Leaves (10 page)

“So Dad's good?”

“Your dad's great. He misses you, of course, but work has been fantastic lately.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that the last time we talked. How's everybody else?”

Maria did a quick rundown of the family, including the latest on the party planning. “Also, I have a feeling that your Aunt Deborah might be seeing someone?”

Olivia brightened. “Really? Have you met him?”

“I'm not even sure if there
is
a him, but I just have a feeling.”

“Are you having
visions
, Mom? That's not exactly like you.”

Maria frowned. “I'm not having visions. Just intuition. And what do you mean it's not exactly like me? Creative people trust their imaginations.”

“I'm sure creative people do,” Olivia said slyly.

“What's
that
supposed to mean?”

Olivia waved her hands dismissively. “Nothing, never mind.”

Olivia concentrated on her food for several minutes after that. Her last comment had thrown Maria off balance. Did her daughter think she was an automaton? Didn't she remember the guitar playing and songwriting? Had Maria spent so much time away from her instrument that her daughter didn't associate her with the guitar at all? Maria wanted to tell Olivia about starting to play again and about the new songs that were starting to simmer in her brain, but something held her back.

The conversation picked up again a few minutes later, but stayed very much at the surface level: the differences in the weather between Providence and Oldham, what the Halloween decorations looked like on Hickory Avenue, how limited the salad bar selections were in the dining hall, that sort of thing. Maria had been hoping for conversation closer to the great heart-to-hearts she and Olivia had regularly the month before Olivia left, but there was time for that. Olivia didn't have another class until four, so maybe they'd find a coffee bar to kick back in for a while before Maria headed home.

That plan evaporated as soon as Maria signed the credit card receipt. Olivia stood up quickly and shrugged on her jacket.

“I gotta get back,” she said.

“Really? I was hoping we could go for a little walk, maybe grab some coffee.”

Olivia scrunched up her face. “I'm in the middle of my day, Mom.”

Maria looked down at the table and then back up at her daughter. “But you don't have another class for a while.”

“And I have to prepare for that class. One of the things I've learned very quickly is that I can't just show up here the way I did in high school. Besides, I'm supposed to meet a friend at three.”

Maria's heart grew heavier. “You can't reschedule because your mother drove an hour and a half to see you?”

“If you'd have let me know you were coming, I could have set things up differently. You kinda surprised me here.”

“That was sort of the point.”

Olivia's shoulder's slumped. “I know, Mom, and it was really nice of you, but I'm kinda in the middle of things.”

There wasn't much else to say about this, so Maria got up from the table and asked Olivia if she would walk with her to her car.

As she opened the car door, Maria remembered the tear-soaked goodbye she and her daughter shared in late August. Now, Olivia was practically shutting the car door on Maria's legs.

“You're still planning to come down for the party, right?” Maria said as she started the engine.

Olivia bobbed her head quickly. “Yeah, of course. I've been planning to come down all along.”

“Just making sure.”

Olivia reached through the rolled-down window at that point and hugged her. “I love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, Liv.”

Maria pulled out of the space and waved to her daughter as she drove off, realizing as she did that she would probably never make a visit like this again.

Deborah figured Sage and she weren't likely to run out of conversation, something that often concerned her when she saw someone socially for the first time. In Sage's case, though, they had a nearly endless number of prompts if things bogged down. All she'd have to do is mention a food item – mustards maybe, or perhaps Ventresca tuna – and they'd be good for another fifteen minutes. That made her that much more comfortable about the idea of their getting drinks together.

It was therefore surprising to find herself off the topic of food entirely, only minutes after her glass of wine arrived.

“Yes, I get it,” Sage said with the same intensity with which he'd sold her on preserves when they'd met, “and I'll grant you it's nice to see a museum where an abandoned warehouse used to be, but don't you think it's a little
artif
i
cial
?”

“Well,” Deborah said with a coy smile, “it's a building. They're rarely organic.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don't, actually.”

Sage tipped his head toward her, acknowledging that he knew that she knew that he knew she was playing with him. “The museum has nothing to do with the rest of the neighborhood.”

Deborah glanced at him over her wineglass. “You know where that kind of thinking leads, don't you?”

“Logical growth?”

“I was thinking entropy.”

Deborah wondered where that retort came from. She wasn't sure she'd ever said the word “entropy” aloud before.

Sage shrugged. “Yeah, you're probably right.”

“Wow, I never win arguments that easily.”

“You must be arguing with the wrong people.”

Deborah considered that, and then tried to remember the last argument she'd had at all – not that this exchange about the recently erected modern art museum in the former industrial town of Creston Mills counted as an actual argument. She'd yelled at one of her produce purveyors a few days ago about giving her paltry parsnips. Was that an argument? She'd won that one as well. Maybe she
did
usually win arguments this easily, at least when they were entirely innocuous.

Sage caught her eye and smiled at her, acknowledging that he'd noticed she'd drifted off for a moment.

“I was doing some reading about the Sugar Maple Inn,” he said. “Did you know that it was the headquarters for a prohibition opposition group in the early twenties.”

“I might have heard something about that, you know, since I've spent nearly my entire life there.”

“Yes, I guess you would have. There was quite a bit about your parents at the historical society.”

Deborah's eyes widened. “You went to the historical society to research my family? Do you do this with everyone you meet.”

“Not everyone. To be honest, I was there to look up some information about
my
building. I'm trying to come up with a way to incorporate some history into the store's merchandising. While I was there, I decided to look up the legendary Golds.”

“Does that mean you were a little bit awed about having drinks with me tonight?”

Sage grinned. “Yes, but not for that reason.” He took a sip of his Laphroaig. “Your parents were honest-to-goodness icons in this community. That's very impressive.”

“And you can bet I use it shamelessly to my advantage. Just the other day, I threw my name around to get the best treadmill at the gym. I'm thinking about using it to get an invitation to lunch at the White House next.”

Sage nodded slowly. “I get it; you don't like to talk about your family's place in the community.”

Deborah put up a hand. “No, that's not really it at all. It's just that Oldham has a lot of icons. It seems that two-thirds of the people here have been around for decades.”

“Ah, so I'm dragging down the average.”

Deborah smiled. “Yeah, between you and the new owners of the Sugar Maple, the whole town is going to hell.”

The conversation detoured away from Oldham at that point. First toward a speech about nanotechnology that Sage saw on YouTube, then toward national politics, and eventually even toward condiments, though not specifically mustard. Three glasses of wine later, they strolled out onto the street, where both of them had remarkably found parking spaces. They stopped by Deborah's car and she pulled out her keys.

“I had a great time tonight, thanks,” Sage said.

Deborah reached out to touch him on the arm. “Me too.”

“Your officially my best friend in Oldham now. You snuck past the mailman in the last half-hour.”

“I'm honored.”

They locked eyes at that point and neither said anything for a very long moment.

Sage leaned toward her. “Can we do it again soon?”

“I think I'd like that.”

“Would it bother you if we called our next evening a ‘date?'”

Deborah felt her face warming. “I'd be good with calling it that.”

He leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek. Deborah strongly wanted to pull him toward her, but she knew it was smarter to leave things at this.

“I'll call you tomorrow,” he said, taking her hand for a brief instant before turning toward his car.

Maxwell felt a little embarrassed to realize that he hadn't been inside the kitchen of the Sugar Maple Inn in years. He couldn't count the number of meals he'd had at the inn during that time, but he'd always been satisfied with waiting for the food to come out. He hadn't gotten the gourmand gene that it seemed most of the rest of the family had, and he rarely had any interest in either seeing how food was prepared or helping with the process. In that regard, Annie and he were a perfect match. Their kitchen was largely decorative, somewhat like the house's fourth bedroom that they used for storage.

When he entered, Deborah was working over a huge slab of fish with tweezers, pulling out bones. The fish looked like salmon to Maxwell, but knowing Deborah, he assumed it was some rare cousin of salmon, sustainably caught in a small inlet in Newfoundland. Around her, three of Deborah's assistants worked intently, one chopping onions, another stirring something in a pot, the third throwing all of his strength at a large ball of dough.

Deborah didn't appear to notice him, so he said, “Hey.” When that didn't elicit a reaction, he moved closer to her and said it again.

Deborah glanced up. It appeared that the sight of her brother momentarily disoriented her. Maxwell could practically see her thoughts. Maybe she was trying to remember the last time he'd been in this room.

“Hey,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“There's something I wanted to let you know about.”

Deborah's face creased. “Please tell me it's not a job idea.”

“What?”

Deborah shook her head quickly. “Nothing. It just seems that every time someone wants to tell me about something these days, it's about where I should go for my next job.”

“I'm staying out of that one, sis. If you're comfortable going out on the high wire without a net, I'm with you.”

“Thanks. That was a metaphor I hadn't considered. It makes me feel so much better about my future. So what's up?”

At that point, something clattered to the floor, causing Maxwell to startle. He wouldn't last an hour in this environment. Of course, Deborah probably wouldn't last long at one of the Chamber meetings.
One man's torment is a
n
other's pleasure, I suppose
.

“Do you think we can talk someplace less…under siege?” he said.

Deborah offered a tiny shrug, put the fish back in the refrigerator, washed her hands, and gestured him out toward the dining room.

“So what's going on?” Deborah said, sitting.

“I was following my orders from Corrina and I sat down with Mike Mills at the
Post
to pitch him on doing a feature piece in the paper about the party. He's going to run it on the Friday before Halloween.”

“That's great. I'm sure Corrina is thrilled.”

“Not that she'd ever admit it. There's more, though. Mike loves your cooking, you know.”

Deborah brightened. “It's great when Mike comes here. He'll eat anything I send out. He has excellent taste.” She paused for a moment, her brows lowering. “Or maybe he doesn't have any taste buds at all.”

“Let's go with the former. Anyway, he decided he wants to do a completely separate piece about the last meal you're serving at the inn to run the week after the new guys take over.”

“Wow, really?”

“I figured you'd be happy about that. The ink can't hurt, right?”

Deborah offered him a forced smile. “Yeah, it's great.”

Maxwell had no idea what was going on. “You know, I realize it isn't
The New York Times
, but I'm guessing most people would be a little more excited about something like this.”

Deborah glanced past him out the window. “No, it's good.”

“Sis, what am I missing?”

Deborah's gaze at the distance deepened. Maxwell was beginning to wonder if “feature piece in the
Oldham Post
” was somehow code for “we're going to have to amputate your left leg.”

In a week of improbabilities, what happened next was the most improbable thing of all. A tear started running down the face of Maxwell's ultra-composed, eminently competent sister. Was this some kind of delayed reaction to all the onions her assistant had been chopping?

“I can't figure it out,” Deborah said, wiping at her cheekbone.

“Can't figure what out?”

“That dinner. I can't figure out what I'm going to make for the last meal at the inn. And now we're going to have a reporter here chronicling my crash-and-burn.”

“Deborah, how many times have you crashed and burned here?”

Deborah turned to face him, her eyes wide. “Enough times, believe me. But I'm saving my worst for last. I can't think of a single thing to serve. I'm going to be sending Fruit Loops out to the dining room.”

Maxwell took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as he always did when someone was having a crisis in front of him. It had been his experience that exuding calm actually helped to calm down others.

“You'll figure it out,” he said. “You always do.”

Deborah threw her hands up. “How do I know? I've never had to make a meal like this before.”

There was no chance he was going to make any progress with this conversation. Maybe not having a job to turn to was affecting Deborah more than she had let on. Maybe there was another issue at play entirely. Regardless, Maxwell knew that talking about it more wasn't going to improve Deborah's outlook. Instead, he just sat with her.

A few minutes later, she told him she had to get the rest of the pin bones from her fish, and she escaped back into the kitchen.

A few days ago, when Maria had made the appointment to take a music lesson, she had an entirely different purpose in mind. Back then, she thought brushing up on her playing would be a fun way to pass a little time. Today, though, as she sat in the waiting area at McGarrigle's, she realized the lesson was going to serve as a critical diversion. She was still hurting over the way her “surprise” with Olivia had turned out. Her daughter e-mailed her that night saying it was “great” to see her, but not suggesting that she was looking for an encore any time soon. Meanwhile, Doug tried to be sympathetic, but he couldn't hide the fact that he thought dropping in on one's eighteen-year-old daughter was rarely a good idea. The entire experience left her feeling squeamish, as though she'd shown up at a formal party in cutoffs.

What she needed right now was something to take her mind completely off of this. Playing at her music stand helped a bit, but it was too easy to let her thoughts overwhelm her at home. That wouldn't happen with a teacher in the room with her.

“Maria?”

Maria turned toward the voice to find Martha McGarrigle standing five feet away with a bemused expression.

“Martha, hi. How have you been?”

In a town like Oldham, it wasn't easy to be a local and to go a long stretch without seeing another local, but it had to have been years since Maria had spoken with Martha. The woman looked great, slimmer and more casually put together than Maria remembered.

“I'm doing really well. This place is a blessing and curse, as always, but things are good. How about you?”

“Everything is fine. I'm dealing with a bit of an empty-nest thing right now, but my husband and daughter are great.”

“Wow, I can't believe you have a kid out of the house already. My oldest just turned seven.” Martha gestured toward Maria's guitar case. “Is that yours?”

Maria patted the case. “Yeah, I'm here for my first lesson since I was a teenager.”

“Wow, I completely forgot that you played.”

Maria nodded. “I haven't played seriously in a while. I decided I wanted to pick it up again, and it seemed like a good idea to get some pointers.”

“Yeah, makes sense. Can you play something for me now?”

Maria looked around the waiting area. The only other person there was a woman who seemed to be in her late fifties who had a piano book on her lap. Maria knew the store would get much busier later after school let out.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was on my way back to my office to pay bills. This sounds like much more fun.”

Feeling a bit apprehensive – she was here, after all, because she knew her guitar playing needed work – Maria opened the case and pulled out her guitar. Checking the tuning, she suddenly couldn't think of a single song she knew. How foolish would she seem to Martha if she couldn't play more than a line or two?

Finally, Dar Williams's “The Babysitter's Here” popped into her head. It was a song from the perspective of a child whose beloved babysitter was going off to college. As was true of so many songs Maria loved, this one had evolved in meaning for her over the years, and as she began to sing the first verse, she realized it had shifted yet again.

Thinking about this caused her to botch a chord change in the refrain, but she finished without stumbling again. The lyrics made her a little teary, as they always did, leading her to wonder if it were the best choice to play for Martha, but Martha smiled at her when Maria was finished.

“That was really good,” Martha said. “You have a nice touch. And you sing well, too.”

Maria looked down at her guitar. “Thanks. My voice isn't quite as rusty as my playing, but both could use a lot of work.”

“Not as much as you think.” Martha leaned toward her and spoke conspiratorially. “You wouldn't believe what some of the ‘advanced' students play like.”

They chuckled together, and then Martha tapped the neck of Maria's guitar. “I've gotta go. This is great that you're doing this. Who's your lesson with?”

“Colin.”

“Oh, good. He'll push you once he realizes how good you are. This is great. I'll see you again soon.”

With that, Martha left to pay her bills. Maria fingerpicked a few more chords on the guitar before putting it away, just in time for Colin to come out to greet her.

The peepers were out in full force. This was the weekend every year when the masses decided to descend on the Connecticut River Valley. It had been busy the first two weekends in October and it would stay busy through Halloween, but the media always hyped this weekend as the peak viewing time and that always pulled in the crowds.

Corrina had been working at the Visitors Bureau long enough that she knew to gird herself for the onslaught. It always started around lunchtime on Thursday and stayed intense through Sunday brunch. She'd been answering questions nonstop for the past three hours. If there weren't three people waiting in line in the office, there was someone on the phone. She'd answered questions about museums, craft shops, scenic views, and historical points of interest so often that she felt as though she were activating some digital recording device rather than actually speaking. The predictability broke only occasionally when someone came in asking for a toy store or for a specific type of restaurant. This year, there were decidedly more people asking how to get a table for dinner at the Sugar Maple Inn, something not even the chef's sister could provide at this point, unless the prospective diner wanted to stick around until Monday night.

At two thirty, Corrina got a modicum of relief from Lita Ford, a “cool grandma” who worked at the bureau about fifteen hours a week. Lita entered while a peeper from New Jersey was dominating Corrina with questions about seemingly every brochure in the office, and she quickly took care of the other patrons. It was ten minutes before Corrina could even say hello to her.

“What was that all about?” Lita said when the Jersey guy finally left.

“I think it was about the entire history of the Valley. That guy definitely wanted to make sure he got the peak experience.”

“Man, I'm glad I didn't get here five minutes earlier.”

“Try fifteen.”

Lita's eyes widened. “You were talking to him for fifteen minutes already?”

Corrina sighed. “Maybe more. It felt like an hour and a half.”

Lita shook her head slowly. “You definitely need a break. Why don't you go get some coffee? I'll hold down the fort.”

Lita didn't need to twist her arm. Corrina grabbed her sweater and headed out, holding the door for yet another patron as she did.

The traffic on Hickory Avenue was predictably thick. Corrina noticed license plates from four states while she stood at the crosswalk. Under normal circumstances, she could be certain oncoming drivers would stop for a pedestrian in the crosswalk, but with so many out-of-towners here, she wasn't sure, so she waited for an opening, glancing longingly at the coffee bar across the street as she did.

At that moment, a couple of teenagers came out of the deli next to the coffee bar. Corrina instantly recognized Ryan. What she couldn't place as easily was the carefree smile on his face. It had been years since she'd seen him with that expression, and seeing it now reminded her how handsome the boy could be when he lightened up.

The cause for the expression was easy to identify, though the subject was not. It was the bright-eyed girl with shoulder-length brown hair who'd just laid a kiss on Ryan's cheek. Ryan responded by kissing the girl on the lips and then wrapping his arm around her shoulder as they walked down the street away from Corrina.

Ryan had a girlfriend? He'd never once mentioned a girl – any girl – to Corrina, and she was fairly certain he hadn't said anything to Gardner, either.

The traffic let up enough for Corrina to cross, which she did briskly. When she got to the other side of the street, she searched for Ryan and the mystery girl again, catching them just before the girl yanked on Ryan's chuckling form and pulled him into another store.

Ryan. Chuckling. Wow.