Silver Girl (53 page)

Meredith felt like she was waiting for something. She thought perhaps she was waiting for Freddy to die. He would be murdered by the Russian mob, or he would do the job himself by eating rat poison or slicing his wrists with a shiv. Prison officials would find a scrap of paper next to his bed with a single letter on it. The letter M.

And then, one afternoon, there was a thump on the front porch, and Meredith, who was on the sofa in front of the fire reading a Penelope Lively novel, sat straight up.

Call 911?
she thought. Or Ed Kapenash’s cell phone?

She tiptoed to the front of the house. The sun was hanging low in the sky, casting a mellow autumn glow across the front porch.

A package.

Meredith was suspicious.
Bomb,
she thought.
Crate of rattlesnakes. Raw sewage.
She stepped out onto the porch and, without touching the box, looked at the label.

It was from Toby. And then, Meredith realized that it was October twenty-third, and that the next day was her birthday.

She lugged the package inside. She knew she should save it for the following day, but her life had been devoid of small, happy surprises like this one for so long that she went ahead and opened it.

It was a record player. A pearlescent blue Bakelite record player with a black rubber turntable and an extension cord snaking out the back. It had a grooved white plastic knob, off/on, volume one through ten. She plugged it in. Would it work? Meredith ran upstairs and grabbed her Simon and Garfunkel album, which until that moment had been as useful as a pocketful of Confederate money. She dashed downstairs and put the record on the turntable. She turned the knob and a tiny red light came on and Meredith lowered the arm until the needle fit in the groove of the first song.

The song filled the house; the music had that crackling, staticky sound that Meredith remembered from childhood. Meredith turned the music up as loud as it would go, which was, surprisingly, pretty darn loud. Meredith braced herself against Connie’s beautiful kitchen counter. As the operatic strains of the song progressed through the verses, she felt something happening to her chest, her head, her face.

Sail on Silvergirl,

Sail on by

Your time has come to shine

All your dreams are on their way

There was a slow burning in her eyes, a buzzing in her nose, and then, her cheeks were wet.

She was astonished. She felt like she was standing at the refrigerator watching herself.
Look, Meredith’s crying!
Then she let go. She sobbed and wailed and gasped for breath. She took off her glasses and set them on the counter. She didn’t care how out of control she was; no one was around to hear her. She thought of Ashlyn’s swollen belly, and she thought that these tears had been gestating in her for a long, long time.

See how they shine

Oh, if you need a friend, I’m sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind

Meredith Martin Delinn was crying. Her tears were coming from someplace old and far away. They were coming from the beginning of this story—the uneaten lobster roll, the weekly poker games, the driving lessons in the Villanova parking lot. Meredith was crying because she missed her father. It was the pain that never went away.

Tomorrow was her fiftieth birthday.

When the song was over, Meredith did the only thing she could do. She picked up the arm of the record player, and she started the song again.

Some books are tougher than others; this one was very tough. I have to start by thanking my editor, Reagan Arthur, for her wise direction in revising this novel. Also, the brilliant and compassionate team at Inkwell Management, led by two of my favorite men in all the world, Michael Carlisle and David Forrer. Thanks also to Lauren Smythe and Kristen Palmer, whose input was invaluable.

I wouldn’t have gotten a word written without my nanny, Stephanie McGrath, who covered for me in all ways with my three kids, and who bestowed her radiant smile on our household. Thank you, again, to Anne and Whitney Gifford for use of the house on Barnabas, my refuge, and to my mother, Sally Hilderbrand, for allowing me to come home and live like a moody teenager in my childhood bedroom while I revised this novel. Thank you to Anne Fitzgerald and Laurie Richards for always making me look good.

For shining their light on my life in any number of different ways, I’d like to thank Rebecca Bartlett, Elizabeth and Beau Almodobar, Richard Congdon, Wendy Hudson and Randy “Manskills” Hudson, Shelly and Roy Weedon, Evelyn(!) and Matthew MacEachern, Jill and Paul Surprenant (couldn’t have done Little League without you!), Wendy Rouillard and Illya Kagan, Mark, Eithne, and Michaela Yelle, Jennifer and Norman Frazee, John Bartlett, Rocky Fox (for constantly replacing my gold card)), and Heidi and Fred Holdgate (the pool is my happy place). To my darlings whom I don’t see nearly enough: Margie and Chuck Marino, Debbie Bennett (33!), Manda and West Riggs, David Rattner and Andrew Law, John and Nancy Swayne, Tal and Jonnie Smith (who taught me a lobster dinner should always be followed by blueberry pie), Fred and Irene Shabel, Tim and Mary Schoettle, Bob and Mindy Rich (Happy 70
^th
, Bubba!), Catherine Ashby, and Sean and Milena Lennon (Freo forever!).

Among other things, this book is about my late father, Robert H. Hilderbrand Jr. I’d like to thank those people in my family who keep his laughter and loving memories alive: my stepmother, Judith Hilderbrand Thurman, my brothers Eric Hilderbrand and Douglas Hilderbrand, my stepbrother Randall Osteen, and my best friend in all the world whose over-the-top joyful energy and belief in me keep me going, my stepsister, Heather Osteen Thorpe. A huge hug goes out to Duane Thurman for captaining the ship and keeping us on course.

Last, I’d like to thank my husband, Chip Cunningham, who skillfully and compassionately dealt with the parts of author-under-stress-of-deadline that no one else sees, and my three children who are the coolest people I know: Maxwell, Dawson, and Shelby.