The Four Seasons (25 page)

Hannah looked pretty good, too, if Jilly did say so herself. She'd cut Hannah's drab, shoulder-length style into wisps of different lengths that bounced around her chin and played with the dramatic blond highlights she'd added. The heavy black eyeliner was gone and in her soft colors she positively glowed.

Even Rose got into the act at the last minute. After begging and cajoling, Rose had finally agreed to let Jilly give her long hair its first real trim. Rose closed her eyes when Jilly put the scissors to her hair. Never before had Jilly been so nervous to cut. This was positively virginal. Birdie and Hannah clustered near, mouths agape. Jilly only lopped off the uneven, frazzled ends, but just that was six inches. Rose's hair now swung around her breasts with an even, blunt fullness that made her hair look healthier and thicker. When Rose opened her eyes,
she didn't even notice that her hair was shorter. Instead she laughed the same joyful laugh she did when she was six. Rose didn't laugh often but when she did it burst from her throat so full of life it sounded like a peal of bells.

Jilly listened to the music of their laughter and was carried back to the days when they used to laugh together all the time. Back to that golden time when they believed that they were princesses waiting to grow into queens and rule the world.

A
SOFT KNOCKING ON HER DOOR
woke Jilly up from a deep sleep. She pried open an eye to the surrounding darkness. A line of gray light was outlining the dusty olive-green paisley curtains.

“Wha—” Jilly raised her head. “Who's there?” she called out groggily.

“It's me. Birdie. Open up.”

Jilly stumbled from her bed to open the door. She was surprised to see a glorious pink dawn rising up beyond Birdie's shoulder over the hill. Birdie walked in, rubbing her hands.

“Don't you dare say the early bird catches the worm,” she warned. Then, taking in the dark room and the obviously sleeping guests, she scrunched up her face in disappointment. “I thought you two went jogging every morning,” she said. “I wanted to join you.”

Jilly scratched her head and yawned. Birdie seemed to bring a bit of the dawn inside with her. Surrounded by the rosy color of her hair her face glowed with light. She was wearing jeans
and a burgundy sweatshirt with University of Wisconsin emblazoned across her chest. She kept jogging in place.

“Forget the bird analogy. You're like a rabbit. Stop hopping around,” Jilly said, a bit grouchy.

“I'm warming up.”

“That's not a warm-up, Mom.” Hannah had awakened and was sitting up in bed, yawning. “You need to stretch.”

Birdie stopped hopping. She peered into the dim room and hoped her eagerness wasn't too obvious. “Will you show me how?”

Hannah scratched her belly then smiled angelically. “Sure.”

“You two go ahead,” Jilly said in a sleepy stupor. “My stomach is rebelling after last night. I'll follow at a slower pace.” Her stomach really wasn't upset, but she wanted to be sure that the two of them had some time alone.

“You're getting old,” Birdie teased, but she didn't push her.

Twenty minutes later, Jilly stepped outside in her sweatpants and jacket and began stretching her long legs against the cement wall. The morning was soft; it would be a lovely spring day. Drops of earlier rain still hung heavy on the leaves and the grass. From somewhere she caught the sweet scent of a blossom. Could it be lilac so soon?

She took off on an easy jog back along the river. The earth was soft under her feet. She found she enjoyed the early morning run here much more than in the city, even more than Paris. She loved feeling the coolness of a country morning on her cheeks and catching the smell of the woods, the damp grass and the earth as she passed. Running for her was a kind of communion both with nature and her body, a centering of her mind and spirit when everything else in her world was spinning off axis. She ran along the river, picking up her speed until sweat pooled and her heart rate accelerated, then turned around and
headed back. As she drew closer to the motel she spied another figure just across the river coming her way. In the early morning fog, she couldn't be sure who it was. A few steps farther, she squinted to see a little white dog running along beside him. So, it was Rajiv Patel. She felt a shiver of anticipation.

A few yards ahead was the small wooden bridge that she'd seen him working under before. She slowed to a walk and wiped her brow with her sleeve. Before she could wonder if he'd cross to say hello, the little dog made the decision for them, darting over the bridge and running to her, barking. Jilly bent to pat its head as he jumped up and made muddy paw-prints on her pants.

“Are you quite sure this isn't your dog?” she asked when Rajiv approached.

He laughed. “I'm sure, but I don't think he's convinced.”

“Does he have a name?”

“If he does, he's never told me.”

“Then what do you call him?”

“I don't. I usually ignore him but he doesn't seem to care. For whatever reason, he likes to hang around.”

“You could give him a name.”

“He's not mine to name. He's an independent sort. He knows every inch of the area and where every handout lies. I think he's quite popular with the ladies, too. I've seen a few mutts around town with a patch over the eye.”

She laughed then, admiring the dog's lean but wiry body and his bright eyes. There was no doubt the rascal had a way about him. “But he needs a name. Everyone needs one.”

“Perhaps. But not given by me. Then I should become attached to him.”

She wondered at that remark and what pain caused him not to want to be attached to a stray, even to the point of not giving
the dog a temporary name of reference. Looking back at the dog, she thought, too, of her daughter. She'd never named her, either.

“I'll name him, then,” she decided, moving once more to rectify the past. She considered for a moment, studying the black patch over his eye, his jaunty stance. “How does Pete sound to you?”

Rajiv studied the dog. “Rather a human name, don't you think?”

Then she remembered his profession as a thief. “I know. Pirate Pete.”

Rajiv smiled and nodded. “It suits him.”

She was inordinately pleased that he thought so.

“Are you going anywhere in particular?” he asked.

“I'm just walking. Nowhere in particular. And you?”

“The same,” he replied. “Care if I join you to nowhere?”

They walked past the motel and on to where the river widened and rushed, overflowing with the spring melt. As they walked they talked in generalities, seeking clues to each other's interests, intelligence, experiences. He was fascinating; he knew so much about so many things. Yet Jilly was stymied by his seeming reluctance to speak. She had to work to pry each word, like a pearl from an oyster.

He was very good, however, at asking her questions, mostly about her search. He grew very interested in her story, eager that she meet with success. As they walked, Pirate Pete ran to the woods and back, hunting. Or as Jilly said, looking for his next heist.

“How long has it been since you had your daughter?”

“Twenty-six years. Hard to believe.”

“And the father? Did you ever marry?”

She shook head. “No. I married three times, but never the father.”

“Three times?” He didn't remark further, only looked off at a hawk circling overhead.

“It's a long story,” she said with her nonchalant laugh.

“It's a long walk back.”

She considered an old rule of hers: never talk about money and love with strangers—at least not
her
money and love. He seemed so unconventional, however, with his mysterious aura and his polite reticence. She looked up at his handsome profile and thought, what fun was a rule unless it could be broken?

So she started telling her story, hesitatingly at first, omitting details. She began with her arrival in France, an illprepared, tall, thin young girl totally unsuited for au pair work. She talked on about her quick success in modeling, her flirtation with film as a bombshell in Italian westerns while married to an Italian filmmaker, and how along the way to fame she married three very handsome, very wrong men. Jilly enjoyed speaking to Rajiv of things she hadn't told anyone else about. Certainly not any of her husbands. They were not the type of men she could confide in. Not in any language.

It wasn't simply because Rajiv was a stranger and she knew she could walk away from him without a look over her shoulder that gave her such freedom. Though this was true, Rajiv was an excellent listener. His face was serious and attentive and his eyes reflected what she told him with compassion.

“So now I've come home, seeking my fortune,” she concluded, walking slowly. “And who would have thought that the fortune I sought would be my daughter? And the treasures I've found are my sisters?”

They stopped at a small, charming, redbrick house tucked on a ledge at a high point of the hill. A black wrought-iron fence bordered it and seemed to keep the tenants from falling
over the cliff. Beyond the fence lay a panoramic view of the meandering river and the small town of Hodges below.

“What a delightful place,” Jilly said.

“Thank you. I live here,” Rajiv replied.

“Really? I didn't expect that you'd live in such a quaint house. I envisioned you in a dull, rather severe tract house. Made of cement blocks, perhaps?” She leaned into him, teasing.

He reluctantly gave up a smile. “It's hard enough to work in such a place. God forbid I'd have to live in one, too.”

“How did you end up in such a, well.

“Let's be kind to my father. Shall we say, such an architecturally uninspired motel?”

She laughed.

“He won it in a card game. I'm absolutely serious! I never was interested in the family business. I stayed in India, pursuing my own career. Did I tell you I was in software engineering?” He turned his head to smile at her, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “I know a little bit about the Internet.”

“I see,” she replied, enjoying their first joke. “So, what brought you to the illustrious River's End Motel?”

His smile fell and he looked off into the valley at some point far beyond. “My father called and told me about this little place in Wisconsin that he had won. He talked to me about karma.” He released a short, bitter laugh. “Perhaps it's best not to get into a discussion about that. I could end up leaping over that flimsy little fence.”

“I'd only have to jump over and try to save you.” She shrugged. “Karma.”

He looked at her askance. “I don't think you understand about karma.”

She shrugged and said with a suggestive hint, “Perhaps you should teach me?”

A frown flickered across his face. “I'm afraid you won't find me a very good teacher.” He looked at his watch, his face set. “I'm sorry, Jillian, but it's getting late. I really must get to work. I enjoyed our walk.”

“I did, too.” Then, because she wanted to see him again, she said boldly, “Another time, perhaps?”

“Yes. I'd like that.”

“I'll be walking tomorrow morning.” Could she be pushier, she thought to herself?

Their eyes met and she felt again the singe of attraction between them. Yes, she could, she decided.

“I'll look for you,” she added.

“Until tomorrow then.” With a perfunctory nod of his head, he turned and walked through the wrought-iron gate into the redbrick house.

Jilly watched him leave feeling a shudder of frustration. “Nice dodge,” she muttered. She'd exposed her own past so freely but he clammed up pretty fast. At her feet, Pirate Pete sat staring at her adoringly, waiting for some cue.

“Well, at least you're not afraid of me,” she said to the dog. “Come on, boy, let's get something to eat.” She took off down the road back to the motel with Pirate Pete trotting at her heels. Jilly looked over her shoulder at the house, cursing herself for breaking her own rule. But she was intrigued, and definitely attracted to him. The more he pushed her away, the more curious she became. Curiouser and curiouser.

 

Later that morning, two events got their search moving again. First, the mailman delivered the application for the Soundex Reunion Registry. Jilly completed the forms quickly, giving pertinent information and leaving Mr. Collins's number as a contact. She returned the form by
over-night mail, along with a donation. The second event was a name-address match.

They were in the library again, poring over the address books, when Rose leaped up from her chair in the library with a hoot of triumph. “I found it!” she cried, waving the paper over her head. “I found it!” She came rushing toward them with a squeal that had the librarian frowning.

“What did you find?” Birdie asked, already on her feet.

“A match! I found an address for Ann Josephine Neville. There's a Neville in Lake St. George in 1973. Father David, Mother Susan.” She looked up. “About seventy miles from here.”

“Neville?” Jilly searched the journal. She ran her finger down the pages until she came to the list of names. She looked up, surprised. “It's the first name on the list.”

“Who knows if the Nevilles are still there?”

“They're still listed at the same address.”

She looked up and met their eyes. “It's a start.”

 

Jilly sat by the phone, her hands clenched in her lap. She picked up the phone, then set it down again, amazed that her hands were trembling. She reached out again for the phone, but midway diverted her reach to her purse. Digging into the black bag, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, then exhaled slowly.

What was she so nervous about? She didn't even know that this person was her child. It was simply a match. Even if it was, what was the worst that could happen?

Maybe that the woman would not be her daughter. Or she'd find out the Nevilles didn't live there anymore. Or Ann—or her parents—could be angry that she'd tried to make contact.
Yes, that would be the worst. If her daughter found out that she'd called and didn't want to meet her.