The Secret of Joy (7 page)

You’re now at the age where you are likely wondering where your daddy is. I’ve never spoken to your mother since the phone call she made alerting me to your existence. I made sure she’d never be able to track me down. I was afraid, afraid of what it would do to my wife, afraid she’d leave me and take Rebecca from me, too. I’m sorry for that. I had a big hand in bringing you into being and then I just—I don’t even know a word strong enough to write down. I’ve rationalized my absence by assuring myself that your beautiful, interesting, funny mother, with that raucous laugh and incredible face and figure, found a father to step in, someone deserving of her and a daughter. I didn’t know Pia Jayhawk very well; we only spent a couple of weeks together before I left for New York and told her it had to end and stay ended. But I know she was dignified and strong
.

I think of you swinging on a tire swing at a playground or sounding out words like Rebecca used to. She’s seven—almost eight—and reads at a middle-school level. Sharp like her own mom. I’m sure you’re every bit as wonderful as your mother, too, Joy. That’s one of the reasons I don’t worry about you
.

—Daniel Strand

Rebecca didn’t think a cast-off daughter would appreciate that last line—or be able to read any of it, anyway.
“… alerting me to your existence …?”
To a five-year-old? Perhaps the letters were more for her father than for Joy. But most of the letter
was
kind. And tomorrow morning, the recipient would be reading them.

She slipped out of bed to get her laptop and brought it back into bed with her. She wanted to see Joy’s picture again, to somehow prepare herself for tomorrow. But the inn had no Wi-Fi and she hadn’t saved the website with Joy’s photo to her desktop.

She thought about calling Michael, but it bothered her that he hadn’t called her once today. To apologize for last night. To tell her he’d support her no matter what she decided. He was likely just getting home now, reading her note and muttering, “
Fucking Rebecca
” under his breath.

What she should be thinking about was tomorrow. Showing up unannounced at Joy Jayhawk’s door. She wondered how Joy would react. With shock. With surprise. And then she’d throw open the door and pull Rebecca into a fierce hug. “
I’ve always dreamed of meeting you, my long-lost half sister
!” Joy would say, tears of happiness running down her cheeks. And they’d sit in the kitchen and talk for hours over coffee, then celebrate their reunion—if that was the right word—that night, over a bottle of wine. They’d talk and talk and talk, like sisters did.

With a smile on her face, Rebecca pulled the blankets up to her chin and closed her eyes, drifting off to the very nice fantasy of sisterly bonding she’d concocted. Next thing she knew, the sun was streaming through the filmy white curtains.

In the bright light of day, she imagined driving to Joy Jayhawk’s house, knocking on the door, and saying,
“Uh, hi, you don’t know me, but I’m actually your half sister. We have the same father.”
But she suddenly couldn’t imagine saying that and knew she wasn’t getting out of bed so fast.

four

According to the welcome sign at the town line, Wiscasset was the prettiest village in Maine, and Rebecca had to concur. Downtown was picture-postcard material, a small collection of charming shops and restaurants and cafés, with the Sheepscot River behind it with a beautiful, long, narrow bridge across it. The streets, so clean, were dotted with antique farmhouses, New Englanders, Victorians, and stately Colonials, mostly white, on lots big and small with manicured lawns and white picket fences. In one half-mile stretch, Rebecca passed four white clapboard churches. In another direction, at least ten antiques shops. Flowers, trees were everywhere. And the blue, blue water of Maine’s coast, which would suddenly appear behind a curve, through a thicket of evergreens. She felt like she was in Candy Land, minus the lollipops on the trees.

She’d waited an extra day before leaving Freeport. She’d walked along Main Street, buying gifts—a red Shetland sweater for Charlotte from the J.Crew outlet, an army green
messenger bag for Michael from the Timberland outlet. She’d bought herself a pair of ridiculous red and pink plaid rain boots, the kind that went up to your knees. She had thought about buying Joy Jayhawk something, but couldn’t think of the occasion.
Welcome to the family
? Or maybe just
Hello
? The leather box was for Joy. That was Rebecca’s offering.

Her mind had been so blessedly blank as she’d shopped, as she’d had an organic veggie hot dog from a stand outside L.L.Bean, that she might have even waited another day. Another day to gear up, plan what to say and how to say it, but if she hadn’t gotten back in that little silver car this morning, she’d have lost the entire weekend. Rebecca knew from Joy’s website that she had a tour leaving tonight. It was today or else.

She couldn’t find 52 Maple Lane and had to drive back to town to ask directions. She was given landmarks to turn at: a weeping willow, the pink gingerbread Victorian. She finally found the road; the sign, which she’d passed earlier, was completely obscured by the leaves of an oak.

As she drove slowly down Maple Lane, which turned out to be over a mile long, looking for numbers on houses or mailboxes, she passed two sets of joggers and a mother wheeling a baby stroller. The quiet was startling. Birds chirped. A lawn mower whirred. There was a complete lack of car horns or car alarms.

Number 52. There it was. The house, the last on the dead-end road, was tiny, a Wedgwood blue Cape Cod with a red door. It was the smallest house Rebecca had ever seen, yet had at least an acre of property. The road, which had no sidewalk on either side, was lined by several other little houses, all of them cute and welcoming with colorful doors.
At number 52,
JAYHAWK-JONES
was in sticky-taped letters on the mailbox.

Jayhawk-Jones. She was married, then. Or had a roommate. There was a green Subaru Outback in the driveway. And an orange minibus.

She wondered if this house had been Pia Jayhawk’s, if her father had been here. If this was where they would have their little trysts. It didn’t look like a love nest.

She glanced at the bay window of the house for signs of life, but couldn’t see through the curtains.
Go
, she told herself. And after pulling down the visor mirror to make sure she didn’t have sauerkraut in her teeth, she said, “Okay,” to her reflection and got out of the car with the leather box in her hands.

The path was lined with purple and pink impatiens in small ceramic pots, a good sign.

She took a deep, deep breath of the clean air, then rang the doorbell. No answer. She waited a minute, then rang again. Finally, the door opened, and there she was. Joy Jayhawk.

Rebecca’s knees wobbled and she grabbed hold of the doorframe.
Say something
, she told herself. But for a moment, all Rebecca could do was stare. She saw her father’s face in this woman’s. In the shape, in the nuances, in the lips. She had the same color eyes as her father, that lovely driftwood brown.

Joy looked exactly like her photograph, but prettier. She wore jeans and a white button-down shirt and red suede clogs. Rebecca stared down at the clogs for a second, then looked back up at Joy, who was clearly waiting for Rebecca to say something.

She was clobbered in the stomach by something—fear? This person, this Joy Jayhawk, was a complete stranger. A stranger, like Michael had said.

“Are you needing directions?” Joy Jayhawk asked, staring at Rebecca as though she were in need of psychological help.

She had a nice voice. The voice of a kindergarten teacher. Kind, hopeful.

The kind and hopeful steadied Rebecca. “My name is Rebecca Strand,” she finally said. She waited to see if the name meant anything, and in a moment, a slight change of expression, of guarded wariness, came over Joy’s face, but she didn’t say anything. “I’m very sorry to just barge in on you like this, but I didn’t know how to do this, so I just decided to drive up from New York City and knock on the door.”

Still Joy said nothing. Her features tightened.

Rebecca’s words came in a rush. “My father, Daniel Strand, passed away from cancer several days ago. The day before he died he told me that he had an af—a relationship with a woman named Pia Jayhawk and that Pia called to tell him she was pregnant with his child and—”

“Why are you here?” Joy interrupted.

“Um, well, my father wanted you to know that he did care about you,” she said, feeling like an idiot. “He wrote you a letter every year.” She held out the box. “I have them here. Twenty-six of them.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, but—” Joy stared at Rebecca’s pointy high heels for a moment, then glanced back up. “I think you should just go. I’m sorry.” She began to close the door.

“But—we’re …”

Sisters
, she finished silently as Joy closed the door in her face.

• • •

Rebecca couldn’t find her way back to a main road and drove in circles until she spotted a jogger, whose big smile and “Ooh, I see from your plates you’re from New York! We have tickets to Radio City for Christmas. I cannot wait!” almost made her cry.

Did you really expect Joy Jayhawk to throw her arms around you with a “My long-lost sister!” and launch into her life story, ask all about yours, then announce you’d never be separated again?

Maybe. If she were very honest.

The jogger finally stopped talking long enough for Rebecca to ask directions to Route 1. Rebecca made her left, then right, then left at the pink Victorian, then right at the picket fence with the ornate trim, and found herself back in the center of town, the road out stretching in front of her.

She had no idea where to go. She couldn’t leave, but she couldn’t stay, either. What was she supposed to do? And why hadn’t she considered that Joy Jayhawk might close the door in her face?

Should she try again? Go back to Joy Jayhawk’s house and say, “Look, I realize this must be quite a shock, but we
are
sisters”? There had been nothing in Joy’s face, not a hint of
Oh my God, I know who you are!
Just a dulled anger.

She was about to turn the car around and go back, but go back and what? Ring the doorbell like a lunatic until Joy answered? And then what?

For starters, for an immediate plan, she pulled into the parking area of a small white restaurant—Mama’s Pizza, according
to the sign featuring a cartoon of an old woman in a chef’s hat tossing a pizza in the air. She could sit and think, decide what to do, over a slice and a Diet Coke.

She headed inside, the jangle of a bell on the door announcing her arrival. The place was cozy and sweet, and reminded Rebecca of an old-fashioned candy shop. The long counter was lined with jelly jars full of penny candies and chocolates, and silver scoops hung from a post on the wall. There were pastries—cannolis, Rebecca’s favorite—neatly wrapped whoopie pies with red-and-white-polka-dotted ribbon ties, and baskets of green apples and yellow-green pears. Ten or so round tables covered with red and white cloths dotted the room. The walls were lined with paintings for sale by local artists, of lighthouses, the ocean, houses, lobster. There was no one in the restaurant—or behind the counter.

“Can I help you?”

A tall woman, about fifty years old, with remarkable green eyes, appeared from a doorway and stood behind the counter. Her hair was much longer than Rebecca’s and completely gray, but appeared to be lit from within by different shades of gray, from a pale charcoal to silver to almost white. She wore a fabric sling around her body, and if Rebecca wasn’t mistaken, there were two furry gray-and-black-spotted ears poking out. A cat? Or maybe it was a tiny dog, like Charlotte’s toy Chihuahua. Was the woman attachment-parenting a pet?

A hand with silver and gold rings on every finger patted the furry head. “Poor baby is recovering from surgery. Her right ovary almost exploded. If I hadn’t brought her to the vet just when I did, poor kitty would have died.”

Rebecca burst into tears. She had to stop doing that. She covered her hands with her face and tried to stop, but she was hundreds of miles away from home, and home suddenly seemed a nebulous nowhere.

The woman came around the counter and patted Rebecca’s shoulder. “There, there, dear,” she said. “Suzy will be just fine. Won’t you, Suzy.” The woman nuzzled her nose into the gray fur, then led Rebecca to a table, under a painting of a yellow house. “Sit, dear. I just made a pot of Earl Grey.”

Which was how Rebecca came to be drinking Earl Grey tea, real lumps of sugar and all, in the kind of old-fashioned china cup she’d inherited from her mother’s mother. As the woman went back and forth between the kitchen and Rebecca’s little table, bringing a silver cup of cream and a plate of tiramisu, she learned the woman’s name was Arlene Radicchio, and she was German, but had married an Italian man.

“I assume you’re not in tears over Suzy,” Arlene said, setting a box of tissues on the table. “If you want to talk, I’m known for being a good listener.”

Rebecca thought of telling this woman everything, but this wasn’t a city of eight million; it was a town of six thousand. She was in Joy’s territory. “My dad died last week. We were pretty close.”

“Ah. I’m very sorry. I lost my dad some years back. I found myself crying all over the place. Once I burst into tears while placing meatballs and onions on a pizza. That was my father’s signature order.”

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said.

Arlene patted her hand. “Time makes it easier. So does
fresh, hot pizza. Lunch is on the house. What would you like, hon?”

Rebecca loved being called “hon.” Jane, the Whitman, Goldberg & Whitman receptionist, called everyone “hon,” even Marcie, who wasn’t hon-like at all. The only time Marcie Feldman had ever made a personal statement to Rebecca, it was to complain under her breath to Rebecca that she was “no one’s ‘hon.’” No doubt there, Marcie.

“I appreciate that,” Rebecca said. “I’ll have a slice with green peppers and spinach. And a Diet Coke. With lime, if you have.”