Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (27 page)

Gemma loved Books Brothers, with its red canoe handle on the door. The moment you opened the door, you left the world behind. Low jazz played, and the rows of gleaming walnut bookshelves, overstuffed chairs and sofas, and the interesting artifacts and old books on shelves high up on the walls, made you want to stay and explore all day. By the checkout desk there were café tables, and a side table always held coffee canisters, milk and sugar, plus a plate of sample goodies. Now, for the party, that table held various bottles of wine and Champagne and juices, and a gorgeous buffet of appetizers. Gemma was about to grab two tiny pigs in a blanket when she remembered Alex saying
hot dogs were full of nitrates and off-limits for the pregnancy. She went for the mini quiche Lorraine instead.

The party was crowded; Henry Books, June’s husband, was a beloved fixture in town, even if he was on the quiet side and left managing the store to June, who loved her job. Gemma loved their story; almost ten years ago, Henry had employed June as a twenty-one-year-old who’d dropped out of college when she discovered she was pregnant, the father, a guy she’d had a whirlwind two-day love affair with, unable to be located. Apparently, Henry, ten years June’s senior, had loved her from afar for years, but two years ago, after finally learning that her son’s father had passed away long ago, June was ready to say good-bye to the past she’d held on to and open her heart to Henry. They lived on a big houseboat docked in the back of the store, and if only Gemma didn’t get incredibly seasick every time she stepped on a boat, she might have loved staying with the Nash-Books family instead of at the inn.

Gemma watched them now, her dear old friend June with the long, curly auburn hair that Gemma had always coveted, speaking to her son with such love, such tenderness in her expression, as Charlie told a funny story about something that had happened at day camp. Henry was belly laughing and then scooped up Charlie and swung him around, accidentally bumping Isabel in the butt. Isabel whirled around and started tickling Charlie all over. They made family look so . . . inviting, reminding her of how she’d felt about the Hendricks clan before their warmth turned into suffocation. The Nash sisters weren’t overbearing in the slightest, though. Gemma tried to picture herself and Alexander walking with their toddler holding their hands, and swinging him with an upsy-daisy. But she couldn’t see it, couldn’t
see any of it. Any time she tried to imagine herself with a baby, she felt a heavy pressure in her chest.

“Stop being so demanding!” her mother would snap at her if she tried to tell her about something that had happened at school, or if she asked why her mother hadn’t come to a chorus concert. “I have a full-time job, Gemma. You’ll understand when you’re an adult.”

What she understood, now that she was an adult, was that she was just like her mother, no matter what Alexander said about her supposed big heart. If she had such a big heart, why would her job—a job she no longer had—come first? Why was her career more important to her than starting a family? Why wasn’t she rejoicing in being pregnant, talking to her baby as she lay in bed at night?

Why wasn’t she thinking of baby names?

Because you’re scared. Scared of everything. Losing who you are. Not being able to do both—be the investigative reporter and a mother. Snapping at your little child for asking a question, for wanting more of you
.

Gemma’s chest began to constrict and she turned away, pouring herself a glass of cranberry juice and trying to stop her brain from going places she didn’t want it to go. Focus on the party, she told herself. Look around for Claire, who was here somewhere.

But Gemma’s attention focused on six-month-old Allie in the arms of Isabel’s husband, Griffin. Theirs had also been a relationship that had taken work and compromise. Griffin, a divorced veterinarian, had met Isabel two years ago, when he and his daughters had been guests at the inn, the fourteen-year-
old daughter angry at the world, and Isabel dealing with the end of her own marriage. Isabel hadn’t thought she had what it took to be a mother either, but she wanted a family, wanted children, wanted a baby. She’d embraced stepmotherhood from the get-go, and now, with her own baby, Isabel seemed like the perfect mother to Gemma, the kind Gemma wished she could be. She watched Allie stretch out her arms for her mama, saw Isabel’s eyes light up, watched how she took the baby with such joy, cuddling her against her pretty blue dress. Griffin put his arm around Isabel, and they both stared in happy wonder at their daughter.

This was how it was supposed to be. Maybe it really did just happen; maybe you could have no maternal instincts, no baby fever, no interest in motherhood, at the moment, anyway, but you had a baby, you looked at your baby’s face, and you fell in love. Maybe that was how it was. Gemma sure hoped so. Because right now, she still didn’t even feel pregnant. No flutter. Certainly no kicking yet, though her doctor and her
Your Pregnancy This Week
book had said that would come later on in the second trimester. It was helpful to Gemma to know that Isabel managed to work full-time at the inn, though granted, she had her baby at work most of that time. Gemma couldn’t exactly bring her infant to a busy newsroom, tending to her baby with one hand while typing with the other.

We’ll make it work. Somehow . . .

There was a big commotion, and Gemma saw that June and Isabel’s cousin, Kat, who’d been living in France and working as a pastry chef for the past couple of years, had arrived with her long-term boyfriend, Oliver. According to June, they’d gotten engaged a couple of years ago, but Kat had broken it off to follow
her dreams to leave her hometown and study baking in Paris. Kat and Oliver were holding hands and clearly very much in love. Kat, tall and blond and pretty, looked a lot like Oliver, also tall and blond. They kissed, and Gemma caught the lingering look they’d given each other.

Kat and Oliver had managed to make it work too, Gemma thought, swiping a mini potato and cheese pierogi from the buffet. She’d wanted one thing, he’d wanted another, and they’d made it work. Kat had left the country, of course, and broken off their engagement. But they were together.

Gemma had left the state. And there would be no breaking of anything—especially not vows. She and Alexander loved each other—that was not in question. And they both wanted the other to be happy—while being happy themselves. They both wanted this to work, and it would.

Gemma just couldn’t see how.

A few minutes before nine o’clock on Friday, Bea headed into the parlor of the Three Captains’ Inn for Movie Night. Isabel was there, and June, and there was Gemma, sitting on the love seat and waving Bea over to the empty spot next to her. Bea hurried over before one of the members of the Colin Firth fan club could beat her to it. Bea had never been so glad for a familiar, friendly face. She’d spent last night tossing and turning for hours after her meeting with Veronica, and all day today she’d wandered around aimlessly, trying to figure out what she was uptight about.

What seemed to be bothering Bea the most was that going forward, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with Veronica Russo. Who was she to Bea? Last night, at Veronica’s house, she was overcome with the notion that Veronica was a stranger. But she was hardly a stranger. For God’s sake, she’d given birth to Bea. But now what? She’d get her biological father’s contact information from Veronica, if she had it—or at least a place to start, since there were a few Macintoshes listed in the Boothbay Harbor phone book, and then what? Were she and Veronica supposed to be friends?

“Did you turn your phone off or something? I tried to call
you a few times,” Gemma said. “I’d love to hear how your evening went with your birth mother.”

“It went . . . okay,” Bea whispered back. “She’s very nice. But it was a little strained for both of us. I told her that you were writing an article on Hope Home and would love to interview her, but she said she wasn’t up for that.”

“That’s okay,” Gemma said. “And thanks for asking her.” She leaned closer. “Another reason I called is because Isabel mentioned that the Colin Firth movie we’re watching is
Then She Found Me.
It’s about a birth mother trying to connect with the daughter she gave up for adoption. I wanted to prepare you in advance. I saw it when it first came out in theaters, and it’s a wonderful movie. But it might hit close to home.”

“Maybe I’ll learn something useful,” Bea said, touched that Gemma had tried to call her.

Isabel and June, handing out popcorn around the room, introduced their cousin, Kat, who was visiting for the weekend. Kat was holding two bowls of popcorn, one with her arm against her chest, and Bea jumped up to help.

“Perfect—that one’s for you guys on the love seat,” Kat said. “Everyone have popcorn?” she asked, glancing around the room.

The Colin Firth fan club, three best friends from Rhode Island who were wearing their “Happiness Is Colin Firth” T-shirts again, had taken over the big white sofa; three other guests, one of whom had the pickiest breakfast order that Bea had ever seen—hold the “this,” add the “that”—were in overstuffed chairs; and Isabel, June, Kat, and Isabel’s sweet elderly helper, Pearl, were on the padded folding chairs. Bea offered her seat to Pearl, but she said the chair was better for her back.

“I love that you’re doing Movie Night again,” Kat said to Isabel. “I feel like my mom is watching with us.”

Isabel had told Bea that her aunt Lolly, Kat’s mother, had left the three of them the inn when she’d died two years ago. Movie Night had been an inn tradition for years, and when Lolly had passed away, it had been Meryl Streep month, in honor of Lolly’s favorite actress. Lolly had raised Isabel, June, and Kat after the death of her husband and the Nash sisters’ parents in a car accident, and to the women, Movie Night and Lolly were synonymous.

June squeezed Kat’s hand.

“I’ll bet she is,” Isabel said, standing up with the DVD and heading over to the console table. “Okay, everyone get ready for
Then She Found Me,
starring our Colin Firth, who has yet to make an appearance in town, unfortunately, and the wonderful Helen Hunt, Bette Midler, and Matthew Broderick.”

Isabel shut off the lights, and Bea took a handful of popcorn. So much for leaving her thoughts behind and being swept away by a movie, but as she’d said to Gemma, maybe she would learn something, get some perspective.

Bea watched as Helen Hunt, who played a thirty-nine-year-old teacher in New York City, had her husband—Matthew Broderick—walk out her door the day before her mother dies. Then Helen’s biological mother, played by a pushy Bette Midler, appears in her life, insistent on getting to know her, and Helen is resistant. She’d had a mother. Bette is a bit on the obnoxious side and makes up crazy stories about her father being Steve McQueen. When Helen gets involved with a student’s father, played by Colin Firth, she starts to calm down, finding herself actually feeling happy. But then she realizes she’s pregnant, a
longtime dream, from a one-night stand with her own estranged husband, and she has to figure out all the pieces of her life.

“You okay?” Gemma whispered.

“Yeah,” Bea whispered back. “Veronica’s not pushy like Bette Midler at all. I told her I needed some time to process everything, and she hasn’t called. Bette would have been at my door this morning. She’d be here now, pushing you out of the way.”

Gemma smiled.

Bea wondered if Veronica felt like Bette did, if she wanted Bea in her life, wanted to be close. Maybe she too needed some distance from Bea’s questions about her biological father, about Veronica’s parents.

Bea loved a scene in which Colin Firth attends a party for Bette Midler with Helen Hunt. She loved how protective he was of Helen, how clearly enamored with her he was. She was glad she had a date with Patrick tomorrow afternoon. Just a little something fun and sweet and romantic for her to have to herself.

But the more she watched, the more she realized that Veronica and Bette had something very much in common: the same hopeful look in their eyes.