Christmas on Honeysuckle Lane Page 6

  And of course Caro always had something critical to say about how Andie had cared for the house in her absence. Well, Caro had been a perfectionist. Every picture frame in exact alignment, the house vacuumed every other day, sheets and towels neatly folded and stacked in a linen closet that would have made the most exacting housekeeper proud. Not like me, Andie thought with a rueful smile for no one. “I don’t know where you came from,” Caro would say, shaking her head at her oldest child’s messy habits.

  Sometimes Andie still asked herself the same question. Where indeed had she come from? From the very beginning she had been a disappointment. Her parents had fully expected their first child to be a boy; he was to be named after Cliff’s father, Andrew. But a girl had come along instead, and “Andrew” became “Andrea.” I’ve never been what was expected of me, she thought. A miniature of my mother, a girl who excelled at the expected.

  Expectation. It could be a terrible thing when the expectations you attempted to fulfill were not of your own choosing. The expected would have been for Andie to give her daughter a more mainstream name. The expected would have been for Andie to stay in Oliver’s Well with her husband and child, rather than for her to travel the world on her own. Sometimes, in very dark moments, Andie thought she would gladly give up all that she had achieved if she could turn back the clock and be a “normal” wife and mother. But only in very dark moments.

  Andie scooted to a sitting position and reached for one of her books. It was Rumi’s The Spiritual Couplets, a six-volume mystical poem regarded by some Sufis as the Persian language’s Koran. Simply holding the book for a moment could bring Andie comfort. “Life is a beautiful gift from God,” she whispered to the room.

  And then she smiled, remembering the text that Bob—her anchor—had sent her earlier that evening. Happy yr here, it said. Hugs, B. Texting might be inadequate for what Andie thought of as true communication, but there was no denying it was quick and efficient. Happy yr here, 2, she had replied. Kisses, A.

  Andie returned the book to the little table by the couch, turned off the light, and snuggled down under the old but immaculately clean blanket she had found in the linen closet that afternoon. Gratefully she welcomed the gift of sleep as it approached.

  CHAPTER 9

  At nine A.M. sharp, Daniel pulled into the drive in front of the house on Honeysuckle Lane. He got out of his car—a Honda CRV that doubled as his work vehicle—and jogged up the steps to the front door. He didn’t bother to knock or to ring the bell. Why should he when he had a key and was the caretaker of the house? He was the one who had had the boiler repaired that February, the one who knew where all the cleaning supplies lived. He was the one who religiously and ever so carefully polished his mother’s most prized possession, a desk of pollard oak designed and crafted by the famous British Regency cabinetmaker George Bullock.

  Daniel opened the door, went inside, and closed the door behind him.

  “Who’s there?” Emma emerged from the direction of the kitchen, a dish towel in hand. “Oh, Danny, it’s you. Why didn’t you knock? I know there’s not a lot of crime in Oliver’s Well, but you startled me.”

  “But I have a key,” he said. And then he added, “I’m used to coming and going as I please. Sorry if I frightened you.”

  Emma shrugged. “No big deal. Come on in. We’re in the kitchen.”

  Daniel followed his sister. “Still eating breakfast?” he said, noting the slice of half-eaten toast at Emma’s place, a bowl of yogurt and fruit in front of Andie, the half-empty press pot of coffee in the center of the table.

  “We both slept late,” Emma said. “Bad night for me, at least.”

  Andie was on her phone and taking notes in a small spiral notebook in front of her.

  “Someone from her publisher,” Emma explained, nodding toward her sister.

  “I suppose you’ve checked into your office already?” Daniel asked Emma.

  “Of course. I might be having trouble waking up, but I can’t let my clients down.”

  Andie ended her call then and greeted her brother. “Good morning, Danny. You’re out and about early.”

  “What’s early about nine A.M.? Bad night for you, too?” he asked.

  “Dreams. Exhausting dreams,” Andie said. And then she yawned widely and reached for the coffeepot. “Being a lucid dreamer is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Emma nodded toward the brown leather satchel slung across Daniel’s chest. “Business?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Family business.” Daniel took a seat across from his sisters and opened the satchel. “Here,” he said, handing a stack of brochures to Emma. “These are from the top local real estate agents. Will you meet with each of them as soon as possible and decide on one who can best handle the sale of the house? I’m assuming we want to sell, right?”

  Emma nodded.

  “I think it’s probably for the best if we sell as soon as we can,” Andie said. “It’s sort of awful to know the house is just sitting empty, when a family might be very happy living here. There was good energy here. There can be again.”

  A blob of yogurt fell from her spoon onto the table. Daniel reached for a napkin and wiped it up. “Good or bad energy, let’s try to keep the place intact,” he said, trying to keep a note of annoyance from his voice. “If we’re going to auction off the furniture it’s got to be in good condition. I’ve been keeping everything in pristine shape and I don’t want it getting ruined now.”

  “Sorry, Danny,” Andie said.

  “Speaking of all you’ve been doing around here,” Emma said, “Andie and I would like to give you some money to repay what you’ve obviously put out stocking the kitchen for our stay. Would—”

  “No.” Daniel knew that his tone had been harsh, but he hadn’t been able to help it. “I’m not taking money from my sisters,” he went on. “I don’t need it.” Daniel cleared his throat and removed a sheaf of papers from the satchel. He handed one set to each of his sisters. “I’ve made an inventory of the contents of the house. I need you both to go through it carefully and note anything I might have missed.”

  Emma flipped through her set of stapled pages. “This must have taken you ages,” she said. “It looks very thorough.”

  Andie put her copy on the table. “Most of this is just stuff, Danny. I really don’t care what happens to the bric-a-brac. You and Emma can decide what to do with it.”

  Daniel felt his frustration mounting. “We all have to make the decisions about the contents of the house,” he said firmly. “What to sell, what to keep, how to sell. It’s what Mom wanted. Anna Maria can help you if you really feel overwhelmed. But remember, she’s already stretched pretty thin.”

  “Don’t worry, Danny,” Emma said. “Andie and I will handle this on our own. Do you want some coffee?”

  “No,” Daniel said. “Thanks. Oh, Emma. I talked to Joe Herbert this morning. He suggested I might want to reconsider the way Anna Maria and I have been putting away in the kids’ college savings plan. He said because college is still some time away, we might want to be a bit less conservative than we’ve been.”

  “I think Joe’s probably right,” Emma said. “But as I don’t have access to your accounts, I can’t be certain. If you’d like me to take a look at anything, I’d be happy to, though I totally trust Joe. He hasn’t steered us wrong yet.”

  “Dad would be glad to see you taking an interest,” Daniel said.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Emma asked, shaking her head. “Sophia and Marco are my family.”

  Daniel turned to Andie. “Well, we all know that Dad intended Emma to be his successor, but our Emma had other ideas. She wasn’t interested in inheriting the family business.”

  “What made you bring that up?’ Emma asked. “It’s ancient history and hardly news.”

  Daniel shrugged. “No reason. Oh, and you should know that Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon has been pestering me about our giving the Oliver’s Well Historical Association the George Bullock de
sk. She reminded me the other day—as if I could forget—that in 1805 the British government ordered a suite of furniture from George Bullock for Emperor Napoleon when he was exiled on Saint Helena.” Daniel laughed. “Anyway, I wouldn’t put it past her to approach either one of you if she runs into you around town.”

  “Is she still chairperson?” Emma asked. “The estimable Mrs. Fitzgibbon.”

  “No, she retired from that position about six months ago,” Daniel said. “Leonard De Witt took over. But she still plays a vital if unofficial role. Mary Bernadette Fitzgibbon is the OWHA.”

  “Mom cherished that desk, didn’t she?” Andie commented. “Passed down through the generations of her family like it was.”

  “Maybe we should find out its financial worth,” Emma suggested. “If it’s valuable, and I’d guess it is, we could sell it and split the proceeds. I’d be happy to give my share to Sophia and Marco,” she added. “Something else to stash away toward college.”

  “Why not just let the OWHA have the desk?” Andie asked. “That way everyone can enjoy it, not just a single owner. It’s a very beautiful piece.”

  Daniel shook his head. “But it doesn’t belong to everyone. It belongs to us, the Reynoldses via the Carlyles. By the way, Rumi agrees with me one hundred percent. She absolutely doesn’t want the desk to leave the family. It’s what Mom wanted.”

  Andie smiled. “Do you remember the time when you were about five or six, Danny, and Mom caught you using crayons at the desk?”

  Daniel frowned. “I had a coloring book. The desk wasn’t at risk.”

  “That’s not what Mom thought.”

  “She wouldn’t even let Dad use the desk,” Emma added. “I’m surprised she didn’t keep it tucked away somewhere under lock and key instead of in the living room where it was vulnerable.”

  “She liked to see it every day,” Daniel said.

  Andie nodded. “And she wanted other people to see it, too. It always elicited comment.”

  “She was proud of it,” Daniel said firmly, “and rightly so.”

  “Okay, so the desk stays here, at least for now.” Emma poured more coffee into her cup; Daniel hoped that she knew how to properly clean the filter in a press pot. If it wasn’t properly cleaned the resulting coffee could be negatively affected.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, rising from the table. At the door to the kitchen he turned. “One more thing. I just had the baseboards in the living room painted, so try not to damage them. And don’t dust Mom’s desk. I use a special-formula polish.” Daniel loved his sisters, but he wasn’t entirely sure they fully realized the preciousness of this house and all that it contained. In fact, he was pretty certain they didn’t understand the half of it.

  “Okay, Danny,” Emma said. Andie just nodded.

  CHAPTER 10

  “This could take us forever!” Andie waved her copy of Daniel’s inventory.

  Emma laughed. She held her own copy of their brother’s inventory in one hand and a pencil in the other. “We’d better get cracking,” she said. “I’ll start at this end of the room, by Dad’s writing table. Why don’t you start on the bookshelves?”

  While her sister began to check the tightly stocked shelves against the inventory Daniel had compiled, Emma began, half-absentmindedly, to check off the vases and candlesticks and small statuettes her brother had so meticulously listed. When she turned her attention to the room’s alcove, home to a plaster column on top of which sat a bronze bust of Shakespeare, she smiled. She had always loved this house, with its clean layout, relatively spacious rooms, and its various unique touches not found in the other houses on Honeysuckle Lane—and over the years Emma had been inside most of them. The alcove in the den was one such touch; the archway separating the dining from the living room was another; the bow window in the master bedroom yet another. Whoever had built number 32 had succeeded in balancing function with charm.

  Though Emma had never regretted leaving Oliver’s Well, she had always missed the house itself and had often thought of how small changes here and there might make it even more pleasant. Of course, she would have to own the house outright to make any changes.

  Emma was so forcibly struck by the thought the pencil fell from her hand and onto her father’s writing table. Since when had she ever even vaguely considered being the sole owner of her parents’ house? But it wasn’t so outrageous an idea, was it? She was discontent with her life as it was and she no longer had Ian to use as an excuse for not making whatever changes she might want to make. But . . . No, she told herself firmly. It would be a mad, bad idea, living in this house, coming back to Oliver’s Well. It would.

  “Since when did Danny get to be such a fusspot?” Andie wondered, breaking into Emma’s thoughts. “Look, he’s catalogued every single book in this room! Even the paperbacks we had as teens. I can’t believe Mom held on to them all these years. They’re utterly without value.”

  “Not even sentimental value?” Emma asked.

  “The Mystery of the Flaming Lake? My Dog Ozzy? The Best Boyfriend, Ever? Do you remember anything about those books other than the titles?”

  Emma laughed. “No. That’s probably a good thing. Although a flaming lake sounds pretty interesting.”

  Andie pulled a paperback with a particularly lurid cover off the shelf and tossed it onto the couch. “Danny got so worked up this morning about a little bit of spilled yogurt,” she said. “It seems unlike him to be so nit-picky. This whole estate business must really be driving him crazy.”

  “And what about the remark about the baseboards in the living room?” Emma asked. “What does he think we’re going to do, take Magic Markers to them? Or Windex to the Bullock desk?” If I did buy this house and move back in, Emma wondered, would Danny relinquish his control of it or would he be checking up on me daily to make sure I hadn’t accidentally burned it down?

  “The family created a bit of a monster in Danny,” Andie said with a sigh.

  “A loveable one.”

  “Yes,” Andie agreed. “Most times.”

  The sisters continued to work in companionable silence for a time, and Emma realized once again how she treasured their relationship. To be with Andie was to be with someone Emma trusted and loved entirely. And it had been that way right from the start. Being only two years apart, they had spent a lot of time together as children, playing with their dolls or kicking around a soccer ball or watching Disney movies, or simply being each other’s companion on long summer afternoons when it was too hot to do anything but sit close to the air conditioner, hair held up off their sweaty necks. Those experiences, simple as they were, had created a strong bond between the sisters, a bond that continued still, even though their adult lives had taken them in different directions and they rarely got to spend time face to face.

  “I was surprised when Danny suggested we come with him and the kids when they go to cut down a Christmas tree,” Andie said, breaking the silence. “Like we used to do with Dad, he said. I always felt horribly sad at the destruction of a living thing,” she admitted. “Emma? When Danny said we should come along because the kids want us there, did you believe him?”

  “Not really,” Emma told her. “I mean, I don’t think Sophia and Marco would mind us along, but I think Danny is the one with the sudden need for family outings.”

  “You’re right,” Andie agreed. “He’s nostalgic for our youth. And in some ways our childhood really was idyllic. At least, it seems that way to me now, aside from Mom always telling me to watch my weight. Things only started to go wrong for me when I made the decision to marry Bob. To marry anyone, really. To settle down to a life I wasn’t meant to live. But that was no one’s fault but my own.”

  “You felt under pressure from Mom and Dad,” Emma pointed out. “They could take some of the blame.”

  “But why should they?” Andie shrugged. “I own my choices, right or wrong.”

  Emma thought about that. She thought about the pressure she had felt to follow in he
r father’s footsteps, even before he’d made her the offer to join him in business, and she realized that she still harbored some residual resentment over her mother’s inability to appreciate her decision to make a life elsewhere. It was childish, holding a grudge, blaming her mother for being nothing more or less than who she was. Childish and pointless.

  “Look, Andie.” Emma pointed to an old-fashioned black metal alarm clock on one of the bookshelves, where it was being used as a prop for a few copies of National Geographic. “This was Grandma Reynolds’s clock. It’s not exactly valuable. In fact, I’m kind of surprised Mom allowed it to be kept around.”

  “Only because Dad wanted it to be,” Andie reminded her. “She’d never deprive Dad of something he really wanted, like his mother’s old wind-up alarm clock.”

  Emma laughed. “Do you remember the awful din this thing made? Really, your eardrum could burst if you were in ten feet of it when it went off.”

  “I think it can safely go in the trash.” Andie raised an eyebrow. “After we ask Danny’s permission.”

  “I doubt he has any memory of Grandpa Andrew or Grandma Alice at all. They died when he was just one. He can’t have much of an attachment to what little they left behind.”

  “Maybe not,” Andie agreed. “Still, let’s play it safe and check with him before we start loading up the trash bags.”

  Emma nodded. And she thought of how their Carlyle grandparents had died when Andie was seven, she herself five, and Daniel just three. Daniel had only met William and Martha two or three times and probably had little if any recollection of them, either. “After all the grandparents were gone,” she said to her sister, “it really was just the five of us, wasn’t it? We were a fairly insular family.”