The Double Wedding Ring (9 page)

M
y mother, Patricia Cassidy Fitzgerald, aka Patty, hates quilts. Well, “hate” is probably too strong a word, but she doesn't like them. Not really. She tolerates them and respects them and grudgingly admires the skills and talents of those who make them, but she doesn't like them. They represent homey, old-fashioned things, and my mother likes only what's new and exciting.

I knew why—at least I'd heard the explanation from my father so many times, I'd memorized it. Growing up, my mother and her brother, my uncle Henry, had been one of the few kids in their classes with a working mother, which wouldn't have been so bad if Eleanor had made any money at it. But in its infancy, Someday Quilts brought in just enough cash to scrape by. And as a young girl my mom had to go to the shop every day after school because Eleanor couldn't afford a babysitter, and when mom was older she had to help stock the shelves. After years of it, and years of listening to women like Maggie and Bernie extol the joys of passing down quilting from generation to generation, my mom had become allergic to the idea of tradition.

Eleanor had tried over and over to get her interested in the craft, but it didn't take. “Even Henry can sew on a button,” my grandmother would say, but my mom resisted every effort to see either the practical nature or pure art of a quilt.

My mom left Archers Rest at the first chance, moved to Philadelphia, and met my dad, Michael Fitzgerald. My sister and I got quilts from Eleanor, and treasured them, and my mother dutifully kept one in the family room, but she didn't love it. It wasn't mean spirited; she loved that her mother cared enough to send the quilts. And she appreciated the work that went into them, she just didn't get why anyone would bother when blankets were available for purchase at dozens of stores within driving distance.

When I'd been struggling after my engagement was broken off, it was my mother who suggested I visit Eleanor for a weekend of comfort food and fresh air. Mom and Dad were in London, and she knew, rightly, that I would only wallow if left alone. She hadn't expected me to stay. She tolerated it because of art school, because it seemed temporary, and because it's difficult to yell at your daughter from six thousand miles away. But now she'd be here, face-to-face, and as much as I was excited to see my parents, and proud that I got my sense of adventure directly from my mom, I wasn't up for “the talk” about my future.

I walked down the long, winding driveway to Eleanor's Victorian home, my home, rehearsing my answers to the barrage of questions sure to be coming my way, trying to be excited and optimistic about the visit, trying not to resent that it took away from my work on Roger's murder and the shooting. But as I reached the house, I realized it was too late for rehearsal. My parents' car was in the driveway, between Eleanor's minivan and Oliver's Jeep.

“Mom? Dad?” As I walked into the hallway of the old house, I could hear laughter coming from the kitchen. “You're here already?”

My mom and dad were at the kitchen table with Oliver and Eleanor. Barney was sleeping nearby in his bed of many quilts. Patch sat on the kitchen counter, staring down at the dog, looking ready to pounce and completely unafraid. Of course she was out of the reach of Barney's long snout, so being brave was easy.

My mom jumped up and hugged me. “You look wonderful. Just beautiful. I can't believe it's been more than a year since I've seen my baby daughter.”

We hugged tightly. I realized how much I missed her, and how nice it was to have her here. “Are you staying until the wedding?” I asked.

“Well, we're staying for as long as we're needed,” my mom said.

I glanced over at Eleanor, who shook her head. “Your mother suggested that instead of getting married, Oliver and I live in sin.”

“I did no such thing. Honestly, Mom, you just like to shock people.”

“Patty, what other reason would you have for coming so soon after you returned from Europe?”

“To see my child, and to see my mother.”

I wanted no piece of this argument, so I went to my dad's waiting arms. “Hey, there,” I said. “How was Istanbul?”

“Was that where we were? Your mom has me going to so many countries I'm not sure where I am until I check the stamp on my passport.”

“Fitz, Turkey was your idea.” My mother shook her head at him, exactly the same way I've seen Eleanor do a thousand times. I probably had the same move and didn't know it.

“Sit down, everyone,” I said. “I'm thrilled you're here. We're gearing up for the big day, but there's still a lot to do if you want to help.”

“The bachelor party is a week from today,” Oliver said to my dad.

“Good God. Are you kidding me?” The words came out of my mother before she had a chance to stop them and I could tell she wished she had.

“Patty.” My grandmother . . .

“Eleanor.” Me . . .

“Stop calling your grandmother Eleanor.” My mother . . .

Three generations of my family, all stubborn and all annoyed.

“Sounds great,” my dad said in the silence that followed. “The bachelor party. It's been a while since I've been to one of those. I'm waiting for Nell here to settle down. . . .”

“Fitz,” my mother said, in the loudest whisper possible. “Don't pressure her.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You're a young woman, lots of time to decide what you want to do, a lot of places to see, and you have to pursue your career as a painter.”

“Did you know that Oliver's a painter?” I said. “A very famous painter. His works hang in dozens of museums in the States, in England, lots of places.”

My mom smiled at him. “Fitz and I actually saw one of your pieces in London; a woman almost in shadow, sitting by a window in a run-down apartment. It was amazing. It's an extraordinary gift to be able to capture a scene, the light, the mood. I was awestruck.”

“You're very kind,” Oliver told her. “Your daughter is a quite talented painter, you know. Though I think her real gift is in fabric. Much like her grandmother, she can create beauty in even very simple quilts. But Nell has her own spin that I find truly inspiring.”

I reached out and grabbed Oliver's hand. “Thanks, Gramps.”

My mother said nothing about my nickname for Oliver, but she grunted slightly and went back to drinking her coffee.

“H
e might be busy,” I warned them. “It's been kind of a hectic day.”

“I want to meet this man. You've told us he's wonderful, he's perfect, he's smart and kind and everything else. Now I want to see for myself.” My mother grabbed her coat from the rack and bundled up. It was too late to think of an excuse. We were going to meet Jesse.

“Chief of police,” my dad said. “Lot of responsibility in that.”

“There is . . .” I started.

“It's a small town,” my mother said. “When I grew up here nothing happened. Nothing. I imagine it's the same now.”

Once my mother decided something was true, she wouldn't go looking to be proven wrong. To her, Archers Rest was a boring town in the middle of nowhere. And with my parents traipsing all over the world, it was easy to avoid mentioning anything that might conflict with that opinion, especially when it was murder. I didn't want them to worry. And I didn't want to have to explain my role in solving some of those crimes. So I said nothing. I figured the odds were good that when they did come, the town would be the quiet place my mother remembered. But as it turned out, the odds weren't in my favor.

I took the scenic route, driving past the church where Eleanor and Oliver would shortly be married, past the large cemetery, and down the road that led to the Hudson River. Then I turned down Main Street, showed them Someday's storefront and Jitters across the street.

“What are those men doing on the roof of that coffee shop?” my dad asked.

“Probably roofers.”

“They look like they're in uniform. And there's a squad car. . . .”

My mother pointed to the broken streetlamp. “Vandals.” She shook her head. “I never thought I'd see the day when this town had a crime like that.”

“I guess they're everywhere,” my dad said.

If only it were that simple.

I parked in front of the station, which my mother said looked the same from the last time she was in town, which I pointed out was only about eighteen months ago, and my dad suggested we not argue about it. Greg was manning the front desk, looking stressed. In front of him he had the chief's logbook.

“Doesn't Jesse usually fill that out?” I asked.

He slammed the book shut. “Just helping,” he said. “I can't tell you anything, Nell. I'm under orders.”

I shook my head and smiled a wide, fake smile. “That's okay, not to worry. This is my mom and dad. They're visiting town and they want to meet Jesse. It's just a social visit.”

He looked over at them and nodded. “Oh, right. He's in his office.”

“What do you mean you can't tell Nell anything?” my mother asked him.

Greg seemed even more stressed than he had a minute before. “I'm just . . . Nell just . . . it's an inside joke, ma'am.”

“That's right,” I agreed. “Greg and I . . . well, it's a long story and probably not funny to anyone else. . . .”

My mother glared at Greg a minute. She knew she was being lied to and she didn't like to be thought a fool—I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree—but she had nothing to go on but instinct, so she soon relaxed her stance. “Where's Jesse's office?” she asked.

Greg pointed to his left.

The door was slightly open. I knocked lightly, but I didn't wait for an answer, I just pushed the door open farther. Jesse was inside, his back to me, his arms around a slender blond woman, who was holding tightly to his waist.

“Jesse?” I wasn't sure what to do here. I knew immediately that the woman must be Roger's wife, his widow, but I also knew how the scene looked.

Jesse let go of the woman and came to me. He seemed a mix of embarrassment, confusion, and a deep sadness. “Hey, Nell. What are you doing here?”

I turned to my mother and father, their jaws open and their eyes filled with shock and anger. My mother glared at the woman, who seemed too shaken to notice.

“My mom and dad,” I said. “And you must be Anna.” I extended my hand to the woman, who took it. “I'm so sorry about the death of your husband.”

“Thank you. You're Nell, I'll bet. Jesse's talked a lot about you.”

“Really?”

“All good.” She smiled. “We've been catching up, and, of course, he's been helping me make arrangements.”

“My mom and dad wanted to meet you,” I said to Jesse, trying to convey an apology and a warning with one glance.

Jesse looked around the tiny office. “I don't think there's room in here for all of us. We could go to one of the interrogation rooms. It's not comfortable but—”

“It's not meant to be,” my dad finished the sentence, and we all laughed a little.

“It's appropriate, though,” my mom offered, “since I have a lot of questions to ask you, Jesse.”

I tried not to blush.

Greg brought five cups of coffee into the interrogation room, since for some bizarre reason Anna Leighton chose to join us. I thought she'd be more comfortable at a hotel, but she wasn't staying at a hotel, she told me; she was staying with Jesse. This was news to me.

“When Lizzie was sick, I used to come up and stay all the time, remember that, Jesse?” she asked him.

“You were a great help. Everyone was. I don't know what I would have done without the support I got from the folks in this town and from my old friends.”

“You have a daughter,” my mother said, interrupting Jesse's sad memory with the start of her interrogation.

“Allie. She's seven,” I answered for Jesse. “She's absolutely adorable. You're going to love her.”

Jesse smiled at me. I wanted to get up and walk over to him and hold him for a long time. Instead I smiled back and hoped he understood what I was thinking.

“And who watches her when you're at work?” My mother continued her questions.

“My mother,” Jesse said. “And Allie often goes over to the shop after school to hang out with Nell and Eleanor.”

“Allie's a great quilter,” I added. “And she's really helpful with rolling up the fat quarters and adding the price tags.” I was bragging on her like a parent, I realized, and I could tell that my mother had caught on to it.

Anna sighed. “It's amazing that Allie is such a big girl now. Lizzie would be so proud of her, and so happy that you've found happiness again, Jesse.”

“I have,” he said. “Nell and Allie and me, we're a great team.”

My mother shifted in her chair. She was being polite, she was smiling, and she
looked
happy, but I could tell she wasn't comfortable. “Anna,” my mother said, “Nell offered condolences when we first arrived. Your husband passed away?”

“Yes. My husband, Roger, died yesterday.”

My mother's look softened, and her voice lowered. “I'm so sorry, dear. Is that what brought you to town? You're not from here because if you were a local friend of Jesse's, you would know his girlfriend.”

I bit my lip. Was I that blunt when I asked questions?

“Yes. I just got here from New York,” Anna said, seemingly unaware of my mother's rudeness. “It's so hard to accept. Any death is hard, but murder . . .”

“Murder?”

“Didn't Nell tell you?” Anna seemed confused. “I just assumed since she was the one who found Roger's body.”

My mother and father turned their heads sharply in my direction. “You did what?” my father yelled. I felt like I was about to be sent to my room.