Aftermath Read online

  In fact, she wasn’t. Once she saw him standing inside the restaurant door and staring up at faded Jesus, she knew that everything would be okay. It felt like some cranky old machinery deep inside her had finally gotten unstuck and decided to start running smoothly again—just like that obstinate motor on Gladys Pitzer’s prehistoric Electrolux. Maddie had broken that thing down and looked at it six ways from Sunday. She had repaired, replaced, and lubed nearly every moving part it had, and still the damn thing wouldn’t run. Not until the morning she finally gave up and decided to tell Gladys that it was time to break down and head to Walmart for a new one. She was just about to load the old piece of junk into her Jeep when she had an impulse to try it one more time. Of course, it fired right up and damn near sucked all the tools off her workbench.

  Deus ex machina. You just never knew.

  But Art wasn’t an ancient appliance—at least not in any non-literary applications. She stopped in front of him.

  He gave her a nervous-looking smile. “I really didn’t know you’d be here, Maddoe. I feel like a stalker.”

  “ ‘Here’ as in Jericho, or ‘here’ as in Odell’s?” she asked.

  “Odell’s,” he replied. “I just got into town and wanted to grab a bite to eat.” He looked over the parking lot full of cars. “When did this place become so haute?”

  “Right about the time Nadine Odell acquired David as maître d’.”

  Art looked confused. “David is working here?”

  Maddie nodded. “Michael, too.”

  “I don’t get it . . . is the inn closed?”

  “Temporarily,” Maddie explained. “It was badly damaged in the tornado. They’re both pitching in here while repairs are underway.”

  “Celine didn’t mention that.”

  Suddenly his presence there was starting to make sense. “You talked with Mom?”

  He nodded. “She came to see me.”

  Maddie was surprised. “She did? When?”

  “Last week.”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t ask her to do that.”

  “I know that.” He looked down at the keys in his hand. “We had quite a talk.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “She told me that it was time for us to get past this—for me to get past my fear of seeing you.”

  “That sounds like her.”

  He smiled. “I thought so, too. She loves you a lot.”

  “I know. It’s mutual.”

  “It wasn’t always.”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad you two found your way back to each other.”

  She nodded. “So am I.”

  He seemed to hesitate. “I hope that we can find our way back to each other, too.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  He met her eyes. “Is that a serious question?”

  She dropped her gaze. Why am I acting like a petulant teenager? She looked back up at him. “I’m sorry, Art. I don’t mean to be so fractious.”

  The tension in his face seemed to ease a bit. “This reminds me of that time you and David decided to go joy riding on the tractor and took out all of the mailboxes on Silver Hill Road.”

  “Oh, god.” Maddie raised a hand to her forehead.

  “As I recall, the Turner clan was pretty nice about it, but Boyd Dickens made your daddy pay to have a stonemason come out there to restack those entrance pillars.”

  “That was so ridiculous. He practically lived in a mud hut. Why on earth did he have a driveway that looked like the entrance to South Fork Ranch?”

  Art laughed.

  “We actually did him a favor.”

  “Your father didn’t quite see it that way.”

  “Well,” Maddie agreed. “I guess he didn’t.”

  “He’d be very proud of you, you know?”

  Maddie sighed and looked away. Over the restaurant roof, a steady rush of hot air from the kitchen exhaust fan made the landscape behind it look blurry. It was strange. She knew the contours of Buck Mountain the way she knew the backs of her own hands, but right now, it was nothing more than a fuzzy mass of green and gray.

  Art reached out a hand and touched her on the arm. “What is it?”

  She looked back at him. “Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t any of you tell me?”

  Art dropped his hand. “He didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Don’t you think this hurts me?”

  He nodded.

  “I just don’t understand it. I thought I knew him. I thought he trusted me.”

  “He did trust you.”

  “But not enough.”

  “Maddoe. It wasn’t like that. It was a different time. You were a child—and he? He was conflicted about it. Always. He never really accepted it, and he certainly never was comfortable with it. His greatest fear was that you would find out.”

  “Even when he knew that I was gay, too?”

  “Even then.”

  She shook her head. “It makes no sense to me.”

  Art sighed. “I know. But, Maddoe—the fact that you can’t understand it doesn’t make it less true. We all made what we thought were the best choices available to us in the middle of an untenable situation. Our actions may have been flawed, but we took them with the best intentions and the best information we had. And remember that we’re talking about our realities and our limitations here—not yours. Your father was a very proud man, and he would never risk anything that he thought might change or jeopardize his relationship with you.”

  “What about you?”

  ”It wasn’t my story to tell. And as much as I loved your father, you have to admit that he never had much of an input mode.”

  She stood there in front of him, speechless. He was right—about everything. And if she told herself the truth, what she felt more than anger or disappointment was embarrassment—embarrassment that she seemed to be the last person to figure it all out. Even David admitted that the thought had occurred to him on more than one occasion. And for Maddie, nothing was worse than being unable to connect the dots.

  She looked at Art. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” He touched her arm again. “What on earth are you sorry about?”

  “I was shocked and frustrated . . . embarrassed that I didn’t know, and hadn’t been able to figure it out.” She laid a hand on top of his. “I didn’t want you to see that. I didn’t want anyone to see that.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “You can?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Aren’t we members of the same perverse fraternity?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You know so.”

  “Overachievers Anonymous?”

  “That would be the one.” He smiled. “The world’s first thirty-six step program.”

  “Thirty-six?”

  He shrugged. “Twelve-step programs are for amateurs.”

  She laughed.

  “Maddie?” he asked.

  She looked at him.

  “I have no illusions. I know this doesn’t fix everything.”

  “No,” she agreed. “But at least it’s a start.”

  He nodded. “And I’m grateful for that.”

  “I am, too.” She smiled and touched his arm. “Why don’t you come back inside and join us for some of the best fried chicken god ever made? And there’s a little someone special you need to meet, too.”

  “A little someone?”

  Maddie nodded. “Come on. It’s a long story.”

  They turned away from Art’s car, and slowly walked back across the parking lot toward the small café.

  “STARING AT THAT door won’t make them reappear any faster.”

  Syd looked at Celine, who was watching her with an amused expression. “How can you be so certain that they’ll both come back?”

  “I know Art. And we both know Maddie.” Celine took a sip from her iced tea and made a face. “Oh, lord. This is sweetened.”

  Syd laughed. “Of cour
se it is. Have you forgotten where you are?”

  “Apparently.” Celine pushed the glass away like she’d just been served a glass of iced hemlock.

  “Can we ask Nicorette to bring you something else?” Syd suggested.

  “It’s all right. I’ll just drink water.”

  “You can have some of my milk, Gramma,” Henry offered. He was patiently arranging his pile of fairy sprinkles into a picture of . . . something.

  “That’s all right, sweetheart. I’m happy with my water.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Henry, what are you making with all of those pep . . . sprinkles?” Syd asked.

  He looked up at her. “It’s the Camaro.” His small voice had an almost reverent tone.

  Syd sighed. “Of course it is.” She rolled her eyes at Celine.

  “You know you’re going to end up having to buy one of those, don’t you?”

  “Why?” Syd replied. “We could pretty much build one with all the cast-off parts that keep turning up.”

  “True.” Celine smiled. “But if you left that task up to Maddie, the end result would likely resemble a turbo-charged Hoover more than it would a muscle car.”

  “At least we might have a better shot at keeping up with all the dog hair.”

  Celine seemed amused by that. “Has Astrid really made that much of a difference?”

  Syd shook her head. “Let’s just put it this way. César Milan could add on to his beach house with the royalties he could earn off this dog.”

  Celine smiled. “Maddie did tell me about an episode where she added some . . . color . . . to your lives.”

  “Color?”

  Celine glanced at Henry, and then nodded.

  Syd looked back and forth between Celine and Henry. Then enlightenment dawned. “Color.” She laughed. “Yes. You could say that. Well, as annoying as she can be, she certainly did find a creative way to defuse a tense situation.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Maddie now calls it our ‘Purple Haze’ episode.”

  “That seems like an odd signature tune for such a fussy little dog.”

  “You didn’t get to see your daughter chasing her through the house. Trust me . . . it fits.”

  Celine smiled. “Tell me more about this letter.”

  Syd shrugged. “It’s not all that complicated. For some unknown reason—and at, literally, the eleventh hour—Jeff has decided to contest the divorce.”

  “Any thoughts about why?”

  “Oh, a few.”

  “Really? Care to share?”

  “Well, if I were a betting woman, I’d say that his mother’s manicured fingerprints are all over this.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Syd sighed. “Let’s just say that Doris has always had definite ideas about what is and isn’t in her son’s best interest.”

  “Doris?”

  “Yes . . . the dowager herself.”

  Celine was quiet for a moment. “Jeff is from Boston, isn’t he?”

  Syd nodded.

  “Did you say that his mother’s name is Doris?’

  “That’s right. Doris Simon, née Massena . . . I think.”

  “Massena?”

  “I’m almost certain that’s right. They were some preeminent Boston family. Made a fortune in medical supplies or pharmaceuticals . . . something like that.”

  “Or something like that,” Celine echoed.

  Syd raised an eyebrow. “You sound dubious.”

  “On the contrary. I’m fascinated.”

  “Why?”

  Celine shrugged. “Let’s just say that I went to boarding school with one Dorrie Massena from Boston, and I’m wondering if your dowager might be the same person.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Not so much. I lost touch with Dorrie during my college years. But from what I understand, she . . . eventually . . . married well—a stockbroker, I think.”

  “Did his name happen to be Howard Simon? Chinless? Thin lips? Wears his pants up under his armpits?”

  “That, I cannot tell you. But I know she returned to Boston, and had only the one child.”

  Syd shook her head in amazement. “Our small worlds just keep getting smaller. First you know Uncle Marsh—now you know Jeff’s mother.”

  “Knew Jeff’s mother, you mean. If, in fact, she is Dee Dee.”

  “Dee Dee?”

  Celine nodded. “An acronym for her unfortunate nickname at school. Children can be so cruel.”

  Syd smiled. “Why do I think I’m going to love this?”

  Celine glanced at Henry, and then lowered her voice. “I should be horse-whipped for even mentioning it.”

  “Oh no you don’t . . . You can’t drop a bead like that and then retreat from it.” Syd picked up her glass of iced tea. “Give it up.”

  Celine sighed. “Dee Dee was short for Dorrie the Douchebag.”

  Syd choked and spewed brown liquid halfway across the table. Alarmed, Celine handed her a napkin and patted her between the shoulder blades.

  “Hey!” Henry cupped his small hands around his maze of sprinkles. “You got tea all over my Camaro.”

  Celine reached into the breadbasket and withdrew another biscuit. “Here you go, honey.” She offered it to Henry. “Spare parts.”

  He took it gratefully and immediately started picking out all the red chunks of pepper.

  Syd was still clearing her throat. “Douchebag?” she whispered.

  “Oh, yes. Apparently, Massena wasn’t the original family name. I gather they changed it when they relocated from Tennessee and acquired the Beacon Hill zip code.”

  “Tennessee?” Syd asked. “Doris is from Tennessee? What was their family name before?”

  “Massengill.”

  Syd started to chuckle. Then laugh. Soon, her laughs turned into guffaws. They went on so long that other diners turned around in their seats to stare at her.

  She fought to compose herself. “Oh, god.”

  Celine looked like she was trying not to smile. “There’s no reason for you to know this, but in the old days, the S.E. Massengill Company had a pretty sketchy reputation. It’s not hard to understand why a social climber like Dorrie’s grandfather moved the family away and changed their name.” She thought about that for a moment. “He did, however, remember to take his checkbook along. Dorrie always had the best of everything, and I gather that her proclivity for the finer things in life has continued. The Simons are a very old Boston family—related to the Peabodys, I think.”

  “That’s right,” Syd agreed. “Jeff said his great-great somebody was married to Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating in its own right.”

  Syd shook her head in amazement. “So the lauded fortune of the great Doris M. Simon actually came from hawking vaginal tonics in the Volunteer State?”

  “They were hardly sideshow barkers,” Celine said, “but in general terms, that’s an apt description of their rise to preeminence.”

  “Well, well. I wish I had known that in the years when it would have done me some good.”

  “You never know.”

  Syd laughed. “That’s probably a good thing, too.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know if I could be trusted to keep information like this a secret. The temptation to take Doris down a few pegs might be entirely too great.”

  Celine just smiled and picked up her glass of sweet tea.

  “I thought you hated that?” Syd asked.

  Celine shrugged. “Sometimes, I like to throw caution to the wind.”

  Syd shook her head. “I see now that your daughter comes by it honestly.”

  “Believe me, Syd,” Celine took a big sip from her glass. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  Chapter 14

  CHARLIE DAVIS WAS walking Roma Jean to her car. In fact, it really wasn’t Roma Jean’s car—it was her Uncle Cletus’s old Caprice Classic. Cletus lent it to Roma Jean after her lime
green ’76 Chevy Vega was destroyed by the tornado.