Finding The Way Back To Love (Lakeside Porches 3) (37 page)

“Well said.” Justin nodded to each of them in turn, to indicate he had finished his formal remarks.

“Why so quiet?” Joel asked Gianessa.

“I am speechless.” Gianessa flashed a smile. “Thrilled. Challenged. And very grateful that we’re all in this together. I do have two babies to take care of, and I am still recuperating, but my doctor has given me the go-ahead to work on this.” She lifted her face to her husband for a kiss.

“Gwen,” Joel said, “I hear you’ve kept a building lot on Cady’s Point for yourself. Where exactly?”

“On the cove,” she told him. “It’s half an acre at the southern edge of the property. There’s a thick stand of trees that screen it from the new center, so it’s close to neighbors, but private.”

“I love the spot,” Manda said enthusiastically. “Gwen and I went there yesterday. She has enough room for a yard for kids to play, and half of her waterfront is beach. Plus a rock ledge that’s great for exploring.”

“Does this mean you’ll be selling the Forrester family home?” Joel said.

“I think so. Probably within the year. I’m having the road worked on after Christmas, weather permitting. I’m used to the twists and turns and steep pitches, but it’s a nightmare for others, especially in winter. I don’t think anyone would buy the property unless that’s fixed. Otherwise, the place is in excellent condition. All I need to do,” she added with a laugh, “is clean out the attic, the basement, and everything in between.”

“It would serve an extended family, three or four generations under the same roof,” Joel pointed out. “You’ll have some interested buyers when you decide to go ahead.”

“That’s a lovely way to think of it, Joel, thank you.”

“Searching for an architect for your new home?”

“Right now, I’m searching for a husband,” she replied with a lift of her eyebrows.

“Maybe I can help with that,” Joel said.
I already know who you want, Gwen. Do you?

Peter left the Clifton Springs rehab with his head bowed and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his parka as snow dusted the sidewalk and swirled around his feet. It was only three o’clock, and he had nowhere to be until his shift that night at eleven.

A smile tugged at his mouth. Two weeks into her rehab, and today Bree’s eyes had a little sparkle. He hadn’t seen that since she was a kid.

She’d hugged him when he’d first arrived and they’d talked a few minutes, but they’d been separated after that. He’d gone to a lecture about The Family Disease. Funny, he’d thought that meant the alcoholic inherited the gene that made someone an alcoholic. But, he saw now, it was more than that.

Even though he didn’t become an alcoholic like Bree, he was damaged by their father’s disease. His own hot temper, for one thing, and all the trouble with the team and with his job. That all stemmed from his attitude toward drunks.
Sam called it a poison, and he’s right
.

He stopped on the walk to breathe in the cold air, and the sulphur smell from the stream tickled his nose.
What did the brochure say?
A mineral spring had given Clifton Springs its name and its reputation. There had been a sanatorium here at one time, where people came to rest and be cured from chronic illness, like tuberculosis. And it had helped a lot of people, especially back in the days of the TB epidemic.

Cady’s Point had healing properties like that.

Now that Gwen had bought Cady’s Point, Manda could build the rehab she wanted there, an impressive undertaking for a young woman, younger than his sister. His eyes opened wide.
And Manda is one of the young people Bree sees at AA meetings in Tompkins Falls.

Joel, Manda, Tony, Gwen—all were getting well from the disease his sister had. And his father had the same disease, but he’d never gotten well.
Let me be one of the people getting well.

He thought about the Al-Anon meeting he’d been to in Tompkins Falls. It was good, but it didn’t feel like what he needed. Hank had said something about counseling for children from alcoholic families. If that’s what he needed, he’d do it.

He scuffed snow ahead of him as he walked half the length of the sidewalk, then stepped down to the parking lot. After brushing off the Jeep, he started it up, but sat for a moment, debating what to do next. When he reached the main road, to his surprise, the Jeep turned right and headed to the Thruway, eastbound, toward Syracuse.

At the jingle of the bell, Paddy glanced up with a smile for his customer.

Peter stood just inside the door of O’Donnell’s Bakery, overwhelmed by the aroma of warm bread and the sight of floured dough on a slab by the oven. It smelled like his mother’s kitchen on her day off. His throat tightened.

Paddy wiped flour off his hands and stepped to the counter. “Ye’ll be lookin’ like yer Da with yer Ma’s eyes, young Peter.”

Fifteen years later, and he knows right away who I am
. Peter put on a smile and reached out his hand. “I’d forgotten you still had the brogue, Paddy.”

Paddy clasped Peter’s hand, gave it a good shake, and let go. “What can I do for ye today, lad?”

Peter swallowed his nervousness and directed his attention to the fresh loaves on a rack behind the counter. Caraway-seeded rye, rounds of Italian, pumpernickel rolls, whole-wheat loaves. A whiff of cinnamon made him smile. “Two of the raisin,” he decided.

“Sliced?”

“Yes, please.”

Peter poured himself a cup of coffee and left two dollars in the Mason jar, while the baker selected the two best loaves, started up the slicer, and ran the loaves through.

Paddy slipped each of the warm loaves into a paper sleeve, put them on the counter, and rang up the sale. He took the crisp ten-dollar bill Peter held out, and counted out change. “Will that be all for ye today, son?”

Still not sure what to say, Peter pocketed the change and shifted one of the loaves so the two touched each other. “Paddy, I’m sorry for the loss of your son.” As soon as he said it, his own shame at the way he’d mishandled Bree’s recovery made him lower his eyes. “And I’m forever in your debt for saving my sister,” he blurted out, his eyes on the tie at the front of Paddy’s apron.

Paddy waited. Peter looked up and saw compassion burning in the baker’s eyes. “Yer sister’s a bright lass, and she’ll do well if she can keep away from the drink. There’s nothin’ like AA for that.”

Peter nodded. “She’s in rehab for another two weeks, and then I’ll bring her to live with me for a while. There are plenty of meetings in Tompkins Falls, and she can even walk to a few. There are sober, young people who’ll help her and hang with her.”

“Ay, I didn’t like her situation in the old neighborhood. She’ll be better off if she’s away. But, mind, that’s if she’s among her own kind.”

“I understand. Paddy, what else can I do for her?”

“Ye can get yerself squared away, young Peter.”

“How do you mean?” Peter stood tall and squared his shoulders.

“She’s told me about yer anger at yer da. And about yer breakup with the woman, the one who’s workin’ a recovery program herself.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed.

“As Daniel Shaughnessy’s only son, you had a hard go of it, but ye can’t be carrying around that anger, lad. It’s destroyin’ what’s dear to ye, isn’t it?” Paddy’s face was hard as he said it, but his eyes burned with caring.

Peter opened his mouth, closed it again and exhaled in surrender. “It’s true. They say it’s a family disease.”

“Ay, ’tis. And don’t ye be underestimatin’ it. It’ll destroy ye, even without the drink.”

Peter remembered what Bree had told him, that Paddy had destroyed his own marriage and never been able to repair it, that he had tried to get his son sober but lost him to a heroin overdose. And through all of that, in spite of his terrible losses, Paddy had devoted his life to helping others get sober and clean up their lives.
How did Paddy keep his focus?

“Paddy, I think I need more help than Al-Anon,” he said. “I want to be like you, to keep my focus on serving and protecting, not always reliving the past with my dad. I don’t know how.”

A white eyebrow lifted. “And why do ye think I have what ye want?”

“Because you didn’t give up when you couldn’t save your marriage. Or save my father. Or save your son. You kept trying, and you saved others.”

“I helped others who wanted to be saved,” Paddy corrected gently.

“That’s how I want to live my life, not being angry all the time, but being of service whenever I can. I want to change. I’ll do what you tell me, Paddy.”

The baker leaned on his hands on the counter. “There’s plenty of good counselors around.” His bright, blue gaze bore into Peter’s. “Find one ye can trust, and work with him.” He nodded sharply. “That’s what I’m tellin’ ye. Get right with yerself, and you’ll know how to do the rest.”

Peter’s shoulders sagged, and his head bowed. “I will.” His voice croaked with panic at the prospect.

Paddy stood, unwavering. “Ye might start by askin’ at yer sister’s rehab for a good man who’ll talk with ye.”

Peter’s head jerked up. “I know someone,” he realized. “Gwen and I met him. He works there sometimes.”
What’s his name, the man who owned the cabin where Gwen and I found shelter in the storm?
“Foster.”
First name? Last name? No matter, they’ll know him at Clifton Springs.

“Ye get onto him, this Foster,” Paddy urged. “Today if ye can”

“Yes. I will. Today.” The tension left Peter’s body.

“Then it’s happy ye’ll be, young Peter.” Paddy reached out his hand, and the two men shook with firm grips. “Ye come back for more bread any time ye need it, son.”

“I’ll bring Bree with me next time.”

Paddy’s eyes twinkled. “See that ye do.”

Chapter 18

Twice a week Peter drove down East Lake Road, six miles past Gwen’s, to the turnoff for Foster’s cabin. For an hour on Monday afternoons and again on Thursday afternoons, he and Foster split wood and talked, carried wood and talked, stacked wood and talked, or just talked over coffee in front of the woodstove.

If this was therapy, it suited Peter. The first week they talked about basketball and about being on a team and dealing with difficult personalities. The next week they talked about work, about privacy and about handling gossip. In week three Foster challenged him on his priorities and how to keep his priorities straight. Then they turned their attention to relationships.

Back at the station, over the course of the month, Sam watched his partner change. Peter handled his share of drunk drivers, and he booked them with firmness and fairness. No snide remarks, no unnecessary jostling, no grumbling, no sulking at his desk. Twice, Sam heard him talk up the drunk driver program and AA.

One night Peter brought in a dozen brownies, and the squad devoured them with thanks and laughter. A few days later, Peter fetched a dozen cookies from his car for the teens that came around for basketball at two thirty in the morning. The three kids responded—not with thank you—but with orders for three different kinds of cookies.

Peter obliged with a dozen peanut butter cookies a few nights later. Then he challenged the boys to make the next batch.

Stretch obliged with some slice-and-bake sugar cookies that were half-burned. Peter quietly scraped the burned edges of his cookie and held it up for all to see. Then he took a bite and grinned at Stretch. “Good job, my man.” Jeers turned to appreciative arm punches.

“I’m gonna make some that don’t need no scrapin’,” JD said.

That night, after they ushered the boys off the court, Sam chuckled.

“What?” Peter grinned.

“You.”

“You got a problem with me, partner?” His voice was lighthearted.

“Not any more.”

At his next therapy session—a frigid day with snow falling an inch an hour—he and Foster drew their chairs close to the stove and held their coffee mugs with both hands.

“How’s Gwen?” Foster asked him.

“I don’t know.” Peter glanced over.

Foster nodded without comment.

Peter stretched his neck in both directions before he added, “We broke up right after you dropped us off at her house.”

“I would not have predicted that, given how close you were when I arrived here that morning.” Foster sat back and crossed his legs.

Peter opened his mouth, closed it and stared at the stove a while longer. The silence stretched on. Logs popped and settled in the stove.

Foster disappeared into the kitchen, came back with the coffee pot, topped off both their mugs, returned the pot to the kitchen, and resumed his seat by the stove.

Peter sipped coffee and stared at the stove.

“Why did you break up?” Foster asked.

“She’s an alcoholic.” Peter waited for a response like
Well, so am I.
or
Why is that a problem?

When no retort came his way, he continued, “She’d kept it from me, even though she knew how I felt about drunks.”

Again, Foster offered no response.

“I felt betrayed when I found out.” Peter’s voice had an angry edge.

Foster uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “It’s too bad. I thought you two had something good.”

“I thought so, too,” Peter said. His eyes darkened with regret.

“Maybe we’re both right—that you two had something special there. And in that case, maybe it wasn’t a matter of betrayal. Maybe it was a terrible misunderstanding between two people who had a problem dealing with a difficult truth.”

“What truth do you mean?”

“Gwen’s alcoholism, combined with your attitude toward alcoholics.”

Peter flinched. “You’re saying it’s my fault?”

“No. It always takes two.” Foster’s gaze was focused on the stove.

Peter huffed and settled back in his chair.

“I’m just speculating here, that Gwen was pretty open about not drinking when you went out together?”

“Yeah.”

“And about her work as a therapist, with alcoholics and addicts?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, she talked about that.” He tipped his head. “Defended it.”

“But, even so, you didn’t add it up that she’s an alcoholic—in recovery—herself.”

Peter didn’t move, but a muscle by his left eye twitched.

Foster continued, “And maybe, when Gwen realized how strong your feelings were about drunks, she avoided that topic with you.” He sat quietly. “Does any of that have the ring of truth?”

“I guess.” Peter cleared his throat. “That could be what was happening.”

“In that case, Peter, I don’t see it as betrayal. I’m more likely to call it failure on Gwen’s part to be completely upfront with you. And maybe denial, on your part.” He took a noisy slurp of coffee. “But what do I know? I wasn’t there.”

Peter drank a mouthful of the strong brew. “Cynthia betrayed me,” he insisted.

“Your ex-wife Cynthia?”

“Yes. While I was in the hospital and in therapy, after I was shot, she found another man, got pregnant, divorced me, and married him.”

“Now that sounds like betrayal to me. And I’d say you’re well rid of Cynthia. However, Cynthia and Gwen are two different people, in two different situations. Do you want Cynthia to dictate your relationship with Gwen?”

Peter drew himself up straight, his body rigid. He made no answer, but he had a determined scowl on his face.

The two men sat quietly while the logs in the stove hissed and popped and shifted. Foster sipped at his coffee. Peter drained his mug.

“I wonder if you’d do something before our next session?” Foster proposed.

“Sure.” Peter met Foster’s steady gaze.

“Knowing what you know now—about the disease of alcoholism, about rehabs and therapy—Gwen’s world, in short. Knowing that, write down all the different ways you can interpret what went wrong between the two of you.”

“You sound pretty sure that the problem on my side was denial?”

Foster’s eyebrows came together in thought. “Yes, I guess I am.” He turned his sharp blue gaze on Peter. “Tell me what you think denial means.”

“When something’s staring you in the face and you don’t see it.” He shrugged. “Don’t want to, are afraid to, can’t afford to, whatever.”

“Yes, exactly.” A warm smile crossed the counselor’s face.

Peter stood up and cleared his throat. “I’ll wrestle that around. See you Thursday.”

Foster stood and shook his hand. “Careful on the roads, son.”

Bree burst into the apartment at two in the afternoon. “I got the job, Peter!” She stopped her headlong rush to the kitchen.

Her brother was on the porch, standing in the cold, again, without a jacket, bare hands on the railing. His gaze was fixed across the lake.
Gwen’s house
. Belatedly, he straightened up, ran his hands over his face and came inside. “Hi, honey. What did you say?”

“I got the job, Peter.”

“That’s great, Bree. I’m proud of you.”

She shifted nervously from one foot to the other and hedged, “It’s just serving and cleaning up at the Bagel Depot, but it’s . . .”

“What?” Peter smiled. “Come on, we’re trying for open communication. The counselors at Clifton drilled that into us, right?”

She lowered her gaze to the hardwood floor. “Yeah. So, I was saying it’s a good way for me to be around AA people in the morning.”

“That’s right, they’ve got that meeting in the back room first thing. Tony goes, and sometimes my partner Sam meets him after for a bagel.”

“Yeah. And I won’t make a lot of money, but I can pay for some food while I’m living here.”

“No, thank you, but you can put together a budget for personal expenses and fees to get back in school to finish your bachelor’s degree.”

“School really matters to you, doesn’t it?”

“Believe it. I’ll make us sandwiches,” he offered, “and I’ll tell you why.”

“You’re on.”

They shared a sandwich, Bree’s favorite, ham and cheese with lettuce, tomato, onion, and avocado. Peter told stories about his worst college classes, and Bree added a few of her own. “You know, I think you’d be a good cop, if you wanted that,” he told her.

Bree snorted. “Me? The screw-up?”

“Sometimes people who’ve had brushes with the law turn out to be good cops.”

She squirmed. “I don’t see myself doing what you do—here or in Syracuse—but I like businesses that serve the public.”

“Like the Bagel Depot?”

“Yeah and that café across from the park, Lynnie’s. In a city like this, they don’t just serve food. They’re places where people meet and do business and pass on the news.” She propped her elbows on the table. “Sometimes late morning and mid-afternoon, people come in to read and study, and that’s very cool. I like being part of all that.”

“Would you ever want to run a place like that?”

“Maybe.” She grinned. “I sure wouldn’t want to be a cook.”

“Why? Too much pressure?”

“No, I’m a lousy cook. You know that.”

“You made a great omelet last night. Almost as good as Gwen’s. That’s a talent.”

“Speaking of Gwen . . .”

Peter pushed back from the table. Plates clattered as he cleared the table.

“Now, wait a minute,” she said. “If I had to be open and finish what I was going to say back there, so do you. You brought up Gwen. What about her?”

Peter set the dishes on the counter. “I misjudged her, that’s all.”

He ran the plates under hot water before placing them in the dishwasher.

Bree stole up beside him. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“It’s too late.”

“Around the program”—she raised her eyebrows—“they say it’s never too late to make amends. Maybe it won’t fix things, but you’ll feel better about yourself.”

Peter opened his mouth and closed it in a grimace. “Maybe you’re right.”

“You’re changing, big brother.” Bree punched his arm. “Way cool.”

“Hey, I’m not the only one. You’re doing good, Bree. Keep it up.”

Bree gave him an impulsive hug, and he held her close. “Love you, honey,” he told her.

“I love you, too. I want you to be happy.”

Peter made a sound in his chest that might have been a sob.

Waitresses bustled among the tables on the lakeside porch. Holiday shoppers in high spirits stashed bags under chairs and around their feet. Outside, sunshine bounced off fresh snow and sparkled on the dark-blue water of Skaneateles Lake.

To fill the time before their hot drinks arrived, Haley, Manda, Bree, and Sara shared their finds from the morning’s visit to a favorite consignment shop.

Bree gushed about her almost-new, midnight-blue jeans that were long enough for her six-foot height. Haley held up a dark brown cashmere turtleneck, stroked it, and passed it around. Manda showed off a pair of ice-blue ballet flats. Sara waved a peacock-blue flower before she fastened it in her blond hair.

“Do you guys do this every month?” Bree asked them.

“About every month, right, Sara?”

“Pretty much,” Sara answered. “Manda and I started the tradition a couple of years ago.”

“When we were poor,” Manda said, “and needed decent clothes for work.”

The waitress came with their drinks and took their orders. Shopping bags disappeared under the table.

“Ladies,” Sara said and dinged her glass mug. All eyes turned to her. Sara told them, “You all know how upset I was when Sam didn’t propose at Thanksgiving.”

Manda’s eyes opened wide. Haley and Bree looked at each other with excitement.

“Last night he explained that the ring he got, with his sister’s help, was all wrong. Then he tried again with Tony’s help, but that ring was all wrong, too. And after all that apologizing, he asked me to marry him and said I needed to come with him to pick out a ring we both liked.”

Smiles bloomed around the table.

“It was not the most romantic proposal, but I’m really happy to be marrying Sam Pinelli. I love him and he’s a good man and he’ll be a great father.” She held up her whip-topped espresso drink. “To love.”

Two hot chocolates and one tea joined the toast.

“Big wedding, small wedding?” Manda asked. “And when’s the date?”

“Summer. Details to follow. My parents said it’s up to me, whether I go for broke or make it small and elegant. Whatever I want.”

“You’re thinking small and elegant, aren’t you?” Manda guessed.

“That’s what I’d really like. A couple years ago, I wouldn’t have said that, but, Manda, your wedding and Gianessa’s wedding had about two dozen invited guests, followed by a bigger reception. Everyone had so much fun. Sam’s a little worried because he has a big family, but we’re thinking we can invite the whole gang to a feast in his parents’ backyard after the honeymoon. It will be a blast to kick back and have all the little kids with us.”