Flirting With Pete: A Novel (50 page)

Jordan could not have been more attuned to her needs. In life, as in lovemaking, his timing was faultless. He knew when to introduce her to his art, and when to introduce her to his friends. He knew when to take her to plant flowers at Caroline’s grave, when to suggest that they go to Rockport to visit with Ruth, and when to drive her to Amherst to meet a thirteen-year-old boy with bright red hair.

Joey Battle. Casey knew him on sight. He was living with a married couple, friends of Jordan’s, and attending a small private school that did as much nurturing of the soul as the mind. Jordan picked up the tab.

“Well, I couldn’t let him stay in Walker,” he argued, seeming embarrassed when Casey was awed by what he had done. “I didn’t help Jenny when I should have. I wasn’t making the same mistake twice.”

Casey loved him all the more for that. And then, there was even more to love him for. Come August, he drove her up to spend time with his parents in Walker. His mother had been to Boston several times prior to that, and she and Casey had grown close, but this was the first time in a while that Jordan had seen his father. He swore he wouldn’t have had the courage to go if Casey hadn’t been with him, and she almost believed him. His father intimidated him— she could see it the instant they came together.

Jordan was a strong man. He knew who he was and what he wanted in life. Yet his father had the power to make him grow silent, evade questions, be defensive. That certainly didn’t weaken him in Casey’s eyes. Even if she hadn’t known by profession what he was feeling, she would have identified with it personally. She had been there. She was
still
there, wanting her parents’ approval, needing to think she was making them proud. Parents held a remarkable power over their children. It didn’t matter how old those children grew, or how distant in their everyday lives. They received messages from their parents from the moment of birth. Those messages were nearly as deeply etched on the psyche as hair, eyes, and height in the genes.

Jordan did grow more confident as the visit progressed, particularly when his sisters and their families arrived. They were delighted to see him and doted on Casey. For Casey, who had never known family beyond Caroline, it was an exciting day.

But the excitement wasn’t done. The morning after that family gathering, Jordan drove her yet another hour north to a quiet, tidy little town. After passing through a modest town center, they turned onto a narrow, tree-lined side street and pulled up at a small frame house that was yellow with mossy green shutters and was surrounded by hemlocks and pines, junipers and yews, and, in gently defined beds, many of the same flowers Casey had on Beacon Hill. A pebbled front walk cut through those beds. It led to three wooden steps and a wraparound porch. A pair of rocking chairs sat on the porch. An elderly woman rocked in one.

Casey shot Jordan a quizzical look, but he didn’t say a word. Rather, he rounded the Jeep, took her hand, and led her up the walk.

The woman on the porch stopped rocking. She had white hair and a wrinkled face, wore a flowered dress and a white apron, and looked nearly as puzzled as Casey. But she seemed familiar, oh so familiar.

Casey’s heart began to race.

The woman didn’t take her eyes off her. Those eyes were blue, Casey saw as she climbed the steps with Jordan— faded with age, but blue nonetheless. Blue eyes, white hair that might have had a reddish tint in her youth, a gentle smile that might actually have been loving, if Casey had been prone to fancy— which, of course, she was.

The woman extended a trembling hand to Casey, at the same time that Jordan said softly, “This is Mary Blinn Unger. Your grandmother. Age ninety-six.”

Fall in the garden was glorious as only falls in New England could be. The maple turned orange, the birches yellow, the oak red. Black-eyed Susans multiplied, asters opened with splashes of pink, and viburnum produced berries. The vines that wove through the pergola, up the brick walls, and against the potting shed turned into tapestries of oranges, reds, and browns.

Slender in a stunning white gown, with a garland of ivy in her hair, Casey walked from the house, up the stone path, to the wooded spot where Jordan stood with the minister. Brianna and Joy had preceded her as her bridesmaids, as had Meg as her maid of honor, looking absolutely beautiful now with naturally red hair, artfully groomed.

Casey walked alone, but she wasn’t alone in any sense of the word. Friends and family-to-be filled the garden on both sides. Caroline’s spirit was as strong as if she were right there at the head of the walk. Likewise, Connie. His office would never be filled, his garden flourishing, and his cat adoring of Casey if he didn’t approve of this match.

Jordan waited, so handsome that it took her breath, so focused on her and only her that it brought tears to her eyes. There were truly times when, like Jenny with her Pete, Casey wondered if he was real. She didn’t need to pinch herself to be sure, though. All she had to do was to turn her head, look around, call his name, and he was there.

Snow fell before the end of November. It coated the few leaves that still clung to the trees, blanketed evergreens that had already shrunk into themselves for the winter, and carpeted the garden path. Much as Casey loved spending time outside, she was ready for the change. Winter meant staying indoors, with a blazing fire, hot mulled cider, and Jordan. It was a time for settling in as husband and wife, and seeing to the fine points of merging their lives.

Jordan sold his condo, moved his office to one of the spare bedrooms and his studio to the cupola, and tutored Casey in critiquing his work. Casey sold her condo, gave Meg as much furniture as her apartment would hold, sold the rest, and opened her first ever joint bank account.

By the time snowdrops had pushed their pristine white heads from the thawing ground, and the crocuses opened petals of yellow, purple, and pink, it was late March, and Casey was showing.

By the time June arrived with its dogwood blossoms, its wisteria, and the leafing out of the maple, birches, and oak, she was large, indeed.

By the time she gave birth in early August, the garden was as fertile and rich as she felt herself.

That Casey’s life took on the rhythm of the garden was only fitting. Both of her parents had loved flowers and trees, as did her husband. And Casey herself? The garden grounded her. It kept her head clear and her mind focused on what was real and what was not. It gave her hope in moments of worry, and ease in moments of stress. It bore witness to the perennial nature of birth.

When their daughter celebrated her first birthday there among the flowers on a sunny summer day the following August, she wore a delicate wreath of daisies in her baby-soft strawberry blond hair, ate cake with chocolate frosting and ice cream with a wooden spoon, and fell on her face toddling after a butterfly.

Her father scooped her up and nuzzled her stomach as he carried her to Casey, who kissed the boo-boo until she was laughing again.

Life was good.