Special thanks to Robin Dorman.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Also Available
Copyright
My stepfather, Watson Brewer, a mild-mannered millionaire, raised his fork and tapped his water glass. Normally, my family would probably not even notice the sound of a fork against a glass. Our family is large and very vocal, and tonight we were all talking even more than usual. It was the first dinner with every single one of us present since practically the beginning of the summer.
But this was Watson, and for him, tapping a fork on the side of his water glass at dinner is the same as one of us (me, maybe) shouting “QUIET” at the top of her lungs.
Everyone became quiet.
Watson smiled at all of us and raised his glass. “Here’s to the approach of a new school year” (my older brother Charlie groaned loudly, but we ignored him) “and to our being together for this end-of-the-summer dinner.”
We raised our glasses, and my mother added, “To us.”
I took a ceremonial sip of water and put my glass down. The roar of talk resumed almost immediately, but I didn’t join in. I looked around at the other nine people at the table. We were, I had to admit, a most excellent family.
But we haven’t always been such a big family. Not long ago, there were only five of us: my mother, Elizabeth; my older brothers, Charlie and Sam (now seventeen and fifteen); my younger brother, David Michael (now seven); and me, Kristy Thomas (I’m thirteen).
My father, Patrick, walked out on us when David Michael was a baby. He ended up in California. Back here in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, we rarely heard from him. Nor did we have much time to think about him. We were too busy struggling to make ends meet.
It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t terrible either. Because, as corny as it sounds, we knew we could count on one another. And then Mom met Watson Brewer. They fell in love and got married, and we moved across town — from the house we’d always lived in on Bradford Court, to Watson’s mansion, where he lived with his daughter, Karen (now age seven); and his son, Andrew (now age four). They live here every other month and spend the alternate months with their mom, who has also remarried and lives nearby.
I’m not kidding about the mansion. It’s a real mansion, with room enough for every one of us, plus assorted pets and even what Karen, who has a very vivid imagination, claims is the ghost of one of her ancestors, Ben Brewer.
Not long after the move, we adopted Emily Michelle (now two and a half), who was born in Vietnam. Then my maternal grandmother, whom we call Nannie, came to live with us also, to help with Emily Michelle and to restore order to creeping chaos.
I wasn’t sure at first how I was going to like these changes. After all, we’d been managing pretty well. And given the way my father had disappeared on us, I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of another father or stepfather.
Then again, Watson was very different from Patrick — or at least from what I could remember about him. My father was forever moving, restless, picking something up and putting it down as he talked, walking back and forth with his hands stuck in his pockets, playing tennis with ferocious intensity, or totally immersing himself in whatever interested him at the moment. Sometimes I think that his restlessness was one of the reasons he left us: He picked us up and then put us down and walked on to something new.
Watson, on the other hand, is a thoughtful and serious man. He is the CEO of Unity Insurance, and he works hard — so hard that he even had a mild heart attack not long ago. But he’s obeying the doctor’s orders to ease up a little, and he seems in good health again.
Watson’s ruling passion, after family and maybe before work, is one he shares with Nannie: gardening. You’d be more likely to find him arguing with her over the advice in a gardening magazine, or digging a hole for a new Japanese maple tree, one of his favorites, than charging around a tennis court (although you might find him covering first in a baseball game — he loves baseball and plays a tough game).
Watson is quiet and deliberate. He’s also patient and kind, and I soon realized I couldn’t have asked for a better stepfather. I love him very much now.
Watson’s head was bent as he listened to something that Karen, her blue eyes round behind her glasses, was telling him. My mother was smiling fondly at them both. I heard Nannie say, “Good, Emily Michelle,” and watched as my youngest sister spooned up some mashed potatoes without dropping any on herself or on the table. On the other side of her, Andrew was piling his peas into a nest he’d built of the mashed potatoes. Charlie had shown him how to make a mashed-potato nest with green-pea eggs, and now it was one of Andrew’s favorite dishes. My grin widened as I realized that Charlie was doing the exact same thing. Sam and David Michael were talking about baseball. Listening in, I realized that they had the completely wrong idea about who was going to win the World Series in October.
I was about to jump in with my opinion when the phone rang. My mother automatically stood up to answer it.
“Let the answering machine pick it up,” suggested Watson, but my mom had already slipped through the door into the kitchen. It’s funny, but she always thinks that if someone calls late at night or during dinner, it must be an emergency. After all, who would be rude enough to interrupt people otherwise?
Telemarketers, I thought. Idly, I wondered who was calling our house, trying to sell what, and how long it would take my mom to persuade them never to call again. In the meantime, I decided to set Sam and David Michael straight about the Series. By the time Mom returned, I was so involved in a debate over who had a deeper pitching staff that I didn’t even notice Mom’s expression — at least not until Nannie said, “Elizabeth? What’s wrong?”
We all looked up, and I saw Watson’s eyebrows draw together slightly. Mom’s warm brown eyes appeared puzzled and the rest of her normally animated face was almost blank. She was standing by her chair, resting her hands on top of it.
“Mom?” I said.
Mom reached out and touched Watson’s hand as he reached for hers, and then smiled. I was reassured. It couldn’t be too serious.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”
“Who called?” asked Watson.
“Patrick,” she said. “It’s Patrick.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure who she was talking about. Then I thought, It’s my father.
Mom looked from me to Charlie, to Sam, to David Michael. “He’s still on the phone,” she said. “He wants to talk to you, Kristy, and to Charlie and Sam. He has some … some important news for you.”
“What is it?” I blurted out. I pushed my chair back and stood up. I couldn’t think. My father never, ever calls us. Never. In fact, I’ve only seen him a handful of times since he left, including once completely by chance at a ball game in California.
“Kristy?” my mother said in a gentle voice.
“Go on,” Watson said. “Why don’t you use the extension in my office?”
I nodded. I turned toward Watson’s office, glad to have a little time to collect myself.
I hesitated a long moment before picking up the phone. This was a clear sign that I was rattled. Any of my friends will tell you that I do not hesitate often.
I picked up the phone, pressed it to my ear, and said, ??
?Hello?”
“Kristy!” My father’s voice boomed over the line as if we were old buddies. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I said. “Uh, hi. How are you?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Better than fine. Excellent, in fact.” My father sounded nervous — and way too cheerful. What was going on?
Charlie said from another phone, “Why are you calling?”
“Well, because I have great news. Everyone’s on now, right? Sam, Charlie?” Without waiting for an answer, my father continued, “I wanted my kids to be the first to know: I’m getting married. To Zoey. That’s her name. She’s great.”
No one said a word. It was as if the phone connection between California and Stoneybrook had been cut off.
My father said, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
I heard a click. Somehow, I knew it was Charlie, hanging up the phone.
Patrick didn’t seem to notice. “Well?” he said. “Don’t all rush in at once.”
Sam said, “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations,” I mumbled.
“And that’s not all,” Patrick said, the pitch of his voice increasing and making him sound even more nervous. Maybe he had noticed a slight lack of enthusiasm at our end, I thought. “I want you all to come to my — our — wedding.”
“School’s about to start,” Sam began. “I don’t think —”
“It’s next Saturday,” Patrick interrupted. “Your mother says it’s up to you guys, and I know you want to be here. Your plane tickets are already on the way by Fed Ex. They’ll be there tomorrow.”
“But —” Sam tried again.
“Everything’s taken care of,” Patrick said. “Will you come? Sam?”
“I guess,” answered Sam. “If it’s okay with Mom.”
“Kristy?”
I wanted to say no, but I couldn’t. “Okay.”
“Charlie?”
“He had to get off the phone,” I said. It was the truth. “But he’ll let you know.”
“Oh. Well. He’ll be there. I know my kids won’t let me down. This is terrific!”
Not quite, I couldn’t help thinking.
“Put your mother back on, would you?”
“I’ll get her,” I said quickly. “ ’Bye.” I couldn’t say the word “Dad.” Somehow, it just didn’t fit my father anymore. I set the phone down and returned to the dining room. Sam was sliding into his chair as if his knees weren’t working right. Charlie’s face was stony. “He wants to talk to you again,” I said to my mom.
I followed Mom down the hall and into the study. She picked up the phone and she didn’t hesitate. “Well?” she said. Her voice was calm and expressionless. She listened for a moment and said, “We’re in the middle of dinner. I’d prefer to discuss this later.”
She listened again, looked up, and said, “Wait a minute.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and said to me, “Kristy, go on. Finish your dinner.”
Whatever my mother had to say to Patrick, she wanted to say it in private.
Reluctantly, I left the study and rejoined the rest of my family.
Nannie was shaking her head. She hadn’t even noticed that Emily Michelle had reverted to eating her mashed potatoes with her fingers. Watson was sitting very still, and David Michael and Andrew looked like smaller versions of him. Karen was bouncing up and down.
Sam had told them, I knew. The tension in the room was almost visible.
“Kristy,” Watson said with a smile. I was relieved to see it was his normal Watson smile. I managed to smile back.
“Well, it won’t be a June wedding,” said Watson, “but out in California the weather should be wonderful.”
No one said anything. Watson turned to Nannie. “Excellent gardening country out there. Farther up the coast, in Oregon and Washington, they grow some of the best apples in the world.”
Nannie said, almost automatically, “Don’t forget New York apples.”
Charlie said, “I’m not going.”
Then David Michael asked, “Can I go?” and the conversation stopped again. It was only then that I realized that my father had not asked his youngest son to come to the phone, had not told him the news, and had not invited him to the wedding.
Had he forgotten David Michael? Surely not. Maybe he just thought David Michael was too young for the trip.
Charlie fixed burning eyes on Sam and said, as if David Michael hadn’t spoken, “Are you?”
Sam nodded. “I said I would, I guess,” he answered in a low voice.
Turning to me, Charlie asked, “And you?”
“I said I would.”
“I want to go too,” David Michael chimed in.
“Well, there’s no way I’m going,” Charlie announced.
As David Michael was about to speak again, I said, “Wait until Mom gets off the phone and talk to her.”
Charlie said, “I can’t believe you guys agreed to go to his wedding. Just like that.”
“He’s my real father. I want to go,” insisted David Michael.
Did I see Watson flinch? I hoped not. I hoped his feelings weren’t hurt. David Michael had spoken without thinking, but he was only seven.
“Your real father,” Charlie sputtered. “A real father doesn’t go off and leave his family. I was ten when he left. I remember what it was like. I remember how Mom —”
He stopped abruptly as Mom returned. She pulled her chair out from the table and sat down. She made an elaborate show of putting her napkin on her lap. Only then did she look around. A spot of color glowed on each cheek. She took a deep breath. “We have a lot to talk about,” she said.
If I hadn’t been so upset I might have laughed. It wasn’t the understatement of the year — it was the understatement of my whole life.
The tickets arrived early the next morning.
David Michael, Karen, and Andrew were in the backyard, playing with Shannon, our Bernese mountain dog puppy. Watson and Nannie were in full gardening gear: gloves, hats, old jeans, workshirts. (Watson sometimes works at home now, which means he can make his own hours.) I watched them through the kitchen window as I finished my solitary breakfast of cereal (Wheaties mixed with Rice Krispies). They were staring up into the branches of a holly tree on one side of the house. It was hard to tell whether they were going to prune it or try to make it levitate.
I put my dishes in the dishwasher and carried my o.j. into the family room, where Mom was dressed for work, watching Emily Michelle empty the contents of an old purse onto the rug and put everything back into it again. This included an old key ring, a small stuffed animal, a soft alphabet block, and various other items. Mom was holding a cup of coffee and talking to Emily Michelle. “Blue,” I heard her say as I came into the room. “That piece of velvet is blue. Can you say blue?”
Emily Michelle put the piece of velvet up to her cheek for a moment, then put it in the purse and pounced on the old key ring.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“Kristy,” she said. “Good morning.”
“I guess,” I said. I felt heavy-eyed and stupid. Normally, I’m the first one up, but the night before I’d stared into the dark a long time before falling asleep. Now I was sluggish, and my breakfast was sitting in a lump in my stomach.
Mom smiled a little as if she understood. She looked a little sleepy herself. “I think it’s going to be another perfect day,” she said.
“I guess,” I said again. “I wonder what the weather is like in California.”
A short pause followed. Then Mom said, “Kristy, I don’t know what to say about all this. I’m still … I can’t … I just don’t know.”
This was not reassuring. I think I’d sort of been counting on Mom to have it all figured out.
“Oh,” I said.
That’s when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” I said. I don’t know who I expected it to be — maybe one of my friends who’d somehow sensed I needed her.
But it wasn’t. It was a Fed Ex del
ivery person. When I saw her I said, “Oh, it’s you.”
She didn’t seem to notice the odd greeting. I signed for the package and walked back to the family room, eyeing the label. Was that my father’s handwriting? I couldn’t be sure. I had studied the collection of cards (numbering in the single digits) he’d sent me over the years until I knew them all by heart, but still, I couldn’t be sure.
Silently, I handed the package to Mom.
She took it and opened it, pulling out three airline tickets to California: one for me, one for Sam, one for Charlie.
None for David Michael.
A voice said from the doorway, “I’m not going.”
Charlie was standing there, scowling. We all looked up at him, even Emily Michelle. Then she went back to reloading the handbag.
“Charlie,” Mom began.
“No,” said Charlie. “Why should I? After what he did to us?”
I stared at Charlie. He’d never talked much about what had happened, even though he was the one of us kids who probably remembered our father best. For a while, I’d been jealous that he had those memories and I didn’t. But lately I’d begun to see the advantages of not being able to remember much about a father who was there one day and gone the next.
I’d cried at first, all those years ago, late at night when I thought no one could hear me. Had Charlie cried? Or had he tried not to, because he shared a room with Sam?
Charlie’s face was set and hard. He looked a lot older than seventeen.
Mom took a deep breath. “It’s up to you, Charlie,” she said. “But I hope you’ll reconsider.”
“I won’t,” he said. He turned and left abruptly.
“He’ll change his mind,” I said, more confidently than I felt. “There’s time.” I paused, then added, “Isn’t there? I mean, when do we leave?”
“Monday,” said Mom. “You fly out Monday. The wedding’s the following Saturday, and the return tickets are for Sunday.”
“That’s practically a whole week!” I exclaimed. “Where are we going to stay?”
A funny look crossed Mom’s face. “With your father.”
That stopped me. I hadn’t spent a whole week with my dad since I was about six. Something like panic flooded me — panic, and anger. Suddenly my father was getting married, and just like that I was supposed to go spend a whole week with him? Why hadn’t he wanted me around before?