Leaves (8 page)

“So you're telling me flat-out I can't go.”

“It's just not a good idea, Rye.”

“Well, I appreciate your looking out for me, counselor,” Ryan said snidely, turning to leave the room. Before he did so, though, he leaned toward Corrina and said, “Thanks for your support.”

Corrina opened her mouth to say something – though she wasn't at all sure what that would be – but didn't get the chance. Ryan had already pivoted and pounded out of the room.

While Maria waited for Doug to arrive at the restaurant, she thought back on the first few times they went out after Olivia was born. For some reason the baby, who would sit contentedly in her high chair at home for seemingly any period, abhorred public places. So Maria would eat her salad while Doug walked Olivia around outside to keep her from wailing. Then they would switch places. This happened a handful of times over the first nine months of the little girl's life before they decided that if eating out together was impractical, they wouldn't do it at all. For a while after that, “date nights” involved getting Olivia to bed at a reasonable hour and then ordering Chinese takeout.

Since they'd taken Olivia to Brown, Doug wanted to go to restaurants all the time. Part of the reason was that they were free to do so in a way they hadn't been even when their daughter was a teenager and could take care of herself. Part of it was because for the first time in their lives together they had a decent disposable income. Things had been so tight in the early days. The unexpected pregnancy and the marriage that came at least eighteen months before they'd planned it set both of them off of their career courses. Maria's parents had been there with a good job for Doug at the inn, but even when he was promoted to Business and Marketing Manager, his salary had allowed for few extravagances. Then two years ago, with her mother's blessings, Doug took a marketing position with a company in Hartford. The two promotions and the bonuses he received since then not only made paying for college considerably easier than they'd expected, but gave them a cushion for the first time.

That was how she found herself sitting in the Hampshire Inn in Essex sipping a glass of Chianti. Doug had called as she got out of her car to tell her there was an accident on Rte. 9 that was slowing him up and that he'd be about fifteen minutes late. Maria spent the first couple of minutes looking over the menu – she'd decide between the citrus roasted duck and the Moroccan-spiced halibut when it was time to order – and then the next several glancing around the room. Most of the tables were full, most likely with out-of-towners enjoying a long weekend. Several were taken by business associates, their body language juxtaposing the discomfort of unfamiliarity with the desire to appear approachable. There was an older couple holding hands across the table, and another couple around her age that barely acknowledged each other's presence.

A Michael Feinstein CD played softly in the background. The tune in Maria's own head was Tracy Chapman's “Baby Can I Hold You?” a song she'd nearly forgotten until she played it for the first time in years that morning. She hadn't picked up the guitar the entire weekend, but after Doug went to work this morning, she sat down with it again. As was true on Friday, hours melted while she played. It was like having your long-lost best friend show up on your doorstep. She had absolutely no idea how much she'd missed playing until she started doing it again. She mentioned it casually to Doug on Friday, not wanting to admit to him how completely she'd let time get away from her that day.

“Sounds like fun,” he'd said. “I wish I could play an instrument.” The conversation ended at that point.

Twenty minutes after she'd gotten there, Doug entered the room. He had a huge smile on his face when he saw her and he kissed her deeply before he sat down. “I'm so sorry I'm late. The whole thing was caused by rubbernecking, if you can believe it. The accident was on the other side of the highway. People should get tickets for doing that kind of thing.”

“It's okay, I was just daydreaming. Have some wine and relax.”

Doug poured himself a glass from the bottle Maria had ordered and took a quick sip. Maria knew he felt guilty about making her wait, but he would settle down before their appetizers came.

“Did you have a good day?” he said.

“Yeah, you know, I did some stuff around the house, talked to Corrina about the party, finally heard back from Olivia.”

“I assume she's been able to find the bathroom without you,” he said with a glint in his eye.

Maria smirked at him. “Yes, she has. She's also managed to find
Brad
without me.”

Doug's brow furrowed. “Who's Brad?”

Maria smiled to herself. Doug never liked hearing that his baby was interested in boys. He was too evolved to pepper her dates with questions and thinly veiled threats, but not so evolved that he didn't mention the idea to Maria after Olivia left the house.

“Nothing more than a flirtation from what I can tell.”

“This is the part about her going to college I'm not going to do well with.”

Maria laughed. “She has a great head on her shoulders. She knows how to keep the bad ones at bay. Tell me about your day.”

Doug seemed lost in thought for one more moment, took another sip of wine, and then leaned forward in his chair. “It was really good. We pitched the new promotion campaign to Rob Krieger – you know the one where we partner with the candy companies? – and he reacted really well. He gave us a bunch of little suggestions just to put his stamp on it, but we have the green light.”

“That's great news. You've been working on that project for months.”

“And as recently as last week, I was convinced he wanted to go in an entirely different direction.”

“Wow, really? You never mentioned that to me.”

“I was too nervous about it to mention it.”

“But now you're on, right?”

“I'm on.” Doug beamed. The pleasure and pride he took in his work was unmistakable. He had never been this way when he worked at the inn. He loved Maria's parents and he took his job with them very seriously, but in all the years he worked there, Maria had never seen the expression he was wearing now.

“I'm proud of you,” she said.

“I'm kind of proud of myself.” He reached out and squeezed Maria's hand. He looked around the room. “I love this place. Remember when we came here for our fifteenth anniversary? It was such a huge deal, and now we're just here on a Monday night. I know you miss Liv sometimes, Babe. I do too. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't loving what we have now. We have our whole lives in front of us. My work is stimulating, we can do whatever we want with our nights, we can walk around the house naked whenever we want – something I strongly recommend we do more of, by the way – and we can be so spontaneous.”

Maria raised Doug's hand to her lips and kissed it. He smiled at her fondly and then looked down at his menu.

“Do you know what you're having?” he said.

“I've narrowed it down.”

“Let me just take a look.”

Maria watched him amusedly as he glanced through the menu and commented enthusiastically on several of the selections. It tickled her that Doug was embracing life with such brio these days. He'd made the transition to “empty nester” so easily. It wasn't that he didn't love Olivia or that he wanted her out the door. In fact, Maria knew that when Olivia came home for the party he would hang on to every moment they had together. But he was ready to face the rest of his life. For him, this was the reward for struggling through his early twenties with a baby and a mortgage – just turned forty, rippling with energy, and wise enough and worldly enough to enjoy it.

Still, there was a tiny bit of Maria that was jealous of how smoothly Doug had moved on to the next stage. He wasn't struggling over what to do with the rest of his life. He didn't need to redefine himself. As wonderful as it was to see him having this much fun, it was also a reminder of how much work she had to do to get where he was.

He closed his menu. “Baked oysters and then the filet,” he said. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Then maybe a little port at home, some Marvin Gaye, some slow dancing, and who knows?” He moved toward her and kissed her lightly, seductively, on the lips.

She really did love seeing him like this.

Maxwell remembered the first party thirty years ago more vividly than any other event in his childhood. It was the first time he'd concluded that his family was remarkable.

He'd turned eight that summer and remembered the fall for his first organized football games and for the continuing quest to make it up the hill on Aspen Drive on his bicycle without stopping. Like presumably every other kid his age, he spent hours contemplating his Halloween costume and more hours than that anticipating the loot he would bring in when he went trick-or-treating. When his mother mentioned that the family was going to be throwing a huge party at the inn, he couldn't help feeling cheated. Instead of ringing doorbells all over the neighborhood and collecting pounds of candy, he would give out treats instead. He had no way of knowing at that point that he was in for the time of his life – and more important, that many of the guests would bring candy for the Gold kids so that he would wind up with more than he ever had before.

The family had always operated well together, a byproduct of two parents running a business out of their home. Chores were always executed efficiently, games organized and played smoothly, favors easily doled out and reciprocated. However, something kicked up a level as that Halloween approached. His mother and father seemingly designed the entire event not only to show guests a good time, but also to allow their own children to have as much fun as possible putting it together. Dad offered nightly updates on the progress of the plans while Mom solicited suggestions from each of the kids. Goodies to be served were “tested” weeks ahead of time and repeatedly offered to make sure they “got it right.” Secrets regarding surprise activities were shared as long as each child swore silence. Best of all, the kids all got to stay home from school on October thirtieth to help with the final preparations.

It was during this time that Maxwell perceived in some sense the value of his siblings as a unit for the first time. Maria, ten, could be trusted to handle certain arrangements over the telephone and she served as unofficial entertainment director. Deborah, six, offered outspoken advice on candy and beverages, and even figured out how to make ghost treats out of marshmallows. Corrina, only three, insisted on drawing pictures and placing them strategically throughout the inn. Tyler had only begun to crawl that October and was at once the least prominent member of the family and the center of attention. Maxwell remembered a friend of his mother's suggesting that maybe it was unwise to hold a party of this magnitude with a baby in the house, but his mother simply dismissed such talk. She was so tickled with the idea of doing this.

Once he got past his initial trepidation, Maxwell found himself swept into the spirit of the event. One afternoon, he heard his parents worrying that no one would show up and he appointed himself the role of promotion director. He tapped classmates, older siblings of friends, teachers, and even local shop owners to help him publicize the event. He commissioned a handful of his cronies to play a role in certain activities without letting them know exactly what those activities would be – further increasing the sense of anticipation.

When the day arrived, it was clear that Halloween at the Sugar Maple Inn was an event for the ages as far as Oldham was concerned. The place was crowded within minutes after they opened the door at six o'clock and was still packed for the final “haunting” at ten. Two of the workers at the inn had come down sick that day, and it all could have been overwhelming to do this short-staffed, but again the kids came through. Maria operated the tape player and organized the children's events. Deborah transported trays of appetizers and kept the punch bowl filled. Maxwell served double duty at the coat check and as supervisor of the “spook chamber” (as one of the downstairs guest rooms had been renamed). Even little Corrina served a hugely important role by playing with Tyler, allowing the babysitter to fill in elsewhere.

That Maxwell's friends (and he would later learn, much of the town) continued to talk about the party weeks later was satisfying enough. That the event put the inn on the map regionally was something he didn't understand at the time. But what he remembered the most – and so many of the images were still so strong, but this was the strongest – was the way the family sat together in the common room after everyone else had gone. Tyler was asleep in Maria's arms and Deborah was sprawled out semiconscious on one of the couches, but all seven of them were together at nearly midnight, even though there was school the next day.

“Bethie, this was a crazy idea,” his father said from an armchair.

“It was, wasn't it?” his mother said, gathering Corrina up next to her. “Do it again next year?”

“Hell, yes!”

Maxwell and Maria laughed. Deborah grunted something that sounded like assent.

“You kids were great tonight,” his father said. “Real clutch performers. This whole thing might have been a disaster without you.” Maxwell remembered his father looking him squarely in the eye at that point and nodding to him, sending a little electric charge of pride through his young soul.

“We'd better get you kids to bed so you can get some sleep,” his mother said, at which point Deborah snored loudly to indicate that such formalities were hardly necessary.

Now sitting in the reception area of the offices of the
Oldham Post
, Maxwell couldn't help thinking about how much had changed in the thirty years since that first party. Foremost of course was the passing of both of his parents. But somewhere along the line, the shimmer of the party had dimmed for him. It still meant a lot, but more for its historic value than any resonance it could provide in his life these days. Maybe if they held onto the inn for a couple more years and he could see Joey there at a point when he understood what was going on, some of the unalloyed joy Maxwell once felt might return. But holding onto the inn for even one more day was impractical, and they had gotten a very good price in the sale.

Mike Mills walked out to greet him, extending his hand. “Sorry to hold you up. It's been crazy here the last few days.”

“That stuff with Bruce?”

Mike smiled at him knowingly. “Yeah, that stuff with Bruce. Our readers are a little fascinated.”

“Hey, no such thing as bad publicity, right?”

“I don't think that applies in this case. Come on back to the office.” Mike gestured toward a door and then guided Maxwell through a series of cubicles. The newsroom was certainly buzzing, much more so than any time Maxwell could remember from his days here.

“So what's up?” Mike said when they were seated in his office.

“I'm hoping you'll do me a favor.”

“What? A pillar of our community asking for special favors? This is the kind of thing that has Bruce in hot water.”

Maxwell laughed. “Not that kind of favor. I guess you could say that I'm here to pitch you a story.”

“Shoot.”

“You know that we sold the inn and the new owners are taking over at the beginning of November, right?”

“Yeah, of course I know. I'm already negotiating an ad contract with the new guys.”

“And I know you know about the Halloween parties we've had over the years, because I've seen you there scarfing down goodies.”

“Your sister's a great chef.”

“Well, we're doing it one more time and I was hoping you'd consider running a little feature piece about it maybe the week before.”

“You got it. I'll have John McVie call you to discuss angles in a couple of days.”

“Really? That's it? I figured I'd need to be more persuasive than that.”

“Nah, don't be ridiculous. I loved your parents, the inn's a freaking institution in town, and as you yourself pointed out, I've enjoyed more than my share of your hospitality over the years. I'm kind of ashamed I didn't think of it myself.”

“Thanks,” Maxwell said, standing and shaking Mike's hand.

“Don't mention it. Besides, I figure it behooves me to stay on your good side.”

Maxwell didn't have a clue what that meant, but he figured it was best not to ask.

It didn't dawn on Deborah until she got there that she hadn't been to Corrina's house in months. That dinner for Ryan's birthday when he went postal on Tyler. Since then, they'd spoken dozens of times and gotten together for a few Wednesday night dinners at the inn, but Deborah hadn't been in this house since the early summer.

There was a time when Corrina had the entire family over for brunch nearly every Sunday. Mom and Dad would let Larry Mullen handle things for the afternoon so they could be there, and more often than not Maxwell and Annie would come up from Manhattan to join them. Mimosa in hand, Corrina would toast the family and then each person sitting at the table would talk about their highs and lows for the week. It was a great way to keep everyone in the loop and let people know what was on your mind. It was also a useful tool for soliciting advice if you needed it.

Then Dad died one Sunday morning and it was a month before anyone had the heart to do anything on a Sunday again. Not long after that, Ryan's mother died and he moved in with Corrina and Gardner, and that adjustment period began. By the time it was over – Deborah assumed it was over by now – the brunch was little more than a memory.

“Are these new?” Deborah asked as she examined the coffee mugs she and Corrina drank from.

“They're great, aren't they? I got them in Boston a couple of weeks ago.”

“Is that when you went up for that lawyer's convention?”

“That was months ago. No, this was when we took Ryan to visit some of his old friends. Gardner got us a hotel room at the Fairmont and while Ryan hung out with his buddies we reintroduced ourselves.”

“I guess it's tough for you two to have time alone with a teenager around, huh?”

“The teenager's nothing, really. These days he's often invisible. But Gardner has been working insane hours just about every night. I really feel it when I've been alone all day and then he doesn't come home until nine. At least the money is really good. So how's the menu coming for the party?”

“I think we're okay. The treats for the kids are easy and I'm playing with a bunch of appetizers.”

“You're not doing anything too out there with the sweets, right?”

“No, I've learned my lesson. No marzipan or ribboned sugar this year. Chocolate, peanut butter, marshmallow – I'm sticking to the basics.”

“You can be more adventurous with the adult stuff. Those sherried mushroom turnovers were great last year.”

“You liked those? I could do them again, I guess.”

“And those hoisin chicken tarts. People flipped over them.”

“Yeah, I guess I could make those again as well.” This was classic Corrina, telling you to take care of something and then directing every move you made. How did someone at the back end of the birth order become such a control freak?

“You should. We want everything about this party to blow people away.”

“It'll be great, don't worry. To tell you the truth, I'm much more concerned about dinner the night before than I am about this.”

“Why's that?”

“It's the last formal meal I'm serving at the inn. A cocktail party is a totally different thing. But this dinner – this is what I've been doing for the last fifteen years. How do I sum up my entire life in this place in six courses?”

“You can't, so don't worry about it.”

Deborah was surprised by how dismissive Corrina sounded. “Is that really your advice?”

“You said it yourself. You can't sum up your entire life at the inn in six courses. So don't even try. You'll make yourself crazy.”

This from the person micromanaging every element of the party.

“Thanks,” Deborah said thinly. “I'll take that under advisement.”

Corrina sipped her coffee and for a short while Deborah thought they might have run out of things to say to one another. Even the party wasn't enough of a conversation piece these days. Corrina had dispatched her instructions – had she really needed to see Deborah in person to say what she'd said? – with a few terse sentences and then their “business” was done.

“What would Dad have said?” Corrina said as Deborah examined a new handmade clock on the far wall. Corrina was certainly being acquisitive these days, wasn't she?

“Excuse me?”

“What would Dad have said about the last dinner at the inn?”

“There wouldn't be a last dinner at the inn if Dad was still around.”

Corrina smirked at her. Deborah couldn't remember the exact point at which her younger sister started acting like the senior sibling, but by now she had become accustomed to such expressions. “Are you telling me you don't have conversations with him in your head?”

Deborah smiled, some of the tension abating. “You do that too?”

“Of course I do. Whenever I need a little advice. He's even better at it in the afterlife than he was before.” Corrina let a small grin come to her lips. “Sounds more like me.”

“You would like that.”

“So what would he say if you asked him about it?”

Deborah furrowed her brow. “He'd tell me to follow my heart. To figure out what I was trying to accomplish and then head directly toward that goal.” Deborah laughed. “Then he'd make me experiment with three dozen different dishes – all of which he'd ‘volunteer' to taste – until I came up with exactly what I was looking for.”

Corrina nodded. “I guess you should have asked him, then, huh?”

Deborah nodded her head. “It's not that easy. If anything, it's worse because I can feel him in my head, but I need him in person.”

Corrina studied her mug. “I've been missing him a lot lately. Mom all the time still, but I really miss Dad again. I'm sure it has to do with selling the inn and with the party and everything. And maybe because I've been having so many conversations with him these days.”