I just finished reading Alice Hoffman's The Dovekeepers. I couldn't help wondering if it was as painful for Hoffman to write as it was for me to read. I knew and dreaded the ending. I've been to Masada. I visited Israel in 1981. I think it would be hard for anyone to imagine the size and scope of that place without actually seeing it. Even having been there, it's hard to fathom an army of 6 thousand Roman soldiers camped in the desert below it's massive walls.
Hoffman's language is lovely-lyrical. I underlined sentence after sentence, sometimes wondering what does that even mean? But because phrase after phrase was so gorgeous, I still did it. Each character was sympathetic, mostly because they were brave while facing horrors I can't even imagine.
I wondered how much of her religion and sorcery was imagination and how much was based on research. How true was she to the mores of the societies she wrote of? Like many of the other Hoffman novels I've read, The Dovekeepers is at it's heart a story of mothers, daughters, and sisters, the women being much more powerful than the men.
Here are a few of the lines I underlined:
I saw the age in his step, the heaviness of his burden, for he carried all the cruelty he'd been party to on his shoulders.
They came to us as they swarmed upon so many lands with their immense legions, wanting not just to conquer but to humiliate, claiming not just our land and our gold but our humanity.
It was the future they had to face, as all men must death eventually. They could do so as cowards or as men of God, that was their choice.
He began to fold in on himself, a tangle of envy.
It was as though he no longer had children. We were only shadows on the wall, there to mock him and betray him.
guided by a map of rich fragrance sent into the air expressly for those driven by hunger.
Our silence thick in our throats.
Once you possess something others do not, you are a target for the wicked.
She'd brought the shawl with her on our journey, the single treasure she'd taken from home, whereas I had reached for poison. The choice you make about such matters reveals who you are deep inside.
He was with us, yet he had been summoned to another place entirely, the kingdom of vengeance.
Words had done that to me, twisted my heart as they poured out, clattered like stones onto the cobbled ground.
When you change your name, you change your fate as well.
Here we were surrounded by what some called the other side, the dark realm, for on this night we had wandered onto the evil side of the world that was also born from creation, that terrible region which could be found at the left hand of God and fed on human sin.
I will be leading a discussion on The Dove Keepers at the Foothill Ranch Library on October 5th.
From Wikipedia:
"Since we long ago resolved never to be servants to the Romans, nor to any other than to God Himself, Who alone is the true and just Lord of mankind, the time is now come that obliges us to make that resolution true in practice ... We were the very first that revolted, and we are the last to fight against them; and I cannot but esteem it as a favor that God has granted us, that it is still in our power to die bravely, and in a state of freedom."
3 tablespoons cocoa powder (preferably Dutch-processed), plus more for serving
3 cups whole milk
6 ounces semisweet chocolate finely chopped
3 tablespoons demerara or granulated sugar
Lightly sweetened whipped cream (for serving)
Baby Blue Christmas
from Chapter 5
While
Jamison napped, Sophie went to the attic and found her grandmother’s Christmas
ornaments and decorations. Her heart twisted and she had to blink back tears as
she carried the boxes to the living room. Her grandmother had been gone for
nearly a decade, but this would be the first year without her sister. In her
entire life, she’d never once imagined a world without her sister—until she had
to. She had thought about calling her dad and offering to fly up with Jamison,
and maybe she would still do that, but…
The
truth was she didn’t feel comfortable around her stepmother, and she knew the
feeling was mutual. And her dad didn’t do a thing to ease the tension. So,
would she rather spend Christmas alone—or would she rather be uncomfortable
with her dad and stepmother?
The
teapot let out a high squeal, letting Sophie know that the cocoa was ready. She
chose the reindeer mugs her grandmother had always used and filled four of them
with the steaming cocoa. She topped each with a dollop of whipped cream and
added chocolate sprinkles.
Luke’s
SUV swung down the driveway. Maybe, she thought as she watched him climb from
the car, there’s another option. The door slammed after Mia and Paige got out.
Paige, dressed in a long black coat, dark jeans and knee-high leather boots,
frowned at the house and wrinkled her nose as if she didn’t like what she
smelled.
Sophie
hurried back into the kitchen to check on her lasagna. It was her grandmother
Morelli’s recipe and she’d made everything—even the noodles—from scratch, just
as her nonna had.
She
loaded up the tray with the cocoa mugs, carried it into the living room, and
set it down on the coffee table before opening the door.
Luke
came in and gave her a swift hug before turning to Mia and Paige. “I hope you
don’t mind, but they insisted on bringing a salad.”
“Only
it’s not made yet,” Mia said, nodding at the grocery bag in her arms.
“That’s
great,” Sophie said. “Come on into the kitchen. If you can’t find anything,
Luke can show you around while I set the table.” She motioned to the mugs on
the coffee table. “I made some cocoa.”
Paige
slipped off her coat and laid it over the back of the sofa. “Do you have any
sugar-free?”
“Huh,
no. Sorry.”
Paige
sniffed. “How about tea?”
“Sure.”
Paige
wrinkled her nose, screwed up her face, and sneezed so loudly Sophie worried
she’d wake Jamison.
“Is
there a…dog…in…this…place?” Paige asked right before she sneezed again.
Sophie
pointed her mug at Javert sleeping on his quilt in front of the fire.
Mia
dropped to her knees beside the puppy. “Oh, he’s the cutest thing! What is he?”
“I
have no idea,” Sophie told her.
“He
has to go!” Paige said. “Either that, or I do!”
That
seemed like an easy to decision to Sophie, but after a quick look at Luke’s
face, she gathered the puppy into her arms. “Come on, Javert,” she muttered
into his fur. “We know when we’re not wanted.” Inside the mudroom, she put a
towel on the floor and placed him on it. He blinked at her with sad, tired
eyes. “You’ll be fine in here for a few hours,” she said while petting him.
Back
in the living room, she found Paige rummaging through her purse while Luke and
Mia sipped their cocoa.
“What
sort of name is Javert ?” Paige asked as she pulled a small pill bottle from
her purse.
“You
know, like Inspector Javert from Les
Miserables.”
“Les Miserables? You mean that movie with
Hugh Jackman? I don’t remember any dogs in that film.” Paige sneezed again. “Do
you mind if we open the windows and doors?” she asked moments before she did
so. A cold breeze blew into the room.
“Mia,
why don’t you help me set the table,” Luke said.
Paige
followed Sophie into the kitchen. “I’m allergic to dogs.”
“I
sort of got that,” Sophie said.
Paige
sniffed and popped open her pill bottle. “Where’s the tea?”
Sophie
opened the cupboard where Chloe had left a large collection of teas. Paige
sniffed again, selected a bag, and made a small sound that might have been a
thank you when Sophie handed her a teacup.
Sophie
pulled the lasagna from the oven. The cheese on top had turned a crispy, golden
brown, just the way she liked it. The French bread would soon be done as well.
Paige
removed a head of Romaine lettuce, a box of croutons, and a bottle of dried
Parmesan cheese from the grocery bag and put it all down on the table.
“Do
you have a bowl?” Paige asked.
“Um,
sure.” Sophie retrieved the bowl, a cutting board and knife, and a colander.
Paige
eyed the colander. “What’s that for?”
“I
thought you’d want to wash the lettuce.”
“No.
I bought this at Whole Foods.”
“Still—”
“Everything
there is organic.”
Sophie
bit her lower lip and took another peek at her French bread.
“I
know what you’re doing,” Paige said as she whacked the lettuce into bite-size
pieces.
“You
do?” Sophie tried to guess what Paige could be talking about. “That’s great,
because sometimes I feel like I don’t.”
“You’re
pretending to play house with Luke.”
Sophie
laughed, because, yes, that was exactly how she felt.
“Well,
it won’t work. He can’t be domesticated.” She waved her hand at the mudroom
door. “He’s not like a puppy you can housebreak.”
Sophie
raised her eyebrows when Luke came in.
“Are
you talking about me?” Luke asked.
Paige
froze like a statue.
Sophie
fought for something to say to break the tension. “You know, maybe we should go
and pick out a tree before it gets dark.”
“But
your ankle,” Luke said.
“It’s
feeling better. A walk could do me good.”
“Why
walk?” Mia chipped in. “Why not take the ATVs?”
“I’d
forgotten all about those,” Sophie said, only she didn’t know how she could
since they took up so much room in the barn. “I’m not even sure they still
run.”
“Why
wouldn’t they?” Mia asked.
“They
might need gas,” Sophie said.
“Are
you scared of the ATVs?” Luke asked.
“No.”
Sort of.
“Well,
I’m not going,” Paige said.
“That’s
great,” Luke said. “Then you can stay here with Jamie.”
Panic
filled Paige’s face. “But what if he wakes up?”
Luke
pulled his phone from his pocket. “Then you’ll call me and we’ll come right
back.”
Paige
shot Mia a death stare.
“If
you guys want to go, I can stay here with Jamie,” Sophie said.
“What?
It’s your tree!” Luke put his arm around Sophie’s waist and steered her toward
the mudroom. “Let’s get your coat.”
He
opened the mudroom door and Javert shot out.
Paige
screamed and jumped onto the ottoman as Javert tore through the kitchen and
circled the living room. Luke went after him. Mia tried to tackle the dog, but
landed face-first on the carpet. Sophie sank onto the sofa, laughing. Javert
jumped onto her lap.
Jamison
began to cry.
Paige
huffed, stalked from the room, and banged through the front door.
Sophie,
still trying not to laugh, tucked Javert under her arm, and climbed the stairs
to get Jamison.
Life is looking up for Maisie Trent. Since the exciting, handsome, and wealthy Paul Leon wandered into her aunt's antique shop and swept her off her feet, she is taking her life off hold. No more marking time while dabbling in the history she's writing about Laguna Beach.
But Laguna Beach, a place of perpetual blue summer skies, artist enclaves, and lazy sandy shores, has another side fused with scandal, the counterculture and something called Orange Sunshine.
When Maisie tries to help a local homeless man, she uncovers a deadly string of events hidden beneath Laguna Beach's cheerful surface. And someone will kill to keep those secrets buried in the sand. I wrote this book nearly ten years ago, back when I thought I wanted to be traditionally published and I had to write in the confines of a specific genre. But even then I wasn't very good at it. And this novel is proof of that. Part mystery, part romance...it's not quite sure what it is. But there were a lot of scenes in it that I really liked so I frequently stole them and used them in a number of my other books. That's because I thought I'd never publish this story that was once called A Pebble in His Pocket. I liked this title because it tied in with a literary device, but an author I really admire told me it made it sound like a children's book, so I changed the title to Shell Charms. But then another author that I also really admire that's in my writers' group titled his story Monkey Charms, and I can't say why this spoiled Shell Charms for me, but it did. Also, Shell Charms sounded too upbeat for a murder mystery, although Shell Charms, like A Pebble in His Pocket, tied in nicely with the story in a way that Seadrift does not. Oh well. I resurrected this story when it became glaringly obvious that I wasn't going to finish my Miss Maple story in time for it to be included in the Orange County Fictionaires' Murder, Mystery and Mayhem anthology (coming soon.) And I'm glad I did. I do love this story. It needed a little rewriting, though not a lot.
Here's the cover. Isn't it cool?
When I first took it out of its dark and dusty drawer, I thought I would need to pull the scenes I had used in my other books. And yes, those few people who have read all of my books will most likely find the scenes I plagiarized from myself. But again, oh well. I hope you enjoy the story for what it is--whatever it is--mystery, romance, thriller, suspense...a history lesson. It's darker than most of my other books. I wrote it back when I loved mysteries. And I still love mysteries--I love the puzzle and the who-dun-it of them. But around this time I was made the president of a women's charitable organization, and I saw a lot of ugliness, betrayal, degradation, and the world became a scarier place to me. Suddenly, the horrors in mystery novels became real. I stopped reading them. I stopped watching the crime shows on TV. And I stopped writing them. What made me go back to mysteries? I'm not quite sure. Just like I'm an eclectic reader, I'm also an eclectic writer, bouncing around genres, picking up the stories that strike my fancy at the time. And this, I suppose, is another reason I could never be traditionally published.
I'm retooling my book bio. What do you think? USA Today bestselling author Kristy Tate has come a long way from small-town Washington. Her avid curiosity and love of reading have carried her to thirty plus countries. (She loves to travel to the places she reads and writes about.) She's the author of more than twenty books, including the bestselling and award-winning Beyond Series and the Kindle Scout winning Witch Ways series. She writes mysteries with romance, humorous romance, light-hearted young adult romance, and urban fantasy. When she's not reading, writing, or traveling, she can be found playing games with her family, hiking with her dogs, or watching movies while eating brownies. She is also a popular public speaker and presents writing workshops for schools, libraries, and fundraisers. All proceeds donated to charity. References available upon request. Not to be published, but to use as references: Stella (Orange County Public Librarian) Carly (Director of California's GATE Program) Greta (President OC Writers)
An excerpt from Baby Blue Christmas, my novella in the upcoming Author's of Main Street Christmas box set. It's scenes like this that make me write...
The
next morning, Sophie and Jamison sat beside Liz and Teddy on the front pew of
St. Jude’s Church. Pastor Carl Mitchells, Liz’s husband, sat on the stand while
Debra Jenks played Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” on the organ. Sophie hadn’t ever
attended church regularly, but ever since her sister’s death she’d found
comfort and a sense of community in the small stone chapel where her best
friend’s husband led the congregation.
She’d
first started attending because Liz had told her how hard it was to make Teddy
sit through the sermons and how important it was to Carl that she and Teddy be
there. So in the beginning, Sophie had gone to support Liz and help her with
Teddy. She couldn’t pinpoint when that had changed—when, exactly, her Sunday
mornings had become more about finding peace and grace than helping her friend
shore up her marriage. But Sophie had grown to love and treasure the hour of
reflection the service provided.
The
calm she generally found in church shattered the moment Luke walked in and took
his place beside her on the pew moments before the opening hymn.
He
gave her a dazzling smile and took Jamison from her without even asking.
Jamison, who was normally hesitant around strangers, sat on Luke’s knee and
gazed at him with happy curiosity. The traitor.
Sophie’s
lap felt cold without the baby on it and without Jamison, she wasn’t quite sure
what to do with her hands.
“Good
morning,” Luke said, bumping her with his shoulder.
Sophie
didn’t know what to say, but fortunately, Mrs. Lawrence stood to lead the hymn,
“O Come, All Ye Faithful.”
Luke
sang with a loud, clear bass voice she found almost hypnotic. She could barely
hear her own squeaky words beside him. He chuckled as soon as the song ended.
“What’s
so funny?” she whispered, hoping he wasn’t laughing at her singing.
“That
song always reminds me of an episode of The
Brady Bunch,” he whispered back.
The Brady Bunch?
He hadn’t seemed like a Brady Bunch-watching sort of kid. She would have pegged
him as an action hero watcher.
“My
sister loved them,” he whispered, answering her unasked question.
“Shh!”
Liz whispered good naturedly as her husband took the stand to begin the sermon.
Sophie’s
gaze wandered to Teddy who sat beside his mother scribbling in a coloring book.
She wondered what sort of child Luke had been. She hadn’t met him until Chloe
and Matt had started dating. Back then, when she was a freshman and he a
senior, he’d seemed so much older. But once, he must have been a child just
like Teddy, and even a baby like Jamison.
Jamison
deserved a father.
“Did
you know that the Santa in that Brady Bunch episode also played Otis, the town
drunk, in The Andy Griffith Show?” Luke whispered.
“Did
you watch a lot of TV as a kid?” Sophie didn’t want Jamison to grow up to be
one of those kids glued to a TV screen.
“Not
so much as a kid,” he whispered back.
Liz
reached over Sophie to slap Luke’s knee. “Excuse me, my husband is
pontificating!” she whispered.
“Sorry,”
Luke mouthed the word and turned his attention to the podium.
Sophie
gazed at his strong jaw. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Something
important. Something she should know. He was Jamison’s only uncle and, at the
moment, the only male role model in Jamison’s life. Of course, that would all
change if she married. Not that she saw that happening any time soon. She had
been picky about who she dated before she gained custody of Jamison, but now
that she had him to consider, her pickiness had ratcheted up to a whole new
level.
She
chastised herself for thinking about marriage when she should be focused on the
sermon. She sent Liz an apologetic smile and tried to dial in to Carl’s
message.
Unfortunately,
Carl spoke in monotones. “Jesus, through Mary, his natural born mother and
Joseph, his adoptive father, was of royal blood and would have been king if
Israel hadn’t been under Roman rule. Let’s turn to Matthew 1:17 in our Bibles.”
Sophie
reached down for her Bible which was in her bag by her feet, but her hand
knocked against Luke’s and then she forgot about her scriptures as tingles shot
up her arm.
Pheromones.
He
didn’t even react to her touch. This bothered her. Why was he sitting so close?
She edged away, clutched her Bible, and tried to refocus.
“We read in Isaiah, chapter sixty-one, ‘To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to
give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of
praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of
righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified…”
Interesting.
But not nearly as interesting as the man beside her. She wanted to touch him
again to see if the tingles were a one-off sort of thing or if his touch had
that power over her.
She
reached over to take Jamison from him, intentionally brushing her hand against
his.
Yep.
Tingles.
He
leaned over as if to say something, but she shushed him. “I’m listening,” she
said, nodding at the podium. But she wasn’t. And then she began to worry that
there might be a special level in hell for those who lied in church. On the
Sabbath.
Five of my novels are set in Rose Arbor, a fictional town loosely based on my hometown, Arlington, Washington. One reviewer claimed that I had obviously never even been to Arlington. But not only did I live at the end of East Fifth Street until I left for college, but since my dad still lives there, I visit often. Here are some pictures from my latest trip.
This was obviously taken from a car window. I wanted to show how beautiful it is there, no matter where you look. These photos are from Bowman Bay, which is actually in Anacortes near Deception Pass. I think all of my Rose Arbor novels include beach houses, even though, technically, Arlington doesn't have any beach front property. Unless you call a riverbank a beach....
This is a house on the top of Olympic Hill. It was the house I had in mind when I wrote about the Michael's house in Stealing Mercy. (By the way, Stealing Mercy is free for today and tomorrow.) You can get it here: STEALING MERCY FREE
This is the house on Cob Street where my husband and I lived in for three months before he went back to graduate school. It was full of mold and we were sick for the entire summer. I wrote about it in my novel, A Ghost of a Second Chance.
And this is the library in The Rhyme's Library. (Actually, it's a house at the end of my dad's street.) My babysitter lived here. Strange coincidence--in my novel, The Rhyme's Library, Charlotte suffers from dementia. The woman who used to babysit me died at 58 with a rare, aggressive form of Alzheimers. I didn't learn this until after the novel was published. I love this house, but it also had a spookiness about it. Probably because as a child I wasn't allowed to watch the TV program, Dark Shadows. My babysitter didn't know this, and so I watched it when I was at her house. So there was that. Plus, the interior was decorated in a really horrible French Rococo style--frilly furniture etched with gold.
When I grew up, our house was surrounded by a dairy farm on three sides. Today there's a couple of schools, a church, a housing development and a retirement home where the cows used to be. The barn is now a thrift shop. All of this makes the town--and my dad's property in particular--a lot less smelly.
This is what's left of my dad's garden. It's the end of the season and most has been harvested. My dad is 96 and lives alone.
There's a line in a Paul Simon song that says something like, "Nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town." And I used to feel that way about Arlington, but I don't anymore. When I left Arlington for college in the 1980s, there were about 5,000 residents. At the last census, there were 17,926, proving that we all can grow and change.
The
Chinook wind stirred the fallen leaves and tossed them around the deserted
street. An eastern wind carries more than
dust and ashes, Laine’s mother had told her; it uproots secrets. And everyone knows once one secret is told, no
secret is safe.
Hers
included.
Laine
paused in front of the Queen Anne Hill Chapel doors. The sun, a faint pink glow
over the eastern hills had yet to shine, but Laine hadn’t any doubt that it
would rise to another scorching Indian summer day. She looked out over sleeping
Seattle. The dark gray Puget Sound stretched away from her. On the horizon, distant
ships bobbed and sent quivering beams of light over the water.
She
turned her back on the ships, on any dream of sailing away, and inserted the
key into the heavily carved wooden doors. They creaked open before Laine turned
the key. Odd. The chapel, built in
the 1930s, had a musty, empty smell. She stepped into the cool shade of the
foyer and the door swung shut, closing with a click that echoed through the cavernous
room. The morning sounds of birds, crickets and insects disappeared when the
doors closed. Laine’s sneakers smacked across the terracotta tile, her
footsteps loud.
She
had thought she’d be alone, which is exactly why she’d chosen to come near
dawn. Not that she’d been able to sleep. She hadn’t slept for weeks, which may
explain why at first she’d thought the girl standing in the nave, facing the
pulpit, her face lifted to the stained glass window, might be a ghost—or, given
her surroundings, an angel.
Although
Laine couldn’t see her face, the way the child’s head moved, it looked as if
she was having a conversation with the Lord trapped in the glass, or one of the
sheep milling about His feet, giving Laine the uncomfortable sense of
interrupting. The meager morning sun lit the glass and multi-colored reflections
fell on the girl, casting her in an iridescent glow. Slowly, she turned and Laine
realized she wasn’t a child, but a young woman, around twenty, maybe half her
own age, wearing the sort of thing her grandmother would have worn. Vintage
clothing, Laine noted, incredibly well preserved.
“Good
morning,” Laine said, smiling. “I’m sorry to intrude. I wasn’t expecting
anyone…” She let her voice trail away. Laine had certainly never felt any peace
through prayer, but that didn’t mean she wanted to interrupt anyone seeking
grace. Pastor Clark had given her the key, so naturally she’d assumed the
chapel would have been locked, and that she’d have this time to practice alone.
“Well,
where is he, then?” the girl-woman demanded, placing her balled fists on her
hips. She had yellow blonde hair, cut in a curly bob, and wore a pale blue
sleeveless dress that fell straight to her knees. Laine considered the young
woman. Given the scowl and hostile eyes, she didn’t look like a humble Christian
follower, but she did seem oddly familiar.
“I’m
sorry—who are you looking for?” Laine tucked her hands into her pockets,
feeling inappropriately dressed. She’d thrown on Ian’s sweats, one of the few
sets of clothes he’d left behind. Perhaps he didn’t exercise at the hotel, or,
more likely, he’d just bought himself a new pair of running clothes. Now that her
grandfather had died, making Ian The-Man-In-Charge, Ian could afford new running
clothes, the hotel suite, and room services of all sorts. Which didn’t explain,
really, why Laine wore his cast-offs. Just because he’d left them behind didn’t
mean Laine should wear them. And yet, she did. Frequently.
“Sid!”
the woman spat the name. Her gaze raked over Laine, making her uneasy.
Laine
tugged at the drawstring holding up the sweat pants, wondering why this woman
would be looking for her grandfather. “He’s still at the funeral home.” She
swallowed. “They won’t bring the casket here until tomorrow morning. There’s
the viewing tonight at the house…” She heard her own sadness in her voice.
“Then
what are you doing here?” The woman’s eyes matched the color of her dress and
as she drew closer, Laine saw she wore a necklace of the same steely blue. Laine’s
hand instinctively crept to her own necklace, a gift from Sid, an emerald he’d
said matched her eyes.
The
woman looked at the massive organ and then back to Laine. “Why are you playing
the organ? I’m sure Georgie could spit out the money for an organist. No need
for freebie-family members to play.”
Laine
opened her mouth to ask how this woman knew her father or her relationship to Sid,
but then remembered her family had never lived a quiet life. Well, except for
her. Her own life had been, until now, ungossip-worthy. Her breath caught in
her throat and then she let it out slowly, bracing herself for the difficult
weekend. She’d weather the rumors and the chit-chat. She could be strong.
Even
if she’d never been before.
“I
wanted to play,” Laine told the woman, lacing her voice with resolve she didn’t
feel. “As a gift to my grandfather.”
Why are you here? How did
you get in? How do I know you? Laine wanted to ask, but years of social training held back
her questions.
The
woman snorted. “Not much of a gift, that.”
“Yeah,
well, it’s something I want to do.” Laine let a little of her social training slip
and she brushed past the woman. She marched up the aisle toward the organ,
lifted the massive cover, turned on the switch and adjusted the bench.
“A
gift to your grandfather, or an excuse not to sit by your husband?” The woman
appeared beside her.
Laine
squared her shoulders and bit back a rude retort. She’d have to get used to the
questions. Even if they weren’t asked so bluntly, they’d still be asked. Maybe
not to her face, maybe behind her back, but the questions would be there, either
in people’s eyes or on their lips. Laine would not provide answers.
The
woman stood at her elbow. “If you’ve come to practice, where’s your music?”
Laine
gave her a tight smile as she settled onto the bench. “I memorize.”
“If
it’s already memorized, why are you practicing?”
For
the first time Laine caught a hint of the woman’s French accent. “Who did you
say you are again?”
“I
didn’t say and you didn’t answer my question.”
Laine began adjusting the stops. “Every instrument
is different. A pedal may be broken, the bench could wobble… I’ve learned from
sad experience that it’s best to give every instrument a test run. I mean, an
organ’s not like a violin. You can’t just bring your own.”
The
woman cocked her head. “What would you know of sad experiences?”
Most
people would say her life was charmed, but if she lived such a fairytale, why
was she so sad? Because the prince she’d
been kissing for most of her life had turned into a toad?
“Do
I know you?” Laine asked, her fingers pausing above the keys.
The
woman leaned against the organ. “I don’t know, do you?”
All
of Laine’s politeness drained away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you. And because I don’t know you, I don’t feel I need
to share.” Laine hit the keys, a D minor chord, and music reverberated through
the deserted chapel.
“Good
for you.” The woman chuckled and hitched herself up on top of the organ. She
had reed thin legs, pale as porcelain and covered with silky hose. She swung
them back and forth, like a child pumping a swing, her heels rap-tapping the
organ.
Laine
lifted her fingers, horrified. The sudden cessation of music filled the room. “You
can’t sit on this organ.” Her words
echoed.
The
woman cut her a sideways smile. She wore bright red shoes with ribbon ties on
the ankles and the red heels continued bumping rhythmically against the organ. “No?”
“No. It’s a 1930’s Wurlitzer, solid
walnut. It’s extremely valuable, and you’re kicking
it.”
“You’re
very rich.” The woman smiled, but didn’t budge or stop swinging her legs. “You
could replace it.”
Laine
hated being reminded of her money. It made her feel guilty and dirty. She
supposed that’s why she worked so hard at the foundation. She pounded out the
first line of Pie Jesu and said,
through gritted teeth, “Get off!”
And
to her surprise, the woman did. Laine almost stopped playing, but after
watching the woman wander down the aisle, her hands trailing along the pews, Laine
turned her full attention to the music swirling through the chapel and, for a
moment, she felt better than she had in weeks.
***
Walking
down Lily Street past the turn-of-the-last-century mansions, Laine pulled her
blazer close, as if by buttoning it she could hold in all her broken pieces.
The suit hung on her. She’d had to pin the back of the skirt to keep it from
sliding off. At least wool breathes,
she told herself, refusing to consider that wool, heat, nerves and sweat could,
and most assuredly, would, cause a smelly combination.
When
had she lost so much weight? How had that happened? Had she discovered the
miracle weight-loss program? Could she market it? The Lose Your Guy, Lose Your Gut diet?
Because
she’d walked, she’d worn her flats, but stopping at the gate, watching her
relatives, friends, and business associates climb from their cars in their
suits, dresses, and heels, she considered going home and changing into
something less worn. It’d seemed ridiculous to drive such a short distance,
ridiculous to walk the three hilly blocks in heels, and it would be equally
ridiculous to walk back and forth just to change her shoes. Of course, she
could walk home and then drive for the return trip. But—then where would she
park?
I’m stalling, she thought. Her eyes
flicked over the cars lining the tiny street. This was supposed to be a private
viewing, family and close friends only, and yet, somehow, her stepmother had
managed to turn it into a celebrity photo opportunity. She told herself she wasn’t
looking for Ian’s Mercedes, but she stopped checking the cars when he pulled
up.
She
stepped behind a mammoth rhododendron, and through the petals and branches, she
watched him climb from his car. Despite the suit and graying hair at his
temples, from a distance he looked nearly the same as he had in high school.
Which just wasn’t right. She’d aged, why hadn’t he grown old beside her? The
sprinklers had recently shut off and Laine’s flats sunk into a patch of mud. Her
feet slipped slightly in the muck and she felt off balance and shaky.
A
voice spoke in her ear. “Why are you hiding in that bush?”
Laine
jumped and put her hand on her heart to slow its beating. She turned and
scowled at the tiny woman at her elbow. “You!”
“You’ve
got mud on your shoes and plant rubbish on your jacket.”
Laine
looked down at her shoes and brushed twigs and petals off her blazer.
“I
thought your outfit this morning was perhaps the ugliest thing I’d ever seen,
but now,” her gaze swept over Laine, “I can see I was wrong.”
Laine
cast Ian another look to make sure he hadn’t noticed her standing behind the
bush and then whispered, “What’s wrong with my suit?”
“You
mean besides the fact it’s ugly and must be incredibly itchy and hot? Well, for
one thing, it doesn’t fit you. Where did you find it?”
“In
my closet.”
“That
explains a lot.” The woman fingered the pleats on her own blue silk dress.
She’d changed her shoes. The red heels had been replaced with a pair of black
pumps that would have been sedate if not for the faux diamonds on the toes. “You
obviously need a new closet.”
“This
is a viewing, not a fashion show.” Laine folded her arms, studied the woman and
used the voice she only trotted out when donors tried to renege on their
pledges. “Who are you? Did you work for my grandfather?”
The
woman looked sly. “Sometimes.” So, that’s who she was—one of her grandfather’s
girls. Laine didn’t deserve abuse from one of her grandfather’s ladies. She
looked too young for even Sid. And she thought that it had been years since
Sid’s Romeo days, but with her grandfather—it was hard to know who was who in
his revolving love life.
Sid
hadn’t been a paragon of virtue, but Laine had tried to live her life by a
strict code. Insulting grieving granddaughters at funerals breached that code.
“Oh
hello!” Ian called.
Laine’s
head snapped up. Even from a distance, the timber in Ian’s voice made her
quiver. She’d thought he’d seen her, thought he was speaking to her, but now
she saw him cross the grounds, his arms open, his eyes kind, warm and generous—he
could afford all those emotions now—as he approached a girl in a white sheath
dress. Mary or Marie somebody from the reception desk. So much for family and
close friends. But then Laine remembered, vaguely, something about Mary or
Marie being related to Denis Openheimer, of the Openheimer Weiner fame. Of
course, her stepmother would invite an Openheimer.
“Who
wears white to a funeral?” the woman asked, before bringing her gaze back to Laine.
“Although, it’s better than your frumpy suit.”
Laine
turned away from Ian, not wanting to watch him embrace Mary or Marie, and
looked at the woman just in time to see a fistful of mud flying.
“Hey!”
Laine called out as the mud splattered across her chest. Clods of dirt stuck to
her blouse as she pulled it out of her waistband, trying to prevent the mud
from running down her skirt.
“I
think the proper response would be ‘thank you’.”
“Thank you?”
“You’re
welcome.” The woman brushed off her hands, spun on her heel, and headed toward
the back entrance of Sid’s house. “Now, follow me.”
Laine
looked down at the disaster of her shirt. “I will not follow you.”
The
woman stopped in the driveway by the white catering van. “What, you’re going to
walk three blocks to change into something equally dowdy? You’re going to risk
being late or possibly even not showing your face at your grandfather’s
viewing? Think of the gossip, the rumors. Everyone will know for sure that Ian’s
left you. He will think you weren’t
brave enough—”
“Stop
it!” The words and emotions flew out of Laine’s iron-clad control.
A
teenager holding a large pink pastry box stepped from around the corner of the
van. “Ma’am?” He had freckles dotting his nose and he looked hurt and surprised
by her outburst.
“Not
you,” Laine said, her voice sounding weak. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was
talking to—”
She
looked around, but the tiny woman had disappeared.
The
kid edged toward her, as if she were a wounded Doberman in need of help and yet
still capable of doing serious injury. “Can I help you? Get you some water or
something?”
Laine sighed and put her fingertips on either
side of her temples. “Look, I hired your company.”
The
kid began to back away from her. His hands, clutching the pastry boxes, turned
white around the knuckles.
“I
just…” Laine swallowed, following him. “There’s a short, blonde woman hanging
around here. She’s about this high.” Laine held up her hand so it was even with
her chin. “If you see her, I want you to come and get me immediately.” She’s going to pay, Laine thought, for at least my dry cleaning.
The
mud seeped through her blouse and felt cold and oozy. What to do? Totter home,
change into something, anything, clean? Go into town and buy something? She
didn’t have her purse. She glanced at Sid’s house. It had rooms and rooms and
closets full of stuff.
She
looked out over the lawn. Ian stood on the front porch, pumping hands with Uncle
Harry. Ian had on a dark, well cut, custom-made suit. Even as a teenager he’d
been fashion conscious. Other girls had shopped with their boyfriends, selecting
their clothes, dressing them as if they were the Ken to their Barbie. Laine had
always been too busy studying, working on the student council, organizing the
next fundraiser. Even then, she’d been raising money for somebody, or something
else.
Laine
stomped into her grandfather’s kitchen and the catering staff, who had been
bustling around the counters and mammoth oak table turned to stare at her,
their conversations and chatter coming to sudden and stunned stop.
“There’s
a crazy short lady here,” Laine said. “If any of you see her, I want you to tell
me immediately.”
Most
of the staff gave her blank stares, but a few turned away, smirking. Short, crazy lady, Laine thought as she kicked
off her muddy shoes. Yeah, right. Short
and crazy are both subjective adjectives and could just as easily be applied to
me.
Laine
ran up the back stairs and turned into what was once her aunt Claire’s room.
The room still smelled of violets, her aunt’s smell, and Laine’s heart clenched
with the sudden memory. Softly, she closed the door behind her and went to sit
on the bed. The room hadn’t been redecorated since the eighties. Tiny yellow
and blue flowers covered everything—the walls, the bedspread, the host of
pillows, the dress of the Cabbage Patch doll resting against the brass headboard.
What
would happen now to Sid’s house, to Claire’s things? Why hadn’t she thought
about this? Had anyone? Perhaps her stepmother and her dad had plans. Although,
thinking and planning had never been their fortes.
Ian
would now officially run the company. He’d been Sid’s puppet for years, until
slowly, almost imperceptibly, he’d begun pulling the strings as Sid had aged.
No one had expected Sid to live to ninety-seven, especially not his string of ex-wives.
He’d outlived all his spouses and two of his children.
Thinking
about spouses, exes and current, Laine unfolded from the bed and went to the
closet. She had known her aunt Claire as a fussy old lady and didn’t expect to
find anything other than flowery muumuus, Claire’s favorite daywear. A muumuu
or a dirt crusted suit? Laine had to find something without mud clinging to it
and she didn’t need a whole outfit. Her suit was fine, thank you very much. She
just needed a blouse.
She
glanced out the window and saw Ian talking to a circle of her employees from
the foundation. Marie laughed and placed her hand on Ian’s sleeve. White heat
flared through Laine and she closed her eyes against the pain and anger.
When
she opened her eyes she saw a dress hanging in the closet. Long sleeves, high
neck, black lace over a strapless taffeta under-bodice, a pleated band at the waist.
The sort of thing she’d never buy.
And
yet.
She
looked back out the window. Marie had on an impossibly short skirt, something
no one over the age of thirty should ever wear. Allison, a mother of four
children, had on a blouse that lifted when she moved her arms and exposed a
bright strip of white belly. In a world of inappropriateness, Laine, the good
daughter, the philanthropist, could wear a black lace dress.
She
took off her suit, kicked it into the closet’s corner, and stepped into the
dress. To her surprise, it didn’t smell of violets or mildew, but of Chanel Number
5. The lining felt luxurious against her skin and the lace clung slightly as
she moved.
Considering
her reflection in the mirror, she decided she couldn’t wear the muddy flats. Tearing
into the shoe boxes on the closet shelf, she discovered black lace shoes with pearl
buttons and three-inch heels. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t be able to walk. With
the shoe box tucked under her arm, she went to the bed, sat down and slipped on
the heels. They fit perfectly. Odd.
Looking
at her herself in the mirror, she wondered when and where her aunt had bought
the dress and matching shoes. She tried to imagine the woman she’d known, the
wearer of shapeless muumuus and of the collector of Cabbage Patch dolls,
wearing such a dress, wearing Chanel Number 5 perfume. There are so many things we don’t know about the people around us, even
the people we love, she thought, and
we pass so quickly through our lives, briefly colliding before sailing away.
On an impulse, she reached up and took the
pins from her hair. Her curls spilled down her back. Remembering the handkerchief
in her suit pocket, she drew it out and promised herself that she wouldn’t use
it. No one would see her cry, but if they did, they would think she cried for
Sid. Not Ian. Perhaps Ian would cry and she could magnanimously lend him her
handkerchief and give him a condescending smile, accompanied by a conciliatory
pat on the shoulder. She smiled at her reflection, braced her shoulders, and
left the room.
