The Beresfords (37 page)

His hand covered mine briefly, pulling away before I could recover from my surprise. I looked up to find his dark eyes studying me. “Look, Frannie—if your uncle doesn’t call, you can call me. Really. Any time. Or let Caroline know, if that’s more comfortable for you. And one of us will come get you, I promise. Do you hear me?”

No words made their way past the obstruction in my throat, and I felt a treacherous heat behind my eyes. I nodded.

His grin returned. “Done. Come on. Let’s not talk about your uncle any more. He’s wrecking our first date. What do you say we round up the little hoodlums and start sampling this famous cherry pie?”

We had one more moment alone, after dinner. Eric volunteered to do the dishes while I coaxed Robbie and Jamie off to bed and Mom and Bill nursed Dr. Peppers in front of the television. When I returned to the kitchen Eric was just hanging up the dish towel.

“I’d better hit the road,” he announced. “I’m actually catching the red-eye.”

An unexpected wave of disappointment swamped me. “Oh! Mom and Bill will be sorry. All your cribbage talk made them want to get out the board.”

“Next time.”

“You finished all your business in Fort Collins? What a weird trip—to come out on a Friday and not even stay for the following Monday.”

“Frannie, I have a confession.” He drew closer to me, one corner of his mouth lifting when he saw I didn’t back away. “There was no business in Fort Collins.
You
were my business. I just wanted to see you again. Make sure you were doing all right. I didn’t want you to forget who I was and take up with some Great Plains yokel.”

“Oh.”

“If your uncle doesn’t remember your existence in the next few weeks I’ll come out again after my New York trip.”

“You will?”

“Count on it. Unless…there are any objections.”

I said nothing. I had discouraged him a hundred times, and if he still chose to persevere, that was his own decision. For my part I knew I had enjoyed his company like never before. Call
it deprivation or desperation or disillusionment—I wasn’t master of myself enough to say that, if he came again, he wouldn’t be welcome.

He turned away, but not before I glimpsed the satisfaction on his face.

And then, five minutes later, he was gone.

Ten days after Eric Grant left I finally received another letter from Caroline. This one was on unfamiliar stationery. In small print across the bottom I read
The
Lexworth
Hotel
.

Dear Frannie:

You find me having my last hurrah before school starts. I’m in New York!!! Yes, my girl, your loss was my gain. When Eric told me how he invited you (hopelessly rash idea on his part!) and you refused, I immediately leapt at the chance. While I can’t say the sight of me fills him with the transports of delight
you
would, a sister’s company is better than none. In between his meetings we’ve gone to the Guggenheim and the Frick (saving the Met for an all-day affair). On top of that, I saw Phantom of the Opera one night and Les
Misérables
another!!! Wonderful and amazing, both of them, and I might get Cats in before this trip is through. I know you’re thinking I must have missed you (and I do think of you as my little show buddy), and that I’m reckless to go out at night by myself, but by good luck I happened to run into a friend my very first day, and so I have company.

Speaking of company, your cousin Rachel invited us to some sort of barbecue shebang at their place. Eric wasn’t too excited about going, but she’s promised Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry will put in an appearance, whoever they are, so I suspect we’ll go. You know I don’t care a bit about baseball and would way rather sightsee with Eric or my friend than pay homage to my nephew, but Rachel
is
my sister-in-law and she
insists
, so what’s the point in complaining? At least she promises air conditioning. Have I mentioned that, of all the new relatives my marriage brought me, you are far and away my favorite?

That’s all I have time for—meeting my friend at the Plaza Hotel for tea and a carriage ride!!! If I can, I’ll send a postcard later. Hope you’re well. Eric says you’re thinner and paler. I really must insist you take better care of yourself—if something happens to you, you can’t throw me back on Rachel and Julie for company!

—C

I read the letter three times through, unable to combat my mounting envy. Shows and artwork and museums and a carriage ride in Central Park after drinking tea! At least she thought of me, amidst this whirlwind of delight, and even possibly missed me and wished me there. I certainly couldn’t help wishing myself there. And then to be invited to the Perkins’ to meet famous baseball stars! From the way Caroline made it sound, she hardly saw Eric and was free to traipse around town with her friend.

Her friend.

It was weird, wasn’t it, that she didn’t give her friend a name? How close a friend could she be? I shook my head. Maybe she just figured I wouldn’t know who it was anyhow. But how fortunate to run into this friend on her first day in New York, so that she had a companion for all her adventures!

Sad, though, that on her last hurrah Jonathan got left behind. Was he too busy at work to get away? Was it too expensive to fly him out? If Jonathan had gone, they would have needed a second hotel room, so maybe he opted out to give his wife a treat. The thought of her flitting about having the time of her life, while he sat at his desk doing something that bored and crushed him bit by bit made me resentful. But who knew the inner workings of a marriage? Jonathan would likely say the thought of Caroline flitting about having the time of her life was enough joy for the both of them.

For the next several days I raced out to the mailbox, only to be disappointed. How hard was it to write a postcard? Loveland, Colorado, might as well be Antarctica, for all the news I had from my family. I knew they were busy (except for Aunt Marie, I suppose, but I wasn’t foolish enough to expect Aunt Marie to pick up a pen), but I sent ten letters covering both sides of the paper for every five-line note in return. I think they passed the letter-writing duty around: one would be from Uncle Paul, the next from Aunt Terri—there was even a card with frogs on the front from Uncle Roger. Inside it read, “Wishing you a hoppy day” and his signature “Roger Luther.” Not even “Uncle Roger”! “Roger Luther,” like he signed the Christmas cards he sent to his insurance clients. From Jonathan I received an article on the earthquake in Indonesia that killed over a hundred people and buried two villages. He highlighted one paragraph about relief workers because, lo and behold, the reporter interviewed Tammy! On the back Jonathan scrawled, “She did it! And to think we knew her once. Hope you’re doing well, Frannie.”

That was all for correspondence. The sum total. Twice Aunt Marie had Paola call me and relay news: a heat wave, an algae bloom in the pool, little Jimmy’s milestones, new flowers she planted. She had nothing to impart on the topics dearest my heart, but just hearing her murmuring in the background soothed me somewhat.

But when real news finally did come, it was from where I least expected. And it was bad.

“Oh—hello. What can I do for you? No. No…we’ve heard nothing.” After one quick glance my way, Mom turned her back on me, her hand curved over the mouthpiece and her voice pitched low. “Aw, jeez. Aw, that’s rotten. I’m sorry to hear that, Theresa.”

Theresa! My fork clattered to the plate from nerveless fingers.

“Yeah, she’s right here.” Mom held the receiver out, her face set and grim. “It’s your aunt Theresa. The cord stretches—why don’t you take it in the garage?” It must be terrible news, if Mom thought to spare me interruptions from my siblings.

“Hello, Aunt Terri?” I ventured, as I made my way out to sit on the grimy carpeted step. It smelled like dust and motor oil.

“Frannie,” she said without preamble, “Tom got in a car accident, and he’s in the ICU.” She waited out my gasp and initial exclamations before cutting me off. “We’re all at the hospital now, but Jonathan wanted me to call you. We’re not sure what happened, but it was last night.”

“Oh! This is horrible—will he be okay? Where is he hurt? Was Marcy with him? Is he conscious?” I didn’t ask what was on the tip of my tongue—
was he drunk
?

“I don’t have all the details now, Frannie, and I can’t talk long. The family needs me.”

“I wish I was there!” I cried without being able to help myself. “I could sit with you all and hold Aunt Marie’s hand—”

“Oh, Frannie—with everything going on we could hardly deal with bringing you back right now! There are too many people here as it is. I didn’t want to get you all excited in the first place, but your cousin insisted. Jonathan says you can pray, but I said to him that if you needed to be
told
that, all my efforts at raising you were a failure.”

“No, no, of course I’ll pray for Tom. Right now! All the time until I hear from you again. I’m so grateful you let me know!” I was babbling again, and the tears in my voice made me incoherent. “Please can I call the house later to see how they’re doing? Or should I call Jonathan and Caroline?”

“No use calling anyone anytime soon because we’ll all be here for a while. Just pray. You’re lucky to be out there enjoying yourself. Be a good girl. I’m going now.”

I sat out in the garage, rocking back and forth on the step and trying not to bawl, until the blaring off-hook tone roused me. “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again…” the recorded woman admonished me, oblivious to my distress. I
would
. I would like to make a call, but according to my aunt Terri, no one out there wanted to talk to me. And they were all gathered at the hospital, which particular one I’d been too stunned to ask.

“Please, God,” I whispered, jamming the receiver against my stomach to muffle its protests, “please let Tom be okay. I don’t know exactly how he’s injured, but
you
know. Please let him be okay. Please
please
please
. Please help the doctors and nurses. Please don’t let Tom die—let him get better! Heal him, I pray. Please
please
please
.
”

It was torture to be so far from them. Jonathan could have told me what happened and patiently answered my questions. Not that I blamed him for making Aunt Terri call. I knew he would be unwilling to leave Tom’s bedside. My poor aunt Marie! Tom was her favorite, as far as someone so mild could have favorites. And even if I would be in everyone else’s way, I would
not be in hers. I could fetch her magazines, or drinks from the hospital vending machine. I could read aloud to her, to take her mind off him. I could make phone calls for her or write thank-you notes for the flowers and cards that would pour in from Uncle Paul’s business associates and the church community. But to be here in Loveland—! A million miles away, it might as well be, and unable to show my solidarity with the Beresfords’ pain.

I wondered if Jonathan had the comfort of his wife in this crisis, or if Caroline was still in New York.

—New York! My breath caught and I stared at the phone in my hand. I could call Rachel. She too was isolated from her family by distance and probably tearing her hair out. We could commiserate, share what we knew. Dashing the traces of tears from my eyes, I sprung up and burst into the kitchen again.

“Mom—may I call my cousin Rachel in New York? I’ll use the calling card Uncle Paul gave me. She must be worried about Tom—”

“Fine, fine.” My mother waved me off. “Poor Marie. I always thought she was nuts, buying her kids cars when they turned eighteen. Robbie—don’t throw food on the floor! You pick that right up and eat it. Ten-second rule.”

“But Tom is—well—he must be twenty-five now.”

“Bad habits start early. I speak from experience.”

I was too flustered to understand her. Later, when I lay awake in my lower bunk, listening to Jamie shift and snuffle above me, I wondered if she suspected Tom’s accident was alcohol-related. But how could she? I knew Aunt Terri would never admit to such familial weakness in a hundred years—not to someone she’d always frowned upon as the poster child for Price-family ills.

My fingers trembled as I double-checked Rachel’s phone number in my little address book and punched it in. I had never just called her out of the blue. If I did dial her up, it was at one of my aunts’ behest, and after a moment’s small talk I would hand the phone over.

It barely rang before someone picked up. “
Rach
? Is that you?”

“What? No—it’s Frannie, Greg.”

“Who?”

“Rachel’s cousin Frannie. Are you okay? Your voice sounds strange.” Rough. Strangled. Or maybe it was because I’d never spoken to him on the phone before. Maybe this was how he always sounded.

“
Why’re
you calling? Is she with you?”