“There's one more thing.”
He waited, settling back into his customary nonchalance.
“I just thought you should know. Your father and Darla are getting a divorce.”
“Yeah, Lisa told me. Big deal . . . old love 'em and leave 'em Curran.” He gave a disgusted laugh and added, “I really don't give a shit, Mom.”
“All right. I've told you.” Bess flipped her hands in the air as if excusing him. “End of parental duty.”
He rose from the bench and stood in the shadows nearby. “You better look out, Mom, the next thing you know he'll be knockin' on your door again. That's how guys like him work. . . . They gotta have a woman and by the sound of it he's fresh out of one. He made a fool of you once, and I sure as hell hope you don't let him do it again.”
“Randy Curran, what kind of an airhead do you take me for?”
Randy swung away and headed for the dining-room archway. Halfway through it he used it to brake himself and turned back to her.
“Well, you were sitting there playing that song he always liked.”
“It happens to be one I always liked, too!”
Leveling his gaze on her, he patted out a bongo rap on either side of the doorframe. “Yeah, sure, Mom,” he remarked dryly, then gave himself a two-handed push-off and left.
Chapter 3
THE ST. CROIX RIVER valley lay under a cloak of winter haze the following day as Bess left home for her shop. It was a frigid, windless morning. To the south rose an inert white plume from the tall brick smokestack of the Northern States power plant, the immaculate cloud building in a thick, motionless bundle that hovered against a pewter sky. To the north, rime formed a jeweled frosting upon the lacy tie braces of the ancient black steel lift bridge that linked Stillwater with Houlton, Wisconsin, across the water.
Rivertown, Stillwater was called. It snuggled in a bowl of wooded hills, rivers, ravines and limestone bluffs that pressed it close against the placid waters of the river from which the town took its name. It had been a mecca for lumberjacks of the 1800s, who'd worked in the pineries to the north and spent their earnings in the town's fifty watering holes and six bordellos that had long since disappeared. Gone, too, were the great white pines that had once supported the town, yet Stillwater prized its heritage of former sawmills, loggers' rooming houses and Victorian mansions built by the wealthy lumber barons whose names still dotted the pages of the local telephone directory.
It appeared, at first glance, a city of rooftops—steeples, mansards, peaks and turrets of the whimsical structures built in another day—all of them dropping toward the small downtown that rimmed the west bank of the river.
Bess viewed it as she drove down Third Street hill past the old courthouse. A right on Olive and she was at Main: a half-mile strip of commerce stretching from the limestone caves of the old Joseph Wolf Brewery at the south to the limestone walls of the Staples Mill at the north. Main Street's buildings were of another century, ornate, red-brick, with arched second-story windows above, old-fashioned street lamps out front and narrow alleys out back. Steep cobbled sidewalks led down the side streets on their way to the riverfront one block beyond. In summer tourists walked its strand, enjoyed its rose gardens, sat in the shade of the town gazebo at Lowell Park or on the green lawns in the sun while licking ice-cream cones and watching the pleasure crafts nose through the blue water of the St. Croix.
They boarded the stern-wheeler Andiamo for scenic rides and sat on the decks of the riverside restaurants sipping tall pastel drinks, eating sandwiches and squinting at the rippling water from the shade of chic terrycloth visors, musing how great it would be to live here.
That was summer.
This was winter.
Now, in droll January, the roses were gone. The pleasure crafts were dry-docked in the valley's five marinas. The Andiamo lay ice-bound at her slip. The popcorn wagon on Main Street was battened down and covered with a dome of snow. The ice sculptures in front of the Grand Garage had lost their fine edges and dwindled into crystal memories of the sailboats and angels they had been during the busy Christmas season.
Bess had her usual English muffin and coffee at the St. Croix Club restaurant beside the cheerful gas fire, took another coffee along in a Styrofoam cup and headed for her shop.
It was on Chestnut Street, two doors off Main, an ancient building with two blue window boxes, a blue door and a sign that said BLUE IRIS, HOMESCAPES, with a likeness of the flower underscoring the words.
Inside it was gloomy but smelled of the potpourri and scented candles she sold. The building was ninety-three years old, scarcely wider than a hospital corridor but deep. The front door faced north, creating a cool, shady aspect in summer. This morning, however, cold drafts filtered in.
The walls of the store were papered in shantung-textured cream to match the painted woodwork, and beneath the cove molding ran a border strip of blue irises the same shade as the carpeting. Blue irises also appeared on the signature art that hung behind the desk on the stair wall, and on the paper bags in which customers' purchases were wrapped.
Grandma Molly had grown blue irises in her yard on North Hill. Even as a child Bess had dreamed of owning her own business and way back then had known what it would be called.
Bess picked her way through the maze of lamps, art prints, easels, brass picture frames, small furniture and dried botanicals to the small checkout counter set midway down the left wall against an ancient, steep stairway that climbed to the tiniest loft imaginable. It was pressed close against the ceiling—so close the top of Bess's hair brushed the embossed tin overhead. In the town's heyday some accountant had spent his days up there, penning numbers in ledgers and taking care of cash receipts. It often occurred to Bess that the man must have been either a midget or a hunchback.
She checked at the cash register and found several messages left by Heather the day before, taking them and her coffee up the creaky steps. Upstairs it was so crowded she was forced to balance on one foot while leaning over the clutter of swatch and wallpaper books to switch on a floor lamp, then the fluorescent one on her desk. As an office, the loft was inadequate by anyone's standards, yet every time she considered giving up the store to get a bigger one, it was the loft that kept her here. Maybe it was mornings like this, when her cramped, high work space collected the rising heat and reflected the light off the cream-painted ceiling, and kept the aroma of her coffee drifting close about her head. Or maybe it was the view of the front window and door over her railing. Or maybe it was simply that the loft had character and history, and both appealed to Bess. The thought of a modern office in a sterile cubicle slightly repulsed her.
It was Bess's habit to come early. The hours between 7 and 10 A.M., when the phones were quiet and no customers around, were the most productive of her day. Once 10 A.M. hit and the front door was unlocked, power paperwork was out.
She uncapped her coffee, read Heather's messages, did paperwork, filing, made phone calls and got some design work done before Heather arrived at 9:30 and called upstairs, “'Morning, Bess!”
“ 'Morning, Heather! How are you?”
“Cold.” Bess heard the basement door open and close as Heather hung up her coat. “How was your supper at Lisa's?”
Bess paused with the page of a furniture catalog half-turned. Heather knew enough about her history with Michael that Bess wasn't going to open that can of worms yet.
“Fine,” she answered. “She's turning out to be a very decent cook.”
Heather's head appeared beyond the railing and her footsteps made the loft stairs creak. She stopped near the top of the stairs—a forty-five-year-old woman with strawberry blonde broom-cut hair glazed into fashionable disarray, stylish tortoiseshell glasses and sculptured garnet fingernails bearing tiny rhinestone nail ornaments that flashed as her hand rested on the railing. She had wide cheekbones, a pretty mouth and dressed with insouciant flair, creating a positive first impression when customers walked into the store.
&nbs
p; Bess employed three part-time clerks but Heather was her favorite as well as her most valued.
“You have a ten o'clock appointment, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Bess checked her watch and began gathering her materials for the house call.
“And a twelve-thirty and a three.”
“I know, I know.”
“Orders for today?”
Bess handed Heather various notes, gave her instructions about ordering wallpaper and checking on incoming freight, and left the store confident that things would run smoothly while she was gone.
It was a hectic day, as most were. Three house calls left her little time for lunch. She grabbed a tuna-salad sandwich at a sub shop between house calls and ate it in the car. She drove from Stillwater to Hudson, Wisconsin, to North St. Paul and got back to the Blue Iris just as Heather was locking up for the night.
“You had nine calls,” Heather said.
“Nine!”
“Four of them were important.”
Bess flopped onto a wicker settee, exhausted.
“Tell me.”
“Hirschfields, Sybil Archer, Warner Wallpaper and Lisa.”
“What did Sybil Archer want?”
“Her wallpaper.”
Bess groaned. Sybil Archer was the wife of a 3M executive who believed Bess had a wallpaper press in her back room and could produce the stuff at the snap of a finger.
“What did Lisa want?”
“She didn't say. Just said you should call her back.”
“Thanks, Heather.”
“Well, I'm off to the bank before it closes.”
“How'd we do today?”
“Terrible. A grand total of eight customers.”
Bess made a face. The bulk of her business came from her design work; she kept the store chiefly as a consideration for her design customers. “Did any of them buy anything?”
“A Cobblestone Way calendar, a few greeting cards and a couple of tea towels.”
“Hmph. Thank God for summer in a tourist town, huh?”
“Well, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Thanks, Heather, and good night.”
When Heather was gone, Bess pushed herself up, left her coat on the settee and headed for the loft. As usual, she hadn't spent nearly as much time as she had hoped on designing. It took an average of ten hours to design most jobs, and she'd barely put in three today.
Upstairs, she kicked off her high heels and scraped back her hair as she dropped to her desk chair, opened a turkey-and-sprout sandwich she'd picked up at Cub supermarket and popped the top on her Diet Pepsi.
Slowing down for the first time since morning, she realized how tired she was. She took a bite of her sandwich and stared at a stack of replacement pages that had been waiting well over two weeks to be inserted in one of the furniture catalogs.
While she was still staring the phone rang.
“Good evening, Blue Iris.”
“Mrs. Curran?”
“Yes?”
“This is Hildy Padgett . . . Mark's mother?” A friendly voice, neither cultured nor crude.
“Oh, yes, hello, Mrs. Padgett. It's so nice to hear from you.”
“I understand that Mark and Lisa had supper with you last night and broke the news.”
“Yes, they did.”
“Well, it seems those two are getting set to make us some kind of shirttail relatives or something.”
Bess set down her sandwich. “Yes, it certainly does.”
“I want you to know right up front that Jake and I couldn't be happier. We think the sun rises and sets in your daughter. From the first time Mark brought her home we said to each other, Now there's the kind of girl we'd like for a daughter-in-law. When they told us they were getting married we were just delighted.”
“Why, thank you. I know Lisa feels the same way about both of you.”
“Of course, we were a little surprised about the baby coming but both Jake and I sat down and had a long talk with Mark, just to make sure that he was doing what he wanted to do, and we came away assured that he had every intention of marrying Lisa anyway, and that they both wanted the baby and are quite excited about it.”
“Yes, they told us the same thing.”
“Well we think it's just wonderful. Both of those kids really seem to have their heads on straight.”
Once again Bess felt a twinge of regret, perhaps even jealousy, because she knew Mark and Lisa as a couple so much less intimately than this woman seemed to.
“I have to be honest with you, Mrs. Padgett, I haven't met Mark many times but last night at supper he certainly seemed straightforward and sincere when he told us this marriage is what he wants, what they both want.”
“Well, we've given them our blessings and now the two of them want very much for all of us to meet, so I suggested a dinner party here at our house and I was hoping we could get together on Saturday night.”
“Saturday night . . .” Her date with Keith; but how could she put one ordinary date before this? “That sounds fine.”
“Say seven o'clock?”
“Fine. May I bring something?”
“Lisa's brother, is all. All of our kids will be here, too—we've got five of them—so you'll get a chance to meet them all.”
“It's very kind of you to go to all this trouble.”
“Kind?” Hildy Padgett laughed. “I'm so excited I've been getting up nights and making lists!”
Bess smiled. The woman sounded so likable and breezy.
“Besides,” Hildy went on, “Lisa volunteered to come over and help me. She's going to make the dessert, so all you have to do is be here at seven and we'll get those kids off to a proper start.”
When she'd hung up, Bess sat motionless in her swivel chair, melancholy in spite of the plans she'd just made. Outside, dusk had fallen, and in the window downstairs the brass lamps were lit, throwing fern-shadow through a plant that hung above the display. In the loft only the desk lamp shone, spreading a wedge of yellow over her work and her half-finished sandwich on its square of white, waxy paper. Lisa was twenty-one, and pregnant, and getting married. Why did it sadden her so? Why did she find herself longing for the days when the children were small?
Motherlove, she supposed. That mysterious force that could strike at unexpected moments and make nostalgia blossom and fill the heart. She longed, suddenly, to be with Lisa, to touch her, hold her.
Ignoring the work that needed attention, she leaned forward and dialed Lisa's number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, honey, it's Mom.”
“Oh, hi, Mom. Something wrong? You sound a little down.”
“Oh, just a little nostalgic, that's all. I thought if you weren't busy I might come over for a while and we could talk.”
Thirty minutes later Bess had turned her back on her best design time and was entering the setting of last night's confrontation with Michael. When Lisa opened the door Bess hugged her more tightly and a little longer than usual.
“Mom, what's wrong?”
“I guess I'm just being a typical mother, is all. I was sitting there at the store, getting all misty-eyed, remembering when you were little.”
Lisa gave a foxy grin. “I was pretty fantastic, wasn't I?”
Lisa had the gift for creating effortless laughter but as Bess released the sound she was wiping a tear from the corner of one eye.
“Oh, Mom . . .” Lisa curved an arm around her mother and led her toward the living room. “I'm getting married, not cloistered.”
“I know. I just wasn't prepared for it.”
“Dad wasn't either.” They sat on the davenport and Lisa put her feet up. “So how did it go when the two of you left here last night? I figured you went off to talk about everything in private.”
“We went out and had a cup of coffee and actually managed to be civil to one another for the better part of an hour.”
“So what did you decide about Mark and me?”
Bess's expres
sion became wistful. “That you're my only daughter, and you're only getting married once . . . at least I hope it'll only be once.”
“That's why you really came over, isn't it, to make sure I'm doing the right thing.”
“Your dad and I just wanted you to know that if for any reason you decide marriage to Mark isn't what you want, we'll stand behind you.”
It was Lisa's turn to display a wistful expression. “Oh, Mom, I love him so much. When I'm with him I'm more than I was. He makes me want to be better than the me I was before, and so I am. It's as if . . .” Sitting cross-legged, Lisa gazed at the ceiling in her intense search for the proper words, then back at her mother, gesturing with both hands as if she were singing a heartfelt ballad. “. . . As if when we're together all the negative stuff disappears. I see people around me in a more charitable light; I don't criticize, I don't complain. And the funny thing is, the same thing happens to Mark.
“We've talked about it a lot . . . about that night when we met. When he walked into that pool hall and we looked at each other, we suddenly didn't want to be in a pool hall anymore but someplace pure, a woods maybe, or listening to an orchestra someplace. An orchestra! Cripes, Mom!” Lisa threw up her hands. “I like Paula Abdul but there I was, with all my senses open and new avenues looking inviting.
“Something happened . . . I can't explain it. We just . . .” Silence awhile, then Lisa continued, softly. “We just felt different. There we were, living that crazy bar scene, hanging around in noisy, smoky places and swaggering and showing off and being loud and obnoxious at times, and then our two crowds bumped into one another, and he smiled at me and said, ‘Hi, I'm Mark,' and from that night on we never felt like we had to be phony with each other. We can admit our weaknesses to one another and that seems to make us stronger. Isn't it weird?”
On her end of the sofa, Bess sat very still, listening to the most stirring description of love she'd ever heard.
“You know what he said to me one day?” Lisa looked radiant as she continued. “He said, ‘You're better than any creed I ever learned.' He said it was a line from a poem he read once. I thought about it awhile—actually I've thought about it a lot since he said it—and I realize that's what we are to each other. We're each other's creeds, and not to marry someone you feel that way about would be the greatest shame of all.”