Chapter Two
When Caroline woke up the next day, it was already midmorning. Her flight wasn’t until this evening and she was tempted to curl up with her iPad and stay in bed. But she couldn’t do anything without her first cup of coffee. In New York, her drip coffee maker brewed her first cup of blond roast coffee before she got out of the shower.
Her mother had bought the cabin twenty years earlier, when one of her books was turned into a feature film. Walter offered to split the cost, but Anne wanted to buy it on her own. Walter didn’t come up as often; he was an ophthalmologist and was often on call during the weekends. Anne rarely missed a weekend in the spring and fall, and she spent the month of August and Christmas at the cabin.
Anne was passionate about New York, but the cabin was the one place she could truly relax. She almost never wore makeup except for her signature orange-red lipstick, and she lived in sandals and loafers. She seldom socialized with the other New Yorkers who owned second homes. Her days were spent reading and walking, and being with Caroline and Daphne when they were there.
The floor creaked as Caroline walked to the closet. The creak had always been there, along with the slightly warped closet door. Anne bought the cabin from a writer who wrote his first novel there at the age of fifty, and Anne refused to change anything. The walls were paneled in teak, and the kitchen had an avocado-green-colored oven.
Caroline’s bedroom had the same furnishings it had since Caroline was in high school. A bed with a wooden headboard and a floral comforter. An armchair sat under the window, and there was a desk and a bookcase. The roof was sloped and a paisley rug covered the oak floor.
When she went downstairs, it was quiet. Daphne and Luke must have gone out. She made a cup of coffee and entered her mother’s study.
A maple desk took up almost the entire space. On the walls, there were framed covers of some of her mother’s books, and a few family photos. Daphne on her way to summer camp, Caroline at her high school graduation. All four of them on a gondola in Venice.
Caroline recalled the previous year, when she discovered her mother was sick. Anne was sitting at the desk, paying bills. Caroline hadn’t seen her mother in a while. Anne usually wore her ash-blond hair in a smooth bob, but she was letting it grow out. Caroline liked it that way—it made her face appear softer.
Caroline placed her mother’s cup of clove tea on the desk. She noticed the check her mother was writing. It was made out to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital for ten thousand dollars.
“That’s a generous donation,” Caroline commented, sitting in the chair opposite her.
At fifty-two, Anne was still a beautiful woman. She had the same blue eyes as Daphne. Her skin was almost unlined and she had high cheekbones.
“It’s not a donation,” Anne said. “It’s for an experimental cancer treatment.”
Caroline wondered which of her mother’s friends was sick. Anne was so generous with the people she was close to. Once, she took a recently divorced friend on a cruise and paid for the whole trip. The friend said it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done.
“I hope the treatment is working,” Caroline said.
Anne took a long sip of her tea.
“The doctors don’t know yet, but they’re hopeful,” she said, looking at Caroline.
There was something about Anne’s expression that made Caroline’s heart pound. Anne wasn’t talking about a friend. She was talking about herself.
“Do you have cancer?”
“Breast cancer. They found it a couple of months ago, at my routine exam.” Her voice was steady. “I missed last year’s scan, I was on tour with an author. My doctor suggested this treatment and it seems to be working.”
It was impossible. Her mother was the strongest, most capable person she knew. Whenever something broke at the cabin, she fixed it herself. She could put on her own snow tires, and one summer she drove the girls across the country to see the Grand Canyon and the Golden Gate Bridge.
“You found out two months ago and you didn’t tell us?”
“I was going to tell you sometime. You’ve both had a busy fall,” Anne admitted.
Caroline tried to think what she had been busy with. Approving promotional copy for the catalog at work, accompanying an author on an out-of-town tour. She was always busy; that didn’t excuse her mother from not telling them.
“Is that why you grew out your hair?” Caroline demanded. “Because you’re worried soon you won’t have any.”
“It’s easier to maintain this way. No more monthly appointments to keep it at the right length.” Anne’s expression faltered. “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret. The more people I tell, the more real it becomes.”
“Does anyone know?” Caroline asked.
Anne’s parents were dead, and since Walter died, her mother rarely dated.
“Just the doctors and other members of the treatment group.” She shook her head. “Some of them have such interesting stories, they’d make a wonderful book.”
Caroline turned away so her mother couldn’t see her tears. Caroline almost never cried. It was another one of her rules. Crying didn’t help anything.
Caroline remembered the last Christmas she and Anne and Daphne spent together at the cabin. On Christmas morning, they opened presents and made eggnog waffles. After breakfast they did a mother-daughter hike to Kaaterskill Falls and then read in front of the living room fireplace. At night, they dressed up for dinner and set the table with Anne’s holiday china. Anne and Daphne made glazed ham, and green beans with pecans. For dessert, Daphne baked a strawberry meringue Pavlova she discovered on a trip to New Zealand.
In the spring, Anne seemed better, and in June she announced she was in remission. She was so happy to attend the Aspen writers’ conference, even if she wasn’t on a panel. After Anne died, Caroline wondered if she’d had a feeling that it would be the last time she would be well enough to travel.
Caroline sorted through some of her mother’s files, and then went to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee.
Daphne was standing at the counter, unloading groceries. She looked beautiful without any makeup. Her blue turtleneck brought out her eyes, and she wore faded jeans tucked into boots.
“You’re awake!” Daphne greeted her. “You look much better. You looked awful last night. Even Luke commented that you looked tired, and he’s never met you before.”
Caroline grimaced. She walked over to the coffee maker. “I’d had a long day. All I needed was a good night’s sleep.”
“I’m glad you slept in,” Daphne said chirpily. “We left the Christmas tree outside because we didn’t want to wake you. Luke went to get some supplies.”
“The Christmas tree?”
They never bought the Christmas tree until Christmas Eve. It was a tradition. Anne and Caroline and Daphne would pile into the car on Christmas Eve and drive to BJ’s Christmas Tree Farm. After they chose the tree, they’d drink hot chocolate and buy a new ornament at the gift shop.
“We picked one out early this year, Luke was afraid there wouldn’t be any left,” Daphne explained. “He was right. I had my heart set on a white tree and there were only a few to choose from.”
Caroline glanced out the window. A tall white Christmas tree lay on the porch. They’d never had a white tree before. It resembled something out of a C. S. Lewis book. And it would look stunning when it was decorated.
“I’ve never heard you say you want a white tree,” Caroline said.
Daphne set the carton of eggs on the counter.
“Mom always wanted the biggest fir tree on the lot.” Daphne shrugged. She frowned at Caroline. “Is this about Luke? You can tell me if you don’t like him.”
“Of course I like him,” Caroline said slowly. “He’s good-looking and polite and he’s obviously in love with you. But you’ve only known each other for two months, why rush into marriage?”
“Plenty of couples get engaged when they haven’t known each other very long,” Daphne insisted.
Caroline tried again. “You’re twenty-five and you have a wonderful career. What if you get offered a job in Paris or London? Luke is tied to his restaurant, you couldn’t go.”
“We haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“That’s what I mean, you haven’t thought this through,” Caroline urged. “You might not want to live in Hudson. Or you might discover things about each other that are impossible to live with.”
“Mom and Walter only knew each other for six weeks before they got married. They were happy for twenty years.”
“That was different. Mom already had me,” Caroline said.
“Are you saying that Mom married Walter because she wanted you to have a father?” Daphne asked in surprise.
“Of course not. She didn’t even let Walter officially adopt me, she was perfectly capable of raising me by herself,” Caroline corrected. “But she didn’t have the same opportunities as you do. You’re free, you can do anything you please.”
Daphne put the milk carton in the fridge. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Luke makes everything fun. I save up things to tell him throughout the day, and I never want to be apart.”
“There’s more to love than enjoying each other’s company,” Caroline persisted.
“Maybe if you dated a guy for more than a month, you’d know what love felt like.” Daphne placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not like you. I don’t want to end up alone when I’m forty because I’m afraid to take a chance now.”
Caroline tried not to feel hurt. Daphne had always been stubborn. When Daphne was ten, she wore her favorite yellow dress to school for five days in a row. Caroline gently explained that the other girls would make fun of her if she always wore the same clothes. Daphne retorted that she wasn’t dressing for the other girls. As long as the dress was washed and hanging in her closet every morning, she put it on.
“I don’t want to talk about Luke any more,” Daphne said. “I’m going to the attic to get down the Christmas ornaments. Then Luke and I are going to the confectionery to buy some last-minute gifts. You should join us.”
Vasilow’s Confectionery had been a Hudson institution for one hundred years. Anne often gave their Grand Marnier truffles and legendary cinnamon squares as Christmas presents. The scarlet-colored gift boxes tied with gold ribbons were so like Anne. Elegant and unexpected.
Caroline’s expression softened. It was almost Christmas. She didn’t want to fight with Daphne.
“I’d love to join you, but I don’t think I can. I want to talk to you about something. I might not be here for Christmas. I’m considering flying to Aspen tonight.”
Caroline showed her the letter addressed to Anne. She told Daphne that the hotel concierge wouldn’t give her any information.
“Maybe if I ask in person, they’ll give me his name,” she said, finishing the story. “At least I can go to Santa’s Little Red Mailbox on New Year’s Eve and wait for him to show up.”
Daphne read the letter for herself, the tears welling in her eyes. Daphne was the opposite of Caroline; Daphne cried at everything. But a few minutes later her tears would dry up and she’d be smiling, like a puddle after a summer thundershower.
“How could she not tell us?” Daphne demanded, grabbing a tissue from the counter.
“She didn’t tell us everything,” Caroline reminded her. “We didn’t know the cancer returned until she was in the hospital.”
“She could have told us about this.” Daphne waved the envelope. “You can’t go to Aspen yet. You have to stay and have Christmas with Luke and me first.”
Caroline shook her head. “I checked and there aren’t any available flights after Christmas. I want time to ask around and see if anyone remembers them together. I didn’t want to miss out so I booked the flight and ten days at the hotel where they stayed.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Daphne suggested. “Luke will understand.”
“I thought about that. I’d love you to come. Nothing would make me happier than if we did this together. But what if it’s a wild-goose chase? I’d blame myself if you missed your first Christmas with Luke and I’m wrong.”
“I suppose you have a point,” Daphne agreed. “Luke and I are going to spend the week planning our wedding. I always imagined a destination wedding, a beach in Mexico or a villa in Tuscany. It might be nice to have it here, with a reception in the garden. You know, in honor of Mom.”
Caroline hugged Daphne. She pushed back her own tears.
“Wherever you get married, Mom will be there with you. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. Luke is the luckiest man, and you’re going to be a beautiful bride.”
Caroline took her cup of coffee into the study and sorted through boxes on the floor. The boxes had been sitting there since Caroline cleared out Anne’s office at the literary agency. Advance copies of books, royalty statements bound with elastic bands, a box of manuscripts from hopeful authors. Caroline had to smile. Earlier in her mother’s career, authors had to go to the post office and mail off their novels to prospective agents. These days, all the submissions were made online.
There was a stack of typewritten letters, tied with a ribbon. The name at the bottom of the page sounded familiar.
Caroline untied the ribbon and read the first letter.
Dear Anne,
I’ve decided I owe you a letter. It was wonderful of you to meet with me when you’re so busy. I do have to laugh at myself for showing up at the restaurant in a long, black coat and hat. As if anyone would recognize a seventy-five-year-old female writer who wrote a couple of bestsellers forty years ago! I can see why clients love you. You were wonderful for indulging me, you even remembered my favorite cocktail—a pink lady with two maraschino cherries—from an article you read about me in The New Yorker.
Anne, I do want you to represent me. But I can’t expect you to approach editors without telling you the full story of why I stopped writing and where I’ve been for the last forty years. So, I’ve decided to write it all down in letters. I can see you frowning. I’m supposed to be spending the next few months working on my new novel. I promise to do that too. But you know how authors love to procrastinate. Writing these letters will be better than replanting my window box or lining my kitchen cabinets while I think about the new book.
Say hello for me to those darling little girls in the photographs. You’re so lucky to have them.
Regards,
Nina Buckley
Caroline remembered reading Nina’s obituary in The New York Times. She had been quite well-known in the mid-1970s. Her novels were at the forefront of the women’s lib movement. Then she disappeared. There were rumors that she was in Morocco with the Rolling Stones, or holed up in a bedsit in Paris. But she never resurfaced, and until that obituary ran a few years ago when she’d died in New York, everyone had forgotten about her.
Her mother had never said she represented Nina. And there had never been another novel.
Caroline set the letters aside. She didn’t have time to read them now, so she’d take them to Aspen. She carried her coffee cup into the kitchen, and went to help Daphne with the Christmas ornaments.