“Would you rather skip this and go directly to lunch?” They’d decided to eat at a Mexican place. Her mother was obviously tiring, and so was Olivia. It was only months since she’d finished her chemotherapy and radiation treatments, and fatigue hit her sooner than it used to. And, she had to admit, she was quailing at the prospect of the conversation ahead.
“I wouldn’t mind going in,” Charlotte said, “if that’s all right with you.”
“I’ll do whatever you want, Mom.”
“Then let’s go inside. It’ll be fun to see what kinds of crafts they have for sale. I’ve been looking for a special gift for Ben. He’s so hard to buy for, you know.”
That wasn’t the case with Jack. Books, music, DVDs—he loved them all; she just needed to keep track of what he already had. She’d also taken over purchasing his clothes and even he agreed that was a good thing. Except for his raincoat. She hadn’t been able to convince him to give up that shabby old coat of his. She’d bought a new one, which hung unused in their closet. He said it felt too stiff and insisted there was nothing wrong with his old coat. She knew that eventually he’d start wearing it, but all the hints and suggestions she made were pointless until Jack was ready to switch, and he’d decide that for himself.
Funny how thinking about his raincoat made her realize that same approach might work with her mother and Ben, too. In other words, all she should do was mention Stanford Suites, ensure that Ben and Charlotte were aware of the place and its advantages. Pressuring them would only cause resentment and, if anything, make them more resistant.
She drove slowly around the lot. Luck was with her; a car parked close to the front left just as she drew near. Right away Olivia grabbed the empty space. She hurried around to help her mother out of the passenger side, afraid Charlotte might slip on the sidewalk. Ben’s fall had emphasized how vulnerable both of them were.
“My, the grounds are nice here,” Charlotte said, glancing at the flower beds. “You know, I feel so bad about neglecting my garden. Ben and I were in the backyard earlier this week. There’s so much we need to do… .”
“Jack and I can come over and—”
“No, no,” Charlotte said, immediately dismissing the offer even before Olivia could make it. “Ben and I are thinking about hiring a yard service. But I have to tell you, Olivia, the price for goods and services is so high these days.”
“Jack and I have a yard service.” In Olivia’s opinion, it was worth every cent. She enjoyed working outdoors, but her spare time was limited. While on medical leave she’d spent hours in her garden, especially after she’d started feeling better and regained some of her strength. Until then, Olivia had forgotten how much pleasure she got from her garden. Jack had helped, too, but it wasn’t something he did for the joy of it. Not like her. He had an ulterior motive. Pulling weeds and preparing the earth, he’d watched her constantly. He’d been terrified that she’d become dizzy or faint or, worse, that she’d collapse.
When Olivia was diagnosed with breast cancer, Jack had hardly let her out of his sight. If Olivia had ever doubted her husband’s love—and she hadn’t—he’d proved himself a thousand times over while she underwent cancer treatments. And, as a bonus, their garden had benefitted, too.
A youngster held the door open as Olivia and Charlotte entered the complex.
“Merry Christmas,” he said with a toothless grin.
“It’s not even Thanksgiving until next week,” Charlotte said.
“But it’s Christmas here,” the young man told them earnestly. “My great-grandma said so.”
“Then who are we to argue?” Olivia said as they walked in. The large open room was filled with tables placed in a U-shape for easy access. Bess sat at the second table, her baked goods and knitted items on display.
“Charlotte!” she cried. She put down her knitting needles to lean over the table and give her friend a hug. “I’m so glad you came. When I mentioned the bazaar last Monday, you didn’t think you’d be able to stop by.”
Her mother hadn’t said anything about the craft show and Olivia assumed Charlotte had simply forgotten, or—another possibility—she hadn’t wanted to give Will and Olivia an opportunity to promote the idea of assisted living.
“I’d like to introduce you to my friends,” Bess said, and animatedly waved her arm in the direction of several other women. “This is Eileen, and over here is Rosemary and that’s Eve.” She pointed to the other ladies, who had their own booths. They raised their hands and waved. “I see you met my great-grandson.”
“That’s Billy?” Charlotte asked.
“He’s eight now. Unbelievable, isn’t it?’
“I helped Bess with a sweater pattern when he was two. It had a dinosaur on the front,” Charlotte explained to Olivia.
Interesting how her mother would remember that and not a conversation she’d had just a few days ago.
“Bess talks about you all the time,” Eileen said.
“What are you selling?” Charlotte asked as she moved closer to Eileen’s table.
“Oh, I make polished wood pens. My husband used to love writing with a wooden pen, but they aren’t available the way they once were. One year, I decided they couldn’t be that difficult to make, so I attended a woodworking class at the community college and made him several for Christmas. He used them until his dying day.”
“A wooden pen,” Charlotte repeated. “Why, Ben would love that.” She looked at Olivia. “You know how he likes to do the crossword puzzle every morning? Well, he does it in ink.”
Olivia nodded. “Getting him one of these pens is a great idea. Very classy.”
Charlotte purchased a pen and so did Olivia. Every booth sold something wonderful, and Olivia ended up spending more money at the retirement complex bazaar than the three other craft fairs combined.
They left loaded down with gifts, plus baked goods, homemade candy and watermelon pickles to serve with Thanksgiving dinner. Olivia knew Ben would enjoy the peanut brittle Charlotte had bought, as well.
Over cheese enchiladas, Olivia and Charlotte reviewed their Thanksgiving menu. Little had changed through the years. They’d have turkey, of course, and two kinds of stuffing. The traditional inside-the-bird bread stuffing and a much-loved family recipe for rice stuffing, too. Old-fashioned homemade gravy. The salads and vegetable selections hadn’t altered much from the time Olivia was a child. Potatoes, mashed and sweet. And at least three choices of pie for dessert.
“Justine’s bringing the appetizers,” Olivia reminded her mother.
“Oh, yes.” Charlotte frowned. “We’re having dinner at your house, right?”
“Yes, Mom.” The entire family had celebrated the holidays at Olivia and Jack’s place for a number of years. Her home was larger than anyone else’s and the kitchen was bigger. “Would you rather have it at your home, Mom, with your new kitchen and all?”
“No. No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I just wanted to be sure everything’s set for your place.”
“It is, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Of course, I’ll be helping with the dinner.”
“Of course,” Olivia echoed. “I wouldn’t dream of making Thanksgiving dinner without you.”
They finished their lunch and headed back to Charlotte and Ben’s.
“Did you two have a good time?” Ben asked when they went inside. A blast of wind nearly slammed the door behind them. The weather remained dark, wet and dreary. Not that Harry, her mother’s cat, seemed to notice. He sat contentedly in his usual position on the back of Ben’s chair, his long furry tail draped over the cushion.
“We had the loveliest time,” Charlotte cooed.
Olivia’s cell phone chirped, and as she took it out of her purse, she saw that the call was from her brother. “Hello,” she said, looking at her watch. He was supposed to “drop by” in about half an hour.
“Hi. Listen, something’s come up and I won’t be able to make it.”
“At all??
?? So her brother was leaving this in her hands. Her warm feelings for him and the help he’d given her recently dipped by several degrees.
“I can probably stop by but not at the time we agreed.”
“When can you?” she asked, struggling to hide her irritation.
“Ah, I’m not sure. I have to see someone and—”
Someone? Olivia was not amused. “Male or female?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
“Fine. Male. The guy’s an artist I’ve been wooing. A painter from Bellevue. I want him to bring his work to my gallery. Miranda’s the one who got him to talk to me.”
“Is she with you?”
“Miranda? Not right this minute, but she will be. Actually, we decided to double-team him, convince him to sell his art on this side of Puget Sound. Are you going to get all huffy about it?”
Olivia sighed. “No.” In fact, she had to acknowledge that Will’s excuse was legitimate and she hoped his overtures to this artist paid off.
“Can you handle things without me or would you rather put it off?”
“No. The sooner we settle this, the better.”
“I think so, too. Good luck. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Thanks.” She snapped her phone shut and put it back in her purse.
“Who was that, dear?” Charlotte asked.
“Will.”
“Oh. I’m so happy about the way the two of you have reconnected since he’s moved back to town. It does my heart good to see you getting along so well.”
That was true. Will and Olivia had reconnected. They were closer now than at any other time in their lives. It was a gift she hadn’t expected, and she was grateful for it.
“I was just telling Ben about our bazaar shopping,” Charlotte continued. “We had such a good day, didn’t we?”
“We did,” she said.
“And, Ben, the very best place wasn’t the big craft bazaar that they hold at the high school. Remember, I mentioned it earlier?”
“That’s the one you were looking forward to.”
“It was—until we got to Stanford Suites. Oh, my, you wouldn’t believe what I found there.”
“Show me.”
“I can’t, because almost everything I bought is for you for Christmas.”
“At that assisted-living complex?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes. Bess lives there, you know, and she told me how much she loves it. Her great-grandson was the greeter. Oh, and they had the most beautiful decorated sugar cookies I’ve ever seen.”
“Did you buy any?”
“Sure did. The ladies’ group baked them. They have Bible study on Tuesday mornings and a bridge club and a knitting circle and art lessons… .”
“At the assisted-living complex?” Ben repeated with a frown. “I had no idea they offered all that.”
“Me, neither.”
Olivia refrained from pointing out that she and Will had described all the amenities and programs to them—more than once. “Mom, before I go,” she said. “Jack wanted me to ask what you’re making for tonight’s dinner.”
Ben and Charlotte exchanged a glance.
Olivia had asked because she suspected her mother hadn’t even tried the new stove.
“We had cornflakes last night,” Ben admitted.
“Cornflakes?” This was worse than she’d thought. “Oh, Mom, I was afraid this would happen.”
“Microwave popcorn the night before,” Charlotte murmured, shamefaced. “The microwave is easy to work. You just press the button that says popcorn.”
“It’s my fault,” Ben said. “I started to read the instruction manual, but the stove’s got all these bells and whistles and, to tell you the truth, I just sort of gave up.”
Olivia wasn’t surprised. The owner’s manual was a good hundred pages thick. She’d read shorter novels.
“The grounds at the complex were so lovely, too.” Charlotte turned the conversation away from the stove and back to the retirement complex.
“Mom, are you talking about Stanford Suites again?” Not that Olivia was complaining…
Charlotte nodded and looked at Ben. “They have a container garden there. Bess told me. The zucchini for the zucchini bread she sold me came from the garden. And the green tomatoes for the mincemeat, as well.”
“Really?” Ben raised his eyebrows.
Olivia reached for her car keys. It no longer seemed necessary to say anything. Her mother was doing all the talking.
“So you liked Stanford Suites?” Ben asked Charlotte.
“Yes…I did.”
Ben caught Olivia’s eye. “Charlotte, do you feel we should live there? I thought you were dead set against it.”
“Well, I was, but after being there today and meeting Bess’s friends, I think I might like it. I never believed I would, but I can see the advantages to us. And really, Ben, nothing will change other than our address.” She paused. “Bess said they have two openings coming up.”
Ben didn’t look nearly as convinced. “What about the house?”
Charlotte grew quiet. “I forgot about that.”
“Will and I may have a solution,” Olivia said, trying not to reveal how eager she was to tell them. She and Will had been talking about this all week.
Her mother and Ben turned to her. “You do?” her mother asked.
“Will wants to buy it from you.” This was the news her brother was supposed to be there to impart. Well, she’d have to do it for him.
“Will wants to move into this old house?”
“You can discuss the details with him. We planned to talk to you this afternoon, until he got called away,” she said.
“What about the apartment he fixed up at the gallery? Surely he doesn’t want to just abandon it after all the work he’s done there.”
“It won’t go to waste. In fact, he’s already got a potential renter.”
“Who?”
“Miranda Sullivan. She works at the gallery nearly full-time now, and she said she’d be happy to rent the space, which would be ideal.” This possibility had evolved during the past few days. Olivia was pleased by the growing closeness—professional and, she guessed, personal—between Miranda and her brother.
“It’d be a good solution for us,” Ben said thoughtfully.
“I know I’d feel much better about leaving the house if Will would buy it.” She chuckled. “You tell him, though, that he’ll have to get me another Christmas present—otherwise, I’m taking that new refrigerator.”
Twenty-Nine
“Come on, Dad, it’s Thanksgiving,” Jolene said. “You’re being a real drag.”
Bruce forced a smile. There’d been plenty of Thanksgivings with just him and his daughter before, but this year, without Rachel, was different. He’d picked up a precooked turkey with fixings at the grocery store, and everything was in the oven heating up. This wasn’t the kind of meal he wanted, but unfortunately it was the best he could do.
Jolene had set the table. She’d brought home a decorative papier-mâché pumpkin she’d made in art class, which served as the centerpiece. Using a white linen tablecloth and their good dishes, his daughter had gone to some trouble to make this a special event. He tried to show his appreciation, but his attempt had fallen decidedly short.
Jolene threw herself down on the sofa next to him and sighed. “It doesn’t feel right without Rachel, does it?”
He was shocked that his daughter was willing to admit it. “No. I wish she was here.” Despite Jolene’s unexpected concession, he braced himself for her backlash. But he didn’t really care; he was tired of pretending, of putting on a brave front. Every day was an effort without Rachel.
“Can we call her?” Jolene asked, shocking him again.
Bruce shook his head “She blocked all my numbers.”
“She didn’t block mine.”
Bruce stared at his daughter. “How do you know that?”
“She said I could phone her a
nytime.”
He exhaled slowly. He wished she’d told him sooner. “Have you called her?”
Jolene’s long hair fell forward as she hung her head. “No. I was going to a couple of times, but I didn’t. She…she wants to move.”
Bruce leaped off the sofa. His daughter was only now telling him this? Jolene had seen Rachel a week ago last Monday. He’d hoped to pry information out of her, but Jolene had remained stubbornly tight-lipped. Eventually he’d given up. All he’d been able to learn was that Rachel had read his letter.
“Moving? Where?”
“She mentioned Portland.”
“When?”
Jolene shrugged. “I…I don’t know. I asked her not to leave.”
“What did she say?” He found it difficult enough with Rachel living in Bremerton, which was just across the cove but felt like it was on the other side of the world. Portland would be so much harder.
“Nothing. She didn’t tell me when she plans to go.”
“You don’t have any idea?”
“I asked her to stay,” Jolene reiterated.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Jolene refused to meet his look. “But I’d rather she went to Portland.”
“Jolene!” Bruce couldn’t help it; he exploded. Pacing the room, he tore at his hair like a crazy man, tempted to slam his fist against the wall.
“If you felt that way, why did you even ask her to stay?” he demanded.
Jolene didn’t immediately answer. “You,” she said in a small voice.
“If you’re so concerned about me, then Rachel would be back in this house where she belongs.” He jabbed his index finger at the floor.
“You don’t want me here anymore, do you?” she shouted, hiding her face in her hands.
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I want you here. You’re my daughter—I love you.”
“But you love Rachel more.”
“I don’t love her more. I love her, too. She’s my wife and she’s carrying my child.” His pacing continued. “A child I might never get to know because of this whole mess.” Unable to bear it, he stormed out. With nowhere else to go, he went into his room, closing the door, and sat on the edge of his bed. He felt like crying but was too numb, too drained by his anger.