Retreat to Love (10 page)

They were small-scale ceramics, none taller than five inches and an almost random mixture of crude construction and minute detail. The walls of her San Antonio barracks house didn’t meet at ninety degrees, but the mission architecture style was richly formed at the windows and doors.

“It’s baby blue because it’s where my brother was born. I was eight, and my mother drifted into this post-partum depression which kinda changed her forever. Anyway, it was a very disjointed time in my life.”

She also had finished the ranch house where they lived when she was twelve and got her first period. It was glazed in blood red, streaked with iron. The vines climbing up the side wall looked enough like the shed uterine lining to make me shiver.

Rafael loved it. At least, I can only assume he did, since he discoursed so long about it. “It’s, like, so sensual—almost inviting but thorny at the same time,” he said.

“Um, thanks,” answered Wren, glancing nervously at Lizzy and I.

“Thanks for sharing,” he added as he turned to go.

“Bye, man,” Caleb called after him.

“He spoke, like, a dozen words!” I turned to Wren. “Wow. I wonder what Margie said to him.”

“Whatever it was, it seemed to spark the spirit of togetherness in him,” Angelica sneered. “Wonders will never cease.”

Wren had four more houses planned in her
Military Brat
series. As she told us about them, outlining the general trend of monochromatic structures and their personal significance, I wrestled with my own fears about the creation of a very personal art. She’s said she was trying to define ‘home’ with this series, but the dwellings didn’t meet my definition of ‘homey.’ They were houses, distinct in style but the impact grew from the chronology of Wren’s life. Even the way we determined she should name them—descriptively (
12th year—menstruation
) rather than geographically (
Ft. St. Helen
)—pointed towards their being more about autobiography than about a global sense of home.

Of course, I had never been moved from place to place like her; perhaps to another military kid her work would feel more naturally familiar. But why should she be forced to universalize it if it felt right to her?

Looking at the basically finished
Chains of Love
, I had to admit it was about nothing more cosmic than my relationship with my mother’s mother. Would anyone other than Gran and I ‘get’ it? Zach or Bernadette, maybe, at least for the artistic merit—I knew it had that—and the few hints about them it contained. Caleb and Wren and Lizzy and the rest, instead of discussing the meaning, might only comment on the stitchery, the combination of elements, other externals.

I walked throughout dinner, up the road away from town and circling back through the woods as it got darker and I worried about the cars. Not many passed, but those that did drove the country road as if it were an enclosed track, and I didn’t trust their headlights and their common sense to catch me in time.

Hunger finally drove me to the Main House, where I ate in the computer room after making sure there were no signs of life from early-to-bed Margie. Email from Zach alluded to some hot news from him, but I knew it was pointless to try and drag it out of him ahead of schedule. Hopefully he’d met someone.

Caleb was dishing himself some ice cream when I went in to wash up. “Join me?” he asked, scoop halfway into the chocolate chunk.

“Why not,” I agreed, and put the kettle on. Nothing like ice cream and green tea.

“Why weren’t you at dinner?”

“Oh, I was just walking around, thinking. I grabbed a late sandwich instead. I miss anything?”

“Not food-wise. Pork chops and canned green beans. Margie stopped by to beam approval at us while we told her about our workshops. Wren ...”

We traded places as I moved to the pantry. “What?”

“Nothing, I guess. Did you see her earlier?”

“No. Did something happen?”

He was quiet for a moment. “No. She just seemed to be kinda down. I’ve never seen her depressed like that, and I thought things went well today, you know?”

I nodded, getting out spoons. “No one was mean or anything. Do you think we offended her?”

Caleb leaned through the pass-through to identify a passing noise. He was wearing jeans, a very nice pair of black jeans. “Just Brandon going to the computer,” he reported. “Anyway, I was just thinking, you know, her house thing is just so, well, private. Maybe we didn’t give her the kind of reaction she was hoping for, we weren’t as intensely drawn in as we should have been.”

Opening the freezer covered my little shiver. “Uh-huh.”

“So you think we upset her? She was kinda, I dunno, quiet at dinner, hardly even laughed at Margie.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ash?” I just glanced at him. “Hey, Ashlyn, what’s wrong?”

I blinked. “Huh? Nothing. Thinking.”

He shook his head. “No, really, what’s wrong? You tired?”

I smiled. “Oh, hush, Caleb. I’m just preoccupied. My mind’s on Sunday.”

He furrowed, then released, his brow. “Oh, your big day under the spotlight. You shouldn’t worry, it’ll be great. We’ll love it.”

“You’ve never seen it.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can tell just from knowing you.” He gave me a bear hug and stepped back without taking his hands from my shoulders, which he began kneading. “Look, Ash, I know it’ll be fine. And I promise to love it myself, no matter what.” He grinned.

I shrugged my shoulders. Did he think I was a piece of dough? “Caleb, you idiot, you can hate it or love it or think it’s nothing more than child’s play. Just be honest. No one can say anything about my work I haven’t heard before, probably from myself.”

When I’d called him an idiot he’d let go of me. Now he reached down and took my left palm with his right fingers. “Guess I am being stupid. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything so asinine.” He kissed the back of my hand and smiled. “Come sit outside with me, okay?” There went those crinkly eyes, the ones forcing me to smile back. I took my mug and followed him out the door.

“So, are you ready for your exhibition?” I joined him on the swing.

“I think so,” he said, putting his bowl down on the porch. “I like what I’ve done so far, anyway, I’m just going to work on mounting it tomorrow while you’re playing roots.”

“Be nice.”

He grinned and pushed the swing back swiftly, which had the net result of my tilting into his side as I tried to hold my mug up and away from my body.

“Thanks.”

His arm wrapped around my shoulders. “Sorry,” he said with a squeeze. “Did you spill?”

His fascination with my shoulders was beginning to worry me. “No, it’s almost empty anyway.”

“You need more? I’ll make it.”

I shook my head. “I’m good. No more caffeine tonight, anyway, I need my beauty sleep.”

“Hardly.”

“Huh?” I looked at him.

He winked. “Nothing.” His arm was still around me. I hoped Wren wasn’t feeling restless tonight.

“I should turn in, too. Let’s leave these until morning,” Caleb said, nudging his bowl with his toe.

“I’ll just carry them in,” I stood. The back of my neck felt chilly.

When I came out, he was standing looking out towards the lake. His t-shirt was tight across his upper back. He fell into step beside me as I started down the porch steps.

“I’m going to miss your cheerful morning smile after tomorrow,” he said.

“Don’t worry, only three more weeks until we flip pancakes together again.”

We were at the footbridge. Caleb turned towards me dramatically and grasped my hand between his two, drawing it to his chest. “Promise me you won’t flip pancakes with any other man until then.”

I couldn’t resist giving him a sultry voice. “I didn’t realize my spatula was so important to you.”

“Oh, but it is. It truly is.”

“In that case, I promise.”

He kissed my fingertips gallantly. “You have made my month, madam.” And when we started walking again, he forgot to unlink our hands. I figured it would be rude to do it myself, so I left my hand in his until I needed it to enter my door code.

We just looked at each other for a minute while I stood in the half-opened door. Somehow, even though he wasn’t smiling, the wrinkles around Caleb’s dark eyes were still there.

“Good night, then,” I finally said.

“Sweet dreams, Ashlyn.”

“Visions of maple syrup will dance in my head,” I assured him, and before he had quite started the motion to turn and walk away, I put my hand on his shoulder and leaned in to kiss his cheek. His hand grazed my hair when he kissed mine in return.

“Sweet dreams, Caleb,” I said quietly, and went slowly in to bed.

A volley of pebbles woke me. They fell skipping off the roof, window, and wood of my cabin, and I let out a little scream when I saw Lizzy’s face at the pane.

“If you’d just set an alarm we wouldn’t have to resort to this,” she said, throwing herself onto her favorite spot in the corner.

“Every one of you people is far too bothered by my dislike of clocks.” I turned to shower. “At least Caleb has the decency to knock loudly on the door and leave. I’m too much of a city gal to like seeing faces at my window.”

“Grump.”

I shut the bathroom door on her. Here I was devoting my day to her and she was criticizing.

When I came out—fortuitously towel-wrapped—she and Caleb were sitting on my bed. “Make yourselves at home.”

He started to stammer a reply, then stopped. She didn’t. “We were comparing this quilt to your stuff.”

“Well, do it outside. I’m not in the mood for an audience.”

They rose and Lizzy handed me my wet-hair comb. “I sure hope you get nicer before my parents arrive. They’re hardly going to be charmed by this sort of thing.”

“Go away.” Again, I shut the door on her. Some retreat.

They pretty much left me alone to make the coffee and juice once we got to the kitchen. He started to grate the carrots and she showed him her method of separating eggs. She launched into a rant about poppy seeds and he opted instead to add walnuts to the muffins. They both eyed the way I was slicing oranges for the juice until I glared them off. I almost didn’t remind her to wipe the flour off her forehead before Brandon came in for his early cuppa.

After breakfast, as I washed the dishes and Lizzy taught Caleb how to dress up a lime marinade, a car came crunching and honking up the oyster shell road to the Main House. “God almighty, they’re early. They’re never early,” Lizzy said, wiping her hands on an apron.

I looked out. A large silver sedan with more than its share of mud streaks at the wheel wells was rolling to a stop. The driver was not as short as she looked slumped back against the headrest, but the passenger was every bit as tall as his hair brushing against the roof led me to believe.

“Elizabeth!” he called, unfolding from the seat. She walked off the porch and into his arms. “Say hello to your mother.”

“I’m on my way.” She wrapped one arm around her mother’s softly framed body. As hard-wired as Lizzy was, they still looked alike. Images of Lizzy with fuzzy dove-colored hair and a cardigan didn’t come easily to mind, but it was suddenly easier to predict her features mellowing with age, her muscles plumping and her gold rims framing bifocals.

She led them back up to the dining room, which I was clearing while pretending not to watch the reunion scene. Caleb picked up the drying towel and busied himself with passing in front of the kitchen door as often as possible.

“And this is Ashlyn May and Caleb Kendall, Mum,” Lizzy said, steering her parents towards us. Wiping our hands dry, we smiled. “Aren’t they just the picture of lovely American co-artists? Ashlyn’s grandpa is from Dalkey, remember I said to you, Dad? She wants to ask you about the old days.”

“Would either of you care for tea or coffee?” I asked.

“After our drive down, anything is appreciated. Coffee if you have it. Tea for Agnes.”

“Coming right up,” Caleb smiled, putting on the kettle.

“Sit down, please, we’ll bring it right in.”

“Thank you, dear,” Agnes smiled.

Caleb raised an eyebrow at me as I pulled out clean mugs. “Very upper-middle-class, no?”

“They’re cute,” I whispered back.

“Cute, sure, but come on—are they how you imagined the hotbed of Lizzy’s origins?”

“Sssh.” I arranged the cookies and glanced through the pass-through, where everyone was all settled in at the table. Caleb and I were alone for the first time that day. For a second we just breathed next to each other’s stillness.

“You want tea, too?” he asked, pulling out my favorite ceramic mug.

“Peppermint.”

He set the coffee plunger and teapot on the tray, then joined me leaning against the counter as we waited for the water to boil.

“Ash?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you to tell me something honestly?”

I looked up at him and put my hand on his arm, thinking both of Ann and of the almost-tearful shock of my fingers on his tan skin. “One thing I’ll tell you about me today, Caleb Kendall, is you can count on me to always be honest.”

“You’re something else, Ashlyn May. Look, I need to know if your pal Lauren is, well .... God this sounds vain and stupid.” He drew a breath. “Does Wren want to, you know, be with me?”

The kettle boiled.

“Do you want her to?”

“Don’t. Just tell me.”

I filled the cafetière. “She does. She’s liked you since the bus ride from Austin. She’s the one who pointed out to me the remarkable brightness of your face when you’re feeling spirited.”

“The what?”

“Never mind.” I shifted all the mug handles so they faced the same direction. “Why do you ask?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a little bit of a long story. Maybe we can talk later?”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be with Lizzy ....”

“But back by dinner, she has to be here for dinner?”

“She does.”

“So after?”

I took up the tray. “You’ve got a date, partner.”

He and the plate of cookies followed me into the dining room.

Dub and Agnes were quite the couple. He had been a banker for most of his career, before that a delivery driver for a woolen mills. She had been a secretary at the woolen mills who’d gotten obsessed with travel and history after her marriage. She’d taken Dub and Lizzy and her brother Stephen to as many famous battle sites as they could pack into two-week holidays in Ireland, Britain, and France. When they left Wimberley, they were headed for a day at the Alamo, flying home from San Antonio via New York.

Dub talked about the good old days of Dalkey for a while; the big hotel where everyone worked at some point or another, the frequent trips out the island for picnics, and getaways to the surrounding hills. Pappa’s tales had populated the same scenery, but Dub’s Dalkey was so much more modern. Pappa never went back to Ireland; whenever his fond recollections of the place prompted curious questions, he said, “It’s where my children and my wife are that’s my home, not some distant green memory of a place.” Pappa insisted he had no desire to leave even after his kids were grown—he wanted to keep a warm place with a snug bed available to his children wherever they were. And he did. He spearheaded the campaign to bring Bernadette and Frank back down to Texas, though Gran was of the same mind about it.

All he ever wanted was his children around him. They grew up knowing it, and when he died they still knew it. Uncle Dermot at the funeral said, and was the simplest truth of the day, “Being our dad was the most important thing Niall O’Connor ever wanted to do with his life.”

It was interesting to hear what modern-day Dalkey was like, though, and to imagine Pappa’s life if he’d never left.

The Murphys wanted to see Lizzy’s cabin before we headed to town for a through investigation of all the quaint shops Wimberley had on offer. As Caleb stacked the mugs back on the tray and said his farewells, he brushed his fingers against my nape. It was small, but Lizzy gave me quite the arch look. She cornered me in town while her parents took pictures of the split-rail fence lining a park by the water. “And what was the touching back there all about?”

I grimaced. “Don’t know yet. Can I tell you later?”

After peeking in at the milliners and the curiosity shop, where Dub debated between some knobby walking sticks before settling on an easier-to-pack garden chime, we settled down with sandwiches outside a cafe on the river. Thus far the talk had mostly been of Lizzy’s brother Stephen and his family, along with various aunts (“she collapsed on the bus to Rathgar and was sent to hospital with a kidney infection. They read her last rights before she got better. Desperate business”), cousins (“judicial separation from Aoife, they just told us”), and neighbors (“can you believe it, drug addicts stole the vases from her brother’s grave”).

And then they started in on Lizzy. I was enchanted as Agnes recounted her first school dance experience, and grinned openly when Dub told, not the soufflé story, but the special anniversary tea she’d made them at age eight, which was soon followed by her first cooking lesson. Lizzy kicked me under the table—kinda hard—before I recollected myself, and my mission.

Watching a jay flash out over the water, I asked Dub, “Would you have known or remembered any of my Pappa’s family? He was Niall O’Connor, and he emigrated in 1937, when he was eighteen.”

“Well now. There were the O’Connors that ran the boats and the O’Connors further up towards town that were old Dr. O’Connor and his lot. But I don’t recall either family having a boy gone to America. ‘37, you said?”

I nodded. “‘37. And his father was a doctor.”

“Dr. O’Connor never had a boy off to America. Three girls in his family, young Kitty was a great friend of my sister Elizabeth.” His eyes narrowed, then he shook his head.

“What?” asked Lizzy.

“Must be a mistake. Never mind,” replied her dad.

“Never mind what?”

“Nothing, pet, I’m sure it’s naught to do with your friend’s granddad.”

Agnes was looking at him sharply. He wouldn’t meet her eye, though. I was embarrassed, but I said, “Go on, Mr. Murphy, you can tell me. I won’t mind. Whatever it is.”

“Well,” he sighed. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Young Kitty just had a nephew, named Matthew after the doctor, born around then, I think it was in ‘37. The mum was a widow, I always heard, just married to the doctor’s son but he was kicked by a horse on their honeymoon in England, and killed.”

Agnes gasped. “You’re talking about Alice O’Connor and her boy?”

Dub nodded.

“She’s Alice Magill as was. My da’s cousin. Why didn’t I think of her?”

I looked from him to her. “But this must have been Pappa’s brother, surely?”

Dub cocked his head with half a shrug, but wouldn’t elaborate. Agnes, however, said, “People always said, poor Dr. O’Connor, his only boy lost so young.”

“And was his name Niall?”

Before Agnes could answer the table shook gently and she veed her eyebrows at Dub. Looking back at me, she patted my hand and said, “I couldn’t say for sure, dear.”

I sat back, not quite able to focus. It was too much, not credible. My thoughts were a tangle, looped like a bobbin thread when the machine tension is all wrong.

It had to be a mistake.

Lizzy glanced between us all, then watched my reaction as she asked them, “So what ever happened with this Matthew O’Connor?”

“I couldn’t say,” replied Dub.

“Mum, he’s your cousin. I know you could say.” Agnes pressed her lips together, but Lizzy kept at her. “Go on, Mum. I’m just going to keep asking.”

She nodded, as did Dub. “Well. He’s living in Dublin now. He took early retirement a few years back from RTE. He’s got grandchildren now. I remember his oldest girl married a Dutch man.”

“How many kids?”

“Two girls. They’d be in their forties now.”

“And his mom? Alice?”

“Dead some few decades now, God love her. Cancer.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed at my temples. My own—my American—Uncle Matthew was in his forties, living in California touring with a semi-successful jazz band and acting bit parts when he could get them. Zach and I had gone to a dozen bad movies over the years to catch twenty seconds of Matthew delivering take-out or being shot by crossfire.

“You okay, Ash?” Lizzy’s worried look was such an echo of her mother’s more gentle one I had to smile.

“Uh.” I sighed. “Okay, yeah. A little, how do I describe it? Taken aback?”

“You wanna go back? Be alone?”

“No. I mean, I guess so, yeah, I’m not likely to be good company now. You three would do better without me. I can grab the bus, it stops just down the road.” Or somewhere. Margie had hung the laminated bus schedule in the laundry room. I would figure it out.

Dub stood. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll drop you back. Agnes would like a walk in those woods you have anyway, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. We’ll all go. Come on, dear.” That was directed at Lizzy, who was still sitting.

As we buckled our seat belts, she asked, “Mum. Is this the cousin Alice who Crazy Uncle Corneilus dropped all those hints about?”

“Goodness, child, your Uncle Corneilus has been—you haven’t seen him these twelve years. How do you remember that?”

“It is, then?”

“What hints?” I asked.

Agnes signaled her turn. Once she’d taken her lane on the main road, she said carefully, “No one was invited to the wedding, except Alice’s sister, they said. We never heard about it in advance, just one day she was returning from England a widow, and the baby born not seven months later. In those days, girls went suddenly to England for reasons we didn’t discuss.”