The Returning (2 page)

She checked her watch again, as she had done a dozen times already in the last half hour. How was it that the minute hand had scarcely moved since she’d last glanced at the time? She clenched her hands together tightly at her waist, squeezing until her fingers ached. Maybe there was such a thing as second chances. She didn’t generally ask for much from life anymore, but a second chance would be nice. Heaven knew, she had waited long enough for this one.

“Mama?”

Phoebe’s voice reached her from somewhere inside. Andrea sighed, smoothed her skirt, then turned away from what she thought of as her widow’s walk. Not that the water out there was an ocean, and not that he would be coming back from a distant place on a sailing ship. No, it was a Greyhound bus that had made the trek up from Virginia. By now, Owen should have met him at the station, and they should be nearly home. Unless he got off at an earlier stop and disappeared. Would he do that? Maybe he didn’t want to come back. Maybe—

“Mama!”

Andrea opened the screen door and stepped into the front room of the cottage. Phoebe sat cross-legged in the bay window, her coloring book and crayons and her game of Chinese checkers spread out in front of her. In one hand she loosely held a kaleidoscope. The child spent hours on that window seat, quietly entertaining herself. Of Andrea’s three children, Phoebe was the shyest, the most withdrawn. Andrea would be glad when she started first grade and began socializing with other children.

“What’s the matter, Phoebe?” Andrea asked.

“What time is Billy getting home?”

“You’re in luck. He’ll be home early today.”

“How come?”

“It’s a surprise. You’ll see.”

Phoebe smiled, though tentatively, as if she didn’t quite understand her mother’s words. “You look pretty, Mama,” she said.

Andrea was surprised. “Do I?” She touched her hair, her fingers floating over the dark curls. She’d had Selene style and perm it and, for the first time, wash out the gray. She had wanted it to be just right.

The child nodded. “Are we having a party?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why are you wearing lipstick?”

“Well, I . . .” How to explain? “I don’t know, Phoebe. I just thought I would for a change. Is it too much?”

A small line formed between Phoebe’s brows. “Too much what?”

“Too much lipstick.”

“I don’t know.” The child shrugged. “I guess not.”

Andrea looked at her daughter. Of course she wouldn’t know if it was too much lipstick. She was six years old.

“Do you want a snack to tide you over until dinner, honey?”

“No, I’m not hungry.” She lifted the kaleidoscope to her eye and pointed it toward the window. “When Billy gets home can he play Chinese checkers with me?”

“Sure, I guess so. Maybe after supper.”

Phoebe didn’t respond. She was busy slowly turning the end of the kaleidoscope, making pictures of beads and glass and sunlight.

As she gazed at her child, Andrea felt something twine itself around her heart and squeeze. Everything was about to change. Their whole day-to-day life was about to shift in a way inconceivable to a six-year-old, and Andrea wondered what it would do to her youngest child. What it would do to all of them. Andrea wanted them all to be happy, and she hoped that somehow there would be something like happiness in their future. But she sensed—though she couldn’t see it yet—she sensed the wave of disappointment beginning far off, past the horizon of the present moment, a wave that would swell and grow and crash over them sooner or later. That was how it always was, it seemed. Happiness thwarted in a thousand ways.

But maybe not this time
, she thought.
Maybe this time it’ll be different
.

One was allowed to dream, after all. And hope.

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” she said to Phoebe. “You can have some peanut butter and crackers if you want.”

From the bay window came the small disinterested reply. “Okay.”

Andrea went to the kitchen where she had a pork roast in the oven. It would soon be time to peel the potatoes. She reached for the apron that hung on a hook by the fridge and tied it around her waist. Even as her fingers worked, twenty years fell away, and she was a teenager again, nervous and breathless as she waited to be picked up by her date. Not that she had dated much—a couple of movies, a few school dances, and then, suddenly, marriage. The circumstances weren’t the best, but that was all right; she’d married the man she wanted to marry. She had been in love, after all.

She opened a drawer and fished for the potato peeler, but before she could find it, a car pulled off the road and came to rest in the gravel drive. There they were, Owen behind the wheel, John in the passenger seat. Andrea quickly untied the apron and hung it back up on the hook.

So this was it. He was home now.

She watched from the window as the car doors opened in tandem and the men stepped out. One door slammed, then the other. Owen stretched, rising up on his toes and reaching for the sky. John stood still, a black garbage bag clutched in his right hand. He seemed to be waiting for a cue from Owen, something to tell him it was time to walk on stage and get this show going.

Andrea raised a fist to her mouth and pressed it hard against her lips, if only to stop the tears that were threatening to rise. She wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t embarrass herself by crying. He wouldn’t like it.

For one agonizing moment she felt the old rage rise up in her. She wanted to pound her fists against his chest and curse him for what he’d done. She hated him—hated him for his weaknesses and his lies, for the shame and hardship he’d brought on his family.

And yet, in spite of all reason, she couldn’t deny the affection, the feelings of longing that washed over her even now. How would she ever untangle the knotted skein of emotions that wrapped itself around every corner of her heart?

The two men climbed up the slanted wooden walkway to the kitchen door. Owen knocked briefly. And then they were in the kitchen, all three of them occupying that cramped space, staring wordlessly, wondering what on earth this moment called for.

She would have to speak first, she knew. “Hello, John,” she said.

His eyes, anxious and unsettled, came to rest on her face. “Hello, Andrea,” he said quietly.

She thought she should kiss him, hug him at least, but the moment passed. “I’m glad you made it all right.”

“Sorry we’re late,” Owen offered. “The traffic coming down from Rochester was heavier than I expected.”

“That’s all right,” Andrea said, relieved to turn her attention to her brother. “Thank you for picking up John.”

Owen nodded slightly. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the restaurant.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost time for the dinner rush.”

“Of course. You go ahead.”

“Owen.” John held out his hand. “Thanks for the lift.” Owen looked at John’s hand, his face, his hand. He shook the proffered fingers briefly. “No problem.”

Then he was gone, and Andrea and John were alone. Andrea pressed her sweaty palms against her thighs. The moment was too big and too small at the same time. Here was the hour she had walked toward these past five years. Now that she had reached it, she could see that it was smaller than it appeared from a distance. John was still John, after all, the man whose love seemed always beyond her reach.

She pointed at the bag. “Are those your things?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I guess they were out of Samsonites.”

She tried to smile. “Well, why don’t you just drop it on a chair for now. Later you can unpack upstairs. But first . . .” Her voice trailed off. She moved from the kitchen to the front room, hoping he’d follow. He did.

Phoebe still sat at the window, her face turned toward the glass, her knees drawn up to her chin. Andrea knew the child didn’t like to meet strangers, was trying to make herself small enough to be overlooked.

“Phoebe?”

No response.

“Phoebe, can you turn your attention this way for a minute?”

The child turned her head slowly. She chewed shyly on her lower lip.

Andrea lifted a hand toward John. “This is someone I’ve wanted you to know for a long time,” she said. “Phoebe, this is your father.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

John flinched
as the screen door banged shut, then watched in surprise as his daughter’s blond curls disappeared down the steep bank by the lake. He hadn’t even managed a good look at her face. He felt a burning in his cheeks, as though he had just been slapped.

After an awkward moment he heard Andrea say, “I haven’t gotten around to fixing the spring on that door.”

“No.” John cleared his throat. “I can see that.”

A few more seconds passed before she said, “I’m sorry, John.”

He thought she was talking about the door. “It’s all right, Andrea. I’ll take care of it later.”

“No. I mean, I’m sorry about Phoebe. She’s so shy, it’s hard for her to meet people. Don’t take it personally.”

“Maybe I should have allowed you to bring her when you visited. That way, she’d know who I am. It wouldn’t be such a shock to meet me now.”

“No.” Andrea shook her head. “It was best not to take her into the prison. She was too young, not like Rebekah and Billy. Heaven knows, it was hard enough on them.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw; he worked his mouth a bit to loosen it. “I guess you’re right,” he conceded. “But you did tell her I was coming, didn’t you?”

He heard her sigh.

“No, I didn’t. I thought—well, I thought I shouldn’t.” He turned to her sharply. “But why not?”

“I don’t know.” Andrea looked up at him then with apologetic eyes. “I guess I didn’t want her to spend days worrying about it.” She looked away again, toward the door through which Phoebe had disappeared. “I’ll go get her. She’s just hiding under the dock, where she always hides.”

She took a step forward, but John stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Let her be for now. No doubt she needs to get used to the idea.”

He felt Andrea stiffen under the weight of his hand. He withdrew it and suddenly didn’t know what to do with it. He made a loose fist and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, the new pair of slacks Owen had given him at the bus station, along with a casual shirt and a pair of loafers. Andrea had sent them, wanting him to come home in something other than the telltale jeans, blue shirt, and brogans—the heavy work shoes—that prisoners were issued on release.

“She knew, didn’t she, that I’d be coming home eventually?”

“Of course, John.”

He hesitated, then said, “And she knew where I was.”

“Yes, she knew. I don’t think she really understands it all.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect her to. But she’s always known she had a father? You spoke of me?”

“Yes. I spoke of you often. You must know that, John.” He didn’t respond. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his pants, looked at it absently, tucked it away again. He was thinking of the child he had last seen as an infant, the child he had watched grow up only through photographs that came to him in letters already opened, courtesy of the Virginia Department of Corrections.

Then he asked, “What about Billy and Rebekah? Where are they?”

“They’re both at work, but they’ll be home for supper. Billy usually stays through the dinner rush, but Owen is letting him off early today.”

“That’s good of Owen.”

“Well, it’s a special occasion, isn’t it?”

Only after a moment did John realize his hands had become fists. He breathed deeply, stretching his fingers, trying to unleash his tension. “Do they know? Do Billy and Rebekah know I’m home?”

“Yes, of course they know.”

“How are they taking it?”

John and Andrea didn’t look at each other as they spoke. Instead, they both had their eyes fixed on the screen door, as though it were a third person in their conversation, a mediator of sorts, something that could keep them focused.

“It’ll be all right, John,” Andrea said. “You’ll see. They’ve grown so much since last summer, you’ll hardly recognize them.”

That’s what I’m afraid of
, he thought.
I don’t know my own kids anymore
. The children’s annual trip from New York to Virginia was all they could afford, though Andrea made an additional solo trip each year, leaving the kids with Owen and Selene. Maybe, though, John should have had his family stay in Virginia instead of sending them up here. That way he might have watched the kids grow up. But, at the time, sending them to live in the cottage had seemed the right thing to do. Anyway, what was done was done.

“I’m making a pork roast and mashed potatoes,” Andrea told him, her tone lighter now. “I know that’s a hot meal for a summer night, but . . .”

He nodded, a small tilting of his head. Pork roast had always been his favorite, and Andrea had remembered. “That’ll taste good. I haven’t had a good home-cooked meal in—well, in a long time.”