Memory Tree (11 page)

“He can't know.”

“Oh, sounds like our game of Secret Santa has inspired you.”

“Sort of.”

“And Cynthia can't help either?”

“Definitely not. See, I need to order something, and . . .”

Just then, Trina cleared her throat, not meaning to cause a break in their conversation but also not wanting to intrude on whatever secret business Janey had. “Why don't I leave you two to your very important business? Nora, thank you for the offer of tea . . . another time.”

“Wait, don't you want to . . .”

But Trina was already halfway out the door, breathing more easily once she'd returned to the outdoors. She could imagine both of them staring after her, perhaps lulled back into business by the ringing of those annoying bells again. Trina knew she'd acted in haste, and not at all like a mature woman, but meeting Brian's daughter . . . she wasn't ready for that, and even so, like the windmill itself, if Brian wanted her and Janey to know each other, it was best arranged through him. Imagine poor Janey realizing the woman in the store was the woman with whom Brian had gone on his date. She hoped Nora had the good sense to keep quiet.

As she continued down the street, she noticed the light had begun to fade in the sky, and she thought perhaps it was best to return to the motel. Having not accomplished what she'd set out to do, she forged onward, and eventually she made her way to the Linden Corners Memorial Park, where she saw a dozen or so kids running around, those two golden retrievers from Marla and Darla's store chasing after them with enthusiasm. Underneath the gabled roof of the gazebo, she saw the Christmas hat Martha had referred to, and watching over it were two older women.

“Hello, have you come to put your name in the hat?” one of them asked.

“For my father I was going to, yes,” Trina confessed.

“But not for yourself?” the other asked. “Every young woman loves gifts.”

Trina politely acknowledged them. “It's better to give than receive,” she said.

“Well, dear, I'm Gerta Connors; this here is Elsie Masters.”

“Nice to meet you. I'm Trina . . .”

“Why, of course,” the woman named Elsie said. “You're Richie's daughter. I should have known.”

Trina wasn't sure how to receive that comment. “Uh, yes, I am,” she said. “I'd like to put his name in.”

Elsie eyed her warily. “Does he know you're doing that?”

“Of course,” Trina said. “He'd do it himself, but with his leg wrapped in a cast . . .”

“Elsie Masters, leave the poor woman alone; let her enact her own bit of holiday cheer,” Gerta stated. She handed Trina a piece of paper and told her to write Richie's name on the front, then fold it up and drop it into the hat. About to do as instructed, Trina hesitated, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Would Richie be mad at her, or did he secretly wish for inclusion in his home's new twist on an old tradition? Only one way to find out, she surmised, and so she scribbled his name before changing her mind and dropped it deep into the warm confines of the red hat. She noticed that the words L
INDEN
C
ORNERS
had been written across the white border in gold glitter so that it resembled the stocking she'd had as a child.

Perhaps it was that conjured memory, or maybe she just figured if Richie was forced to partake, so was she. She asked for a second piece of paper and this time she wrote down her own name. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she said, and then stuffed the second slip inside. She felt it drift from her fingers toward the bottom of the hat, secure, unable to be taken back.

“Thank you, ladies.”

“Welcome to Linden Corners, Trina. I'm sure Richie is pleased to have you here,” Gerta said. “Be sure to show up for the drawing this coming Sunday afternoon at three, and if you can, it would be nice if you brought your father along. I know he's been cooped up for a few weeks, might do him well to get out in the world.”

Trina allowed another smile, realizing how genuine Gerta sounded.

“I'll see you then,” she said, and then started away.

Though she hadn't voiced it, she had ascertained that Gerta was Nora's mother, and so no doubt the kind old woman also knew about her date with Brian, and she wanted to escape before it occurred to the kind woman to ask about it. She'd also heard the name Elsie and knew she was a bit of a town gossip; maybe that was why she thought she should have known Trina, and her not knowing it said more about her network than it did about Trina. The world of Linden Corners was closing in on her. Everywhere she went she was reminded of Brian Duncan. First a surprise run-in with his daughter, to whom she'd narrowly escaped an awkward introduction. Then only to turn around and be in the rosy glow of sweet Gerta Connors, whom she knew had been George Connors' wife and good friend to Brian and Janey, and before them, to Annie Sullivan.

One thing Trina had promised herself in agreeing to come care for her father, and that was not to get involved with the locals. And look at her now, running from people and confrontation both physically and emotionally all because she'd stupidly agreed to a date. A date that had ended with a kiss. What had she been thinking? Her life in Linden Corners was just a passing fad, a stopgap until she could figure out her next step. Richie's accident, not something she would wish on him, had nonetheless come at an opportune moment in her life.

A quick check of her watch indicated it was fast closing in on four o'clock, which meant not only was it getting darker, but it was time for Brian to make his way to the tavern for the night. She beat a hasty retreat from Memorial Park and past George's Tavern; the lights were still off and Brian's truck was not to be found in the parking lot. Good, she'd managed to get on her side of town before he arrived, and with a strong determination continuing to force her feet back toward the motel, she saw from across the street young Janey Sullivan come out of A Doll's Attic. Trina looked away as the girl began skipping down the sidewalk, waving her arms wildly in the air, and that's when she heard the rumble of the engine.

Brian's truck had arrived at the tavern, and with it of course was Brian. Trina watched as the young girl paused, looked both ways, and then dashed across the street, calling out “Dad, Dad.” Then she leaped into his arms and he twirled her around as though she were the living embodiment of the town's landmark windmill.

“What do you say we toss our names into the big old hat Gerta's got,” he said.

She laughed aloud and said, “I've already done it, Dad.”

“Yours and mine?” he asked.

“Who else would it be?” she said.

A pang of regret struck Trina.

Here was Brian Duncan, not Janey's biological parent but happy to be called Dad. How natural the two of them seemed with each other, and for a moment Trina pondered the twist of fate that had brought them together. On the other side of the parental spectrum, fate had played another cruel hand, as Trina had known her father all her life but had lost or been denied their connection. She tried the word
Dad
on her lips, but it wouldn't emerge and her regret sank deeper inside her. She retreated again into the darkness of the falling day and away from the happy scene unfolding before her. She hoped Brian hadn't seen her.

She might not be ready for a second date, after all.

Except she wondered, all the way in the back of her mind, why that scene between father and daughter had struck such an unsettling nerve with her. Was it something she'd missed out on, or was it something she wanted?

C
HAPTER
10

B
RIAN

 

 

 

T
ime plays with the calendar, life moves when you don't realize it. Suddenly what you looked forward to was part of the past. So it was on this Friday, Brian Duncan wasn't anxious to get home, because to do so would mean the clock had turned past midnight and the next day's sun loomed ever closer, and with it would come the long-awaited arrival of Kevin and Didi Duncan to the land of the windmill. So the one night of the year Brian was willing to wait out his last customer to the bitter end, even if it meant staying until one, two, three o'clock in the morning, at eleven thirty the usually reliable Chet Hardesty was knocking back his last beer and announcing it was time to get home to the missus. Once he was gone, Brian would have the bar to himself.

“You never talk about your wife, Chet.”

“Right as rain, Brian, and the wife never asks where I'm going, even if she knows,” he replied. “Makes for a happy relationship, one that's kept us going on forty-six years now. Kids are grown and moved out, she likes to get up with the sun, while I've always been the night owl of our day-night romance. Now that I'm not working, I can stay up as late as I like.”

“Then why are you leaving so early tonight?”

“We've got some holiday plans tomorrow, visiting Hester's sister in East Syracuse.”

“Ah, gotcha. Family's important, Chet.”

“So the good folks in this humble town of ours say. We'll be back on Sunday in plenty of time for the name drawing. I trust we'll see you there.”

“Like Janey would let me miss that,” he said.

“Well, you get on home to that little girl of yours, close up early.”

That was the last thing Brian wanted to do, and besides, it wasn't like Janey would be there to greet him. First of all, she should be asleep at this hour, and second of all and perhaps more important, she wasn't staying at the farmhouse tonight. With all they had scheduled tomorrow, Brian had asked Cynthia and Bradley to take Janey for the night, and of course they'd agreed almost as quickly as Janey had. That's how it worked with them. He had to make sure she was comfortable with the arrangement, and if not, he made adjustments. With the Knights leaving town, the time Janey could spend with them was dwindling, so why not make the most of it?

This left Brian with a rare case of empty-nest syndrome, and while he knew he should take advantage of it, he'd never enjoyed having the farmhouse to himself. Like everything about his life in Linden Corners, the house was inherited, and when the darkness swirled around him, he felt like an imposter in his own home. The farmhouse had originally been owned by Thomas Van Diver's family, who'd sold it in the 1940s to the Sullivans. Now they were gone from Linden Corners, leaving the property and the windmill Brian's by tragic default. The tavern had belonged to George and had been in the Connors family for decades, and it was after his passing that Brian was first given the job of overseeing the business before being gifted the deed to the building by Gerta. And last, but certainly not least, there was Janey herself, whom he couldn't have even dreamed of ever being a part of his life, and now look at her: she was his life. But she wasn't really his.

The special charms of Linden Corners had done so much for Brian in the wake of the upheaval of his previous life, and now he realized it was his turn to impart its brand of magic to people who unsuspectingly were making their way here. Yes, tomorrow was at last the fifteenth of December, and Kevin and Didi Duncan, his parents, would soon be among the amiable folks celebrating Christmas within their borders, and inside the warmth of the farmhouse, traditions old and new would be acknowledged. It was going to be a strange clash of cultures, and as much as Brian was looking forward to seeing his dream of showing them the windmill come to fruition, he felt a knot in his stomach. As Janey had said, dreams existed where we wanted them, with reality bringing its own harsh wake-up call.

Earlier in the week he'd expected his mother to phone and say there'd been a change in plans. She had called, but only to confirm their arrival date of Saturday. The call had lasted not two minutes, and again he'd spoken only to his mother. Not that his father liked to talk on the phone normally, but this broken connection was beyond odd. He supposed he'd have to wait for Saturday for answers, now just minutes away according to the clock.

Midnight near, Brian realized he'd been daydreaming. But even while he was lost in his reverie, no new customers had come into the tavern.

He crossed the creaky wood floor, guessing he might as well turn the lock, clean up, and head home. As he approached the door, he gazed through the panes of glass to see if a customer was turning into the lot, headlights a signal that business was coming his way. No such lights were visible, and so he did what he'd come over to do: he flipped the bolt, heard its echo in the quiet. He thought back to that night before Thanksgiving when, after he'd closed, a surprise customer had appeared in the form of Trina Winter. He hadn't known her then, and he still didn't know her well, despite the night out with her last week.

In a way, he kind of hoped she'd show up tonight.

He hadn't seen her recently, and they hadn't spoken other than the day after their kiss.

Tentative plans were discussed, none made, and neither of them followed up. Was that an indication of disinterest on her part—on his?—or the sign of busy lives made crazier by the onslaught of the holidays? Truth of the matter was, Brian was confused, since he and Trina had agreed to go out if only to quiet their pushy friends, only to end up on a romantic stroll along the banks of the Hudson. A stroll that had ended with kisses that tasted of promise. And today, a week later, her kiss had dissipated like sand during a storm.

Brian flicked off the overhead lights, and the dim glow from the bar guided his way as he cleaned up. Unplug the jukebox, gather up empty pretzel bowls, and retrieve Chet's pint glass. Not in the mood to wipe down the bar or mop the floor, Brian hefted himself atop the bar, his legs dangling over the edge. From his perch, he gazed out over the room at the empty tables, his senses heightened. He felt he could hear every creak in the floor, every whisper of wind as it hit the building's side. As his eyes darted about, they settled on a box sticking out from underneath the pool table.

“What the heck?” he asked, jumping off the bar.

Before pulling it out from its hiding spot, he considered how carefully it had been set. Not quite hidden, as though whoever had placed it there had known just what he or she was doing. He took hold of it and then set it on the green felt of the table. Just like the first gift he'd received, it was a simple brown box, sealed with thick tape. He slid a finger beneath the tape and the flaps popped up. From inside he withdrew another gift, this one wrapped in shiny red paper. He possessed a gold one, a blue one, and now this third red one; the silver-colored ribbon was the same as on the others too, as was the message on the card.

 

 

“This is getting ridiculous,” he said aloud. His voice echoed, almost as though others were here and agreed with him. He thought about who might have placed the box under the pool table at some point tonight, running through the faces of the customers who'd stopped in. He'd still been thinking Gerta was the guilty party, yet he hadn't seen her tonight, nor had she given any indication—not a sly smile or a dropped hint—that she was behind this. Poker was not her game, so he eliminated her as a suspect. It could be Nora, but why? They were friends, that was all, so if this was some kind of romantic overture, he doubted Nicholas Casey would have approved of Nora's holiday flirting. Was it Cynthia's doing, guilt over leaving driving her? If so, why was she planning the village-wide Secret Santa?

He took a step back, eyes narrowing as he examined the gift, trying to decide if all three were the same size. He thought yes, and then he thought maybe he should shake it, glean a clue from whatever sound it made. But what if it was precious, irreplaceable? Last thing he wanted was to damage what was inside. But whoever his Secret Santa was, he or she hadn't written
fragile
. At last, Brian decided he'd enough of these games; he was going to open it. He went for the flap on the side, where a few strips of tape had sealed it closed.

Then he paused.

Should he really open it? And if he opened this one, what of the other two? For certain the gifts were linked, and to open one would spoil the whole game. Just then, Brian realized exactly what he was going to do. With the bar closed, Janey with Cynthia for the night, there was only one destination in mind: the windmill. By the time he could drive over and make the trek across the darkened field, he would have made up his mind about whether to store this gift with the others and abide by the rules of his mysterious friend, or end the mystery by opening all three. He could talk with Annie, ask her advice, and not just about the gifts he'd received but also about those Janey would be expecting.

With a renewed spring in his step, Brian ran behind the bar and reached for his keys and coat, flicking off the lights at the last second. As he turned to leave, that was when he saw the shadowy face emerge from behind the front door. He held his breath for a moment before he realized who it was, and then he allowed his smile to grow. He turned the lock and opened the door, and along with her amused grin came a cool blast of wind.

“Don't you ever stay open late?” Trina asked.

“Don't you ever call first?”

She shivered while standing on the porch, her arms hugging her. “Are you going to let me in or watch me freeze to death? In case you didn't know, it's gotten cold outside.”

“Winter's first blast, just like you've been asking for. See, dreams do come true in Linden Corners,” he said.

“Brian?” she said, her tone losing its playfulness.

“Sorry, yes, do come in, Ms. Winter.”

“Funny boy,” she said, entering the bar with a soft tap of her hand against his cheek.

Smiling widely, he closed the door behind her and turned the lock again, this time unsure why. While it was true he hadn't wanted to close, and only the lack of customers forced his hand, now he was loath for anyone else to show up. Now that she was here, it was possible others might have some last-minute thirsts that needed satisfying. Should he turn the lights back on, or was the mood ideal for their sudden rendezvous? He opted for the soft lights over the bar and kept the lock as it was, securing just the two of them inside, safe from the chilly elements. Making his way back around the bar, he turned to her as she settled on the same bar stool she used her first night.

“Déjà vu?” he asked.

“Nah, nothing French,” she said. “How about a scotch?”

He liked the way she played with words. Heck, he just liked having company, someone to talk to, and the fact that it was Trina feeding those needs . . . even better. Reaching to the top shelf for the bottle of Dewar's, he retrieved a glass and poured her a healthy amount. He set the bottle on the bar for easy access. She took a sip, let out a sigh of relief.

“Just what I needed.”

“Tough day?”

“Tough . . . few weeks. Want to know something, Brian?”

“What's that?”

“I snuck out tonight, like a delinquent teenager.”

“And why is that?”

“Because Richie Ravens is an infuriating man.”

“And you came here because I'm less infuriating?”

“No, because you run a bar.”

“Ah, so you're seeking refuge in a bottle?”

“The drink I needed, yes, but it was the company I wanted.”

Brian felt himself flush, glad the lights were dim. “Sorry, it's been a busy week . . .”

“Brian, I'm not looking for excuses. Whatever happens. . . it happens.”

“Is that your life's philosophy?”

“It is . . . now.”

Brian nodded. Clearly something was bothering her. “Want to tell me about it?”

“About what—me, or Richie?”

“Either, both, neither.”

“Well, if I'm going to discuss either of those first two, you may want to pour yourself a glass. And no, I don't want to hear your protests, Brian Duncan. Have a drink, it won't kill you, and besides, I hate drinking alone.”

“You didn't seem to mind the other night.”

“Which night?”

Even though Brian ran a bar, he didn't want to encourage her. “Trina, we don't have to stay here. We can go for a walk, you can talk . . .”

“Desperate times, desperate measures. Pour, Windmill Man. And don't forget yourself.”

He reluctantly smiled while he poured her refill, two fingers' worth, which he hoped satisfied her. But what would he have? With the bar separating them, he took a step back and gazed at the varied glasses on his shelves. Wine, beer, cocktails of varying sizes and shapes, and with nearly three years' bartending under his belt now, he knew just which glass to grab for whatever the customer ordered, but now that he was faced with making a decision for himself, it wasn't the glass stopping him; it was his choice. He could have told her that he didn't submit to peer pressure but figured she wasn't in the mood for platitudes. He grabbed a pint glass, poured a Saranac lager, setting it before himself but not drinking from it. He stared at the amber liquid until his eyes blurred, the foamy top and hoppy scent like strangers. It was not unlike him and Trina, and while he had tasted both and had felt his heart zing at forgotten memories, he wasn't sure if there was enough attraction building inside him to take the next step. To her, or to the beer. His eyes flicked upward to hers.