Читать книгу My Name is Nell - Laura Abbot - Страница 8

Late July, seven weeks later

Arkansas

“I DON’T SEE WHY I have to go.” Abby slouched in her seat in the airport lounge, kicking at her carry-on bag. Two hanks of straight blond hair hid her features, but Nell Porter could well imagine the surly put-upon look on her thirteen-year-old daughter’s face.

“You’ll have a good time at your father’s,” Nell suggested without the faintest trace of conviction in her voice.

“Yeah, sure. Like there’s so much to do in stupid Texas.”

Nell sighed. This was yet another reprise of the conversation they had once a month when she took Abby to Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport to fly to Dallas for her court-ordered visit with Rick. Abby had no way of knowing how Nell dreaded the gnawing in her stomach every time she had to consign her daughter’s care to the airlines—and then to Rick and Clarice, his second wife. In fact, she didn’t know which was worse, thinking of her daughter all alone thousands of feet above the ground in these troubled times or picturing her in the manipulative hands of the far-from-maternal Clarice, aka The Other Woman. Even six years later and after professional counseling, bitterness blindsided her, along with those all-too-familiar feelings of unworthiness and betrayal. She stared at her fingers, locked in a death grip, then quite consciously separated her hands and drew a deep breath. That was all behind her. By some miracle, and with the help of family and friends, she’d survived. If only she didn’t have to send Abby into the situation…

“Why do you make me go?” Abby’s voice was laced with belligerence.

“Honey, we’ve been over all this. It’s not a choice either of us has.”

“I hate going. I don’t have any friends there.”

“What about your dad? He’d be disappointed not to see you.”

“Maybe.” Looking up finally, Abby tucked a strand of hair behind one bestudded ear. “But he doesn’t have a clue what to do with me when I get there. I mean, how many times do I want to go to Six Flags? Besides, I’m missing Tonya’s birthday party.”

Abby’s remarks evoked guilt Nell knew was irrational. As if she could have done any more to influence the custody decision. Or changed the fact Rick was entitled to spend time with their child. Did Abby ever tell her father how she felt about the visits? No. Whenever she was with him, she did a good imitation of the dutiful daughter. Inevitably when she came home, Nell faced the task of picking up the pieces, putting them back together as best she could and then sending Abby on her way the next time. Like now. Abby needed a punching bag, and Nell was handy. Somehow that insight didn’t alleviate the hurt her daughter’s petulance generated.

The mechanical drone of a commuter plane drawing up to the gate was accompanied by the disassociated voice of the loudspeaker announcing the arrival of the aircraft Abby would be taking to Dallas. “You need to go through security now,” Nell said, rising to her feet.

“I guess.” Abby stood, shouldered her bag and trailed Nell all the way to the short line of passengers waiting at the checkpoint.

Nell watched Abby’s expression settle into affected pseudo-sophistication, the bored look of the veteran traveler. Yet when she turned and gave Nell a perfunctory hug, her clear gray eyes held not resentment, but misgiving. “Bye, Mom. See ya Sunday night.”

“I’ll be here,” Nell said. She watched Abby pass through the metal detector and pluck her bag from the conveyer belt, then waited to catch a final glimpse of her daughter’s rail-thin body as she descended the escalator and vanished from sight.

The empty feeling was always the same. It was enough to drive a person to drink.

But that was out of the question.

STELLA JANES SETTLED in the porch chair next to her daughter, then turned her gaze toward Abby, who stood at the edge of the lawn verging on an elaborate flower bed. “Do you really think that skirt length is appropriate for a middle school child?”

Nell stifled a groan. With too much idle time, her mother overly concerned herself with family. “It’s what all the girls are wearing.”

Stella continued staring at her granddaughter, who was herding her toddler cousin around the backyard. “I suppose, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Like what?” Nell’s statuesque older sister Lily, whose name fit her as well as the chic beige linen slacks and blouse she wore, approached with a tray of lemonade.

“Abby’s hem length,” Stella said.

Lily paused, then followed her mother’s gaze. “I see what you mean.”

Nell should be used to it by now, but their united front rankled. Lily and Stella tended to share a similar outlook, usually quite different from hers. They enjoyed what Nell thought of as “girly things” like quilting, home decoration and scrapbooking, while she had always preferred gardening, furniture refinishing and sports. No wonder she had gravitated to her father, finding refuge—and acceptance—in her role as “daddy’s girl.” There were moments, like this, when she felt like an outsider. As teenagers, her relationship with Lily had been strained, but they had grown closer as adults. Sometimes, in recent years, Lily had even dared to swim against the tide of their mother’s wishes. But not often. And not today.

Lily distributed the icy glasses. “When does school start?”

Grateful for the change of subject, Nell let out a breath. “A week from Monday.”

“In my day, school never started in August,” Stella reminded them. “Always the day after Labor Day.”

“It can’t come any too soon for me,” Nell said. “Abby needs a regular schedule. Time hangs pretty heavy on her hands.” When she was at work, Nell worried about her daughter. Aside from helping Lily with little Chase, Abby was at the mercy of friends’ mothers thoughtful enough to invite her to their houses. Otherwise she slept late and watched God-knows-what on TV.

Lily sank into the chaise and crossed her feet at the ankles. “At least next week she’ll be on vacation with Rick.”

“That’s supposed to comfort me?”

“Why not? You’ll have seven glorious days all to yourself.”

“Right. Seven interminable days to worry whether Rick will pay her any attention or, heaven forbid, let Clarice take her shopping like she did last summer.” Nell nodded in her daughter’s direction. “You think that skirt’s short? You didn’t see the outrageous outfit her charming stepmother selected to complement the salon job she set up for Abby’s hair and nails. When she came home, she looked like a prepubescent Britney Spears.”

Lily giggled, restoring Nell’s good humor. “Clarice always was a piece of work. Poor Abby.”

Stella rolled her eyes. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand it.”

“It” was the topic her mother avoided. The disgrace of Rick’s affair with the “younger woman,” the ensuing small-town scandal and the unthinkable divorce, one more way Nell had disappointed her mother’s expectations.

“Water under the bridge,” Nell mumbled.

“You’ll get through the next week all right?” Her mother’s anxious eyes signaled her unspoken concern.

Nell clutched her lemonade. Would she forever be under scrutiny? “Yes, Mother. I’ll be fine.”

She couldn’t fault her mother. Not really. She had only herself to blame, but it had taken her a long time—and cost her a great deal of pain—to reach that conclusion.

WHO WAS HE KIDDING ANYWAY? Nothing was better. If anything, it was worse. Brady stared into the murky depths of the thick ceramic mug he cradled between his hands, oblivious to the early morning chatter around him. These Main Street cafés were running together in his mind—each whirling, grease-layered ceiling fan, red leatherette counter stool and kitchen pass-through indistinguishable from the next. Though the spur-and-antler décor in Wyoming differed from this Arkansas country calico, the smell of bacon frying and the cloying cheerfulness of the morning-shift waitress were unsettlingly predictable.

“Decided?” The middle-aged redhead swiped a damp rag across the counter, then extracted a pad and pencil from her apron and eyed him speculatively.

“The special and a large o.j., please.”

“Got it,” she said and, with economy of motion, refilled his coffee.

Fortunately the adjacent stool was empty. He couldn’t have tolerated another desultory conversation highlighted by comments on the weather and the market—cattle, wheat or stock, depending on where he was. Two months. He mentally ticked off the states he’d passed through—Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Nebraska, Missouri and now Arkansas—always avoiding the cities. He needed no reminders of the pressures of suburban affluence, rampant consumerism or commercial success. His frequent phone calls from Carl Sutton took care of that. Regardless of the artifice his business partner employed, underneath, his basic question was always the same: when would Brady get hold of himself and resume his work at L&S TechWare?

Brady didn’t have the heart to tell Carl that he rarely thought of the business and gave little consideration even to the next day, much less the interminable future yawning before him. On the other hand, he knew he couldn’t continue in his current mode, aimlessly wandering across the country, barely taking in the changing scenery, restlessly moving on after a few days in any one place.

The waitress plunked down a plate laden with eggs, bacon and the biggest biscuit Brady had encountered so far in his travels. “Haven’t seen you around. You here for the fishing?”

Mildly curious, Brady looked up. “Fishing?”

“White River trout. We’re famous for it.”

Why not? “Uh, yeah. Know any good places to stay?”

“Well, there’s the resort—”

The mere word resort reminded him of California and all that he was fleeing.

“Then there’s a B-and-B, if you’re into that. Quiet place with all the comforts of home. The Edgewater Inn.”

All the comforts of home. Brady doubted it, but the word home resonated in a way nothing else had in weeks. “Can you give me directions to the B-and-B?”

“Sure.” She pulled a paper napkin from the holder and drew him a rudimentary map.

Later, crossing the bridge over the White River, Brady felt a stirring of interest. He’d done a lot of fly-fishing in Colorado as a kid. Maybe he’d hole up in the Edgewater Inn for a few days, outfit himself and spend time on the river fishing—and making some decisions.

Carl had been right. He couldn’t run forever.

“YOU LOOK BEAT,” Reggie Pettigrew, the sixty-year-old head librarian, said when Nell reported for work Saturday after taking Abby to the airport.

Setting down the stack of books she’d collected from the outdoor depository, she shot him an I-don’t-need-much-of-this look. “Full of compliments this morning, aren’t you?”

“Even beat you look good. Big weekend?”

“Reggie, are you trying to get my goat or does it just come naturally? You know I haven’t had a big weekend in years. And that’s not all bad. They can be highly overrated.” She cringed, remembering some of the “big weekends” of her past. “It’s Abby. I can’t help worrying when she flies to visit her dad.”

“Did she give you a hard time again about going?”

“As usual. This time, it’s for a week.” She began sorting the returned books. “I don’t know how I ended up being the bad guy in this arrangement, but she blames me for making her go.”

Reggie eyed her over the top of his thick bifocals. “While Prince Charming and his lady love live happily ever after?”

Reggie had a way of seeing straight through her. “Exactly.” She glanced at the wall clock registering 9:59. “But enough about me. The hordes are undoubtedly lined up at the door racing to get to Balzac, Dickens, Faulkner, et al.”

“I wish. At least we can count on Clarence Fury and his daily two hours with The New York Times.”

Nell filled a book cart and made the rounds reshelving. When she’d hit bottom after Rick left her, Reggie had been a godsend hiring her as his assistant. Gradually her role had grown until she was now the children’s librarian and coordinator of special adult programs. With the limited library budget, she wasn’t able to do as much as she would’ve liked, but the pre-school story hour was booming and she was having sporadic success with the adult forums she’d initiated in the past year. That reminded her to prepare the flyers for the September forum. A minister from the county hospice board was speaking on death and dying. Not exactly an upper of a topic, but several patrons had expressed an interest.

Automatically reshelving two misplaced volumes, Nell fought the familiar ache in her chest. She bowed her head. It had been nearly seven years. Even so, it was hard for her to believe her father was dead. In the snap of a finger. One day, here. Robust, laughing, vital. The next, gone. Without so much as a fare-you-well.

She straightened and slowly made her way to the main desk. Maybe that was why for so long she’d resisted the death topic for the forum. What if she went to pieces during the discussion? Seemingly her mother and Lily had moved on better than she had after her father’s massive heart attack, but there wasn’t a day when Nell didn’t think of him and miss him.

Like now, with Abby protesting vehemently about her upcoming week with Rick. Her dad would’ve reassured her that she wasn’t the worst mother in the world, that adolescence, too, would pass, that Abby appreciated her more than she was able to let on. Although Nell could spout that kind of self-talk all day, it did nothing to ease the cramping loneliness that fused to her like a second skin.

“Has Hazel Underwood returned that new Patricia Cornwell yet?”

Nell looked up into the scowling face of Minnie Foltz, whose boundless knowledge of murder and mayhem was acquired from the numerous mysteries she devoured.

Nell searched the books lined up on the reserved shelf. “Looks like you’re in luck, Minnie.”

“Hmphh. I should hope so. I can’t figure what takes Hazel so long. That’s the real mystery.”

Nell processed the checkout, acknowledging that at least she’d made one person happy today.

MORNING SUN SILVERED the ripples on the surface of the slow-moving river. Swallows soared and dipped above their mud nests built into the crevices of the facing cliff. Standing thigh-deep in the clear, cold water, Brady pumped his arm, flicking the fly several times before letting it settle upstream from a deep hole. He’d discovered this spot yesterday, pulling in two browns nice enough to keep. Sally, the proprietress and cook at the Edgewater Inn, had been pampering him all week, and last night she’d prepared his fish, which they’d eaten in the kitchen out of sight of the other guests. Somehow the older woman had sensed he was a troubled soul. He’d give her credit. She provided all anyone could ask—good food, soft beds, lazy afternoons in a hammock and splendid fishing.

But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to share the place with those he loved. Wanted Brooke nestled beside him in the soft four-poster bed, wanted to hear Nicole’s infectious laugh when she caught her first trout, wanted to watch both of them hunched over the chessboard in the inn’s living room.

Wading downstream, he reeled in, then cast toward a boulder near the far bank. On either side of the river, the forested hills rose, the deep greens of the trees a contrast to the blue sky. Rounding a bend upstream were three canoes, the occupants grinning and sweating with exertion. Three men and three boys. A father-son outing, maybe. Longing, fierce and potent, stabbed him.

Would anything ever be normal again? How could it be? Not when everywhere he looked were reminders of what he was missing. Not only what he was missing now but, worse by far, what he had bypassed in the name of work when it had been right under his nose.

Too late, he felt the quick tug on his line. He couldn’t react fast enough. Asleep at the switch and the big one had gotten away. He barked an ironic “Story of my life.” Reeling in, he made his way to shore, removed his waders and gathered his gear.

He’d already been at the Edgewater Inn longer than he’d stayed anywhere. It was time to move on. He couldn’t remain here forever, counting on Sally’s hospitable and generous nature. Move on where? That was the sixty-four-thousand dollar question.

Because no place had the slightest meaning for him.

Back at the inn, he told Sally he would be leaving in the morning. That final evening he sat on the deck outside his room, his feet up on the railing, watching the sun sink behind the mountain. The occasional cooing of a pair of mourning doves and the soothing sound of the river lapping the rocky shore kept him company. In his hands he held the guest journal Sally had asked him to sign. Each room had one. He opened the paisley cover. The first entry was from 1995, the year Sally had bought the inn. “Wonderful food, wonderful hostess, wonderful place! The slow pace was very therapeutic. Thank you.” It was signed “Ron and Shari Huxley, Tulsa, OK.”

Brady turned the page. “Oh, Sally, John and I really needed this time away from the children and all our responsibilities. You’ve created a little piece of heaven here on earth. We can’t wait to come back and be spoiled again.” This one was signed “Rowena.”

Then there was the honeymoon couple who cleverly implied the wedding night had been all anyone could hope for and vowed to return on every anniversary.

Couples. All of them. Made supremely happy by the Edgewater Inn. What could he possibly write? This was a place to be shared, but what was he doing? Nursing his wounds. How did he write about that?

Flicking through the book, he came to one particular entry where the margins were embroidered with small colored pencil drawings of a spruce tree, a dogwood blossom, the rocky cliff above the rushing river, and, at the bottom, a rainbow.

Brady smoothed the page with his hand and began reading.

A sanctuary. That’s what you’ve created here, and I will be forever grateful. I have been so alone. Unable to see a direction for my life. Not sure if there even is one. When you’ve loved and lost, doubt replaces hope, insecurity replaces confidence and you wonder who you are. Whether you can go on. Or even want to.

Looking up just in time to see the sun drop behind the dark curtain of mountain, Brady pondered whether he should continue reading. The words were too confessional, too emotionally raw—and threatening. Some other individual had come here full of the same thoughts and feelings.

Unable to help himself, he turned back to the graceful handwriting covering the page.

This time of quiet and contemplation has been a great gift, restoring my belief that no matter how severe the storm, rainbows can happen. Regardless of how desolate I feel right now, I have to believe that somewhere out there is someone for me. Someone I can trust. Someone I can love. When I find him, dear Sally, the two of us will come to the Edgewater Inn. Together.

Brady stared for the longest time at the signature. Simple. Bare. Exposed. “Nell.”

He stood abruptly and walked to the railing, peering at the grove of pine trees bordering the property. Nell, whoever she was, was more optimistic than he was. As if, like Dorothy, you could click your red-shod heels and suddenly find yourself on the other side of whatever hell you were in.

God, he hated his blatant, whining self-pity. If Nell, desolate and alone, had been willing to look for something better, why couldn’t he?

He leaned against a post. This attitude of his was downright depressing. He needed a plan—any plan—and at this point he didn’t give much of a damn what it was.

Absently he realized he was still holding the guest book, his forefinger marking Nell’s page. He opened it again and squinted in the dim light, just making out the line beneath her signature. “Fayetteville, AR, 1997.”

He carried the book back into his room and reread the entry. Several times.

A crazy idea entered his head. But no crazier than what he’d been doing. He needed a purpose. A direction. Short-term, this would work as well as anything.

Tomorrow, after he checked out, he would drive to Fayetteville to find this Nell, a woman who still believed in rainbows.