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The Four Seasons
Mary Alice Monroe


They are the Season sisters, bound by blood, driven apart by a tragedy.Now they are about to embark on a bittersweet journey into the unknown-an odyssey of promise and forgiveness, of loss and rediscovery. Jillian, Beatrice and Rose have gathered for the funeral of their younger sister, Meredith. Her death, and the legacy she leaves them, will trigger a cross-country journey in search of a stranger with the power to mend their shattered lives.As the emotions of the past reverberate into the present, Jillian, Beatrice and Rose search for the girls they once were, in hopes of finding what they really lost: the women they were meant to be.












Praise for the novels of

Mary Alice Monroe


“Mary Alice Monroe writes from her heart to the hearts of her readers. It is a quality of emotional honesty together with lyrical, descriptive passages that draws her audience to books like The Four Seasons.”

—Charleston Post & Courier

“With novels like this one and The Book Club, Mary Alice Monroe continues to be one of the leaders of complex female relationship dramas that hit home to the audience.”

—Midwest Book Review on The Four Seasons

“Monroe writes with a crisp precision and narrative energy that will keep them turning the pages. Her talent for infusing her characters with warmth and vitality and her ability to spin a tale with emotional depth will earn her a broad spectrum of readers, particularly fans of Barbara Delinsky and Nora Roberts.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Four Seasons

“An inspirational tale of redemption.”

—Publishers Weekly on Swimming Lessons

“Monroe makes her characters so believable, the reader can almost hear them breathing…. Readers who enjoy such fine southern voices as Pat Conroy will add the talented Monroe to their list of favorites.”

—Booklist on Sweetgrass

“[A] spinning poignant and ultimately hopeful tale of forgiveness, family secrets and finding your way back home.”

—Bookreporter on Sweetgrass

“Skyward is a soaring, passionate story of loneliness and pain and the simple ability of love to heal and transcend both. Mary Alice Monroe’s voice is as strong and true as the great birds of prey of whom she writes.”

—New York Times bestselling author Anne Rivers Siddons

“Monroe’s novel is a fascinating, emotion-filled narrative that’s not to be missed.”

—Booklist on Skyward (starred review)

“With its evocative, often beautiful prose and keen insights into family relationships, Monroe’s latest is an exceptional and heartwarming work of fiction.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Beach House (starred review)

“With each new book, Mary Alice Monroe continues to cement her growing reputation as an author of power and depth. The Beach House is filled with the agony of past mistakes, present pain and hope for a brighter future.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“The Book Club skillfully weaves the individual story threads into a warm, unified whole that will appeal to readers who enjoy multifaceted relationship novels with strong women protagonists.”

—Library Journal

“Reflects the shadows and shapes of a woman’s painful and illuminating journey of self-discovery, of choices, of loves.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts

on Girl in the Mirror

“Monroe draws you into an absorbing tale of hard-won success, devastating choices and the triumphant power of love.”

—Diane Chamberlain on Girl in the Mirror




The Four Seasons

Mary Alice Monroe







www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


For my beloved sisters,

Marguerite, Ruth, Maureen and Nuola


All things have their season,

And a season for every purpose under heaven.

—Ecclesiastes 3:1




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion




1


ROSE SEASON STOOD AT THE threshold of her sister’s bedroom and silently watched the shadows of an oncoming storm stretch like plum-colored talons across the empty bed. A great gust of icy wind from Lake Michigan howled at the windows.

“Merry,” she whispered with longing. Rose resisted the urge to open the window and call out to her in the vast darkness. Merry’s presence was palpable tonight. Rose had read somewhere that the spirit lingered for three days after death. Merry had been dead for four. Did she tarry to be sure her last request was honored?

Her last request. Why had she agreed to it? Rose asked herself, wringing her hands. The request was crazy, intrusive, maybe even hurtful. No one would ever go along with it. What would her sisters do when they read Merry’s letter? Especially Jilly. She’d never spoken of that time, not once in over twenty-five years. It was as though it had never happened. She’ll be furious, Rose worried. But secrets in families always had a way of coming out in the end, didn’t they?

The hall clock chimed the hour. Rose tilted her head, thinking to herself that she should be calling Merry for dinner now, telling her to wash up. A pang of loneliness howled through her like the wind outside. She wandered into Merry’s lavender room, idly running her fingers along the girlish white dresser, the dainty vanity table and the silver-plated brush, comb and mirror set. Strawberry-blond hairs still clung to the bristles. Across the room, she bent to pick up the ratty red-haired baby doll lying in the center of the pristine four-poster bed. How Merry had loved the baby doll. Spring, she’d called it, and never once in twenty-six years slept without it. Rose brought the doll to her cheek, catching Merry’s scent still lingering in the fabric. Then, with a loving pat, she placed the doll back on the bed, careful to prop it against the pillow. Rose’s hands felt uncomfortably idle. She smoothed the wrinkles from the comforter with agitated strokes, then moved to the bedside stand to straighten the lace doily, adjust the pleated lampshade and line up the many small bottles of prescription drugs that she was so familiar with. She couldn’t part with anything of Merry’s yet, not even these medicines.

Without Merry to take care of, she felt so useless and detached in the old house, like the shell of a cicada clinging worthlessly to the bark. She needed work to keep her going, some focus to draw her attention from her mourning. With a discipline that was the backbone of her nature, Rose walked swiftly from the gloomy bedroom to the wide, curving staircase of the old Victorian that had been her home since she was born.

The walls along the stairs were covered with dozens of photographs of the Season sisters at various moments of glory and achievement in their lives. For comfort, she glanced at the familiar photographs, treasuring the faces captured in them: Jilly, Birdie, Rose and Merry. The Four Seasons, their father had called them. The largest numbers of photographs were of Jilly and Birdie, the eldest two. There were fewer pictures of Rose, and hardly any of Merry, the baby. She longed for her sisters; it had been nearly ten years since they had all been together. How sad that it took a funeral to bring them together again.

Who would arrive home first? she wondered. Birdie was extremely busy with her medical practice in Wisconsin, but Jilly had the farthest to come—all the way from France.

Rose paused at a framed 1978 Paris Vogue magazine cover that showcased a young Jillian at twenty-one years of age, looking sex-kittenish in a fabulous pink gown that clashed in a chic way with her vibrant red hair. It was her first cover. Rose studied her eldest sister’s full red lips pursed in an innocent pout, her deep-set eyes of emerald-green and the come-hither pose exposing one long, shimmering leg that seemed to go on forever. She couldn’t imagine herself ever standing in front of so many people, in the glare of the lights, while men snapped her photograph. For that matter, Rose couldn’t imagine ever looking so seductive or desirable.

Jilly was born at 12:01 a.m. on November 1, 1955. All Souls’ Day. Mother always told of how she’d squeezed herself shut because she didn’t want a child of hers born on Halloween. Who knew what nickname father would have chosen then? Their father, William, claimed it was a family tradition to play with their unusual last name. After all, he was nicknamed Bill Season. But their mother, Ann, a petite beauty with a will of iron, swore no child of hers was going to be tagged for life with a name people laughed at. As a compromise, Ann Season gave her daughters strong, sensible names, allowing their father full rein with the nicknames. Thus for his first daughter, Jillian, born in a Chicago autumn, he thought himself clever to name her “Jilly Season.”

Moving down the stairs, Rose perused the large collection of photographs of Beatrice. Jilly liked to be first, but in most things Birdie came through for the prize. “The early bird catches the worm,” their father used to say with a wink of pride at his second daughter. Birdie was his favorite, everyone knew that. Jilly would tease her and say Birdie was the son he never had. She was a tall, broad-shouldered girl with a powerful intellect and an even more powerful, competitive spirit. Even the name “Birdie” seemed to mock her tomboyish body.

Bill Season had chosen the nickname because she was born in early summer and was insatiable, howling for more food like a hungry bird in the nest. And she’d certainly caught the worms, Rose thought as her gaze wandered over the photographs. The first was Birdie at sixteen, beaming into the camera, dripping wet and clutching an enormous silver trophy for the state championship swimming team. She’d been the captain, of course. And there were more photographs, of Birdie as class valedictorian, of Birdie winning trophies for swimming, lacrosse and the science fair. Birdie receiving a diploma from medical school. Birdie dazzling in white lace and tulle smiling at her handsome groom, Dennis, the biggest trophy of all.

There were fewer pictures of herself, the third child. This section of wall seemed almost barren when compared to Birdie’s. Rose felt the usual flush of embarrassment that the scarcity of photographs was an accurate—if pitiful—statement about her life. It was all very well that Jilly was a famous model, on magazine covers all over Europe, and that Birdie was a successful doctor, wife and mother. But what about her own life? There was neither a photograph of her graduating from college, nor a picture of a radiant Rose on her wedding day. Her mile-marker was a high school graduation photograph that showed a thin, shy girl looking much like she did today.

Rose’s hair was a paler, washed-out version of the Season red that her father playfully called “pumpkin” and her mother optimistically called “strawberry blond.” She still wore it in the same long, straight style of high school and her body was every bit as lean and shapeless as it been then. “Sticks,” the other children had called her. In all the pictures, her eyes were the dominant feature. Enormous hazel eyes with brows and lashes so pale they were seemingly not there. They peered out from her pale face, large and wary, like a cat’s when poised to leap away.

Rose was born in the dog days of August when her mother’s roses were blooming. Thus she was called Rose, the only one of the four Season girls without a nickname. Rose was a fine, plain name, her father had always said. And it suited her, she thought with a sigh of resignation.

As with most families, the baby had the fewest photographs. Which was too bad, she thought, since Merry was arguably the most beautiful of all the Season girls. Their parents had been older when they married and had had children late. Thus, their father liked to say that Merry was his last hurrah. The fourth Season. Meredith was born in December, a season ripe with nickname potential, but Bill had settled on “Merry” because she was such a cheerful baby. Rose traced a finger across a picture of a precocious, impish Merry at two years of age. The pictures stopped then.

Rose turned her head away from the photographs, closing her mind from the memory, and wandered from room to room, feeling that edginess that comes when one is aimlessly looking for something to do. Each of the twelve rooms of the Victorian was immaculate, a savory dinner was waiting in the oven and flowers were beautifully arranged in the bedrooms. She turned on the television, then as quickly flicked it off again. She picked up a book and settled into a comfortable chair, but no sooner had she read a paragraph than her mind wandered again. She closed the book in defeat and laid her head back against the chair. With a heavy sigh, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a pale blue envelope.

Merry’s letter.

She’d carried this letter in her pocket all day wondering whether to burn it or send it to the family lawyer. The moment of decision had come; the funeral was tomorrow. Rose closed her eyes and recalled how Merry’s pink tongue had worked her lip as she’d struggled with the letter, wanting it to be her best. Merry couldn’t have comprehended how those brief sentences, written in her childlike script, would send thundering repercussions in her sisters’ minds and hearts—as it had hers when she read them.

She looked down at the envelope in her hand and was moved to tears by the sight of the address painstakingly written in Merry’s handwriting, encircled by a big heart: To Jilly, Birdie and Rose.

She would give the letter to the lawyer, Rose decided. It was the right thing to do. Merry needed her—trusted her—to deliver it. This time she would not fail her.



Beatrice Season Connor looked up into the April sky and cursed.

“Look, it’s snowing!” Hannah called, stepping out from the car. Her fifteen-year-old daughter’s face turned upward, and with a delighted grin, she darted her tongue out to catch the soft, moist flakes as they tumbled gracefully from the sky.

“That’s just what we need. A snowstorm on top of everything else.”

“It’s just a few flakes.” Hannah’s voice was full of reproach.

“From the looks of it, we’re going to get a dump. Damn snow,” Birdie muttered, grabbing the bags full of last-minute shopping items from the car and hoisting them into her strong arms. “I’m sick of snow. Hasn’t Milwaukee had enough for one year? It’s April, for crying out loud. Well, that’s it,” she said with the quick decision typical of her. Slamming the door, she headed toward the house. “We’re going to have to hustle and leave for Evanston earlier than we’d planned if we expect to get everything done by the funeral.” She stopped at the door and turned to face her daughter. “I’m counting on you, Hannah. I’m going to need your help.”

“I don’t see why we have to do everything.” Hannah crossed her arms over her chest.

“We do if we want it done right.” Birdie privately groaned at the prospect. The notion of pushing forward her departure when her schedule was already jammed full thrummed in her temples. She was squeaking out of town as it was. Sometimes she felt like a circus performer twirling countless plates: she had had to arrange coverage for her medical practice, calm her patients, take the dog to the kennel, cancel the housecleaning service, pack…The list went on and on. On top of all that, the funeral was tomorrow and it was up to her to make certain everything ran smoothly.

“When you need something done, ask a busy woman,” she murmured with a heavy sigh, though secretly she felt a superior conceit. To her mind, all it took to succeed was discipline, setting goals and lots of hard work. And she worked harder than most. She could list her achievements readily: she was a pediatrician with a thriving practice, a wife for nineteen years, the mother of a healthy daughter and the mistress of a large, well-managed home. If there was such a thing as a supermom, Birdie thought with pride, then she was it.

But today was a test of her abilities. She lifted her wrist to check her watch and her lips tightened with annoyance. God, look at the time. Where was Dennis? And Hannah? Peering outside, she saw Hannah still leaning against the rear fender, gazing at the twirling flakes of snow. Frustration brought the pounding in her head to a painful pace.

“Didn’t you hear me say we were leaving early?” she called from the back door.

Hannah’s smile fell but she remained motionless, resolutely staring out.

“Don’t pull that passive-aggressive act on me, young lady,” she called, raising her voice as she walked nearer the car. She could feel her anger growing with each step. “I’ve asked you to get your packing done for twenty-four hours and so far you haven’t done a thing. I’m not going to do it for you.”

“Who’s asking you to?” Hannah swung her head around. “You’d just pack the wrong things, anyway.”

“This isn’t a prom we’re talking about. It’s my sister’s funeral. My baby sister! It’s hard enough for me to deal with the fact that she’s gone without having to argue about meaningless things like your dress.”

“At least you have a sister.”

Birdie felt the weight of that reply start to drag her under. How many years had she had this thrown in her face like a broken promise? “Hannah, please. We don’t have time to argue. Just go upstairs and pack a black dress,” she ground out with finality.

“You never ask me to do something, you order me. Yes, you do! I hate you!” she shouted when Birdie opened her mouth to object. Hannah fled into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Birdie knew that those words were spoken in the white-hot fire of teenage anger and flung at her to burn—and burn they did. A mother never hears the words “I hate you” without cringing and feeling like a hopeless failure.

She followed Hannah back into the house with a heavy tread. Closed doors were a way of life between them now. Why did push always come to shove between them? And when had she started to feel the need to win these senseless battles? Not so long ago, she’d let trivial arguments slide by because all the parenting articles she’d read had a unified rallying cry: choose your battles! With teenagers, however, everything was a battle.

She walked to the small desk in the kitchen and worked away her frustration by cleaning up the day’s disorder. When all was spotless and organized, she reached for a stack of patient messages awaiting her. Clearing her mind of personal problems, she picked up the first one and dialed.

An hour later, she was just finishing up her last call when her husband walked in from the garage. She turned her head to see Dennis shake off a covering of powdery snow from his lambskin jacket. He was five foot ten, just an inch taller than she was, but his build was slight in line and breadth of bone. With his long, thoughtful face, his dark brown eyes behind round, tortoiseshell glasses, his blond hair worn shaggy to the collar and his rumpled corduroy trousers worn with a sweater rather than a jacket, he looked every inch the university professor that he was.

He kicked the snow from his shoes. When he looked up, she noted that his face was pale and pinched from fatigue. He used to smile and call out a cheery “I’m home!” Lately, however, he entered the house in silence. Birdie frowned with concern, then turned her focus back to the patient on the phone.

“No, Mrs. Sandler, Tommy doesn’t need an antibiotic. Yes, I’m sure. He doesn’t have a bacterial infection. It’s a virus, though a nasty one. No, an antibiotic won’t help. In fact, it would weaken his natural resistance.” Birdie caught Dennis’s eye and held up her finger for him to wait a minute. Dennis nodded, flung his coat over the edge of the kitchen chair, then reached into the fridge for a beer.

“Keep a close eye on him, and if he takes a turn for the worse or spikes another fever, then call my office. Dr. Martin is covering for me. What? Ninety-eight point six is normal.” She rolled her eyes and reached out for Dennis’s beer. “Yes, very good. Bye now.”

Birdie sighed with relief, placed the receiver back on the hook, then tossed back her head and took a long swig of the beer. “Diagnosis—worried parent,” she muttered.

“Tough day?”

“The worst. It started off with the dog being sick. He’s so damn neurotic every time he has to go to the kennel. Hannah’s been her usual petulant self. Then the patients started in.” She lifted the thick stack of yellow messages.

“I thought you arranged coverage.”

“I did, but you know there are always those patients who panic when I leave town. It’s just easier for everyone if I call them.”

“You don’t have to go that extra mile. No one else’s patients expect such service. I don’t know why you have to push yourself so hard. You’re already better than most docs out there.”

“I’m better because I’m compulsive about such things. It’s who I am. Anyway, the point’s moot because I’m all done. That was the last of the calls, thank God.” She tossed the yellow slips into the trash.

“So, you’re free.”

She smirked. “Free to go home and run a funeral.” Dennis set his beer down on the counter and lifted his hands to her shoulders, a familiar gesture that Birdie welcomed. She sighed and leaned into him, slumping in relief the moment his hands began massaging. He had wonderful hands, long-fingered and strong; he could knead knots out of her shoulders like no one else. They’d started dating in college when she was a champion swimmer for the team. He used to massage her shoulders after her swim meets. She still teased him that she married him for his hands.

“God, that feels good,” she groaned.

“You’re all knotted up. You need to relax.” He leaned closer and said in a seductive tone by her ear, “I know what will loosen you up. When do we have to leave?”

Birdie cringed and moved out from under his hands. The last thing she was interested in right then was sex and she was irked that Dennis would even think she would be. “For God’s sake, Dennis, we have to leave in forty minutes.”

Dennis held his hands in the air for a moment, then let them drop to his sides with resignation. When he spoke, his voice was lackluster. “I thought we weren’t leaving till four.”

“Did you forget we’re supposed to pick up Jilly from O’Hare?” Her exasperation rang in her voice. He could remember the dates of every foreign war the United States was ever in, but he never seemed capable of remembering one family date on the calendar. “If this front becomes the storm the weathermen predict, traffic will be snarled up all along the interstate and Jilly’s flight will be delayed, if not canceled. Who knows what time she’ll get in? It’s crazy for us to pick her up. We could sit there for hours.”

“So why doesn’t Rose pick her up?”

Birdie snorted and shook her head. “I’m not even sure Rose knows how to get to the airport. She never leaves Evanston, and as far as I can tell she rarely leaves the house! She doesn’t much care for talking on the phone, either. She screens calls on the answering machine before picking up. Who does she think is going to call her, anyway? She doesn’t have any friends. Rose is a dear heart but I swear she’s becoming more and more isolated every year.”

Birdie rubbed the stiffness in her neck. After the funeral was over and the family house was sold, she’d have to have a serious talk with her sister about her future. Rose had to face up to leaving the house, and she’d have to get a full-time job, one that would support her. At least she had her computer skills. But Rose was such a stay-at-home she’d have a hard time making new friends and a new life. It wasn’t good that she had locked herself away as caretaker for Merry all those years.

“Tell Jilly to take a cab.”

“What? Oh yeah…well, I suggested that to her on the phone but she complained and reminded me how long it’d been since she’d been home and told me how much luggage she had and so on and so on. Get this. She wanted to be picked up by a family member—at the gate!”

His shook his head. “And you relented….”

“Who doesn’t with Jilly?”

“Well, even you can’t order a blizzard around.”

Birdie chuckled then pursed her lips, considering her options. Her first priority was to get to Evanston and make certain the funeral arrangements she’d spent hours—days—on the phone making were going smoothly. She rested her hands on the counter and leaned against them. “God, this is going to be a nightmare. Who knows what to expect from her? Do you remember the scene Jillian made at Mother’s funeral?”

He shrugged. “Jillian lives to make a scene. I don’t see what the commotion is about. She’ll arrive in a state, stay long enough to make another scene, then leave and we won’t see her for another ten years. God willing.”

“I don’t see why you dislike her so. She’s never done anything to you.”

“She doesn’t have to. It’s what she does to you that makes me dislike her.”

“What do you mean?” Birdie replied, genuinely surprised. Dennis never made any pretense over the fact that he didn’t like her more glamorous sister.

“She puts you on edge,” he replied, looking Birdie directly in the eye. “She makes you feel somehow less.” He lowered his gaze. “You’re not the same whenever she’s around.”

Birdie wanted to tell him that was because he was never the same when she was around. Dennis had dated Jilly for a brief period in high school, something Birdie never felt comfortable about. Neither of them ever mentioned it, but sometimes, when he didn’t think anyone was looking, she caught him gazing at Jilly with an odd expression on his face. She’d wondered if the gaze was merely speculative, or, and she shuddered to think this, if it was lust she saw under his heavy, hooded eyes.

“If she makes me feel less,” she replied, loading ice blocks into the cooler, “it’s only in the arena of beauty. Let’s face it. Jilly is gorgeous.”

“So are you.”

“No, I’m not.” She wasn’t being coy. Birdie knew that age and the additional twenty pounds that crept on over the past decade had not improved her already large frame. In the looks department, nothing she had could compare to Jilly. Birdie’s eyes were pale blue, not a vivid green like Jilly’s. All she had of the famous red Season hair were a few red highlights in the dull brown. Worst of all, she had her father’s nose. He told her to be proud of the aristocratic though slightly askew family inheritance, and in fact, she was. But it did nothing to enhance her beauty.

“You are to me.”

When he said things like that Birdie’s heart did a quick flip and she felt a sudden gush of love for him. She turned and busied her hands rinsing a few cups in the sink, flustered. “That’s sweet. But really, Dennis, I’m over forty years old and a success in my own right. I don’t need to pretend I’m beautiful for my self-esteem.”

Dennis just shook his head sadly.

She turned off the water and made a snap decision. “We’ll skip the airport. I’ll call Rose and see what else can be arranged. But we’ll still have to leave early in this storm. Where were you, anyway?” she asked, turning to face Dennis. “You said you’d be home by twelve.”

“What time is it now?”

“It’s almost three.”

He shrugged and raised his brows in a gesture of innocence. “I had a lot to do to leave town for several days. Midterm grades need to be averaged before spring break. Then there was an emergency meeting with the chairman.”

He loosened his tie and tugged it off with a frustrated yank. “I got out as quickly as I could.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that I’ve got a lot to do, too? While you were arranging your schedule, I was doing the same plus shopping for the trip, packing up and taking the dog to the kennel.”

He turned his back to her and grabbed the beer bottle from the counter along with the stack of mail. “Well, we can’t all be as efficient as you.”

She felt the sting of his words as she watched him lean casually against the counter and sift through the mail as though he had all the time in the world. He could be oblivious to everyone’s needs but his own, she thought. Hannah may not have inherited his lean physique, but she had certainly inherited his temperament.

“Where’s Hannah?” he asked, as though reading her mind.

“She’d better be upstairs packing. Would you go up and check on her? I’ve asked her to pack for two days and she hasn’t done it. Now we’ve run out of time and if she’s not done I guess I’ll have to do it.”

“No you don’t,” he replied, looking up from his mail. “If she leaves something out, then she’ll have to live with it.”

“Oh, Dennis, don’t be ridiculous. If I don’t get after her who knows what she’ll wear?”

“Then she’ll be embarrassed. You’re the one who’s always preaching about natural consequences.”

Birdie fumed. She knew he was right, but she just couldn’t bring herself to allow her daughter to be poorly turned out for her sister’s funeral. “Whenever someone sees a poorly dressed child, or walks into a messy house, they never blame the father. It’s always the mother who’s thought of as a slacker.”

“Who cares what anyone thinks?”

“I care!”

“You might as well relax and let her be. She’s fifteen. She’s not going to listen to anything you say, anyway.”

She put her hands up in an arresting position, cutting him off. “We’re not going to get into this right now. I’ve simply too much to do. Could you please just go upstairs and finish your own packing without this big discussion? I already packed your dark blue suit for the funeral. Just pick out some casual clothes. That’s all you have to do.”

“You never like what I pick out, anyway, so why not finish it yourself?” he muttered, but he shuffled up the stairs, anyway.

She bit back a retort and turned on her heel to head for the phone. If she didn’t get some space between them quickly the fuse they’d lit would explode. Lately, anytime they were in a room together it was like putting a match near a powder keg. The tension had really started heating up again in the past few days. Ever since Merry’s death.

Birdie paused to think, Was it only four days ago that Merry had died?

It was a night much like any other night. There had been no premonition of trouble to come. Birdie had always thought she would somehow sense when a loved one was dying, especially someone as close as a sister. She was a physician, after all. She expected that she’d develop some intuition as to when death was imminent. Apparently not, she thought, chagrined. She hadn’t suspected a thing as she crept under the sheets, yawned and murmured good-night to her husband before falling into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

The call from Rose woke her just after 11:00 p.m. Merry’s lungs had filled again with the current bout of flu and she was having trouble breathing. Complications weren’t unusual for Merry. Her lungs had been damaged as a child, making her a high-risk patient. Her doctor had upped her medication and was on his way but Rose wanted to call Birdie for help.

Birdie had risen promptly, dressed, made a pot of coffee and placed a call to her colleague to cover her morning appointments in case she was late getting back. It didn’t take long, not more than forty minutes, to get on the road. When she knocked on the door of the Season family home not even four hours later, Birdie had known instantly that she was too late. Rose met her with grief etched across her drawn face and red-rimmed eyes. Even in her shock, Birdie noticed the calm, even serene cadence to Rose’s voice.

Birdie, our Merry is gone. I know, I know…It was all very sudden and there was nothing that could be done. It caught all of us by surprise. It was her time and she was ready. There, there…It was peaceful, really it was. You know our Merry…. She died with a smile on her face.

Birdie reached a shaky hand up to wipe the tears from her cheek. That was four days ago and she still couldn’t believe her sister was dead. In her opinion, she was allowed to slip away. Rose should have called her to Evanston the minute Merry’s flu worsened. The doctor should have admitted her to the hospital at the first sign of fluid in the lungs. Fury, guilt and sorrow twisted in Birdie’s heart as she wrestled with the issue that kept her awake at night and shortened her temper during the day.

If only she had been faster—perhaps skipped making the phone call or that pot of coffee, if she’d pushed the speed limit on the way down—she might have been able to save her.



Jillian DuPres Cavatelli Rothschild Season reached above her head with a shaky hand and buzzed for the steward. Most of the other passengers were slowly becoming alert, having eaten and napped. But the plane was a mess. The stewards had done their best, but eight hours of togetherness was getting very old and the interior of the enormous plane looked as tired as the 178 passengers felt.

She buzzed for the steward once again. A handsome blond young man in a horrid navy-and-burgundy striped shirt sauntered down the narrow aisle to her seat and mustered a tired smile. He had long, curly lashes that any model would kill for, but from the looks of the circles under his eyes and his bored expression, he was more eager for this plane to land than she was.

“I’d like a Scotch, please,” she said, handing him money. “And some water and ice.”

He paused, furrowing his brows, seemingly trying to gather his last vestige of polite intervention. “We’ll be landing soon, ma’am. Perhaps some coffee?”

Jilly straightened in her seat and delivered one of her famous megawatt smiles. “If I wanted coffee,” she said in a honeyed voice, “I’d have asked for it. What I want is one of those cute, itty-bitty bottles of Scotch and a glass of ice with just a smidgen of water. Please.”

The steward looked severely uncomfortable now, glancing furtively at the old woman in the next seat who was hanging on every word. He stretched across the backs of the row ahead and said in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “You’ve had three already and you didn’t touch your dinner.”

Jilly leaned forward and replied in a stage whisper, “I know. I never eat anything I can’t identify.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t want some coffee, or perhaps some tea?”

It was embarrassing enough to have to ride in coach again. In first class they wouldn’t have questioned her request. More Scotch? Right away!

Jilly dropped all pretense of friendliness. “What I’d like, young man, is a cigarette. But since you fucking well won’t let me have that, I’ll settle for a Scotch.” She turned to the elderly woman. “Excuse my French.”

She could tell from the way the steward’s lashes fluttered that the slim young man wanted to tell her what she could do with her fucking cigarette and Scotch. Jilly steeled herself, ready for a fight when the little bell went off and the pilot’s voice informed them that he was sorry but that there was heavy snowfall in Chicago and that there would be long delays. This was met with a chorus of groans from the passengers. The steward closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. When he opened them again, he proffered a perfect steward’s polite smile that said, Forget it, it’s just not worth the aggravation.

“Right away, ma’am.”

Jilly watched him retreat down the aisle as a dozen more lights lit up and hands flagged him as he passed. She hated to be called ma’am, madam, frau or any other sobriquet that implied she was old. Still, she felt a twinge of regret for making such a fuss, but not so much that she didn’t want her drink.

A short while later the little bottle of Scotch was delivered, along with her five-dollar bill. Apparently the flight was in a holding pattern and drinks were on the house. Grumbles were still audible throughout the cabin but the gesture of goodwill went a long way to settle the passengers. “Thank you,” she said sweetly as she tucked the five-dollar bill into her purse. These days, every dollar counted.

“It’s been a long trip, hasn’t it,” the old woman beside her said in a sympathetic voice. She’d introduced herself as Netta. She was doll-like and positively ancient with waxy skin rouged in small circles over her cheekbones. Her eyes, however, were an animated blue that rivaled the sky Jilly had left in Paris.

Jilly could only nod, thinking how it would take longer than the endless eight-hour flight to explain to this woman the journey she’d traveled since she’d received the telephone call from Rose. Hell, just since her last smoke. Until the last boarding call she’d stood in the bar, puffing like a locomotive, storing up nicotine in her cells for the long trip like a camel would water. She’d been in agony anticipating her return to the old Victorian loaded with memories as ancient and musty as the velvet curtains and bric-a-brac. You can’t go home again, the old adage said. She wished it were true. For twenty-six years, she’d tried not to. But here she was, on a Boeing 747, doing just that. Everything she owned was squeezed into two large Louis Vuitton bags and stored in the belly of this plane. She’d had to borrow the money from a friend to purchase the ticket to Chicago—one-way coach.

“Are you all right?” the old woman asked kindly.

Jillian turned her head. She saw genuine concern in the bright blue eyes, not curiosity or annoyance at her fidgety behavior.

“I’m just tired,” she replied, taking her glass of Scotch in hand. “Thanks.”

“Is it your job? I read about stress on working women all the time.”

A short laugh escaped as Jilly shook her head. “No, not the job. Unfortunately.”

“What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m a model.” She shrugged lightly. “And I was in a few foreign films.”

The woman’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. “I thought so. You’re very beautiful.”

The compliment washed warmly over Jilly and she smiled for the first time that day. “Not so ‘very’ anymore. I’m…retired.”

Her smile fell as she heard again the comments of the agencies. You are still a beautiful woman, but…You’re over forty. You know how it is…. Look at them, they are nineteen! So young!

She couldn’t blame them. Age was an occupational hazard of the beauty business.

“I’m too old,” Jillian said, finding it easy to confess to a stranger.

The elderly woman laughed lightly and shook her head. “How amusing. I was just thinking how I wished I was as young as you!” She reached out to pat Jilly’s hand. “You see how Einstein was right, my dear. Everything is relative.”

“By that you mean the grass is always greener, I suppose.” She didn’t want to add that she didn’t find that the least bit comforting.

“No,” the woman replied. “Actually I was referring literally to the theory of relativity. How different observers can describe the same event differently. From my position in the universe, my dear, you are young. And vibrant and beautiful. From your position, let’s see…” She raised a crooked finger with a tiny, yellowed nail and pointed.

“I suppose you see that child over there as young and beautiful, am I right?”

Across the aisle sat a twenty-some-year-old woman in jeans and a clinging shirt, devoid of makeup, with dewy skin and the firm muscle tone Jilly had lost long ago. Mouth pulling in a wry smile, Jilly nodded.

“You see? It’s all relative. Why do you think older women like to stick together? Because we see one another as beautiful and vibrant. I guess you could say we’re traveling at the same speed.” She laughed softly again, then added wistfully, “I wish someone had explained Einstein’s theory of relativity to me when I was young. It would have taught me to be more accepting, and probably more compassionate, to others’ points of view. That would have prevented a few troubles in the past, I can assure you. Take my word and remember this—how you see the world may not agree with how others see it. But you have to accept that their observations are valid. So,” she said with a light tap of her nimble fingers on Jilly’s hand, “you are young and beautiful, my dear, and nothing you say will convince me otherwise.”

Jilly smiled, conceding the point. “For me, relative means my sisters. And let me tell you, do we ever see the world from different positions.”

“Ah, you’re going to see your sisters?”

Jilly nodded. “Yes. Well, two of them. My third sister just passed away. It’s her funeral that brings me home.”

“Your older sister?”

“The youngest. She was the baby, just thirty-two when she died. She had bad lungs and they gave out.”

“Oh, that is sad. Death is always so, but an early death is more tragic. You have my sympathy. Funerals can be very emotional, you know. Use this time to gather your strength.” With another gentle pat, the older woman turned her attention back to her book.

Jilly shifted in her seat. As she watched the amber-colored fluid swirl around little chunks of ice, her mind stumbled over thoughts of Merry. Dear little Merry, gone. She swallowed the Scotch and relished the smooth burn. It was strange to think of her thirty-two-year-old sister as little, but that’s how she always thought of Merry. Poor, poor Merry…Whenever Jilly looked into those sparkling, childlike eyes, she felt a stab of guilt in her abdomen so painful it drove her an ocean away.

Yet here she was, crossing that same ocean again. It was poetic justice that she was stuck in a holding pattern over O’Hare, she thought, twirling the ice, since her mind was going round and round the same old stories, the same old issues. Thirty years of circling…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the captain.

“Ladies and gentlemen, good news. The runway at O’Hare has been cleared and we’ve been given permission to land. Thank you for your patience. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Stewards, prepare for landing.”

The sigh of relief was audible in the plane. Taking a deep breath, Jilly pulled her large Prada bag from under the seat and reached for her makeup. Polishing her face was second nature to her. It was an armor against an unfriendly world. In her compact mirror she saw the familiar green eyes staring back at her. They were once described as bedroom eyes, but now they were simply tired and hardened by experience. She dabbed at the mascara smudges under her eyes and smoothed blush onto her cheeks. Though still creamy and smooth, her skin was far from dewy. She stared at her face a moment longer, hating it.

Her move to Europe may have lessened the emotional intensity with distance, but it was never the cure. Each mile closer, each moment nearer to landing, she could feel the turbulence of her emotions rise closer to the surface.

After thirty years, Jillian Season was coming home to stay.




2


A HELLO BURST FROM ROSE’S LIPS as she swung the door wide to see Birdie, her nose red and her head tucked into her coat collar like a turtle.

“Come in! Come in, at last!” Rose cried out, feeling a heady joy and hugging Birdie tightly, relishing the feel of her sister’s arms around her, padded as they were by her thick coat. Birdie dwarfed Rose as she engulfed her in a long, firm embrace. Instantly they were ageless, bound by a shared childhood and years of history.

“Mother, I’m freezing!” cried Hannah.

The sisters laughed and stepped aside as the wind gusted, sending a spray of icy crystals in their faces. Rose shivered but held the door for Hannah, then waited for Dennis as he huffed and puffed up the stairs with the suitcases. Rose thought their faces were travel-weary as they filed past and she sensed a tension between them, as though they’d been arguing. She notched up her cheeriness, closing the heavy oak door behind them against the cold. They stomped the snow from their boots and slipped out of their coats and gloves, all the while delivering bullets of reports on the journey. Boy-oh-boy what a trip…back-to-back traffic…one accident after another…slippery…damn tollbooth backed up for miles.

Rose led them into the living room, where soft halos of yellow light from the lamps created a welcoming warmth and the scent of her roast beef and garlic permeated the wintry air. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played softly in the background—a family favorite.

On the table cheese, crackers and crudités, looking a bit tired after the long wait, awaited on silver trays. She was proud of her efforts to make the house comfortable, pleased to see the tension ease from their faces and color suffuse their cheeks.

“So many flowers!” Birdie exclaimed, eyes wide as she walked from table to table admiring the arrangements and pausing to read the cards.

“More come every day. Merry’s doctors, the neighbors, old friends of Mom and Dad’s, they all sent something. I didn’t know so many people cared about her. She didn’t see people much, but she obviously made an impression. I only wish she were here to enjoy them,” Rose added wistfully.

“Aunt Merry loved flowers,” Hannah ventured solemnly.

Rose nodded, noting the sullen expression on her niece’s face.

Birdie’s face was passive as she walked around the large living room, taking in the familiar twelve-foot ceilings, turrets, molding, quaint panes of glass and gorgeous woodwork. It was a shame, she thought, how far from grace this room had fallen. Growing up, the room had been a showcase of the craftsmanship of an age past. Now it was a gloomy house, muted, shuttered, even shabby. It was far too big a house—too expensive—for Rose and Merry to have lived in alone. It all but bled Merry’s trust fund dry. Several times she’d suggested that they sell it and move into a small, more manageable house. But that was unthinkable to Rose. She’d claimed Merry would be too upset to move and argued, rightfully, that private hospitals or homes would be as expensive, if not more. In truth, she knew the prospect of leaving the family home filled Rose with as much horror as it did Merry.

And Rose deserved every consideration. She certainly took her duty as caretaker to heart. The house, though falling down around their ears, was spotlessly clean. The brass fixtures gleamed, the wood was polished and smelled of soap, and all the beveled glass on the cabinets and the grand crystal chandelier sparkled. Yet with her mind on putting the house on the market, Birdie was looking at it with a cold and practical eye. They’d certainly have a lot of work to do before selling it.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Rose asked, eager to make them comfortable. “Water? You all must be parched. Hannah, how about a Coke? Dennis?”

“A beer would be great if you’ve got it,” he replied, rubbing his hands.

“Nothing for me. I’m going upstairs,” Hannah called out, retreating as usual. “Where am I sleeping, Aunt Rose?”

“I put your parents in the guest room, so you can either sleep on the sofa bed in the library or in Merry’s room.”

“I’ll take the sofa bed.”

“I thought you might. You’ll find linen and blankets all ready for you.”

“You put me in the guest room?” Birdie asked, her brows raised in obvious pique.

Rose’s toes curled, but she nodded firmly and looked Birdie in the eyes. “Yes. I put Jilly in her old room.” Then to Dennis, “I’ll get your beer.”

Birdie’s lips pursed in annoyance, but she didn’t reply. She tucked her hands in her slacks’ pockets and followed Rose into the kitchen. It was an immense room, old-fashioned, with the same white cabinets and appliances that were there when their mother cooked in the room. Only in the pantry did a large new refrigerator hum. Rose headed straight for it.

“Have you heard from Jilly yet?” Birdie asked.

“No. It’s a good thing you didn’t go to the airport,” Rose replied, pulling ice from the freezer. “You were right, as usual. The news reported delays galore and they might even shut down the airport.”

“I hadn’t heard that. But I’m not surprised. It’s really getting nasty out there.”

“I know and I’m worried. I’ve called the airline a million times but they can’t tell me anything other than that her flight is in a holding pattern. They think it will be allowed to land, which is a relief.” She yanked the cork from the bottle of cabernet she’d chosen while Birdie hunted in the cabinet for a few glasses. “We’re lucky. I gather other flights are being redirected. That would’ve been a disaster. She’d be late for the funeral.”

“Jilly does love to make an exciting entrance….”

Rose filled a glass with wine while her lips curved in a teasing smile. “That’s not fair.”

“I know, I know. I didn’t mean it.” Birdie took a long swallow of her wine. Over the glass her eyes glistened with humor. “Much. Can’t you just imagine her in that plane? She must be beside herself. You know how she hates being trapped. Remember how she was on a Chicago bus in rush hour?”

Rose shared her first laugh in days, remembering. Jilly would leap to her feet, yank the buzzer and demand to be let off the bus. Then she’d march off in a huff, her flame-red hair like ribbons of fire fluttering behind. Birdie and Rose would track her through the bus window till a break came in traffic, then they’d point and laugh at her as they sped past her. But she never looked their way. She kept her glance stubbornly straight ahead.

“Pity the poor stewardess,” Birdie said, rolling her eyes. “But I have to admit, circling up there in a confined space for hours is hell. She’ll be exhausted and cranky when she gets here. I shouldn’t be talking. It was a real push getting out of town by car and I was a total bitch, I admit it. I thought I’d kill my daughter before we arrived here.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “Be forewarned. Hannah is in one of her moods.”

“Poor baby,” replied Rose with sympathy. “She looks unhappy.”

“She is,” she replied, then added flippantly, “perpetually.”

“Is she okay?”

“Oh, yes, she’s fine.” Birdie cut off further inquiry. She didn’t like anyone to think there was any problem with her family.

“This is probably the first death she’s really experiencing. She was so young when Mom died.”

“That’s true. She’s seemed so remote, but I hadn’t thought of it that way.” She rubbed her temple and said in a low voice, “To be honest, I can’t accept it, either. It’s so hard. I keep going over it in my mind, how quickly she went downhill. If only I could have been here…”

“No, Birdie,” Rose said firmly. “Don’t go there. It isn’t healthy. Her doctor was here with her. Really, there was nothing you could have done.”

“You don’t know that!”

Rose grabbed her hand to still it and looked directly into her sister’s eyes. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said in her quiet voice that could be surprisingly firm. “That you could have saved her.”

Rose had nailed it. Birdie squirmed in discomfort and tried to snatch back her hand, but Rose held on tight.

“You couldn’t have done anything to save her, Birdie. Not this time.”

Birdie stared into her hazel eyes, blazing with intent, until the message slowly, reluctantly sunk in. When she indicated her understanding, if not acceptance, with a nod, Rose released her hand then smiled faintly and looked away, a little embarrassed about the intense exchange. Birdie took a long, deep breath and said in a robust manner, “So now we’re planning her funeral.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Birdie paused. “I’m sorry you got dumped with checking all the funeral details. I tried to get here early today but the traffic was unbelievable and…”

“Don’t be silly. I needed something to do.”

“I have to tell you, I’m concerned about the luncheon at Alfredo’s. I telephoned them before I left Milwaukee just to check on our reservation and see if there was anything else that needed taking care of. The idiot girl I spoke to said we didn’t have one! Can you believe that? I didn’t have time to talk to the manager, but I told her to look into it and I’d follow up when I got here. She probably just got something mixed up in her book but I worried the whole way down. Do you have the number handy? I’ll give them a quick call. If they’ve screwed up…”

“Birdie,” Rose said hesitatingly. She plucked at the loose threads of the oven mitt, then took a deep breath. She hadn’t meant to get into this before Birdie had a chance to relax, maybe had a second glass of wine. “They didn’t screw up. I…I never made the reservation.”

Birdie’s eyes widened with disbelief. “What?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything,” Rose rushed to say.

“What do you mean you didn’t make the reservation? Why? We discussed this in detail. My God, Rose, what were you thinking? Did you forget? Why didn’t you tell me? Damn, I don’t know if we can reserve a room for tomorrow on such short notice.” Her voice was high and she placed her hand to her forehead as she paced across the linoleum.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this. You’d drive in from Milwaukee and take over like you always do.” At the surprise on Birdie’s face she softened her tone. “I wanted to do something special for Merry. For all of us—you, Jilly and me. We hardly know one another anymore, Birdie. We need to remember Merry and the good times we had together. I didn’t think we could do that in a restaurant.”

Birdie spread out her palms in a futile gesture. “We can spend all the time we want together, just the three of us. Here at home. But we still could have had the funeral lunch at a restaurant. Oh, Rose, what have you done? It would have been so much easier.”

“For whom?” she replied sharply, nettled by the allknowing tone in Birdie’s voice. “I want to do this. And it’s really not so difficult. I’ve planned for a light lunch here in this wonderful home where we all grew up. It’s much more personal, and with all the flowers already here, it will be beautiful. It just didn’t seem right to have the funeral lunch for Merry at a restaurant that she’d never even been to.”

“Oh, come on, Rose, this has nothing to do with Merry,” Birdie fired out. “You’re the one who wants it here. It’s you who can’t stand the idea of leaving the house.”

Rose sucked in her breath, stung by the truth in the comment. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “That’s only partly true,” she replied, looking away. “Just because I don’t like leaving the house doesn’t mean I can’t. I truly believe Merry would want it here, too.” Rose raised her eyes and held her sister’s gaze. “And I know—better than you or anyone else—what Merry would want.”

Birdie had the grace to concede. “No one could ever dispute that.”

The tension eased a bit between them and Rose spoke from the heart. “Merry and I used to dream all the time about having parties. But we never did. It’s kind of sad when I think of that. The last time this house saw a party was your wedding and that was…what? Twenty years ago? Mom has so many pretty things crammed into boxes that no one ever uses. Platters and urns, punch bowls and coffee urns, china and silver. You wouldn’t believe half of what’s stored in these chests and cabinets.” She stepped closer, eager to assure Birdie that all would be well. “What are we saving it for? Let’s use it, all of it! I only wish I’d done something special for Merry while she was alive.”

Birdie frowned, but it was more with worry. “It’s a lot of work.”

“It’s all under control. I’ve ordered sandwich meat and all sorts of things from the deli and two cakes from Mueller’s bakery. Custard cream and angel food, Merry’s favorites. And cookies, too, chocolate chip and four-pounds-of-butter ones. We’ll have hot coffee and tea with fresh cream. Really, Birdie, it will be lovely.”

“You could have told me.”

Rose took heart at the tone of resignation. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

Hannah burst into the kitchen, coming to a halt as her eyes shifted back and forth between her mother and her aunt. “Is everything okay in here? Should I leave?”

“Yes, everything is okay and no, of course you shouldn’t leave,” Rose replied easily. She looked at Birdie and smiled. “We’re just having a disagreement about the plans for tomorrow.”

“Watch out, Aunt Rose. Mom is in one of her moods.”

Rose’s lips twitched at the echo to Birdie’s earlier comment about Hannah. She was pleased to see Birdie’s lips curve into a smile as well.

“Like mother like daughter,” Birdie said, surprising Hannah by wrapping an arm around her shoulder and giving her a squeeze. Hannah wriggled out of the embrace and reached for a cracker to nibble. Birdie grabbed a cracker, too, and after a bite she said in an offhand manner, “The church service is still on, at least? I had to duke it out with Hannah to wear her black dress. I’d like to think the bruises were worth it.” She winked at Hannah.

“Very funny.” Hannah rolled her eyes.

“Father Frank is saying mass and Kathleen Murdoch is all set to sing,” Rose said. “She has such a lovely voice.” She poured the crackers onto a plate. “Merry loved to listen to her on Sundays.”

“Good. And everything is as I arranged it at the funeral parlor?”

Rose hesitated, seemingly busy arranging the crackers. Birdie leaned forward so her face was close to hers. “Please, Rose, tell me. What did you do now?”

“Nothing major. It’s all taken care of.”

“What?”

Rose raised her head, flinching at the pair of eyes trained on her. There was nothing left for her to do now but jump right in. “I ordered a different casket, okay? I saved a great deal of money by shopping on the Internet.”

Hannah’s hand stopped midair en route to delivering a cracker to her mouth. “You shopped on the Internet…for a casket?”

Birdie looked stunned. “You’ve got to be kidding.” When Rose didn’t respond Birdie’s eyes widened further. “You’re killing me, Rose. I spent hours on this! I had everything ordered at Krause’s Funeral Home. Why did you have to change it?”

“Birdie, I don’t know why you’re so upset just because everything is not exactly the way you ordered it.” Rose’s voice was clipped. “You never once asked me what I wanted to do for the funeral. You just called up and told me what to do. I went along with it, as I usually do. But for heaven’s sake, this isn’t a change as much as, well, a better deal.”

Birdie put her face in her palms. “Please tell me there’s a casket for my sister tomorrow.”

“Of course there is. You ordered an oak casket, and though it was lovely, it cost two thousand dollars. I found one almost identical for nine hundred dollars.” Her pride couldn’t be disguised.

“Mom,” Hannah said in that teenage know-it-all voice, “you can buy anything on the Internet these days.”

Rose shrugged. “I’m on the computer a lot for my word processing job. When I need a break I surf the Net. It’s fun, relaxing. In fact, it’s how I keep in touch with the world out there. I find it absolutely fascinating. When I’m on the Net, I feel so connected.”

Hannah waggled her brows. “Are you doing those chat rooms?”

Rose didn’t answer, but she could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Oh, no,” Birdie groaned. “You are, aren’t you.”

“What if I am?” Rose laughed lightly but her color heightened.

“You do know there are a lot of creeps out there that prey on lonely women like yourself.”

“They’re not all creeps. There are some very nice people looking for someone to talk to.”

Birdie released a short, sarcastic laugh.

“Lots of people are in chat rooms,” Hannah said in Rose’s defense.

“Not you, too, I hope,” Birdie replied with narrowed eyes.

“Sure I am.”

Birdie leaned back against the counter. “Good God, is there anything else I don’t know? My sister and my child are hanging out in chat rooms, we’ve got some casket coming in the mail and, as far as I’m concerned, we’re having a damn picnic in the house tomorrow.”

Dennis stuck his head around the corner. “Hey, in case you’re interested, there’s a chauffeur at the door.”




3


BIRDIE AND ROSE LOOKED AT each other for a brief instant, then in a flash, Rose darted from the table and tore off to open the front door as eager as a nine-year-old girl. A tall, blond man with a bodybuilder’s physique squeezed into a black suit smiled uncertainly.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but is this the Season residence?”

Rose looked beyond the man’s massive shoulders into the darkness but didn’t see her sister. Only the sleek red lights that trimmed the limo were visible along the curb. A shiver of worry shot through her as she nodded.

The chauffeur pinched back a smile and said, “My passenger told me to tell you to meet her in the side yard.”

Rose wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Behind her, Birdie stepped forward to ask in her imperious voice, “Where is Miss Season?”

The chauffeur cleared his throat and leaned forward in a confidential manner. “In the side yard. She should really come inside. She’s…well, she’s had a bit too much to drink.”

Rose heard Birdie mutter an oath. Dennis stepped forward and shook the chauffeur’s hand in a man-to-man manner. “Why don’t you bring her luggage right inside.” He looked over his shoulder, jerking his head at Birdie.

“Come on, Rose, let’s go get her,” Birdie said. They hurried into their coats and out the door into the night. Hannah was right behind them.

The snow had finally stopped and the full moon was as white as a large plate in the inky black sky. The light illuminated the clean, virginal snow in breathtaking beauty. Rose had always felt a particular thrill stepping into a stretch of new snow, akin to being an explorer discovering uncharted territory. Ahead, the path of her sisters’ deep footprints in the nearly foot-deep snow were the only marks scarring the frosty white. She followed them, trying to step in their prints, with a curious excitement in her chest. Around the wide front porch she could hear high-pitched laughing and shrieking.

Turning the corner, she saw in the moonlight a flash of vivid red hair and lush black mink against a sea of white. Blinking in the cold air, she moved closer. Birdie was standing a few feet away from the blur of motion, her hands on her hips. Rose saw Jillian lying in the snow, laughing with delight, as her mink-clad arms and her long, slender legs in dainty spiked heels moved back and forth, carving out a snow angel.

“Jilly!” Rose cried out with joy.

Jilly stopped laughing, cocked her head up and waved her arm, beckoning Rose closer.

“Rosie!” she shouted. “Look at all this snow! Isn’t it beautiful? I haven’t seen snow like this since we were kids. It’s so damn wonderful. Come on, Rosie! Birdie! Remember how we used to make snow angels? Look, I’ve made two already!”

Sure enough, Rose spied two snow angel outlines looking somewhat ethereal and magical in the moonlight. Rose ran to Jilly’s side, bubbling with anticipation. Except, she couldn’t remember how to make the angel. Suddenly Hannah appeared beside her, grinning with delight.

“So cool,” she exclaimed joyously. Spreading her arms out, she simply fell back into the soft snow, then began to thrash her arms up and down in an arc.

“Hannah, get out of there!” Birdie called, exasperated. “Oh, no, Rose, don’t you dare. Rose!”

With a squeal, Rose shut her eyes, spread out her arms and fell back. It was deliriously delicious, like free-falling, then finding herself deeply enveloped in the snow, face up to the moonlight.

“Aw, come on, Birdie, you ol’ stick in the mud,” Jilly called out. “Nobody’s looking.”

Birdie stood a few feet away, feeling every inch of the distance.

“Jilly, you’ll catch your death of cold,” she scolded. “You all will. No boots, no gloves, no hats. You’re all behaving like children. Jilly, come on, give me your hand.”

Jilly lifted her hand as gracefully as a queen’s. When Birdie stepped forward to take it, Jilly whipped up her other hand, clasped Birdie’s tightly and pulled her down with a laugh. Birdie shouted in surprise and tumbled face first into the snow beside her sister.

The snow was icy on her cheeks but nothing was hurt, except maybe her pride. The sound of hilarious laughter filled her ears. Birdie sputtered and felt ready to throttle her older sister, who was obviously drunk. She could smell the Scotch mixed with perfume. She struggled to raise herself to her knees and wipe the snow off her cheeks, scowling, ready to light into her sister.

But then she saw Jilly’s face, inches from her own, lit up with laughter. Birdie could only stare into that beautiful face, beautiful not for the reasons fashion magazines had clamored for her picture, but because it was the face she remembered from their childhood. Jilly’s eyes were bright with a childlike joy and that incomparable pleasure of just being alive that she hadn’t seen in her since they were kids. Birdie wasn’t sure if Jilly was happy, or merely drunk.

“Missed you, sis,” Jilly said soberly, still looking into her eyes with a wistfulness that was endearing. She reached up to swipe away a chunk of snow from Birdie’s collar. “You always made the best snow angels, remember? The snow was just like this, too. Soft, like powder. Remember?” Then with a cocky smirk she added, “But I always had to drag you out here, even then.”

Though the words were slurred, Birdie smiled and nodded, remembering it all.

Hannah sat up and howled with laughter at seeing her mother dumped in the snow. There was a look of awe on her face; she couldn’t believe anyone would really dare to do that to her mother. Beside her, Rose, the traitor, was laughing so hard tears were icing on her lashes and she clapped her hands in the same spontaneous manner she used to when she was little.

Something deep within Birdie pinged; she could hear the sound in her mind as clearly as she heard the laughing of the three women she loved most in the world. It was a rare moment of intense beauty and joy. Their world, their senses, felt heightened. She breathed in the cool air, slowly and deeply, feeling the moisture slide down her throat and enter her lungs. The snow made her cheeks burn with cold. She imagined they were cherry red, like Hannah’s, and the sting made her feel alive.

What small miracle had transpired that allowed her to be kneeling in the new-fallen snow in the moonlight with her sisters, laughing like children. Playing, rather than fussing over details of the funeral?

She knew the answer, of course. Jilly. It had always been Jilly who started the games.

Ah, but it was cold, and late, her mind rushed to warn her. They couldn’t stay out here forever. Reality interfered. Suddenly, she was no longer a child but a grown-up, with an adult’s sensibilities. She knew that a drunk could get hypothermia and not even know it. She knew that there were countless details to be sorted out before the funeral tomorrow. The dinner had to be served. Jilly probably needed to get some food in her. And unlike her sisters, Birdie was a mother. A wife. A doctor. She had responsibilities.

In a flash, she felt herself projected out from the scene, becoming an outsider, looking in. She couldn’t play. She pushed a hand through her hair and looked again at Jilly, then at Rose, and finally her own daughter, Hannah, still making snow angels. Birdie felt very cold. Her fingertips were flaming red and her toes were numb. “Okay, everybody, time to go in.”

“Okay, Mom,” Rose called back, giggling at her own joke.

Birdie wanted to shout back that she wasn’t her mother. She didn’t want to be the mother. Slowly, she dragged herself to her feet, feeling every one of her forty-one years.

“I said, everybody up. Time to go in.”

Ever the cooperative one, Rose climbed to her feet and offered her hand to Jilly. This time, Jilly went along, allowing Rose to take one hand and Hannah the other as they hauled her to her feet. She rose like a beautifully plumed bird, graceful, arms outstretched. A phoenix, Birdie thought with a wry smile.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Jilly moaned once she was on her feet, weaving.

“Too much booze,” Birdie said matter-of-factly as she stepped forward to grab hold of Jilly’s arm. “Can you walk?”

“I’m a model, chérie. I’ve strolled down runways in a lot worse condition than this.”

“Spare me the details. Okay then, one foot after another.”

Like a trooper, Jilly straightened her shoulders, fixed her direction. Then, releasing her sister’s hand, she paced through the snow with remarkable grace.

“You didn’t tell me your sister was so cool,” Hannah said, coming to her side.

Birdie saw the admiration in Hannah’s eyes and felt a sting of jealousy. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen anything but scorn in her daughter’s eyes.

A squeal caught her attention. She looked up in time to see Jilly wobble on some ice in the ridiculous spiked heels, then fall flat back into a snowdrift. Birdie hated herself for it, but a part of her was glad to see Jilly knocked off the pedestal a notch. She stifled her smile and hurried to help Jilly to her feet with Rose catching the slack. Jilly seemed to have used the last of her steam to make the distance to the porch; she was like a rag doll now.

In the light of the front porch, Birdie studied her sister with a physician’s eye. It had been ten years since she’d last seen her. Jilly still possessed a sultry sexiness that even women turned their heads to admire. Her hair was the color of flame and as thick and wild as ever. She wore much less makeup now so her face appeared more pleasing and natural. But Birdie didn’t like its pallor and gauntness, nor the puffy eyelids and the blueness of her lips. And Jilly was thinner. The bones of her face and even her hands appeared sharp under blue-veined skin. Intuition bred from years of training and experience recognized excessive fatigue and possible illness.

“Help me get her up, Rose,” she murmured.

Rose and Hannah both responded to the serious tone in Birdie’s request. The sisters each shouldered part of Jilly’s weight while Hannah opened the front door.

“I’m okay….” Jilly muttered.

“Sure you are. Now, take another step. Up, up, up,” and so on as they made their way up the front steps.

“Welcome home, Jilly,” Rose murmured as they ushered her into the warmth of their old family house.



Hours later, the dishes were washed and put away, the lights turned off and everyone settled into their respective rooms. The whole house seemed to sigh in peace. Rose sat before her computer, wide-awake. Coffee had been served when they all came in from the cold. Though she didn’t usually drink caffeine at night, that wasn’t what stirred her blood. There had been too much emotion and tomorrow promised more.

These dark hours were her favorite, when no one needed her or called her name. They were hers alone. Merry had always fallen asleep quickly and early and slept untroubled through the night. Occasionally illness would rouse her, but usually her breath purred and she dreamed of happy things. Rose knew this because she’d sit by her bed and watch her, envious of the gentle smile that curved Merry’s lips.

Her bedroom had once been their parents’ room. Rose had offered this largest bedroom to Merry after their mother died but Merry had rejected it, preferring the familiarity of her own lavender-and-lace-filled room. So Rose had moved in, using her old room as an office for her part-time job as a word processor. There were twelve rooms in the house, but her office was hers alone, filled with things that she had chosen for herself rather than inherited. Her desk was designed for her new computer. The bookshelves were installed to house her personal library. Everything here was here only because she wished it to be. She could come into this room, close the door and be free to explore her own interests, either through books or, more recently, the Internet.

She turned on the computer and, as she waited for it to boot, thought that Birdie was wrong to say chat rooms were only for lonely shut-ins. She knew this wasn’t true because her Internet friend, DannyBoy, traveled all across the country as a trucker. They didn’t go into personal details, didn’t exchange pictures or such, but she gleaned from what he wrote that being on the road so much was the reason he couldn’t meet nice young ladies. He wasn’t some pervert. He was kind and caring. A real gentleman who never was vulgar, or stupid, or chauvinistic. In fact, he was the nicest man she’d ever met, if only in cyberspace. They’d met months ago in a chat room for stamp collectors, and their conversations had soon drifted from stamps to whatever was on their minds. They’d liked what each other had to say and she wasn’t surprised when he e-mailed her privately.

As she clicked to her mail, she felt the familiar thrill to see his e-mail waiting for her. DannyBoy had been her greatest ally when she’d decided to buck Birdie’s directives and have her luncheon. He’d been the one to write words of condolences, sincere and heartfelt. Though she’d never seen his face, Rose could honestly believe DannyBoy was her best friend. She clicked open the e-mail.

Dear Rosebud,

All day I kept thinking and wondering if your sisters had come yet. I know how excited you are and how sad that the occasion for this get-together is your youngest sister’s funeral. I heard on the weather report about all that snow you folks in Chicago got. What bad luck. Hope it all goes okay. Let me know.

I’m in Texas now. The weather is pretty good, but the clouds are collecting and in these parts, we all keep our eyes on the sky and our ears tuned to the radio. Moving on soon, though, to the Midwest.

DannyBoy

She smiled, wondering as she always did what he looked like, how old he was, and if he was tall or short, fat or thin, balding or wore his hair in a ponytail. Not that it mattered, of course, though she couldn’t help but be curious. She put her fingers to the keyboard.

Dear DannyBoy,

Yes, they’re here! We had a terrible snowstorm but we’re lucky. Birdie and her family made it down and Jilly’s plane got in, though late. It’s so very wonderful! I really should go to sleep. Tomorrow is a busy day. I’ve a million things to do. I’ll have to get up early and polish the silver, set the tables, make the sandwiches. Oh Lord, the list never ends. But I can’t sleep. My blood feels like it’s racing yet my eyelids are so heavy. I haven’t slept well lately. I hate the darkness. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling until I see red spots before my eyes. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I have this sense something is going to happen. Maybe Merry is hovering nearby. Who knows? I hope I don’t sound crazy. I probably just need some sleep. But my sisters are here!

Take care,

Rosebud

She sent the letter. While she was scanning the Net, she was surprised to see another letter come in. Clicking over, she saw it was from DannyBoy. He must be online, she thought, feeling a sudden, almost intimate connection with him.

Dear Rosebud,

Go to sleep!

DannyBoy




4


JILLY AWOKE TO A PERSISTENT STRIPE of bright light seeping in from behind the curtains. It spread across the room playing with the shadows. She lay flat on her back, disoriented, drymouthed, in that limbo space between wakefulness and deep sleep. She was aware only of being very cold, and not knowing where she was. Blinking, she thought the bed was different. The walls…the smells.

Then suddenly in a rush, she knew.

She was in her old room, the one she’d shared with Birdie so many years before. She blinked again, then wiped her face with her palms. Her brain was awake now, absolutely, but her body wasn’t. Perhaps it was the jet lag, perhaps just the excitement of being home again after all these years, but she knew there would be no closing her eyes and falling back asleep. And for that, there’d be hell to pay. She’d had too much to drink last night. Her head was already pounding with a hangover and lack of sufficient sleep. A bad combination, and one all too familiar.

She licked her dry lips and dragged herself up to her elbows to take stock. She was wearing only a bra and undies. Rose and Birdie must have helped her out of her clothes. If she were in her own apartment in Paris she’d get up, boost the heat a bit, slip thick socks on her feet, then search around the kitchen for something to eat and perhaps something hot to drink. Maybe even listen to some music. But she didn’t want to wake anyone up, especially not Merry.

Jilly rubbed her eyes, waking further. No, she thought with a pang, she couldn’t wake Merry.

She dragged herself to a sitting position and took stock of the room. Nothing had changed. Her square white dresser was still covered with her collection of miniature boxes, each undoubtedly filled with the same costume earrings, buttons, pins and rings she’d carelessly tossed in eons ago. Birdie’s was topped with swimming trophies and medals attached to blue ribbons. There were two twin beds with matching swirling white wrought-iron headboards. On Birdie’s bed lay her favorite teddy bear, a big white one that was now as dirty and gray as the morning light. She looked down by her feet then cracked a smile, feeling more delight than she thought she would on finding her own teddy bear still there. It was a ratty, old-fashioned brown bear with stuffing sticking out from the roughly repaired seams.

“Hello, Mr. President,” she said, reaching out to pull the bear close, oddly comforted by it.

It was so eerie to see everything as she’d left it years ago. She hadn’t expected it to be the same. Rather, she’d thought all traces of the big bad sister would have been weeded out. It felt nice to see some trace of the young Jillian Season still remained. Rose was a sweetheart for putting her back in her old room. Oh, the dreams she’d had sleeping in this bed!

And the nightmares.

The last time she’d slept in here was in her senior year of high school, before she left for Marian House. When she’d returned, her mother had moved her to the guest room. It was all part of her mother’s infinite plan. Marian House was never to be discussed. Not even with—especially not with—her sisters. Her mother had arranged for Jilly to leave for a year’s study at the Sorbonne immediately after graduation. After all, she had painstakingly explained to Jilly, by going so far away, she wouldn’t have to deal with all those prying questions about where she’d been the previous months.

“It’s over Jillian,” her mother had said. “We never have to talk of this again. Everything can be just as it had been before. And you look so well. So slim!”

That was when Jilly knew the pretending had already begun. So, she went to France in the spring, upsetting her mother’s plan the following fall when she was discovered and hired as a Paris runway model and had refused to return home.

“But here I am again,” Jilly said to the stuffed bear, shaking the memories from her head. “I keep coming back. What is the matter with me? I thought I’d left it all behind.” In anguish, she squeezed the bear. “Why can’t I just let it go? Am I like you, you bear? Torn and badly mended at the seams, hmm?”

Ready or not, here I come, she thought as she crawled from the bed. She went first to her closet and, opening it, found it stuffed with her old clothes from the 1970s. Everything was still there. She grabbed a short lavender silk kimono, a favorite in high school, and slipped it on.

She moved slowly through the hall and down the stairs, cautiously, sniffing the air like a long-lost dog finding its way home. She paused to study a photograph or two on the stairwell wall, then paused again at the landing that overlooked the foyer and the front room. Dust motes floated in the sunbeam that poured in through the tall, gracious beveled glass windows. Jilly clutched the railing and stood, blinking, taking in the sight. Time could have stood still in this house. Last night she’d been too drunk to notice. But now, as she took in the heavy brocade curtains, the antique coatrack by the door, the crystal chandelier in the foyer, her mind slipped back once again to when she was seventeen years old and coming down these stairs for the last time.

It was the day she had left home for France.

“Jilly, come down!” her mother had called. “It’s almost time to leave!”

She’d felt rooted to the edge of the bed, her ankles together, hands clasped in her lap. She was so thin the smart navy suit her mother had purchased for her hung shapelessly from her shoulders as though from a mannequin.

The lies and the secrecy of the past weeks had worn her out. She took a last, desperate look around the room, terrified, committing to memory the details, knowing instinctively that it would be a long, long time before she saw this room again.

“Jilly!” Her mother’s voice was strident.

Jilly rose, pausing to stroke her favorite stuffed bear, then she silently came down the wide staircase, beginning her longjourney of isolation from her family. She held her shoulders back and her chin high. Her eyes appeared glazed and directed inward. Already, she was unconsciously assuming the trademark walk that would later place her in high demand in the European fashion world.

Downstairs, her father moved silently from the garage to the foyer, shoulders stooped, carrying her suitcases back out into the car. He appeared saddened that she was leaving for Europe, but she couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t one to share his private feelings, and in the past weeks he’d taken pains to avoid her, spending long hours at the courthouse or in his den.

Birdie and Rose, fifteen and eleven, slouched against the door frame, whispering to each other. She offered them the briefest of smiles. She coveted their innocence.

Then, suddenly, it was time to go. The family moved quickly, as though caught by surprise.

“I want a picture!” her mother cried out, frantically waving her hands. She was clumsy, tottering, which meant she’d been drinking again. Jilly felt a wave of sadness, then, looking at her sisters, concern. She wouldn’t be there to draw their mother’s ire anymore.

“Bill, get the camera!”

“I will, I will.”

Jilly felt the press of the bodies as they crowded together for the photograph. Her sisters crowded close with a kind of silent desperation. Birdie put her arm around her shoulder and Jilly caught a quick scent of her emerging body odor, strong and pungent, not yet masked with deodorant. Birdie was squeezing her shoulder hard, firmly hanging on. Rose, smaller, stood in front of her, silently but determinedly nudging Merry away with her elbow in order to stay close to Jilly. Merry clung tenaciously to Jilly’s arm.

“Merry, Rose, stop wriggling,” their father ordered. “Look here, everyone. Okay, Four Seasons, smile for the photograph. Say, fromage!”

Jilly smiled wide, shoulder to shoulder with her sisters, feeling one of the family again in that frozen moment in time captured on film. This would be the memory she’d take with her to Europe, she decided. The four of them, close together. It ended too quickly. Bodies separated and Mother began directing again.

Have a good time! We’ll miss you! Bring me back a bottle of French perfume!

“Say goodbye, Merry,” her mother said, nudging her forward. “Jilly has to go now.”

“I don’t want her to go!” Merry wailed, shaking her head so violently her long pigtails swung around her neck.

Jilly turned her head away, not wanting to see the sorrow swimming in her sister’s eyes lest it break her own fragile hold on composure. “Bye, sweetheart,” she called out in a tight voice as she headed out the front door. If she could make it down to the car, she told herself, she could escape into the private darkness and end this charade forever.

Merry, however, burst into tears and tore after her, clinging to Jilly’s arm at the car and tugging her back toward the house. Their parents rushed forward and wrapped their arms around their youngest daughter.

“Jilly has to leave,” they said in singsong tones.

Jilly stood ramrod straight at the curb, clutching the car door handle and struggling not to cry. She’d vowed she’d play her role in her mother’s plan without fail. She’d failed her family enough already; it was the least she could do.

“No, she doesn’t!” Merry cried belligerently. “She doesn’t have to go. Make her stay! Ple-e-ase, Mama! Make her stay!”

Jilly held those cries in her heart like a talisman, loving her poor little shaman sister all the more. She let go of the car and slowly walked to her baby sister, kissing her cheek and hugging her, hard, all the while looking over the small, bony shoulder at her father with a gaze that challenged. You can let me stay if you want to.

“Jilly! You’re up!”

Jilly blinked and turned her head to the voice calling her name, dragging her back to the present.

“Rose!” Jilly’s voice squeaked out of her dry throat. She opened her arms to the slender, smaller sister as she hurried up the stairs to hug her, fiercely, in her surprisingly strong arms. They hugged for a long time, rocking back and forth in tender glee. No more yesterdays. This is now, she told herself, relishing the familiar scent of sweet roses in her sister’s hair.

“You were daydreaming,” Rose said. “Miles away.”

“More like years away,” she replied, then cast a sweeping glance at the house. “It’s being back here again.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Rose said, pulling back yet keeping their arms linked. “I’ve read all about jet lag and thought you might want to sleep straight up until the funeral. But oh, Jilly, I’m so glad you’re awake. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Jilly’s hungry gaze devoured her sister. Although Rose was only six years younger, Jillian still felt a twinge of envy that Rose looked much the same as she did in high school.

“You look tired,” Rose said, her eyes searching with concern. “Are you sure you had enough sleep?”

Tired and old, she thought to herself. “I’m sure I haven’t, but I’ll catch up later. Besides, who could sleep? Such a racket! The birds were relentless and I swear I heard bells all morning.”

“That must have been the deliveries. We’re having a light luncheon here after the funeral.”

“What a charming idea,” Jilly replied, yawning. “I thought we were going to some stuffy old restaurant. Much nicer this way.”

Rose beamed. “Do you think so, Jilly?” She turned and led the way down the stairs, through the wide foyer to the dining room. She pointed out the stacks of china plates, bowls, cups and platters, tableware and silver bowls desperately blackened and in need of polish.

“Mom had all these lovely dishes stashed away. And there’s more in the attic. We have to sort through them, anyway, so we can divide them. Think about the ones you’d like.”

“Doesn’t matter to me in the least.”

“You’ll have to have some! You’re the eldest. You get first pick.”

“Tell you what, chérie. You pick for me, and then you can keep them.”

Rose was taken aback by her generosity. “I want to use the china for the luncheon, but it’ll mean a lot to wash and polish, I’m afraid. Do…do you want to help?”

“Sure. Of course,” Jilly replied, looking with longing at the kitchen door. “But have mercy on me. I smell the tempting aroma of coffee and if I don’t get some of that, a few aspirins and a gallon of water down my throat soon I swear I’ll drop right here and be useless to anyone.”

Rose tilted her head and laughed brightly, excited by Jilly’s willingness to back her luncheon. “Come on, then. I’ve made a petit déjeuner,” she said, emphasizing the French. “Nothing special, just a few things I picked out that I thought you might especially like.”

Jilly appreciated not only the breakfast but the obvious effort Rose extended to make her feel welcome, down to the use of a few common French phrases. She touched her shoulder, delaying her for a moment before joining the others in the kitchen.

“Rose, thanks for the flowers in the bedroom,” she said in a soft voice. “You remembered how much I love yellow roses.” Then with a crooked smile she added, “For that matter, thanks for putting me in my old room. It meant a lot.”

“I thought it might,” Rose replied in a conspiratorial whisper. Then, in a swift change of mood, she smiled brightly and said, “You’d better grab something to eat before Dennis devours everything.”

Dennis…Jilly reached up to smooth her hair with her palms, straighten her shoulders and make her entrance.

The kitchen was warm, bustling and smelled deliciously of hot coffee and rolls. Here, too, there was chaos. White bakery boxes were stacked high on the counters, plastic bags of fresh vegetables lay beside cutting boards and knives, ready for free hands, and there were dozens of plastic containers filled with all sorts of deli items. Nonetheless, at the table she found Dennis and Hannah sitting back in their chairs, leisurely munching croissants as though they had nothing in the world to do.

“Good morning to all,” she murmured, heading straight for the sink.

Hannah’s eyes widened at the sight of her exotic aunt whose legs seemed to go on forever under the short, sexy kimono.

“Good morning, Aunt Jillian.”

Jilly held up one finger to indicate that everyone should wait while she drank the water thirstily. Then, after a lusty “Ah,” she peered over at the pale, dark-eyed, rather plump teenager slouched in the chair across the room. Her red hair was the mark of a Season.

“Hannah?”

The girl nodded, eager.

“I wouldn’t have recognized you if not for the hair. You’ve grown!” She caught the nanosecond of anguish in the eyes and the faint blushing of her cheeks and instantly understood, as one woman does with another, that this was a teenager sensitive about her weight. “You’ve become a woman!” she amended smoothly.

Hannah’s face relaxed. “I’m fifteen, Aunt Jillian. Almost sixteen.”

“You must call me Jilly. We’re all adults here,” she replied, winking before sipping more water.

Dennis lowered his Chicago Tribune. His was a considerably cooler gaze than his daughter’s. He masked it with a politely rigid smile of greeting. The house suddenly felt several degrees colder. Jilly tightened the kimono about her neck.

“So, the prodigal sister returns,” he said, more as a pronouncement, folding the paper and placing it in his lap.

Jilly felt a stab of annoyance. How like Dennis Connor to pull some biblical quote laced with criticism as his greeting after ten years. She wasn’t hungry, but to mask how upset she was, she casually reached out for a croissant.

“Prodigal?” she replied, with an arch to her brow.

“Prodigal is apt,” he replied, crossing his arms. “The long-lost child returning to the fold from her wanderings.”

Jilly picked a corner from her croissant and delicately put it between her lips. “I wasn’t aware that I was wandering.”

“She lives in Paris, Daddy,” Hannah said, as though he were a dolt.

“In this family, living anywhere beyond a day’s drive is clearly exploring the wilds.” His countenance lightened. Then with a crooked smile he added, “And we do rejoice that you’ve returned.”

She cracked a smile, forgiving him a little.

Rose set a cup of coffee at the table beside a pitcher of fresh cream and a bowl of sugar. She clasped her hands, studying her table anxiously. “I know this isn’t as good as what you’re used to, but…”

Jilly gratefully accepted the steaming cup of coffee and ignored the cream. “Mmm, Rose,” she said with an appreciative groan. “It’s better.”

Rose’s chest swelled.

While she sipped, Jilly discreetly eyed Dennis as he returned to his paper.

Dennis Connor…He had aged exactly like she’d thought he would. He was always handsome, even in high school, in a mature, intellectual way that she’d once found attractive. Back then he’d worn his blond hair long to the shoulders and parted down the middle. His heavy eyeglass frames were a statement over his dark and piercing eyes and thick, arched brows. And that cleft in his chin. Lord, that dimple had turned quite a few heads back in high school. Hannah had his eyes and the cleft in her chin, she realized, amazed at genetics.

His hair might have thinned at the crown, his body thickened at the waist, but he’d aged very well indeed. She might even say he was more attractive now, having grown into his mature appeal. There was no denying that Birdie was a lucky woman.

“I can’t imagine living in Paris,” Hannah said with her chin in her palm. “How can you stand to come back to boring old Chicago? Or Milwaukee?” She rolled her eyes and reached for another croissant.

“Are you sure you want that?” Dennis asked his daughter from over the newspaper.

Hannah’s arm stiffened and she furtively glanced at Jilly. A faint red blush crept up her neck and ears. She slid her hand back into her lap, slumping her shoulders forward as though to somehow make herself smaller.

Jilly’s heart cringed for her. She knew Dennis was trying to be helpful, but men could be such idiots! The last thing he needed to do to an overweight teenager was draw attention to that horrid fact.

“Hannah,” Jilly said in a breezy manner, “pass me some of that grapefruit, would you? One of the first things I learned in modeling was to eat lots of fruit and drink gallons and gallons of water. It flushes out the system and leaves your skin glowing. It’s de rigueur. Here, darling, won’t you split a grapefruit with me? You know,” she continued, slicing through the fruit, “when I’m exhausted like I am now, I tend to pick at food all day without thinking. And I am absolutely exhausted now. So be my friend, would you? When you see me nibble, tell me to stop. I swear I won’t bite your head off.” She laughed, pleased to see Hannah’s frown lift to a shy smile. Lifting her spoon, Jilly dug into the grapefruit with relish.

Hannah’s dark eyes lost their dullness as she reached for the other half of the grapefruit.

Jilly was well aware of the lure modeling held for teenage girls. Her career gave her status. Eyeing Hannah, she thought her niece wasn’t so much fat as she was big, much as Birdie had been at that age. Except that Birdie was a champion swimmer with long, defined muscles as sleek and smooth as an otter’s. With her physique, coupled with her blazing confidence, she was magnificent. In contrast, Hannah was soft, slumped-shouldered and recalcitrant. That glorious sparkle of confidence that was such a hallmark of girls at this age was missing in this child.

Looking up she was caught by surprise to see Dennis leaning back in his chair looking at her intently. The disapproval she had seen in his eyes was replaced by open gratitude for her rescue. She smiled briefly, acknowledging.

The back door swung open and Birdie swept in with a gust of cool air. Her arms were overflowing with plastic bags and she was fired up with a sense of accomplishment.

“What a morning I’ve had!” she announced, her voice as blustery as the wind. “The sun is shining and melting the snow. Nobody will have a problem making it to the funeral. Come see. I’ve bought all sorts of paper products: plates, napkins and cups. And tons of plastic tableware.”

“Paper products?” Rose went directly to the bags and began sifting through them.

“Take a look at the pattern, Rose. The gray is somber but not too dark, don’t you think?” She wasn’t asking as much as thinking out loud. She came up for air, looking around the room.

Everyone sitting at the kitchen table stared back at her in silence. One face caught her attention.

“Jilly!” she exclaimed, catching sight of her sister at last. “You’re up!”

Birdie’s face registered delight, surprise, then maybe a hint of disapproval at seeing her so scantily clad and barefoot. Her gaze darted to Dennis, but she regrouped quickly, set down her bundles and hurried to Jilly’s side. They hugged a bit awkwardly, what with Jilly still seated and Birdie bending low. The wind had chilled Birdie’s cheeks and the ice on her woolen coat soaked straight through Jilly’s silk. Yet it was the chill in her greeting that Jilly wondered about.

“You were three sheets to the wind last night,” Birdie said in a scolding manner. While she spoke, her eyes studied Jilly with a clinical thoroughness. “And you’re pale as a ghost this morning.”

Jilly immediately brought her hand to her face, smoothing it. “It was a horrible flight, followed by a horrible drive from the airport.” She was gratified to see a flash of guilt in Birdie’s eyes for not having picked her up as promised. “Then, of course, there was the jet lag. But Rose took care of me, as always the perfect hostess. I’ve had coffee and fruit and feel much more myself.”

She wanted to ask Birdie what her excuse was for looking so bad. She hoped her face didn’t reflect shock at seeing how much her sister had aged since she last saw her. She looked ten years older than her forty-one years, more bulky and pasty. The vivid red highlights in her brown hair had faded and competed now with a new crop of gray. And to make matters worse, the hair was cut in an unflattering, mannish style. Birdie had always been bigger than the other Season girls but she’d been lithe and strong and had carried herself like a queen. Now she was so changed. Was it age or food or just no longer caring that led her to let herself go? She watched as Birdie unwound a brightly patterned fleece scarf and slipped out of her navy pea coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. Crossing the room to Rose, she unconsciously stretched her Fair Isle sweater over her wide rump.

Rose looked up from the bags, her face crumpled with worry. “But, Birdie, we don’t need all this.”

“Of course we do,” Birdie replied decisively, coming to her side. She reached in the bag and began unloading the contents.

Dennis sighed deeply and lifted the paper high to block his view.

“Really, Rose,” Birdie continued, oblivious. “We’ll go along with the luncheon at home. We have no choice. But this notion of yours to use china and crystal is far too romantic. This is a funeral and we don’t need to be theatrical. It’s too much work to set up, then wash up after all those people. If you’re worried about the expense of paper, don’t be. I’m happy to cover it.”

Rose’s back was ramrod straight and she had laid her hands over the bags as though to forcibly keep the contents in. “But…” She swallowed hard. “I’ve already unpacked the china.”

“Rose, be sensible. We cannot use Mother’s dishes.”

Jilly glanced at Hannah and saw her face set in fury, the same as her father’s, as they listened.

“Why not?” Rose wasn’t backing down.

Birdie stopped unpacking and rested her hands on the counter. After an exaggerated pause she said, “For one thing, there isn’t enough of any one set of china to serve this size a crowd. For another, there are not enough salad forks or matching wineglasses. It would all be an embarrassing mishmash of patterns. And it’s much too late to call for rentals.”

“Who the hell cares?” Dennis snapped, obviously fed up with his wife’s interference. “If she wants to use the damn dishes, let her.”

“Dennis,” Birdie said in controlled fury, furtively checking Jilly’s reaction to his outburst. “Would you go out and get the rest of the bags from the car, please?”

Dennis tossed down his newspaper with an angry flip of the wrist, then rose abruptly from the table, pushing back his chair so hard it almost toppled over. He took pains to allow a wide berth between himself and Birdie.

Jilly sensed the tension escalating in the room. Daggers flowed in the gazes between Dennis and Birdie, and again between Rose and Birdie. Jilly sipped her coffee, narrowing her eyes. She’d never seen this side of Birdie before. She’d always been bossy growing up, but now she was more of a bully. In contrast, Rose caved in, staring absently at some point across the room.

“If Rose has planned to use Mother’s dishes,” Jilly began cautiously, “then that’s what we should do. We don’t have time to argue over the point, so let’s just pitch in and do what she wants.” She put down her cup and lifted her chin. “It is, after all, her call.”

No one missed the steel in Jilly’s voice. Birdie drew her shoulders back and met her gaze. “Her call?” She took a breath, then said in a controlled voice that fooled no one, “Jilly, I know you just arrived. Perhaps you don’t appreciate all I’ve done to organize this funeral. Everything was set until Rose decided entirely on her own to change everything. Imagine, a luncheon here! You don’t have any idea….”

“But of course I do!” Jilly replied with a light laugh. “This isn’t a formal sit-down dinner, darling. It’s a petite soirée. You’re making entirely too big a fuss over it. I’ve thrown lunches bigger than this on a moment’s notice. It’s all in the attitude. I think it’s fabulous that Rose is finally going to use all this stuff. Mother hardly ever entertained.”

“That’s because she was a perfectionist,” Birdie said, drawing herself up. “It mattered to her that things were properly done, or not done at all.”

“Oh, come on, Birdie,” Jilly countered, waving her hand. “Mother was so intimidated by Emily Post and things like matching china, menus, which side to serve on and which side to take away, that she was simply overwhelmed by it all. The truth is she was afraid nothing was ever good enough.” Her eyes flashed. “She was always so damn worried about what other people thought. That’s why she never entertained.”

Hannah watched her mother summarily silenced by this mysterious aunt and sat back in her chair. Birdie appeared to be holding on to her position, for the sole purpose of winning in the eyes of her daughter.

“Come on, Birdie,” Jilly said, rising from the table. “Rose has done all the preparation, let’s have fun putting it together.”

“Jilly,” Birdie said, thoroughly frustrated at having to defend the only sensible position on the matter. “This is not another game. You can’t fly in after all these years and expect us to pick up where we left off as children. I’m sure your life in Europe is very exciting and glamorous,” she said in a stuffy manner, “but here in America, everything is not always fun.”

Jilly shook her head, seeing clearly the woman Birdie had become. “Why can’t it be? Birdie, listen to yourself. When did you get so old and sour?”

Birdie stiffened as though slapped and Jilly regretted her words instantly.

“We can do this,” said Jilly soothingly. “We’ll make this the most charming, delightful luncheon imaginable. We’ll have china and silver, pink tablecloths trimmed with lace and ribbon, tea sandwiches and flowers everywhere.”

“Exactly,” Rose exclaimed, her face glowing. “I’m sure that’s the way Merry would have wanted it.”

It was the first time that morning that Merry’s name was mentioned. Merry, who was already gone from them. Merry, whose presence was suddenly overwhelming. They had been tiptoeing around their grief, trained as they were since childhood to tuck away emotion. But now that her name was spoken she sprang to life in their thoughts.

Rose’s eyes were bright with tears. Jilly went to her side to wrap an arm around her.

Birdie did the same. “Glad you’re home,” she said in Jilly’s ear. “Missed you.”

“Me, too,” Jilly replied, relishing the heartfelt hug from Birdie she’d missed with the first hello.

Dennis pushed through the door, his arms filled with bags of paper products.

“Okay then,” Birdie called out, releasing her sisters to face Dennis. “All this stuff goes back in the car!”

Dennis stopped short, looking confused.

“Don’t ask!” Birdie swooped up the bags from the counter and proceeded out the door. “I’ll take them back—but I still think I’m right,” she called over her shoulder.

Dennis shrugged, shook his head and followed.

Jilly met Rose’s gaze and smiled as the mood shot skyward.



Outside the garage Birdie paused to take a deep breath and stare at the yard. The sun shone brilliantly in a clear blue sky. Cheery heads of crocuses were emerging through the sparkling snow, valiantly promising spring would come, even if a bit late. Beyond, in the side yard, the hot sun had melted the snow on the rectangle of sidewalk that bordered a forty-foot expanse. That space had been an in-ground swimming pool, long ago.

She saw in her mind’s eye the brilliant blue of the pool’s water. Bahama Blue, it was called. Every other summer the girls had to help paint that color on the sloping cement walls, looking like Smurfs when the job was done. The pool was the family’s playground. In happier times, Dad would come home from work and jump in like a “bomb,” splashing his girls while they squealed with delight. They’d take turns being hurled from his shoulders, pretending to be mermaids diving off a cliff. One more time, Dad!

They’d spend the day playing mermaids in the pool and wouldn’t come out until their fingers were pruned and their lips were blue. Especially Birdie. She loved to swim and was a natural, able to hold her breath longer than anyone she knew.

Mermaids…Birdie’s lips turned up in a smile. She hadn’t thought of that in, oh, so many years. It was their favorite game. Jilly made it up, of course, though she herself had thought up most of the game’s rules, like holding their breaths under Iceland and being dead if they ever touched the drain. That’s how things worked between her and Jilly. Imagination and rules. Right brain and left. They were a good team. They were best friends. Rose had loved the game, too. And Merry.

Birdie cringed at the vision of a girl’s small limbs kicking beneath Bahama Blue water. She blinked it away and looking out, saw again the rectangle of earth in the yard that was once the swimming pool. Snow piled high over it, creating a mound. It occurred to Birdie with a shudder how much it looked like a gravesite.




5


THE “MAY BALL” FUNERAL LUNCHEON, as it was known in later years, succeeded in dispelling the usual gloom and doom Birdie dreaded at such occasions, even if it did rouse the ridicule she’d predicted. She overheard a few smirking comments on the pink damask tablecloths and the yards of lace trim. But overall, Birdie was moved by how many people really loved Merry. Though her sister hadn’t seen people often, the impression she’d made was deep and permanent. Perhaps it was her innocence, or perhaps it was her joy that elicited devotion from everyone she met. All in all, Merry’s memory had been properly honored, even if in pink and lace.

The final stragglers were clustered in the foyer, gathering their coats and saying their goodbyes. With her red hair pulled severely back in a chignon at the neck, Jilly stood at the door with the poise and straight shoulders of a dancer, sending off strangers and family alike with a grace that Birdie both envied and was proud of. Birdie might have attributed her skill to her training as a model and actress, except that she knew better. Jilly always was the swan in the pond.

In contrast, she hardly saw Rose all afternoon. Her shy sister had skirted through the rooms like Jeeves, quietly attending the buffet, discreetly collecting dishes and scurrying them off to wash. To the guests, she undoubtedly appeared the perfect hostess, but Birdie knew her sister would rather scrub the floor with her tongue than wag it in small talk with all these people.

As the last of the guests were leaving, Mrs. Kasparov, the real estate agent she’d selected, came forward to discreetly hand her a sales portfolio. She was a diminutive woman with gray-and-black hair and an overbite. With her aggressive manner, she reminded Birdie of a terrier.

“Here is the list of sales comps and the other information you requested.”

“Thank you. I should imagine we’ll put the house on the market right away, to take advantage of the spring market. We’ll call you,” Birdie said, nudging her toward the door. Blessedly, Mrs. Kasparov nodded then signaled her husband, who sighed in relief and rose with a cumbersome effort. The couple shook Jilly’s hand warmly at the door, then, after her gaze took a final, hawklike sweep of the room, Mrs. Kasparov left.

The whole house seemed to sigh when the door clicked shut. Birdie rubbed her neck, thinking she’d love nothing more than to prop her feet up and collapse. She caught Jilly’s eye and they shared a commiserating smile. Their lawyer, Mr. Collins, who had been sitting patiently in a wing chair by the front window, rose on cue.

“I think we’re all ready now,” she announced. “Mr. Collins, thank you for your patience. Shall we move to the dining room?”

Reaching out her arm, she placed it around Rose’s shoulder as she passed, and together they went to sit at the dining room table which had been cleared of the luncheon, linen and lace.

Mother’s mahogany table gleamed under the crystal chandelier. As Birdie sat, she idly wondered who would get the dining room furniture. The table would look lovely in her Tudor house. And who else would need such a big set? Jilly wouldn’t want to lug it to France and Rose would probably get a small condo.

Jilly took a seat at one end of the table, directly across from Mr. Collins, who was busy laying out papers. Her hands were folded neatly and she sat straight, her green eyes wide and alert, as though on stage. They waited patiently for Rose to take her seat. Her face stilled pensively when she caught sight of Mrs. Kasparov’s real estate portfolio on the table.

When at last they were all settled, Mr. Collins folded his hands on the table and smiled benignly at them. He was a tall, dignified gentleman who had been their father’s best friend. “Uncle George,” they’d once called him, though only Merry continued calling him that into adulthood. Today was a formal setting, however, and as he was acting as their legal adviser, he maintained a respectful reserve. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he proceeded.

“Your sister was a very special person to me, and your father was a dear friend. It was my pleasure, and my honor, to act as the co-executor of your father’s will and Meredith’s trust fund, as it has been to serve the interests of the entire Season family throughout the years.” He glanced briefly at Jilly, who met his eyes with equal reserve.

“You are all well aware of how your father wished his property handled and distributed after his death?”

The three sisters nodded to indicate their understanding.

“At the time he wrote his will, back in August of 1977, his chief concern was for the care and welfare of his youngest daughter, Meredith, once it became established that she would not be capable of providing for herself after he and your mother were gone. Your mother willingly chose to accept one-third of the estate for her own support, thus leaving the bulk of their joint estate in a trust fund in Meredith’s name. If you recall, after her death in 1990, what little was left of your mother’s estate was distributed equally to all four daughters. I believe the amount was forty thousand dollars?”

Jilly’s face remained impassive as she nodded. Birdie recalled her phone call from Europe, full of doubt and disappointment to learn how little was left from their mother’s estate. Birdie had been filled with resentment and her attitude toward her sister had changed that day.

Mr. Collins adjusted his glasses as he checked a figure on the paper. “It was also stipulated that, upon the occasion of Meredith’s death, the residue of the estate should be distributed equally among the remaining Season issue. As of this date, that would be Jillian, Beatrice and Rose Season. The estate includes all remaining monies, assets and real property, or in this case, this house, the summer home in Indiana having been sold in 1984. I’ve frozen the bank accounts and sold the few remaining stocks, and after the estimated taxes and funeral expenses, excluding the sale of the house, of course, I’m calculating approximately twenty thousand dollars will be left in the trust fund to be dispersed.”

“Is that all?” Jilly asked, sitting straighter. “I thought my father had left a considerable estate.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Birdie muttered, furious that Jilly was disappointed again.

“Your father left a fair-size estate,” Mr. Collins replied calmly. “One that diminished over time, considering the expense of upkeep for a house and property of this size, not to mention Merry’s considerable medical and educational expenses. If you wish, I can give you a detailed accounting afterward.”

“We were very careful with the spending,” Rose interjected, worried.

“That won’t be necessary,” Jilly replied to Mr. Collins. “I’m sure everything is in order, I’m just…surprised. How much would you say the house is worth?”

Birdie promptly opened the portfolio and sifted through the papers. “According to Mrs. Kasparov, the fair market value would be somewhere around five hundred fifty thousand dollars. Less the real estate commission, transfer taxes and such.”

“You can’t be serious.” Jilly looked devastated. “In this area? That can’t be right. It seems very low.”

Here we go again, Birdie thought. She cast a quick glance at Rose, not wanting to offend her with what she was about to say. “Mrs. Kasparov believes the house and property need quite a bit of work. Things she itemized in particular include the porch, which is rotting in places, pipes that have broken, and the walls haven’t been properly repaired. The paint and wallpaper need to be freshened. The grounds are completely overgrown and the filled-in pool detracts from the land value. And of course the kitchen and bathrooms are terribly outdated and would need to be totally redone. The bottom line is, the place is architecturally lovely and in a great location, but it’s what’s known as a handyman’s special.” She set down the papers and folded her hands over them. “I quite agree with the estimate. Under the circumstances, we can’t expect top dollar.”

“Regardless of the condition, it’s a double lot,” Jilly argued. “Within walking distance of the lake! The land alone is worth that much. Why, the house down the block is up for over a million.”

“Walk through the house, Jilly. You can’t compare the two.” Birdie hesitated. “There’s some question as to whether the house should be torn down.”

“No,” Rose gasped.

Jilly was indignant. “I want another opinion.”

“You can look at the comps,” Birdie said, handing the folder to Jilly. “We have to consider if we really want to do the work ourselves to fix the place up, or just sell it as is as quickly as possible. Frankly, I vote for the latter.”

Rose was shifting in her seat, wringing her hands. She stared at Mr. Collins in silence, then glanced at her sisters, cringing under the question shining in their eyes.

Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “Well, now, that is an issue that should be discussed between the three of you, privately. I wouldn’t presume to interfere, but I am at your service should you need my professional advice or—” he ventured a smile that revealed the affection accrued from a lifetime of association “—if you just want the advice of an old friend.”

“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Birdie said.

Jilly echoed this but Rose remained silent, seemingly distracted.

“Is that everything, then?” Birdie was deeply flustered by Jilly’s disappointment. She began tucking back papers and closing up the real estate portfolio. She couldn’t imagine why Mr. Collins requested this meeting after the funeral when everything was perfunctory. They could have just as readily handled it between a phone call and a FedEx. Dear man, he was probably being thoughtful. She really didn’t know what she would have done without him all these years.

“There is one more rather delicate matter to discuss,” he replied.

Birdie looked up, surprised. Mr. Collins’s tone altered and he appeared to be treading on softer ground. “Oh? And what would that be?”

He slowly removed his glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. “I called this meeting today because I wanted to discuss something with you while all of you were still together, under this roof. This is a unique situation.” He cleared his throat and began again, glancing briefly at Rose.

“I’ve known Merry from the time she was born. She would, from time to time, come down the street to visit Mrs. Collins and me. As you know, your sister was not legally competent, but during this last illness, she had a remarkable intuition that her time was limited.” He looked at Rose for confirmation. She was sitting straighter in her chair, pale and still.

“We had several long conversations. Merry was quite concerned about one issue in particular.” He cleared his throat again and pulled from under the sheaf of papers a videotape. On top, taped to it, was a small envelope, a young girl’s blue stationery adorned with pastel flowers.

Birdie narrowed her eyes, noticing that the writing on the envelope was large and childlike—Merry’s.

Rose stood and, in the manner of one who had anticipated this event, took the videotape from Mr. Collins’s hand and carried it to the living room television, which was set up and ready to receive the tape.

“Won’t you make yourselves comfortable on the sofa?” he said, indicating that they should all move to the other room.

Birdie and Jilly rose without exchanging glances and followed him to the living room. The mood was uneasy; no one knew quite what to expect. They sat opposite each other in the two wing chairs. Rose fiddled with the television and Mr. Collins remained standing, apparently eager to begin.

“What’s this all about?” Birdie asked.

“Be patient,” he replied. “It will all become perfectly clear.”

“All set.” At his nod, Rose pushed the play button, then seated herself in front of the television.

The room settled into silence as the video ran, beginning with a short strip of blank tape. Suddenly, there was Merry, full of life. There were gasps from the sisters at the shock of seeing her beautiful face fill the screen, smiling, giggling and covering her mouth when she laughed.

“Oh, my God,” Birdie gasped, bringing her fist to her lips. “Merry…”

It was almost too much to bear. Merry was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, without any outward sign of mental disability. Beyond her delicate bones, her tiny waist, her brilliant blue eyes that lit up her face when she smiled, there was another, more elusive quality to her charm. For all that she was thirty-two years old, Merry still possessed the coquettish, utterly beguiling innocence of a child.

As the camera zoomed in, Birdie saw signs of Merry’s illness in the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes, the whiteness of her skin and the blue cast to her lips. And she looked so much like Rose. The younger two Seasons were both small with delicate frames and the same red-gold hair worn long and straight. Except that Merry was obviously frail and weak, where Rose was physically strong. The invalid and the caretaker.

Mr. Collins’s voice could be heard on the screen. “Hello, Merry, how are you today?”

Merry grew suddenly coy, turning and lifting one shoulder. “Fine.” Then tilting her head, she asked, “Are you making pictures now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Like the ones of Jack and Ali?”

“Your picture will look just the same,” the off-camera voice of Mr. Collins assured her.

Merry nodded, accepting this, seemingly distracted by something over his shoulder.

“What do you want to tell us today?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He chuckled. “I thought you had something you wanted to say.” When Merry frowned and shook her head, apparently confused, he prodded, “To your sisters? Rose and Birdie and…”

“Jilly!” she exclaimed, sitting up in her chair. He had her full attention now. “Will Jilly see this?”

“Yes, I’ll make certain she does. Now, tell Jilly and Birdie and Rose what you told me.”

Merry’s face went blank as she stared back at the camera.

Birdie leaned forward, her heart aching as she watched intently. Here were the sure signs of Merry’s brain damage.

“When I show your sisters this movie,” Mr. Collins’s voice continued with admirable calmness, “what do you want them to know?”

“They’ll see me?”

“Yes.”

Her face grew serious, pouty. Then she wagged her finger at the camera and said in all seriousness, “I want you to find Spring. I want you to go get her, okay? And tell her—”

She paused to think, looking upward, then, with inexpressible sweetness, she smiled straight into the camera like a pro and said, “Tell her I love her. Please?”

“Who is Spring?” he asked.

Merry’s face clouded and she shook her head. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“Who said you cannot?”

“Rose said not to talk about that.”

“I see. Well, is there anything else you want to say?”

Merry grew distracted again and appeared to fatigue. She slumped her shoulders and shook her head no. “Will you give the picture to Rose and Birdie? And Jilly?” She brightened briefly. “We’re the Four Seasons,” she said with obvious pride, raising four fingers up to the camera. Her hand dropped to her mouth as she began coughing, mildly at first, then hard and gasping.

The camera was cast aside, the picture tilting wildly, settling on an angled shot of the carpet and Merry’s slender legs, then a man’s trousers hurrying toward her. All the while the hacking cough continued in the background, then the video went blank.

No one spoke. Rose moved to turn off the television. Jilly continued staring at the black screen. Birdie sniffed and rose to collect a box of tissues. She blew her nose, then dabbed at her eyes as she returned to her seat.

“What about the letter?” Rose asked after a moment.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Collins said. He held the letter in his hand. “It’s sealed. Who would like to open it?”

“I would,” Rose said, reaching out across the floor for it. Mr. Collins delivered it into her hand. She held the envelope reverently, smoothing one palm over it in a tender stroke. “I knew she had gone to Mr. Collins’s house, of course, just as I knew what was troubling her, though I hadn’t seen the video before.” She smiled sadly. “Merry could be very secretive when she wanted to be. Thank you, Mr. Collins. It was very moving. We’re not much of a family for taking videotapes and I believe this is the only record we have of Merry. It was so powerful to see her and hear her speak.” She paused, collecting herself.

“But I know what is in this letter,” she continued after a moment. “It’s in her own handwriting. She worked quite hard at it.” A faint smile crossed Rose’s face. “She tossed out quite a few until she was satisfied.”

“Why don’t you read it?” Birdie said.

Rose opened the envelope with her finger and tugged out a piece of stationery of matching print. Smoothing out the paper, she glanced briefly at Jilly, then cleared her throat. “It’s dated March 5, 1999.”

“That was a month before she died,” Birdie said.

“That’s right,” Rose replied, then raised the letter. “There isn’t much….”

Dear Jilly, Birdie and Rose,

Under my bed is the time capsule. You gave it to me. Please give it to Spring. Please give all my money to her, too. She needs a nice house.

Your sister,

Merry

P.S. You have to find her first.

“That’s it,” she said, folding the letter back.

Jilly rubbed her temples, then leaned forward and said, “Excuse me, but am I the only one missing something here? There’s that name again. She used to ask me about her. Who or what is Spring?”

“Isn’t that the name of her doll?” asked Birdie. “The one that she’s had forever. Oh, you know the one, the baby doll with the red hair? She used to carry it around with her wherever she went.”

“Yes,” replied Rose. “The doll’s name is Spring. But that’s not who she’s referring to.”

“Why keep us in suspense? Is she some friend? Real or imaginary or what?”

Rose looked to Mr. Collins for support. He nodded, indicating she should continue. Rose wiped her palms on her thighs. “Jilly,” she began in earnest, then stopped.

Jilly sat still and frozen, as though posing for a photograph.

Birdie searched Rose’s face, so intent and yet fearful. She looked finally at Mr. Collins, whose gaze was all-knowing.

“Well, surely it can’t be all that serious,” Jilly said in a glib manner. “Dolls and time capsules are hardly earth-shattering.”

“Please believe that this is not meant to hurt you or invade your privacy in any way, shape or form,” Rose said. “Merry loved you, in some ways I believe more than she loved any of us. You were always someone, well, exotic. Special. She talked about you all the time, and oh, she loved your movies. She didn’t understand the Italian, but she watched them two or three times a week just to see you.”

“That’s very nice, but what does this have to do with Spring? Am I Spring? She wanted me to come home? Is that it?”

“Not exactly.” Rose sighed, resigned. “This is so hard.”

“Rose…” Birdie urged.

Rose nodded. “I’ll just tell you everything straight out and then we can talk, okay? That’s the trouble, actually,” she said as an aside. “No one ever talks in our family. If we had…Well, never mind.”

Rose looked directly at Jilly. “The fact is, even though no one ever talked about it openly, Jilly, we all knew where you went in 1973. We didn’t know the details back then, of course. Mother made up all those stories and we were in a fog. But we knew you went somewhere to have a baby.”

Jilly went ashen, her only movement the rising of her hand to her throat.

Birdie put her fingers to her lips, stunned, and furtively studied Jilly’s reaction.

Rose took a breath, then pushed on. “Even Merry knew. I don’t know how she figured it out, but she always did have a knack for ferreting out the truth. This is a big house, but not so big that whispers at night are not heard, or crying behind closed doors, or angry fights between you and Mom and Dad.”

Jilly clutched at the arms of her chair, digging her nails into the soft, worn upholstery. Her voice was cold and demanding. “What do you know? Exactly.”

Rose looked into her eyes with sympathy and spoke clearly. “Back then, not much. I was only eleven and Merry was six, so we weren’t in on the details. Birdie wouldn’t talk to us about it. Later we did, naturally, but not then. And, of course, Mom explained things to me, many years later.”

She paused to give Jilly a chance to speak, but when she didn’t Rose pushed on.

“The point is, Merry never truly understood what really happened. All she knew was that you went away to have a baby. She latched on to this, though none of us knew it at the time. If we did, I’m sure Mom would have tried to explain things to her right away. So when you came home without the baby, she was confused. Actually, she was really upset. She cried night after night for that baby. Do you remember?”

Jilly said nothing.

“I remember vaguely,” Birdie commented. “There was a lot going on and everything was tense. I guess we all thought Merry was crying in response to that.”

“When Mom finally figured out that she knew about the baby,” Rose continued, “she was thoroughly flustered. She gathered all of us for a family meeting and put the fear of God into us, telling us never to talk about it. Not even to one another. She told us that’s how reputations are ruined and so on.”

“That’s when Mom bought her that baby doll,” Birdie added. “I think she did it both to calm Merry down, and to use it as an excuse if Merry started talking about your baby.”

“But she never did,” said Rose. “Except to me, and I always told her never to discuss it with outsiders. You heard her on the tape. Since the baby was born in spring, she called the doll Spring. You know how Dad nicknamed us after the season we were born in. I guess she wanted the doll to be named like the rest of us. But I knew, and Mom knew, that she had really called your baby Spring. The doll was just a substitute.”

Rose rubbed her arms and looked off into the distance. “It’s odd, but by giving the baby a name, I think we all could settle it in our minds. I mean, the baby became real. It wasn’t just another one of our games. But while we moved on with our lives, Merry clung to her belief that Spring was out there somewhere—with you, Jilly. And when you came home again without the baby, she was very upset. She thought Spring was somehow lost and needed us.”

Jilly’s face was white, her back straight against the chair. She stared at Rose for a moment, shell-shocked, as though trying to comprehend all that she had just heard.

“But I don’t understand,” Birdie said, wrinkling her brow. “What does this have to do with the letter and the videotape? She wants us to find the real Spring? The baby Jilly gave up for adoption?”

“Yes,” Rose replied.

“But…but why?”

“She wants us to give Spring the time capsule. And her money.”

Jilly put her palms to her face. “Oh, God.

It didn’t take Birdie long to put things straight in her mind. “But that’s ridiculous! Give more than half a million dollars to a stranger? That’s our inheritance. To be divided three ways. I’m sorry, Jilly, but I have a child, too. Doesn’t she figure into the equation?”

“She didn’t mean the house money, just what’s left of her trust fund. She didn’t have a firm grasp of money but she knew she had some in the bank. Besides, she was mostly interested in our finding Spring,” Rose explained.

“Mr. Collins,” Birdie said, “legally speaking, Merry wasn’t mentally competent, was she? That letter won’t be viewed as a codicil or a will?”

“It could be, but I wouldn’t worry about that.” He put out a quieting hand to ward off any worries. “As I said at the onset, in my opinion, Merry was not legally competent. But if any one of you argue that she was—” he looked at Rose “—her letter would have to be contested as to its legal bearing. I doubt the courts would support it. I only presented her request to you because she wanted very much for me to do so. And now I have.”

“Rose, I can’t imagine why you encouraged her in this,” Birdie huffed. “What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t encourage her, but neither did I discourage her. Like it or not, Birdie, this search for Spring was Merry’s wish.”

“Well, it’s not mine.”

Everyone looked over at Jilly, startled by the cool, harsh tone of her voice. She’d been so quiet, almost forgotten in this discussion.

“I’ve had quite enough of this talk about searching for Spring as though it was Merry’s baby,” she said in measured tones. “She had a doll. Let’s keep that firmly in mind. As concerns the, the…other,” she spat out, grasping for a word that was impersonal, “that decision is mine and mine alone. And I won’t do it. Do you hear me? I won’t do it. And neither will anyone else. I forbid it. You have no right,” she said to Rose. “Merry had no right to bring it up. It’s my history and none of you have any idea what I went through. And I’ll be damned if I dredge it all up again just to satisfy your perverse curiosity or to appease the nonsensical rambling of my sister. That part of my life is closed. Over. There is no Spring.”

Jilly’s eyes were flames in her thin, pale face as she sat regally and glared at them, daring them to challenge her. Rose put her hands to her trembling lips. Birdie folded her hands together.

Mr. Collins put his hands behind his back and said with admirable calm, “We quite understand.”

Jilly lowered her shoulders, appearing older and inexpressibly weary, eager to be gone. She slowly rose with as much dignity as she could muster, then hurried from the room. A moment later they could hear her bedroom door slam.

“Well…” Birdie said, exhaling and unbuttoning her suit jacket.

“I was afraid that would happen,” Rose said.

“What did you expect? How could you have done this to her? Do you have any idea what she went through back then? The decision to search for an adopted child has got to be one of the most painful, not to mention personal, decisions a woman can make. It’s one thing for Merry to go on about her doll and her idea of a lost baby, but it’s quite another to couch it in terms of a last request.”

“But that’s exactly what it was,” Rose exclaimed, rising to her feet. “I knew this would cause a furor, but who was I to deny her? Birdie, you always saw Merry as someone broken who needed fixing. Something half and not whole. Just another responsibility. And as for Jilly…Who knows? I love her, but I haven’t seen her but a few times in twenty years. She never made the effort to get to know Merry. Merry was a rare, beautiful individual. She was my dear friend. And when my sister, my friend, begs me to make a last request to her sisters, you better believe that I’m going to do it.”

“Well, good for you,” Birdie snapped back. “Except did you consider the consequences?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Rose lifted her chin and squared off with Birdie. “I’ve spent a lifetime in this house. I was the one who left college to stay here and take care of Merry. I watched you and my friends get married and have children, have lives of your own while I watched the years go by. I don’t need you to tell me about consequences, thank you very much.”

She paused to collect herself. “You forget that I was Mother’s caretaker, too, and when she drank, she liked to talk. I know every dirty little secret that’s been swept under the rug, and frankly I think it’s time to clean house. We have to, or we’ll let it fester and rot. Our parents are gone. Merry is gone. There’s nothing left to hold us together, to force us to keep contact. It’s time for us to talk, at last.”

Birdie rubbed her eyes. “I’m not sure that’s always for the best.”

Mr. Collins stepped forward to stand between them. “I think it’s time that I go. Whatever you decide, on this issue or concerning the house, is strictly up to you. However, my course as executor of the will is clear. The money and the property will be distributed equally among you as stipulated in your father’s will. If I hear otherwise, then we’ll have to have legal documents drawn up. Certainly, you don’t have to make those decisions tonight. I suggest you sleep on it. Goodbye, Birdie. Rose. Please extend my sympathy to Jilly and tell her that I regret any pain she has experienced.”

“I will,” Birdie said, rising to take his hand. “Let me walk you to the door.”

Rose brought him his briefcase. When she handed him the video, he shook his head.

“No, that’s for you to keep. You may want to watch it again.” He paused and his gaze swept the living room. He appeared lost in thought, as though seeing ghosts of a happier time long gone.

“It was a difficult decision for me to agree to Merry’s request,” he said. “Highly unusual, needless to say. I feel sure that if you look at the tape again you will see that Merry had only love in her heart for all of you when she made her request. Oh, that reminds me.”

He bent to open his briefcase. His long hands, pale and gnarled with age, pulled out a child-size shoe box. It was brightly painted and wrapped with tape, over and over again, creating a tight seal.

Birdie recognized the box immediately and held out her hands. “The time capsule,” she said on a breath.

“Quite right,” he replied. Then, handing it to her, he said in utmost seriousness, “As co-executor of the will, I hand it over to your care. It is my client’s wish that it be delivered intact to Spring, should you find her. I assume you know its contents.”

Birdie shook her head, accepting the small box with reverence. “No. At least not all of it. You see, we gave it to Merry as a gift when she came home from the hospital after the accident.” She paused as a million memories of her childhood flooded her thoughts. “My, I can’t believe it’s still here. It was so long ago, I’d forgotten all about it.”

Rose stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Birdie’s waist. “It was supposed to be very private so we each gave our gift to Mom to put into the time capsule. It was a very big deal, rather ceremonial. She’s the one who put everything in the box and sealed it with all the tape.”

“You’ve never opened it?” Birdie asked Rose.

“Of course not,” she replied. “It didn’t belong to me. It belonged to Merry.”

Birdie wondered if she would have been so noble. She suspected curiosity would have gotten the better of her over the years.

“This time capsule is a piece of our childhood,” Birdie said, holding it with a trace of wonder in her voice. “And now it belongs to Spring.”




6


AFTER MR. COLLINS LEFT, Dennis walked lethargically down the stairs. He’d removed his jacket and tie and in his hand he carried a pile of papers.

“Is the coast clear?” he asked.

Seeing him obviously so self-engrossed in his own world did nothing to improve Birdie’s mood. She was tired and emotionally drained and she blamed him for not being there for her.

“Where were you?” Birdie asked sharply.

Dennis halted on the stairs and slapped the papers against his thigh. His face could look very cold when he tried. “Where do you think? I was upstairs grading term papers. I told you a hundred times that I had work to do.”

Rose grabbed her coat from the front closet. “I’m going for a walk,” she said, making a hasty exit.

“You always have work to do,” Birdie countered.

“What do you mean?” he asked defensively. “You make that sound like a criticism, like I’m having a ball upstairs drinking beer and watching a football game. I was upstairs working. Where should I have been?”

“Maybe with me, in the dining room, during the reading of the will.” She knew she sounded bitter but couldn’t help it. Why did he even have to ask? Turning on her heel, she marched through the living room, picking up dishes en route to the kitchen.

Dennis followed her, tucking his hands in his back pocket. “That was Season family business,” he said after the kitchen door closed. “Between the sisters.”

“You’re family,” she said through tight lips, tying on an apron.

“If you wanted me there, all you had to do was ask,” he said, reaching to pick up empty bottles from the kitchen table and carrying them to the sink.

“Why do I always have to ask?” She turned on the water faucets with brisk turns. “Can’t you see for yourself when I need you? And you ducked out of the luncheon pretty quick, too.”

“You know how I hate those affairs.”

“Oh, and funerals are happy affairs for the rest of us?” She turned off the water and dried her hands. Behind her, he moved around the kitchen, putting the bottles and cans into a plastic bag for recycling. The clink of glass against glass sounded in the silence.

“Mr. Collins and Rose hit us with a bomb today,” she said in a softer voice, “and it would have been nice to have had a little support.”

Dennis nodded, acknowledging her change of tone as much as her words. He lowered his own tone. “What did they say?”

“You won’t believe it.” She turned to face him. “Merry wrote this letter to all of us, and made a video.”

“A video? That’s rather macabre.”

“It was. But then in it, she tells us this…this last request. She wants us to search for—Are you ready for this? For Jilly’s baby.”

Dennis spun his head around to face her, shock registering on his face. “You’re kidding?”

“I am not.” She flattened her hands on the counter and leaned forward, pleased to see his reaction.

Dennis went to the fridge to pull out a beer. He was lost in his own thoughts. “What did Jilly say about all this?”

“It came as a shock. At first she just sat there with this stunned expression, like a bullet had zipped through her brain.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

“Then Rose went on and on about how Merry knew about the baby all along and had been wondering about it. I never knew that. It’s hard to imagine her remembering, much less caring about it enough to make it a dying wish. Jilly never knew any of us even knew about it.”

“God, what a shock.” He looked away and said in a distant voice, “I’m sure she considered that part of her life closed.”

“I’m sure, too. We all did. Except deep down, I know Rose was right. It was never really settled because we never openly talked about it. Jilly just sat there and listened. When she finally did speak she was furious. Not yelling or such, but controlled—and maybe scared. In any case, she won’t have us conducting a search for the child she put up for adoption.” Birdie paused and put her hand to her cheek. “Listen to what I just said. The child Jilly put up for adoption. Do you have any idea how many years those words were whispered? And then only behind closed doors?”

Dennis tilted his head and squinted his eyes in thought. “She shouldn’t search. She has her life and the child has hers. She shouldn’t shake things up.”

“I don’t think that’s a big issue these days. Oh,” she exclaimed, “but that’s not all. Apparently, Merry wanted us to give this Spring her money, too.”

“The whole estate?”

“No, Rose seems to think she meant the twenty thousand she had left in her trust fund. Jilly was ticked off about that, too. I can’t figure it out. She’s got oodles of dough, so why is she so uptight? The one you’d think would care about money is Rose. She hasn’t got a dime, but she’s the one who wants to give the money away. There’s no need to be greedy. We’ll all have more than enough after the house is sold.”

“How much do you think the house will fetch?”

“I don’t know. Over five hundred. Maybe more.”

He considered this as he took a long swallow from the bottle. “We could take that trip we’ve always talked about,” he said, leaning back against the counter.

“To Italy?”

His eyes warmed. “Yeah. Just you and me. No agenda, no phone calls to make or chores to get done. The biggest decision we’ll have to make is what to eat for dinner. In fact, we’ll starve ourselves for weeks before we leave, then eat our way through the country.” He moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. “We never got a honeymoon. We need time, Birdie. Just for us.”

She nodded her head and leaned into him. “I know.”

He hugged her and she thought she really did know. Especially at moments like this, that harkened back to a time when they were close and intimate. When they touched a lot and each touch set off a fire between them that had them having sex like rabbits. Back to when they’d thought of each other all day long and missed each other every moment they were apart. That all seemed so long ago. For years they’d promised themselves a trip. It was a dream that served as a lifeline during the rough years of juggling her medical residency and Hannah’s early childhood. Then came the start of her medical practice and his acceptance to the faculty at the University of Wisconsin. As the years passed, the dream slipped farther and farther away. Now they were floundering.

Something was very wrong between them, something they couldn’t put a name to. They were cohabiting space, more like roommates than husband and wife. She knew she snapped at him a lot. She couldn’t help it; he irritated her so often, more than anyone else. It was almost as if he did it deliberately, to get her attention.

Or maybe it was just that after twenty years, they were both getting a little too familiar with each other’s habits and flaws. He was pretty good at getting his digs in, too, and he excelled at tuning her out. But she never questioned that she loved him. He was her husband. The father of her only child. Her friend.

He nuzzled at her ear suggestively, and all she could think was how she didn’t want to be touched.

“We’re both tired,” she said, pulling back, pretending not to notice the stark disappointment in his face. “Why don’t I make us something to eat and we’ll plop in front of the TV.”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Break away whenever we get close?”

She laughed nervously. “I don’t!”

“Yes, you do.” He was utmost serious.

Birdie’s face grew somber. “I don’t do it to hurt you, and I do want to be close to you, it’s just…Lately, I don’t want to make love and I know you do. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s hormonal.”

“Maybe,” he replied. Dennis picked up the bag of empty bottles in a swoop. “But it’s not been just lately. It’s been a long time, Birdie. Too long.” He turned away, then headed to the back door.

Birdie felt the space lengthen between them as she looked over her shoulder to watch him leave. The empty bottles clanked against his leg as he walked out from the house. It was a hollow, lonely sound.



The snow had melted under the day’s warm sun so Rose was able to walk easily along the sidewalks of her neighborhood. Hers was a block like many others in the country and she knew each house and yard almost as well as she knew her own. She noted where one neighbor had pruned the front hedge, or another was beginning an addition. Most of the houses were well cared for, even lovingly so. Passing by she could peek in the windows overflowing with light and see typical American family scenes being played out. These houses had a feeling of family and cheerfulness that was warm and inviting.

When she’d arrived back at her own home she remained on the sidewalk, her coat collar up close around her neck and her small hands tucked tightly under her armpits. She tried to look at the Victorian with the same dispassionate eye she’d looked at the neighboring ones. Mrs. Kasparov’s list of flaws came to mind, and though it rankled, they were all too true. On the block, their house was the eyesore, the shabby one that prompted neighbors to say, “What a shame. If only they would fix it up.” It was a shadowy, melancholy house that sat on a huge double lot on the corner, hidden by overgrown pines and a forest of shaggy shrubs. Light flowed through torn shades or missing blinds, adding to the somber sense of depression.

Looking at it now, she found it hard to remember when happiness flowed bright from these dreary windows, or when the family had lived and laughed and talked in those darkened rooms. Merry had been the last flicker of light in the old house and now that, too, had been snuffed out. The old Victorian appeared exactly as it was—a house of secrets. Suppressing a sigh, she walked up the front steps and slipped, unnoticed, into the house.

Hours later, the house was deathly quiet, save for the melodic clanging of the five-note wind chimes outside her window. Rose sat alone in the blanketing solitude of her room while the computer whirred. She opened the side drawer to her desk and pulled out a file from far in the back where no idle eyes would find it. It was a plain manila file with only the initials D.B. on it. DannyBoy. Copies of his e-mails were inside. Not love letters—theirs wasn’t that kind of relationship. She thought of them as letters from her dearest friend. By the time the computer had booted, the words were ready to spill out of her. Laying her hands on the keys, she took a deep breath and typed.

Dear DannyBoy,

Tonight I feel a despair that frightens me. I feel I am nothing of value. My sister Merry at least depended on me but now she is gone. My older sisters have their own lives that do not include me. Soon they will leave, too. Even this house, which had once been my haven, feels hostile and forbidding. But no matter, because I, too, must leave. The four Seasons have been cast to the wind.

I’m sitting here in the darkness, listening to the wind chimes outside my window and waiting for the dawn. I’m reminded of Emily Dickinson’s “slant of light,” and wonder to myself where nothing goes after death?

Rosebud

An e-mail came almost immediately.

Dear Rosebud,

Don’t you dare despair. Turn on the lights!

I swore I wasn’t going to do this. We’ve been chatting online for a long time, though we’ve only talked privately like this for a few weeks. I think of us as friends. I hope you do, too. So I hope you won’t think I’m one of those Internet creeps when I say this, but I get the sense I better tell you now.

I drive a truck all day through town after town. The miles roll beneath me and I have to tell you, it gets pretty lonely. One day is pretty much like the next. The roads are always crowded and some of the drivers are nuts. It’s not like the old days when the road stretched out before me.

But lately, I know when the day is done and I park my rig that it’ll be okay because I’ll find a letter from you waiting for me. I don’t know what you mean by that “slant of light,” but I can tell you that your letters are the bright point of my day. I don’t have any wind chimes outside my cab, either, but your words are music to a lonely man.

You think you are nothing? You are something! Real special. I feel lucky just to know you. Like I said, I’m no nutcase and I don’t mean to get too personal, so don’t worry.

DannyBoy

Rose put her hands to her heated cheeks and laughed out loud. She couldn’t write much, afraid that she might get maudlin and start getting really, really personal. So to ease his mind, and because she sensed he was waiting for a reply from her, she wrote again.

Good night DannyBoy.

I’ll sleep well, now.

Your friend, Rosebud

Down the hall, Jilly lay in her twin bed staring at the ceiling. So they’d known all along, she thought with chagrin. Even Merry. For years her sisters had whispered about her secret. Guess what? Jilly had a baby! Mother had explained it to them. Jilly always was the wild one, you know. You don’t want to end up like Jilly. Did they know that in all those years she never once allowed herself to think of it? Never once so much as breathed the words in her sleep? The nuns at Marian House had promised her redemption if she pretended that it had never happened, it being the scandalous, sinful cycle of conception, pregnancy and birth outside the sacrament of marriage. She’d lowered a veil over that episode of her life, a black fog of forgetfulness so impenetrable that, as the years passed, she actually fooled herself into believing none of it had ever happened.

Occasionally, over the years, something insignificant would trigger a memory: the sight of an infant in a carriage, the smell of cafeteria food, the sound of rain on the window in the early morning. Jilly would dismiss the memory with a quick shake of her head and a willful command of her mind to think of something else. She’d cast the memory into the deepest, darkest compartment of her heart, locked it tight and thrown away the key.

But Merry had managed to open it. Sneakily, when her guard was down, Merry had come forth with this request to search for the child. This Spring. It felt like her ghostly hand was stabbing into Jilly’s chest, wrenching out her heart and rummaging through the myriad compartments, and in doing so, releasing the memories like demons taking flight.

How wrong Sister Benedict had been! Years of silence were obliterated in one fell swoop by the simple words of a child. Find Spring.

Now she had to face that it had happened. She had had a baby. And tonight, she knew the memories were waiting, a powerful, relentless army of them, just beyond the ridge of her resistance. Waiting for the moment she fell asleep.

Then the long-delayed onslaught would begin.




7


January 5, 1973

JILLY WAS SEVENTEEN AND pregnant. She rode in the passenger seat of the black Cadillac Brougham, resting one hand on her gently rounded belly and looking out at the dull, monotonous scenery of Interstate 95 north to upper Wisconsin. The morning was bright and sunny, mocking the dark, brooding mood within the car.

“Do you need to stop?” Her father kept his eyes on the road. In the past four hours he’d offered little conversation besides brief inquiries as to whether she was hungry or had to use the rest facilities. He wasn’t the talkative type on the best of occasions, and rarely carried on the usual father-daughter banter about such things as school grades, boyfriends or plans for college. The silence today, however, was punitive.

“No,” she replied, glancing at his stern profile. She felt herself recoil and wanted to weep. “Thank you. I’m okay.” She turned away again, tightening her bladder muscles against the straining urge. She would not ask to stop again so soon after his pithy comment on how this trip was taking forever due to pit stops. She could kick herself for having that soda.

Despite the long drive, her father maintained his usual crisp and immaculate appearance in his dark suit and pressed white shirt. Next to him she felt like a ragamuffin in a baggy dress and her mother’s old coat. The blue wool wasn’t warm enough for the January cold, but the voluminous A-line style was the only one they had that allowed for Jilly’s expanding waistline. What did it matter what she looked like or how warm it was, she told herself. She didn’t plan on going outside much in the next few months so she would make do with her mother’s hand-me-down.

She sighed and looked again at the raw bleakness outside her window, feeling each of the miles that separated her from her home and the life she once knew in Illinois, from the carefree high school girl she once was.

Jilly knew she’d crossed the line from child to woman ever since that evening last November when she walked into her parents’ bedroom, closed the door behind her and quietly told her parents that she was pregnant.

Her mother had accepted the news with her usual hysteria.

“Oh, my God! Pregnant? Oh, my God. You must have been drinking. You were, weren’t you?” she accused, sitting up in bed and pointing. She’d been watching TV and her heavy lids, the slurred words and the telltale empty glass on her bedside table revealed she’d been drinking. “I told you she was drinking,” she’d screeched to her husband, as if it was his fault.

“Mom, I wasn’t drinking.”

“How could you have done this to us? I knew you’re irresponsible, you’ve always been. But I didn’t know you were immoral, too! It’s a mortal sin what you’ve done. A mortal sin! And the scandal! Your father is a judge in this city. Did you think about him? Did you think about anyone but yourself?”

Her mother cried then, not for Jilly, but for herself. “Oh, Bill, I can’t take this. Two daughters ruined.” Then turning back to Jilly she narrowed her eyes and cried, “Your sisters’ reputations will be ruined, too. And so will mine!”

Her father compressed his lips and didn’t say a word. His thick red brows, streaked with white, furrowed as he slowly closed his magazine and let it drop to the floor.

Jilly turned her eyes to the ground, embarrassed and ashamed for bringing such scandal to the family. Everyone knew that “good” girls didn’t go all the way. “Good” girls did not get pregnant. Standing there at the foot of their bed, she looked in her parents’ eyes and a part of her died seeing the judgment written there: Jillian Season was not a Good Girl.

After a short but noisy cry her mother sobered up and spent a while in the bathroom. Jilly glanced at her father to see him staring at her, an odd expression on his face, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. How many times had they argued about her curfew in the past? He’d always told her it wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, he didn’t trust the boys she dated.

“Well, when is the baby due?” her mother asked when she emerged from the bathroom. She had washed her face, brushed her short red-gold hair, and she appeared to have collected her composure. Jilly took heart that they’d have a real conversation instead of histrionics, but her hope wobbled as her mother crossed the room and climbed back into the bed.

Jilly remained standing. “In early May sometime.”

“Have you seen a doctor? Really, Jilly, how do you know you’re pregnant?”

“I went to Planned Parenthood.”

“Good God,” her mother exclaimed. “That place?” As far as she was concerned, Planned Parenthood’s clinic, located in a poor, dangerous part of town, was a bastion of fanatics—enemies of the Church who offered birth control and abortions to a new, immoral generation that preached free love. And now her daughter was one of them. “Bill…” she said, reaching over to clasp his hand in a dramatic gesture.

“We’ll send her to Dr. Applebee,” he said, the voice of reason. “Then we’ll get the facts.”

“I am pregnant. Three months pregnant. I had a blood test and there’s no mistake.”

The calm authority in her voice, the very fact that she had found her way to Planned Parenthood, had the test done and could report to them this finding, all without their help, took them both by surprise. She could see them look at her differently, more as an adult.

“Who is the father?” her own father asked.

“I don’t want to say,” she replied, looking away.

“Don’t press her just yet,” her mother intervened. “I’m sure she hasn’t gotten used to the idea. I certainly couldn’t believe it when I found out I was having you. I was married, of course,” she said, letting Jilly know that this shift of attitude by no means forgave her. “But was I surprised. Stunned, in fact. I had to give up my dancing career.”

Jilly knew the worst was over once Mother’s dancing career was mentioned. Her mother cherished her years in the Chicago Ballet Company as the highlight of her life and she never let an opportunity go by when she couldn’t remind them of all she’d given up for her family.

Once the idea of her pregnancy sunk in, the horror and shock subsided and the concept that they would be grandparents began to take root. Their voices grew solicitous. They painted rosier scenarios. Her parents assumed that she had a special beau, someone she was in love with and wanted to protect. She felt like dirt under their feet as she stood there listening while they calmed down and began talking about how they’d help her—and him—through this ordeal. Abortion was briefly mentioned in an academic sense, but they were Catholic. It wasn’t really an option.

The kindness was killing her. It was easier when they were mad and yelling at her. At least then she could shut down emotionally. As it was, the guilt was paralyzing.




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