One Week In December (3 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: One Week In December
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“Treasure,” Lily suggested, only half joking. “I bet she thinks there's treasure buried somewhere in the attic walls.”
Julie removed the place settings she'd put out for her oldest daughter and her husband. “I think she's looking for answers. But I'm not sure to which questions.”
“Skeletons! Every family supposedly has skeletons in their closets. Maybe Olivia's looking for scandalous secrets.”
“Well, she won't find any evidence of scandalous secrets in a pile of old junk,” Julie said.
The three women quietly finished setting the table for dinner. The tablecloth was a cheerful affair Julie had picked up at Marshalls on her last visit to Boston; it was decorated with images of massive red poinsettias and bordered with lacy, intertwining pine branches. The napkins, large white squares, were embroidered around the edges with depictions of holly clusters. The fact that they were still brilliantly white amazed Lily. Laundry wasn't one of her strong suits. And the thought of ironing made her squirm. She had heard that in “the old days,” some women actually ironed their husbands' underwear and their babies' cloth diapers. Well, disposable diapers had solved one problem, but there was no way the ironing of underwear was going to happen in her household!
“Whatever happened to the idea of James and Olivia adopting a baby?” Lily asked suddenly, prompted by the thought of diapers. “Wasn't there some talk about that a year or two ago? Or am I imagining it?”
“You're not imagining it,” Lily's mother replied. “James spoke to me about the possibility once or twice, after it was clear that Olivia wasn't going to be able to sustain a pregnancy. But then, I heard nothing more. And it's not a topic I feel comfortable bringing up, especially with someone as—tense—as Olivia.”
“Of course not. I was just wondering.”
“That woman can be prickly,” Nora said, as if to herself. Then: “Well, I'd better tend to the cinnamon rolls if they're going to be ready for dinner. You know how David likes my cinnamon rolls.”
Yes, thought Lily with yet another sigh. And Cliff, the love of her life, had liked Nora's cinnamon rolls, too.
3
“Are we there yet?”
“Are we there yet?”
David didn't reply. Why the boys thought it so hysterically funny to drive their father to the brink of insanity by chanting that question—in unison—over and over and over again, David just didn't know. He knew the reference. Michael and Malcolm had picked it up from
The Simpsons.
He just didn't know why they should find it so funny. David, it had been pointed out to him, didn't have a great sense of humor.
“Okay, guys,” he said wearily. “I get it.”
“There's nothing to get, Dad!”
The boys laughed and were on to another pastime, this one less annoying to their father. David peered in the rearview mirror to see their brown and blond heads bent over some sort of comic book. Or something. David hoped it had been printed on recycled paper.
David Rowan, thirty-eight years old, was the second child and only son of Steve and Julie Rowan. He worked for the state of New Hampshire as a geological engineer; his primary concern was preservation of the environment, and he could preach about the joys of greening for as long as someone would let him. And few people had the energy to stand up to or resist David Rowan once he got going. His personality was forceful and dynamic. And as the only boy of the Rowan family, he was also a bit spoiled (though he would deny that) and used to being “special.” Still, David was a good guy, someone people naturally turned to in a crisis.
David glanced quickly at his wife of seventeen years, seated in the passenger seat beside him. Naomi Henley-Rowan was also thirty-eight. They'd met while still in college and had married just before David started graduate school. After all the years together, David still found Naomi to be beautiful, inside and out. He knew he was very lucky to have found her and he tried very hard to let her know how deeply he appreciated her loving him back. At least, he hoped he did. David knew that he could—on rare occasions—be a bit of a stubborn jerk.
Naomi, sensing her husband's glance, smiled at him. She noted for what was likely the millionth time his long, dark eyelashes. Though she would never admit to being bowled over by so frivolous a thing as eyelashes, she had been bowled over from the moment she first saw David in their sophomore year in college. After a while, of course, she'd been attracted to the strength and goodness of his character, but those long dark eyelashes still could work their magic.
Naomi was a busy, productive woman. She had a potter's wheel on which she made planters and bowls and mugs that she sold on consignment at a small local store specializing in local handmade goods. She tended a thriving vegetable garden that provided a good portion of the family's produce, and she had recently learned how to put up preserves. One afternoon a week she was the library's Storytime reader, a project she enjoyed more so as her own children were past the point of wanting to be read to by their mother. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she worked as a salesperson at a family-owned and -operated hardware store in town.
Naomi dressed to fit her lifestyle, in jeans or chinos or cords, topped off by loose-fitting blouses or T-shirts. She tended to wear sturdy sandals well into the autumn, with socks when the temperature dipped below 45 degrees; in winter she replaced them with standard L.L. Bean boots. Still, she wasn't averse to the very occasional evening out in Portsmouth at a decent restaurant that served the kind of wine she would never dream of buying at home—expensive—and delicacies such as duck liver pâte, even if it meant shunning the usual footwear for one of her two pairs of high heels. On these rare occasions, Rain took pleasure in teasing her mother about her usual ultracasual wear; she also helped Naomi with her makeup, which Naomi appreciated since she had virtually no skill in that department.
Naomi looked over her shoulder. Rain sat slouched against the door of the seat just behind her father, listening to her iPod, mouthing words Naomi was glad she couldn't make out. Rain had the Rowan family eyes—large, slanted slightly upward—and they were a very distinctive shade, a mix of green and brown, a color shared by Steve and Becca. In fact, from her chestnut brown hair to her lanky frame, Rain looked all Rowan, almost as if there had been no other set of DNA involved in her making. Sometimes, this unsettled Naomi.
It was hard to believe Rain had been their daughter now for sixteen years. Naomi could remember with great clarity the moment she had carried the little bundle of pink baby and blanket over the threshold of their small, clapboard farmhouse—a mini version of the one David's parents now lived in—and officially welcomed her home.
Naomi had always wanted a family, and Rain's arrival, though quite unexpected, was for her a joy. For David, too. He'd risen to the occasion as he always did—David was nothing if not responsible and proud of it—and taken on the role of adoring father.
Rain hadn't yet begun to date in any serious way, for which Naomi was glad and David even gladder. Naomi pitied the first boy who would come to their door to pick up Rain for a movie or party. David would intimidate him; there was no doubt about that. If her husband was a bit of a throwback to the age of manly men whose primary job it was to protect the women in his life, then so be it. He could be a lot of worse things, like an alcoholic or a criminal, someone like that guy Becca had gotten involved with all those years ago. . . .
“Mom! Michael poked me!”
“I did not! Anyway, you looked at me.”
“I'm allowed to look at you. Right, Mom?”
“Looking is allowed, Malcolm.”
“See? I told you so.”
Naomi rolled her eyes into the darkened sky. The boys were a proverbial handful, but Naomi got a real kick out of their antics. Most of their antics, anyway. They were high-spirited rather than unpleasantly willful, with Michael more the ringleader and Malcolm more his willing follower. Twins ran in Naomi's family—two of her cousins had had twins and her mother had been one of two girls—so neither she nor David had been surprised when the doctor had first detected two heartbeats. Sure, the family budget had to be reimagined a bit, but so far, Naomi felt that they'd been very lucky, blessed even.
She had three wonderful children. She lived in a lovely little town in a sweet little house. She did work she enjoyed. And best of all, she had a husband who loved her as much as she loved him. In Naomi's admittedly prejudiced opinion, she and David were quite a team.
Naomi knew she was a good foil to David's somewhat domineering style; she could subtly reign him in when they were with company and David began to pontificate or control the conversation. He didn't mean to offend or alienate people; he just had a firm belief in the sense and truth of what he had to say. To be honest, most of what David stated was reasonable and intelligent; it was just that his manner could turn off his listeners and, on occasion, even his wife.
A memory came to Naomi's mind just then. Early on in their relationship David had taken her home to meet his parents. Naomi had been nervous, of course, but Julie and Steve were casual and welcoming and before long, she'd felt right at home with the older Rowans. Still, during dinner, when David had launched into a rant against his parents' ignorance on matters concerning the environment—a rant, Naomi came to learn, that was largely unjustified—and Julie had castigated her son, calling him “an arrogant jerk,” Naomi had been shocked. After dinner, while the women were cleaning up (that was Naomi's first indication that the division of labor in the Rowan house ran along pretty traditional lines), Julie had given her future daughter-in-law some advice. “If you don't talk back to him and point out his inappropriate behavior,” she'd explained, “he'll simply become unbearable. Besides, once you let him know he's out of line, he always tries to step back in. He really is a good boy.” Naomi supposed that was true; after his mother's scolding at dinner, David had been almost docile, even sweet. That mood had lasted all the way home.
Naomi's parents had died long before she met David, leaving her not only an orphan, but also one without siblings. She was grateful for the Rowans, glad to be part of the family that had embraced her warmly from the beginning. In truth, the Rowans were pretty easy to like. Most of them were, anyway.
Everyone got along well with Steve; he was as inoffensive a person as Naomi had ever met. What he had been like in his law practice she had trouble imagining. Given his financial success and his stellar reputation, no doubt he had been tough, smart, and dogged.
And Julie. Naomi got along very well with her mother-in-law; she and Julie were quite similar in several ways. They were both devoted to their family, both practical women, hardworking and generally easygoing. And, of course, the secret they shared served as a further bond between them.
Her relationship with her sister-in-law Olivia wasn't quite so close or so smooth, but honestly, Naomi couldn't think of one person other than Olivia's husband, James, who really got along well with her. Even Olivia's parents seemed at times to tiptoe around their oldest daughter. Olivia had definitely changed since Naomi had first met her, when she and David were dating in college. Now she seemed rarely to smile; she seemed to have lost what little sense of humor she'd had back then. But Naomi didn't spend inordinate amounts of time worrying about her sister-in-law's disposition. For all she knew, Olivia was a ball of fire when alone with her husband or out with her girlfriends. Well, she doubted it, but anything was possible.
From the sudden and unusual quiet of the backseat came Michael's voice.
“Are we there yet?”
A half second later, Malcolm said, “Are we there yet?”
“Yeah, Dad.” It was Rain, unplugged. “Are we?”
Naomi grinned at her husband. “Well, David? Are we?”
4
Becca made only clinical note of the surroundings—dark, velvety sky strewn with bright pinpoints of cold, clear light; fresh, crispy air; the encouraging smell of a wood fire—as she hauled her luggage from the trunk of her car and then, laptop slung across her chest and briefcase on her shoulder, she stumbled through falling snow to the front door of the house she hadn't visited in over a year.
As she drew nearer to the house, L.L. Bean boots now replacing her driving moccasins, she heard sounds of laughter from within, laughter and a familiar booming voice. She hadn't noticed David's SUV—he must have parked in back—but there was no mistaking that voice. David was announcing his presence to the world, as was his very annoying habit.
Through one of the living room windows she could see her sister-in-law, Naomi, still in her coat. The family must have just arrived.
Preoccupied, Becca jumped when the front door swung open and her mother came dashing out—wearing no coat, only a sweater—to greet her. Julie loved the cold weather.
“Becca! Come in, come in! It's so good to see you. Here, let me help you with those bags.” Julie reached for her daughter and Becca backed away.
“No, Mom,” she said, “it's okay, I've got them.”
“Don't be silly.” Julie grabbed the briefcase from Becca's shoulder. “Give me that. Lord, what's in here, bricks?”
“Just some stuff for work.”
“Now, don't tell me you're going to be working all week. It's Christmas!”
There was no point in arguing; it was the same old refrain. Becca, you work too hard. Mom, it's my job and I like it. But you know what they say about all work and no play. But I like it. But. But. But.
Julie turned and led the way into the house. Becca rolled her eyes behind her mother's back. Wasn't Julie too old—or something—to be wearing her hair in a braid down her back? Couldn't she at least wind it on top of her head? Why a swinging braid of thick, graying hair should so infuriate her, Becca didn't care to examine.
Once inside, she was met with the usual chaos of arrival. Greetings were shared; coats were removed and passed along to the coatrack in the front hall; bags were tumbled at the foot of the stairs. It was all as usual. It made Becca feel very uncomfortable and she stood for a moment, silent and stiff, until her younger sister approached her.
“Hi, Becca.” Lily gave her sister a weak and awkward hug.
“So, how's school?” Becca said by way of greeting.
“Fine.” Lily shrugged. “You know.”
“When do you graduate?”
“Next June.”
“Huh,” she said. “Time flies.” What now? “And what are you planning to do after graduation?”
“Going to law school,” Lily replied. “If I get into one.”
“I'm sure your grades are fine,” Becca said, though she had no knowledge whatsoever of her younger sister's academic track record. In fact, Becca realized that she had no knowledge of just about anything having to do with Lily. In fact, if she turned away from her sister at that very moment, she doubted she could tell you the color of her eyes. Becca looked—really looked—and noted that Lily's eyes were cow brown, like their mother's. Those eyes must have come from her mother's side of the family, from the Dobbs family. She would try to remember that. If she remembered to remember.
Lily turned to answer a question posed by her mother, and Becca found herself receiving a quick, one-armed hug from her brother. And then he was off, lifting an enormous duffel bag and heading for the stairs.
“Hey to you, too, David,” she mumbled to his back.
Naomi came close and smiled her familiar, genuine smile. “It's so good to see you, Becca,” she said.
Naomi meant it. She was happy to see her sister-in-law. She was incapable of guile. Her sincerity upset Becca. It was much more difficult to confront a nice person than a nasty one.
Michael and Malcolm tore out of the kitchen, each clutching a cookie, raced through the living room, and made for the stairs to the second floor.
“Boys!” Naomi called. “Say hello to your aunt!”
Something was shouted over their shoulders. It sufficed for Becca. If the truth were to be told, the twins meant virtually nothing to her. She certainly didn't hate them, but neither did she love them. When they were out of sight, they were out of mind. Even now, greeting the boys, she felt surprise at their existence. She felt vaguely bad about this but not bad enough to attempt a closer relationship. Besides, she got the distinct feeling that Michael and Malcolm weren't all that interested in her, either.
Becca turned to her grandmother now, and gave her a slightly awkward hug. Nora felt frailer than Becca remembered. It had been only a year since she'd last seen her grandmother. Could so much have changed in a year? Of course. Why not? Time was not a friend.
“How are you, Grandma?” Becca asked, though if there were something wrong with Nora, her grandmother would be the last to talk about it. Nora was as close to stoic as anyone Becca had ever known.
“Just fine,” she said. “And you, Becca?”
“Fine. Great.” Becca knew that Nora hadn't believed her response, which was, even to her own ears, meaningless.
Then, a girl of sixteen came loping into the living room from the direction of the kitchen at the back of the house. She was tall and lanky, with long chestnut brown hair and the Rowan eyes. She was dressed fashionably but appropriately for her age—Naomi would have seen to that; no bared midriff—in medium-rise jeans and a striped wool hoodie.
Becca wondered if she had been as pretty at sixteen as Rain was, so fresh and unspoiled. The answer was that yes, she had been. And then, she had not.
“Hi, Aunt Becca!” the girl called.
Aunt. The word tugged painfully at Becca's heart. She was flooded by the all too familiar feelings of loss and regret—and worst of all, guilt. Rain's eyes, so like her own, so not like Naomi's . . .
Yes,
she thought.
My resolve is firm.
“Hi, Rain,” she said, stepping forward to greet the girl. Then Becca took her daughter in her arms and hugged her.

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