One Week In December (31 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: One Week In December
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55
It was late, about eleven o'clock on Christmas night. Becca was sprawled on the couch. She had been doing a lot of sprawling since morning. How many calories had she consumed that day—five thousand? Six thousand? Rain, next to her and wearing her new boots with her nightgown, seemed to be faring better, if her upright posture was any indication of easy digestion.
The two women had the living room to themselves. Everyone had gone off to bed. Becca felt too full to sleep. Rain, she suspected, was simply too psyched about her new boots.
“Something really weird went on here this week,” Rain said then. “I don't know what it was, but I'm so glad it's over. Everyone was acting so uptight.”
That was one word for it, Becca thought. Uptight. “Like I told you the other day,” she said, “adults are an odd lot. And someday soon, you'll be one of us.”
Rain made a face. “Lucky me. Well, maybe I'll be different. Maybe I won't be so odd. Maybe I'll be the first really normal adult!”
I hope so,
Becca thought.
I hope you'll be happy and honest and fulfilled. I hope that you will find true and lasting love. I hope that you won't have one single regret. But I know that you probably will.
“So,” she asked, “are you still thinking of legally changing your name when you turn eighteen?”
Rain mused for a moment. “No,” she said then, “I don't think so. It's kind of grown on me. It's actually kind of a pretty name. Rain Julia Rowan.”
Becca smiled. “Well,” she said, “I've always thought so.”
“You know,” Rain said suddenly, “whenever I'm mad at my mom I think how cool it would have been if you were my mom instead.”
Becca felt light-headed. It cost her much to keep a tremble out of her voice. “I don't think I've ever seen you mad at your mother,” she said. “Not really mad, anyway.”
Rain rolled her eyes. “Oh, she can drive me pretty crazy. Like when she insists I be home by nine when everyone else can stay out until eleven? I mean, come on! It's very embarrassing.”
Becca fought back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. Glad of the low light in the room, she reached over and took Rain's hand in her own.
“Listen to me, Rain. Your mom is the one with all the hard work to do, you know. She's the bad cop to my good cop. It's easy being an aunt. I get to have all the fun.” Somehow, she managed a smile. “Besides, I can be pretty unbearable on occasion.”
Rain laughed. “Oh, I can't imagine that!”
“Trust me,” Becca said, sitting back and letting go of her daughter's hand. “You have no idea. If—if I were your mother, there'd be times when you'd wish Naomi were instead.”
“I guess,” Rain admitted. “You're the best, Aunt Becca, really. Every girl should be as lucky as I am.”
“Yeah. You are pretty lucky. Just don't let it go to your head.”
Rain laughed again. “You sound like my father now!”
Yes. She did sound like David. Her brother. And Rain's father.
“It's the Rowan bossiness,” she said lightly. “We've all inherited some of it.”
56
Wednesday, December 27
 
It was the morning of December twenty-seventh. James and Olivia were out in front of the house, packing up the car for the trip home to Framingham, Massachusetts.
Becca was in the den, tidying her things in preparation for her own departure the next day, when she came across the card from her old friend Molly. She smiled. Only days ago Molly's desire to catch up with Becca had worried her. Now she didn't see Molly's desire for renewed communication as suspicious. She saw it as friendly.
Becca returned the card to her briefcase. Still, she didn't feel that she was ready to reach out to her old friend, not yet, anyway. But she was glad that Molly had made the gesture. It seemed like some sort of benevolent sign.
So much could happen in one week, Becca thought. So much could change in the blink of an eye. The course of a life could so easily be changed to a path unimagined. And sometimes, that path was smoother and wider than the bumpy, narrow path you had been trudging along in the first place.
Becca left the den and joined the others outside, gathered around James and Olivia's SUV. Alex, she saw, was striding toward the house to pay his farewells as well.
“It's been one heck of a few days,” David said to her with a grin.
“A few days?” Becca laughed. “You mean we haven't been in this house screaming and yelling at each other for months?”
“It does feel that way, doesn't it?” Naomi added.
“I feel,” David said, “like a prisoner being let out of jail after years of compulsive communal living—with hyenas.”
“That's not how I'd put it,” Naomi said now. “I feel it was as if we were all plants just about to bloom and someone decided to force the process by putting us into a hothouse. And then, within the space of a few days' time—combustion! Bloom! Everything hidden was finally thrust out in the open. It was chaos for a while and then it was calm and beautiful.”
David grimaced. “Or something like that.”
Naomi swatted her husband's arm. “I never claimed to be a poet. Anyway, I'm just happy it's over. Not the vacation part, but the explosion part.”
“It was like being in a pressure cooker,” Becca said, watching Alex drawing closer over the snow. The thought suddenly reminded her of how much she loved a rich and hearty stew, and her mind conjured an image of sitting by a roaring fire and sharing a bowl with a shaggy-haired man with piercing blue eyes and a sexy way about him. . . . Oh, my God, Becca thought. Was that just a winter fantasy?
Alex stomped up to the family just then. Becca couldn't bother to hide the smile that came to her face at the nearness of him. When he reached her side he gave her hand a squeeze. A kiss in front of the other Rowans would have been premature. Becca knew that, but she was longing for him to grab her in a passionate embrace. She vowed to waylay him later. If she was going to try to change her life for the better, she was going to do it the way she did everything—with gusto.
“Oh, there goes Mr. Pollen,” Nora said, squinting off into the distance. As he came closer to the house, the Rowans could see that he was dragging a makeshift sled on which sat a very large—thing. Nora wasn't entirely sure but she guessed the lumpy, bulgy, brown thing was composed of pinecones.
“What the hell is that?” David said, and Becca thought he sounded genuinely horrified.
“Language in front of the boys, David.”
“Dad, that man looks like a serial killer.”
“Michael!” Naomi whispered. “What a horrible thing to say about someone!”
Michael shrugged. “Christian says the janitor at school looks like a serial killer. That man with the sled looks kind of like the janitor.”
“He does not,” his brother protested. “Besides, you don't even know what a serial killer is. And if you don't know what a serial killer is, then how can you know what he looks like!”
“I do, too, know what a serial killer is!”
“Boys! Enough!” Naomi frowned. “I'm having a word with that Christian's mother. Selling Pop-Tarts to his classmates. Calling the school janitor a serial killer. I can imagine what else he's up to.”
“Oh, boy,” Lily said. She raised her hand to shade her eyes as she watched the neighbor's progress across the snowy field. “I so hope he doesn't have another—gift—for us.”
But Mr. Pollen and his sled continued on.
“Oh, no,” Alex said. “It looks like he's headed for my place. Can I stay here tonight?”
“No,” Nora said. “If we can brave Mr. Pollen, so can you.”
James and Olivia said their good-byes quickly. Becca thought they were probably, and understandably, eager to be alone, and eager to begin the difficult work on their marriage. As James pulled out of the driveway, Julie called after them.
“Everyone meet back here for Easter! We'll have a fresh ham and a carrot cake and we'll all go on an Easter egg hunt!”
James waved in response and the rest of the Rowan family watched as he and Olivia drove down the southbound road.
“I hope they'll be okay,” Lily said.
I hope Olivia starts to color her hair,
Becca added silently, and, she was aware, uncharitably.
“Yes,” Julie said. “I hope so, too.”
She and Steve turned back to the house, herding the twins along with them. Rain and Lily followed closed behind.
Nora looked at the slim silver watch on her left wrist. It had been a gift from her husband on their twentieth wedding anniversary and when she died, it would go to whichever granddaughter would cherish it most. “Well,” she said, “it's getting close to lunchtime. I'd better go in and help Julie. Oh,” she added, with a sly grin at both Alex and David, “and I think I've got one last cinnamon roll tucked away in the kitchen. In case someone needs a snack to tide him over.”
Alex's hand shot up in the air. “Dibs!”
“No fair,” David cried. “You live next door. You can get those rolls anytime.”
Alex frowned. “Okay, okay, we'll split it.”
Becca grinned. Naomi, too. They watched the guys go into the house, trotting after Nora like two puppies being led to the bowl of kibble.
“I think,” Becca said, “that we're witnessing the start of a beautiful friendship.”
Naomi laughed and linked her arm with her sister-in-law's. “The start of more than one beautiful friendship.”
 
*You have been writing books for some years now. Were you always interested in writing?
 
Yes, I suppose I was, though I've always been more interested in reading the work of others. I still am. I read all the time. The owner of my local independent bookstore loves me. I visit him at least once a week and say, “Chris, what do you recommend?” Invariably, I leave with an armload of books. It would be cheaper to frequent the library, but I have a need to keep books with me.
 
*What sort of books do you like to read?
 
I read lots of fiction but also a fair amount of nonfiction, especially biographies and historical studies. I very much enjoy rereading favorite books, especially when I'm blocked with my own work. I don't understand the term ‘used books'; it seems to imply that books that have been read once are somehow less valuable than books that haven't been read at all. Aren't books meant to be read and reread and read yet again? I don't really like borrowing books from friends, though, because then I can't write in them. It's the same problem with books from the library.
 
*Who are some of your favorite writers of fiction?
 
Peter Ackroyd is at the top of the list. I also love Patrick McGrath and Graham Swift, and have just discovered—thanks to Chris at the bookstore—a wonderful young writer from Maine, where I live, named Ron Currie, Jr.
 
*Describe as best you can your writing process.
 
For me, the entire process of writing a novel is incredibly painful! First comes the germ of an idea, and it can come from just about any place—a random bit of overheard conversation or a bit of poetry I happen upon, even a passing mood. Then, I start to write around the germ—thoughts, questions to myself—and hope that during this process a basic story will show itself. That completed, I face the difficult task of growing the story into a more detailed outline. Of course, as the chapters come about, the outline undergoes change for the better. I see many more possibilities than I did starting out. I am always surprised by the finished product.
 
*In
One Week in December
several characters debate the importance of family history. How important is your family's heritage to you?
 
Very important, actually. My father has spent years researching our ancestors and has compiled an impressive—and very detailed!—history of us all, dating back to the eighteenth century, in both Ireland and Germany. I find it moving to read the old documents—birth and death certificates, immigration papers—and to look at the old photographs he's unearthed. I feel that somehow these ancestors are being honored by our interest in their lives. Now, whether all of them deserve to be honored, we'll never know!
 
*Also in
One Week in December
you have several young characters acknowledge the wisdom of elders. Do you really believe that with age comes wisdom?
 
If you're lucky, yes, wisdom will come with age. And if you keep your eyes open. And it doesn't hurt to be sort of smart to begin with. Personally, I'm a bit less of an idiot every year, but I do know some older people who are still making the same mistakes they've made for years—and they don't show any signs of stopping!
 
*You write a lot about the relationships between parents and children, particularly those between mothers and daughters. Do you have children of your own?
 
No, but I do have a mother and she lives just down the block! I often receive e-mails and letters from readers who are mothers and who thank me for perfectly expressing their feelings about their children and about their own mothers. I am lucky to have a largely sympathetic and empathetic imagination and am very interested in the lives of other people. I'm a good listener.
 
*And cats do appear with some frequency in your work . . .
 
I am a cat lady. I am happy to admit to that.
 
*You also write often about forgiveness. Why is this one of your central concerns?
 
Because I firmly believe that one of the noblest things we can do in this too short life is to forgive. Real forgiveness isn't easy but it is worth every effort. Judge not lest you be judged. Of course, there are limits to this.
 
*You were born and raised in New York City. How did you wind up in Maine?
 
It's a simple answer—I fell in love. Isn't that how a lot of people wind up in places they never dreamed they would be? I hasten to say that I love Maine and since moving here in 2003 have met and become friends with some of the best people I've ever known. Plus, there's a lot of good local cheese.
 
*Cheese is important to you?
 
Yes. My husband is a fantastic cook and most of our friends are as food obsessed as we are. Living in Maine allows us access to fresh ingredients—from seafood to produce to meats—pretty much all year round.
 
*If you could be given a talent you don't possess, what would it be?
 
I would love to have the ability to paint. I love art and especially painting. It seems like magic to me, but that's because I can't draw a straight line.

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