Friendship Bread (35 page)

The color drains from Livvy’s face. “You’re saying she did this to get sympathy? For Josh?”

“I’m just saying that people do things for all sorts of reasons. I mean, come on, Livvy. She hasn’t talked to you for years! She’s completely withdrawn. You think she started this whole thing to be friendly to her neighbors?” Edie reaches into a drawer and comes up with a bag of chips. “Dorito?”

Livvy pushes the bag away. “Edie, Josh was my nephew. He was in my care when he died.” Her voice is shaking.

Edie looks at her, her gaze steady. “I know.”

Livvy looks shocked but doesn’t ask how Edie knows. She raises her chin. “Well, if you know, then I’d think you’d be a little bit more sympathetic toward me and my family. I thought you were my friend!”

“I am your friend. It’s just an article, Livvy—this isn’t personal.”

“
It’s personal to me, Edie!
You have no idea what it’s like, to have the one person in the world who really knows you cut you off! How would you feel if Richard did that? Just stopped acknowledging you altogether, pretended you didn’t even exist?”

Edie swallows. She hates seeing Livvy so upset, and at the same time she finds herself pushing back. She looks up at Livvy who is flushed, her fists clenching and unclenching. “Why didn’t you tell me before, Livvy?” she asks quietly.

Livvy shakes her head, looks away. “What was I supposed to say?” she mumbles.

Edie feels something unfurling inside of her. Livvy has been a good friend to her, much more so than Edie had expected or maybe even deserves. Maybe she should have thought this through more carefully, considered other options. But it’s too late now anyway.

“Julia just wants everyone to leave her alone,” Livvy says, falling into the chair across from Edie. “Everyone, including me.”

Edie sees something out of the corner of her eye. “Maybe not.”

Livvy gives a wry laugh. “Trust me, I would know. Julia isn’t interested in seeing anyone, and I’m the first person on that list.”

“I think you might be wrong about that, Livvy.” Edie nods down the hallway. “Because I think that’s your sister standing in your office.”

Julia looks around the bare bones of Livvy’s office. It’s small, crammed with a desk and two chairs, a generic print of a flower on the wall. There’s a recent picture of Livvy and Tom, one that Julia doesn’t recognize. Tom looks a bit older, bits of gray sneaking into his hair, but Livvy looks the same, all smiles, peppy without a care in the world. No surprise there.

“Julia?”

Julia turns to see Livvy in the doorway. “Livvy.” She grasps the straps of her tote bag tightly, the skin around her knuckles white and taut. Seeing her sister close up has muddled her brain. She’s actually here to see Edie Gallagher, the reporter who wrote the article, but found herself asking the receptionist for Livvy’s office instead.

When Mark had reluctantly showed her the newspaper, it took Julia awhile to place the reporter as the woman from Madeline’s the other day. Once she did it all made sense. The questions, the prying behavior. Didn’t they have to disclose that they were reporters or get permission to use your name in the newspaper? Obviously not.

Julia decided to go to the
Gazette
to confront Edie, to let her know that she doesn’t appreciate being made into a scapegoat. She’s had enough of that, of people pointing fingers and finding yet another thing to whisper about behind Julia’s back. Mark was supportive, almost amused by the way she stormed about, complaining about the lack of privacy, the insensitivity of people who should know better.

“You go tell ’em, tiger,” he’d said, and Julia stopped long enough to grin. She was back on her soapbox, one she hadn’t been on for a long time, and it felt good. Mark had a bemused smile on his lips. “God, I pity the reporter.”

Julia ranted for a few minutes longer as she gathered her things. She was almost looking forward to a confrontation. Then she opened the front door and found the doorstep littered with anonymous bags of Amish Friendship Bread starter.

Mark came up behind her and stared, dumbstruck. “What in the …”

“This must be the equivalent of Amish Friendship Bread hate mail,” she remarked to Mark, who promptly scooped it all up and dumped it in the trash. It seemed like a waste, but Mark made the point that they couldn’t be sure what was in the baggies or how old the starters were. Plus, they weren’t exactly left in a gesture of friendship.

“Maybe there will be drive-by starter shootings, too,” Julia had continued, earning herself a glare from her husband. She could picture water guns filled with batter aimed at the house.

“This isn’t funny, Julia.” Mark was pissed. One of the bags was opened and some of the batter leaked onto Mark’s hands. “Disgusting.”

She knows it’s not a joke but at the same time Julia has to admit that it
is
a little funny. After all, it’s just batter. It’s not like she’s spreading the avian flu or something.

Both Madeline and Hannah had called, expressing their outrage over the article. Madeline said that both the sitting room and tea room were filled with indignant women threatening to petition the
Gazette
. Madeline and Connie had to ply them with protein (“Luckily I had a few quiches on hand …”) to get them to calm down.

Now, Julia isn’t quite sure why she’s standing in Livvy’s office, and even less sure of what to say.

Livvy licks her lips and walks quickly into the room. Julia can see that Livvy has small wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, some new freckles on her cheeks. The sun and Livvy don’t always mix, and Livvy always forgets to put on sunscreen. Julia has that old feeling of wanting to give Livvy advice, but Livvy isn’t a child anymore and Julia is no longer in a position to say anything.

She clears her throat. “You look good,” Julia says, and she means it. Livvy has always been good with clothes, has always had an eye for putting an outfit together. She’s wearing a sky-blue tailored shirt and slacks with heels, a chunky bracelet around her wrist. Livvy looks professional and, like Mark said, more grown up. Her usually wavy blond hair is straighter, falling neatly past her shoulders. Julia stares at her sister standing only a few feet away and resists the urge to step closer, to seal the gap between them.

“Thanks. You, too.” Livvy doesn’t look up. “You cut your hair.”

Julia touches her hair—she’s still getting used to it. “Yeah, it was a spur of the moment kind of thing.”

“It suits you.” Livvy sits down at her desk, pushes around some papers. She’s obviously flustered. She avoids eye contact with her sister.

Julia remains standing. She wishes she’d planned this better. She always pictured a confrontation charged with emotion, one outburst after another. Accusations. Apologies. More accusations. She hadn’t expected that it would be something else entirely, more warm and liquid, a desperate rush of longing that makes her want to burst into tears, to reach for Livvy.

But Livvy is looking everywhere but at Julia, clearly ill at ease.
Julia can’t think of what else to say, so she says, “Thanks for watching Gracie the other week. She had fun.”

“Yeah. I didn’t know if you knew. I just … Mark seemed like he was in a jam …”

“No, it worked out fine. Thank you.” Julia was surprised how it wasn’t as big of a deal as she thought it would be, her anger dissipating so quickly it was almost anticlimactic. “I mean, I was surprised at first …”

“Julia, why are you here?” Livvy looks at her, her gaze steady. Wary.

Julia clears her throat, adjusts her tote bag on her shoulder. “Well, the article that came out this morning …”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Livvy says. She’s defensive—there’s a touch of vehemence in her voice, a hard edge Julia has never heard before. “I helped with the research, but I had no idea Edie had talked with you. I’m in sales; not editorial.” Livvy’s message is clear:
It’s not my fault
.

Julia suddenly feels weary. Part of it is her bag, which is stuffed with who knows what. She keeps putting things in and forgetting to take things out. Right now it feels like it weighs a ton. She drops the bag into the chair and perches on the armrest, grateful for the reprieve. “I know. I’m not really all that bothered by it, though I wish she hadn’t printed my name.”

“I agree. I already yelled at Edie.”

“You did?” Julia hadn’t expected that, and yet she’s not surprised. She tries to smile.

Livvy gives a small nod, her eyes down. “It was completely inappropriate. But Edie’s a reporter, and she reports. That’s her excuse, anyway.” She picks at something on her keyboard, a frown on her face, her eyebrows furrowed.

For a second, Julia feels like she’s having an out-of-body experience. She’s watching herself trying to have a conversation with Livvy and it’s painful, strained. Livvy doesn’t seem the least bit interested in Julia, and Julia hadn’t expected that, hadn’t even considered that such
a thing could ever be possible. It’s all backward, with Julia being the one desperate for Livvy to see her, to say it’s okay. All the rage and fury Julia has carried around have transposed into a thinly veiled shimmer of resentment from Livvy, as fragile and brittle as fresh ice on a pond. Julia has run out of things to say and can’t move, afraid something might crack if she does.

Livvy regards her sister suspiciously. For five years she’s done her best to stay out of Julia’s way, to give her the space she’s asked for. For five long years, Livvy had hoped—prayed—for an opening that would let her back into Julia’s life.

But there was none. Julia hung up on her when she called, wouldn’t answer the door if Livvy were knocking. Letters were returned unopened. An accidental meeting in the grocery store or post office resulted in Julia abruptly turning on her heel and walking out, leaving Livvy to navigate through the clucks and disapproving stares.

There were moments when Livvy’s loneliness overwhelmed her. More than once she parked down the block from Gracie’s Montessori school so she could watch Julia pick up her daughter, catch a glimpse of her sister, her niece. She would have said anything, done anything, to seal the rift between them. Anything.

But now she’s not so sure. Maybe too much has happened. Julia has dealt her punishment and it’s worked—Livvy feels punished, has felt every terrible feeling Julia has wanted her to feel. She’s cried countless nights, has lost weight, hair, self-confidence. Tom talked about moving but Livvy wouldn’t, wouldn’t run from what she deserved.

But today, seeing her sister, Livvy thinks,
I’ve paid the price, Julia. In full
. She can’t quite say it, but she can tell Julia senses it, too. Livvy doesn’t know how it is she knows, doesn’t even know how you can measure such a thing. All she knows is that it’s over.

Julia fingers the strap of her bag. “So how are you?”

Is Julia lingering? Livvy shrugs, suspicious of Julia’s intentions and at the same time wanting to burst out with the news that she’s pregnant.
The doctor gave them a due date of January 8. Livvy knows it’s bad luck to tell people before passing the first trimester mark, but it’s been hard. Edie turned out to be much further along in her pregnancy, and even though Livvy knows it doesn’t make sense, she’s envious that Edie will have her baby first. Livvy is anxious that something could go wrong, and just wants the baby to be born as soon as possible, healthy and happy. It’s on the tip of her tongue to tell Julia everything, but she doesn’t.

“I’m okay” is all Livvy says.

“And Tom? He looks good in the picture.” Julia points to the framed photo on Livvy’s desk.

“Oh, yeah. We took that last year. Tenth anniversary.”

“It’s been ten already?” Julia looks stunned. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

What was Julia going to do, send a card? Livvy gives a shrug. “We just went out to dinner.” An expensive dinner with expensive champagne that Livvy wishes they could take back. A simple picnic in the living room would have been just as good, maybe even more romantic.

Julia seems to be struggling for something to say. Livvy looks at the old canvas tote bag sitting in the chair, looking like it’s stuffed with library books or bricks. The bag is faded and worn, but Livvy suddenly recognizes it. “Is that the bag we got in Evanston?” she asks. “At the lighthouse?”

Julia looks down at the bag as if seeing it for the first time. “I guess so.”

It had been Livvy’s idea to go. Josh had just turned eight, the minimum age for visitors at the Grosse Point Lighthouse. She thought he would love it so she proposed a road trip—her, Julia, and Josh. The husbands had to work and she convinced Julia to let Josh play hooky from school, a belated birthday present in which Livvy would do all the driving and take them to lunch at Merle’s Smokehouse where a surprise birthday cake would be waiting.

Josh counted each of the 141 steps that got them to the top of the lighthouse, then gaped at the view of Lake Michigan.

“ ‘Built in 1873,’ ” he’d read. He turned to look at Livvy and Julia,
his face awash in excitement. It was 2001. “That means it’s almost a hundred and twenty-eight years old!”

They had been amazed at Josh’s math, which wasn’t one of his strong suits. And yet there he was, adding and subtracting years as they read through the history of the lighthouse, figuring out when the area was first charted, when the construction of the lighthouse finally began, the years of service of various lighthouse keepers.

When it was finally time to leave, Livvy bought them each a souvenir from the vendor stationed outside—a magnet for herself, a lighthouse snow globe for Josh, an oversized tote bag with vertical blue stripes for Julia.

“Really, do you think you’ll have enough room for all your things?” Livvy had joked as she paid.

“There’s nothing wrong with having a little extra storage,” Julia said defensively. Livvy could see that she was already in love with the bag. “We can take it with us on future road trips, right, Josh? Maybe visit some more lighthouses around the lake?” There was something like 116 lighthouses in total.

Josh had pumped his fist in the air. “Can I skip school again?”

Julia laughed. “We’ll see.”