Under a Summer Sky, page 11
Ten minutes later—after Noah had left to pick up Gabe, E had headed out for his run, Seth had stolen furtively up the stairs with his Pop-Tart, and Asher was contentedly sharing apple slices with the dogs and watching Harry Potter—Laney filled her big pasta pot with water. As she did, she looked out the kitchen window and noticed the same grayish brown birds she’d seen earlier flying from the scrub pine up to the back of the woodshed. She set down the half-filled pot, typed “small gray bird with flickering tail” into the search box of the family computer, and clicked enter. The first site that came up was the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s allaboutbirds.org. She clicked on it, and several pictures of flickers came up. She frowned and tried again, this time deleting the word flicker and typing in “white breast.” New images popped up, and she slowly scrolled down through them: white-breasted nuthatch, tufted titmouse, white-crowned sparrow, mockingbird. Finally, at the bottom of the page, she saw a picture that resembled the birds in the backyard, and she clicked on it—that was it! Eastern phoebe. She scanned the page, reading more about the little bird, including its unique tail movement and the interesting fact that it likes to build its nest on a ledge under an overhang.
Curiously, she pushed open the screen door, and immediately, the two birds flew up to the roof and cocked their heads. She peered under the back of the shed overhang, and to her delight, discovered an intricately woven nest with five creamy speckled eggs in it. The nest was made of small twigs, strips of bark, and a single strand of white ribbon, and it was lined with soft, green moss. “Oh, my,” Laney said softly. She backed away slowly and looked up at the anxious parents. “Good job,” she said softly.
As she walked back through the porch, she noticed Lucky stretched out lazily on the swing and warned, “Don’t you dare bother them!” Lucky blinked innocently, and she knew she’d have to keep an eye on him. She went into the living room, excited to tell Asher, but he was sound asleep with a dog curled up on each side of him.
Laney watched through the kitchen window as the pair of phoebes flew back under the shed roof. Then she turned on the water to finish filling her pasta pot, and as she did, she remembered the phone call she’d gotten that afternoon and forgot all about the phoebe nest.
Dr. Jamison had called to tell her that her blood work revealed she was vitamin D deficient and slightly anemic—both of which could be easily remedied with supplements and diet. But then she’d gone on to say the ultrasound had been inconclusive and she wanted to get a biopsy.
“A biopsy . . .” Laney had repeated in quiet alarm, and Dr. Jamison had quickly reassured her it was just a precautionary measure. But the word had sounded surreal and now Laney wondered if maybe she’d dreamed it. At the time, there’d been so much commotion in the house, she hadn’t had time to absorb everything, but now—alone with her thoughts—she could feel the icy fingers of fear wrapping around her heart. Biopsy was one of those worrisome words—like malignant, inoperable, metastasize, and mass—that people always associate with cancer. She put the pot on one of the working burners, and as she chopped an onion, she pictured herself pulling a soft pink hat on her bare head. Is that what her future held? Was she going to be bald and have ominously dark circles under her eyes? Would she be bone thin—almost skeletal—and not have the strength to protect her bullied son?
Through the blur of tears, she scraped the onion into a puddle of hot olive oil. It sizzled, and she gave it a quick stir. Then she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and minced a clove of garlic into the oil too. Suddenly, she remembered something Noah had said when they’d first started dating: “Lane, I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. . . . I don’t want you to ever ask me why I didn’t tell you something.” Her heart ached from not telling him, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. It was almost as if saying them would give life to the specter of cancer.
Lane, I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. . . . His words continued to echo through her mind. They’d never kept secrets. It was true. Noah sometimes forgot to tell her things—important things—but he never purposely withheld information. And how many times had they had this same conversation with the boys? Withholding information was just as bad as lying!
“All right all ready,” she mumbled, plopping a pound of ground sirloin into the hot pan. “I’ll tell him. . . .”
“Tell him what?”
Laney looked up, startled. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Noah smiled. He was holding a bottle of red wine.
“What’s that for?”
“Us,” he answered simply. He riffled around in the drawer, looking for the corkscrew.
“I think it’s over there,” Laney said, nodding to a drawer at the far end of the counter.
Noah found what he was looking for, took down two wineglasses from an upper cabinet, eyed them critically, blew on them, frowned, and ended up rinsing and drying them. While he poured the wine, Laney drained the fat from the pan and added crushed San Marzano tomatoes and fresh basil. She started to reach for the garlic bread, but Noah put his arm around her shoulder and handed her a glass. “There’s truth in wine,” he said softly.
“What?” she asked uncertainly, her heart skipping a beat. Not now, she pleaded silently. Not now—I’m not ready! She suddenly wondered if he already knew—if he’d heard her talking on the phone or if the doctor’s office had left a message on their machine.
He searched her eyes, and she tried to look away, but he gently turned her chin back to face him. “Lane, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He eyed her skeptically, and she shook her head. He knew her too well, and she was going to lose it if he kept looking at her that way.
“It’s nothing,” she insisted.
“Then why does it seem like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders?”
She leaned against the counter. “I just have a lot on my mind—the end of the school year, Asher being bullied, your dad not feeling well, Chloe and E. And now Chloe’s grandfather, which reminds me so much of what happened to Gramp. . . .” Her voice trailed off, her eyes glistening.
Noah didn’t say anything. He took a sip from his glass, set it down, and started to get out plates and silverware. Laney swallowed, realizing she’d sunk to an all-time low. She’d gone over the edge—from withholding information to outright lying—and she realized, by the nausea churning in her stomach, that speaking an untruth was worse than saying nothing.
“I didn’t want to—” She stopped, struggling to find the right words, and Noah looked up. “What I mean is I just need summer to be here.”
Noah pulled her into his arms, and Laney could feel hot tears stinging her eyes, but she laid her head against his shoulder and blinked them back.
Just then, Ben came in from mowing the lawn. “Good grief! Get a room, wouldja?” he said, pretending to cover his eyes. “When’s supper? I’m starving.” He pulled open the fridge door and stood there, enjoying the cool air that drifted out.
Noah looked over. “Believe it or not, that’s not an air conditioner.”
“It’s not?” Ben said with a hint of sarcasm. “It feels like one.”
22
Micah pulled Beryl into his arms and kissed her softly.
“Mmm, what’s that for?” she murmured.
“Do I need a reason to kiss my fiancée?”
She smiled, her cornflower blue eyes sparkling. “Now there’s a word I never thought would be associated with me.”
“You just hadn’t met the right guy yet,” Micah said, pulling her closer.
“Well, actually, I had met the right guy. I just didn’t know it at the time, and then I let him slip away.” Beryl smiled, picturing a much younger Micah stocking shelves and ringing up customers in her mom’s tea shop, Tranquility in a Tea Cup. She’d only recently found out that he’d had a crush on her back then and that he’d even been planning to ask her to their prom, but by the time he’d mustered up the courage, she’d already accepted an invitation from someone else. Her sisters, Isak and Rumer, had known more about Micah’s plan than she had, and in hindsight, she wished she hadn’t been so clueless. Fortunately, life’s paths have a way of twisting and turning until they intersect again, and theirs had serendipitously crossed again twenty-five years later.
Beryl would never forget that blue sky September day. She’d been taking her mom to see a neurologist in Boston, but the appointment hadn’t been until late afternoon, so they’d had time to have a leisurely lunch in Quincy Market before doing a little shopping. Their last stop had been a bookstore at the far end of Faneuil Hall called The Bookend. Beryl’s mother, Mia, had been stepping away from the counter after making a purchase when she accidently knocked over a display of books, and a slender man in his early forties, wearing stylish, round glasses and a neatly pressed blue oxford, had quickly come to her rescue, assuring her it was his fault because he’d put the display too close to the register. Beryl had knelt down to help too, and the man had looked up and quizzically said her name. She’d looked up too and immediately recognized him—it was Micah!
They’d all stood, and he’d hugged them both—which had startled Mia because she didn’t remember him—and then they’d chatted for a few minutes. Micah had told them that working at Tranquility had inspired him to start his own business, and because he loved literature, he’d decided to open a bookstore. Beryl had complimented him on his efficient use of the small space, and then she’d suddenly realized how late it was and explained about the appointment. Micah had nodded, and as they’d said good-bye, she’d promised to stop by again. Later that afternoon, however, her mom had received the devastating diagnosis of dementia—most likely Alzheimer’s—and their lives had been turned upside down. And with Isak and Rumer both living across the country—Isak in California and Rumer in Montana—Beryl had willingly assumed the role of primary caregiver for their mom. At the same time, she’d continued to run the tea shop, and the combination of responsibilities had consumed so much of her time, energy, and emotions that she’d never been able to keep her promise.
The months had slipped by, and although Beryl didn’t know it, Micah’s life was turning upside down too. When they’d gone into his store that day, his wife Beth had just reached the third month of a fragile pregnancy—she’d already suffered several miscarriages—and Micah had been bursting with the news, but he’d never had the chance to tell Beryl, and later on, he wondered if she even knew he was married. Two months later, his wife had felt an odd lump in the curve of her breast, but she’d refused to acknowledge it. It’s nothing, she’d told herself. It’s probably just my body getting ready to nurse . . . and besides, I’m not having any treatments that could jeopardize our baby.
The following March, Beth had given birth to a little girl, and they’d named her Charlotte—after Beth’s grandmother—but their joy had been bittersweet because the worrisome lump was still there, and she’d finally had to tell Micah. She’d assured him it was nothing, but at the same time, she’d prodded and touched the spot so many times—willing it to go away—her skin had become red and irritated.
Beth’s diagnosis had been alarming, and she’d suddenly realized what treasure was at stake. There was no way cancer was going to take her life. She was going to live! She was going to be there for her daughter—for her first steps, her first day of school, her birthday parties, her proms, her graduations, her wedding . . . and when she was expecting her own baby. She was going to see her baby and her grandbaby grow up.
Beth fought fiercely, accepting every possible treatment—no matter how savagely it ravaged her body. She fought with every fiber of her being, and Micah stayed by her side every step of the way, keeping his anguish and terror buried deep inside.
But on a rainy morning in late June, Beth held her daughter for the last time. She had lived long enough to see her baby’s first smile and hear her first, sweet laugh. She knew, deep down, that their little girl would be the light of Micah’s life, and she made him promise to be happy . . . and to try to love again. Micah had been inconsolable.
Soon after Beth died, Micah closed his little bookstore. The introduction of e-books and Internet sales was making it very hard for small, independent booksellers to survive. And as if that wasn’t enough, he also had a mountain of medical bills to pay. In the end, with his world crashing down around him, Micah moved back to New Hampshire with Charlotte, and his parents welcomed them with open arms.
Beryl had no idea what was going on in Micah’s life—she’d been so busy caring for her mom that she sometimes didn’t even know what day it was. Alzheimer’s had slowly cast its long, dark shadows across her mom’s bright, wonderful mind, leaving her confused, disoriented, and silent. And, eventually, her care became so overwhelming that Beryl was forced to move her into a nursing home.
She’d visited as often as she could, bringing Flannery O’Connor, her mom’s old bulldog, with her and learning the names of all of the other residents too. But every time she had to say good-bye, it broke her heart. She’d look back to see her mom sitting in her wheelchair at the end of the hall, waving to her and tears would fill her eyes.
About a year later, the nursing home was plagued with a recurring respiratory infection, and although Mia’s hadn’t seemed too bad, it blossomed overnight into pneumonia, and the next morning, as she was being rushed to the hospital, Beryl tearfully called her sisters.
“Isak and Ru are coming, Mom,” Beryl had whispered, touching her mom’s soft, white hair. “They’re coming to see you.” Tears had streamed down her cheeks. “Please don’t go. . . .” With her heart breaking, Beryl had gently kissed the hand that was so like her own and held it against her wet cheek. She’d gazed at her mom’s lovely face and whispered, “Oh, Mom, I love you so much.”
Within an hour, Mia slipped away.
Everyone who knew the Graham family—and that was just about everyone in town—was saddened to hear about the loss of the cheerful, little lady who ran the tea shop, but Micah was the first to share his condolences. Beryl had been sitting in the airport, waiting for Rumer’s flight to get in, and she finally had a minute to check her phone. She’d been surprised to see she had two messages and a text, but she’d been even more surprised to hear his voice. “It’s Micah,” he’d said, “Micah Coleman.” She’d smiled at his clarification because—just as he’d gone on to say in his message—how many Micahs could she possibly know. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mom,” he’d said solemnly. “She was a wonderful lady. If there’s anything you need . . .”
In the week that followed, Micah had become a fixture in Beryl’s life, supplying just about everything she needed. He’d stopped by with an apple crisp that his mom had made and ended up staying for dinner; he’d hauled boxes of clothes to the thrift store in his old Honda wagon; he’d borrowed his dad’s lawn mower and mowed the dandelion farm, as Charlotte called it; and he’d stayed to listen with Rumer and Isak as Beryl read a memoir their mom had left behind. And then he’d been able to provide some unexpected insight into the secret relationship about which their mom had written. But the most important thing Micah did that week was simply be there when Beryl needed someone.
After the funeral was over and everyone had gone home, Micah stayed and helped out in the tea shop until Henry—a local boy from the high school—finished his track season. Beryl decided Micah was the perfect temp—not only was he smart, helpful, and cute, but he didn’t need to be trained. He already knew where everything went and how everything worked. And the best thing he knew how to do—at the end of a long day—was turn over the sign in the window, lock the door, close the blinds, and pull the weary shop owner into his arms and hold her tight. And Beryl, at forty-five, couldn’t believe how her life had changed.
As they stood together, Beryl’s stomach suddenly rumbled.
“Are you hungry?” Micah teased.
Beryl laughed. “I must be. What’s your mom making for dinner?”
“I think we’re having baked ziti, Caesar salad and garlic bread.”
“Mmm, that sounds good.”
“Well, my mom’s a little worried about cooking pasta for an Italian girl.”
Beryl pulled back. “She shouldn’t be. I love your mom’s cooking!”
He chuckled. “It’s probably my fault, because after you made your mom’s sauce that time, I talked about it for weeks.”
Beryl laughed, recalling the snowy day she’d finally made her mom’s gravy for Micah. Even though she practically knew the recipe by heart, she’s carefully studied the faded recipe card that had been passed down through generations of the Gentile family. Making the gravy was always an all-day event because the directions—written in her grandmother’s handwriting—explicitly said, “Simmer forever!”
That snowy Sunday morning, she’d skipped church and chopped, browned, diced, and carefully measured all the ingredients, and then she’d set the stovetop to simmer. Late in the afternoon, Micah had appeared with a bottle of wine, and when he opened the door, the wonderful aroma of tomatoes—which she’d canned the previous summer from a bumper crop of Romas—onions, green peppers, garlic, fresh basil, parsley, brown sugar, sausage, and beef wafted through the kitchen. “Oh, my,” he’d murmured, taking off his jacket.
Beryl had lifted the top off the pot and spicy steam had drifted through the kitchen. She’d smiled seductively. “My mom always called it ‘mantrap gravy.’ ”
Micah had laughed and leaned over her shoulder, breathing in slowly. “Mmm . . . consider me happily snared.”
It had been snowing lightly all day, but after Micah’s arrival, the snow had really started to come down. He’d gone out on the porch to get more firewood, and when he stepped back in—not a minute later—he’d looked like a snowman. “Is this supposed to keep up?” he’d asked.
