Vintage (22 page)

Just having Lane in the room made April feel more relaxed than she had in weeks.

In between big bites of pasta salad, she spewed out her story, starting with her mom’s possible suicide and ending at Dr. Hong’s office.

“If my mom killed herself, it makes me wonder if any of the times we had together were ever really happy, or if I just remember them that way because I didn’t know what was going on with her,” she said.

Lane reached over and patted April’s arm. “I’m sure they were happy times for her, too.”

“My mind is going in circles, trying to figure out what really happened. And the only conclusion I keep coming to is that I’ll never really know, which isn’t much of a conclusion at all.”

Lane took a rubber band from around her wrist and pulled her highlighted hair into a ponytail. “You’ve gotta let it go then,” she said.

“But how? If my mom killed herself, then—”

“Then what? It doesn’t mean she didn’t love you. It doesn’t change any of the good times you shared. Even if the worst is true, which is a big ‘if’ since you don’t have any proof one way or the other, your mom was still the person you remember her to be. How she died isn’t as important as how she lived.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t exactly live the perfect life.”

“None of us do. That’s not the point. God, I hope my kids never judge me by whether or not I was perfect. All I want is for them to know I love them.”

That, at least, April knew. Realizing that fact gave her a sense of comfort she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“So is my body ever going to feel normal again?” she asked after she’d chewed the last bite of pasta.

Lane laughed. “Yes. And you’re in your third trimester already, so it’s all downhill from here.”

“I’ve never understood that expression,” April said. “Is it supposed to mean that things are going to get better, or worse?”

“In this case, better.”

“But I’m so worried that I’m going to have the same problems my mom did. Mental-health-wise, I mean.”

“You won’t.” Lane shook her head. “You won’t because you’re aware of what your mom went through, so you would never let yourself get to that point.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t been feeling like myself. I haven’t felt like doing anything. How do I know I’m not two steps away from sinking into some awful hole?”

“Honey, you’re on bed rest. Bed rest would make anyone feel depressed,” Lane said. “I’m no shrink, but I think the fact that you got through your mom’s death and most of your pregnancy without having a complete nervous breakdown says a lot for your sanity. You’ve had a rough few months, but that baby is strong and so are you.”

“Thanks.” April missed her mom in that moment with a suffocating ache in her chest, but she was glad someone else cared.

“And just to make sure of it, I’ll come over as often as I can until your doctor says it’s okay for you to be off bed rest,” Lane said. “How does that sound?”

April nodded. She didn’t even try to object. She just said, “Thank you.”

“It will need to be in the evenings, after my kids’ bedtime. If you need anything, you just call me and let me know what it is and I’ll get it for you.”

After Lane had gone home, April thought about how quick she’d been to write her off as just another harried Midwestern mom. She had assumed Lane had taken the easy way out by setting her acting dreams aside to wipe drool off chins and fingerprints off furniture. Now April could see that there was a lot more to Lane than she’d suspected. It occurred to April that Lane’s leaving the theater to focus on her kids was not the result of Lane giving up on what she wanted but had likely been a choice, one that was thought out and desired just as much as a starring role.

INVENTORY ITEM
: teapot

APPROXIMATE DATE
: 1950s

CONDITION
: excellent

ITEM DESCRIPTION
: Royal Doulton china teapot, ivory with pink roses.

SOURCE
: Betsy Barrett

Violet

VIOLET PARKED HER CAR
in Betsy’s semicircular driveway, then climbed the concrete path that wound through the August wildflowers in the front yard. Betsy’s house was the only place Violet had ever been where an employee always answered the door. A housekeeper showed her into the living room and gave her chamomile tea in a china cup. Violet sat back on the brocade sofa and looked out at Lake Mendota through the velvet-curtained windows. She tried to relax. Violet still hadn’t told Betsy she knew about her illness, and she feared her friend might have more bad news.

Betsy walked into the room holding her own cup of tea. She looked bone thin in her gray linen dress but otherwise in good spirits. Violet stood up.

“Oh, sit down, please,” Betsy said. “I see you have some tea. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

Betsy sat down in a chair across from the sofa, and Violet noticed the older woman’s impeccable posture. Even though she was tall, Betsy sat up straight to appear even taller and held her chin high. She was a woman who didn’t apologize for being who she was—a quality Violet remembered about her own grandmother.

Violet smiled as she recalled how, when she was a child, she would sit on the piano bench while Grandma Lou played. Her grandmother’s fingers, with their smooth, red nails, would fly across the keys and she’d rock back and forth, singing, “
Would you like to swing on a star?
” Violet would join in, reveling in how good it felt to belt out a song, deep from the diaphragm. In the safety of Grandma Lou’s living room, she never had to apologize for being herself.

Betsy blew on the top of her tea, sending a puff of steam into the air. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” she said. “I wanted to say I’m so sorry to hear things didn’t work out with April. I want you to know I don’t hold you responsible. She’s been through a lot, that girl.”

“Have you talked to her lately?” Violet asked.

“Not since the day she called to tell me she’d quit. I tried to talk her out of it, but she’s got a mind of her own. I talked to her adviser at the university and they said they’d be willing to give partial credit for the internship.” Betsy sipped her tea. “Have you heard from her?”

Violet shook her head.

“How about you? Is everything all right?” Betsy asked. “You seem stressed.”

Leave it to Betsy to be concerned about me when she’s the one who’s sick,
Violet thought. “I’ve been fine,” she replied. “We’ve got the runway show coming up, and then there’s . . . well, things have been a bit complicated lately.”

Betsy sighed. “Okay, I’ll come clean.”

“Thank God,” Violet said. “I’ve been trying to figure out whether to say something.”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you, too, but you have to understand that I’m in an awkward position. On the one hand, you’re a dear friend and I want your shop to succeed. On the other hand, I’ve got a lot of business connections I have to think about. The owner of the development group that’s been negotiating with your landlord is the president of my husband’s old company. Even though I sold out my interest after Walt died, I still feel like I have to keep up a good relationship.”

Violet blinked. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

“The developer who’s buying your building,” Betsy said. “To turn it into condos? I thought that’s what we were talking about.”

“No,” Violet said. “All my landlord told me was that they’re putting the building on the market, so they want me out.”

“It doesn’t need to go on the market,” Betsy said. “The developer already had the plans approved by the city council to gut the building, put an addition on the back of it, and turn it into a four-unit luxury condo complex.”

“So it’s a done deal?”

“Well, nothing in real estate is really done until the ink on the deed is dry. But all signs point toward it happening. I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t,” Violet said, feeling betrayed that Betsy hadn’t said anything earlier. Perhaps she and Betsy weren’t as close as she’d thought. But then she felt guilty for holding anything against Betsy, since she was sick. And Violet also felt like a hypocrite, because she was guilty of keeping quiet about certain important matters, too.

What bothered Violet the most about the news of the development project was that it meant her landlord assumed that Violet wouldn’t—no, couldn’t
afford
—to exercise her right of first refusal on the building. They weren’t even waiting for her to decide what she was going to do before moving ahead with their plans. It was as if the chance of her buying the building was too remote to even worry about. It
was
remote, but Violet still clung to the possibility that, between the revue and maybe a miracle, she’d scrounge up enough money to make a down payment and qualify for a loan. Because if that didn’t happen, she didn’t know what she was going to do. She’d been poring over the classifieds every week, and the prospect of finding another affordable shop space in the neighborhood was looking grim.

Betsy set down her teacup. “So if you weren’t referring to the plans for the building, then what is it you wanted to bring up?”

Violet tried to think about how best to phrase what she had to say about the information she’d found in Betsy’s car. Concluding that there was no good way, she just blurted out, “I know about your cancer, Betsy. I’m sorry. I saw an insurance form or a bill or something in your front seat when I went out to get the clothes last time you came into the shop.”

Betsy didn’t say anything. The words seemed to hover in the air, above the lacquered coffee table.

“Oh, no,” Betsy finally said. She reached over and patted Violet’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize I had left that piece of paper sitting out.”

Violet set down her tea and hugged her arms to her chest, feeling chilled in the air-conditioned room. “I know it’s none of my business, but I’m just so worried about you. I don’t have any family in Madison, so you’ve become kind of like my family here.”

Betsy’s expression changed from one of sympathy to a smile. “That’s very sweet of you to say, and I can tell you the feeling is quite mutual, but there’s nothing to worry about. I kicked that cancer in the butt. That paper is months and months old. I just haven’t cleaned out the car in a while. I really should keep it tidier. If Walt were still around, he wouldn’t stand for all the clutter I keep in there.”

Violet sniffled, feeling skeptical. “Really?”

“Yes, I’m happy to say.” Betsy smiled. “The doctors found a lump in my breast, and I went through radiation treatment and had a double mastectomy. I’ve been cancer-free for over a year.”

“You were going through all of that and you never told me?”

“It never came up, and anyway, I didn’t want people to know I was sick because then they’d insist on me taking it easy, and I’ve never been good at that. And, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want people thinking I was going to die. As you know, I’m involved with several charitable organizations and all of them, naturally, hope I’ll leave them a little something in my will someday. You can bet that if any of them got a whiff of a rumor that I might be kicking the bucket soon, they’d be lined up to kiss my ass, bless their hearts.”

Violet laughed. “You’re probably right.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you had a double mastectomy. Jesus.”

“I’m seventy-six years old. What use do I have for these anymore?” She cupped her hands under her bra line. “I wear falsies now so my clothes still fit properly.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Violet said.

“Oh, stop fussing over me. Cancer was no picnic, but it did teach me a thing or two. I learned that there’s no point in mulling over what could have been or what should have been. If you do, you miss out on what’s going on right in front of you, and that’s all there is, really.”

A
s Violet drove home that night, her thoughts reverberated inside her skull like it was a kettledrum, and a muddle of emotions fought for space in her heart. There was the shock of learning about the plan for her building, hurt as to why Betsy wouldn’t have told her about it, and relief about Betsy’s being in remission.

Betsy’s comments about letting go of what “could have” and “should have” been reminded Violet of something Sam had said to her on their first date. She phoned him on her way home.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m glad you called. What are you up to?”

“I just had tea with my friend Betsy who’s battled cancer. She said something about living in the moment that sounded familiar. So I’m calling to tell you that, at this moment, I want to be with you.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Sam said.

“If you want, you can come to my place. It’s probably the last night I’ll be able to really relax this week, since I’ve got the revue coming up in a few days. I’ve got some wine in the fridge for us and a whole lot of musicals on DVD.”

“I’ll take you up on the wine, but I’ll have to skip the musicals.”

Violet let out an exaggerated sigh. “I knew you weren’t perfect.”

“Are you home right now?” Sam asked.

“I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.”

Violet rolled along Johnson Street in her old, wood-paneled Wagoneer. She passed two cars with dripping kayaks strapped to their roofs, probably coming home from an evening paddle in one of the lakes. A Led Zeppelin song played on the radio. The anticipation of seeing Sam put her in a singing kind of mood, and she crooned along with Robert Plant. She parked behind her building and hurried to the back entrance, hoping she’d have enough time to light candles and pour some wine before Sam arrived. Her heels sounded on the worn wood as she ascended the back staircase. When she opened the door, Miles didn’t run to greet her.

That’s odd,
she thought, beginning to worry that something had happened to him.

“Miles,” she called, reaching for the light switch.

“Hey, babe,” said a low voice.

Violet jumped a mile and flicked the kitchen light on to reveal a drunk and drooping—but still formidable—Jed, sitting on the floor against the refrigerator. And petting her dog.