even the local tavern was open on the holiday, perhaps she'd start with thinking about a second slice of this amazing pie.

It was progress.

But once the pie was gone, what then?

 

 

“Thank you. I hope you enjoyed your stay with us.”

“Everything was clean,” the man said gruffly as he handed back the key to his room.

Trina, standing behind the desk, had to wonder if that was a compliment or an expression of surprise. She wasn't sure how to react, whether to say anything in response, but then the man took the choice away from her. He abruptly turned around and left the office, receipt in his hand, and a few moments later he had zoomed away in his car.

“That was rude,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else.

“Don't give it a second thought, Trina,” she heard behind her. She turned and saw Richie emerging from the kitchen, crutches supporting his thin frame; the cast appeared to weigh more than the rest of him. Still, it was nice to see him up and about; that was progress, wasn't it? He'd just finished his morning coffee, something Trina had learned he couldn't live without. For that he'd race across the parking lot in two casts.

“But what did that mean—everything was clean?”

“The motel business is transient. One customer checks out, another checks in.”

“Not according to the reservation book,” she said, staring down at an empty page.

“Place like the Solemn Nights, we specialize in drive-bys. Weary drivers needing a quick refresh, they see a word like
solemn
, it suggests rest, the blinking neon sign calling to them. They turn in and so does someone else, and next thing I know, most of the rooms are booked. You just have to be patient in this line of work. You'll get the hang on it.”

“I hope not,” she said far too quickly, wishing she could take it back.

“Why not take a break? Carmen is here cleaning the rooms. If I need anything she's easy to reach.”

“Richie . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .”

“I understand, Trina. You've barely been away from the property since you got here,” he said. “Go on out and see the village, spread your wings. It's beautiful outside this late in November, and it's still warm. Odd for us; usually we've got a foot of snow at this point.”

“You trying to get rid of me? We were going to go shopping later.”

“I have no doubt you'll be back in plenty of time to take me. We're low on coffee.”

“You're sure you can wait?”

“Go have a cup at the Five-O; Sara will take care of you.”

Trina agreed, if for no other reason than to give Richie a break from her. She retreated to her room, where she fixed up her hair and dabbed on a bit of lipstick and a light jacket, deciding at the last moment to toss a scarf around her neck. You never know, the weather could turn cold without warning. With a glance in the mirror, she pronounced herself good enough for public viewing, and then set out on foot, leaving behind her car. Downtown Linden Corners was only a half mile away, and the walk, like it had the other night she'd ventured down to George's Tavern, would do her good. She walked against oncoming traffic, if it could even be called that, with barely a dozen cars passing her in either direction. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, with December just a week away, and indeed she was surprised by the fact that she'd worked up a sweat during her walk.

Her mother, Pamela, had warned her about going to Linden Corners, telling her that once she arrived she might not thaw out until April at best, and then wished her well. Pamela was now retired and living in Florida with her third husband and had long ago shipped the man who played the role of Trina's father from her life. But while Pamela might easily dispense with the men in her life, Trina, despite not growing up with Richie as her father and as such barely knowing him, knew that blood was thicker than divorce. When he'd called and asked her if she could help him after his accident, she knew that doing so went against every fiber of his being. Richie Ravens had never before asked his daughter for anything.