Wonderful You (17 page)

“No, Mom, you can’t,” he had whispered, suddenly terrified.

He sat on the edge of her bed because he had suddenly become as weak as a baby and he felt that an enormous boulder had smacked him in the chest and knocked him down.

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this,” she told him. “You know, as a parent, you would like to think that if the time ever came that you had to have this conversation with your child, you would be strong and calm. But I can’t seem to stop crying, Ben. I don’t want to leave you. I’m not ready, and that’s the simple fact.”

And he and his mother had cried together for what seemed to be hours, holding each other, both giving and taking what comfort there was to found. It had been the last time she had been solely his, the last time the two of them would have only each other to hold on to. By the time the weekend had come and gone, they had stood together on the front steps of her father’s house, and from that day on he had had to share the rest of
her days with so many others…
his grandfather, her doctor. The private duty nurses who tended to her twenty-four hours each day. Old schoolfriends, tracked down by Delaney. Anyone and everyone, it seemed, who had ever known
and cared for her had come by, so that from the day they had arrived at Delaney’s big house in Connecticut, Ben
and his mother were never alone. Even as she lay dying, he had had to share her. He had wanted to sit on her bed and cry with her, and hold her like they had held each other on that day when he had learned the truth about her illness. But the nurses wouldn’t leave her alone while she still breathed. Unable to share publicly his grief, his pain, which had been, for him, something to be shared only with her, he had not cried again, nor since.

The funeral had been planned by Delaney, and before Ben had known what had happened, Maureen had been laid to rest beside her mother, there, in the family plot in Connecticut. Unable to go back into that house, now that she was gone, Ben had called a cab from the kitchen of his grandfather’s house, and stuffing all of his savings into his pockets, took a train to Philadelphia, and from there, one to West Chester. He had hitched a ride to Westboro, then walked the rest of the way to Delia’s, where, he had felt certain, he would awaken in his room in the carriage house to find that everything that had happened over the past five months had really been part of a long and very complicated nightmare that would, surely, end as soon as he got home. His mother would be waiting for him, and she would tell him that none of it had been real. Even now, as he sat on the bed, he could feel the same terror that had seized him that night, when he realized that it had not been a dream. If Maureen was not there, at the carriage house, then she was
not
at all.

As if in a daze, Ben had locked the door and turned away.

Delia had met him halfway across the yard. His grandfather was on the way to pick him up and take him back, she had told him. She had tried to put an arm around him, but he had pushed her away. If Maureen had left this place, then he would leave, too.

And so he had made the long silent ride back to Connecticut in the fron
t seat of his grandfather’s Lin
coln, and he had closed the door on his old life as quietly
as they had closed the lid on his mother’s shiny wooden coffin.

The past closed around him so tightly that he felt he was suffocating, and a very long moment passed before Ben had identified the water running down his cheeks as tears. They had been streaming down his face, falling onto the front of his shirt and soaking it without his even realizing he’d been crying. At once embarrassed and yet somehow relieved, he searched his pockets for a handkerchief to dry his face. As a boy who had not been quite a man when his mother had left him, he had not known how to deal with his grief, and so he had simply buried it. Now, back in this place, it welled up, and the tears he had been unable to shed for so long, now spilled over.

For just a moment he had felt Maureen’s arms around him, and he felt both cleansed and at peace. The flood stopped then, and the pain that had pushed against his chest with such force began to ease. He leaned one hand on the bedside table to push himself up, and something small and sharp poked into his hand. A small stud earring, three colored stones on small gold-tone wires, pushed into the flesh of his palm. He turned it over and smiled. The stones were glass, but he had hoped that his mother wouldn’t notice when he had given them to her for what had turned out to be her last birthday. He stared at the earring for a very long time before slipping it into his pocket.

“Thanks, Mom,” he whispered.

A noise from the hallway drew his attention, and he looked up to see Delia Enright standing in the doorway.

“Welcome home,” she softly.

“Thank you” were the only words he could manage to speak.

“What do you think?” She waved her hand around, as if to take in the entire apartment. “Is it as you remembered?”

“Nothing’s changed.”

Delia took a few steps into the room, and touched the wall. “Maureen picked out this wallpaper. She loved
these little daisies. They were her favorite flowers, remember? I just couldn’t bear to have it taken down.” She traced one of the small flowers with the finger of one hand. “She picked out the furniture—I couldn’t bring myself to take any of it out. Your mother was the sister I never had, Ben. In the end, I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else living here, so no one has. I moved my writing studio to the first floor.” She did not say
to be close to Maureen,
but Ben thought that was what she meant. “But other than that, nothing has been touched since the day you left for your grandfather’s house.”

“I have to admit, that was a bit of a shock, seeing everything just as it was.”

“Was it as difficult as you thought it would be?”

“Nothing ever is.” He smiled wryly.

“Ah, true. Fear, unchecked, is a fearsome thing indeed.”

“I feel so foolish now, having stayed away for so long
…”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Delia, if I’ve hurt you over the years.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Ben. There’s no one you’ve hurt more than you hurt yourself. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to have done something that would have comforted you. I think we all were in shock for a while after your mother’s death, we all loved her so much, Ben. But I understand why you felt you could not come here.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “You and Maureen had always been together. Losing her at any age would have been tough. At fourteen, it must have been devastating.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “You were a child. Now you’re a man. And you have, after all, come back.”

“Not of my choosing,” he told her. “I’m afraid it was my grandfather who forced my hand.”

“Then bless the man. But whatever it took, Ben, doesn’t matter. The fact is that you’re here.”

“For a minute I felt that my mom was here, too,” he said softly.

“Oh, I’m not surprised.” Delia grinned. “Sometimes when I’m downstairs in my writing studio, I think I hear her footsteps up here. Of course, it’s probably just squirrels on the roof or some such. But I prefer to think that she is nearby. It comforts me.”

He slipped his fingers into his pocket and twisted the earring around and around.

“So. How long will you be staying?” Delia asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought Zoey said you’d be here for a while?”

“I’ll be here as long as my grandfather needs me.” Ben walked to the window and looked out into the view of pine trees just feet from the window. Even through the glass he could smell the clean sharp scent.

“Smell the pine, Ben?
”
Maureen had thrown the windows up in a grand gesture on the day they had moved into the carriage house.
“
There is nothing I love more than the smell of pine trees!”

Sensing his distraction, Delia started toward the door. “Feel free to spend as much time here as you like, Ben. When you’re done, come have tea with me. I think there’s some pineapple upside-down cake in the pantry.”

“You make it yourself, Delia?” He turned and aske
d, a weary smile tilting the corn
ers of his mouth, remembering another day, when Delia had ventured to bake just such a cake. It had been a terrible cake, and he and Nick had secretly fed it to the ducks on the pond behind the house. It had been a lifetime ago, or so it seemed.

Delia laughed out loud, remembering, too.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Delia,” he said quietly, meaning it.

“As are you, my boy. As are you.”

14

H
aving slowed down to the posted speed limit of twenty-five miles an hour, Ben coasted into the town of Brady’s Mill. At the lake he pulled over to the side of the road to check the map. That had been a left turn back there, hadn’t it?

Satisfied that he was, in fact, in the right town, he eased back onto the two-lane road. The first right past the lake should be Skeeters Pond Road, and it was. He slowed even more to check the numbers and names on the mailboxes as he passed by. At the mailbox with the ivy and hand-painted daisies and the number 27 and the name
Enright
painted in blue, he paused. This would be the one.

He drove slowly up the driveway, then stopped behind a small red sports car with an HMP parking sticker on the rear driver’s side window. A rake leaned against the wall of the garage, and a wheelbarrow piled high with dried leaves stood next to it. Ben turned off his engine, leaned across the seat to grab the peace offering of two dozen peach-colored roses mixed with some white, ethereal baby’s breath and got out of the car, pausing for
just a moment to observe his surroundings. The lawn that reached out beyond the house was wide and deep and green, bisected by a thick grape arbor that formed a sort of wall. In the distance, woods just beginning to green up for the new season fanned out as far as the eye could see. The air was fresh and crisp, cooler now than it had been earlier in the day. The serenity of the late afternoon tableau was disturbed only by an indistinguishable sound from beyond the arbor. Ben poked his head through the gate to see, expecting to find Zoey on the other side.

A white-haired gentleman in a red and white plaid flannel shirt was attempting to drag a concrete birdbath down a grassy path, inch by tedious inch.

“Can I give you a hand there?” Ben asked as he opened the gate and stepped into the garden area.

Startled, the old man straightened up sharply. “What makes you think I need one?”

“Well, you look like you’re having a bit of trouble
…
”
Ben placed the bouquet of roses on the stone garden bench and pushed up the sleeves of his dark green sweatshirt. “Where were you going with this thing anyway?”

“What business would it be of yours?” The man’s eyes followed Ben to the bench and back, then narrowed suspiciously. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Ben Pierce.” Ben held his hand out to the man, who did not take it, but continued to watch Ben warily. “I’m an old friend of Zoey’s.”

“Funny, Zoey didn’t mention she was expecting company.”

“She wasn’t
…
isn’t
…
expecting me. I was in the area and thought I’d stop
by
…
”
Feeling a little uneasy, like one who had been stopped by the highway patrol and as yet wasn’t sure why, Ben put his hands in his pockets, wondering who this old man
was.

“And just happened to have an armful of roses with you, did you?” The old man made a valiant attempt to
lift the birdbath, which was clearly too heavy. Ben grabbed the heavy end of it.

“T
o
your right
!
To your right!” The old man directed. “Keep ’er straight! Now, just let ’er down.”

The birdbath properly placed to the old man’s satisfaction, he nodded thanks of sorts to Ben for his assistance.

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Ben. Ben Pierce.”

“Well, Ben Pierce, I don’t know that Zoey’s home, but I’ll be sure give her your regards when I see her.”

Ben laughed and asked, as the old man had previously asked of him, “And who might you be, sir?”

“Next door neighbor.” He nodded toward the left, indicating the house beyond the garden, as he opened the gate and invited Ben to step on through it.

Ben turned back and leaned over the bench to pick up the flowers.

“Ha!” The single word resounded, loudly and triumphantly, across the yard as a screen door slammed.

Ben peeked through the grape arbor in time to see Zoey fly across the deck and down the steps. Holding an open book in front of her, she stopped midway across the grass and held one hand out in front of her, pointed to the old man and said, “
‘There’s fennel for you, and columbines: there’s rue for you: and here’s some for me: we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O! you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my rather died.’
”

“Ha!” She crowed again, then counted on her fingers as she repeated, “Fennel, columbines, rue
, daisies. And that’s not all!” She turned the page back.
“
“
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance—’ ”

“
‘Pray love, remember,
’
” Ben passed through the garden gate, then completed the passage. “ ‘And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.’ ”

Zoey’s eyes widened with surprise, then slid into narrow slits of suspicion.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to offer my apologies.” He held up the roses. “Of course, if I had known that your taste ran more toward rue and columbine and daisies, I would have made sure that the florist put some of them in, too.”

She crossed her arms defensively across her chest, holding the book in front of her like a shield. “A note in my mailbox at the station would have been sufficient.”

“No, it would not have been,” he said softly. “You deserved a better greeting than you received.”

“How did you find my house?”

“Personnel records.”

“If you could find my records, you could have found out that I’m scheduled to work tomorrow. You could have waited till I came in.”

“I felt this was too important to wait till tomorrow.” Wally cleared his throat to remind them that he was still there.

“I take it you two have met?” Zoey turned to one, then the other of the two men.

“In a manner of speaking,” Ben said. “Though I didn’t catch your name.”

“Wallace T. Littlefield, sir.” Wally nodded, then turned to Zoey. “Ben was just telling me that he and you are old friends.”

“Ben is an old friend of the family. He used to be my brother’s best friend.”

“I see.” Wally looked from one to another, knowing there was more here than Zoey was letting on.

“Between Wally and my mother, I have been goaded into cleaning up the garden. Wally is trying to bait me into planting a Shakespeare garden.” Zoey turned to Ben and waited for him to ask.

“Oh! You mean a garden that has only plants that are mentioned in Shakespeare’s writings?” Ben asked.

“How did you know that?” Zoey frowned.
"Why
would you know that?”

“I lived in England for years.” He laughed. “They’re not uncommon there.”

Wally chuckled with satisfaction.

“Well, I might get around to doing it here.” She closed the book and crossed her arms over her chest. “Then again, I might not.”

“Well, you’re off to a good start, there. You already have some of the plants you yourself just mentioned a few minutes ago,” Wally took his pipe out of his pocket and fiddled with a pack of matches, as if debating whether or not to light up. “You’ve got roses growing over the fence, violets growing wild, and if I’m not mistaken, there are several old clumps of daisies that still come up. Now, that’s the beauty of perennials, you know, they come back with or without your help. And come summer, why, that whole area back near the woods will be thick with rue. And then, you could—”

“Wally, I
think I hear your phone ringing,
” Zoey said dryly.

“Hmmm?” He paused, about to strike a match. “Oh. Yes, I think you’re right. Better try to catch it. Might be Alena Parsons. Widow lady. Caught her staring
at me in church last Sunday…”
He continued his monologue as he walked briskly toward his house.

Her arms still crossed, Zoey turned her attention back to Ben, trying to decide whether it was anger or possibly something else that was causing her heart to bang against her chest the way it was suddenly doing.

Ben held the roses out to her. “You might want to put these in some water.”

She tensed, pausing while debating whether or not to accept his flowers after the shoddy greeting he had given her earlier. He must have read her thoughts, because he touched her arm and said, “I’m sorry, Zoey. You deserved a much warmer welcome from me than you received. I was just so damned shocked to see you. I’m sorry.”

“But I don’t understand why. I had assumed that Delaney had told
you…
”

“That you were working there? No. No, he did not.
But the surprise was nowhere near as unpleasant as I might have led you to think. It was unexpected, that’s all. The truth is that I was delighted to see you, Zoey. I’m sorry I didn’t say so then, but I’m telling you now.”

She searched his face as if looking for something “You can tell me to leave if you want. It’s okay, Zoey. I would understand if you did.”

“Do I get to keep the roses anyway?”

“Yes,” he told her solemnly.

She softened, in spite of herself. “They’re beautiful, Ben. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

“I do. But you didn’t have to
…”

“We got off on the wrong foot the other day, and it’s bothered me ever since.” There was more that he had wanted to say, but standing there in the quiet yard, with her looking up at him with those big blue eyes, it was the best he could do at the time. “And besides, I wanted to see your new house. Are you going to give me a tour?”

“It’s still being worked on.” She eyed him cautiously. “The carpenters are not quite finished yet.”

“I don’t mind the work-in-progress tour.”

“Okay.” She gestured for him to follow her. As they neared the deck, they heard a voice call from an open window next door, “Just leave the shades up, hear?”

Zoey laughed. “Wally’s a little protective of me.”

“I noticed,” Ben followed her up the back steps, noticing too that she had a smear of dirt right across her backside. He had to fight the urge to brush it away.

“It’s okay.” She paused near the back door. “I sort of like it. I never did have a father to fuss over me, you know, to do all those things that fathers are supposed to do for their daughters. Tell them when to change the oil in their car and to interrogate their suitors. Not that I had any when I was growing up. Suitors, that is.” She pointed to the side of the house and noted, “I just had the siding replaced. I think it will weather really nicely, to a sort of soft gray.”

“
I
find that really hard to believe.”

“No, it’s true.” She insisted. “Cedar changes color as it ages.”

“I meant, I can’t believe that every boy in Chester County wasn’t beating a path to your door.”

“Not hardly. I was the only girl in my graduating class who went the entire four years of high school without a date.” She opened the back door and beckoned him to follow into the small back entry that led into the kitchen.

“You have to be kidding.”

“If you had seen me back then, you wouldn’t have to ask. Gawky, braces till I was sixteen, all leg, too much hair
…
”
She grabbed a handful of the black silk that hung across her shoulders in a deep wave and shuddered. “Anyway, to get back to Wally, he sort of adopted me. He’s been a good friend. Now, you wanted to see the house.”

She gave him the downstairs tour, starting with the dining room.

“This is nice.” He ran his hand appreciatively over the top of the smooth pine tavern table that stood in the middle of the room. “Beautiful. Antique?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “And local. The dealer I bought it from told me that it was made right here in Lancaster County.”

“I passed several antique shops on my way out here.”

“This area is known for the number of quality antique pieces that still can be found. You just have to be careful, because there are a lot of reproductions on the market. You have to know what you want, and what you’re looking at, or you could get duped. The good news is that the repros are top quality, so if it doesn’t matter to you if something is really old or not, you can really get some great pieces at very reasonable prices.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused to look out the window. “Beautiful view here.”

“One of my favorites. I can’t wait till those lilacs bloom. It will smell wonderful.” She turned her back and
led him into the living room, saying, “I’ve just had the fireplace tile restored. Some of them had come loose.”

He bent to inspect the tiles, tracing the handsome Art Deco design with his index finger. She bent down to point out the differences, one tile from another. The faint trace of her perfume—a soft and dreamy rose scent—drifted around him, and her eyes took on a faint glow as she told him how she had managed to trace the maker of the tiles.

“He had started his career as a tile maker, took on a lot of local jobs to pay the rent, but what he really wanted to do was to make pottery, which he did, in his later years. I found two of his pieces, and hope to find more. Want to see?”