Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (30 page)

“I’ll drop you back at the inn,” Veronica said. She was spent. Even more so than she thought she’d be.

When they pulled up to the Three Captains’, Bea said, “Thank you for all that. I wanted to know, and though some of it wasn’t easy to hear, I’m glad I know the truth. Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine. How about you?”

Bea nodded. “I’ll be okay. I just need to digest it all. I have a date, so that’ll help. I guess I should mention that I’m dating someone who works on the film. Patrick Ool. He seems like a great guy. We’ve only gone out once.”

The two worlds entwining seemed strange. “Oh yes, I know Patrick. He’s in charge of the extras. I don’t really know him, but he treats us very well, makes sure we know what we’re doing and that we’re comfortable.”

“I haven’t told him that you’re my birth mother,” Bea said. “I mean, I’ve told him that meeting my birth mother is the whole reason I’m in town and that you’re an extra on the movie, but I didn’t mention your name. I’ll absolutely keep your privacy.”

“Thanks. I don’t know if it matters, but like I said, I haven’t shared the fact that I gave up a baby for adoption with many people, so I do like the idea of keeping that private.”

She was so exhausted. Why didn’t she feel better? Why didn’t facing her past this way, going back over everything, make her suddenly open up inside?

She glanced at Bea, whose expression had changed. Did it bother Bea that Veronica wanted to keep it private? Veronica had spent so long keeping her past to herself, not talking about it, keeping it locked up tight. “Bea? Did I say something to upset you?”

“I’m just thinking about my mother. About all the times she might have told me—when I was two, three, four years old. She wanted to wipe all that away, pretend the adoption never happened. She made it so for herself—and for me.”

Veronica wanted to say something, about how love and hope and need could sometimes make you do—or not do—what you knew you should. Sometimes to protect others. Sometimes to protect yourself. But she didn’t dare say anything about Bea’s mother, the woman who’d raised her. And all she really knew about Cora Crane was that she’d done a beautiful job as a mother, raising the wonderful young woman who’d just been on a tour of Veronica’s life at sixteen.

“Now what?” Bea said. “I mean, I’m not even sure what we’re supposed to be, who we are to each other.”

“We’re a part of each other’s history.”

“I guess that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the future, though.”

It was a statement and not a question, Veronica noticed, her heart constricting.

Bea bit her lip and got out of the car. “Thank you for today, Veronica,” she said through the open passenger window. I know it had to be very hard on you.”

Doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the future . . .
So was that it? Would she never hear from Bea again? “It was worth it.”

Bea sucked in a breath. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about you. I’d better get going. Thank you again for today,” she said, then hurried into the inn.

I know how I feel about you, Veronica thought, watching Bea disappear through the front door. How I’ve always felt about you, since the moment you were placed on my chest as a newborn.

Veronica loved Bea, always had. And she knew then that that was what she’d been unable to face all these years.

After half a day on the movie set on Monday, Patrick Ool, whom Veronica could not look at without thinking of Bea, dismissed the extras because of a lighting issue. She was glad to leave; she felt a bit claustrophobic in the tent with the crowd and white material and her thoughts closing in on her. On the way home, she stopped at the farmers’ market for peaches for tonight’s pie class, and stocked up on strawberries and Key limes for special pies she needed to make this week.

At home, she placed the peaches she’d bought in two
big bowls on the island counter, but even the beautiful, fresh peaches, one of Veronica’s favorite summer fruits, couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling lodged in Veronica’s chest, in her heart.

I’m not sure what we’re supposed to be, how I’m supposed to feel about you
.

It was complicated. And not.

Would she never hear from Bea again? Had Bea found what she’d come for, answers to her questions, a person to put to the reality of the words
birth mother
, and now she’d leave, no interest in forging a relationship?

She understood Bea’s problem; she wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be to each other either. They were not mother and daughter. They were not . . . friends. They were connected in a biological, fundamental way, though. Perhaps Bea would decide biology did not a relationship make. But for Veronica, Bea had never been about biology and birth. She’d always been about the future—a future Veronica hadn’t been able to be part of.

The doorbell rang, and Veronica hoped it would be Nick and Leigh. He hadn’t called to say if he was coming or not, and with a kitchen full of students, she wouldn’t be able to talk to him about her personal life, anyway, but the sight of him would help. She wished that was only because he was so attractive to her, but it went further than that. What she was beginning to feel for Nick DeMarco felt a lot like need.

When she opened the door, Nick and Leigh stood on the porch, Leigh carrying a pie wrapped in plastic. Thank you, Veronica whispered silently to the universe.

“I made you a chocolate pudding pie,” Leigh said, holding
out both her hands. “It doesn’t do anything. It’s just good. Or, at least I hope it is. I made one yesterday too, but I forgot the vanilla, I think. I remembered everything this time.”

Veronica smiled and took the pie. “I love chocolate pudding pie, and I’m touched you made this for me. Thank you.”

She was aware of Nick watching her, and his face, his body, his presence, had its usual effect. She felt a combination of relief, happiness, and something fluttery in her stomach, like butterflies or good nervousness.

“Leigh, if you want to head into the kitchen and choose your apron and start reading over the recipe on the island counter, go right ahead. We’re making peach pie tonight. I’m putting you in charge of measuring out the dry and wet ingredients.”

“I love peaches!” Leigh said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Veronica closed the door behind Nick. “I’m glad you two are here.”

“I thought about not coming,” he said. “But then I remembered that when you let people try to control you, to dictate how you should live, you’ve given up. I might be a little afraid of Leigh’s grandparents, I admit it, but I’m not afraid of pie.”

She smiled and wanted to hug him. Luckily, the phone rang, keeping her from making possibly unwanted displays of affection, and she went into the kitchen to answer it. It was Isabel, reporting that neither she nor June could make it to class; June, her husband, Henry, and their son, Charlie, all had bad colds, and Isabel was playing nursemaid at their houseboat.

The doorbell rang, and there was Penelope, once again looking toned down, less brassy, less showy. She was petite and
thin as always, but the mass of expensive jewelry was gone. She wore a simple gold cross around her neck. Her clothes were more conservative. And her perfectly highlighted hair wasn’t flat-ironed to model perfection as usual, but instead seemed . . . natural. Also once again, Penelope was as friendly as could be, complimenting Leigh on her T-shirt and hair, telling Nick he was doing a fine job keeping the citizens of Boothbay Harbor safe, and thanking Veronica for offering “such a fun and informative pie class.”

With her three students around the center island, they set to work on the peach pie, Nick and Penelope on slicing, and Leigh on measuring out the dry and liquid ingredients. Unless Veronica was imagining things, Penelope kept staring at her. When Veronica would glance over, Penelope would smile fast, then shift her eyes away. Veronica had long ago given up on wondering what was going on in Penelope Von Blun’s mind. Back in high school, Penelope had ignored her completely; she hadn’t been mean to her, she simply pretended Veronica didn’t exist. But over the past year, if Veronica saw her around town, or in the diner, like the other day, Penelope would stare at Veronica, or whisper to her mother. Maybe those days were over.

“Mmm, this smells so good,” Leigh said, closing her eyes and inhaling over her mixing bowl, the smell of peaches, nutmeg, vanilla, and brown sugar fragrant in the air.

Penelope poured the filling into the crust, and Nick laid the top crust over the pie, then pressed the edges together. When the pie went into the oven, Veronica spent fifteen minutes talking about piecrust again, how technique was the most important
part of making the crust, the not overworking, the not kneading, and then they practiced making lattice tops because Leigh wanted to, even though their peach pie didn’t require a lattice top.

“So, did everyone’s shoofly pie work?” Leigh asked, dipping her finger against the sides of the bowl and licking the bit remaining. “Mine did. But I’m not supposed to talk about it. Oops,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth.

“You can talk about whatever you want,” Nick said. “I’m glad the pie works for you. I’m glad for whatever makes you feel close to your mother.”

“Grandma thinks it’s voodoo nonsense, though,” Leigh said. “I told her what we put in the pie, every ingredient, and even though there’s nothing black-magicky about anything in the pie, she still said it was the idea, not the ingredients.”

“I think it’s like prayer,” Penelope said suddenly. She’d been a bit quiet for the past forty-five minutes. “It’s just about comfort, that’s all.”

“Did it work for you?” Leigh asked Penelope.

“I don’t know,” Penelope said, and she looked very sad for a second.

The timer dinged, and Veronica had Nick pull out the oven rack so that Penelope could make three slashes in the top of the pie. Then they turned down the temperature of the oven and the pie went back in for another thirty minutes.

“What about you, Veronica?” Leigh said. “Did having the shoofly pie help you feel closer to your grandmother?”

“It always does,” Veronica said. “Even just looking at shoofly pie, that crumbly brown sugar topping, makes me think
of Renata Russo. I can smell her Shalimar perfume as though she’s right next to me. I can hear her voice, stories she used to tell me about when she was a girl and learned to bake pies. I can feel her with me, and it’s like Penelope said—it’s pure comfort.”

“That’s how I felt every time I ate my shoofly pie,” Leigh said. “Like my mom was right there with me. Sometimes it just felt like she was in me, though. That’s just as good.”

“It sure is,” Nick said, running his hand down his daughter’s pretty brown hair.

A half hour later, the pie came out and they waited as long as they could for it to cool, and then Nick served a slice to everyone. Everyone declared it delicious, and Veronica divided the leftovers between the DeMarcos and Penelope. At eight thirty, the class was over, and Nick said he’d better get his little pastry chef home to bed, that she had camp the next morning. Veronica didn’t want them to leave. She liked having Nick in her house, in her kitchen, and she adored Leigh.

“Talk to you soon,” Nick said, his gaze lingering on her for a moment.

As she stood by the open door, watching Nick and Leigh walk to his car, Veronica realized that Penelope wasn’t behind them.

Veronica found her in the kitchen, sweeping the floor. “Oh, Penelope, that’s thoughtful, but I’ll do that.”

Penelope put the broom back in its wedge of space by the back door, then went to the sink, wet a paper towel, and began wiping down the island counter. “You lived at Hope Home back when you were in high school, right?”

If Penelope Von Blun was cleaning, ostensibly even, this wasn’t about bringing up Veronica’s past as a pregnant sixteen-year-old. This was about Penelope. Veronica sensed this conversation called for tea, and she added water to the kettle and set it to boil. “Yes, for seven months.”

“Did . . . any of you girls talk about the kind of parents you wanted to adopt your babies?”

Ah. Now Veronica had an idea what this was about.

“Most of us had closed adoptions, so it’s not like we could pick and choose, but we talked about it, of course.”

Penelope scrubbed at a clean expanse of counter. “And what was it that all of you seemed to want in adoptive parents?”

“Well, we wanted the parents to be loving and kind. Lacking in bad tempers, like some of our fathers.”

“What else?” There was desperation in Penelope’s voice.

Veronica shut off the burner and poured the water over Earl Grey tea leaves in the teapot. “That’s it, really. Loving seemed to be the key word.”

Penelope stopped scrubbing. “But how would you know if someone was loving. I mean, you’d have to really get to know them, right? It’s not something you can just tell from a few brief meetings.”

“You can generally tell someone’s disposition right away, though, don’t you agree?”

Penelope looked like she was about to cry. She flung the balled-up paper towel on the counter. “My husband and I have tried for years to get pregnant. And now I’m thirty-eight and my chances are slimmer and slimmer. So we decided to look into adoption, and I know there are so many couples hoping for a baby—we were told it could take a long time. But then a girl
from Hope Home chose us. I can’t tell you how happy I was, maybe happier than I’ve been in my entire life. But now she might be unchoosing us. She likes my husband, but says she’s not sure I’m the right mother for her baby, after all.” She turned away and covered her face with her hands.