The House on Honeysuckle Lane (32 page)

C
HAPTER
65

A
ndie was sitting on the couch in the living room, flipping through one of the art books she had found in the den—this one featured the paintings of the Italian Renaissance—and sipping a cup of the tea blend she had bought (somewhat blindly) at the Eclectic Gourmet.

Emma had gone to meet Maureen for dinner at the Angry Squire. She had told Andie that she and Daniel had reconciled that afternoon and that he had apologized for his behavior toward both sisters, but Andie found that she couldn't quite work up the energy to face him just yet. The intensity of her brother's anger the other evening still weighed on her; she needed a bit more time to let the memory of that anger dissipate so that she would be able to speak clearly and, more importantly, to listen carefully.

Andie turned the next page in the book to find an image of Raphael's
Madonna of the Chair.
The warm and intimate family portrait of Mary, her baby son, Jesus, and a young Saint John the Baptist, was one of Bob's favorite paintings. Andie sighed. Bob, too, had been deeply troubled by Daniel's outburst, surprised by Andie's promising the Bullock desk to the OWHA, and distressed about Emma's so callously revealing the fact of Caro's first engagement. But he had also voiced his sincere compassion for all three of the siblings. “Don't forget,” he told Andie, “the holidays often bring out the pain we thought we had safely buried.” And in that, Bob Dolman was absolutely right.

Suddenly, there was a loud and insistent knocking on the front door. Andie put her cup of tea on the end table, the book on the cushion next to her, and got up from the couch. She opened the door to find her daughter standing there, her expression grim.

“I need to talk to you.” Rumi strode past her mother and into the living room.

Andie's heart sank. She knew why her daughter had come. The truth about her foolish action had come out. Very little in a small town could stay hidden, and certainly not something as ill considered as she had done. “All right,” she said. “Why don't we sit down?”

“I'll stand,” Rumi said. Her voice was hard. “I ran into Joyce Miller just now, when I was coming out of the Angry Squire. Imagine my surprise when she told me how happy she was that my mother had given Grandma's heirloom desk to the OWHA. And imagine how totally stupid I felt when she realized from the look on my face that I knew nothing about it.”

For a moment Andie was speechless. She had no clear idea how to explain why she had done what she had done. She couldn't admit that she might have promised Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon the desk in retaliation for her brother's hurtful remarks about her, or that . . .

“Well?” Rumi demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself? Does Uncle Daniel know about this?”

“He knows,” she said. “So do Emma and Anna Maria. Look, Rumi, I'm so sorry. Sometimes I . . . Sometimes I don't get things right. Sometimes I act foolishly. But don't worry. I'm going to tell the OWHA there's been a mistake. Grandma's desk isn't going anywhere.”

Rumi laughed a bit wildly. “But you can't change the fact that you did what you did. You gave it away!”

“No,” Andie said, “I can't change that fact. But I can make reparation.”

“Not everything can be fixed, Mom. Some things just stay broken.”

“Rumi, I—”

Rumi shook her head in obvious disgust. “I'm out of here,” she said.

“Rumi, wait!” Andie cried. “Don't run off like this!”

But Rumi ignored her mother's pleas. She stalked out of the living room, slamming the front door behind her.

Andie sank into the nearest armchair and put her head in her hands. The words of her favorite poet came to her then to ease the passing of grief. “Suffering is a gift. In it is hidden mercy
.
” But this time, the words failed to support her.

The sound of the front door opening startled her; she wiped futilely at the tears now coursing down her cheeks. It was Emma. “Andie, my God,” she said, hurrying to her sister's side. “What's wrong?”

A sob escaped Andie in place of words. Emma knelt and put her arms around her sister and began to smooth her hair away from her forehead. “It's all right,” she whispered soothingly. “It's all right.”

But at that dreadful moment, Andie felt that nothing would be all right ever again.

C
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66

“B
ob? It's me.”

“Good morning, Andie. Sleep well?” he asked.

“No,” she said, her grip on her phone tightening. Her eyes were still swollen from crying so much the night before, and there was a dull ache in her forehead. “I'm sure you know by now that Rumi found out about my offering my mother's desk to the OWHA.”

Bob sighed. “Yes, I know. I got an earful last night.”

“Bob,” Andie asked, “will you come with me this morning to see Mrs. Fitzgibbon? I have to make this right before more time passes.”

Bob agreed and an hour later the two of them were standing on Haven Street, looking up at the Wilson House.

“It looks particularly imposing this morning,” Andie said, with an attempt at a laugh.

Bob squeezed her shoulder. “There's no reason it should. There's nothing inside this building that can hurt you, Andie, not unless you let it.”

Andie sighed. “I know. Well, let's get this over with.”

Together they climbed the steps and went inside. The volunteer receptionist—the same woman whom Andie had seen days earlier—welcomed them and sent them off to Mary Bernadette's office. Mrs. Fitzgibbon was dressed much as she had been at Nora Campbell's party, in a conservative but pretty skirt suit in a pale neutral color.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Reynolds?” Mary Bernadette asked, nodding as well to Bob, who stood a little behind and to the right of Andie, a silent but sure support.

With a deep breath Andie began. “I regret,” she said, “that I have to withdraw the offer of the George Bullock desk to the OWHA. I misunderstood my family's intentions. I'm so sorry for any inconvenience I've caused.”

The expression of pleasant expectation on Mrs. Fitzgibbon's face didn't budge. “Yes, well,” she said after a moment, “I'd be lying if I said this isn't a disappointment. But the OWHA will go on without the addition of the Bullock piece.”

“Thank you,” Andie said. “Again, I apologize.”

“Of course, if you ever change your mind . . .”

Andie nodded, and she and Bob left the Wilson House behind. “I think,” Andie said, as they walked toward the parking lot, “that was one of the most difficult things I've had to do in a long time.”

“But you did it and survived. Look,” Bob said, when they had reached Andie's car. “I'll tell Daniel that you spoke to Mrs. Fitzgibbon. And I'm going to suggest that he seriously consider your idea of loaning the heirloom to the OWHA for a few years. Maybe he'll listen to me since he's not been in the habit of listening to his sisters.”

“That might be about to change,” Andie told him. “Emma says she had a very good conversation with him yesterday afternoon. He apologized for having treated the both of us unfairly.”

Bob smiled. “Still, it can't hurt for me to chime in.”

Andie smiled back gratefully. “Thank you, Bob, for everything.”

“You going to be okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I will be.” And she
did
believe now that she would be okay.

Andie got into her car and watched in the rearview mirror as her former husband, the father of her only child, her dearest friend, got into his own car and drove out of the lot.

C
HAPTER
67

D
aniel had inspired Emma to try her own hand at making cream of leek and potato soup, and Andie had readily volunteered to help with the prep. While Emma peeled and sliced potatoes, Andie washed and chopped the leeks.

And while Emma performed the simple and oddly soothing task of peeling and slicing, she found herself trying to imagine Morgan, gentle, nonconfrontational Morgan, standing up against the formidable Aunt Agatha, whom she now pictured as looking exactly like the character in the Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie version of P. G. Wodehouse's stories, complete with antiquated dress and stern frown.

“What's got you so happy?” Andie asked, pausing in her chopping. “You're smiling.”

“Oh, nothing,” Emma demurred. “I just remembered something funny I heard on TV the other night.”
Really,
she thought,
why don't I just tell Andie what I was imagining? Why the need for adolescent secrecy?

“Thanks for taking care of that wine stain on the living room carpet,” Andie said. “I wonder if Danny even remembers spilling the bottle.”

Emma smiled. “I doubt he does or he would have had a professional cleaning service here by now.” She hesitated a moment before asking, “No word from Rumi?”

Andie shook her head. “No. And I don't expect there to be, not for some time anyway.”

Emma sighed. “I'm so sorry the rift between you and Rumi has widened. But I'm glad you talked to Mrs. Fitzgibbon this morning. I'm sure it wasn't easy.”

“It wasn't,” Andie said, “but with Bob at my side, I managed. And though Mary Bernadette might be intimidating, she's extremely polite. I didn't fear that she was going to subject me to a tongue-lashing. And I don't think she's the type to go around bad-mouthing me to others after the fact.”

“I agree. I expect she'll put a very genteel spin on the story. After all, she won't want to look like someone who was duped.”

Andie visibly cringed. “Gosh, I hope she doesn't suspect me of purposely fooling her about the desk!”

“I'm sure she doesn't,” Emma said hurriedly. “By the way, I told Maureen last night about what happened here with Danny. Not all of it, just enough for her to get the gist. I felt I could really use the perspective of someone who isn't family but who knows us well.”

“Was she helpful?” Andie asked.

“She listened, and that's the most important thing. “

“That well might be. Does Maureen know about my promising Mom's desk to the OWHA?”

“Yeah. Remember, her mother is a board member and Mary Bernadette's dearest friend. There are no secrets in that bunch.”

“Yet another scandal for me to live down in Oliver's Well.”

“Hardly a scandal.”

“Just an embarrassment. You know,” Andie said, “I've been wondering why Mom put that love note from Dad behind a photo in an album and not somewhere more private. I'm sure it was something she cherished.”

Emma shrugged. “Maybe she was rereading it one day while looking through some pictures and the phone rang or someone came to the door. She might have just slipped it behind a photograph for temporary safekeeping and then forgot where she'd put it.”

“That sounds plausible. I wonder what Danny will do with it.” Andie's cell phone rang. “It's Bob,” she said, looking at the screen. “I should take this.” She put down her knife and walked off a step or two; after a moment Emma saw her sister nod and heard her say with some doubt in her voice, “All right, Bob. If you think it's a good idea. I'll see you later.”

“What did he have to say?” Emma asked when Andie had closed her phone.

“He's invited me to dinner tonight. Rumi doesn't know I'm coming. He thinks it's best. He said that normally he hates the idea of an ambush—as do I—but drastic times call for drastic measures.”

Emma nodded. “He might be right. This situation has gone on long enough.”

“And he thinks it's high time we tell our daughter everything. I mean, about my postpartum depression. We never said anything about it before. I guess we thought we were protecting Rumi from a difficult truth.”

“I've been wondering how much she knows of those early years,” Emma admitted.

“Maybe we did the wrong thing by keeping her in the dark to the extent we did.” Andie nodded firmly. “But I think Bob's right. Now's the time, if ever.”

“Bob is forcing the moment to its crisis. Brave man, and smart.”

And maybe, Emma thought, she should take a lesson from her brother-in-law, a lesson about forcing the moment, taking charge of one's life, taking the leap of faith.

“I'm ready to sauté these leeks,” Andie announced. “That's the best thing about this recipe. We get to use butter.”

Emma sighed. “Sometimes,” she said, “life can be pretty darn good.”

C
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68

A
ndie's first thought on seeing Rumi that evening at Bob's house was:
she's suffering
. Her daughter looked so deeply unhappy. There were dark circles under her eyes and her mouth was fixed in a frown. It broke Andie's heart to think that she was the cause of this distress, however unwittingly. In her mind's eye she saw the image of a little girl seated cross-legged by a campfire....

“Hello, Rumi,” Andie said.

Rumi stood stock-still in the doorway to the kitchen. She looked for a moment like a cornered animal, about to make a desperate dash for freedom. Then she turned to her father and said in an accusatory tone, “You didn't tell me she would be here.”

“I know,” Bob said simply. “I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure you'd show up. Now, come to the table. We're going to share a meal and I want the three of us to talk. Not yell. Not storm off. Talk. And listen. As the Buddha said, and he was right: ‘In a controversy the instant we feel anger we have already ceased striving for the truth and have begun striving for ourselves.' ”

Rumi, her face a storm cloud, took a seat at the table, and Andie took the seat between Bob and her daughter.

“Let's get some food in our stomachs first,” Bob said, and he began to pass around the serving bowls. “No one should have to talk about anything important on an empty stomach.”

The family ate in silence for a few minutes, Rumi picking at her dinner, Bob eating with his usual gusto, as if, Andie thought, determined to instill a state of normalcy to the gathering. And though she was nervous at the thought of what might come, Andie did her best to focus on the moment, on the gift of the meal, and to enjoy it.

After a time Bob put his napkin next to his plate and said, “Now, we'll let our dinner digest before we have dessert. And we'll talk.”

“Dad, I don't—”

But Bob cut off his daughter's attempted protest. “It hurts me, Rumi, to see you punishing your mother for your own grief. You have to own your emotions, Rumi. You have to accept responsibility for them, not try to make them go away by blaming someone else for their origin. You're mourning the loss of your grandmother, and that's what you're angry about. The fact of death. Not the fact that your mother couldn't make it to a party.”

Rumi was silent for what seemed like a terribly long time. Andie could see that her expression had changed subtly during that time, but she couldn't quite interpret its meaning. And then, Rumi put down her chopsticks, with which she had been moving around her beans and rice, and sighed. “All right,” she said, looking to her mother and then her father. “I shouldn't have bagged out of dinner the other night without even a phone call. That was rude. I'm sorry. And I guess I've said some pretty nasty things to you lately, Mom. I'm sorry about that, too. Dad's right. I shouldn't blame anyone else for my own feelings.”

“Thank you for the apology,” Andie told her. “And you're forgiven.”

Bob took Andie's hand in his. “Rumi,” he said, “there's something we never talked to you about. Keeping silent seemed like the right thing to do but . . . But now we think it's important you know that your mother suffered several months of severe postpartum depression. I'll admit there were times when I despaired of her ever being free of the sadness.”

Rumi looked stunned. “Why didn't you tell me that you were sick?” she asked her mother. “I've read about postpartum depression. It's awful. And being sick is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I thought it for the best,” Andie explained. “I didn't want to burden you with that knowledge. And I was deeply ashamed of what I saw as my weakness and failure. By the time you were old enough to understand, well, it was so far in the past and . . . There just didn't seem to be much of a point.”

“I agreed with your mother,” Bob told Rumi. “It was a terrible time for her, though she always did her absolute best to care for you. And, of course, I was there, even after we separated, as were your grandparents.”

“But there are drugs for depression,” Rumi said, “and all sorts of therapy. Didn't you get any help, Mom?”

“Yes, of course. I was under a doctor's care, thanks to your father figuring out what might be wrong. But depression is not something you can will away,” Andie explained, “no matter what some people might believe.” Andie turned to Bob and smiled. “But eventually, I was out from under the cloud.”

“Did it come back?” Rumi asked. “The depression? I've heard that most people who experience an episode of serious depression are likely to have another one.”

“Yes,” Andie said. “When I was in my midthirties I went through another bad experience. But by then I knew more about what to expect and I knew that the depression would lift, so I didn't feel as hopeless and as guilty as I did the first time, when I had a baby to care for, a baby I felt I was failing. And I had the help of my spiritual beliefs.”

“Do you think . . . ?” Rumi hesitated a moment before going on. “Do you think that's why you went to Mrs. Fitzgibbon about the desk? Do you think you might be getting depressed again?”

“I think,” Andie said carefully, “that I've been feeling very distressed and sad. If that's not exactly depresson, it's close enough to it, and yes, it can cause a person to make mistakes.”

“And when I went to live with Dad?” Rumi asked. “When you left Oliver's Well. What really happened then? Was it like what you told me? You didn't just leave without telling anyone, did you? Because some people have said . . . ” Rumi pressed her lips together.

“Gosh, no,” Andie said, looking to Bob and then back to her daughter. “Your father and I made the decision together, just like we told you. I knew that my calling lay elsewhere. I'd been preparing for it for a long time. You know about that. The courses of study, the retreats. Finally, it was time for me to move on. It was time for me to give back to the world.” She looked again to Bob. “Your father understood that. He believed in me. He's always believed in me.”

Bob nodded. “And my belief proved to be rightly placed. Your mother brings so much peace and joy and wisdom to so many people. It would have been supremely selfish of me to try to hold her back and keep her just for the two of us.” Bob reached for his daughter's hand as well. “You've been happy until now, haven't you, Rumi? You've felt loved?”

Andie tightened her grip on Bob's other hand. So much depended on Rumi's honest answer to this question.

“Yes,” Rumi said, looking from her mother to her father. “I have been happy. I have felt loved. I still do.” And then she slipped her hand from her father's and rose slowly from the table. “I need to think things through,” she said. “Leave the dishes, Dad. I'll do them later.”

They watched as she went off to her room and heard her softly close the door.

“It'll be all right,” Bob said, releasing Andie's hand with a final squeeze. “I think things went well.”

“Hafiz, another great Sufi poet, says, ‘Love sometimes wants to do us a great favor: hold us upside down and shake all the nonsense out
.
' ”

Bob laughed. “I always get a headache when that happens.”

“It's what you did for us tonight, Bob,” Andie went on, “for the family. You acted with love and for the sake of love. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, “and my duty.”

“Now, wish me luck with Danny. I know I need to face him soon. It's ridiculous to be hiding from each other.”

“Danny might be hiding, but you're not. You're just waiting for the right moment.”

Andie wasn't entirely sure she agreed with Bob, but she didn't protest. She declined dessert—she thought it best she not be around when Rumi emerged from her room later that evening—and helped Bob to bring the plates to the sink before heading back to Honeysuckle Lane.
Tomorrow morning,
she thought as she drove through the quiet, darkened streets of Oliver's Well, brightened here and there by sparkling Christmas lights strung on houses and shops and trees.
First thing, I'm going to visit my brother. From this moment on, fear has no place in my life.