Chapter 16
Nell poured a second cup of coffee. Usually she drank only one in the morning, but she had been awake until almost two, haunted by memories of that long-lost summer day when she and Eric had been so simply and blissfully happy, so ignorant of the sadness and separation that was to come. Nell had been haunted, too, by thoughts of what happiness, however temporary, might be in store now that Eric had returned.
“Is that from Mick?” Nell asked, nodding at a gift bag from which red and green tissue paper stuck up like flames.
Felicity nodded. “I was up when he came by.”
Molly suddenly appeared in the doorway, dressed in a cable-knit wool sweater over a pair of jeans. When she saw the gift bag on the table, she stopped in mid-stride.
Felicity held out the bag to her sister. “This is for you from Mick.”
Reluctantly, it seemed to Nell, Molly continued toward the table and took the bag. “Did you say anything to him about Boston?” Molly asked, her tone urgent.
“Of course not. You asked me not to.”
“Sorry.” Molly reached into the bag and removed a little bundle wrapped in more tissue paper. Inside the bundle was a delicate painted glass ornament in the shape of a bird.
“A calling bird?” Nell guessed.
“Mick said he wasn’t exactly sure what a calling bird was but he figured a songbird came close enough, and a nightingale is a songbird. Funny,” Felicity added. “I always thought nightingales were really colorful, not mostly brown.”
Nell looked closely at her older daughter, who still had not commented on the gift. “Molly?”
Molly shook her head quickly, as if to bring herself back to the moment. “It’s nice,” she said, wrapping the nightingale in the tissue paper and putting it back into the gift bag. Then she took her usual seat and poured a cup of coffee.
“Who was in the attic last night?” Felicity asked. “And don’t say Santa Claus.”
“Sorry,” Nell said. “I was looking for something. Well, I’d better get a move on. Today is Mutts and Meows’ annual open house.” Nell kissed Molly’s forehead on her way out of the kitchen. “You okay?” she asked softly.
Molly nodded.
“Eat something,” Nell said. “You’ll feel better.”
As Nell was getting into her car a few minutes later, her mind preoccupied with Molly and her troubles, her phone alerted her to a text. It was from Eric. He wanted to know if she could meet at the end of her workday for a coffee. Without a moment’s hesitation she sent him a text suggesting they meet at the Golden Apple again at three-fifteen. He agreed.
It was only when Nell was halfway to the clinic did she realize that all thoughts of her daughter had flown the moment she had seen Eric’s text message. So much for being an attentive, devoted parent, Nell thought guiltily. Keep a clear head, she told herself, her hands tightening on the wheel. Your children are your priorities. Not a relationship that ended in the long distant past.
* * *
The Golden Apple was almost empty when Nell and Eric arrived within moments of each other. The aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the sharp scent of freshly brewed coffee. “It smells like heaven in here,” Eric noted as they took seats at a table. “Bread and coffee, two of life’s greatest gifts.”
“I agree, as would my daughters,” Nell told him. “Molly has been drinking coffee since she was fifteen and Felicity could easily eat a loaf of bread a day.”
When they had ordered, Nell asked how Eric’s day had passed. “Busily,” he replied, and he described a writing challenge with which he had been struggling. “You’d think that by now I’d know what I’m doing,” he said, “but every so often a problem arises that makes me feel like a complete novice.”
“What do you do when that happens?” Nell asked.
“Drink coffee,” Eric said as the waitress delivered their orders. “And call my mother. She can usually talk me off a ledge.”
“I should have asked after your parents before now,” Nell said. “I hope they’re well.” Nell had met them only once, along with Eric’s sister, Sarah, who had been about ten at the time. She remembered Mr. and Mrs. Manville as almost complete opposites of her own parents—warm, welcoming, and uncritical.
“They’re great, thanks,” Eric told her, handing Nell his phone. “That photo was taken this past summer in my parents’ backyard. That’s Chris, home on leave. Mom and Dad are on the right, Sarah is next to Dad, and those are my nephews. Peter’s the ham and Luke’s the one wearing the red t-shirt.”
“Everyone looks very happy,” Nell said, returning the phone to Eric. “And the boys are adorable.”
“Sarah and Chris are doing a fine job. Peter and Luke are fantastic kids.”
Nell smiled. “And you’re a proud uncle.”
“And the fun one. The kids are too young to understand that what I do is not really very important. All they know is that I’m occasionally on television and that the parents of their friends ask if they can get me to sign copies of my books. That makes Peter and Luke celebrities by proxy. Their father is the real hero, not me.”
“They’ll come to see that, I’m sure.” Nell hesitated before going on. Only on the drive to the cafe had it struck her like a nasty blow that while not married, Eric might be romantically involved. True, he hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend when they had talked about their marital status the day before when it might have been natural to do so. True, he had admitted he didn’t have any particular reason to return home. But that didn’t mean that he was single. If he was in a relationship, Nell thought, even if it was relatively new, she would not feel right about their spending time together. She had always had an unfashionably strict view of monogamy, a view it turned out that her former husband had not shared.
Before Nell could voice her question, Eric spoke. “I bet you’re wondering if I’m in a relationship,” he said. “The answer is I’m not. There’s been no one since my divorce. And you?”
When Nell’s head had ceased to whir—was Eric now a mind reader?—she answered his question. “There’s been no one since my divorce, either,” she told him. “These past six years I’ve been totally focused on making a good life for my daughters.”
“But now your daughters are no longer—”
“Yes,” Nell said quickly. She didn’t want to hear the words spoken aloud. Now they’re no longer in need of so much care.
Eric suddenly leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The man at the far table, the one wearing the buffalo plaid jacket. He’s reading one of my early novels, The Map of Our Lives.”
Nell was glad for the radical change of topic. “I have a first edition of each of your books,” she told him. “The owners of the Bookworm hold aside a copy for me. I had the same arrangement with the local bookstore back in Massachusetts.”
“The beauty of the independent bookshop,” Eric noted. “You know,” he went on, “sometimes I still can’t believe things have turned out as well as they have for me. No one ever thought I’d amount to much, and for so long I never gave anyone reason to think otherwise. My head was always in the proverbial clouds.” Eric laughed. “It still pretty much is. I mean, look at what I do for a living. I earn money by telling tall tales.”
“How did you find your talent as a novelist?” Nell asked. “I have to admit it’s something I’ve often wondered about.”
“It’s an interesting story,” Eric began. “I was twenty-three and working as a bagger at a grocery chain and basically at sixes and sevens—I always mean to look up the origins of that saying—and one day my neighbor happened to mention she was taking a weekend workshop in unlocking creativity. It sounded sufficiently vague and maybe even fun, and having nothing better to do that weekend, I signed up. When I got to the old campsite in the Berkshires, I found that one of the seminars was in the art of writing fairy tales. I’d never given any thought to an actual person writing a fairy tale. You know, all those stories your parents read to you when you’re a kid seem somehow just there.”
“Right,” Nell said. “Part of what the world is and always was. Part of—forever.”
“Exactly. I realized I wanted to find out what actually went on when a person sat down to create a fairy tale. I wanted to understand the power of fairy tales, what they could accomplish, why they were necessary. And that was the turning point.”
“How do you mean?” Nell asked.
“Quite simply, it got me started writing. It was like a faucet had been switched on; stories just started coming, words just started flowing. Mostly awful stuff at first, but I stuck to it, read like crazy, wrote compulsively, until finally what I was writing was good. Then it was better.” Eric smiled. “And then, through a series of fortunate events, I got my first book contract.”
“At the tender age of thirty,” Nell said.
“Yup. I’m very grateful for the nature of my talent.”
Nell smiled. “Me too.”
“So, do you read my books because you feel some sense of duty having known me back when?” Eric smiled. “Be honest.”
“I read your work because I love it,” Nell assured him. “Every new book pleases and enlightens me. And I’ve seen every movie made of your work. They’re good, but I prefer the books to the films.”
Eric laughed. “Me too. Besides I can’t bear to go to openings. I mean, Hollywood? It’s not me.”
“You know, when your first book came out I was hesitant to read it,” Nell admitted. “I wondered if I would find myself in one of the characters.” The cold-hearted destroyer of a gentle-hearted man. “I know that’s silly,” Nell went on, “but I bet everyone who knows you has wondered at some point if he’s going to show up on the page thinly veiled as the hero or the villain.”
Eric nodded. “People I know are always seeking themselves in the characters I create, but the truth is that, while I might be inspired by a person’s story, I’d never violate his or her privacy. That’s not always a popular choice among writers, but it’s what I’m comfortable with.”
Before Nell could respond, Eric’s phone rang and with an apology—“It’s my publisher”—he answered. “Sure,” he said after a moment. “That sounds fine. Just email me the details. Thanks. Merry Christmas to you, too.”
“A book tour in the works,” he explained. “They’ve got me going from coast to coast and everywhere in between.”
“I haven’t been farther away than New York City in years,” Nell told him.
“Do you not like to travel?”
Nell didn’t know how to answer. Why had it become so difficult for her to identify her likes and dislikes, her interests and passions? If her daughters made a gingerbread Pam, they could decorate the cookie with all sorts of symbols that represented their stepmother—skis; gold medals; expensive watches; flags from foreign nations. Pam displayed to the world a fully formed person, whereas she, Nell King, did not.
“I guess I’ve just been too busy to travel,” she said finally. It wasn’t true, but it was all she could find to say.
“I’d love to get together again,” Eric said suddenly. “Maybe we could meet tomorrow, late afternoon? I need to spend a solid three or four hours on the book, and for some reason mornings are proving to be more productive than afternoons this time around.”
Nell agreed to Eric’s suggestion, and they left the café. No sooner had the door closed behind them than Eric’s cell phone rang again. He looked at it and gave Nell an apologetic smile. “It’s my agent,” he said. “I should answer. She always takes my calls, no matter how busy she is.”
“Of course,” Nell said quickly. Eric nodded, took the call, and waved a farewell.
Nell got behind the wheel of her car, struggling against a feeling of letdown. She would be lying if she claimed she hadn’t been looking forward to another hug. But that had been silly on her part. Most likely the emotional high of having come across each other after all the years apart had already dissipated for Eric. Of course it had. He had so many other aspects of his life on which to spend his time and energy, while she had . . . Nell didn’t finish the thought.