Stunner (2 page)

“You do know kids don’t think their parents are supposed to have sex.” Laura now covers her eyes in mock horror. “But Juliana Wentworth would enjoy other benefits if she wants to become Mrs. Franklin Livingston Rutherfurd.” Her fingers flick air quotes when she says her father’s formal name.

“Yeah.” I sigh. “There’s the money…”

“It’s not only the money, Aunt Ronnie. I’m worried that Daddy will make a terrible mistake the way Uncle Pete did.” My niece once more looks as though she wants to cry. “And then we’ll never see him again, just like Uncle Pete.”

“Take it easy, Laura. This is about your father, not Peter,” I say, but I also feel a wave of sadness wash over me. You’d think I’d be done with that after so many years.

That’s when Warrior walks over and plops his big head in Laura’s lap. I smile. “Hey, you need a dog. The world always looks better when you have a dog.”

“Aunt Ronnie,” Laura practically wails. “This is Daddy, your brother. I love Daddy, but he’s gone head over heels for a woman who should be dating George Clooney, not
him
.”

She clamps her hands onto her mug. “We don’t know anything about her,” Laura adds. “I tried to Google her. Not much out there. And I don’t know what to do, because Daddy looks so happy for the first time since Mommy died.”

“That’s a good thing, Laura,” I say firmly.

“But what if, like you said, she only wants Daddy’s money?” Laura taps her mug against her chin, deep in thought. “…or I guess it’s possible she might be a nice person. Oh, Aunt Ronnie, don’t you think we should hire a private detective, the way they do in the movies, to check her out?”

The idea doesn’t strike me as being a good one. Too many negative possibilities leap to mind—such as Frank finding out and wanting to disown both his daughter and his sister. “One step at a time. First I want to meet her.” Definitely that.

“Done.” Laura almost smashes her mug on the table to make her point. Horrified, she quickly examines the tabletop. “Sorry, Aunt Ronnie. I know how you like everything just so.” She checks for scratches and apparently sees none. Nor do I with a casual, seemingly disinterested glance.

“OK,” she continues. “Daddy’s organizing a little get-together tomorrow evening, and I’m helping him. Six-thirty. Come meet her. See what you think.”

“Sounds perfect,” I answer. “Count me in.”

I refresh our coffee, and we sit quietly for a moment. I breathe in the smell of fresh-cut grass, while gazing at a bed of astilbe perennials anchored on each end by blossoming white Annabelle hydrangeas.

Sitting in the garden of my old house always gave me great joy; the same now holds true in this smaller garden. I spot several weeds and can’t resist hopping up to pull them out.

The sound of childish laughter distracts me, and Laura and I look in the direction of the dirt road. “Ah, those kids love riding their bikes back and forth,” I say.

“You don’t miss living in your big house?” she asks me. “I mean, you’ve really downsized, Aunt Ronnie.”

“Nope. Don’t miss it at all,” I say, a little too quickly, remaining focused on the weeds.

She looks at me for any clues that indicate otherwise. “Come on. Even though you’ve only been here a couple of weeks, don’t you wander up your road every now and then to check out your house? And maybe wish you were back there instead of living in your tiny guest cottage?”

I look up at my charming two-story stone cottage with its new split-shake cedar roof and smile. “No. Mostly I got tired of all those empty rooms, especially now that Brooke’s working in the city, and Jessica’s doing the internship out West. That big house needs people, and the Lattimores have five kids running around the place. Plus, they’re good tenants, so it’s great.”

Laura looks at me skeptically. “Really?”

“You’ll find out later in life, kiddo, once you’re married, have children, and then one day, way in the future, become an empty-nester like me. You end up living in the same three or four rooms, no matter the size of the house.”

I stand up straight and stretch my back. “Anyway, I always envied my guests who stayed out here. This cottage is heaven, and living here has simplified my life.” I then add, “Plus, I’ll be saving money, and that’s always a good thing.”

“You miss being married, Aunt Ronnie?” she asks, her tone rather careful.

“Truthfully? It was hard at first. But these days, most of the time, I like my life just the way it is.”
Fake it till you make it
, I think to myself. I continue with the weed pulling.

Laura glances at her watch, and obviously surprised at the time, jumps up. “OK. Have to run.” She comes over and hugs me. “Aunt Ronnie, thanks for listening. You’re the best. I always feel better after I talk to you. See you tomorrow.” She walks away and then stops. “Wait. What about that van that was following me?”

I shrug. “Like I said, that was probably a house repair up the road.” I squint at my watch. “And by now he’s definitively gone. Laura, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

For the most part, fake it till you make it does seem to work, and I’m glad I could help Laura calm down. As for me, let’s just say, at times since my divorce, I’m still on shaky ground. I tried to continue with life as it was at the big house before the split, but no go.

Too many rooms, too many memories, and too many spooky noises and shadows for me to be alone in that large space. My hope is that a new start in my cozy cottage will be a positive step toward me feeling in charge of my life again.

~~~~~

After my niece leaves, Warrior and I go inside and upstairs to the master bedroom. Warrior drops down on his dog bed to watch as I do some more unpacking. After placing linens and blankets in a closet, I open a box with framed family photographs.

The first one I take out is my favorite of Brooke and Jessica. It’s a black-and-white of them sitting on the grass in the garden at the big house with our beloved Springer Spaniel, Cress, between them. The girls are about five and two, and it’s a beautiful picture. I place it on the nightstand next to my bed.

Next I pull out a photograph of Frank, his wife Joanie, and their kids, Laura and Richard, on a sailboat, probably taken ten years ago. They look tanned, windblown, and happy. I put that frame on a shelf in a bookcase and sigh.
Oh, Joanie, we miss you so much.

I reach into the box and find a photograph of my oldest brother, Peter, with his wife and their children. I study the young faces of Petey, Ben, Tim, and Jimmy. This picture must be twenty years old. Haven’t seen them in, what? I do the math. It’s got to be at least fifteen years, when the boys were still in their teens. Wonder what they look like today.

I tug at a frame that’s jammed between several books in the box and shake it loose. It’s a picture of my ex-husband and me with our children, taken outdoors during happier years. As a matter of fact, it was taken the same year as the picture of Peter and his family.

I reexamine the shot of Peter’s family—a great picture of the six of them. I also remember that was the first year either of us sent out picture cards for Christmas, using these two family photographs, and neither of us knew that the other planned to do the same.

When his wife saw our card, she accused me of copying her and made a big stink about it. Wouldn’t most people have just laughed and said, “Oh, how funny. Look. Yours is better than mine.”

Peter was, is, our big brother. Frank and I looked up to him when we were growing up. We were in awe of him. I examine the faces of Peter’s children in the photo. Not having him and his kids in our lives—this estrangement—still hurts, and all because of his wife’s rigid insecurity.

Why did our brother go along with all her nonsense? Why didn’t he stick up for his side of the family? Oh well, who knows what goes on in other people’s marriages. I place the photograph of them on the end of a bottom shelf, where I’ll hardly notice it. Then I tuck my family photograph back in the box. My ex will not be on display in this house.

Time to switch gears. I run downstairs, turn on my computer and Google Juliana Wentworth. She doesn’t come up much on the Internet. A few party pictures at philanthropic events in San Francisco and San Jose. An obituary two years ago for her husband, Carleton Todd Wentworth, a successful technology investor twenty-five years her senior.

Hmm. This Juliana seems to like older men. Doesn’t look as if she would need more money, unless she didn’t make out very well in his will. No kids together, but he had three from his first marriage.

What does warm my heart is that the couple supported a number of animal and canine rescue organizations. “Hey, Warrior. I think Frank’s new girlfriend likes dogs. And that’s got to be a good thing. Right?” A snore answers me. He’s fast asleep.

At first glance, this Juliana appears to be a private woman living a quiet life. But the phone hang-ups and the peculiar reaction to the delivery of the box are, I have to agree with Laura, at the very least, curious.

The phone in the living room rings, and the caller-ID shows Laura’s number. She probably has last-minute jitters before the party for Juliana. “Hey, how’s my favorite niece in the world—”

“I’m your only niece, Aunt Ronnie, and you’ve been telling me that forever.” But she’s ribbing me and doesn’t sound annoyed.

“I know, I know. I need some new material. So, what’s up?”

“Three hang-ups today,” Laura announces.

Hmm. “How long does the mystery person stay on the line?” I ask. “Do you hear him, her, breathing? Making any sounds at all?”

“I
do
hear some heavy breathing, but it’s all pretty quick,” Laura says. “I try to reverse the call, but like I told you, it’s either blocked or it’s one of several pay phone numbers around Scranton and nearby Moosic over in Pennsylvania, and nobody answers. So weird.”

“I guess so.” I look around for my dog and call to him. “Into your mouse house, Warrior.” Which is a joke, since I had to buy him a huge crate. He charges out of the downstairs bathroom where he likes the cool tile floor, skids around the corner into the hall, and heads for the kitchen.

“Warrior
loves
his mouse house,” I say to Laura. “Are you all set over there?”

“Daddy’s a happy camper, all smiling, laughing.” My niece stretches out the first syllables on
smiling
and
laughing
. “He’s helping Dino set up the bar.”

“What about Juliana? Does she look drop-dead gorgeous?” I guess I’ll find that out myself soon enough.

“Who knows. Juliana’s been upstairs for almost
four
hours,” Laura says. “Who needs
four
hours to get ready?”

Point taken, but… “Easy, kiddo. Maybe she’s a little nervous meeting your dad’s friends and family,” I say. “Cut her some slack, OK?”

“I don’t know why she’d be at all nervous. She’s scary beautiful. Richard calls her a real stunner,” Laura answers. “Aunt Ronnie, are you coming soon? It’s almost six. I really need to show you something, before everyone else gets here.”

“See you in ten.” I’m as ready as I’ll ever be and would need more than four hours to become scary beautiful. I grab the keys and head out the door.

~~~~~

I turn left off Hollow Road into Meadow Farm and drive up the long dirt road that winds among intermittent woods and fields. Split-rail and wire fencing surround many of the pastures containing the ninety-plus sheep that reside at the farm.

One more big bend in the road, and there, at the end of a lush green meadow among clusters of sugar maples, ash, and Chinese chestnut trees, stands the house where I grew up. I look over at the second floor, left-corner window, first my room and then that of my favorite-niece-in-the-world, Laura, during the last two decades.

My gaze sweeps across the fine-looking house with stone and stucco walls and slate roof. A textile factory owner built it in 1910, and I was blessed to grow up here from the fifties through most of the seventies, way before the hyper-rich and obscenely famous of the twenty-first century moved into the area. These days, this house would need a complete do-over to interest any hedge fund guy. Not over-the-top enough for that crowd—which suits us just fine.

I park, and Laura rushes out. We hug and walk inside to more greetings from my brother’s son, Richard, and his wife, Susie.

My daughter Brooke walks through the dining room door into the foyer. “Mom!” We give each other a big embrace. She’s here from Manhattan and incredibly grown up at twenty-four.

Laura tugs at my arm while saying to my daughter, “I’m stealing your mom for five minutes, Brooke.”

“Be right back, darling,” I call over my shoulder as Laura leads me through the kitchen door.

Then Laura scoots me past the breakfast table and outside to a grey trash bin. She flips open the lid, and I hear the rustling sound of garbage bags as she reaches inside.

I’m taken aback. “Laura, what on earth? Your guests are due any second.”

“Aunt Ronnie, you’re not going to believe this. I was out here a little earlier throwing something away, and I found that box I told you was addressed to Juliana in the bin. Daddy and Juliana were out, so I snooped.”

I’m not happy to hear about this. “Laura—”

“I know, I know, but you’ve gotta see.”

Reluctantly, I walk over to her, suddenly noticing the smell of rotten eggs and something else I can’t put my finger on. Decay? I look in the bin, inside a black garbage bag on top, and see a white box. The lid is addressed to Ms. Juliana Wentworth, care of Meadow Farm.

I don’t know what to say. The bad odor is now overpowering, and the sound of flies buzzing about causes me to step back. “Something in this garbage bag is rotten. The smell is awful—”

“It’s inside the box, Aunt Ronnie.” Laura gingerly pushes the lid to the side and motions for me to look.

On a bed of shriveled flowers lies the bloody carcass of a very dead bird. The sight takes my breath away. Dribbled raw eggs cover the mass. The eggs and the dead bird are the source of the rotten smell turning my stomach.

“This is super gross, isn’t it? And pretty creepy, too.” Laura fake-shivers as if she’s watching a horror movie. “Those flowers look like they come from a cemetery. And is that a dead pigeon, Aunt Ronnie?”