Thicker than Water (27 page)

“What do you think you're teaching your children?”

“Priscilla,” I said and held up my hands. “Stop.”

“What?” she said.

“I want to call a truce,” I said.

“A truce?”

“I know we haven't always…” Liked each other. “Seen eye to eye.”

She said nothing. She just crossed her arms.

“But really, this constant bickering and belittling isn't helping anything. In fact, that's a lesson I'd just as soon not teach my children,” I said. “I know you want what's best for your son. So do I.”

She rolled her eyes and made a huffing noise.

“See, the thing is, Rudy's his own man. If he were truly unhappy, he'd do something about it,” I said. She started to protest, but I spoke over her. “And if he doesn't do anything about it, then it's nobody's fault but his own. You can't blame me for Rudy being unhappy. If Rudy is somewhere he doesn't want to be, living a lie or living in a manner he doesn't like … well, he's a big boy. He can fix it. And if he can't fix it, then that's his shortcoming.”

That stopped her.

“You can't run people's lives forever,” I said. “In fact, you'd enjoy your own life so much more if you'd stop trying to be the mayor of everybody else's life. Now, I am really, truly sorry, Priscilla, if I have ever done anything to offend you. I apologize for being born in a hick county. This whole week, I have been the biggest jerk to you. I was asinine, I know. But you waltzed in here and started throwing insults and, well, I got defensive.”

She said nothing. She only stared at me as if I'd grown two heads. Maybe it was just that I'd grown a new head. One she'd never seen before.

“I won't do this anymore,” I said and crossed my arms. “There is nothing you can say that will get me to behave this badly again.”

She was speechless.

I was uncomfortable.

“Do you forgive me?” I asked.

“Y-yes,” she said. “I forgive you.”

“Good, because I forgive you, too.” It was pretty clear by the expression on her face that she wasn't entirely certain that she had done anything to be forgiven for.

“If you'll excuse me,” I said. “There's something I have to do.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Oh, one more thing. Do you think you could make those stuffed mushroom thingies for dinner tonight? Nobody makes them like you,” I said.

Her shoulders relaxed. The lines between her eyes disappeared. And a smile—however fragile it may have been—spread across her face. “Sure,” she said.

*   *   *

I stared down at Sylvia's grave. It was too early for the tombstone to be finished, so the only thing marking her grave was a little metal signpost and some fresh dirt. I would have known it was hers no matter what, though. It was right next to her sister's grave. I held a bouquet of daisies in one hand and her emerald green scarf in the other.

“I'm not sure if I'll be able to forgive you for this, Sylvia,” I said to the pile of dirt. “For all of it.” And I meant it. My mother was right. Money did change those around you, but it had changed me just a little bit, too. I had become defensive and a little more aloof with the other people in town since inheriting Sylvia's money and property. I'd become more guarded. What did they want from me? There it was, that question in the back of my mind. Did they hate me for being rich? Obviously, the answer had been yes for some. And Sylvia had given me all of that.

She had also given me what—aside from my family—I loved the most. The Gaheimer House. The historical society. And in a way, she'd given me New Kassel, too. I'm not sure I would have ever looked at this town as its own entity, with its own personality. Sylvia had showed me that. Every town has it. It's a matter of whether you can see past the concrete and the wood and the electrical lines and feel it. Can you hear it speaking to you? Sylvia had shown me that when I was a young girl, and I would be forever grateful.

“But I'll try to forgive you. I promise.”

Then there was Millie O'Shaughnessy, the small German-Irish girl who happened to have drawn a less than ideal lot in life. I could only imagine her mother's anguish, knowing that she had consumption and knowing that there was nobody to raise her daughter—and then the one person she trusted agreed to take her. Theodora O'Shaughnessy had died at peace, thinking her daughter would be taken care of.

But then, as it often does, life threw a curveball. Things didn't work out quite like they were supposed to. I had no idea what happened to Millie between the ages of six and seventeen, when she married Mr. Trotter. I had no idea what she ate, where she slept, how she managed to stay warm. Knowing what I know about orphans in America during the Depression, it probably wasn't anything I would want to experience. And it was all because of Sylvia.

Why had Sylvia broken her promise? I like to think that there had been a breakdown of communication, that somehow Sylvia had agreed to take the girl, and then wires got crossed and the girl was gone, and Sylvia was free of guilt. But I knew in my heart that very likely wasn't the case. And it killed me.

I think you have forgotten your promise.

I would never forget it. Millie's face was burned on my mind forever, and so were those haunting and tragic words.

Tears spilled down my face, and I wiped them away with Sylvia's scarf.

A group of loud teenagers went running by, laughing and horsing around. One of those noisy teenagers was my daughter Rachel. She saw me, said a few words to her friends, and jumped over the fence of the cemetery. Of course she couldn't use the gate. She was a teenager. She ran up to me and looked down at Sylvia's grave.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I just don't know how she could have done it. And how she could have lived with it.”

“Are you talking about Helen's grandma?” she asked. I nodded. I had told her all about it the night before, along with the story of Deputy Duran. “Seems kinda silly. Duran, I mean.”

“People have killed for a lot less, Rachel. A lot less. It's not that silly.”

I sniffed and wondered how many more tears I would shed because of Sylvia. Rachel placed her head on my shoulder and rubbed my back. You spend years comforting your children, holding them while they cry, picking them up when they fall. It's unsettling when they get old enough to return the favor. But thank God they're
there
to return the favor.

“I think it's like that
White Ship
and Henry,” Rachel said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, Henry the First. Remember that story you told me? How his only legitimate son was killed on the
White Ship,
because Henry was king, and if Henry had never killed his brother to become king, his son William would have probably lived.”

“You are totally confusing me. Besides, they don't know for sure that Henry killed his brother.”

“But if he did, and he most likely did, then it was that action that led directly to William going down on the
White Ship
.”

“Right. I already said that. What has that got to do with Sylvia?”

She shrugged. “Sylvia's actions almost cost you your life. She thought she was giving you everything, and she nearly took it all away,” she said. “And Helen. If Sylvia had adopted her grandmother, none of this would have happened. She would have had a daughter to leave everything to. It wouldn't have gone to you.”

A tear dropped from my face and landed on the fresh dirt. I threw the daisies onto Sylvia's grave and then hugged my daughter. “You're pretty smart,” I said. “Wonder where you got that?”

“Grandma O said it came from her.”

“Ahh,” I said.

*   *   *

I walked into Fräulein Krista's Speisehaus, waved to Krista, and reveled in the crowd that was gathered. I walked over to the big stuffed bear at the end of the bar. The town mascot, our big stuffed grizzly bear named Sylvia. Ferocious, stubborn, but a born protector of those she loved. I tied the emerald green scarf around its neck, turned, and walked out into the streets that I adored so much.

Everything would be all right. I was suddenly overcome with a sense of well-being. But there was one more thing I needed to do before I could sleep at night.

Fifteen minutes later I found Helen working at the berry booth. She waved when she saw me, but not with a great amount of enthusiasm. I motioned for her, and she stepped outside the booth and over to me. “Whatcha need?”

“I … I need your forgiveness,” I said.

She stared at me for a second, I suppose trying to see if I was serious or not. Then she crossed her arms. She was going to make me work for this, and I can't say that I didn't deserve it.

“I am so sorry for everything, Helen. In my own defense I will say that I was so hurt by what happened at the meeting that I don't think I was myself for a few days. I think if I hadn't seen you right away, if you'd waited a few days before you came around, I would have never said those things that I said. I was hurt. Plain and simple. I don't think I've ever been that hurt,” I said. “But still, that's no excuse.”

Helen nodded.

“And I'm also sorry for suspecting you. After I talked to you and learned … well, learned everything about your family and the connection with Sylvia, I connected that with what happened at the meeting, and I suspected you of being the one trying to run me out of town. I am so sorry, Helen, not to mention a little ashamed of myself. My only excuse is that I think I've been on the verge of an emotional breakdown since Sylvia died. This has been so stressful. Not to mention the whole mother-in-law thing.”

She said nothing.

“I promise I will never suspect you of trying to kill me again. Unless you
are
trying to kill me, at which time I'd probably deserve it.”

She smiled then and unfolded her arms. “You big nincompoop,” she said and hugged me. “I can't believe you would really think I would try to run you out of town. I mean, the last time the mayor tried to get rid of you, I stuck up for you!”

“Oh, thanks,” I said.

She laughed and took a deep breath. “Torie, I … I really was not the most supportive at the meeting,” she said. “I was … I, just thought, ‘Wow, they're really going to overthrow the dynasty,' and I would just slip in and be president without anybody noticing.”

“Helen—”

“No, really. It was wrong of me, and so you're not entirely to blame here. You really were reading weird vibes from me, because I really was thinking them. So I guess if you can forgive me for riding on the shirttails of a coup, I can forgive you for assuming I wanted you to move to Alaska.”

“Okay, we're even,” I said. “Now I just have one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Is there anything you need? Anything you want?”

“You mean from Sylvia's things?”

I nodded.

“No, Torie. My husband has spent the better part of twenty-five years telling me I'm stubborn, and he doesn't lie. My family never took anything from Sylvia when she was alive. I'm not going to start now.”

“All right,” I said. “You better get back to work.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Oh, one more thing, Helen.”

“What's that?”

“Do you think my tenants would like to have their houses?”

Helen stared at me for a moment, and then a very warm and generous smile spread across her face. She ran back over and hugged me again. This time she squeezed me so hard my ears popped. “Don't let anybody ever tell you that you're Sylvia Pershing,” she said. “Not ever.”

She went back to work, and I turned to leave. I walked down the street toward the crowd that had gathered at the pie-eating booth, with a bounce in my step and a light heart. Even without those houses, I still had more money than I ever dreamed I would have. The Gaheimer House was mine. I could give tours forever. As I walked along, I really felt as though there was nothing from here on out that could deter me from having a perfectly charmed life in my beautiful peaceful small town. The sun would shine forever. Maybe I'd take up tai chi or yoga.

I made my way through the crowd to see that the pie-eating contest had started. It was the usual suspects: Rudy, Colin, and Chuck, all with their faces down in the pies. It looked like they had some stiff competition with some of the tourists. Then again, one chap was actually eating his pie with a fork and napkin tucked in his shirt. Boy, was he in for a rude awakening.

When the contest was over, Oscar Murdoch raised the hand of the winner.

My husband. He let out a war whoop, with both fists raised above his head and strawberry goo all down the front of his shirt. Yes, things were back to normal in New Kassel. Different, but normal.

Rudy took the microphone from Oscar. “I'd like to thank everybody who made these pies,” he said. He pointed at me and winked. “I love you, Torie.”

“I want a rematch!” Chuck yelled.

“Oh, hey,” Colin said and grabbed the microphone. “I'd just like to say … I'm running for mayor!”

Oh. Lord. Help. Me.

A
LSO BY
R
ETT
M
AC
P
HERSON

 

In Sheep's Clothing

Blood Relations

Killing Cousins

A Misty Mourning

A Comedy of Heirs

A Veiled Antiquity

Family Skeletons

THICKER THAN WATER.
Copyright © 2005 by Rett MacPherson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.