One Week In December (9 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: One Week In December
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14
The hardest part was over. At least, Becca hoped it was. Her intentions had been announced. If they hadn't been met with enthusiasm, well, it was only what she had expected. Maybe not quite as much anger, but shock, yes, surprise, and initial resistance. That was normal. No one really enjoyed sudden, dramatic change, no matter what they might claim.
While she undressed for bed, Becca reviewed details of the meeting. She saw her father's look of disbelief. She recalled Olivia's hostility, a hostility that seemed general, not entirely directed at her sister. At one point David had looked apoplectic. James, her one hope, however dim, had been useless. And Naomi . . . Naomi's evident sorrow had shaken Becca's confidence, though it had not weakened her resolve.
Becca lay down on the couch and pulled the blankets up to her neck.
Maybe,
she thought,
someday Rain and I can move to a warm climate, or maybe take a second home in someplace exotic like Anguilla or Belize.
True, Rain liked the snow—she had been skiing with the family since she was seven; she was like the childhood Becca that way—but Becca was sure her daughter would also get to love waterskiing, or maybe windsurfing.
Olivia had said that Becca was out of her mind. David had threatened a thrashing. Her grandmother had told her she was being unfair. Becca squirmed under the blankets. It wouldn't be easy getting to sleep that night, so she decided to indulge in a few of her favorite fantasies about life with her daughter by her side. The fantasies always soothed her.
On Saturday mornings they would make a big breakfast together. Becca would forgo her usual breakfast of black coffee and a small yogurt and happily indulge in one of Rain's favorite foods, French toast with lots of syrup. In the afternoons, Becca would take her daughter to a museum or a movie. Once a year they might take a plane down to New York for a shopping spree that would set Becca back in the thousands. But it would be worth it. Rain was too old for mother-daughter outfits, and the notion slightly sickened Becca, but maybe they could wear matching silver bracelets, something elegant and discreet but engraved with each other's birthday.
Becca reached to the end of the couch for another blanket and burrowed as deep as she could. One thing was for sure. She'd never make her daughter sleep on so uncomfortable a surface. When she and Rain traveled to Paris, and from there, on to Venice or Rome, you could be sure they would have first-class accommodations all the way. Becca had a lot of time to make up for and she would do it in style.
And someday, far in the future, Becca would proudly walk down a church aisle arm in arm with her daughter, in the time-honored—if paternalistic—gesture of deliverance. After, of course, Becca had vetted the husband to be, had him thoroughly investigated, and had personally grilled him about his intentions.
If Becca were any other thirty-two-year-old woman, single, successful, and attractive, she might have been dreaming of travel and cultural expeditions and walking down the aisle of a church as activities she might pursue with a boyfriend or a fiancé or a husband. But Becca had long ago stopped dreaming about—even thinking about—romantic relationships.
Long ago she had convinced herself that she didn't need a romantic relationship, that intimacy could only bring trouble. How could she ever know someone well enough to trust him with the secret of Rain's birth? What if she made another horrible mistake? What if she so badly misjudged a man's character that she shared her secret with someone who was incapable of keeping it safe?
Becca shifted under the weight of blankets. The couch was a nightmare of lumps and bumps. But at least it was horizontal. At least her mother hadn't asked her to sleep in a chair.
A romantic relationship. Well, even if a man proved to be capable of keeping a secret, even if she trusted him enough to tell him the truth about her daughter, there was always the chance that he might react with shock and disappointment. There was always the chance that he might consider her duplicitous; he might even think her an uncaring mother, and Becca felt that such a wrong judgment would destroy her.
There was, of course, the option of continued secrecy. But the thought of living with or marrying someone from whom she was keeping such a huge secret—well, the thought made her physically nauseated. She was tired of deception. It had made her isolated and afraid. It had alienated her from friends and, eventually, from her family. And if Becca had chosen the path of alienation rather than having it thrust upon her, well, she'd done so because she had seen no other way.
Once it was known to the world that Rain was her daughter, that obstacle—that lie—would, of course, be removed. But then Becca would have Rain and there would be no room for a romance. There would be too much time to make up for with her daughter—her rightful dearest friend forever.
15
Friday, December 22
 
“But why wasn't I involved?” Lily asked her grandmother. The two women were in the kitchen preparing breakfast for the family. “Why didn't she ask me to be there, too? After all, I know the truth about Rain. Gosh, doesn't that sound horrible? ‘The Truth About Rain.' It sounds like the title of a book or movie where you learn that ‘the truth' is something bad and dirty.”
Nora turned on the coffeemaker, noting that it needed a good cleaning. Of course she'd told Lily about the family meeting the night before. She believed that Lily had a right to know.
“I don't know why Becca didn't want you to be there,” she said now. “Maybe she wanted only those people involved in the original decision to be involved.”
“But that doesn't explain why James was invited, or allowed to stay.” Lily brought a small pitcher of milk to the kitchen table. The breakfast stampede would start soon.
“True,” Nora acknowledged. “But I think Becca was hoping for an ally, and the only one she thought she might be able to count on was someone who wasn't a Rowan. And we know how mild-mannered James is, how reasonable a man.”
“And did he come to Becca's aide?”
Nora handed her granddaughter a newly filled sugar bowl. “No. Not only is he reasonable, he's wise. He declined to offer an opinion.”
“I bet Olivia gave him one of her looks and that kept him quiet.”
Nora couldn't help but smile. “Yes, I believe there was a look. But on occasion James still does act on his own.”
The twins burst into the kitchen, their father just behind.
“It's snowing! It's snowing!”
“Can we go outside, Dad?”
“Not until you have some breakfast. Sit.”
“I want a Pop-Tart,” Michael announced.
“You're having oatmeal.”
“Can't I have a Pop-Tart, too?”
“Grandma doesn't keep Pop-Tarts in the house. And neither do we. Where are you getting Pop-Tarts, anyway? Good morning Grandma, Lily.”
Naomi followed her husband and children. “I think it's that boy Christian at school. His mother feeds him all sorts of garbage. And I've heard from another mother that he's got quite a little business going, trading garbage for lunch money.”
“That's not trading,” David pointed out. “That's selling.”
“He only charges twenty-five cents for a Pop-Tart,” Michael said.
“And only twenty cents for a Twinkie.” Malcolm eyed his bowl of hot oatmeal warily. “Can I have some sugar?”
“No. Have a banana.”
Becca came into the kitchen as her brother was handing his son a peeled banana. She felt the atmosphere change from one of tension to one of manic tension.
It took a lot of effort to say “good morning” in a voice that didn't betray the sudden nausea she felt upon facing the Rowans in the light of day.
Her grandmother put a plate of toast on the table and said, “Good morning, Becca,” firmly, neutrally. David and Naomi each mumbled something that might have been a greeting or a curse. Lily, by now, Becca assumed, in the know, gave her a brief, awkward smile. The twins didn't seem to notice anything but the food they were rapidly consuming, sugar or no sugar.
Becca poured herself a cup of the useless coffee her parents served and took a seat at the table. The thought of eating anything made the feeling of general nausea worse.
Moments later, Olivia and James joined the others in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” James said. His wife said nothing; she went straight to the coffeemaker and poured a cup for herself. Her husband, it seemed, was on his own.
The kitchen door opened, letting in a blast of cold, clear air. Julie appeared, with Hank at her side. He shook himself dry—further dampening his unconcerned mother—and clicked out of the room.
“Where's Dad?” David asked.
“Up at dawn and off to his studio. Your father hardly slept last night. Or so he tells me.”
Becca felt everyone's eyes on her, accusing. She was responsible for her father's sleeping badly. She was always the one who caused trouble. She glanced up from her coffee; she felt, rather than saw, the eyes slip away.
Fine. Let them not meet her eyes. She was glad. She knew all about alienation.
Rain's distinctive step was heard in the hallway. Becca's fingers tightened on the cup's handle.
“Good morning, everyone,” she called brightly as she came into the kitchen. Immediately, she went over to where her mother sat next to the boys.
Rain kissed the top of Naomi's head and took a seat next to her. “You look kind of tired, Mom,” she said. “Are you okay?”
Naomi managed an anemic smile. “Oh, I'm fine, honey. I guess I was just up too late.”
“And she's always telling me about the importance of sleep! Mom, you're such a hypocrite.”
Rain reached for the pitcher of juice, oblivious to the tension Becca felt was choking her.
“I'm going for a walk.” Becca rose abruptly from the table, banging her thighs into it, causing it to shake. She hurried from the kitchen, grabbed her coat from the rack in the front hall, and let herself out into the frosty morning. Icy air and the snow that drifted through it were far less hostile than the atmosphere in the Rowan house.
Becca hadn't gone ten feet before movement off to the left caught her eye. It was her father and the neighbor, Alex. The two men were coming out of Steve's studio in the old, renovated barn. In this wide, open, and very white space, there was no way to avoid them, no way to pretend she hadn't seen them.
Becca swore under her breath. She'd wanted, needed isolation and the protection that provided, but it seemed she wasn't going to get it even in the relatively vast wilderness of her parents' land. She stopped walking. In a few moments, the men were close enough to speak with. But Steve only nodded at his daughter, and walked rapidly toward the house. Alex stopped and watched him go.
“Your father doesn't seem himself this morning,” he said when the older man was out of earshot.
“He didn't sleep well.”
“Ah, that will put anyone off his game.”
Becca wondered if that been a sarcastic retort. She looked closely at Alex Mason, as if seeing him for the first time. He was a tall man, an inch or two over six feet, she thought, and powerfully built. His clothes were nondescript; his style, nonchalant—jeans, winter boots unlaced, a well-worn leather three-quarter coat over a turtleneck and brown flannel shirt. His hair was brown, clean but raggedy, as if he'd neglected or forgotten to have it cut since summer. His eyes, a very bright blue, could be described as intense; his gaze was penetrating. Becca didn't like a penetrating gaze; it meant a person might be snooping for secrets.
For a dreadful moment she wondered if her father had told Alex about the family meeting, and she was flooded with anger. It was nobody's business, really, but hers, she thought. Her business, and Rain's.
“What were you doing in there?” she demanded. “With my father?”
“Planning to take over the world.”
Becca stared. Did Alex think he was being funny?
“Uh, actually,” he said, “we were talking about one of his photographs. I'm giving him some help, though photography isn't my strong suit. I'm a sculptor by trade. But you might know that already.”
All right. If Alex knew what had gone on in the Rowan living room the night before, he wasn't giving anything away.
“Isn't it beautiful?” he was saying now, gesturing to what most people would consider a winter wonderland. “I love a cold, clear winter morning. Look at the way the snow rests on the branches of that pine. It's more beautiful than anything we humans can create.”
“I hate the cold,” Becca said bluntly. “I hate everything about winter.”
Alex looked at her. He seemed a bit taken aback by her vehemence.
“If you hate the cold weather so much,” he asked, “why haven't you moved to a warmer climate? North Carolina is supposed to be nice. Maybe California. I hear that in Arizona it's a dry heat.”
It would be so easy simply to blurt out the truth: “I can't leave New England because I can't leave my daughter.” It would be too easy. Becca caught herself and muttered something about her career being centered in Boston.
Alex shrugged. Maybe he'd bought her excuse, maybe not. It didn't matter to Becca. This guy was a stranger, and as far as she was concerned, he could stay a stranger.
“Then I suppose you have a very good reason for being out on this winter morning. Without gloves.”
Becca shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather coat, a coat that was not meant to be worn in wet weather. It would cost a lot to get it properly cleaned once back in Boston. “I forgot them,” she said.
“Mind if I walk a bit with you?”
Becca shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Alex was not a man easily deterred. He kept pace with what he considered Becca's angry or impatient stride.
“You know,” he said when they had gone several yards, “I feel as if I've gotten to know you a bit since I became your parents' neighbor. Your father speaks so highly of you.”
Becca laughed and kept her eyes focused straight ahead. She was pissed she'd forgotten her sunglasses, too. Winter sunlight, even during a snowfall, seemed far more intense than summer sunlight. She felt as if her eyes were being stabbed. “Yeah, right,” she said. “Of me?”
“Yes, of you. Why shouldn't he? Is there some deep dark dirty secret you're not telling me?”
If he only knew! Becca walked on in silence. After a moment she said, “It's just that my father and I haven't been close for—for a long time.”
“Oh. That's too bad.”
Becca stopped. Alex walked on a step and then looked back. He couldn't quite read the expression on Becca's face. It seemed to contain hostility, embarrassment, even . . . hope? He was puzzled.
“Is it?” she said.
“Is it what?”
“Is it really too bad? That we're not close?”
Alex didn't know how to answer. He'd said what he'd said unthinkingly. Finally, he shrugged. “Sure. I mean, how bad can a guy so devoted to his cat possibly be?”
Becca didn't know what she had wanted to hear from Alex, but it wasn't that. She walked on and Alex fell back into step with her. She wished he'd go on home. She had nothing to say to this man. Maybe he'd read her mind—or, more likely, he'd read her obviously uncommunicative mood—because after a few yards he gestured off to the right.
“My house—and my studio—is in that direction. Just over that rise. It's the first house you come to, about half a mile off. An old farmhouse and barn. It's a lot like your parents' place but not in half as good shape, and it's a lot smaller.”
Why, Becca wondered, was he telling her this information? It wasn't as if she had any intention of paying him a visit.
“Oh,” she said.
“I'd better get back to work. I suppose I'll be seeing you later.”
Becca shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “ 'Bye.”
She kept on walking, aware now that she was alone, and glad of it. But she couldn't help herself from squinting in the direction that Alex had gone. For a moment she watched his dark form tromping into the snowy distance. For a moment she had the strangest urge to follow him. But just for a moment.
Becca walked on, no particular destination in mind—not that there was any place in particular to go here in Kently, Maine. That is, unless you had an interest in picking up the local paper in the tiny general store five miles off, and Becca did not. Besides, the encounter with Alex had left her feeling—unsettled, but she couldn't say exactly why. She acknowledged, dimly, that he was attractive, in a sort of gruff, outdoorsy, arty way, but what did that matter? The truth was that she had pretty much ceased to consider herself a sexual, available woman some time ago. A long time ago. Her momentary attraction to this Alex person—if indeed it could even be called that—was insignificant.
Insignificant because Becca had gotten in the habit of telling herself that it didn't matter if she lived the rest of her life celibate. There were far more important things in life on which to focus than sex. And sex brought trouble. Look what trouble it had wrought in her own life. Trouble. Isolation. Pain.
And as for romance and love . . . Well, Becca had pushed aside those possibilities, too, but for more murky reasons. If she were honest with herself, if she could be honest with herself, she would acknowledge that she felt undeserving of love and romantic happiness; she would acknowledge that she felt she should be doing penance always for her “mistake.” But what was that mistake? Getting pregnant or giving up her child?

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