Mr. Elliott Finds A Family

“About Caroline’s other life.”

Other life. Beth Ann swallowed hard and cursed Carrie for putting her in such a position. Bernie had inherited a fortune. She glanced out the window surprised to see the old oak tree. The fog must have lifted.

When was it, exactly, that her life had become so complicated?

In college, free and single, working on her Masters of Fine Arts, all she’d had to worry about was the soft blur of colors and trying to control, cajole really, the wet medium to fit the impressions in her head. Too much wet and mold grew on the paper. Too little, not enough blur. She spent hours, chasing the elusive values of light that plagued her even in her sleep, especially as she tried to infuse some spark of life into a painting already long dead, flat and mottled from her vain attempts at repair. There was a time, just before a depressed and pregnant Carrie arrived, when Beth Ann had had the promise of a lucrative career in art.

But not today.

The offers had waned because first she couldn’t deliver her paintings on time and later because there was nothing new even to deliver. Between Bernie and Iris, she just couldn’t maintain the momentum she needed to paint, to finish what she had already started.

Beth Ann had gone from painting six hours a day to six hours a week to six hours a month. And then she’d stopped painting altogether when Bernie came down with the croup and was in the hospital for five days. Beth Ann had frantically tried to call Carrie, but she was nowhere to be found. The hospital bills wiped out both her and Iris’s savings and Beth Ann had been forced to take out a mortgage on Iris’s long-paid-for house to pay the balance of the bill and to get herself and Bernie insurance. At least, Iris had Medicare. Between Iris’s social security and university pension, the residuals still dribbling in from Beth Ann’s sporadic sales and the drawing and painting classes she taught for the city’s parks and recreation program, they were doing okay. Not great, but okay. Okay enough that Beth Ann could stay home most of the time.

Bernie wriggled impatiently on her lap. Beth Ann stared at the man sitting across from her and took another sip of coffee. Finally, she said, “What do you mean by Carrie’s other life?”

When Bernie squirmed more and slid to the ground, Beth Ann used the opportunity to put some distance between herself and the piercing gray stare. She went to the ancient dryer tucked in the corner of the kitchen and rifled through the clean laundry, looking for clothes for Bernie. Half a kitchen away, she could now safely ask, “Why do you want to know about Carrie’s other life? Don’t you think that it’s a little late now?”

The second question slipped out before she could stop it.

She was surprised at how bitter she sounded and she suppressed a feeling of guilt, ashamed she’d allowed her anger to show. She pulled out a small T-shirt and frowned at the hole under the sleeve and the brown splotch she couldn’t get out. She looked for something newer and matching and swallowed hard when she realized she had neither. Bernie’s clothes were mostly hand-me-downs supplied by Elena Marquez, the dairy farmer’s wife. With a quiet sigh, she quickly assembled a small outfit for Bernie, a faded green monster-truck T-shirt and a pair of loose blue toddler sweats, pants that Bernie could easily pull on and off. She returned to the kitchen table, avoiding the gaze of the almost oppressively silent man sitting there. She focused her attention on the little girl, well aware that his silver eyes were fixed on Bernie’s faded blue striped socks and palm-size tennis shoes.

“Nana?” Bernie asked as Beth Ann stripped off the toddler’s pajamas, tugging the top over her head. She pulled on Bernie’s little T-shirt, glancing up and flushing when she met Christian’s pale eyes, withdrawn and shuttered close. She felt a chill run down her spine. How could Carrie have ever married a man whose humorless expression bored into a person, as if he was dissecting every part of her?

“Nana’s napping now,” Beth Ann replied making her voice as even as she could. “Give me your arms.” Bernie’s arms came up immediately.

She finally addressed Christian. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“She looks like a boy,” Christian said suddenly.

Beth Ann’s back stiffened.

“Dressed like that, I mean,” he added.

“My friend has three boys and the clothes were perfectly good,” Beth Ann replied, not able to control the defensiveness in her voice.

Christian stayed quiet, but his eyes followed her every move.

Beth Ann caught Bernie between her legs. “Give me a foot,” she instructed and Bernie put her foot into the pant leg. “Other foot.”

“I pull up!” Bernie insisted.

“Yes, you pull up your pants, just like you do after you go poop,” Beth Ann agreed and watched Bernie’s chubby hands fight for coordination as she grasped the elastic and tugged with such toddler might that the waist ended up at her armpits. Beth Ann fixed them, pulling out Bernie’s self-inflicted wedgie, paying more attention to the smaller details of Bernie’s attire than she normally would. With a small pat on Bernie’s behind, Beth Ann opened up the baby gate and sent her off to get her hairbrush.

Christian forced himself to relax, mentally surveying the layout of the small bungalow. The house went back a lot further than he thought, the hall cutting the house in half lengthwise. Bernie’s room was near the back—he could hear the direction of her footsteps. The grandmother was directly across the hall from the kitchen. So by elimination, that made Beth Ann’s room the one up front across from the living room. Which had been Caroline’s room?

After he and Caroline had gotten married, he’d wanted to find a place of their own, but Caroline had quickly fallen in love with Bella Grande along with the well-trained staff. Declaring he was absolutely crazy to want to live anywhere else, she’d halfheartedly toured the homes he’d arranged for her to see, then convinced him that his parents’ estate was the best place for them to settle. Perhaps an early sign that their marriage was disintegrating.

Now, he caught a small glimpse of the reason behind Caroline’s driving need to reside at Bella Grande. She denied her ordinary beginnings and used him to reinvent herself to the point of obliterating her family, her sister, her grandmother. First it was the mansion, then it was the cruises. When two-week holidays had turned into three-month or five-month journeys, he’d known Caroline had stumbled upon a life-style.

When she’d return home, she’d always declare she wasn’t going to travel again, that she was sick of the crowd, of the food. But after about three weeks, he saw the brochures, found the tickets on her dresser, felt her restlessness. He’d responded by working harder, ridding himself of the fanciful notions of children gleefully screaming on the vast lawns of his parents’ estate, adjusting to the fact that when Caroline was in town, her cruising friends would slobber over him because of his family’s name.

It had been almost a relief when Caroline would call to say she was extending the cruise of the hour for another few weeks. In the seven years they were married, Caroline had traveled for probably five of them, if all the months were strung together. It had happened so subtly that even if Christian had wanted to, there was no way to protest. When he finally did, she’d spoken so bitterly he’d had to force himself to walk away.

Their arguments weren’t about money.

He had enough money for God knew how many trips. Even with all her excesses, Caroline had never made a dent in his personal fortune, much less the vaster family one. No, she’d sharply pointed to several of his flaws—his failure to engage in verbal combat, his grueling, self-imposed work schedule, his lack of affection, his inability to fill the bottomless pool of adoration Christian perceived she needed in order to maintain her self-esteem.

His jaw tightened and he pushed away the thoughts that caused his stomach to churn. He didn’t want these feelings. He hadn’t wanted to come here. But Mrs. Murphy, his battle-ax of a personal assistant, more surrogate mother than secretary, had insisted. Told him to get the signatures once and for all so he could put Caroline to rest. Meanwhile, she would change the locks on the entire building and shut down his private elevator to ensure that he would continue to travel north to Napa Valley to take his physician’s prescribed three-month vacation—far, far away from work.

Mrs. Murphy knew leaving the office wasn’t easy for him. She knew how much he resisted the endless days filled with nothing but the guilt that haunted him. For too long, work had been his one constant, the only element that could seal up the cracks left by Caroline’s death. Even though they hadn’t passionately loved each other at the end, Caroline had been his wife and her death had affected him much more than he would have ever anticipated.

Many times he wanted to believe that she was just away on an extended cruise. But the image of Caroline’s body, crushed in her beautiful, brassy-red convertible was permanently etched in his mind. He carried it with him every day, saw it during his sleepless nights. Thank God Mrs. Murphy had stepped in during the crisis and had steered the financial conglomerate through competitive waters. Max—who was paid more and was supposedly his right-hand man—had been practically useless during the turbulent days that followed Caroline’s death.

Weary, ready to be on the road, away from this small bungalow, away from the woman who looked at him so suspiciously, Christian forced himself to focus on his main objective. Once he had her signature, he would deal with the feelings, the long days ahead of him.

He repeated, “DirectTech, the company, is Bernadette’s and we need you to sign some paperwork. I’ve got copies in the car.”

Beth Ann sat at the table, her face averted as she began to tame Bernie’s wild curls with firm strokes. He watched her spritz Bernie’s hair with some sweet smelling detangler and then pull half of it into a pigtail. Eventually, she looked up and asked cautiously, “Why is it hers?”

“DirectTech was Caroline’s. She willed it to Bernadette. You wouldn’t know why, would you?” When he received no other answer than a brief shake of Beth Ann’s head, Christian continued, “My parents gave the company to her as a wedding present. They thought it would be nice if she had an income of her own.” He pointed at the toddler whose head bobbed as her mother fastened the other pigtail securely. “She’s going to be guaranteed an income for life.”

“And?” Beth Ann’s eyes were wary.

“And you were named as the trustee.” He gave her a hard stare, that she deflected by looking away. She was very good at not making eye contact.

“Oh, that’s easy. I won’t sign,” Beth Ann said, her voice almost relieved, as she stood. “If that’s all you need to know, I guess you can leave now.” She started to walk to the front door. Christian stayed solidly seated, ignoring her obvious signal that he should make his exit. She couldn’t physically oust him, could she?

“I’d like to have another cup of coffee,” he said politely, draining what was left, and holding out his mug. It was awful, but it would keep him here until he had what he wanted.

Beth Ann’s face turned red and she said tightly, “I’d rather you left. I have a friend coming soon.”

“Poop!” Bernie said urgently, tugging at the seat of her sweats, frozen where she stood.

“Poop? You’re kidding!” Beth Ann yelped with wide eyes and scuttled the toddler across the kitchen floor. “Let’s go, Bernie-Bern-Bern. Let’s go give the poop to Mrs. Potty.”

Christian got up and poured some more coffee. Beth Ann looked up and frowned silently as she watched his actions, her hands pulling Bernie’s sweats down around her knees and releasing the tape on her diaper. He met her brown gaze directly and she glanced away.

“Potty training stops for nothing,” she commented abstractly.

He couldn’t help but be mildly interested in what they were doing, the communion between mother and daughter clearly apparent as she helped Bernie onto the low potty.

Then they all waited.

The combination of Beth Ann’s wry smile and her nurturing care of the toddler stirred feelings he’d buried away in a very deep part of his soul. This small part of him secretly wished he and Caroline had shared such moments. Maybe then they wouldn’t have drifted so far apart. As an envious outsider, he watched Beth Ann gently rub Bernie’s back. If he squinted hard enough he could imagine the woman was Caroline not her sister. In his fantasy, he wouldn’t be a stranger in such a loving household, but an integral part of it.

The image placed before him—Beth Ann talking reassuringly to Bernie, her little face scrunched as she bore down—was an intimate snapshot reserved for family. Only family cared enough to celebrate the triumphs of proper waste disposal. He’d never seen his mother look at him so lovingly and although he couldn’t remember the event, he had no doubt she wasn’t even remotely involved with his toilet training. He wondered if she had even changed a diaper.

“I pooped!” Bernie announced loudly, as she stood and looked into Mrs. Potty, while Beth Ann cleaned her off with a wet wipe.

Beth Ann nodded with a beaming smile that took his breath away. It was the smile of an angel, sending deep dimples into her cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. Even the light dusting of freckles across her nose glowed. Christian couldn’t help but be jealous of the attention and admiration that Bernie was getting. He wondered why Beth Ann’s smile seemed to have the effect of a low-grade volt of electricity, stimulating some distant physical impulses that he’d assumed had died long before Caroline.

“Yes, you certainly did,” her voice deepened with affection. “You pooped in Mrs. Potty and now what do we have to do?”

Bernie looked at her, her face pensive with concentration.

“Remember,” Beth Ann said, her voice prompting. “We wash our hands. Wash our hands, wash our hands, wash our hands.”

“Wash our hands, wash our hands,” Bernie sang. She scrambled to the kitchen sink, up onto a chair and pushed her hands under the faucet. “Soap!” she commanded.

“Soap, just a little.” Beth Ann handed her a half-used bar of hotel soap. “Scrub, scrub, scrub.”

“Scub, scub, scub.”

After Bernie finished rinsing, the window was cracked slightly to ventilate the room, and the evidence of her latest achievement was properly flushed away. Then Bernie ventured to him, staring up at him with great blue eyes, the exact same color as Caroline’s, fringed with the darkest, longest eyelashes he had ever seen. She placed a chubby, still damp hand on his thigh, leaned forward and informed him, “I pooped in Mrs. Potty.”

Christian had never been so touched in all his years. He could see her earnestness and smell the strong soap that mingled with her baby scent. Her plump cheeks just invited a touch or a pinch. What did one say to capture the significance of the occasion?

“Sweetie,” Beth Ann interrupted, steering Bernie away from him. “I think he knows.”

Christian wasn’t sure he liked Beth Ann’s not-so-subtle attempts to keep distance between himself and the toddler.

“But poop!” Bernie was obviously proud of her accomplishment. She then tilted her head and batted her eyelashes at Beth Ann. “Garden? Sun says hello.”

Beth Ann looked out the window. “You’re right. The sun does say hello. Okay. Where’s your jacket? Go get your jacket and we’ll go out in the garden.” Christian thought she looked relieved, using the excuse to take Bernie to the garden as a way to avoid their inevitable conversation. Bernie went to find her coat, her feet pounding on the hardwood.

“Beth Ann!” came the plaintive wail from across the hall.

Christian watched as Beth Ann stood still, her face torn as she was pulled in two directions. If he noticed her glow before, now he saw the haggard dark circles under her eyes, the fine lines that would deepen with age, the tightness around her mouth. Why did he suddenly want to kiss that mouth, soften the edges—

Bernie came back, dragging her coat across the floor, a chubby fist clutched around a sleeve.

“Let’s go check on Nana,” Beth Ann said, grasping Bernie’s wrist.

Bernie fell to the floor, coat and all, legs splayed in a skater’s death spiral. Christian blinked and watched her face shrivel up again. He braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.

“No! Garrr-dennn!”

“We need to check on Nana,” Beth Ann insisted as she tried to untangle Bernie from her coat.

“Beth Ann?” The frail voice was even more panicked.

Christian watched the display unfold before him, feeling rather like a guest on a rambunctious talk show. Bernie was spread-eagle on the floor, screaming as if she were being tortured. Beth Ann was trying to get her to stand up, and Iris was across the hall wailing in distress.

“Cavalry is here!” a cheerful voice announced as the door banged open.

“Glenn!” Beth Ann looked up in relief, and Christian felt a small twinge of jealousy, as her face relaxed into a smile welcoming the new guest.

“Beth Ann!”

“Garrrdennn!”

The tall, handsome man, with classic features and a smile that would make any woman’s heart throb, brought that green twinge up several notches as he gave Beth Ann an affectionate smooch on the cheek, then turned toward Bernie with a playful growl. “And who’s this doing all the screaming?” He swooped down and picked up Bernie who stopped midcry as her world spun crazily around her.

He hung her upside down, then placed exaggerated kisses all over her face until she giggled with laughter.

“Oh, Pop-pop!” she said with such adult exasperation that everyone laughed.

Two more notches on the green scale.

“Beth Ann!” The wail came again.

“Excuse me,” Beth Ann said hurriedly.

“Looks like I came at the right time, sweetheart,” Glenn said with certain affection.

Off the charts. The green scale no longer was an adequate measure of the envy Christian felt. He stared at the tall man, nearly the same height as himself, and grudgingly admitted that some women might find him attractive, if they liked the blond ski instructor type. With Bernie propped on his right arm and his left hand massaging the nape of Beth Ann’s neck, Glenn looked like a welcome member of this little family. Glenn gave Beth Ann a quick kiss on the top of her curls. “Go to your charge. I’ll take care of this rug rat.” Glenn renewed his tickling of Bernie who screamed with laughter.

Beth Ann looked at Bernie and Glenn, then at Christian. “I’ll be right back. Help yourself to the coffee.” She gestured toward Christian. “Oh, by the way. This is my friend, Glenn. Glenn, that’s Christian Elliott, Carrie’s husband.”

And then she was gone, her escape seeming well-timed.

CHAPTER THREE

BETH ANN could have kissed Glenn. On an average day, Beth Ann felt as if she were coming apart at each joint in her body. Now, she realized it was tension alone that held her together. If Glenn hadn’t come when he had, she wasn’t sure what she would have done. She didn’t want Christian’s software company, his contracts, his presence. She didn’t want any ties to Carrie’s other life, any reminders that would make Bernie wonder when she was older why she wasn’t good enough for Carrie or for Carrie’s husband.

Beth Ann was covered by a cold sweat. Asking questions that were uncomfortably dangerous, Carrie’s husband was too threatening to her insulated world. She had tried to make herself believe that if the adoption were finalized, she would be able to greet Carrie’s husband with the hospitality he deserved. But she knew that wasn’t the case. Carrie had made things too difficult for Beth Ann to be honest, much less hospitable. Put on top of that the unthinkable—Bernie inheriting a software company! It gave Beth Ann a headache just considering all the implications.

“Beth Ann? Is that you?”

“Yes, Grans. It’s me.” Beth Ann pasted on a smile and then walked in to Iris’s bedroom, still the same after twenty-some-odd years. Beth Ann remembered the first time she’d seen the room. She and Carrie had been there just a day, dropped off hastily by Carrie’s father, her stepfather. She’d thought it the most beautiful room she had ever seen. It smelled like fresh lavender, and the nightstand and vanity were draped in delicate lace. She had been ten then, Carrie just six. She had stood in the door and admired Iris’s bed, a dark mahogany four-poster, also draped in an intricately crocheted spread.

“Not tired?” asked Iris, old even then.

A ten-year-old Beth Ann wordlessly shook her head.

“Is Caroline sleeping?”

“We call her Carrie,” Beth Ann corrected her.

“Then I will call her Carrie, too,” Iris said softly. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’m not tired,” Beth Ann replied politely.

“Well, I am. Why don’t you sit on the bed with me and keep me company, while I finish this little drawing for your mother.”

Beth Ann reluctantly climbed up to sit stiffly on the bed. Her hand traced the pattern on the bedspread.

“Do you like it?” Iris held up a pen-and-ink drawing of a wildflower.

“It’s pretty.”

“I can teach you how to do it.”

“My mom’s the best artist in the world. She said she would teach me.”

Iris nodded. Then she stated gently, “Your mom’s pretty sick.”

“She’s going to get better,” Beth Ann said defensively. “She promised she would. We’re only going to be here for a little bit.”

Iris nodded. “That’s right. A little bit.”

A little bit turned out to be forever. After her mother had died, her stepfather had visited just once to let his mother know he didn’t want the children, not even Carrie, his own blood. As Carrie slept, Beth Ann cried silently, leaning up against the door, her chest aching, listening to him argue with Iris. He was the only father she had ever known. The next morning, he was gone and Iris never spoke his name again.

Beth Ann took a deep breath. Bernie would never, ever wonder whether she was loved. Ever.

“I hear voices,” Iris said plaintively.

“Yes. Glenn is here. Remember, I told you he was coming to keep an eye on Bernie so I could get back to painting.” She hoped. It had been a long time since she’d painted, really worked at it, rather than merely dabbling with interesting techniques and calling it work. When she’d stopped painting, neither Glenn nor his life partner, Fred, who was a highly regarded art dealer, had condemned her. Even when she didn’t follow through on several projects, Fred did his best to cover for her, simply telling her to let him know when she was ready.

Two months earlier she had thought she was ready. So, believing the effort would spur her back into painting more regularly, she’d sent some slides of her older work to a hotel in Merced that wanted to use their lobby to showcase local artists. It had cost her a big gulp in pride. Before Bernie, she’d been accepted to some of the most prestigious Bay Area galleries. Way beyond showing in a local hotel. Still when the white envelope bearing the hotel’s logo had arrived a few days ago, she couldn’t even open it. She didn’t know what she feared most: the rejection or the acceptance.

Iris frowned, then brightened. “Has Carrie come to visit?”

Beth Ann shook her head. “No, sweetie. Carrie’s dead. Remember?”

Iris looked away puzzled. “Why did I think Carrie was here?”

“Carrie’s husband is here,” Beth Ann said after a moment’s hesitation. “Remember the man that stopped you on the road?” Damn near ran her down.

“Carrie’s husband?” She looked puzzled. “When did she marry?”

“Years ago.”

Iris’s forehead wrinkled. “Did we go to the wedding?”

Beth Ann shook her head. “No, sweetie. They got married kind of quickly.” She started straightening Iris’s covers. “Do you want to get up? I can fix your hair and put in your diamond tiara before I take Bernie to the garden.”