The Beresfords (36 page)

Only the theme to the ESPN Sports Update roused them. Mom struggled up from the couch, saying, “Lord, I forgot all about putting the crescent rolls in the toaster oven. Eric, did you want to stay for dinner?”

His gazed flicked to me and away again. “That’s so nice of you, but I’ve got a business dinner I have to be at.”

“Tomorrow, then,” urged Bill.

“Thank you.” He hesitated. “And I thought maybe tomorrow afternoon I might take Frannie and the kids to see this Cherry Pie Festival I’ve been hearing about, if that’s all right with you.”

Mom’s response was drowned out by Robbie’s and Jamie’s screeching delight. I felt a twitch of my old resentment. Wasn’t that just like him, to get his way by winning over and manipulating those around me? It didn’t last, however. I’d spent too many weeks with no one but the Dawes’ for company. Too many weeks hungering for my other family and all I knew and loved. And, to be honest, his flattery warmed me. That Eric Grant should see me here, at my least appealing, and still want to spend time with me—

He could tell from my face that he had won, and a smile spread over his. “Noon, then? And we could get something for lunch there? My treat.”

Robbie and Jamie each had a hold of my arms and were jumping up and down. “Say yes, Frannie! Please! Please! Say yes!”

What could I do?

I said yes.

He dragged the picnic table into partial shade because the thermometer was climbing into the high 80s.
Unsticking
my sweating elbow from the checked vinyl tablecloth, I waved to Robbie and Jamie, in line for the potato-sack slide. My sister had yellow, Ronald-McDonald corners to her mouth from the mustard on her corn dog. She was in heaven. No less thrilled was Robbie. Every thirty seconds or so, he pulled the Formula One trading card Eric gave him from the pocket of his shorts and inspected it anew.

“How was your business dinner last night?”

“I didn’t have one,” said Eric. “I just thought it would be weird to drop by at dinner time like I was expecting a free meal.”

“You only delayed it. They were willing enough to invite you.”

“They’re very friendly.”

My brother and sister were halfway to the top of the stairs. Eric gave them the thumbs-up. “How have you been, Frannie? I think you’re a little paler than the last time I saw you. Not that you don’t look well—you do. But you’re paler, and you might even be thinner.”

This was as good as it got. My clothes were clean today and my hair curled, though I could feel it wilting in the heat. I coached myself that morning that I would not be gauche and awkward with him. I would put my best foot forward, that Eric Grant could report back on my stunning maturity and Uncle Paul would relent.

So I was sorry to hear myself bleat, “I miss home.” I felt his eyes on me, but I kept mine trained on the kids. “I mean—I mean that it’s been—hard—to come live with people I really didn’t know. Not that they’re not nice. They are. But it’s weird. I thought my mom—I don’t know her any better than when I came. What she thinks—if she’s glad to see me again or resentful. I don’t know what she thinks about anything, really.” Even as I said the words I felt my insides contract in dismay. Only two months of exile, and I was making a confidant of Eric Grant?

For a minute neither one of us spoke. Maybe he was as uncomfortable as I was. I half-expected him to crack a joke.

He didn’t. “That’s rough,” he said.

I straightened up and stirred the ice in my lemonade. For sure I didn’t want sympathy. Sympathy might bring tears. “Tell me—” I started over. “How is everyone? Caroline is so stingy with the details.” After her first letter, she had only written me once more, despite three on my
part. Her second answered none of my questions and managed to say very little at all. There wasn’t even the perfunctory hello from Jonathan.

He might have read my mind because he said, “She’s been really busy. Her orientation’s in a couple weeks, but she’s already been networking and studying God-knows-what. I’ve hardly seen her.”

“Have you seen anyone else?” I prompted. “Tom or my aunt and uncle or—or Jonathan?”

“Tom hardly at all. The guy never returns phone calls. If I get Marcy, she says he’s not home or he’s sleeping or something. She might have murdered him and hidden the body, for all I know. I’ve had a few lunches with your uncle—to talk business,” he added quickly, seeing my question forming. “That is—he didn’t bring you up. I ask each time if he’s heard from you and how you’re doing, and it’s always, ‘She’s doing fine. Colorado is good for her.’ He must talk to your mom or something.”

My shoulders slumped. Either he talked to my mom or he didn’t want to know how I was doing, or he didn’t care.

“Jonny, though,” Eric went on, recapturing my attention, “I see him every week. The Bible study, you know. Yeah—I thought that would interest you. It’s going great—the highlight of my week, since you’re—uh—I really get a lot out of it.”

“That’s wonderful! What are you studying now?”

“This topical study about the…characteristics of a godly man.” His face reddened, but it might have been the heat of the day. “We’re on integrity. Being consistent. A man of your word.”

“Oh.” If I were his sister, I might have ventured some snide comment like, “That must give you a lot to work on,” but instead I watched my brother and sister go down the slide. Robbie picked the straight shot, head-first, while Jamie chose the milder double-bump, not pushing herself off until she was certain every inch of her was on the burlap sack. When they reached the bottom they were laughing and shouting and got right back in line to go again.

“I realize,” said Eric Grant, “that I haven’t been the most consistent guy in the past, in my own mind or maybe the opinions of others, but that’s the past. I want to be the same—man—in every situation. Whether anyone’s looking or not. Whether any particular person is there or not.”

“I’m glad,” I blurted, afraid he might be referring to his feelings for me. Jonathan
could
not
have told Eric I thought him inconsistent because he liked Rachel and Julie first, could he have? No. Jonathan had never broken a confidence. I didn’t ask him specifically to keep that to himself, but it would have gone without saying. I couldn’t keep from talking about him any longer. “Jonathan used to tell me that character was what you did when no one was looking. Or no one but God, I guess. Does he have much to say—about integrity?”

This met with puzzlement. “As much as anyone. Are you saying you think he has a lot of integrity or not enough?”

Indignant, I turned on him. “A lot, of course!”

“That’s what I thought. I agree one hundred per cent,” Eric said
placatingly
. “I think we’re our own worst critics, sometimes.”

What did
that
mean? That Jonathan thought himself lacking in integrity? In consistency? If he did it was my fault, for throwing it in his face that he abandoned his early dreams to pursue Caroline. But I had let go of all that! He knew that, and he forgave me—he said he had.

“He has the most integrity of anyone I know,” I added, a stubborn note in my voice. “You can tell him I said that. The
most
.”

Eric gave a rueful laugh. “I won’t bother. If he knows anything, Frannie, it’s that you admire him.”

“I don’t admire him!” I protested. “I mean—I do, of course—but—but—it’s not wrong of me to, because everyone admires Jonathan.”

He stared at me like I’d sprouted antennae. “I know. Relax. You’re preaching to the choir. I’m a big fan of Jon.
Maybe ‘admire’ was a weird way to put it. I meant you think well of him. Like everybody does. But—but—I guess what I’m trying to say is that I wish you thought half as well of me as you do of him. Frannie—I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t—we’ve been having a nice afternoon. Don’t spoil it, Eric.”

That checked him for a moment. I saw him swallow. Really—I had about zero experience with men, but they couldn’t all be this tenacious! If I had put myself out there like he did and received such rebuffs, I would have crawled under a rock to live out the rest of my days.

When he spoke again, the earnest tone gave way to a teasing one. “I’ve fooled you, Frannie. This is a date, you know.”

Relief made me smile. “It’s not. Robbie and Jamie are here.”

“Sad excuses for chaperones. Buy them off with a little food and a ride wristband and I can do whatever I want. Nope. We’re on a date.”

“It’s not a date,” I insisted, laughing in spite of myself.

“And we’re having fun. The date is going well.”

He was hopeless. I shook my head, still smiling. “Tell me more about my family. Did you see Rachel or Julie when they were out?”

Unwittingly I had hit on it: the smug grin vanished from his face like it had been erased. “No, I—I didn’t see them—no,” he fumbled. “A business trip—”

Thank heavens his own embarrassment prevented him from noticing mine. But he couldn’t think I meant to throw his inconsistencies in his face. Even if he suspected my disapproval of his past goings-on, he didn’t know I knew as much as I did. I had never breathed a word to anyone.

“That’s too bad,” I said hastily. “I was sorry to miss them, too. Especially the baby! If only Colorado had a baseball team, then maybe—but Greg’s on the DL anyhow. I don’t think he’s even traveling with the team. It must be fun—all your business trips—besides here and the cabin, I really haven’t been many places.”

My blathering gave him time to recover. “Sure, yes,” he agreed. “I get to go to New York in a little bit. I figure I’ll take a few extra days to join the tourist hordes and see the sights.” A sudden idea made him look at me, hard. “You’ve never been to New York, have you, Frannie? You wanna come?”

“Me? Come along? But—” But a million reasons! “I don’t think my uncle Paul would think it was a good idea,” I said simply.

“Would he have to know? Okay, okay—forget I said that,” he
backpeddled
. “You could—stay with Rachel! Say you want to see the baby. You do, don’t you?” So much for any embarrassment about her. Ditto for his study on integrity.

“I do, but—Eric, she hasn’t invited me to visit. And—it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be right to go on a trip with you—”

“A trip to visit
Rachel
—”

“A trip with
you
,” I repeated. “We’re not even dating, and now you want me to go on an overnight trip with you?”

“We wouldn’t be together for the nights,” he persisted. “If you don’t want to stay with Rachel I could get you your own hotel room—Scout’s honor—and we would just hang out during the days. Hang out! Like friends. Fellow tourists.”

“No! Letting you pay for things would be even worse. No. It’s not a good idea. You go and have a good time and send me a postcard.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure? You just told me you’ve never been anywhere, and here’s a chance to go somewhere. Aren’t you the least bit tempted? Think about the shows and the museums and the Statue of Liberty and the Park and the food!”

I did think about them. And about
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
and
From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E.
Frankweiler
and
All-of-a-Kind Family
and
The Great Gatsby
. But it was no use. I couldn’t go, alone with a man I wasn’t married to, at his expense. Not for his sake and not for mine, even if I was willing to hide such a thing from our families. That kind of trip had more in common with
Maggie: A Girl of the Streets
.

Eric saw the decision in my face because he made an impatient movement. “Fine. Never mind. It was just an idea. It’s like you don’t trust me! Like whatever you thought of me in the past is set in stone and God almighty won’t change your mind.”

“I’m sorry—” apologies came automatically to me. “I don’t want you to think that. I really do like you better now than I ever did before—not in
that
way, of course—but in general, I mean. Just—no trips. I keep hoping that if I do exactly what I’m supposed to do, Uncle Paul will let me go back to California. Not forever—just until I can graduate and get a decent job and some roommates.”

“You talk like you need his permission to go home.”

“He’s never said that in so many words, but I can’t help feeling that way.”

“Look, Frannie—the guy is tough as nails on the outside, I know. But you really think if you—surprise!—showed up back on the doorstep, that everyone wouldn’t be thrilled to have you back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you try it and see? You want to stay out here forever? All fall?”

“No. I want to go home. But I’m not just going to go. If he doesn’t say anything in August, I’ll call. I’ll need to know if I’m supposed to enroll out here. He has to let me come
home, I think, because my independent study thing is worked out with Warm Springs High School, not Loveland High.”

“Did you finish that project you’re supposed to be working on? Did you interview your mother?”

I traced the checks in the tablecloth. “Not really. It was too awkward. I asked her and Bill a few questions about Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous—that’s where they met, you know—but —they didn’t really want to talk about it with me. So I ended up interviewing a couple of the counselors. But the project’s almost done. I’m revising my findings.”