Lady in Waiting: A Novel Page 9

“Dr. Kirtland thinks I find my validation in my parents and in my marriage. And since both of those relationships are kind of messed up right now, I’m messed up. It’s why I can’t sleep.”

  “Did he say that’s why you can’t sleep?”

  I ignored her. “I just don’t like that word. Validation. It sounds so … impersonal.”

  “So call it something else. Affirmation or self-worth. Whatever. Call it whatever you want.”

  The ease with which these other words fell from her lips had silenced me for a moment. She had known exactly what Dr. Kirtland was talking about. And she agreed with him. A tremor of frustration rippled through me as I formulated a response.

  “Jane?”

  “Hey. I happen to appreciate hearing what other people think. I always have. I think it’s good to listen to the advice of other people before you make an important decision.” My voice sounded a little shaky, as if I almost didn’t believe my own words.

  She had paused just for a moment. “Jane, I really don’t think Dr. Kirtland was talking about you feeling compelled to get advice from other people before you make important decisions.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “I think he was probably talking about you feeling compelled to let other people make the important decisions.”

  “What are you talking about?” The words flew out of my mouth. “How do you know that’s what he meant?”

  One of her daughters had needed her at that moment, and we had to cut our conversation short. She told me to call her on Sunday when I got home from Long Island. We said good-bye on a weird note, disconnected.

  As I waited for my father, it occurred to me that just before we hung up, she’d quickly apologized if those words had hurt me. But she hadn’t apologized for saying them.

  I was happy to see that my sister was in the car with my dad when his relatively new Volvo pulled into the train station. Dad wouldn’t begin any interviews on the true nature of Brad’s whereabouts with Leslie in the car. At least my parents were discreet when they butted into my private life. I tossed my empty coffee cup into the trash as he and Leslie got out of the car and walked toward me. Dad, wearing the striped short-sleeved shirt I gave him for Father’s Day last year, gave me his customary peck on the cheek. The steel gray in the fabric of his shirt matched his slicked, silver hair. He smelled of Lava soap, as always. Leslie had on a bright pink, fitted T-shirt and stonewashed jeans. Hoop earrings the size of tea saucers hung from her ears. Her short-cropped hair was streaked with shades of bronze, copper, and gold.

  We embraced and I wished her a happy birthday.

  “This is all you’ve got?” My dad had my overnight bag in his hands and was looking about my feet for, I assume, a suitcase.

  “I’m just staying overnight, Dad.” I laughed.

  “Your mother said you were staying Sunday night too.”

  I never told my mother any such thing. “Um. No, I need to get back to Manhattan tomorrow.”

  “She’s a working girl now, Dad. Remember?” Leslie said as we began to make our way to Dad’s car. “The antique shop?”

  Dad ignored her sarcasm. “Your mother said you hired a new girl. She said you could stay until Monday.”

  “Well, yes, I’ve hired someone, but she’s only part-time, Dad. And I never said I was staying Sunday night too.”

  We arrived at the car. As I put out my hand to open the passenger door, Leslie pointed to the ring on my pinkie. Sunbeams were stroking the gems.

  “Hey. Is that a new ring?”

  “Actually, it’s a rather old ring. I just got it in a shipment from Emma this past week. I want to take it to David Longmont and see if he can appraise it for me.” As my dad tossed my overnight bag into the trunk, I leaned toward my sister.

  “It has my first name engraved inside,” I said softly.

  Her eyes were wide as Dad slammed the trunk shut and announced that David Longmont was retired.

  I called over my shoulder. “I hear he still hangs out there now that his son has taken over the business.”

  “Can I see it?” Leslie said as we both slid into the car.

  I took off the ring and handed it over the seat to Leslie. She immediately held it up to the window, squinting to read the inscription.

  My dad got inside the car, and his brow furrowed as he watched Leslie. “What’s she doing?”

  “The ring has an inscription,” I answered.

  “Vul … vil …,” Leslie attempted as she stared at the ring’s underside. “What is that? I can barely read it.”

  “Vulnerasti cor meum, soror mea, sponsa. It’s Latin. It means ‘You have captured my heart, my sister, my bride.’”

  “Holy cow,” Leslie breathed. “How old is this thing?”

  “I found it hidden inside the lining of a three-hundred-year-old prayer book, so—”

  “What’s three hundred years old?” My dad had started the car and shifted into reverse to back out of his parking space.

  “Wow …,” Leslie murmured. She was reading my name.

  Jane.

  I turned to face my dad. “The ring might be.”

  “And you’re walking around with it? You’re wearing it?”

  I reached over the seat, and Leslie handed the ring back to me. “If it has survived the last three hundred years stuck in a book in someone’s barn, I think it will survive a trip to Long Island.”

  “David Longmont is going to flip!” Leslie exclaimed. “Especially when he sees your name in it.”

  “Your name’s in what?” Dad said, easing his way out of the parking lot.

  “The name ‘Jane’ is inscribed inside too,” I replied.

  “How much did you pay for it?” Dad turned onto the main avenue out of the station.

  “How much did you pay for this car?” Leslie quipped.

  “I’m just saying a ring that old must’ve cost a fair sum, that’s all. You might want to be careful how you handle it.” He sounded miffed.

  “If it makes you feel better, I have a case for it, Dad. I am wearing it because I like knowing where it is.”

  “I don’t need to feel better. You just need—”

  But Leslie interrupted him. “I’ll take you down to David’s shop today, Jane. Todd wants to play baseball this afternoon with some old high school friends, and he’s taking Bryce and Paige with him. I don’t want to go for the whole thing. We can go shopping and then to the jewelry store and then we can get ice cream and then maybe catch the last inning.”

  “Your mother’s going to be too busy to do all that,” Dad said, concern in every word. “She has to get everything ready for the party tonight.”

  Behind him, Leslie crossed her eyes. “We won’t pull her away from the preparations.”

  Before Dad could say anything else, Leslie began to describe to me how her friends at work celebrated her fortieth the night before in Atlantic City and how she didn’t get home until three in the morning. She described the evening as well as the afternoon leading up to it in vivid detail, allowing me to relax as we made our way into the neighborhood where she and I grew up.

  The streets were peaceful. Men in plaid shorts were mowing their lawns, women in straw hats were putting down impatiens and alyssum in their flower beds, and children were shooting hoops in their driveways. The colors of April—always shining and vibrant after a monochromatic winter—were alive at every glance, down every side street.

  I had always pictured my life looking something like this, living in a house like my parents’ with its gray dormer windows trimmed in white, wide cements steps to the painted wood porch, on a street named after a tree, in a cozy suburb that could be anywhere.

  I’d imagined I’d have daughters and sons, at least one or two of each, and that we’d take long family vacations in the summer and play board games on stormy nights, and that we’d have a million inside jokes that were funny only to us. I’d pictured big family dinners, fun secrets between my daughters, laughter and wrestling among my sons, and
a kinship with my husband that my friends would marvel at, and that our house would be the one all the teenagers would flock to.

  But we’d spent our only child’s teenage years in a Manhattan town house, watching old James Bond movies on rainy nights, and eating out more than we ate in. When we lived in Connecticut, during the years I wished for another child and was kept wishing despite many years of trying, our home had been a stylish rambler in a new Stanford subdivision, one of several models that repeated itself every fourth house. Connor was usually ready for bed by the time Brad finally got home from work. He and I ate dinner at eight or eight-thirty, sometimes in front of the television where Brad often fell asleep with his fork in his hand.

  Free weekends were spent canoeing or fishing, neither of which I enjoyed. I had been happy to let Connor and Brad take off at dawn on weekend mornings to seek out the water, leaving me to scout out antique stores with friends. At the time it seemed like we were both getting to do what we wanted. From the perspective of the front seat of my father’s Volvo, it didn’t seem that way now.

  As we closed the distance to my childhood home, I was keenly aware that my life had turned out differently than what I’d imagined when these streets were my streets, when nothing had been decided yet, when I was young and the world seemed spacious and inviting.

  My parents’ house came into view as Leslie rambled on, and my nostalgic thoughts were yanked away. My mother was on the porch watering her hanging baskets. She turned toward us as if surprised we were already home, when in actuality, I saw her rise from the swing as we made the turn onto the street—a blur of blue sweat suit and silver gray hair—and reach for the watering can at her feet.

  Thirteen

  My parents had lived in that house since I was three. They bought it before they even knew my mother was pregnant with Leslie, back when Dad was head custodian at the local hospital and going to school at night to get a degree in mechanical engineering.

  The floors were hardwood, and the rooms were spacious and square, just the right shape and size for my mother to reinvent every time a new home fashion made headlines.

  The house was built in 1950, with the charm—like all the houses on my parents’ street—that architecturally defined the years of hope and renewal following World War II.

  Inside, past its quaint exterior features, my mother had groomed her flair for interior creativity. She had toyed with English country garden quaintness, Scandinavian sparseness, Oriental mystical, and now the current—Moorish kaleidoscope—all of which have had as their foundational furniture my mother’s three white sofas with their square cushions. On that day the walls were a blend of apricot and amber hues. Crimson, mauve, and chocolate brown pillows were scattered about the trio of white couches. Sconces and mirrors framed in brass lined the walls. Ebony-stained pine accent tables and bookcases stood in contrast to the brilliant whiteness of the sofas and window trims. Honey and cedar scented the air. Gossamer curtains hung from the windows, flung easily over wooden blinds that my mother kept from genre to genre for nighttime privacy.

  As I stepped inside, past the Moroccan landscape that dominated the living room, I saw that my mother had draped the dining room in swaths of coral fabric. Silver and sea-foam green helium balloons were anchored to chair backs and table legs. Bouquets of purple larkspur, iris, and Bombay dendrobium orchids in tall vases were everywhere. The décor extended past the dining room onto the back patio where the profusion of purple, coral, and sea foam continued.

  Leslie leaned into me and whispered that if it weren’t for the balloons, she’d think it was a perfect setup for a rather elegant wake.

  My mother had her hands on her hips as she watched me take in the birthday decorations. My father had taken my overnight bag up to my old room.

  “Well?” she said. “What does it need?”

  “It looks … great, Mom. I don’t think it needs anything else. Really. It looks fabulous,” I told her.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, as if pining for a second opinion.

  “Hey, Mom. Jane and I are going to do a little shopping and then take in the last half of Todd’s baseball game.” Leslie grabbed my arm.

  Mom turned to us, crinkling one eyebrow.

  “Can we pick up anything for the party?” Leslie added quickly.

  “You’re going shopping? For what? It’s your birthday, Leslie. People will be bringing you presents. What could you need to shop for today?”

  “I might want a different blouse to wear to the party tonight. Something that will match the, uh, color scheme.”

  “I thought you were wearing white. You told me you were wearing white.”

  “Oh, and we’re also going to stop and see David Longmont. Jane has a new ring!” Leslie thrust my hand toward our mother. I tensed without meaning to.

  Mom peered down at the ring. “Did Brad get that for you?” She raised her head and our eyes met.

  “I bought this for the store.”

  “Hmm. Looks kind of fussy. Where’d you find it?”

  “Well, actually it was hidden in some books Emma sent me for inventory. I think it might be really old.”

  “Her name is in it.” My dad had appeared from the hallway, and my bag was no longer in his hands.

  “Her name is in it?”

  “The name ‘Jane’ is engraved inside.” I took the ring off and handed it to her. She squinted as she tried to read the inscription.

  “Isn’t that the coolest thing?” Leslie said.

  “I can’t read it. It’s too small. What are all those other words? They look strange.”

  “It’s Latin.” I reached for the ring. I didn’t feel like telling her the translation.

  “So can we pick up anything for the party while we’re out?” Leslie sensed my unease.

  My mother slowly handed the ring back to me. “Why do you think it’s so old?”

  I placed the ring back on my right pinkie. “Because I found it hidden inside the binding of a seventeenth-century prayer book.”

  “Seventeenth century … Good Lord! Why on earth are you wearing it, Jane!” she exclaimed.

  “Ice? Napkins? A fifth of gin?” Leslie continued.

  Mom turned to my sister. “I am just asking a simple question, Leslie. And, no, I already have everything.”

  “She likes knowing where it is.” My dad started to walk past us to go into the kitchen. Leslie reached for him.

  “Dad, Todd has the Camry. Can Jane and I have the Volvo?”

  He hesitated and then reached in his pocket for the keys and handed them to her. “Park in the shade, if you can.”

  Leslie took the keys, and we headed for the front door.

  “Just make sure you are back by five, so you can freshen up,” Mom called as she followed us. “And take sunscreen for the kids!”

  Mom was just behind us as Leslie opened the front door. She touched me on my elbow.

  “Jane, why can’t you stay Sunday night too? Brad’s not even here. And your father and I want to talk to you.”

  Leslie mumbled something and stepped out onto the porch and headed to the car in the driveway.

  I turned to Mom and delivered the line that came easiest to me. “Let’s just keep this weekend about Leslie, okay? It’s her birthday.”

  “It’s not her birthday tomorrow.”

  I practiced the next line in my head before I said it. “If it’s Brad you want to talk about, there’s really nothing new I can tell you. He’s still trying out the new job in New Hampshire.”

  She frowned. “Something is wrong. We know it. We want to help you. It’s not normal for two married people to live in two different states in two different apartments.”

  “It’s not normal for a forty-four-year-old to have to talk about private matters with her parents,” Leslie yelled from across the hood of the car. Then she yanked open the driver’s side door and slid inside.

  My mother tossed Leslie an exasperated look and swiveled her head to face me. “We know s
omething is wrong, Jane. Isn’t it about time you admitted it to yourself? You can’t fix something unless you admit it’s broken.”

  I searched my brain for one of Dr. Kirtland’s gems, but my mind was suddenly blank of any other practiced response.

  “It’s Leslie’s birthday,” I murmured. “And we’re going shopping.” I took a couple of steps toward the car. Mom followed me down the steps.

  “You shouldn’t just give up on your marriage, Jane. Think of Connor and what this will do to him. You and Brad should see a professional instead of just throwing in the towel like this. I can’t believe you are just giving up on your marriage.”

  Inside the car I saw Leslie shaking her head. Let’s go, she mouthed.

  I turned toward my mother as a new thought, one that I hadn’t exactly practiced with Dr. Kirtland, crawled out of my throat. “Well, I am glad we at least agree on that. It’s my marriage, Mom. Mine. And you’ve really no idea what you are talking about.”

  I walked to the car and got in. Leslie started the engine, and I waved to Mom—a gentle salute—as she stood there, staring at me.

  We were out of the driveway before Leslie turned to high-five me. But I didn’t raise my hand to meet hers. I wondered instead if Dr. Kirtland would have congratulated me or merely offered me a pistachio.

  For my sister’s birthday present, I had chosen an Edwardian sautoir necklace with colors that mimicked the odd beauty of gasoline in a wet gutter. I wasn’t a fan of the Edwardian look myself—too much lace and feathers and far too many pearls, bows, and tassels. But I knew Leslie would like it. It had an elongated art deco look that matched her flair for the unconventional.

  I had found the necklace at a dealership in Philadelphia on a buying trip I had taken three weeks before Brad told me he was leaving. Brad had that weekend off, and I had invited him to come with me. He had declined, telling me he was going sailing with a bunch of guys from the hospital. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Brad loved to sail. I didn’t. I remember being happy that he was getting out with friends to do something he really enjoyed. But I’d wondered since then if he declined because he knew then he was planning his escape. He hadn’t interviewed for the New Hampshire job, but he surely knew about it already. And I, likewise, wondered if any conversation with any of those guys on that sailboat began with, “I’m thinking of leaving Jane.”