Memory Tree (3 page)

Back at the bar, he took hold of her glass, noticed a faint stain of lipstick on the rim.

He stared back at the door, almost wishing she would return. He'd actually enjoyed her company. She had made him forget that he'd been lonely.

But then the glass hit the warm water and the red gloss melted away.

 

 

It was getting on toward one o'clock in the morning before Brian had fully washed down the bar and turned up the chairs and stools. He'd sent a text Sara's way, saying he was running a bit late, and her reply had buzzed back quickly, telling him not to rush. All was fine, she'd typed, Janey was fast asleep, even if baby Ravens was kicking up a storm inside her belly. No longer in such a hurry, Brian gazed about the darkened bar, amazed at how much his life had changed in nearly three years and how much it still amazed him. His New York friend John Oliver liked to joke that Brian had traded the noisy subways of Manhattan for the endless cornfields of Linden Corners, from corporate maven to early-rising farmer, and while the lifestyle was admittedly a 180-degree turn, Brian was still a night owl. He could often be found rattling around the farmhouse at two in the morning, unable to sleep, his mind unable to shut down.

Tonight was no different.

He'd probably be making chestnut stuffing at five
A.M.

Still, best to let someone get rest, and that someone was Sara. If Brian's life represented time standing still, Sara's was the picture of progress. A year ago she'd been pushing Mark for a wedding date, and now eleven months later they were married and the birth of their first child was fast approaching. Brian, on the other hand, still worked at the bar. Period.

“Okay, Duncan, enough wasting time. Get on home.”

He heard the echo of his voice before it too dissipated. Silence again ruled the night.

Flipping off the last of the lights, he grabbed his keys and exited the bar, turning the lock for the final time that night. Tomorrow was a much-needed day off from pulling the taps and refilling the pretzel bowls, and he allowed himself another sigh. He refused to give those sighs a name, fearing they would reveal a level of dissatisfaction he didn't want to believe. Once out on the porch, he went toward the stairs, and suddenly he stumbled, feeling something connecting with his foot. Only a quick grab of the railing saved him from stumbling down to the walkway.

“What was that . . . ?” he asked.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he noticed a parcel on the top step of the tavern's entrance. Curious as to why someone would leave it there, he bent down and was surprised to see his first name written across the brown paper covering. There was no mailing address on it, no return address either, and no postage anywhere. Which meant someone had dropped it off in person. But who, and why? And for that matter, how long had it been there? Also, what should he do with it?

All those questions came with no apparent answers.

He considered leaving the package just where he'd found it, somewhat suspicious of the intent behind it.

But then the former New Yorker remembered this was Linden Corners.

So he tucked the box under his arm and headed out to the parking lot, where his old truck waited to take him back to the farmhouse. How the battered vehicle had managed to survive another year, he couldn't say. Like an old lady going from home to church, Brian supposed he didn't get out much beyond the world that was Linden Corners. But he couldn't trade it in; it had been Annie's and it represented one piece of history for her daughter, Janey, now in his care. So he fired up the engine, listened as it coughed up spumes of smoke from the exhaust, then set off with a rattle down Route 23. A couple of miles west, he turned up Crestview Road and along the driveway to the house he called home, once upon a time belonging to the Van Diver family, the Sullivans next, until Brian arrived, the current tenant.

He hopped out of the cab, closed the door quietly so as not to wake anyone.

Sara tended to favor the sofa in the living room, which faced the front.

Janey's room looked out over the back field, with an unimpeded view of the windmill that defined their landscape.

The thought of the windmill had Brian considering a quick jaunt down the hill. This late hour was often when he would venture to its endlessly spinning sails and talk with Annie, whose spirit seemed to inhabit it as much now as it had when she was alive. He liked to fill her in on the details of Janey's days and of their holidays together, the gentle wind that turned its sails her way of answering him. But tonight there was no discernible wind, and with the warm air it hardly felt like Thanksgiving, much less the official start to the Christmas season.

That was when Brian turned back to the front seat of the truck, where the parcel waited.

Brian withdrew the box and walked to the porch of the farmhouse. There he grabbed at the cardboard corners, releasing the tape that held the brown paper secure. As it came away, he noticed another box wrapped in gold paper, its shiny surface reflecting off the light of the moon high above. A silver-colored ribbon was tied around it, and attached to that was a card with a grinning Santa Claus staring back at him, like he was in on the mystery. Flipping over the card, he easily made out the message, written in block letters:

Surely this was a joke, was his first thought.

And then he remembered the last two Christmases he'd spent in Linden Corners and the wonderful residents who inhabited this endearing little town, and the joyous times they had shared trying to out-gift each other. He thought first of Gerta Connors and her daughter, Nora, and Nora's young son, Travis; and of the elderly Thomas Van Diver and the coarsely funny Martha Martinson; of the newlyweds Mark and Sara too, and lastly his best friends and neighbors, Cynthia and Bradley Knight, all of these people he'd helped in some way and who had helped him. One of them must be behind this gift, an opening gambit in a game of Secret Santa.

Which was odd, considering it felt nothing like Christmas outside.

At last, he thought of Janey Sullivan, who had been his greatest gift.

Had she somehow pulled this off?

Nah, she was too impatient to let a gift go unwrapped or to keep a secret like this for long, much less a month. Just then Brian realized he had to hide the gift, if not for himself then for Janey. If she found the package she would want to open it right away, her curiosity the opposite of his. She would insist they open it now and not wait until Christmas. So Brian indeed paid a visit to the windmill on this unseasonably warm night, carrying the shiny gold box down the hill and inside the wooden tower of the old windmill, hiding it in the closet on the second level. It was just as he'd done the past two years with their Christmas gifts, knowing this was one of Annie's traditions.

“Okay, the holidays have officially begun,” he said to Annie's lovely self-portrait, which hung on the wall of what had once been her art studio. “Christmas is once again on its way. Not that you can tell outside. Not a flake of snow yet and barely a chill.”

As he began his journey back toward the farmhouse, Brian instinctively turned back and noticed that the sails of the windmill were now turning like gentle giants. A sudden gust of wind blew past him and swept up the hill and into the dark sky, carrying with it a blast of warmth. At this late hour of the night—or was it early morning?—with a holiday celebration looming just hours away, it still felt like late summer.

Brian Duncan had a sneaking suspicion that this Christmas in Linden Corners was going to be unlike the last two, with its own share of unforeseen surprises, and it all began with a gift he'd not seen coming. But didn't such a thing define his life here?

C
HAPTER
2

C
YNTHIA

 

 

 

J
ake Knight might be only eighteen months old at this point, but he sure had the right idea—sleep the day away. For his mother, the perpetually tired and always-on-the-go Cynthia Knight, getting ready for Thanksgiving meant overseeing the preparation of the vegetables, and she supposed it was only natural, since during the summer months she ran a fresh fruit and vegetable stand just on the edge of their property, itself on the northern edge of the village of Linden Corners. The produce she'd sold for years had come courtesy of their farm and backbreaking hard work, but in recent years the tilling of their fertile land had been taken over by workers for hire, who all got a portion of the sales. She was busy being a mother, and Bradley's job as a lawyer had continually stolen more hours from their lives. Other local farmers had begun to contribute to the stand as well, to the point where it was the best place in the county to get in-season corn, blueberries, and anything else you could ask for. A communal effort for a close-knit town.

She supposed it was good that Knight's Vegetable Stand had other people caring for it. It meant she could let it go that much easier, helping to ease the separation she was bound to feel. At least, that's how she pictured the scene unfolding in her head, practical woman that she was, even allowing a new owner to change its name if not its traditions. To everyone and everything there is a season; isn't that how the song went? And then you moved on. Her heart, though, told another story, and as if needing a fresh reason to infuse her heart with an energetic jolt, she gazed lovingly over at the corner of her kitchen.

“Lucky you,” Cynthia said to her son, who slept quietly in his portable crib.

She knew she could collapse at any second, as she'd barely had any rest. For once, her sleepless night hadn't been Jake's fault; the little tyke had taken to sleeping through the nights the last few months. No, the other man in her life was responsible for her wide-awake nights and yawn-inducing days. Her husband, Bradley, and all the news he'd brought with him the past couple of weeks; news that would bring about big changes. Just then she checked the kitchen clock, noticed it was just after noon. They needed to get going. Where was that fool husband of hers?

“Bradley, are you about ready? We've got to get over to Brian's.”

It was Thanksgiving Day and the three of them were expected at the Duncan farmhouse, just down the hill from them, for a jam-packed afternoon of food, friends, and family. And, she supposed, one major announcement that was forever going to change the landscape of their town and their own lives. She thought of Janey Sullivan and felt a regretful stab at her heart. Could she really go through with this?

She didn't have time to contemplate an answer as a refreshed-looking Bradley Knight made his entrance into the kitchen, dressed in khaki pants and a casual sweater. His thick blond hair was neatly combed, but then again, it always was. He planted a warm kiss on his wife's lips before settling his gaze on his resting son.

“Should we wait till he wakes?”

“If we're late, Brian will kill us. He's so nervous about hosting his first big dinner.”

“I think you're the one who's nervous.”

“Bradley, don't. I don't need any reminders . . .”

He pulled her into his embrace, held her slim frame tight against his. “I love you.”

“Bradley Knight, you are not going to distract me now.”

“I think I'm the only husband who says those three little words and gets admonished.”

“That's because you're using them to manipulate the situation.”

But she wasn't mad at him, the smile on her pretty face too broad. He patted her behind teasingly, kissed her again. Bradley was certainly frisky this morning, she thought. But of course all the pressure had been lifted from him, at least for the present. The stress of the business world would invade his life soon enough and he'd be ever the distracted lawyer again.

“Okay, I'll get Jake's stuff into the car.”

“I'll grab the dishes,” she said.

“See what a team we make. Us against the world.”

“Indeed,” Cynthia said with a hint of derision.

So the Knights packed up, Cynthia feeling like they were taking half the house with them for just a short trek to Brian's. She couldn't imagine how she would feel seeing filled boxes and empty rooms. With Jake in her arms, she grabbed hold of the front door, but not before she stole a wistful look at the quiet living room and its fireplace that stood cold and the television with no sound or image. Like a frozen silence had already fallen on their old home.

Jake settled in his car seat, Cynthia in hers, Bradley pulled out of the driveway and turned right onto Crestview Road, journeying only a half mile to their destination. Cynthia watched as barren fields passed her by; winter was coming, not that you'd know it on such an unseasonably warm holiday, but the ground knew better and was already well into its natural hibernation. The land was littered with a cornucopia of fallen leaves, leaving the countryside aglow in orange and yellow, all set against the skeletal remains of branches. She couldn't get the idea of change out of her mind. The slowly turning, latticed sails of the windmill rearing up over the cresting hill added to the effect. Everything was changing; time couldn't be slowed.

Before long Jake would be talking, he'd be walking so fast she'd barely catch up to him, to time also, one day out the door and to his own life. How she wished she could remove the battery from the kitchen clock and keep them locked in the here and now.

“Uh, Cyn, we're here.”

“Oh, uh, I guess I was thinking.”

“Care to share?”

“I was wondering where Jake would go to college.”

“Hey, Cyn?”

“Yes?”

“Jake's not even two. I think we can leave that discussion to another day.”

Cynthia was about to ask her husband of twelve years if he ever gave the future a thought when she realized that was all he'd been doing for the past few months. If she voiced her concerns, he'd think she was losing it. Thankfully their non-discussion was interrupted by the opening of the front door of the farmhouse, ten-year-old Janey Sullivan bounding toward them, her effusive smile leading the way. Cynthia was about to forewarn Janey that Jake was sleeping, when the little guy stirred as though he knew his favorite person in the world was closing in on him.

“Hi, Jake!” Janey said, opening the back door.

“Hello to you too, Janey,” Cynthia said.

“Oh, sorry, hi, it's just . . .”

“Yes, I know. Have at him. I'll take the dishes into the kitchen.”

Bradley, unfolding his long legs from the driver's side, said, “Where's Brian?”

“In the backyard. It's so warm out, he decided to use the grill for the turkey.”

Bradley laughed, brushing his hair back from his forehead even though it wasn't needed. “I've tasted his burgers, so I think I'll go help.”

Cynthia grabbed two of the three dishes she'd prepared—beets in one, sliced zucchini in the other—and was prepared to make a return trip for the green beans topped with fried onions when Travis Rainer stepped out onto the porch, offering his assistance. His mother, Nora, standing behind him, appeared to have made the decision for him, for the thirteen-year-old boy slumped his way over to the car like it was the last place in the world he wanted to be. Perhaps that was true of the entire day. Janey was closest to him in age, and they were friends but hardly had much in common. Cynthia took in his sullen teenage look and wondered if Jake would grow into such a mood too.

“Thanks, Travis. I appreciate it.”

He took hold of the first two dishes from her, Nora coming up to take the third.

Janey had Jake in her arms, cooing over him. His bright blue eyes were wide-awake.

So that left Cynthia empty-handed and feeling a bit useless as she made her way toward the house, feeling as though once she stepped over its threshold there was no going back to the cocoon inside her own home. Because not only was today Thanksgiving; it represented the countdown to her new life—or perhaps to the end of the life she had known.

She paused, causing Nora to take a look back. “Cynthia, you okay?”

“Oh, sure. Why?”

“You look like you're a thousand miles away.”

Cynthia couldn't help it as a sharp laugh escaped her lips. “I'm right here,” she said.

Nora's expression no doubt mirrored her own. Not believing a word of it.

Fortunately the arrival of another car interrupted their moment.

“Oh good,” Nora said, “now everyone's here.”

An SUV pulled up beside the other cars in the driveway, where Cynthia noticed Nicholas Casey, the handsome, bespectacled art curator whom Nora had been dating for the better part of the year, emerge, dash around to the passenger door to assist his elderly companions. From the front seat came Gerta Connors, Nora's mother, and from the backseat, Thomas Van Diver, clad as always in his trademark bow tie; today's was a burnt orange with pumpkins on it. Nicholas took hold of Gerta's arm, leading her up the couple of steps of the porch and into the house.

“Oh, we mustn't forget the pies,” she said.

“I'll come back for them,” Nicholas said.

“Oh, you, such nice manners,” Gerta said with obvious delight.

It was little secret she approved of her daughter's choice of boyfriend.

Cynthia found herself accepting Thomas' arm, helping the eighty-five-year-old man along the uneven path. It didn't go unnoticed by her that in the span of twenty minutes she'd gone from holding her young son in her tight grasp to assisting the elderly Mr. Van Diver, reminding her again of the tenuous nature of time. One day you're young; the next, big decisions aged you before the mirror.

Once they settled inside the comfortable living room, where extra chairs had been set, the sliding door that led from the kitchen to the back patio opened up, bringing in not just the wind but Brian Duncan, adorned in an apron that said D
ON'T
B
LAME THE
C
OOK.
Cynthia saw her still amused husband follow behind him.

“Well, it looks like everyone's here,” Brian said to the assembled group. “Welcome to all our guests, to friends we think of as family.”

“Wait, where's Mark and Sara? I thought they were coming.”

“They had to cancel at the last minute, a family situation,” Brian explained. “So, yes, this is everyone.”

Indeed, in the shadow of the turning windmill it was a full house for Thanksgiving this year, a celebration not just of the community that was Linden Corners but of the bond that existed between the generations represented here as well. Thomas and Gerta, Nora and Nicholas, Travis and Janey, and even little Jake, who might just be the start of a new era. Bradley sidled up beside his wife, wrapping a comforting arm around her waist. She felt herself letting out a heavy sigh. Yet she realized she wasn't the only one here clinging to an unsettled feeling, as she saw a sudden sense of loss cross Brian Duncan's face.

They exchanged a quick look, one understood by best friends.

He was missing Annie Sullivan. So too was Cynthia, and in more ways than one.

“She's here,” Cynthia silently mouthed, gazing about the farmhouse.

He offered her a smile before saying, “So shall we get this celebration started?”

“I have just one question,” Janey asked.

“What's that, sweetie?” Brian asked.

“Well, I mean the holidays are here, but we haven't had any snow yet and so it doesn't feel right. It's not even that cold outside. During the parade on television this morning, even Santa Claus looked warm in his red suit. How can his sleigh even land when there's no snow?”

There came a couple of genial chuckles from the elder folks. Janey wasn't arguing the logistics, just indulging the fantasy that all children embraced at this time of year. Christmas had to be just perfect, from the tree to the gifts to the setting. And if one knew anything about Janey Sullivan, one knew she was expecting an answer.

“That's why they call it the Miracle on Thirty-fourth Street,” Brian told her.

That got an even bigger laugh, until Janey, unaffected by the amusement around her, said, “I sure hope your cooking is better than your humor.”

That got the biggest laugh of all from the group. Suddenly the festive celebration began in earnest, even with no snow falling and no cold wind, no fireplace blazing to warm their hearts. Cynthia realized that the warmth filling the farmhouse had nothing to do with the weather.

How she was going to miss Linden Corners.

 

 

“I'm stuffed.”

“Couldn't eat another thing.”

“The turkey turned out great, Brian, very moist.”

“I could take a nap.”

“That's from the tryptophan,” Janey stated, staring across the table at Thomas.

“No, I need a nap because I'm old,” he replied. “If you'll excuse me for a bit, it's been a lovely meal.”

Thomas wasn't kidding, as he shuffled his way from the dinner table to retire to his chair in the living room. Jake was resting near there too, thankfully, which had allowed Cynthia to enjoy her meal. Which she had, as evidenced by her near-spotless plate. She'd even splurged on seconds, thirds for her beets. Most had skipped them, but it was a favorite recipe of hers, the vegetables straight from her garden. She wouldn't have that next year, she doubted she'd have the chance to even plant seeds. Life would take a while to regrow. As young and old alike refreshed themselves, she rose from the table, started to take plates in her hands.