A Wedding on Primrose Street (Life In Icicle Falls Book 7) (18 page)

Roberta jumped up. “I won’t! You can’t make me.” And with that she ran from the room. Upstairs she slammed her bedroom door to emphasize how strongly she felt.

But slamming doors and protestations did no good. Her mother swept everything aside and made the arrangements. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she kept Roberta home under virtual house arrest.

The following week, as she and Roberta sat at the kitchen table, she broke the silence by announcing, “It’s all arranged. You’ll be going to the Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers. Your grandmother and I will take you the day after tomorrow.”

The day after tomorrow, she was getting shipped off to some...place, to live with strangers, other girls who found themselves in the same mess. Well, she wouldn’t do it. Her mother could make all the arrangements she wanted, but Roberta wasn’t going to go along with it, like...like a sheep headed to the slaughter.

Except what choice did she have? Only one.

“Roberta?”

She looked up to find her mother regarding her with a stern expression. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, Mother.” Let her mother think she was going along with this.

“Good. Pack a few clothes tonight. I’ll bring you more as you need them.”

Maternity clothes, of course. Oh, she’d done this all so wrong. She should be married, sitting at her own kitchen table, talking about the baby, making plans. Gerard had cheated her out of that. But he wasn’t going to cheat her out of being a mother. Neither was her own mother.

“May I go out tonight to say goodbye to my friends?”

“You may go out and see your friends as long as you stick with our story. You’ll be visiting your father’s relatives in California.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Roberta told her friends she was leaving, all right, but she told them the real reason. She and her best friends, Nan and Linda, sat on Nan’s canopy bed and discussed what Roberta should do.

“I have ten dollars in my purse,” Nan said.

“And I have six,” added Linda. She frowned. “That’s not enough for bus fare and a place to stay.”

“Or food,” Nan added. “I know! I’ll tell Daddy that Linda and I want to go shopping tomorrow. He’ll give me some money.”

“Jilly just got her allowance. Let’s call and ask her to come over and bring what she can,” Linda said.

“We can’t let too many people know about this,” Roberta cautioned. “Someone will tell my mother.”

“Jilly won’t,” Linda said. “I’ve got the car. I’ll go pick her up. Oh, and she’s the same size as you. She can put some clothes in her train case and tell her mother she’s spending the night with me.”

Meanwhile, Nan was up and rummaging through her jewelry box. She came back holding a gold locket. “Take this. If you need to you can pawn it. If not, keep it to remember me by.”

Roberta’s eyes filled with tears. She had such good, caring friends. If only she had a mother who cared as much. She took the necklace and hugged Nan. “Thank you,” she managed around a throat constricted with emotion.

Once the money was collected, there was nothing left to do but say goodbye to her friends at the bus station.

“Don’t forget to change buses,” Nan told her. “In case the police come looking for you.”

“Or your mom hires a private detective,” Linda said.

“And if anyone asks, remember all I told you was that I was going to visit family in California.”

Nan was crying now. She pulled Roberta into a fierce hug. “Oh, Bobbi, I’m going to miss you. Are we ever going to see you again?”

“I don’t know,” Roberta answered.

One thing she knew for sure—she’d never see her mother again.

* * *

She’d relented and gone back to visit when Daphne was two, hoping that once her mother saw her pretty blue-eyed granddaughter with her golden curls, she’d repent her heartless behavior. But her mother had refused to even come to the door. Roberta had stood on the porch of the large brick colonial, her daughter’s hand in hers, knocking and then ringing the doorbell, telling herself that her mother simply hadn’t heard her knock. But then she’d seen the living room curtain twitch. Her mother knew she was there, knew it was her standing on the front porch. She still didn’t let Roberta in.

“She’s ashamed,” said Roberta’s grandmother, who’d been overjoyed to see her. Grandma had fed her tea and ginger cookies and held Daphne on her lap, exclaiming over what a sweet child she was. She’d listened with interest as Roberta told her about her new life in Icicle Falls, how well she was doing at the bank. Grandma had even said she was proud of Roberta.

Her mother never did. Oh, she finally heard from her. Grandma had passed on Roberta’s mailing address, and Roberta had received a letter a month later. But it hadn’t been filled with kindness and forgiveness. Instead, it had been a diatribe, all about how Roberta had disappointed and humiliated her. She’d tried to help her and Roberta had thrown that help right back in her face. And then she came waltzing home, bold as brass with a baby in tow, and expected her mother to welcome her with open arms? Wicked, ungrateful girl!

* * *

The very memory of that letter could still open the dam of emotion. Her mother had been the most selfish creature alive. At least she’d had her grandmother, who sent presents every Christmas and chocolate bunnies at Easter. Grandma had even come to Icicle Falls to visit once before she died, bringing a handmade dress for Daphne and pictures for Roberta of when she was a little girl and her father was still alive.

“It’s important to hang on to the good things from the past,” she’d said. “Your mother... Well, I’m sorry. She’s my own daughter but sometimes...” Grandma didn’t finish the sentence. No need. Roberta understood.

And now she
really
understood. Daughters didn’t always turn out the way a woman wanted. But all daughters deserved to be loved.

And helped. Even when they drove their mothers nuts.

Chapter Eighteen

Daphne, the Wiser Woman

T
oday she was going to court to finalize her divorce. Again. For the third time. There would be no haggling over child custody or fighting over who got the cat. Mitchell had his things and Daphne had hers. The house was in her name, so she’d keep that to do with as she pleased. As for the time-share they’d bought two years ago, against her lawyer’s advice, she’d told him he could have it. She didn’t want to go anywhere that would remind her of Mitchell.

“We’re ready,” Shirley had said on her last office visit.

Yes, as far as all the paperwork went, they were. But Daphne wasn’t ready emotionally. She didn’t want to go to the courthouse and see her failure officially recorded.

Still, to the courthouse she went. Into Room 3 with its rows of hard, wooden benches and the judge’s throne of judgment looming above it all. She saw two people, each on opposite sides of the room, conferring with their lawyers in whispers and scowling at each other. Another lone man in a three-piece suit didn’t seem any happier to be there. But she saw no sign of Mitchell. She didn’t know whether to feel angry or relieved. She’d seen him at the pretrial conference, and that had been enough. She never wanted to see him again. Still, what did it say about her that he couldn’t even bother to show up for their final court date?

She sat at the back of the courtroom, waiting her turn, watching as other people stood before the judge alongside their lawyers and officially ended what had started as happy unions. Ages ranged from twenties to fifties. How many church weddings were represented here? Had these couples lit a unity candle, poured sand into a glass vase? Promised to love, honor and obey, stay together in sickness and in health? Had any of them tried three times and failed?

Three weddings, three disasters. She probably held the record in Icicle Falls for more romantic failures than anyone else. And yet, each time she’d started out with such hope, such an air of celebration.

Her first wedding had been fit for a princess; her mother had seen to that. Even though Mother had her doubts. Why hadn’t Daphne herself had any doubts? Oh, yes, because she was an idiot.

“You’re still so young,” Mother had said. “Why don’t you wait a little longer?”

The answer to that had been simple. She was tired of waiting to have sex. Her mother had warned her about jumping into bed, telling her that often ended badly. When Daphne decided to jump into marriage instead, Mother flipped on the caution light again, and that was when she’d finally shared the truth about her own mistake and Daphne had learned that the daddy she’d always thought was dead was very much alive.

Daphne had tried to contact her birth father, wanting to see him, maybe develop a relationship with him. He couldn’t have been as awful as her mother had said.

It turned out that he
was
as awful as her mother had said—a selfish man who didn’t want to be reminded of his youthful indiscretion, as he so kindly put it. So she’d decided that, after all those years, she didn’t need a father anyway, not when she had Johnny. He was more than enough for her.

Johnny was good-looking and fun and she could hardly wait to start their new life together. He had a job with a construction company in Seattle and a line on a cute little apartment in Magnolia. He was ready to go and so was she, so she plunged heart-first into marriage.

Her bridesmaids had dressed in pink, her favorite color, and she’d carried pink tulips. She’d read that tulips signified passion and that had certainly described her relationship with Johnny. Even the cake had been a mass of pink—pink frosting, pink roses, pink doilies underneath. Roses for a rosy future. But that rosy future lasted only five years, which was probably longer than it should have taken for Daphne to realize that her husband loved booze more than he loved her. Or their daughter.

So then came Fred, good solid Fred. And once again, there’d been a wedding on Primrose Street, a June wedding with lots of flowers and candles and a fancy sit-down dinner. The guest list was a little smaller than for wedding number one, but it had been lovely all the same. Daphne had gone with blue this time, the color of trust and peace, and she and Fred had vowed to be faithful all the rest of their days, to stay together in sickness and in health, for better or worse.

Somehow they’d neglected to add “in boring times and through the everyday grind” and Fred had started drifting like a sailboat with no anchor. And speaking of sailboats, he’d had to go and buy one. At first it was expeditions to the San Juans. Next thing she knew, he was talking about sailing around the world.

“But Marnie’s in middle school,” she’d protested. “We can’t pull her out of school. And I have to work.”

“We can homeschool her. You can quit your job.”

“Fred, what will we live on?”

“We’ve got some money in savings, and I’m going to write a novel.”

This was what came of marrying a man who was twelve years older. He’d been ready for a midlife crisis and she hadn’t. He filed for divorce and sailed off without her. She was still waiting to see his novel on bookstore shelves or the internet.

Single parenthood was no fun, but she managed. Then Marnie graduated from college and moved out of the house and the place seemed so...empty. When Marnie moved to New York, Daphne figured she’d learned her lessons in love. She was ready to try again. And, lo and behold, along came Mitchell, charming lovable Mitchell. They got married in Seattle, at her house. Just family. She wore a gold cocktail dress because she’d read that gold was the color of success and triumph, and she’d carried a small bouquet of orchids and stephanotis to represent joy and marital happiness.

As she stumbled down memory lane her eyes began to leak tears, not so much for the loss of Mitchell but the loss of hope.
Don’t cry
, she told herself, but somehow her tear ducts didn’t get the message. In fact, they began to produce tears at an alarming rate.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

Her lawyer passed her a tissue, and that small kindness made the tears flow all the harder. She slipped out of the courtroom and rushed to the women’s bathroom. It was old-fashioned, with black-and-white tiles on the floor and ancient windows, and her wails echoed like a banshee’s.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

Another woman came into the bathroom. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a scowl. She smelled of smoke. It could’ve been from cigarettes or plain old anger. “Whoever he is, he ain’t worth the tears,” she growled at Daphne.

Daphne wanted to explain that she wasn’t crying over Mitchell. She was crying over lost love, over the sad fact that she’d probably be alone the rest of her life and never have sex again, even though fifty was the new forty and that made her forty-three. Instead, she swallowed a sob and nodded. Then she splashed cold water on her face, took a deep breath and went back to Room 3.

“Are you okay?” Shirley whispered when Daphne slid back onto the chair beside hers.

“I will be,” Daphne whispered.

She spent the next half hour watching other people’s marriages dissolve, and then it was her turn to go stand in front of the judge. Still no Mitchell.

Nobody seemed to need him anyway. It took less than ten minutes for the state of Washington to put its seal of approval on the end of her marriage.

Outside the courtroom she hugged Shirley and thanked her for all her help.

“Now, get out there and enjoy your single life,” Shirley said.

“I will,” she promised.

The first thing she did to enjoy her new single state was to sit by the river and have a pity party. She didn’t need any noisemakers. She was making enough noise herself boo-hooing. It was wrong; it was unfair. She’d never wanted to be single.

But, she finally reasoned, being single and happy (she’d get there eventually!) had to beat being married and miserable. She wished she felt happier about no longer being miserable, and she said as much to Muriel Sterling when she went to her house later to put in a couple of hours. She set up some signings for Muriel’s upcoming release, a book of chocolate recipes and small-town reminiscences. Muriel had told her she could take the day off, but Daphne realized she needed the distraction, needed to do something to feel good about herself.

“Transitions are hard,” Muriel said as she and Daphne settled at her little dining table with mugs of chocolate mint tea and a plate of brownies.

“After this many divorces I should be used to it,” Daphne said with a grim smile.

“It’s a loss. I don’t think anyone ever gets used to loss.”

“When it comes to men, I don’t seem to be very smart,” Daphne confessed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Muriel nudged the plate of brownies closer to Daphne.

She’d been eating way too many carbs lately. She shouldn’t.

Wait a minute. Why not? So what if she’d gained a couple of pounds since coming home to Icicle Falls? Who cared?

She took a brownie and bit off a good-size chunk. “Oh, wow. These didn’t come out of a box.”

Muriel smiled. “They’re my own special recipe. Chocolate—it’s one of life’s small pleasures.”

Small pleasure was better than no pleasure. Daphne took another bite.

Muriel picked up a brownie and examined it. “You know, a lot of life is about starting over.”

“I’ve got that market cornered. But no matter how many times I start over, I can’t seem to get it right.” Daphne sighed. “I hate being a failure.”

“We all fail. It doesn’t make us failures. You’re only a failure if you quit trying, and I suspect you’re a long way from quitting. In fact, I think you have a very good future in store.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“You can’t judge your future by your past, Daphne. You know, there’s a Bible verse I recently discovered. It talks about not calling to mind the things of the past, about God wanting to do something new in you.”

Forget the past? How did someone do that? Her past was like a big neon sign flashing Loser
.

Muriel studied Daphne for a moment. Then she said, “Would you be willing to do something for me?”

Daphne looked at her suspiciously. “What?” Was Muriel going to suggest she take some self-improvement course, or stand up in the middle of a service at Icicle Falls Community Church and ask everyone to pray her out of loser purgatory? Go on
Dr. Phil
and get psychoanalyzed? Become a marathon runner?

“Start telling yourself, ‘From now on, every choice I make will be the best choice for me at this time.’”

Daphne made a face. “I don’t know.”

“Just try it,” Muriel urged. “It’ll take the pressure off. Every decision doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be right for you at that particular moment. You’re a kind, intelligent woman, Daphne. I think the only thing stopping you from living a happy life is that you’ve programmed some wrong information into your brain. It’s chipped away at your confidence. A lack of confidence makes us not want to try anymore, and I don’t want to see you give up trying, not when you still have so much life to live.”

Was Daphne’s big problem a lack of confidence?

“What can it hurt?” Muriel asked.

Nothing. Daphne gave an assertive nod. “You’re right.”

“Everything you’ve experienced, both good and bad, has taught you things, made you wise. Now you need to draw on that wisdom,” Muriel finished with a smile. She offered Daphne the plate of brownies.

Okay, she didn’t need to keep self-medicating with carbs. “No, one was enough,” Daphne said.

Muriel smiled. “Probably a wise decision.”

“It’s the best choice for me at this time,” Daphne said with a grin.

After finishing up with Muriel, she made another wise decision. She was going to do something positive to celebrate her freedom from the rat of the Western world. She’d buy herself a present.

With this in mind, she made her way to Hearth and Home, one of her favorite shops in Icicle Falls. Daphne had always loved decorating and prettying up her house. Granted, she wouldn’t have her house much longer, but she had a room, and she’d find something to put in it to remind her of new beginnings.

The shop wasn’t large, but Gigi Babineaux, the owner, had stocked it with lovely things—an eclectic selection of unique and vintage furniture, candles, paintings and statuary.

“Daphne, I heard you were back in town,” Gigi said.

Like everyone else, she’d probably heard why. “It’s nice to be home.”

“You look good.”

“I feel good.” Daphne was shocked to realize that was no lie. She walked by a gilded mirror and caught herself smiling. This was the day her divorce was final. She shouldn’t have been smiling.

Oh, yes, she should. She was done with being miserable and brokenhearted. That was the old Daphne. The new Daphne was truly free to begin again.

Suddenly she saw just the thing to commemorate her new life. She drifted over to an ornate buffet where an amethyst glass vase imprinted with butterflies beckoned. Butterflies. Was there any better symbol of transformation, of new beginnings?

Daphne looked at the price tag. Whoa. Would purchasing this be a wise decision, the best decision she could make in that moment?

Yes, she decided. It would. This was a landmark day, a turning point in her life, and buying the vase would be a good way of reminding herself that she was indeed capable of making wise decisions. No more falling for the wrong man, no more letting neediness or loneliness rush her into a relationship she’d live to regret. She picked up the vase and marched to the cash register.

“I almost took this home myself,” Gigi said as she rang up the purchase. “I love butterflies. And fairies.”

Gigi herself reminded Daphne of a fairy queen with her long, white hair and diaphanous blouse worn over her jeans. She was older than Daphne, probably nearing retirement age, a slim, small woman who favored bangles and dangly earrings.

“My divorce was final today,” Daphne confided to the fairy queen. “I wanted to get something to mark that I’m starting over.”

Gigi approved. “Great choice,” she said. “How are you settling in?”