Beneath the Night Tree (5 page)

He obliged, filling the air around the girls and veiling a grin when Angelica reached out a tentative finger to see if her skin would pop the glossy membrane or hold it. It popped.

Click-click-click.

“Perfect. I think we’re done here.” I lowered the heavy camera and stood up from a crouch amid the audible crack and moan of knee joints. I pressed a fist to the small of my back. “You girls are gorgeous. But you’re a little too short. Oh, my back!” I hunched over and ambled toward them with a Quasimodo limp. “I’m too old! I can’t bend like that anymore!”

Carlye squealed in delight and ran from me, straight into the arms of her mother, who was crossing the lawn with her daughters’ extra outfits in hand. Francesca smiled a bland, tight-lipped smile and smoothed Carlye’s dark curls. “Did you get some good ones?” she asked.

I nodded. “Your girls are beautiful. It’s hard to take a bad photo of them.”

It was exactly what Francesca wanted to hear. She tipped her chin in acceptance and held out her free hand for Angelica. “Come on, sugar,” she called. “You have dance in less than an hour. We’ve got to get you in your leotard and to the studio.”

“I don’t want to go to dance!”

“You have to. Daddy and I paid good money for your ballet lessons.”

“I’m hungry!” the little girl whined.

“I have a sandwich for you in the car.”

“I don’t want a sandwich!”

“Too bad.”

Angelica screamed her protest and stomped off in the direction of their waiting car.

The entire exchange made me feel tense and uncomfortable, and I tried to busy myself with the camera so that I didn’t have to acknowledge that I had ears and could hear every word Francesca muttered. I peeked at Simon from under my lashes and realized that the situation was awkward for him, too. “Hey, Simon,” I called, “could you start loading the props into the car?”

He fired me a grateful look, then began throwing lengths of gossamer into the oversize basket that I had cradled the girls in only minutes before. “Be back in a sec,” he said with a salute. Simon hefted the basket into his arms and disappeared beyond the row of trees that lined Fox Creek Park.

It didn’t strike me until I was alone with Francesca that I had set myself up for the inevitable. Time alone with her, even a minute or two, was never a good idea. My relationship with Francesca Walker was never easy. And maybe that was to be expected. After all, we had loved the same man. But what she didn’t seem to grasp was that any love I felt for Thomas was past tense—a child’s fantasy, a little girl’s dream because he was the closest thing to Prince Charming I had ever known. But I grew up. Learned better. Knew better. I knew that Thomas was no prince. And I was no fainting princess, locked in some tower, waiting for rescue.

Yet Francesca persisted in believing that any flame I’d held for Thomas still burned bright and true. It didn’t help that Mrs. Walker, Thomas’s occasionally overbearing mom, was always finding ways to force me into their lives. After Angelica was born, I was enlisted as her part-time day care provider when Francesca had to go back to work. It was a miserable few months. Angelica never bonded with me, and I had to work odd hours to keep my job at Value Foods. The extra income helped, but in the end I seriously doubted if any amount of money would make that sort of headache worthwhile.

Though her attempt to bond our families through day care failed, Mrs. Walker didn’t stop there. She pushed Francesca and me together, coordinating playdates for the “two young moms” at her house on a regular basis. And she kept inviting our messy family to infrequent Walker holiday functions. I considered my longtime friend and surrogate auntie a keen woman and an astute observer of people, but she didn’t seem to grasp that Francesca and I would never be best friends forever.

But whether or not I hit it off with her daughter-in-law, I knew that Mrs. Walker would always be proud of her great discovery: my talent for photography. It was after I snapped a few photos of her grandkids at a Thanksgiving get-together that my gift, as Mrs. Walker perceived it, was officially revealed. A week after the holiday, I brought her a handful of snapshots that made her already-perky eyebrows curl into unbelievable arcs.

“You took these?”

I nodded, chastened, though I didn’t know why. “With my dad’s old camera.”

“Julia, honey, they’re beautiful.”

Mrs. Walker declared my work better than any local studio’s, and she enlisted my services once a year—every summer—to document her granddaughters’ growth and development. I couldn’t complain about the hundred-dollar paycheck, but interacting with Francesca only got harder as time went on.

One look at Thomas’s wife told me that today would be no exception.

“So,” Francesca drew out the word, studying me with her head at a condescending tilt. “You’ll get the photos to us in a week?”

“Same as always,” I said, trying to be patient. “I’ll send the rolls to my developer, and you’ll get the proofs and the negatives in five working days. I’ve already signed the waiver. You’re free to do whatever you want with the photos.”

“Seems to me it would be easier if you had a digital camera.”

I shrugged. “I’m sure it would be. But I think that 35mm film adds a certain vintage quality you just can’t mimic with modern technology.”

Francesca grunted, and I almost heaved a disappointed sigh. She had always been condescending, but why did she still hate me so much when there was nothing at all to fear? She had Thomas, and she had his children. I didn’t want any part of it.

As if to prove my level of detachment, I directed my attention to the furniture and knickknacks I always hauled along on photo shoots. There was a jumble of low benches and dried grasses, felt hats and lengths of fabric. Maybe if I acted busy, Francesca would grab Carlye and leave—and avoid the uncomfortable moment when her youngest daughter insisted on a good-bye hug and kiss.

For reasons that I probably would never understand, Carlye had attached herself to me with the sort of childish abandon that accompanies blind devotion. She adored me without rhyme or reason, and I believed that her willingness to grin at me no matter the situation deserved more credit for my reputation as a good photographer than any so-called talent I possessed. Every picture I took with Carlye in it boasted the same infectious, gap-toothed smile that made people sigh. She really was a sight to behold. And I would have expended much love on her still-pudgy toddler frame if it hadn’t galled Francesca so that her daughter thought I hung the moon. As it was, I demurred, tried to redirect the little girl’s attention.

Which was what I was trying to do as I stacked antique fruit crates and folded lengths of burlap into neat, portable squares. But Francesca lingered.
Masochist,
I thought when I caught a glimpse of Carlye squirming out of her arms.

“Carlye!” Francesca warned. “Stay here!”

But it was too late. With her mother’s admonition still ringing around us, I felt Carlye’s chubby arms go tight around my neck.

“Hey, sweet pea,” I breathed so that only she could hear. “I think it’s time for you to go. Your sister is already in the car.”

“No!” Carlye half shouted, pouting.

“Yup.” I stood, bracing her against me for a short piggyback ride. She squealed in delight, and I tried to hide my own enchanted smile. “Here you go,” I told Francesca, angling so she could pluck Carlye off my back.

But the lovely woman across from me didn’t reach for her daughter. Instead, she regarded me with a cool, assessing stare, her lips parted slightly as if she had something to say.

“What?” I asked because I didn’t feel like playing games.

Francesca raised one shoulder in affected nonchalance. “I just heard a rumor about you. I was wondering if it was true.”

A rumor? I went cold. “I don’t hold much stock in rumors,” I said tersely.

“Normally I don’t either, but it came from a reliable source.”

I rotated Carlye to my hip and didn’t try to stop her when she nuzzled her cheek against my neck. Francesca looked angry for a split second, but joy at the juicy tidbit of gossip she possessed overruled her jealousy.

“Do tell,” I muttered since she seemed determined to make me beg.

“Well . . . a little birdie told me that you’re moving on to greener pastures.”

“Excuse me?” I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Francesca’s “little birdies” existed all over town, and she made it her business to stick her nose everywhere it didn’t belong.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Julia. We’re . . . friends, right?”

She seemed to stumble a little over her own characterization of our relationship, and I was gripped by a sudden, childish urge to call her Franny. But I held my tongue and merely nodded.

“I know you’re moving to Iowa City with Michael,” she said lightly.

“What?”

“Oh, I know he didn’t propose—” Francesca’s eyes glinted—“but there’s a certain romance in his offer, don’t you think?”

I was too stunned to speak.

“Well,” Francesca continued, “I hope you’re not agonizing over this decision. The way I see it, there is no decision to make. You have to go.”

“Why?” The word slipped out unexpectedly before I could censor or stop it.

Francesca looked exultant. “Because this is it, honey. If you don’t take this chance at a family, I doubt you’ll get another.”

She couldn’t have hurt me more if she slapped me. “I have a family,” I whispered. Then, because I rarely allowed myself the luxury, I cradled Carlye tight for a moment and kissed her baby-soft cheeks.

Francesca pulled her from my arms. “Think about what I said,” she advised over Carlye’s animated protests. “I think this is just what you and Daniel need.”

I watched her walk away, Carlye reaching over her mother’s shoulders to extend open hands toward me. I should have turned away, but I felt rooted to the ground. Stuck in the exact spot where she left me with a load that bent my shoulders beneath its implications. In the five days since Michael and I had stood in the grove, his question had tormented me. I loved him—I had for years—but when I dreamed about our life together, it never took this perplexing shape. And what about Grandma? I couldn’t leave her. Then there was Simon. . . . I had no real claim to him. He was my brother, not my son. What would he want?

Simon.

With a gasp, I spun and searched the clearing where we had set up our little photo shoot. There he was, only part of his face visible as he made a halfhearted attempt to hide behind a paper birch. One dark eye regarded me with a clear, stark pain that made me moan.

“Simon . . . ,” I said, taking a step toward him. “What did you hear?”

He didn’t have to say a word for me to know that he had heard everything. Sensitive, perceptive Simon would fill in every blank, every subtle, unanswered question with conjectures I couldn’t begin to imagine.

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I rushed to reassure him. “She’s just trying to hurt me.”

“Did Michael ask you to move to Iowa City?” Simon asked so quietly I had to strain to catch the words.

I couldn’t lie to him. “Yes,” I said, narrowing the distance between us to one long stride. I didn’t dare to go any closer, but I was quite sure that if he bolted, I could catch him before he got too far. “Yes, Michael did ask me to move to Iowa City with him. And he wants you and Daniel to come too.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I guess I wasn’t ready to talk about it,” I confessed.

“Do you want to go?”

I shook my head sadly. “I don’t know.”

Simon nodded at that, took a deep breath. Squeezing his eyes closed as if to summon his courage, he stepped away from the tree. Fists balled at his sides, he said, “You should go. You and Daniel. Grandma and me will be just fine here.”

It was hard to tell if he meant what he said or if he was putting up a strong front. I hoped it was the latter. He didn’t give me a chance to find out.

“We’ve got a lot to pick up,” he mumbled, rolling the words together like they were too big for his mouth.

I considered my brother for a minute, watching the sure way he stacked and carried, arranging my collection of junk in a couple of easy-to-carry piles. Although I had studied Simon’s every feature, memorized each expression and what it meant, with his words like a prophecy in the air between us, I felt like the boy before me was a stranger.

The sob that rose in my throat was so unexpected that I choked on the breadth of my grief. Simon whirled to look at me, and I longed to cross the space between us and fold him in my arms.
We’re not going anywhere,
I wanted to say. But my mouth wouldn’t form the words, and in the end I pounded my chest with the heel of my hand and shook my head to indicate that it was nothing. A body malfunction instead of my heart breaking. A moment of insignificance instead of the dissolution of my dreams.

He nodded and turned away.

Wanderer

“You seem out of sorts,” Grandma said after Simon and Daniel were settled in their rooms for the night.

I could hardly argue with her. When Simon and I returned from the photo shoot, it was pretty obvious that something had gone wrong. He was moody and even quieter than normal, and I couldn’t seem to force myself to muster the subtle cheer that I wore like an accessory these days. Never leave home without it.