Sweet Forgiveness (16 page)

I shake the rain from my umbrella Friday afternoon, before stepping into the Evangeline. Taking care not to slip, I creep across the marble lobby in my wet heels and stop in the mailroom, just as I do every day after work. I thumb through the envelopes on my way to the elevator. Bills, advertisements, bank statement . . . I stop midstep when I see it. A single white envelope with a double-M logo in the upper left corner. Merlot de la Mitaine. I opt for the stairs and dash up the six flights at record speed, forgetting all about my wet heels.

Without bothering to take off my coat, I slide a finger beneath the seal, vaguely aware of the gigantic smile that has taken over my face.

Dear Hannah,

Well, well, the woman can bake. Your rosemary asiago breadsticks were a huge hit. Customers devoured them and wanted more. As predicted, I didn't sell nearly as much wine as I did when serving those dried up strands of wheat I once called breadsticks, but what the hell? Life is a trade-off, don't you think?

Sadly, I had to tell those in need of a breadstick fix that the mysterious baker wouldn't let out her secret.

What I didn't tell them is that she also refused to let out her phone number, her e-mail address, or even her full name. Such are the frustrations of a single vintner in Northern Michigan.

But I like to think of myself as a glass-half-full guy. So, let me tell you how pleased I was to receive your letter. Actually, pleased doesn't quite capture it. More like stoked, juiced, thrilled, beside myself, manic, amped-up . . . all of the above. (And no, I did not consult a thesaurus for these adjectives.)

I laugh out loud and move to my favorite chair, never taking my eyes off the letter.

The morning after you left, I found my business card beneath the bench where you'd sat trying on the Wellingtons. If I'd realized it earlier, I would have hung out beside the office phone all night, hoping you'd do exactly what you did—leave a message at the vineyard. Instead, I sat up in my apartment, checking my cell phone every three minutes to make sure it was working, and beating myself up for being such an ass earlier. I shouldn't have asked you to stay. Please believe me when I tell you, once again, that my intentions were noble—well, mostly. More than anything, I wanted you to be safe. I hated the idea of you being on the roads in the storm.

And just so you know, I never once considered you a piker. I wouldn't have let you pay, even if you'd suggested it. That twenty-dollar bill you sent will be credited toward your next lunch at MM. Or, better yet, I'll take you to dinner. And just to up the ante and perhaps sway your decision, I'm even willing to splurge and throw in another $20.

The summer season officially opens Memorial Day weekend. We'll kick off the season with a jazz trio Friday and a terrific blues band Saturday night. It should be a good time, so please stop by if you happen to be in this neck of the woods. Or, please stop by any time, day or night, rain, sun, sleet, or snow. In case you couldn't tell, I wouldn't mind seeing you again.

Enclosed is another business card, with my cell number and e-mail address. Please don't lose it.

Until next time,

RJ

PS Did I tell you, I'm looking to hire an on-site baker? Think about it. The benefits are fantastic.

I reread the letter three times before placing it back in its envelope and putting it in my dresser drawer. Then I move to my calendar, calculating how long I need to wait before sending my reply.

T
he coffee I drank earlier is percolating in my gut. I pause outside the stage entrance and say a quick prayer, as I always do. But today I make a special plea.
Please let this show go smoothly. Please grant Dorothy the right words to repent, and grant Marilyn the heart to accept it. Please help us set the stage for Fiona's big appearance tomorrow.

I cross myself, wondering what else we might be setting the stage for. The end of their friendship? Will Dorothy let out a horrible truth that she'll forever regret, one that Marilyn won't forgive?
Dear Lord, forgive me
, I add preemptively.

I need to focus. Michael's probably right. Dorothy's “doozy” is little more than a silly harsh word spoken ages ago. Then how on earth will Claudia and I fill an entire hour? I need “killer shows,” according to Priscille. I rub a kink from my shoulder, wondering once again why I ever agreed to this.

I peek out the entryway curtain. We have a full studio today. More than a hundred people have devoted their morning to
The Hannah Farr Show—
not including the television viewers
.
They've traveled miles to come here and be entertained. I straighten my stance and smooth down my skirt. I am going to deliver. Never mind my doubts. Never mind my instincts.

I step through the threshold onto the stage and plant a huge smile on my face. “Thank you,” I say, gesturing for the crowd to sit down. “Thank you so much.” The room calms and I launch into my typical preshow banter, my favorite part of the day. “I'm thrilled that you're here today. We're going to have a great time together.” I take three steps down to the audience level, shaking hands and hugging those within reach. I wander up and down the aisles as I talk, my first chance to connect with my audience.

“What a great-looking bunch you are. Gosh, our audience is almost entirely women today. That's so unusual.” I act shocked, though in truth women make up ninety-six percent of my demographic market. But today my little joke doesn't get the usual laugh. My anxiety has thrown me off-kilter. I shake it off and begin again.

“I see we've got one . . .” I look around at the crowd of people. “Two . . . three men in the bunch. Welcome.” This garners a smattering of applause. I sling an arm around a balding man wearing a plaid shirt and extend the microphone. “No doubt you've been dragged here by your wife, am I right?” He nods, red-faced, and the audience laughs. Good. They're warming up. Now if I could relax.

Stuart signals me to wrap it up. “Oh, darn. I guess I have to go to work now.” The audience boos with good humor and I make my way back up onstage. Ben, the camera guy, begins counting down with his fingers.

“Are you ready for the show?” I ask the audience.

They clap.

I put a hand to my ear. “I can't hear you?”

The applause grows louder.

Ben's fingers show two . . . one . . . He points at me—showtime.

“Welcome to
The Hannah Farr Show
!” I smile at the thunderous applause. “I'm thrilled to have three special people here with us today. The first is our newest acquisition from New York City. You've probably seen her presenting the morning news, or perhaps featured in the
Times-Picayune.
She's the beautiful new addition to the WNO family and has graciously agreed to cohost today. Please help me welcome Claudia Campbell.”

Claudia steps onto the set wearing a short pink dress and strappy sandals that make her legs look like perfectly shaped stilts. The crowd cheers, and I can almost see the ratings clicking upward. I smooth my navy jacket. Why the hell did I choose this frumpy suit? I glance down and spy a coffee stain on my silver blouse. Oh, lovely. I've dribbled.

Claudia thanks me, then explains the Forgiveness Stones phenomenon. “Tomorrow you'll meet the creator of the Forgiveness Stones, Ms. Fiona Knowles. But today, Hannah and I have two dear friends we'd like you to meet.”

Hannah and I? Really? I didn't realize Dorothy and Marilyn were Claudia's friends. Jade's going to love this. But I tamp down my inner gossip girl. Claudia's the new kid and she's just trying to be part of the gang. I understand. She nods at me, and I take over.

“All I know about forgiveness,” I say, “I've learned from my friend Dorothy Rousseau. Her compassion astounds me.” I tell of how the Forgiveness Stones have become all the rage at the Garden Home. “It's all because of Dorothy. She could have opted out of the circle. She could have sent one pouch of stones to one person. Instead, she sent the stones far and wide, creating beautiful circles of love and forgiveness.” I pause for effect. “Dorothy Rousseau is a woman of grace, and so is her lifelong friend, Marilyn Armstrong.

“Joining us today to talk about the power of friendship, please help me welcome New Orleans natives Dorothy Rousseau and Marilyn Armstrong.”

The crowd claps as the two walk out, arm in arm. Marilyn smiles and waves at the audience, oblivious to what awaits her. I turn my attention to Dorothy, looking poised and dignified in her salmon-colored St. John suit. But her face is drawn and her lips pursed. Gone is the serenity I noticed in the last couple weeks. Again, my stomach clenches. Why didn't I put a stop to this?

The women take their places on the sofa, facing Claudia and me. We talk about their history and what their friendship means to them. I want to keep talking about good times and happy memories, but I see Stuart, from the control booth, twirling his index finger—his signal to move along.

I stare through Marilyn's wire-framed glasses, into her pale blue eyes. Has she always looked so trusting and innocent, or is it just today? My chest constricts. I don't want to do this. I should stop this, right now! Instead, I take a deep breath.

“Marilyn, Dorothy has something she'd like to share with you. I was reluctant to allow her to do this, but she insists on doing it live.”

“It's an apology,” Dorothy says. The tremor in her voice matches the thrum of my heart, our own two-woman band.
Don't do it. Don't do it
, I repeat silently. At this moment, I don't care that the entire show—and quite possibly my job—depend on her story.

She shakes her head and finally begins. “I did something that I am and will be forever sorry for.” She gropes until she finds Marilyn's hand. “I have regretted my actions for over sixty years. But I've never had the courage to tell you.”

Marilyn waves a hand at her. “Pssh. That's ridiculous. You're a wonderful friend—more like a sister, really.”

“I hope that's true, Marilyn.”

She uses Marilyn's full name, and I know what she's about to say is very serious. Marilyn senses it, too, I can tell. She laughs, but her foot bobs up and down. “What in the world, Dottie? We've been through hurricanes and miscarriages, births and deaths. There's nothing you can say that will change that.”

“This might.” She stares blindly in the direction of Marilyn, her macular degeneration causing her gaze to be a little off-course. There's something in that faraway look that speaks of loneliness and heartbreak and regret, and my throat swells.

“You see,” she continues. “I made a mistake—a disastrous mistake. You were a seventeen-year-old girl, terrified of being pregnant. I offered to help you.” She looks out at the audience. “I thought maybe she was wrong, that she was worried for nothing. ‘Slow down,' I said. ‘You don't even know if you're pregnant. Let's take this one step at a time. Bring me a urine sample tomorrow. I'll give it to Daddy and he'll run a pregnancy test. Maybe it's a false alarm.'”

The hairs on my arms rise. I'd never heard this part of the story. “Dorothy,” I say. “Shall we let you finish your story backstage?”

“No, thank you, Hannah.”

“Dottie's father was an obstetrician,” Marilyn tells the viewers. “The best in town.”

Dorothy squeezes Marilyn's hand and continues. “The following day Marilyn brought me a Gerber baby food jar filled with her own urine. As promised, I took the sample to my daddy.

“Two days later, standing at Marilyn's locker, I delivered the bad news. ‘You're going to have a baby.'”

Marilyn nods. “And I've always been grateful to the both of you.” She looks at me. “I was a minor. I couldn't go to my family doctor without a parent. And back then, home pregnancy tests weren't reliable. It wasn't the news I wanted to hear, but facts are always better than hunches.”

Dorothy stiffens. “But you see, I chose not to give you the facts. You were never pregnant, Mari.”

I clutch my throat and hear Marilyn gasp. Murmurs rise from the audience.

“But I was,” Marilyn insists. “Of course I was. I miscarried three days after the funeral.”

“That was your period. My father suggested a simple vinegar-and-water flush. No need for a D and C. That's what I told you.”

The audience chatters, and I see people shaking their heads, turning to their neighbors while cupping their mouths.

Marilyn's chin trembles, and she touches it with her fingers. “No. That can't be. I told my father I was pregnant. It killed him. You know that.”

I hear a collective intake of breath from the crowd.

Dorothy sits upright, the picture of composure, except for the tears that pour down her wrinkled cheeks. I jump up and signal Ben to cut the camera, go to commercial break. He tips his head toward the control booth, where Stuart is spinning his finger, his signal to continue rolling. I glare at Stuart, but he ignores me.

“After my dad reported that you weren't pregnant, I took it upon myself to make you squirm for another day or two. I honestly felt it was for your own good. I believed that boy you were seeing was bad news. I wanted this to be a lesson for you. You weren't going to tell your folks until the weekend.”

“My father died. He died! And you,” Marilyn says, jamming a finger at Dorothy so forcefully that I'm sure Dorothy can sense it, “you let me live with that guilt for sixty-two years? I—I cannot believe—” She stops, shakes her head. When she continues, her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her. “How could you, of all people, be so cruel?”

People are shouting and booing now, like a bad
Jerry Springer
episode.

Dorothy covers her face. “I was wrong. I am so sorry. I had no idea it would turn out so badly.”

“And you perpetuated the lie all these years?” Claudia asks softly.

Dorothy nods, and the heckling from the audience almost drowns out her words. “I planned to tell you, Mari. Honestly, I did. I decided it was best to wait until after your father's funeral.”

Marilyn weeps now, and Claudia hands her a box of tissue.

“And then it . . . it just seemed too late. Time went on. I was too scared. I couldn't bear to lose your friendship.”

“But it was a friendship built on lies,” Marilyn says quietly. She stands up and looks around, as if she's dazed. “Get me out of here.”

Someone claps, and soon the entire studio audience is clapping for Marilyn. Or, to put it another way, they've all turned on Dorothy.

“Mari, please,” Dorothy says, her eyes darting around the room. “Don't go. Let's talk about this.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Marilyn's heels click as she marches from the stage.

Dorothy claps a hand over her mouth and lets loose a guttural moan, fierce and primal. She pulls herself to her feet, blindly roaming the stage for the exit. She moves in the direction of her friend's voice, no doubt hoping that when she gets there she'll find forgiveness.

But Marilyn is gone. And so is their lifelong friendship. All thanks to a simple, heartfelt apology.

Michael's right. Some secrets are better left buried.