Leota sighed. “I’ve thought that over for years, Annie. She’s always said I didn’t care about her or her brother and that I was a bad mother.”
“Did . . . did you care?”
Annie spoke so tentatively, Leota pitied her more than she pitied herself. “I cared very much, and I was the best mother I could be under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances, Grandma?”
“What life hands you.” She didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t give all the details without putting others in a bad light. And she didn’t want to be put in the position of defending herself against her own daughter. What good would that do? It would only put Annie in the middle of something she couldn’t fully understand. It might make Annie feel ashamed, too. There were so many things that came into it, things Leota had never told Eleanor. Some things were best left unspoken.
Weren’t they?
If only Mama Reinhardt had known everything from the beginning, then things might have worked out differently. She hadn’t known, and her careless words had cost so dearly. Leota thought of the poor old woman in her later years, wanting to make up for earlier mistakes and knowing it was too late. The darkness had triumphed, it seemed, and no amount of light had been able to dispel it. So far.
“I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me . . .”
“I know, Mama. And I couldn’t. It’s done now. Let’s put it behind us.”
This is the way it would always be. She had accepted that.
Eleanor was descended from strong German stock. Her blood was a blessing and a curse. Oh, God, why couldn’t her strength have been channeled elsewhere than into her resentments and endless disappointments? What would it take for Eleanor to see the truth—all of it—and finally purge herself of bitterness? Leota was weary of the battle. Too much time had passed for things to be undone and put to rights.
Leota had almost given up hope of anything changing until Annie came. But she couldn’t burden her granddaughter with her dreams. She had the hope of her salvation and that was enough. Death would come, and the pain would stop.
Annie reached over the table and took her hands, startling her from her grim reverie. “What if we brought it back?”
“Brought what back?” Leota’s thoughts were stumbling over the past, searching for other avenues she might have taken. Why? It was too late. You couldn’t relive your life or change the course of it.
“The garden, Grandma. What if we worked together and made the garden what it was?”
Leota’s heart leaped, but only for a moment. It was sweet of Annie to suggest it, but the girl had no idea what she was saying. Leota had been cast out of the garden five years ago by old age. Her joints had ached horribly from arthritis. She had become dizzy in the warmth of the afternoon sun. On fall days, even two sweaters hadn’t been enough to ward off the chill that seemed to set into her bones. She had finally come into the house one day, taken off her work gloves, and thrown them away. What was the point of all that toil when she was the only one around to see the result? And it made her sick anyway . . .
No, it was too late. She shook her head at the impossibility of the task. Annie couldn’t know. She couldn’t even guess the work that went into making a garden flourish.
And yet . . .
Hadn’t that been her dream over the years? To work in the garden with her children and grandchildren?
No, she must be sensible. It was only kindness that had made Annie offer. “I’m too old.” She couldn’t climb a ladder to prune trees or turn the soil. She couldn’t work on her knees anymore. If she got down on them, she’d never get up again.
“You have the knowledge, Grandma, and I have the strength. You could tell me what to do.”
She saw the eagerness in Annie’s eyes, an eagerness no doubt born of ignorance. “It takes time, Annie. You have school and work and friends. You have your own life.”
“I want to spend time with you.”
“You’re welcome here anytime, dear. Don’t think for a minute you have to work to be welcome.”
Annie searched her eyes. “Couldn’t we try, Grandma?”
“Well, I don’t . . .”
“Please.”
Leota weakened. She looked out the window, remembering how the garden had once looked. Then her vision cleared and she saw all that needed to be done. “Not today,” she said finally, weary and depressed. “We’ll talk about it next time.”
Next time Annie would have had time to think things over more carefully and realize she had better things to do.
Chapter 7
“Where did you say Anne was?” Nora’s hand gripped the phone tightly, her face going hot.
“She’s gone to visit with her grandmother in Oakland,” Susan repeated.
The adrenaline of anger pumped through Nora’s veins. Her daughter wouldn’t do this to her. She couldn’t. Susan Carter was lying. She had to be. Anne-Lynn wouldn’t dare betray her like this.
“Mrs. Gaines?”
“You must have misunderstood, Susan.”
“Leota Reinhardt. Isn’t that her grandmother’s name?”
Nora’s heart pounded.
“Would you like to leave a message, Mrs. Gaines?”
“Did Anne-Lynn say what time she would return?” Her hand gripped the phone so hard her fingers hurt. She had no intention of leaving a message with Susan Carter. It was sure to be forgotten or given incorrectly.
“Later this afternoon.”
“Could you be more specific, Susan?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I can’t.” She sounded anything but sorry. “But I can tell you Annie and I are both on the same schedule at the restaurant this week. I’m sure she will be home in time to get ready for work.”
Nora fumed. How dare the cheap little no-account call some hole-in-the-wall flat Annie’s home. Nora could hear someone talking in the background! “You have a male visitor.” Some hooligan, probably on drugs. Any self-respecting man would be working at this time of day. Or going to college.
“There’s no one in my apartment, Mrs. Gaines. I’m all by myself.”
“You needn’t lie, Susan. I can hear him.”
“What if I told you he wasn’t a man?”
“A television, I assume.”
“We don’t own one.”
Cheeky girl. Nora had never liked her. She liked her even less now that her daughter was living with her. She could just imagine the sort of influence Susan Carter was going to be on Anne. The man continued talking in the background, and what he said raised the hair on the back of Nora’s neck. “What’s he telling you? To call the police? What’s going on, Susan?”
“Oh, nothing much. He’s talking about another mugging, I suppose,” Susan said with airy indifference.
“He’s telling you to dial 911!”
“Good old Barnaby. Always the one to overreact.”
“I knew there’d be trouble if my daughter lived with you.”
“I’ll tell Annie you called, Mrs. Gaines.”
The sharp click in her ear made Nora wince. Furious, Nora grabbed her personal directory, slapped through the pages until she found the number she needed, and punched it in. The telephone rang four times before she heard an answering machine message. “This is the Carters’ residence.” The calm, sweet voice made Nora feel she was listening to fingernails raking down a blackboard. “We’re sorry, but we can’t come to the telephone right now. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”
“This is Nora Gaines. I suggest you look into what’s going on in your daughter’s apartment before she gets arrested for indecent behavior! One of the men she’s entertaining was screaming for 911 when I called.” She slammed the telephone down and stood up. She was so angry she was shaking.
How could Anne-Lynn do this to her? Nora was meeting two friends for lunch in half an hour. What was she going to say to them? If she didn’t have her emotions under control by then, they’d be like sharks in bloody water. They’d want to k
now what was wrong. They would want to know what had happened to make her so upset. What could she tell them? That her perfect daughter had run away? That Anne-Lynn, with her straight A’s and sky-high SAT scores, had thrown away the opportunity to go to a prestigious eastern college? That Anne-Lynn preferred living in some cheap little dump with some cheap little tramp in San Francisco rather than live another day in Blackhawk with her own mother?
“Stupid! She’s stupid!” Nora went into the kitchen, opening and slamming cupboards as she took down the coffee grinder, a cup, and some sugar. Her heart pounded hard and fast as she stuffed a filter into the coffeemaker. Beans scattered as she poured them too quickly into the grinder. She shook the machine as it hummed. Taking the top off, she poured the grounds carelessly, spilling half over the sides of the filter and some onto the tile counter. Cursing, she hurled the basket into the sink, leaving a trail of grounds across the floor in its wake. The maid was coming this afternoon. Let her clean up the mess!
She didn’t want coffee anyway—and she certainly didn’t need it when her heart felt as though it would burst any second. One cup of coffee and the caffeine would push her over the edge into a heart attack.
And it’ll be your fault, Anne-Lynn Gardner. All your fault. You’ll be sorry for hurting me like this. You’ll come to the hospital and stand by my bed and hold my hand and beg me to forgive you. You’ll say, “I’m sorry, Mother. You were right. I should’ve gone to Wellesley. I should’ve listened to you.” Nora uttered a ragged sob and bit her lower lip.
She deserts me and goes to visit my mother!
Nora itched to grab her car keys and drive to Oakland. She wanted to tell her daughter what she thought and how she felt. The hot words were already bubbling, the steam building. Oh, the sacrifices she had made. And did Anne even appreciate them? No! It was bad enough that Anne refused to go to college. It was bad enough that she had run out on all of the wonderful, painstaking plans made for her. It was bad enough that she had gone off to live like some bohemian in the city. But this . . .
“She’s gone to visit with her grandmother in Oakland.”
It was nothing short of betrayal.
Annie drove across the Bay Bridge, the portfolio of Great-Aunt Joyce’s work on the seat beside her. Grandma Leota had insisted she take it. “It’s been up in the attic all these years, dear. You take it home with you. It’s part of your heritage. Maybe looking at those pictures will encourage you with your art.”
And she had given her a thin box that contained an exquisite hand-embroidered handkerchief with lace edging. “Your great-grandmother made it. She sold things like that. She wasn’t able to do anything else because of her poor health. Just hankies and embroidered pillowcases and the like. She made crocheted lace, but I don’t have any of that left to show you. She’d send me down to a fancy millinery shop a few blocks from where we lived and have me sell it to the lady there. I can remember my mother sitting by the front window where the sunlight would spill in on her. All day she would sit there and do needlework.”
Annie had never seen such beautiful work and said so. Her grandmother had been so pleased. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? I knew you’d appreciate it.”
It would look wonderful pinned to black velvet and put in an antique frame. The next time she went down to the art supply store on Market, she would buy what she needed.
When she entered the flat, Barnaby let out a screech. “Call 911! Call 911!”
“Oh, hush, you dumb bird!” Susan said from the bathroom, where she was brushing her hair. “You’ve gotten us into enough trouble today!”
“What happened?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Annie laughed. “That bad?”
“Worse than bad. Catastrophic.” She stuck her head out the door. “But there’s no time to tell you about it now. We have to leave for work in fifteen minutes. Are you going to have something to eat?”
“I took Chinese to my grandmother’s.” She added some bits of fruit to Barnaby’s bowl. “Here you go, my fine, feathered friend.”
“Polly wants a cracker.”
“Dumb bird,” Susan said, coming out of the bathroom. “Your name is Barnaby, and you don’t eat crackers!”
“Polly wants a cracker.”
“Tough,” Susan said. “Fruit it is, buddy.”
“Call 911!”
Annie laughed and headed for the bathroom to change her clothes, while Susan stood glaring at the rainbow lory. “What is it with this bird?” Susan said. “It’s getting so I say anything and he’s calling for the police.”
“He doesn’t think you like him.”
“Oh, now, where would he get an idea like that?” Susan glowered at the bird pacing back and forth on his perch.
“Call the cops! Murder she wrote.”
“Maybe we should put a hood on him when the telephone rings. You know, the kind they put on a falcon. That might shut him up.”
“911!”
“If you were a dog, Barnaby, I’d have you in a choke collar so fast your head would spin!”
“Polly wants a cracker!”
“Starve, you mangy buzzard!”
“She doesn’t mean it, Barnaby,” Annie crooned, coming out of the bathroom in her straight, black skirt and white blouse. She’d brushed her hair quickly and was doing a French braid. “I’ll be ready in just a minute, Suzie.” She came over and stood near the bird as she finished her hair. “You’re a pretty bird, Barnaby. A very pretty bird.”
“You might not think so after I tell you what he did today. Your mother called.”
Annie turned and looked at her. The rueful look on her friend’s face was warning enough. “What happened?” she asked as they left the apartment.
“She heard Barnaby calling for the police. So she called my mother, and my mother called me. She wanted to know if it was true I was about to be arrested.”
“Oh, Suzie.” Annie closed her eyes.
Susan laughed. “Still think Barnaby’s a pretty bird? Want to go back in and wring his neck?”
“I’m sorry.” She was always apologizing to someone about something her mother said.
“Why’re you apologizing? You’re always doing that, Annie. It’s not your fault.” She came down the stairs.
“What did you tell your mother?”
She shrugged. “I told her we were throwing beer busts and orgies and running track lighting so we can grow pot in our living room. What else?”
“You didn’t!” Annie went cold inside at the thought of what her mother would make of such a statement.
Susan laughed. “Of course, I did. She knows me better than that, Annie. She didn’t believe me for a second. In fact, she laughed. Especially when I told her about our bird.” Her smile turned rueful. “A pity your mother doesn’t know us as well.”
The mailman came shortly after Annie left. Leota opened the door and reached out, pulling the sparse bundle from the metal box mounted on her wall. She closed the door and locked it again.
Well, well. She had won one million dollars from some publishing clearinghouse, and they were sending it to her bulk mail. What did they think? She was born yesterday? She walked into the kitchen as she sifted through the rest of the mail. A mailer advertised carpet cleaning. Forty-nine dollars to shampoo the rugs in two rooms. Highway robbery. She’d rented a machine five years ago for less than ten dollars and done the whole house.
Of course, it had been days before the rugs were completely dry, and the work had almost killed her.
She looked at the gray rug. Was it five years? Maybe it was longer than that. Six? Seven? Too long.
On the other side of the advertisement for carpet cleaning was a notice about a missing girl. Stranger abduction. Missing since December 15. Not a day went by that Leota didn’t find one of these depressing notices in her mailbox. What was happening to the world that so many children were missing?
Two envelopes were from charities, undoubtedly looking for donations. One
of them was from the organization that had sent Corban Solsek. She should have known she would end up on their mailing list. Maybe she’d send them a check for ten dollars, rent that rug-cleaning machine at the grocery store again, and have Corban Solsek shampoo carpets for her. Oh, wouldn’t he greet that idea with a happy smile. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. She would suggest it the next time he came just to see the look on his face.
If he came back . . .
Dumping most of the mail into the recycling bin, she tore open her bank statement and sat down at the kitchen table to study it. Everything looked in order. Social Security had deposited her monthly check. A dividend had been added. Twice a year, enough to pay taxes, plus some. She was saving in case the house needed repairs. But not this year. She wrote so few checks, balancing the statement was always easy. She was even making interest, enough to buy stamps to send in the few bills she had. Utilities. Water. Telephone. Fire and theft insurance.
Pushing the statement aside, she gazed out at the garden again. Time would tell if Annie had been serious about bringing the garden back to the way it was. Whatever happened, it had been a sweet thought, sweet enough to spark something inside Leota for the first time in a long time. Her mouth curved.
“And there isn’t much spark left in this old gal, Lord.” But what a day. Perfect, in fact. Annie’s wonderful, isn’t she, Lord? It makes me feel good knowing a little of my blood runs in her veins.
The telephone rang. Who would be calling her this time of day? Annie, perhaps, just to let her know she had arrived home safely. Leota made it to the telephone by the seventh ring.
“Mother, is Anne-Lynn with you?”
Leota blinked. “Eleanor?” When was the last time she had called?
“Nora, Mother. Remember? Nora. I hate the name Eleanor. That’s why I never use it.” She huffed as though striving for calm. “I’m calling for Anne-Lynn. Is she there?”
“No. She isn’t here.” Leota tried to push down the hurt feelings that rose again. Her daughter had never understood, never even tried . . .