The Orchard House Page 12

  Lorraine squeezed my hand tighter and I felt a desperation in it that scared me. “Please, Taylor. I—now that you’re here, I don’t want to lose a moment. Give me this much. Don’t you owe it—?” She stopped, but it was too late. The words were already out in the open.

  I owed her.

  And she was right. I slid my hand from hers.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—I didn’t mean . . .”

  But she did. And didn’t I deserve the words?

  “It’s okay,” I whispered, dragging in a deep breath. “I suppose I could get some writing done here . . . and it might be fun to do some teaching . . .”

  Victoria smiled, but it seemed guarded. Surely she had her own doubts about me staying here too. “The kids will be excited to have you. And I found something the other day that I want to show you.” She shrugged, gave me a look forced with hope. “Who knows? Maybe it will be just like—”

  She seemed to catch herself, and I was glad of it.

  Because we couldn’t fool ourselves into thinking it would be just like old times. It wouldn’t. And I needed to remind myself of that more than anyone.

  I was here for Lorraine. Maybe now I was here to write a book.

  End of story.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I like to help women help themselves, as that is, in my opinion, the best way to settle the Woman question.

  ~ LMA

  Johanna

  NOVEMBER 17, 1865

  Dearest Johanna,

  I was so very glad to receive your long scribble, to hear that Marmee and my dear old Plato are doing well. Please do not fret over my parting comment about keeping on top of their spending—it was wrong of me to make it. I will settle things when I return, which I am not quite ready to think upon yet!

  Still, it touches me to see how they miss me, think of me, and long to have me back. I begin to realize how much I am to them in spite of all my faults, and knowing this sort of love lightens my spirit all the more.

  The boredom I felt at Schwalbach is gone. I think I’ve had enough of spa life to last me quite some time. I try to be patient with Anna, but we are an amusing match—she who can’t stand the thought of books and spends her time doing nothing but playing backgammon and cribbage. I am not even sure the patience of an angel will be enough to see me through the rest of my time with her.

  Ah, but Vevey! This small spa town should not be underestimated. The Alps stand tall and proud, white spectral shapes towering above the green hills and valleys they lie between. Lake Leman was beyond comparison, and the Pension Victoria houses not only comfortable rooms, but a cast of characters fit for any book I might write—and I find myself again quite amused, even as I know that I, a thirty-three-year-old Yankee spinster, am but one of them.

  There is a Frenchwoman who offered me French lessons but grew most impatient with me after two lessons. I am not as discouraged as I perhaps should be. A pleasant Englishwoman and her daughter have been a welcome distraction, and two Scottish ladies who have met Sir Walter Scott have refreshed me.

  If there was to be an evil character in this play of Vevey, it would be Colonel Polk. A Confederate commander, he travels with his family but turns his nose up at Anna and me—two Yankee women who certainly disgust him, though I can’t say I wouldn’t like to pluck a feather or two from his cap if I had the chance, either.

  The last character is one who has completely intrigued me—Ladislas Wisniewski. Don’t fear on the pronunciation—two hiccups and a sneeze will give you the name quite perfectly! He insists we call him Laddie, and I have to admit it hasn’t been since your brother that I’ve come to admire a man so. He is young, a Polish refugee who fought against Russia in the insurrection. He has come to Vevey to attempt to heal his failing lungs. The poor thing cannot seem to get rid of a brutal hacking cough, but ah, when he plays the piano and has a peaceful break from his coughing fits, there is nothing more lovely.

  Listen to me—a spinster turned into a simpering girl! But you know as well as anyone, that I like boys and oysters raw—and Laddie is just so. He does not put on airs, and when I once asked him to play the Polish national anthem, which Polish villagers had sung while under the attack of the Cossacks, my dear friend hesitated, fearful to offend any Russian guests at the boardinghouse.

  I insisted. “I should rather enjoy that insult to your bitter enemy,” I said.

  And do you know what he returned? “Ah, mademoiselle, it is true we are enemies, but we are also gentlemen.”

  I am not sure I will ever learn what it is to be noble and good, but I feel blessed to have angels in my path—such as your brother and Laddie—to show me the way. We enjoy ourselves by taking long walks, sailing on the lake, and giving one another English and French lessons, to which Laddie often becomes frustrated, slapping his forehead and lamenting, “I am imbecile. I never can will shall to have learn this beast of English!”

  I feel both young and old when I am with him. He brings me flowers at every dinner and tucks sweet notes beneath the door of my room, and I look forward to our long conversations in the evening. If I were in my right mind, I would burn this letter before I send it. I’ve spoken of him to such extent not even with May, for I know she will think me foolish, having feelings for one so much younger. Soon I will have to put them in my pocket, as it is a romance that is never meant to be, but for now, they are flying free.

  I suppose I haven’t much of a right to caution you about Mr. Bancroft, as I’ve thrown caution to the wind these last couple of months. I see now how the heady feelings of love can do that to us, and yet I wish we could better heed the lesson of my Sylvia in Moods and not be ruled by them. How hard it is, though!

  You are a grown woman, Johanna. My opinion of Mr. Bancroft—Nathan, as I noticed you called him in your last letter—should not matter. I only wish you to not be hasty in making any future plans, especially without your family close by. I imagine you may feel lonely, and Nathan has filled that longing, as I feel the same when it comes to Laddie. I know Concord must be preparing for husking parties about now, and I trust you will enjoy yourself with the company, the cider, the dancing red ears of corn. Please send my regards to all.

  I’ve an idea for a new novel, and though it is a bit sensational, I cannot keep it from my head. It’s about a young girl who is duped into marrying a less-than-worthy fellow and who comes to regret it. I think it will take place in Europe, for I feel I can further enjoy this time if I can conjure up characters in my head who will bask in this beautiful setting along with me.

  Give my love to the family, as I know the letters are sometimes few and far between.

  Yours,

  Louisa

  January 7, 1866

  Dearest Louisa,

  What a pleasure to receive your letter and hear of your adventures! Vevey sounds breathtaking and your companions—particularly Ladislas—most delightful.

  Orchard House is well. Christmas was warm here—not warm in temperature but in spirit. A simple affair in which your parents invited the many needy into their home for cider, pumpkin pie, and gingerbread. Nathan joined us, and though he seemed a bit taken aback by the company kept, he ended up having as jolly a time as the rest of us and even sang as I coaxed some carols from Elizabeth’s old piano. Your mother said that if Lizzie could have looked down from heaven, she surely would have been pleased. I do hope so.

  Nathan continues to court me and has even read some of my poems and is showing them to his uncle to see if he can use any in his publications. He is away in Boston much and it’s a wonder that he doesn’t permanently reside there, but he says he likes to get away from the city and rest in the country. He certainly does have much on his plate and does not seem to enjoy the shorter winter days. They can be trying, though when he is home, we have a capital time jingling about in his sleigh or ice-skating on Goose Pond. We even rode about on horseback before the snows came and enjoyed the cattle show, which I found very pleasing.

>   Your new idea sounds fascinating, and yes, sensational. Can’t you write a sweet little love story just one time? Always such heavy subjects with you! But I know you have heavy thoughts—they must come out best in a story. I will look forward to reading it.

  I can’t wait to hear more of your adventures, my dear friend. Write soon.

  Yours,

  Johanna

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I found one of mother’s notes in my journal. . . . I often think what a hard life she has had since she married—so full of wandering and all sorts of worry!

  ~ LMA

  Taylor

  I CAME OUT OF THE SHOWER to hear my cell phone ringing. I entered the bedroom and lunged for the phone on the bed. My old bed. In my old room. Funny to be here now, in this place where I’d spent so much of my teen years.

  It looked different now. Maddie stayed here often on the weekends and had painted and decorated it to her liking—lots of pictures of the ocean and soccer players I didn’t know. And yet my heart had near leapt from my chest when I perused her bookcase, seeing my old tattered copy of Little Women on the top shelf.

  I’d slipped it from its place with care, noted how the binding was looser than ever and wondered if Maddie had read the book as voraciously as I had. Strange how that thought warmed me.

  I tapped the green button and put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Hey, beautiful. Where you been?”

  I breathed out in relief. “Kevin.” It was nice to hear his voice, and for a moment I felt guilty for not thinking about him more these past couple of days, for not missing him when I went into Boston for dinner before seeing Les Misérables with Lorraine and Victoria, for not thinking to call him after I ran the trail through Minute Man national park while Lorraine and Paul were at church that morning. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotten wrapped up with everything here.”

  “That’s okay. You’ll be home tomorrow night, right? I’m flying in too. Let’s meet up for a romantic dinner. I had the best stuffed shrimp here and I think I know what the secret ingredient was. What do you say I try it out on you?”

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful . . .”

  A second of strained silence. “But . . . ?”

  “I’ve decided to stay around a little longer.”

  “What? Really? When were you going to tell me?”

  I fumbled through my suitcase for a pair of jeans. “When I talked to you, which I guess is now.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end. “I don’t get it, Taylor.”

  “What?” But I knew.

  “I don’t expect your world to revolve around me—I think you know that by now. But I would like to think I matter enough to keep me in the loop.”

  I closed my eyes. He was right. I was being inconsiderate. Yes, I wanted my independence, but Kevin was part of my world in California, part of where I belonged. And somehow all of that felt ten times safer than being back in Concord.

  I couldn’t take it for granted. I wouldn’t.

  “You’re right. I really am sorry. I should have called sooner.”

  A long sigh on the other end of the line. “How long will you be staying?”

  I pulled on jeans, sponged up my wet hair with a towel. “At least through the week. I’m helping Victoria out with some classes at Orchard House. I’ll work on my writing while I’m here.”

  “Maybe I could fly over Tuesday morning.”

  I felt suddenly hot, my just-showered skin sticky and flushed.

  You know the fight-or-flight response theory? Well, in my books, I always made my characters fighters. Face their situation, no matter how unpleasant, and deal with it. It’s because I had a lot of respect for that ability. It’s because I wanted to be like that.

  But I’d known ever since that day I saw my boyfriend’s lips all over my sister’s that I wasn’t a fighter. I was a flighter. Because I didn’t think smashing Victoria’s laptop in a fit of fury exactly qualified as fighting.

  Now, talking to Kevin, I couldn’t bear to face his question head-on. I couldn’t bear to face the reality of what we were, of what we were likely never to be.

  “I don’t know, Kevin. Things are . . . strained. Hey, I actually have to run. Victoria’s picking me up for Jo March Writing Camp and I just got out of the shower.” My sister had offered the ride, and I had accepted. I figured it’d be less awkward than arriving in the middle of a bunch of young kids by myself and not knowing where to go, what to do.

  “Yeah. Okay. Great. Have fun.” He hung up, the silence speaking his frustration better than a sad, crooning love song ever could.

  I threw the phone back on the bed and pulled a light sweater over my head. Was it my fault that every relationship I had was fraught with some sort of dysfunction? Scientific probability would say yes.

  Why, then, couldn’t I own it?

  I scooped up my brush and began yanking it through my hair with vigor. Large clumps caught in the bristles, and I released the tension, started again, pulling harder, almost savoring the sting on my head which distracted me from the emotional pain I didn’t want to dwell on.

  Kevin had asked me to see a counselor once with him. I’d denied him right away. Maybe though . . . maybe I should revisit the possibility. I was thirty-seven years old, for pity’s sake. I couldn’t live like this forever.

  I worked a tiny amount of mousse into my hair, blow-dried it until it was presentable, put on a small amount of makeup, then scooped up my cell phone, laptop bag, and the book Victoria had given me last night, Aunt Jo’s Literary Lessons, that served as part of the instructional writing time at Jo March Writing Camp. Victoria had told me I could use the book as a guide, or I could wing it. She was leaving the entire instructional writing time up to me, and I wasn’t quite so confident I should be trusted with it.

  The scent of coffee lingered in the kitchen, but when I entered the large area, bright with morning sun splashing on clean, white cabinets, it was empty. I opened the cabinet to the right of the refrigerator, found the travel mugs there, just as I’d remembered, and poured freshly brewed coffee into one of them.

  I heard the side door open, thought to yell and let Victoria know that I’d be right out, but didn’t want to wake Lorraine or Paul if they still slept.

  I looked around for sugar, couldn’t find any, but opened the fridge and settled for a dash of creamer, then screwed the lid on top of the mug. Victoria didn’t like to be late. I might not be ready to make amends with my sister, but I didn’t need to start off our week together by annoying her, either.

  I turned but stopped short at the sight before me.

  Not Victoria, but her husband.

  “Will.” I regretted speaking his name the instant it left my lips. It sounded too . . . personal. Too wrong.

  “Taylor, hey. I didn’t expect—I mean, Caden left his glove somewhere around here. I’m dropping him off at baseball camp this morning.”

  I hated to admit how good he looked. Too good. His hair still full, his jaw clean-shaven, he looked to have aged only about half the amount I knew he had—and every year fit him. His shoulders had only grown broader, his presence doing the same thing it had done to me all those years ago.

  Only this time, he was a married man. My sister’s man.

  “Victoria told me you were back in town. It’s good to see you. Real good. You look great.”

  “Um . . . yeah, you too.”

  That should have been it. He had a glove to find, I had a teaching gig to get to, but we both just stood there, the world seeming to stand still with us.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, and I tried to suppress the feelings pouring through me, feelings that spoke of regret and jealousy and hurt over what my sister and Will had done to me all those years ago. Standing with him there across the room, I didn’t even want to ignore it. Just once, I wanted to bask in it. Bask in the hurt and shame and rejection, in all the unholy feelings coursing through me.

  He cleared his throat. “I trie
d to call you. Kind of a lot, actually. When I came back from Iraq, I didn’t know where you were . . .”

  I shook my head. Iraq? He’d joined up after all? Gone to war?

  I tried to fit this new reality in my head, tried to piece together Victoria and Will with this new slice of information. I wanted to ask but thought better of it. Instead, I decided to pretend I already knew. “I changed my number. Listen, none of this matters anymore, right? We’re good, okay?” I smiled, a little too brightly maybe, to indicate that everything was fine. That the past could simply be swept under the proverbial rug and all would be well.

  “I’d like to talk with you sometime. Clear the air a bit. You think that’d be all right?”

  I laughed—more like snorted. “You sound just like your wife. You remember her, right? I don’t think it’s a great idea for us to talk or clear the air.” My words were fighting words, surprising even myself.

  “Victoria thinks it’s a good idea. And so do I.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

  “Okay . . . maybe tonight?”

  I rubbed my temples. “Tonight? No, Will, not okay. I’m sorry—I just can’t do this. And don’t you have some big project due that’s taking all your time?”

  “This is more important. You’re more important.”

  The young woman inside me wanted to be flattered at his words. But the more mature, life-hardened woman wasn’t fooled.

  “I need to go. I’ll be around for the week.” I brushed past him and he didn’t move out of the way. My shoulder skimmed his arm and I clamped it to my side, as if I’d been burned.

  The side door opened and Victoria appeared. “Oh, hey.” She looked past me at Will.

  “You know where he left his glove?” Will asked her, more than an edge of impatience in his tone—one that changed completely when speaking to his wife.

  “Um, might be upstairs.”