Enright Family Collection (61 page)

Delia made the right turn from one two-lane road onto another, wondering absently where they were going. Fields spread out on either side of the car, flocks of crows, large as hens, pecking along the tired rows of crops long harvested.

“It bothers me that the three of you would let so long a time pass without checking on one another,” Delia said tersely, and Zoey turned to stare at her.

“Mom, it’s only been a week and a half,” she said softly.

“What if Nicky needed you? What if Georgia did? What if you needed one of them?”

“We would manage to get in touch if it was important. And Nick has India, and Georgia has the entire Harbor Troupe to look after her. Mom, what’s the . . . ?”

“Staying in touch is important, Zoey. Staying in one another’s lives is important. What if something happened to one of you?”

“Mom, settle down. Nothing’s happened,” Zoey said softly, watching her mother’s face. It told her nothing. “Mom, what happened on that last tour that upset you so much?”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Delia attempted to dismiss her daughter with the wave of a hand.

“You’re acting . . . odd.”

“Odd?” Delia frowned. “How ‘odd’?”

“I can’t put my finger on it, but
distracted
might do.
Intense
would work equally well.”

“Don’t be silly. It was a long tour. I loved it, but I was tired, I admit, when I came back. Now I’m all rested up. And don’t try to change the subject, Zoey. You know how I feel about you children keeping close.”

“We are close.” Zoey leaned over and patted her mother’s shoulder. “We always have been. Always will be.”

“Good. Family is important, Zoey. Everything else comes after. Don’t ever forget it.” Delia stopped at the stop sign and turned to her daughter. “Promise me.”

“Of course I promise you.”

“Fine. Which way?” Delia pointed to the intersection.

“Take a left, then slow down when you come into the town.” The tension abated, Zoey leaned back and asked, “Got any chocolate?”

“Look in the glove box.” Delia peered over the steering wheel as if looking for the telltale signs of civilization. “Town? There’s a town out here? In the midst of all these fields?”

“Brady’s Mill.” Zoey nodded as she opened the glove box and peeked in. Seeing the gold foil box, she laughed out loud. “Mom, you are the only person I know who travels with a two-pound box of Godivas.”

“Isn’t that what that little compartment in the dash is for?” Delia grinned. “Fish one out for me . . . no, not that one, I want the one that looks like a shield with the tennis rackets on it. Yes, that one.”

Zoey handed the piece of chocolate to her mother, selected a walnut of dark chocolate for herself. “Go slow past the lake,” she said as she nibbled on the walnut.

“How picturesque,” Delia noted, pointing to the lake.

“It is,” Zoey agreed. “Now, take a right at the road up there, yes, right here.”

Delia glanced up at the street sign on the corner.
“Skeeters Pond Road?”
she asked, her eyebrows raised.
“There’s actually a place in this world called
Skeeters Pond?”

“Yes, and we’re almost there, Mom. Slow around the curve, it comes up on you quickly. Okay, now slow down just a little more . . . see the mailbox that says ‘Kilmartin’ on it? Pull in the driveway and stop the car.”

Delia did as she was told, mystified though she was.

“Zoey, who are the Kilmartins?”

“They are the people who used to own this house,” Zoey told her.

“And who owns it now?” Delia asked slowly.

“I do, Mom.”

Silence.

“You bought a house?” Delia’s eyebrows rose less than Zoey had anticipated. Not necessarily a good sign. It meant she was forcing control. And that was not a good thing.

“Yes, Mom. I did.”

“Zoey, why?” Delia frowned. “I mean, you mentioned wanting to buy a little house, but. . . why didn’t you tell me? Sweetheart, I could have helped you.”

“I really wanted to do it on my own, Mom. I really had to do this for myself.”

“But sweetheart . . .”

“Mom, I love you. I adore you, for that matter. I appreciate everything you have done for me. But I needed to do this for myself. I wanted to pick my own house, and pick all my furniture, hire the workmen . . . make my own choices.”

“And are you saying that I would have tried to pick your house, pick your furniture, make your choices, for you?”

They sat in a silence as awkward as the truth.

“Oh, of course I would have.” Delia raised her eyes to heaven with a wry smile. “Why waste both our time by trying to deny it? Of course I would have taken over everything. I would have tried to talk you into a bigger house. If you had chosen green walls, I would have tried to talk you into blue. Of course I would have . . .”

“Mom, it isn’t that I don’t value your opinion. . . .”

“Zoey, darling, the issue isn’t whether or not you
value
my opinion.” Delia reached for her daughter’s hand. “The issue is that you wanted to do something for yourself, and you had to do it behind me so that I would not take over, isn’t that right?”

“Oh, Mom, I hate to put it like that.” Zoey squirmed uncomfortably.

“But that’s the simple truth of it,” Delia said in a soft voice. “Oh, I never wanted to take over your life, Zoey. I just always wanted to make it easier for you. For all of you. I only wanted for you to know that I was always there for you, in every way. I never wanted there to be a doubt.”

“And there never was, Mom. Not for a second. This was just something I wanted to do. I didn’t tell Nicky, or India, or even Georgia.”

“Were you afraid they’d tell me?” Delia asked.

“No,” Zoey told her first half truth of the day. “I just wanted to surprise everyone.”

“Well, you’ve surprised me. And no doubt, you’ll surprise your sister and your brother.” Delia’s face darkened. “I wonder if either of them resent what I’ve done in their homes. Georgia’s condo. Nicky’s cabin.”

“I don’t think so, Mom. Neither of them ever gave a hint that they did. But they’re different, Mom. Neither of them had as much to prove as I did.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Georgia and Nick have always known their way, Mom. I always thought of all the things you do for them to be your rewards for their hard work and for their accomplishments.”

“And you thought that somehow you didn’t deserve such rewards?” Delia’s brow folded into deep creases. “That I felt you were not accomplished?”

“Let’s face it, Mom, until recently I haven’t even known where I was headed.”

“And you thought that somehow that disappointed me?”

“Something like that.” The admission was more difficult than Zoey had expected.

“What you
do
has never had a thing to do with who you are, Zoey. I have always been very proud to be your mother. Always. As proud as I am of all my children. It has never had anything to do with what you do to earn your living.”

“Thank you, Mom.” Zoey tried to speak over the lump that had grown in her throat.

“Well, then, Zoey Amanda, do you know where you’re headed now?”

“I think I do, Mom. I’m happy. I like what I’m doing. Every day is different. It’s fun. I’m meeting so many interesting people. Yesterday I worked with Alicia Green, the designer.”

“I have several of her suits.” Delia could not help but smile. The light was coming back in Zoey’s eyes.

“And on Monday, my guest was Jackson Martin. Mom, I’ve been in love with Jackson Martin all my life. He is the greatest movie star of all time.”

“Me too.” Delia nodded, then asked, “What was he selling?”

“His autobiography.” Zoey sighed. “And Mom—his eyes really are that blue.”

“I’ve heard that.” Delia sighed too. “I always wanted to meet him.”

They sighed together.

“Zoey?”

“What, Mom?”

“Pass the Godivas.”

Zoey opened the glove box and removed the lid from the gold foil box.

“Which one do you want?”

“Bring the box.” Delia took the key from the ignition and stuck it into her pocket. “Next time we’ll bring the champagne and toast your happiness in your new home. In the meantime, we’ll just have to celebrate your independence with chocolate.”

Chapter
7
 

Delia had clearly loved Zoey’s house, even while admitting that, at first glance, she herself probably would have overlooked it. Had she been asked, she most likely would have tried to talk Zoey out of buying it, due to its seemingly small size and out-of-the-way location. Delia had followed her daughter from room to room, Zoey proudly pointing out the architectural details, the chestnut woodwork and the arched doorways, the many windows with their deep sills and the lovely views. Zoey produced both the architect’s drawings for the second floor as well as the plan from the kitchen designer, and together they leaned across the old kitchen counter and peered over the sketches, Zoey showing her mother her well-thought-out vision of her new home. Bit by bit, Zoey had shared it all—the wallpaper selections, the carpets, the furniture. By the time the “tour” was over, Delia was enthralled.

“Heaven,” she declared with a satisfied sigh. “This little house will polish up nicely, like a little gem. Oh, Zoey, I hope you’re as proud of yourself as I am of you. Why, to have pulled all of this together in so short a
time. Now, when does the contractor start on the kitchen?”

Zoey hesitated, and Delia laughed out loud.

“Sweetheart, I promise not to show up without invitation until they are all done. And if invited over while work is still in progress, I swear I will not tell the carpenters how to hammer or the plumbers how to plumb.” Delia raised one hand to the sky.

“Mom, you are always welcome. You don’t need an invitation.” Zoey looped her arm through her mother’s. “Now, come out back. Wait till you see my backyard.”

Zoey slid aside the thin metal bar that served as the backdoor lock, and Delia eyed it suspiciously.

“Now, you are thinking about new locks, aren’t you?”

“I hadn’t,” Zoey admitted.

“Well, right now, while the house is vacant and there is work being done on a daily basis, what you have there”—she pointed to the slide bar lock—“is probably sufficient. I’d feel better if you had dead bolts installed once you move in.”

“I’ll put it on the list.”

Delia paused and looked up at her daughter. “Did that count as meddling?”

“Nah. We’ll let that one pass.”

Zoey pushed open the back door and stepped aside to allow her mother to precede her onto the tiny back porch.

Delia paused meaningfully on the third step from the bottom, as if about to say something.

“What, Mom?”

“Nothing, sweetie.” Delia sighed, apparently having changed her mind about whatever it was that was on her mind and turning her attention to the wooden bower overflowing with vines. “Oh, a grape arbor! How wonderful!” She swept toward the garden. “We had a lovely grape arbor at the house I grew up in back in West Newton. Oh, and by the end of the summer, it would be laden with grapes. My mother made endless batches of grape jam every year, and gave them out at Christmas to
the members of Father’s congregation. As the minister’s wife, she always took such pains to go a step or two beyond what was expected of her. Always. As if she would be judged by how many jars of jam she gave out, how many loaves of bread she baked for the poor, or how many new Bibles she raised the money to buy.”

Delia stood so still, her face blank, transformed from the lively woman taking off across the backyard to a younger version of herself, frozen in time, robbed somehow of her jaunty, confident air and her strong presence. Some sadness seemed to sweep over her, transforming her for just a few seconds into a woman even her own daughter did not recognize.

“Mother always did exactly the right thing, Zoey. Always. She was a woman who never made a mistake. Never made a bad choice. She soundly—
staunchly
—professed on her deathbed to have had no regrets.” Delia’s body seemed to waver slightly, as if suddenly weakened from a blow delivered by an unseen hand, her voice lowered till it was barely a whisper. “None whatsoever.”

“Mom.” Zoey caught up with her. “Are you all right?”

“Of course, darling.” Delia flashed a smile, shook off whatever demon had been perched upon her shoulder, and took Zoey’s hand. “I can’t wait to see what’s inside the gate.”

Zoey swung the wooden gate aside and Delia grinned happily. “Oh, yes, whoever Mrs. Kilmartin was, she kept a lovely garden. Now, I wonder if those hydrangeas will bloom pink or blue? And what color do you suppose the roses might be?”

“Well, there were still a few in bloom the first time I looked at the property. These were red”—Zoey pointed to a bush with long, tangled canes—“and very big and wonderfully fragrant.”

“Were the petals a sort of velvet red, and was the scent more sweet and perfumey than spicy?” Delia asked.

“Yes, velvet is a good way to describe the flower. And I’d say a heady perfumey smell.”

“Mr. Lincoln, perhaps.” Delia guessed at the name of the rose. “And these, over by the fence?”