Читать книгу New Beginnings - Jill Barnett, Jill Barnett - Страница 13

March had started her official life as a Cantrell on a San Francisco hillside, and four kids and almost thirty-four years later she was still on a San Francisco hillside. Though her generation had once sung about the sounds of silence, the sounds of the city were what she loved: those white mornings when the plaintive notes of foghorns floated above the bay, the deep water and moisture-thick air magnifying every sound so that whispering wasn’t really secretive at all.

At noon, there was the chatter of people at the corner deli on short lunch hours ordering salami and Jack cheese on fresh sourdough (Dijon mustard and pepperocini, no pickles). Muni trams rattled regularly on tracks over the Avenues, and freeway traffic during rush hours hummed like distant swarms of bees. Horns honking, voices, and air brakes, close to home the distant clanging of a cable car bell at Leavenworth & Hyde and the soft rumble of an automobile changing into low gear to power up the hill were merely single moments in a day where the constant din of life was going on around her.

For her, there was something incredibly grounding about a place where she’d taught her children to ride a bike to the ringing of a cable car bell and the applause of tourists, and where the call of gulls was as much a part of the air she breathed as oxygen.

The noise of the city was most noticeable in the old brick courtyard at the center of their home. Mike called it March Country—an oasis where on temperate mornings she drank her coffee surrounded by raised planters and huge stone pots spilling over with flowers the color of a fall sunset. Some of the wind chimes from their wedding hung from courtyard posts, ringing out occasionally in the October wind.

March looked up from the kitchen sink when she heard her grandson cry. Sixteen-month-old Tyler was out in the courtyard trying to scale the seven-foot brick wall and not one bit happy that he was failing. She dropped the pasta strainer and, wiping her hands on her shirttail, she was through the French doors in a heartbeat. “Hey there, sweetie. What are you doing out here alone? Escaping?” She scooped him up and headed inside. A minute later she stood in the door of the media room, Tyler hooked on her hip while a good minute and a half of Sunday afternoon, Forty-Niner’s football passed without a single male in the room noticing them. “I think you lost something, Scott.”

Her oldest son looked her, then quickly glanced at the corner where a five-foot square rainbow of bright Fisher Price toys lay abandoned.

“Daddy!” Tyler shouted. Her grandson had great timing.

Scott was up and made a beeline for her. “Damn, Mom. Sorry.” He took his son. “You okay, buddy?”

“Daddy!” Tyler rubbed his hands on Scott’s cheeks.

Scott groaned. “What’s all over his mouth and hands?”

“Dirt. He was trying to climb the courtyard wall.” She held out an open container of baby wipes.

“One play,” Scott muttered. “I only looked away to watch one play.” He cleaned up his son and wiped his own face. “He fell off the back of the toilet last week when I was watching him. Renee will kill me.”

“Then you’re lucky she’s out with Molly and Keely,” she told him.

Her eldest son looked at her over his son’s head, thickly-covered in his same black curly hair, and Scott grinned at her, knowing she wouldn’t say anything to his wife.

For just one second, one small heartbeat of memory, there stood Mike in another time and place holding Scott and giving her that same grin. Those moments were why she wouldn’t want to be twenty-five again. The future was always a blank, out of control; it lay out there as unclear as morning fog on the horizon. But the past was familiar and kept coming around and around in tender, special moments that gave her some measure of contentment about her choices in life.

Looking back was the best way to understand destiny—something she’d always believed in because how could life and all its complications be completely accidental? There had to be a master plan, a book somewhere, like something out of an episode of the Twilight Zone, that foretold who, why and where everyone existed.

“Tyler’s part monkey. Takes after you, big brother.” Phillip set down his beer and grabbed a handful of chips. “You’ve always been the live and hairy proof that Darwin was right.”

“You’re just pissed because I actually have hair.”

“I have hair. See?” Phillip bent over and rubbed his dark-stubbled scalp. “Keely loves this. Women go for men with the confidence to shave their heads. Think Willis…Think Agassi…”

“Think MiniMe,” Scott finished.

Mike set a box of Wheat Thins on the table and stood, stretching. “Remember the time Scott disappeared, sunshine? You were a climber, too, son,” he said to Scott. “We looked for you for almost an hour. Your mother was frantic, crying like crazy, certain you had somehow gotten out in the street and been kidnapped. Eventually we found you sitting on a ceiling beam watching us.”

“I was just glad you were safe,” March told him.

“So I guess that means I’m not going to get much sympathy from either of you.”

“Payback is hell,” she and Mike said at the same time.

“See?” Phil said laughing. “I keep telling you. I’m the perfect son. That’s why they like me best.”

Scott looked at Tyler. “Do you want to go to Uncle Phil?”

“Yes!” (Tyler’s favorite word.)

Scott set his son in Phillip’s lap, sat down in a club chair and picked up his beer. “Daddy is smarter than Uncle Phil, isn’t he?”

“Yes!”

He took a swig of beer. “And Daddy is more handsome than Uncle Phil, isn’t he?

“Yes!”

Phil just shook his head and turned to Scott, who said, “Uncle Phil has big, ugly, jug-handle ears, right?”

“Yes!”

Phillip smiled, familiar, a little wicked, the same way he had as a kid when he just passed Go, collected two hundred dollars and owned Broadway with a hotel. He glanced at Scott, then held up Tyler in front of him and said, “Your daddy likes to dress up in your mommy’s clothes, doesn’t he?”

“Yes!” Tyler said in perfect toddler Pavlovian.

“I’ll get the kid gate,” Mike said, laughing.

“It’s in the laundry room,” March told him.

Mike swatted her on the butt as he walked by. “I know.”

On the third Sunday of every month, like today, March cooked for the entire Cantrell clan, kids, wives, grandkids. Most of the year they met in the house in the city, except during the winter season, when they spent most weekends at their place in Tahoe. Years back, Cantrell Sports Inc. created the roving three-day week during the months of snowboarding season, so everyone from the top down could take advantage of the Sierra snow. They worked longer hours, a little harder in late summer and early fall to get ready for the new season, but when the lifts were running, at least one week a month the whole company worked three days and took off four.

Already into late fall, the past week had been crazy with Mike working fourteen-hour days, Mickey in the beginning of his senior year with college selection on the horizon, and an auction and benefit March was chairing coming in mid-October, all pre-snow season.

While she was still intimately involved in the family company, she didn’t spend the time there she used to. Other than the board meetings, and there was one this coming week, she had hired good managers for the graphics side of the business. The graphic designs for the new season had been selected months ago, so she had home time now, time for some charity work, her grandkids, and a gourmet cooking class she took from one of the top chefs in the city.

Tonight the menu wasn’t gourmet, just the kind of food her family liked on these evenings: salad, hot bread, lasagna and anything chocolate and gooey for dessert.

March was spinning lettuce dry when she heard her granddaughter, Miranda, chattering even before she heard the sound of the electric garage door closing.

“G-Mo! G-Mo! Look what I made for you!” Miranda came running across the courtyard from the open door to the garage, followed by her daughters-in-law, Renee and Keely, then her own Molly.

The kitchen was suddenly chaos, all of them talking at once, shopping bags on the counters, a long loaf of fresh Boudin’s bread and two bottles of Chianti suddenly in her arms, her granddaughter jumping up and down and tugging on her shirt, trying to tell her everything they had done in the last three hours.

“I think we got everything from the list,” Renee said. “Let’s see…You have the wine. I gave you the bread.” She looked up. “Did we forget the garlic?”

“No. I put it in the cart. It’s there somewhere. Here it is.” Keely handed it to her.

“Oh, we couldn’t find the nine-layer cake so we got chocolate banana from Henshaw’s.” Renee closed the refrigerator door. “Was the baby okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“Neiman’s has the most beautiful suede jackets, Mom. You have to get one. Look at Keely’s shoes,” Molly insisted. “They are to die for.”

March glanced at Molly. “What did you do to your hair?”

There was utter silence. The words had slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“I had it layered last week, Mother.” Molly shook her head defiantly and her deep auburn hair, once sleek and gorgeous, went every which way possible.

Keely checked her watch. “Two minutes,” she said to Molly and Renee. “You owe me lunch.”

March was at the kitchen island…feeling like one. The girls had bet on her reaction, which really should have been funny. She should have been laughing, but it stung a little instead. “It looks nice,” March lied, thinking her daughter looked as if she had a run-in with a lawnmower. “Change is good.”

For a few seconds no one spoke, so March opened a nearby drawer and took out the foil, which she might have rather chewed than stand there in the telling, heavy silence of generation gaps between women.

Miranda sidled up to her and tugged on her shirt. “I made this for you in art class, G-Mo. It’s a bird-feeder. Look. Look.”

For one brief moment March wished Molly were still six and their relationship were simpler. She squatted down to eye-level with Scott’s daughter. The bird-feeder she held was large, made from a milk jug, and awkwardly covered with silk leaves and sparkles. “Wow…Did you really make this?”

Miranda nodded.

“Let’s go fill it.” On the backside of the feeder, written in sparkles, was G-MO. In a strange new world reduced to initials J-Lo and BFF, “Grandmother” simply became G-Mo.

“I really didn’t do everything,” Miranda admitted quietly. “Mrs. Burke helped me with the sparkles.” She looked up to March for approval. “But I did all the leaves.”

“You know, I think I love the leaves the very best.”

Miranda’s whole face brightened. March could encourage her granddaughter and not feel as if something she said opened wounds or created new ones. She wondered if Molly would take a bet on what she said to Miranda. Somewhere in their mother-daughter lifetime, she and Molly had become real adversaries. “Come along. You can help me find the perfect spot for this most wonderful of bird-feeders.”

A ten-foot fichus tree she had grown from only knee-high dominated one corner of the courtyard. There were other bird-feeders in different shapes, along with all those old wedding wind chimes hanging from the painted beams and lathe. March hung the bird-feeder on one of the fichus branches. “What do you think? Here?”

“It’s perfectly perfect, G-Mo.”

March stepped down from the brick planter and stood back. “I believe this is my favorite gift ever.”

Miranda melted against her and they stood there like that, the fugal sounds of the city outside, overhead, the tinkling of a few wind chimes with a whisper of a breeze that skirted the courtyard, young women’s laughter coming through the slightly open French door, one of her sons shouting about a play in the back room and, through her cotton slacks, against her thigh, March could feel the flutter of her granddaughter’s heartbeat.

“Look! Look!” Miranda broke away, jumping and pointing at a hummingbird that flitted from a giant fuchsia in a hanging basket right to the lip of the feeder. “It works! I’m gonna go tell Daddy!”

And her little hummingbird of a granddaughter flew into the house. The next sound March heard was the phone ringing.

Mike followed his youngest son down the front steps of the juvenile wing of the San Francisco Police Department in tense silence. Mickey and his friends were brought in for stealing a local icon, the brightly painted grinning cow sculpture from the neighborhood drive-thru dairy, then hoisting it up their high school flagpole. All because stooge Mickey Cantrell and his clown buddies had thought it would be fun to concoct a little surprise for the student body on Monday.

Mickey stopped at street level. Since he didn’t know where to go from there he was forced to wait, his back to Mike, his hands shoved into the kangaroo pockets of a dark hoodie emblazoned with the new season’s slogan Elevate! Eliminate Snowboredom and the Cantrell logo.

“The car’s this way,” Mike said, walking to where he’d parked. They would laugh about this someday, but there was little room for family jokes inside the tight confines of Mike’s German sports car. Mickey needed to get the message that getting arrested wasn’t okay. His son hadn’t looked him in the eye again since he’d first walked into the detention room, and somewhere in the release process had taken on that typical boy-in-trouble attitude, mumbling or grunting responses. Behind his act and I-don’t-give a-damn demeanor, the truth was his fearless son was scared shitless.

Mike didn’t start the car. He called March on his cell, told her they were on the way home, then rested his arms on the steering wheel, still searching for what he could say that would make an impression on a bull-headed teenager without yelling at him like his own dad would have done. A couple of deep breaths and the best he could do was: “What the hell were you thinking?”

“It was a joke. We wouldn’t have even gotten caught if Gabe would have moved the car like we told him.”

“This discussion isn’t about getting caught. It’s about doing something stupid. Really stupid.” Mike started the car and headed home. “Where was your judgment?”

“Okay…I’m sorry.”

But his tone wasn’t the least bit apologetic, which really pissed Mike off. “You’re off to college in less than a year. A dumb jackass prank like this one could keep you from getting into the school you want. Your grades are high and your SATs are amazing, better than anyone else’s in the family. You can get into the best schools in the nation. We’re proud of that, son. Those kinds of grades don’t come easily. So why would you blow all that work for a few laughs from a bunch of your buddies?”

Mickey was staring out the window.

“Trust me. It’s not worth it. Your education is your future.” No matter how hard he tried to be different, there was an echo of Don Cantrell in what he’d just said.

After a few miles of prolonged silence, Mickey said quietly, “Maybe education is not my future.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been thinking…I might not to go to college.”

That got Mike’s attention. “Since when?”

“I’m not going to be a doctor, so what good is a degree? I keep hearing how few graduates actually get jobs in the field they study. Why should I do all that work for a degree I won’t use?”

“Not an option. You’re going to school.” Mike punched the button on the garage door opener and pulled into the driveway. There he was again. Hello, Don.

“I’ve been thinking that I want to make the switch to professional boarding.”

Mike killed the engine and held up his hands. “No way.” He was mad at himself. Madder at Mickey. Mad that this wasn’t going well.

“You don’t think I’m good enough,” Mickey shot back, his voice high and angry. “But I am. I can outboard every person in this family. Just because you’re the big man who invented it, you think you can judge me? That’s fucking bullshit.”

Mike took a deep breath, then another, and said calmly, “What’s fucking bullshit, sport, is you not going to college.”

“You don’t think I can get sponsors for the circuit?” It was clearly a challenge.

Mike laughed at him, the sound loud and abrasive in the small sports car. “I know you can get sponsors.” He lowered his voice to an even tone. “Nice try. You want me to get pissed off and tell you I can stop everyone in the business from sponsoring you. Even if I could, I don’t work that way.”

“You can’t make me go to school.”

“And you can’t get me to fight with you over this. There is no discussion. Your mother and I raised you to make decisions for yourself. You’re a damned smart kid. Sometimes too smart for your own good. You know what you need to do. Picking a fight with me isn’t going to change the fact that you need an education in this world. It gives you a step up and the brains to make solid choices.”

Mike turned in his seat, giving Mickey a square look, so there would be no doubt he meant what he said. “Yes, we’re lucky. Our business has done well, but that business didn’t appear overnight. Your mom and I worked our asses off. You don’t get to skate inside the business because you’re my son and Scott and Phil’s brother.”

“I’ve worked in the factory and warehouses every summer since I was thirteen.”

All of four years, Mike wanted to say but didn’t. “So that’s the kind of work you want to do for the next forty or fifty years? You will need more than a last name to move into any good job out there without education and experience.”

“I can get experience on the circuit.”

“And you think school is hard work?” Mike laughed again and shook his head. “Be pissed off all you want. Try to pick a fight with me about college and change the focus of why we are even in this car and talking right now. We are here because you were arrested for blind stupidity and you’re in deep shit. Here’s the payback, sport. No car to drive until I see a big change.” Mike reached up to the visor and punched the garage door closed, then got out of the car. They faced off over the top of the Porsche as the garage door slowly went down.

“How am I supposed to get to practice?” Mickey said, his voice distinctly whining. “How am I supposed to get to school?”

“We live in a great city with public transportation. Use Muni. Use your friends. Your mom and I will drive you, when it’s convenient for us. You can walk. Ride a bike. But your idiotic decision just cost you a big chunk of your freedom. Get it?”

“Yeah. Great. I got it.” Mickey headed for the door but not before Mike heard him mutter. “Asshole…”

“You boys stop it,” March said, half annoyed and half laughing. Scott and Phillip had invaded her kitchen and were tossing a wooden pepper grinder back and forth like a football, first over her head, then holding it out to her, acting contrite, only to snatch it back when she reached for it, crowing and using the granite island to block her from getting to them.

“Aw, Mom,” Phillip pitched the grinder to Scott and scooted around the island. “What happened? You used to be quicker.”

“She’s getting older.”

“Scott!” She stopped where she was, hands on her hips. “Give me the grinder.”

“Nah.”

“I’ll tell Renee you let Tyler eat dirt.”

“Don’t believe her, big brother. Mom never breaks a promise. Over here.” Phillip stood behind her, all six feet two of him, his shaved head shining from the recessed lighting, his long arms in the air waving like an open receiver.

March jammed her elbow into his ribs.

“Ouch! Ma…” Phillip waved a yellow dish towel. “That’s a foul.”

“You knucklehead. I guess that’s what I get for saying hand me the pepper.”

“Is that what you said? We thought you said hand-off the pepper.”

“You always were a lousy liar.” She pulled out a small pepper bottle from the spice drawer. “You boys can have your toy. I’ll use this.” She hammered a bottle of seasoned pepper over the Caesar salad a couple of times, then looked up just as Mickey came out of the garage and stalked toward the kitchen, head down, looking guilty and sullen and angry. Her stomach sank.

Mike followed on his heels and paused in the kitchen doorway. One quick, pointed exchange and a nod told her everything with the police was okay.

She put her hand around Mickey’s neck and kissed his cheek. “Hey. Rough day.”

“Yeah…”

“Good work, numb nuts,” Phillip said, then turned to Scott. “Look at that. He gets himself arrested wearing a company sweatshirt. Next time you’re going to do something stupid, wear Burton.”

“Phillip!” March said.

“I was only joking. Trying to lighten things up for him. The kid looks like he’s going to cry.”

Mickey spun around, the skin on his neck and face instantly bright red, eyes still moist, and pinned his brother with a hard look. “Good thing I’m not wearing your SkiStar logo, Phil, since everyone says your part of the company isn’t doing shit.”

For the longest, stunned few heartbeats, the room was dead quiet, the unspoken just spoken, and the family itself suddenly cracked in half. Two of her sons looked like junkyard dogs, facing each other and ready to pounce.

Scott grabbed Phillip’s right arm as he pulled it back, hand in a fist. “Don’t.”

Mickey started to move toward his brother.

“That’s enough, you two,” Mike said, stepping in between them.

March couldn’t move. Yes, the SkiStar division had been losing money for the three years, but there was a longstanding, solemn rule that the family only discussed company business together at the office and in the board room. Mickey might be seventeen, but he knew the rules.

In family business lines had to be drawn to separate family from profit and loss, especially when the company and the strong-minded, strong-willed Cantrells were all tied so tightly together, with every one of them having a stake in the business, in its red and black, and its future.

“The table’s ready, Mom.” Renee walked in with Tyler, started to give him to Scott, then stopped, looking around. “What’s going on?”

March handed her the salad. “Put this on the table for me, dear, and get the girls to come eat.”

Renee left, but not without exchanging a questioning look with Scott who said, “Come on, Phil. Get your wife and let’s eat.”

Mickey stood in the middle of the room, alone on his battlefield after trying to cause a war when no one else wanted one. He was confused, angry, embarrassed, full of young male emotions that needed blowing off. “Go wash up, Mickey,” Mike said, talking to him as if he were ten years old without realizing it.

Mickey scowled at Mike, turned away and walked toward the heart of the house. “I’m not hungry.”

Mike started to go after him but March placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let him go. He needs to work things through and get the salt out of those wounds of his.” Through the wide kitchen archway, she watched her youngest run up the stairs.

“He’s trying to pick a fight with anyone he can,” March said. “Did it work?”

“Close, but not quite. Not with me, anyway. And he called me an asshole. Phil almost took the bait, though.”

“Mickey’s embarrassed. He can’t control his emotions.”

“He’d better control his impulses pretty damn quick or I’ll show him what an asshole I can be.”

“Mike. Come on. That’s not how you do things.” “I took the car away. No driving till he changes his attitude.”

She had seen the tears glistening in her youngest son’s eyes. Times like this were when she remembered that not even for a reflection without a wrinkle would she want to be seventeen again. March picked up the dish of lasagna. “Come on. Let’s eat.”