Nancy Beckman indulged in a sardonic laugh. Death by Drilling. The perfect title for the mystery she wasn't working on for her creative writing class. No, this one was her own little secret.
A man, feet upended, strapped in the horizontally positioned dental chair, mouth crammed with molding gel, gargled his futile cries for help. A masked, gowned woman closed in, the scream of the high-speed drill she held in her hand a shrill foreshadowing of the slow death to come.
It was no coincidence that the helpless victim Nancy pictured in her imagination bore an exact likeness to her ex-husband. Nor that the prone body in the next chair, done in by an overdose of laughing gas, looked exactly like Helen, the nubile, teeny-bopper of a chairside assistant who had stolen Nancy's dentist husband — and life as she had known it.
Nancy set down her pen, burying her face in her hands. Pain, razor-sharp, gutted her. Why couldn't she move beyond Richard? Find another man? One who would be faithful, who would find value in her?
Reaching for the wine goblet on the edge of her desk, she stared at it in confusion. It had been full. Oh, well. No problem. She picked up the bottle of chardonnay and filled the empty glass, sloshing a bit on the table.
Finding a man? Locating a needle in a haystack was a comparative cinch. Not that she hadn't tried, but with two children, ages eleven and nine, it wasn't easy to put yourself "out there," as the women's magazines suggested. She'd tried a ballroom dance class, where women outnumbered men three to one, a discussion group at the public library, and a blind date with an orthodontist whose repartee consisted of case studies of overbite.
She stared at the blank lines in her journal; then, abandoning her fictional double homicide, she poured out her thoughts.
It's not that I miss Richard himself all that much. Who pines over a rotten philanderer? No, if I'm honest, it's the lifestyle I miss. The companionship. Being a couple. Sex? What was that? It had been so long since Richard and I had made passionate love that I can hardly remember that moment of ecstasy described in romance novels.
She took a healthy swig of wine, steeling herself for the truth.
It was my fault. If I'd been somehow more loving, more youthful… Well, damn. What did he want? I took care of myself, I presented us well in the community, I cooked gourmet meals. I even went to most of his boring dental conventions. But something had gone wrong. My mother certainly thought I was responsible. "A man doesn't just up and walk out, dear, unless his wife is lacking. What did you do — or not do?"
Nancy leaned back in her chair. "Thanks, Mom," she muttered. Like she really needed more guilt heaped atop the load of it she'd already assumed. She studied the photographs of Brin and Scott hanging on the wall. They were good kids who didn't deserve this fate. An absentee father, a stepmother barely out of a training bra, and a mother scared to death of her responsibilities — and worse yet, of the lonely years yawning out endlessly before her.
But at least Richard had left her well fixed financially. Nancy snorted. Blood money!
She stared at her journal, berating herself for spending her time writing such maudlin drivel when she was supposed to be working on her mystery novel. Ha! Who was she kidding? Others in the class had high artistic motives. Hers? She had hoped to meet an eligible man. At first she'd thought the handsome instructor, Niall Killian, might be just the ticket. But he very carefully avoided personal interaction with his students. Except maybe with Catherine, her gracious, nurturing fifty-two-year-old friend, with whom Niall had developed a particular camaraderie.
In some ways Nancy felt like an imposter being in the class, and had it not been for the friends she'd made in her critique group, she might have dropped out. In addition to Catherine, there was the sweet, happily married Faith, whose romance novel, completed recently with helpful advice from the critique group, was under consideration by an editor.
Marsha, a well-known international journalist seeking a new direction for her career, kept up her defenses and didn't suffer fools lightly. Recently, though, she had mellowed and made some changes — accepting a temporary position with the New Hope Chronicle and rekindling a romantic relationship with her former husband, Jon.
Then there was Ashleigh, the one with whom Nancy had initially had the least in common, probably because the twenty-three-year-old, involved in an intense relationship with an older man with two small children, reminded her too much of Helen, Richard's little Barbie doll. Yet she'd discovered Ashleigh not only had writing talent, but a generous heart.
Thinking about her new friends, Nancy realized it was only she who had no one to love. Even Catherine had someone, although her situation now with her husband, Graham, was sad. Strokes and early-onset Alzheimer's had necessitated putting Graham in a nursing facility. Devoted, Catherine spent a great deal of time with him, her only releases being her part-time job at the Fourth Avenue Bookstore and the writing class.
When she'd started the writing class, Nancy hadn't entertained high hopes. Yet the discussions were lively and literary, and Niall's judgments were rendered with honesty and concern for the writer's feelings. Nancy hadn't even minded when he'd called Carter Jo Stead, her mouthy private detective heroine, "derivative." Because, in truth, she had been strongly influenced by female protagonists in books by writers like Sue Grafton, Sara Paretsky and Patricia Cornwell.
Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was past midnight. Time for bed, but not necessarily for sleep. She had trouble drifting off nowadays. Worries grew into demons in the middle of the night. Cradling the nearly empty bottle of wine under her arm, she flipped off the desk lamp, picked up the empty goblet and went upstairs to the bedroom she no longer shared with anyone.
After climbing beneath the covers, she poured herself one last glass of wine, hoping it would bring on the desired narcotic effect. Leaning back against the pillows, she took a sip of the chardonnay, letting it soothe her palate. She swallowed, welcoming the warmth spreading in her chest, craving the oblivion that erased painful memories and looming fears.
Alone. It was a terrifying place to be.
Footsteps thudding down the stairs. A high-pitched voice shattering the early morning quiet. "Mom, where are my ballet slippers? I've looked and looked."
Nancy stood at the kitchen sink, the cup of coffee in her hand an ineffective antidote for her throbbing temples. Shakily, she turned to face her daughter. "Have you looked in your backpack?"
Eleven-year-old Brin's long dark hair framed her pouting face. "Well, duh."
Nancy struggled to cope with this latest in a series of domestic disasters, which seemed to have multiplied following Richard's exodus. "Let me finish my coffee and I'll help you look."
Brin started to turn away, then stopped, her brown eyes, so like her father's, pinned on her mother. "Are you sick?"
Nancy gathered the lapels of her robe in tightly clenched fingers. "Certainly not. Why would you think that?"
"Your eyes. They're all puffy and red and you haven't combed your hair like you usually do."
No, she hadn't. She'd bypassed the bathroom to make a beeline for aspirin and coffee. "I'm fine. I was just a slugabed today."
Brin left to continue her search and Nancy sagged against the counter, sipping from her cup, hoping her headache would dissipate before the critique group arrived at her house for their weekly meeting.
"M-o-m!" This time the plea was blood-curdling. "Scott took my slippers and he won't give them back."
Nine-year-old Scott's denial was equally damaging to the ear drums. "Did not. You musta put your dumb old ballet stuff in my gym bag."
"Quiet, both of you!" Nancy's shriek, louder than she'd intended, caused an icicle of pain in her skull. "I'm coming up to settle this." Somewhere she'd read that parents should let siblings settle their own disputes. Not today. Not when she felt as if she'd been flattened by a steamroller.
Finally after returning the ballet slippers to Brin, reprimanding Scott for his prank and his dishonesty and sending them off to the school bus stop with cold Pop-Tarts in their hands, she refilled her coffee cup, put a piece of bread into the toaster, and then poured two fingers of vodka in a glass and filled it with tomato juice. No harm in a little pick-me-up before cleaning the living room for the critique group.
Waiting for the toaster, she wandered into the family room, slowly sipping the makeshift Bloody Mary. Outside, a strong November wind stirred the piles of leaves littering the yard, reminding her of yet another chore. What the heck? She had the money. She'd call a lawn service.
She gulped another calming swig of her drink as she studied the house across the street. It had recently sold to a man who appeared to be single. At least there was no second car. No swing set. Well-built, he had the teddy-bear good looks of a middle-aged football player. She hadn't yet worked up her nerve to walk over there and hand him a casserole as a neighborly gesture, rationalizing she didn't want to be a walking cliché of the desperate husband-hunter.
Still, there was something intriguing about the possibilities.
But surely the gods wouldn't have deposited a live prospect directly across the street.
Or would they?
Faith curled her feet under her and listened in awe as Marsha read the column she intended to submit to the New Hope Chronicle, the first in a series of stories from her years as a foreign correspondent. Hard-boiled Marsha, who at first had had such difficulty sharing her feelings with the group, revealed through her writing just how devastated she had been by the natural disasters, violence and atrocities she had witnessed. Particularly moving were her profiles of individual children, victimized by a world they could neither control nor understand.
When Marsha finished reading her account of a Ugandan orphan boy who had walked miles in a fruitless search for family members lost in the AIDS epidemic, but who could still smile at her with joy and love, a profound quiet filled Nancy's living room.
Finally Catherine broke the silence. "Humbling, isn't it? And we think we have troubles."
"It's about survival and the will to live," Ashleigh murmured.
Faith nodded. "Lessons we all need to learn."
Draining her wineglass, Nancy spoke up. "Well, not that my plight is comparable to that poor boy's, but I can tell you something about survival right here in good old suburbia." She laughed mockingly. "Alone is alone, wherever you are."
Marsha cocked an eyebrow. "You're not exactly alone. You have your children." She gestured around the room. "Us."
Faith watched Nancy nervously finger the stem of her empty wine goblet. "I know you mean well. It's just that —" For once, Nancy seemed at a loss for words.
"You'd like a man," Catherine interjected gently.
"Isn't that the natural order of things?" Nancy stood up, went to the minibar and poured herself more wine, then turned around lifting the carafe in invitation.
"None for me," Faith said, noticing none of the others wanted a refill.
"I didn't used to think I needed a man," Marsha said, laying aside her manuscript. "I thought I could handle the entire world all by myself."
Ashleigh smiled. "Then back into your life came Jon."
"Who'd have predicted that?" Marsha said, a contented smile playing over the corners of her mouth.
"You know," Nancy said, returning to her seat, "I'm genuinely pleased for all of you. Faith, you and Ben are happier than ever. Ashleigh, with Mark's influence, you've morphed into a budding soccer-mom. Marsha has Jon now." She lifted the goblet to her lips, took a sip, and then faced them. "You're the lucky ones, though. Try being rejected by your husband and left to pick up the pieces with two children." Her expression hardened. "Do you think I can just waltz out there and find a replacement?"
Catherine leaned over to grab Nancy's free hand. "Why do you need a man?"
"Are you kidding? Why does any woman need one?"
"Sex is nice," Marsha said, uncharacteristically blushing, "but it's not a cure-all."
Catherine persisted. "Nancy, it's an important question."
The room stilled. Faith watched as Catherine gave Nancy her undivided attention.
"Do you believe you need a man to complete you?"
Nancy lowered her eyes, twirled the wine goblet between her fingers, took a gulp, then looked challengingly at Catherine. "Yes, believe it or not, I do. Being a wife and mother is all I know. It's what I was groomed for." She laughed bitterly. "And, ironically, I thought I was good at it. My life is a damn cliché. 'The wife is always the last to know.'" Tossing her head in self-mockery, she looked around at each of her friends. "So, yeah, I want a man. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find one?"
Faith felt her stomach shift uncomfortably. Nancy wore her pain, need and self-loathing like a warrior's shield, daring anyone to breach her defenses.
"Oh, Nancy," Catherine sighed, "I wish you could see the beauty in yourself that we do and understand that when you're able to do that, the right man will probably come along."
"Love myself?" Nancy's mouth quirked in a sneer. "Sounds like Dr. Phil."
"Does that make it wrong?" Marsha asked. "It sure helped in my case."
Nancy made a show of finishing her wine, then squared her shoulders. "Well, enough about me. Aren't we supposed to be critiquing one another's work?"
Faith knew a conversation stopper when she heard one. "Who wants to read next?"
Catherine picked up her notebook, as if deciding whether to volunteer. After drawing a deep breath, she said, "I will."
Faith's heart nearly broke over Catherine's beautiful reminiscence of a day walking the beach on the Oregon coast with Graham — the squawking gulls, crashing surf, scudding clouds all serving to bond them with one another and the natural world about them. Periodically Catherine's voice faltered with the weight of the memory.
When she finished reading, Faith smiled tenderly. "You and Graham had special times together, didn't you?"
"That's what makes it so…so hard now." Catherine's voice broke.
Leaning forward, Nancy seemed jolted out of her self-absorption. "Are things worse?"
Catherine looked up, her eyes brimming. "He's more and more agitated. Belligerent, even. I try so hard to see in him the man I remember." She swallowed twice. "But it's like he's somebody else. Someone I never knew."
"What can we do for you?" Ashleigh asked.
Catherine stood and held out her arms to the others, who circled around, joining her in a group hug. "Just what you're doing. Caring for me. Keeping me sane."
Faith's heart welled. Only a few short weeks ago, she had felt friendless, unappreciated. Now she couldn't imagine her life without these incredible women.
When they broke apart, Faith volunteered her home for the next meeting. The others scooted out, but Faith stayed to help Nancy clean up.
"Do I work at it, or do I just have a natural talent for making a fool of myself?" Nancy asked, setting a half-depleted relish tray on the kitchen counter.
"Meaning?"
"Oh, Faith, I sounded like a classic whiner today. Beleaguered single mother facing into the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.' My problems are nothing compared to Catherine's, but you don't hear her complaining."
Faith began running water into the sink, then added detergent. "But each situation is unique. You can't compare problems. Yours are very real to you."
"You've got that right." Nancy picked up a dish towel and began wiping glasses. After a few moments, she spoke. "I don't know what I did, where it went wrong."
"You can't dwell on the past." Faith amazed herself. Where had this wisdom come from? "What is, is. It's the future you have to think about."
Nancy set down the towel. "That's what scares me."
"You're selling yourself short. You're a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for."
"Tell that to Richard."
"Forget Richard!" Faith couldn't believe she'd raised her voice, but, darn it, Nancy was letting that stupid man control her life in absentia.
"I hate him!"
"That's a waste of your time and energy. The poor schmuck probably has no inkling what he gave up."
Nancy cracked a half grin. "Keep it up, girl. You're starting to make me feel better."
"About darned time."
They continued working in companionable silence until Nancy spoke again. "Is your son Thomas involved in that Boy Scout thing Saturday at the middle school?"
Faith nodded. "The hiking exposition? Yes. He can't wait."
"I have a hair appointment that morning. Any chance you could pick up Scott? I'll be happy to go get the boys when it's over."
"Sounds like a deal. We'll swing by for Scott about ten minutes before it starts."
When Faith returned to the living room to pick up her coat and purse, Nancy trailed behind her. "Thanks for your help."
"Anytime." Faith hugged her friend, then walked toward her car, relieved Nancy had seemed to calm down, yet disturbed by her need to scourge herself for her role in the divorce and by her desperation to define herself in terms of a man.
And the alcohol wasn't helping.
Faith's husband, Ben, had picked up Scott five minutes before Nancy had to leave for the salon. On her way, she had dropped Brin at her Saturday ballet class, but not before Brin had started in on the mantra she'd adopted ever since the divorce. "Daddy says I hafta stay at their house for Thanksgiving. He says I need to get better acquainted with her. But I hate her. I'm not gonna go."
Secretly pleased her daughter had such discriminating taste in stepparents, Nancy had patiently explained the terms of the divorce settlement, which mandated she and Richard alternate years for holiday custody. "Daddy will take good care of you."
"But not her."
Alarm bells sounded, and when Nancy had questioned her further, Brin announced, with outrage, that Helen made the children go to bed at eight-thirty and wouldn't let them watch a PG-13 movie. Nancy had to admit those restrictions weren't all bad, but the thought of her children being with Richard and his Barbie doll for both Thanksgiving and Christmas this year devastated her. Summoning calm, Nancy informed Brin she had no choice in the matter. For her efforts, Nancy had suffered Brin's scathing indictment: "If you loved me, you wouldn't make me go."
After that ordeal, it had been a relief to lie back in the chair at the shampoo bowl, close her eyes and let someone else care for her. For a price. She could hardly remember the last time that had happened for free. Maybe when Richard had whisked her off to Florida, pre-Barbie, to celebrate their tenth anniversary. Vivid blue-green waters, white sands, long, hot nights in their pillow-top king-size bed. Angry tears gathered behind her closed lids. The son of a bitch! What did Helen have she didn't? How had she failed? She grimaced. Maybe the "how" didn't matter. The fact was indisputable: she was a colossal failure.
The hairstyling and manicure succeeded minimally in raising her spirits. After stops at the grocery and the liquor store, she drove home, dreading entering the empty house. She parked in the driveway, then loaded her arms with the bags and started for the door. Just before she reached the porch, she tripped on an exposed tree root and the groceries went flying. She lay sprawled on the cold ground, feeling like an idiot.
"May I help?"
She glanced up, astonished to find her handsome new neighbor leaning over her, his cobalt-blue eyes full of concern. He reached out his hand to help her to her feet.
His grasp was warm, and an involuntary tingle zinged through her body. Up close, the deep cleft in his chin and his tanned complexion gave his face the appealing look of a seasoned sportsman. "Thank you," she murmured. Then recovering her manners, she continued. "I'm Nancy Beckman. Welcome to the neighborhood."
Still holding her hand, he nodded. "Eric West. Pleased to meet you." He seemed to study her features then, releasing her hand, he bent over to retrieve her groceries. "I'll carry these in for you."
She unlocked the door and gestured to the kitchen. "I'll get the rest." She hurried back to the car, gathered up her liquor store purchases, and joined him at the counter, where suddenly her mouth went dry and her mind blank.
"Are you hurt?" he inquired.
Having a virile male standing in her house rendered her nearly speechless. "Only my dignity."
"No skinned knees, bruised elbows?"
He studied her with such concern she found her breath coming in short gasps. "Really, I'm fine."
Then followed a silence. Longing to continue experiencing the warmth of his protective presence, she didn't want him to leave. "Could I offer you a cup of coffee? You know, a small gesture of appreciation?" She cringed, acknowledging the begging quality of her invitation.
"Some other time, maybe." He sidled toward the door. "I'm expecting company any minute now. Thanks anyway."
Then he was gone, leaving behind a trace of his manly scent — woodsy and intoxicating. And in that moment, there crested in her body a sense of powerful, if totally illogical, loss.
Which a few moments later was geometrically compounded.
A sleek sports coupe drew up in front of his house. A slim, young blonde — why were they always and eternally young — emerged from the car, her stylish pants suit molded to her lovely, svelte figure. Eric West came bounding down the walk and scooped the woman into his arms, twirling her around.
It was agony to watch. Nancy reached for the sack containing the fifth of vodka, and as she watched the romantic tableau unfold in front of her, absently worked the lid off the bottle.
Eric set the blonde back on her feet, then, together, they pulled her bag out of the trunk. He carried the suitcase under one arm and entwined his other around the girlish waist of his lady friend. Even after they entered his house, Nancy continued to stand at the window staring at the place where the couple had met in joyous reunion.
The woodsy smell in her house was no longer intoxicating.
Her body drained of emotion, she picked up the vodka and swigged straight from the bottle.
Sometime later that afternoon, she heard the back door open then slam shut. She swam up from the depths of sleep. Who?
"Mom, I'm home."
Then she remembered. Patsy Wolcroft, the mother of one of Brin's friends, had agreed to pick up the girls from ballet. "I'm up here," she croaked, her mouth dry as the inside of an abandoned wasps' nest. She rubbed her face. She must've fallen asleep.
Lying back down, she could hear the clomping of feet coming up the stairs. Then she felt the presence of someone by her bed. She squinted at the form. "Brin?"
"Why are those groceries all over the kitchen? Did you get sick or something?"
With a groan, Nancy mumbled, "Or something." Yet she couldn't remember what the "something" was. She struggled up on one elbow. "How was ballet?"
Brin stood silent, her fingers lacing and unlacing, her face screwed, as if in pain. "Okay, I guess."
"Honey, could you do Momma a favor and put away the perishable stuff?"
"Aren't you getting up?"
Nancy saw the bedroom wall waver in the distance, felt heavy weights pinning her eyelids. "I guess I'm not feeling so good after all. I'm so sleepy. Can you watch TV or something if I take a nap?"
Nancy closed her eyes before she saw the slump of Brin's shoulders, the solitary tear tracing a path across her daughter's cheek. "I guess," the girl sighed, slipping from the room.
Before she lost herself in the bliss of the comforter, a fleeting thought — too evanescent to be seized — floated through Nancy's consciousness. Something she was supposed to do. Some place she was supposed to be.
She rolled over, irritated to find an obstacle, which she shoved out of her way. An empty bottle. Falling, falling to the floor.
But, lost in the oblivion of her alcoholic haze, Nancy never heard the thud of its landing.
Ben came up behind Faith as she stood at the stove stirring the homemade beef-vegetable stew and wrapped his arms around her, snuggling her against his chest. "Smells good," he murmured, "but not as good as you."
She smiled, remembering the doubts she'd experienced just a few weeks ago about his love. She turned in his arms, standing on tiptoes to kiss him. "You're getting pretty romantic in your old age," she whispered.
"I'm inspired. Totally." He nuzzled her neck. "It's that sexy romance novel I'm reading by the famous lady I'm lucky enough to sleep with." He ran his hands up and down her back. "That first book was good, but this second one may be even better."
"At least the beginning," she said. "I've only written two chapters."
"Hmm," he breathed against her neck. "Just think what I have to look forward to."
The approval in his eyes was a gift beyond imagining. She had always wanted to write but had been afraid he wouldn't understand or approve. It had taken a lot to overcome their habit of distrust, but communication had been the key. She giggled. "Look at us now. Who'd have imagined it earlier this fall?"
He grinned impishly. "Do you think that stew will hold until after we indulge in a little seasoning? Thomas isn't due back for half an hour, and the other two are across the street playing video games with their buddies." He growled lecherously. "Oh, yeah, I think that stew definitely needs some hot spice."
Once, Faith would've brushed him aside. No longer. "Let me turn the heat to simmer," she whispered, thrilled by her own double entendre.
Forty minutes later, Faith lay in bed, her naked body radiant with the aftereffects of Ben's inventive and playful lovemaking. She could hear the shower running, but had delayed joining him, savoring the feeling of being cherished.
When the phone rang, it seemed a harsh intrusion. Gathering the sheet around her, she rolled over and picked up the receiver.
Thomas's voice sounded shrill with worry. "Mom, can you come pick up me and Scott?"
Faith frowned. Hadn't Nancy agreed to pick up the boys? "Sure, honey, but where's Mrs. Beckman?"
"She didn't come. Scott called her, but she didn't answer. Only his sister. She said Scott's mom was sick."
A faint cloud of foreboding gathered around Faith. Nancy? Sick? Surely she would've called, unless…
Oh, God. Faith leaped to her feet. "Don't worry, Tommy. I'll be right there."
Ten minutes later, she had picked up the boys and was headed for Nancy's home, dreading what she might discover.
Far in the distance Nancy gradually became aware of the inane cackling of a television cartoon character. Scooting up against the headboard of her bed, she tried to focus on the sights and sounds coming to her as if through a muffled, hazy filter. Out the bedroom window she took in the mauve and peach streaks of a winter sunset.
Had she slept the afternoon away? Leaning over, she flipped on the bedside lamp. Her eyes froze on the digital alarm clock. Five-fifty?
Oh, God, the kids. She scrambled out of bed and raked a hand through her short-cropped hair. Her mouth tasted like a dirty ashtray, and inside her eyelids a sandstorm raged. Ducking into the bathroom, she bathed her face in cold water and brushed her teeth vigorously. Shaky and disoriented, she tried to remember what had happened, but the last image she could conjure up was Eric West and his blond girl toy.
Throwing a cardigan over her T-shirt, she made her way down the stairs. She sagged against the newel post with relief when she saw two heads above the family room sofa and on the far wall the multihued flicker of a television program.
Summoning a smile, she made her way toward them. "Kids, sorry I slept so long."
Scott turned around, his eyes wide with accusation. "Where were you, Mom?"
She couldn't grasp the thrust of his question. "When?"
Just then, Faith emerged from the kitchen, walked toward her and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "Remember, Nancy, the Boy Scout expedition?"
Then it all came back to her. She wilted. "I was supposed to pick up the boys."
"Yes, you were, but it's okay. Thomas called and I picked them up."
Nancy looked around the room. "But where is Thomas?"
Faith gazed reproachfully at her. "I thought it best to have Ben come pick him up. I didn't quite know what would happen when you woke up."
"What do you mean?"
Faith lowered her voice. "What condition you'd be in."
Anger surfaced, and Nancy realized she resented Faith's being in her home, butting into her business. "What are you trying to say?"
"Honey, I found the bottle by your bed. You passed out."
What was Faith talking about? What was the harm in a little liquid cheer? Especially if it made the loneliness bearable. "I don't think so."
Faith said nothing, her expression one of regretful disbelief.
Suddenly Nancy wanted Faith out of her house. "Well, I suppose I should thank you for picking up the boys, but I can handle it from here."
"I hope so." Faith nodded toward the children, sitting zombielike, watching the exaggerated movements of a cartoon monster. "They need you, Nancy."
After Faith left, Nancy found soup warming on the stove and a plate of sandwiches on the counter. She didn't appreciate Faith's meddling, but it was a welcome relief not having to fix dinner. The kids ate slowly, avoiding looking at her. Only the clink of spoons against china broke the uncomfortable silence.
Her first bite of sandwich caused an upheaval in her stomach, but then she realized she was ravenous. Had she eaten lunch? She couldn't remember.
Finally, Brin laid down her spoon and spoke. "Daddy called while you were resting."
Nancy focused on her daughter. Clearly she had some message to impart.
"He'll pick us up Wednesday night for Thanksgiving."
"And bring us back Friday night," Scott added.
Brin looked worried. "What'll you do for Thanksgiving, Mom?"
"I'll be here. Maybe I can get lots of writing done for my class."
Scott frowned. "But who'll be with you?"
"Nobody." As soon as she said the mournful word, Nancy's eyes darted to the wine rack above the refrigerator.
Brin's voice tightened. "Will you be all right? You won't get sick again, will you?"
"I'll be right as rain. But I'll miss you two."
Later, after the children were in bed, Nancy sat in her favorite armchair staring into space. There had been no mistaking the concern in her children's questions. Maybe she had overstepped her limits today. But that was a one-time thing. It wouldn't happen again.
Most of the time she was perfectly in control. Nobody could blame her for having a drink or two to help face the challenges of single motherhood. It wasn't like she was an alcoholic or anything.
Nancy purposely arrived a few minutes late for the writing class. She didn't feel like making small talk with Faith, who had obviously overreacted to the situation last Saturday. Nor did she need much of Ashleigh's cloud-nine effusiveness or Marsha's Cheshire cat contentment. Yet the first thing she noticed when she entered the classroom was Catherine's empty seat. In that moment, she forgot her misgivings in her concern for her friend. She slipped into the seat behind Faith and leaned forward. "Where's Catherine? Is something wrong?"
"Graham took a turn for the worse today," Faith whispered.
Nancy's heart sank. Catherine had been such a rock for all of them, even when her own life was falling apart. With a pang of conscience, Nancy realized her problems were nothing compared to Catherine's. What must it be like to lose your life partner to the ravages of Alzheimer's?
Niall Killian, the instructor, had acknowledged Nancy's arrival with a nod, continuing his lecture on voice. According to him it was important to write from the heart and out of your own emotions and experiences instead of imitating the style and tone of another writer. Nancy flinched. That must have been what he meant by calling her mystery "derivative."
Niall adjusted his glasses, then read excerpts from Pat Conroy, Ernest Hemingway and, surprisingly, Erma Bombeck to illustrate differences in voice. "Each of you has a unique outlook on life, a particular set of experiences you bring to bear on your writing. Voice is nothing more than being true to yourself in selecting the genres and style that represent your true essence."
"That's what I've done with my novel," Roger Derks, the class self-proclaimed artiste, interrupted. "I work from that plane of imagination which most clearly reflects the soul."
Nancy stifled a groan. The man wouldn't know his soul if it accosted him on the street.
Niall nodded in acknowledgment, but went on to say, "Finding the soul is part of it, but it usually doesn't work if we're too self-consciously involved in the process."
Touché, Nancy thought with satisfaction.
"But if you've expressed yourself with an authentic voice, your material will be as unique to you as a fingerprint. For example," Niall picked up a manuscript from his desk, "let me read this to you."
Nancy found herself drawn into the vignette of a new mother cradling her infant son to her breast for the first time, filled with longings for his future. When Niall finished reading, the class, caught up in the story, remained silent. Niall let the moment hang, then quietly spoke. "That piece was written by a student in this class, and I'm going to submit that it could only have been written by one person."
In a flash, Nancy knew, as surely as she knew her own name. "Catherine," she intoned, unaware that she'd spoken aloud until the other students turned toward her.
"Exactly," Niall said, smiling in satisfaction. "That, my friends, is voice." He glanced regretfully at the empty chair. "I only wish she had been here tonight." The wistfulness in his tone seemed to go beyond mere professorial interest.
Marsha looked thoughtful. "Is catharsis part of that authenticity?" Nancy knew Marsha was talking about her own decision to face her demons by using her writing to revisit the war-ravaged, pestilence-ridden parts of the world where she had witnessed the unspeakable.
"It can be," Niall responded, "but one has to guard against self-serving or maudlin motives that focus attention on the writer rather than on the message. Instead, harness the emotions and material in a way that pulls the reader into the story."
Nancy flipped open her notebook to the fourth chapter of her mystery novel. She'd practically had to force herself to write that much, and she constantly strained to master plot turns. Worse, Carter Jo Stead was a cardboardesque protagonist. Skimming the page she'd opened, Nancy cringed.
Carter strode around the body, blood-drenched and waxen, and glared at the
police detective, a burly Irishman whose pig-eyes and red face challenged her
authority. "Time of death?" she barked.
Pulling on rubber gloves, he eyed her up and down as if assessing whether he
wanted to deck her or screw her, then shrugged. "Too late," he said, then
laughed maniacally at his own joke.
What a piece of crap! Authentic? Inventive? Not in a million years. She only hoped she'd escape this class without having to read any of her ridiculous prose aloud. If she had any sense, she'd get out of the class. Yet she'd already agreed to go on with the second segment offered after the holidays. And why?
She glanced around the room. At Ashleigh, intently taking notes. Then at Marsha, her hardened body softened by the more feminine wardrobe she was wearing since hooking up again with her ex-husband. And at sweet, long-haired Faith sitting in front of her, whose concern made her feel both guilty and loved.
And dear Catherine, whose strength was rooted in depths of love and faith.
How could she give them up? Their weekly critique group was a godsend, an oasis of friendship amid her desert loneliness.
But she'd have to quit working on her mystery. It was pure drivel. However, she had to write something; otherwise, what would there be to critique?
She sighed. The real mystery was what that something would be. "Harness your emotions," Niall had recommended, but Nancy couldn't fathom, in her case, how that could possibly benefit anyone.
The truth was, she didn't want to go anywhere near her true emotions.
Thanksgiving in New Hope. From Nancy's perspective, the phrase was one giant oxymoron. Her "new hopes" had resulted in total wariness where men were concerned, and as for giving thanks… Well, the children, of course. The critique group. There the list foundered.
Thanks to a couple of stiff gin and tonics, she'd made it through the kids' departure. Richard, an oily smile pasted on his face, had arrived last night on the dot of seven — typical of his dentist perfectionism. Brin cast backward glances at her as Richard led her toward his car, as if by some deus ex machina device she would be rescued from the fate of spending two days with Helen. Scott, on the other hand, was chatty, asking his dad all kinds of questions about their plans for the holiday.
The worst moment had been when Richard, pausing at the door, had spoken to her with hearty pseudo concern. "I know this is tough, Nancy. I'm sure, with time, it will get easier." Then he'd placed a hand on her shoulder. "I wish you only the best."
She'd have gagged on the spot if her mother hadn't brought her up to be a lady. She needed his condescension like she needed a lobotomy. In that moment, she felt only revulsion for the man with whom she'd shared thirteen years of marriage.
Yet there was victory in that moment, as well. She had looked in the hallway mirror and given her reflection a high five. Maybe, just maybe, she was getting over Richard. In fact, it might just be that Barbie was welcome to her Dr. Ken.
This morning she'd made a half-hearted effort to watch the Thanksgiving parades on TV. Two cups of coffee and a Bloody Mary later, it was only noon and the day stretched out endlessly. She wandered into the kitchen, fixed herself a second drink, then spotted her writing notebook lying on the counter, where she'd pitched it after class the other night.
She set her glass on the kitchen table and retrieved her notebook. Settling at the table, she picked up her pen, twirling it idly between her fingers. She opened to a blank page and stared at it, summoning an idea — any idea.
Harness your emotions. Niall's words haunted her. They represented both her deepest fear and a challenge.
Taking a healthy swig of her drink for courage, she began writing, losing herself in the process of filling the page.
I used to know who I was. I could even take pride and satisfaction in that person. My life followed the script laid out for me, which, I guess, I accepted without question. Obedient, tractable. That was me. I never doubted that I would fulfill my mother's every expectation. I would go to the right schools, date boys from the right families, marry the right man and live in the right neighborhood.
Richard could have come straight from central casting for me. Did I love him? (I can't believe I just wrote that. Until recently, I never questioned that. But what is love, anyway?) Whatever. I thought I did. Now, I don't know. I'd like to think I did. After all, he is the father of my children.
Another important question — did he ever love me? Or was I just the kind of woman who accommodates her husband's career and projects the right image?
Well, damn. Talk about timing. She dropped the pen and moved to the window, shamelessly spying on Eric West, who had just left his house dressed in jogging shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. In her fantasy, he had soon tired of the blond babe and had turned his attention to the attractive divorcée living directly across the street. Yet the reality was they had exchanged only polite hellos since the day she'd executed her swan dive in the yard.
When he turned the corner, with a sigh, she returned to her notebook.
Eric West. I like the sound of his name. I like his rugged good looks. I like thinking about him and imagining…well, you know. I'm not going to write what I imagine. I'm not so honest with my emotions I can own up to R-rated thoughts.
She sat staring at her notebook for another fifteen minutes. What a fool she was. No Eric West or any other man was going to save her from loneliness. Marsha could talk all she wanted about the benefit of liking oneself. The plain truth was, Nancy Beckman didn't.
Disgusted by her own self-absorption and determined to do something worthwhile with her time, she decided to call Catherine. Her son answered and told her his mother was spending the day at the nursing home with his father. Without stopping to second-guess herself, Nancy went upstairs, changed into a pair of navy wool slacks and a red turtleneck, put on some makeup, and then headed for the facility. Catherine's Thanksgiving had to be the pits, too.
At the nursing station, Nancy was directed down a well-lighted hall lined with soothing pastel prints, to Graham's room. Glancing into the doorways she passed on the way, she was disturbed by the gray-headed patients who lay inert in their beds or sat, hands folded, nodding in wheelchairs. Her heart did a flip-flop. What quality of life did any of these people, who had once been active and vital, have now?
She rapped lightly on Graham's door, then stuck her head into the room. Catherine sat in a chair by the bed, holding the limp hand of the man stretched out on the bed. He didn't move in response to Nancy's murmured greeting. Catherine lifted her head, her face drawn, her eyes weary. Even so, she managed a wan smile. "Thank you for coming," she whispered.
Nancy crossed the room and pulled a chair close to Catherine's. She nodded toward the prone figure. "How is he?"
"Quiet. For now. He had a bad morning. They've given him some medication to calm his agitation."
Nancy reached out and took Catherine's hand. "And how are you?"
Catherine shrugged. "Hanging in there."
"It must be very hard."
"You have no idea. I keep trying to remember the good times, but it's like they happened a long time ago to someone else. I mean, today's Thanksgiving. And I can picture myself stuffing the turkey and setting the table, but then I can't visualize Graham at all. Or if I do, I can't remember what he looked like. Only this." She gestured to the man on the bed, now snoring lightly, drool trickling from one corner of his mouth.
"Oh, Catherine, all of us who care about you are so sorry this is happening."
"I know, and I appreciate that. I can't imagine what I'd do without the critique group." She gave a hollow laugh. "Hard to imagine at the beginning of the class that we'd grow so close."
"But I'm thankful we have."
Nancy sat holding Catherine's hand for a long time, until her head lolled back in the chair and she, too, fell asleep. Disengaging her fingers, Nancy then tiptoed from the room, both relieved to leave it and saddened by the reality of Catherine's responsibilities.
When she left the lobby, she was surprised to see a familiar figure striding toward the building from the parking lot. Niall Killian. What was he doing here? Of course, he and Catherine had bonded more than some of the others, but strictly as teacher and student. Or was there more?
"Hello, Niall. What brings you here?"
He stood quietly, his dark hair blowing in the wind above the upturned collar of his black peacoat. "Catherine," he said, and in the syllables of her name Nancy thought she heard mellowness…affection. "She has to be lonely on Thanksgiving. I was in the area and thought I'd stop in."
"I'm sure she'll be glad to see you." Suddenly Nancy knew she had stumbled on a truth. It might not be only the critique group helping to hold Catherine together.
The visit with Catherine had, inexplicably, raised Nancy's spirits. She managed to get through the rest of the day and evening just fine, rationing herself to two drinks.
Friday morning she set out purposefully for the New Hope Mall to get a head start on her Christmas shopping. She returned home late that afternoon, in time to hide the children's gifts. As a reward for her productivity, she lit a fire in the fireplace, selected some Mannheim Steamroller Christmas music to put on the stereo and settled in the family room with a tangy gin and tonic.
Her peace and quiet lasted exactly thirty minutes. Then all hell broke loose.
First, the kids returned. Helen accompanied Richard to the door, oozing her greetings and holiday solicitations. Scotty clung to Richard's waist as if parting from him would result in instant decapitation. Brin cast her mother a contemptuous look, then dragged her suitcase across the floor in a series of loud thumps.
"Aren't you going to say goodbye, pumpkin?" Richard asked her retreating back.
"Bye."
"How about Helen?" he persisted.
Brin stopped in midthump, turned around and in an ultrapolite voice said, "Goodbye, Helen." Then she started up the stairs, dragging her suitcase behind her.
Steeling herself, Nancy laid a hand on Scott's shoulder. "Did you have a nice time?"
"The best," he said, reluctantly stepping back from his father.
"We'll see you again soon, sport."
An awkward silence fell. Barbie's face was frozen in a falsely cheery smile. Richard shoved Scott's bag across the entry hall. Nancy decided to say nothing that would prolong this awkward moment.
"Hope you had a good Thanksgiving," Richard had the gall to say.
Nancy chose to echo her son. "The best," she said pointedly.
Finally Richard turned his back, offered Helen his arm and beat a retreat. Nancy refrained from slamming the door after them.
She had scarcely joined Scott, now glued to the TV, when Brin came to the doorway. "I don't feel so good."
"What's the matter, honey?"
"My stomach hurts."
Was this the real thing or a psychosomatic reaction to prolonged exposure to Helen? "Was it something you ate?"
"We had this big dinner at the country club yesterday. Then Helen made these gross pancakes this morning. We went to the movie this afternoon, and I had a jumbo box of popcorn and a supersized soda. Daddy let me have some Milk Duds, too."
A scream forced its way from Nancy's bowels, but she managed to clamp her mouth shut. This wasn't the first time Richard, the All-Star Disney Dad, had brought the children home tired, crotchety and overindulged. "Let's get you upstairs and into your pajamas."
"I…I don't think so, Mommy." Brin's face turned pale as she brought her hands up to her mouth. "I'm gonna throw up." Nancy hurried her daughter to the bathroom, making it just in time. But it wasn't a pretty sight. Thanks, Richard, Nancy muttered to herself. Let the good times roll!
But the good times weren't over. Hardly had she gotten Brin settled in her bedroom, than a blood-curdling scream resounded from the kitchen. "Mom, come quick!"
Nancy raced down the stairs to find water cascading from the dishwasher, spilling onto the kitchen floor. Scott stood in the doorway, bug-eyed. "I shoulda stayed with Dad," he said. "Everything's a mess here."
A flood. At night. On a holiday weekend.
No man to call for help.
She needed a drink.
The day of the critique group meeting, Faith set out a tray of cookies and tea sandwiches and checked on the coffee and soft drinks. Standing in front of the wine rack, she thought about Nancy and decided to forego offering alcohol. It had disturbed her before that Nancy seemed to need wine to get through these meetings. Initially she had attributed it to Nancy's nervousness about exposing her writing to others. But Faith's concern had grown as a result of finding her friend passed out on her bed the Saturday of the Boy Scout expedition. And however Nancy sugarcoated it, her drinking was a problem.
Faith knew how hard it could be to feel alone. She and Ben had been drifting dangerously apart until recently. When Faith had erroneously assumed he'd been having an affair, a part of herself had died. She understood Nancy's confusion and loneliness. Betrayal had a toxic effect. But the answer didn't lie in addictive behavior.
And that was what Faith feared most for Nancy. She, Ashleigh, Marsha, Catherine — they were Nancy's friends. But what was their responsibility for her? Where was the line between concern and meddling? Between support and enabling? At what point did they have an obligation to do something?
A shudder passed through Faith. Nancy could lose the children unless she controlled her drinking.
Ashleigh was the first of the group to arrive. "How's the girl reporter?" Faith teased.
"Great, actually. The series of articles about the illegal dumping site must have boosted my standing at the Chronicle because Mr. Thompson, the editor, has assigned me to a great new story."
"Sounds like you're off and running. Today the New Hope Chronicle, tomorrow the New York Times."
Laughing, Ashleigh laid her coat over a dining room chair. "Last summer I'd have loved hearing you say that."
"But now?"
Ashleigh hugged herself. "New Hope is looking pretty darn good."
"Or Mark Torrance is?"
"Oh, yeah. Even his rugrats have charmed me." She settled on the sofa and began unzipping her computer case.
Just then Marsha arrived, her green eyes alight. "Is everybody here?"
"No, just Ashleigh, but —"
A howl, which turned to helpless laughter, erupted from the living room. Faith threw Marsha a mystified shrug before the two went to see what had occasioned the outburst.
Ashleigh, tears of hilarity streaming down her face, held up her "computer."
"Wait —" Marsha waggled her fingers in front of her eyes "— that looks like —"
Ashleigh completed the thought. "An Etch-a-Sketch. Logan's been at it again. He's like a master electronics thief. He uses any stratagem to get his hands on my laptop."
Faith knew how important Ashleigh's gadgets were to her. "Aren't you worried about your computer?"
"It's only a thing. Until I met Mark's kids, I never realized that."
Faith had to admit Ashleigh, young though she was, had come a long way. The doorbell rang and Nancy entered, her expensive cologne perfuming the entry. "Am I late?"
"Not at all." Faith paused. "Have you heard from Catherine?"
"No, but if you haven't, I presume she's planning to come."
"Want to see Ashleigh's latest gadget?" Marsha held up the Etch-a-Sketch.
"Wow. You're really wired now," Nancy said, tongue in cheek. "Next thing you know you'll trade in your fax machine for a Game Boy."
While Faith directed the group to the refreshments, Catherine slipped in.
Faith couldn't help noticing the worry lines furrowing Catherine's brow and the dark shadows under her sorrowful eyes. "We didn't know if you'd be able to come."
"This is something I do for myself. Every now and then I need a dose of life outside the nursing home."
"How is Graham today?"
Catherine shrugged helplessly. "Don't ask."
Faith put an arm around her friend and led her into the living room, where all chatter stopped as the others rose to greet Catherine with hugs and solicitous murmurs.
After the usual small talk, Nancy smiled at Catherine. "Did you know Niall read one of your pieces at class last week?"
"He told me," Catherine said quietly.
Faith was puzzled. How could he have told her? They hadn't yet been to the next class. Had Niall called her? Seen her?
"It was lovely," Marsha said. "Sensitive and full of emotion."
"He used you as an example of voice," Nancy added.
"Voice?" Catherine seemed genuinely puzzled.
Ashleigh leaned toward Catherine. "You know, that quality that makes your writing identifiable as yours."
Catherine looked from one to the other. "I only wrote what I knew."
"Exactly," Faith said. "No matter what genre we're writing, Niall suggested it's important that the subject and treatment allow for the expression of our voice."
Nancy set aside her coffee cup. "Well, I don't have one."
Marsha looked startled. "Everyone does."
"Well, goody for everyone." Nancy's tone had taken on an edge. She turned to Faith. "Do you have any wine around here?"
Faith sighed internally. "Yes. Do you want some?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
"Anyone else?" Faith inquired of the group.
Several looked uncomfortable, but no one said anything. Reluctantly, Faith went into the kitchen, returning with a glass of wine, which she handed to Nancy.
Ashleigh turned to Nancy. "What do you mean you don't have a voice?"
Nancy paused to sip from her goblet, then eyed the group over the rim of her glass. "Exactly that. My mystery is a piece of 'derivative' crap, I wouldn't be able to write about an authentic emotion if it bit me on the ass, and I have no business being in this group."
Nancy's words shocked Faith. Although she was often direct, Nancy was rarely this outspoken. Studying her more closely, Faith could see the glitter in her eye, the flush on her cheek. Had she been drinking before the meeting?
"Aren't you being a bit rough on yourself?" Catherine asked, her eyes full of concern.
"Well, we don't need to tiptoe around the subject any longer. Raise your hand if you thought my mystery had a ghost of a chance of being published."
No one moved.
Faith couldn't stand it. "That doesn't mean you can't write, Nancy. Did the mystery mean that much to you?"
Nancy took another swallow of the wine. When she spoke, her voice seemed louder. "The mystery? It was my excuse to join the class, where, silly me, I actually thought I might meet a man."
"And instead, you met us," Marsha said.
Nancy waved her hand airily. "That's the good news. The bad news is that I'm a failure, an imposter, a writer wanna-be. Here's what I think of my creative —" the word came out edged with venom "— writing." She flipped open her notebook, picked up a sheaf of papers and, with a wrench of her wrist, tore them in two. "Goodbye, author." She picked up the goblet. "Hello, vino veritas!" Then she proceeded to empty the glass.
"Are you afraid we'll kick you out of the group?" Marsha was always one to cut through a smoke screen.
"I don't have any business being here."
Catherine rested a hand on Nancy's knee. "You have every business being here. You're our friend."
"Your friend with no voice."
"You don't know that," Ashleigh suggested. "You just need to find the kind of writing you need to do."
Nancy snorted. "Harness my emotions? That'll be the day."
Faith looked around the group, bewildered. How could they help Nancy see that her defensiveness masked a world of hurt?
"We'll wait for that day," Catherine said.
Marsha nodded vigorously. "You bet. You're not getting out of here that easily."
Nancy studied the empty glass between her fingers, seemingly lost in thought. Then she raised her head and, in typical Nancy fashion, changed the subject. "Enough about me. Somebody read something." She stood up. "I'm gonna get myself a little more wine, settle back in a corner and learn about voice."
A deathly silence followed her departure from the room.
"What're we going to do?" Ashleigh finally whispered.
Her question remained in Faith's mind throughout the rest of the meeting, which seemed abnormally stilted. At the first break, Nancy announced she had a parent-teacher meeting at Scott's school and left.
At the door, Faith felt obliged to say something. "Are you okay to drive?"
Nancy studied her up and down as if she'd uttered some indecency. "Why wouldn't I be?"
That didn't stop Faith from watching Nancy get into her car, pull erratically away from the curb, and execute a wide turn at the end of the block.
When she returned to the living room, all conversation ceased, and on each face was etched dismay and concern.
Faith stood in front of the fireplace, clenching and unclenching her hands, before she made a decision. "I have something to tell you," she began, and then launched into her discovery of Nancy passed out in her bedroom.
"I've been concerned about her drinking for quite a while," Catherine said.
Marsha shook her head sadly. "She's so riddled with hurt and fear. And her defenses are so deeply entrenched." She chuckled sardonically. "I should know."
Ashleigh's eyes widened with worry. "What can we do?"
"I don't know," Faith said. "I only know we have to do something." She swallowed a bubble of fear. "Do we dare confront her at our next meeting?"
I made a fool of myself at the critique group. Why am I so determined to alienate every last friend I have? I don't even feel like myself anymore. When I was married to Richard, I felt confident. I thought I knew how my life would turn out. And then I was blindsided. I'm not a stupid woman. How could I not have known about Helen?
Richard delivered the news with all the dispassion of a clinician prescribing a root canal. Oh, he said all the right things: "It's nothing you did" and "We don't want the children to get caught in the middle" and "I'll be sure you're taken care of financially." For him, it had been a clean excision. For me? Right now, I can't see an end to the damn pain.
Well, lovely. Nancy shoved her notebook toward the center of her desk. When she'd left the critique group yesterday, she had thought she'd never write again. Where had it come from — this odd compulsion to sit down and spill her guts over blank pages? Would there ever come a day when she could go back over all of this and make sense of it? Even put it in some kind of form suitable to share with the group?
Because she needed the group.
Yet they knew too much about her. That was scary. She couldn't shake the memory of Faith standing at the door asking her if she was sober enough to drive home. Well, not in so many words, but that was the implication.
Was she drinking too much? Sure, that Saturday she'd forgotten to pick up Scott and Robert, but that was a one-time deal. And wasn't she entitled to a bit of oblivion every now and then? She knew her limits. In fact, other than that occasion, she carefully limited herself to just a few drinks a day, paced over several hours. Besides, the alcohol muted the voices in her head crying doom.
She chewed on the end of her pen. What could she write for next week's group meeting? Niall's assignment sounded difficult. Pick a genre different from the one you've been working in and write a first scene or chapter. And abandon one's voice? Ah, the irony. What voice? Certainly not that of Carter Jo Stead, girl private-eye.
She studied the bookcase on the far wall, desperate for inspiration. Tolstoy, she wasn't. Nor had she Faith's saccharine outlook on life, so romance was out. Then her eyes fell on the shelf full of self-help books. Everything from improving your organizational skills to guaranteeing a red-hot sex life. Fat lot of good they'd done her. Anybody could write something more helpful than that rot.
Her breath caught in her throat. Anyone? And again that nagging voice came. Anyone? You are anyone.
She tried to brush aside the thrill of recognition racing through her bloodstream, to dismiss the powerful onslaught of ideas teeming in her brain, but instead, she picked up her pen and began filling page after page with all she knew now that she hadn't known before.
"Stand still, wiggle worm." Nancy steadied the yardstick, then took a pin from her mouth and inserted it into the hem of Brin's sugarplum fairy costume.
Shifting from one foot to the other, Brin stood in front of the full-length mirror, studying her reflection. "I wanted blue."
"You look lovely in this pink."
"But Adrianne gets to wear blue."
"Adrianne's not as good a dancer as you are. That's what counts."
Brin screwed up her face. "Maybe." Then, as if struck by a new thought, she went on. "Will Daddy be at the recital?"
Nancy cringed. One of the worst parts of divorce was having to suck it up and appear unruffled when you and your former spouse made ritual appearances at your children's events. "Have you invited him?"
Brin hesitated. "Yeah, but…"
"What?"
"I think he's bringing her."
If it wasn't so sad, Brin's customary inability to utter Helen's name would be funny. "She's his wife."
"Yeah, but…"
"What is it, honey?"
With both hands, Brin clutched the net of her ballet skirt. Her voice squeaked like a rubber squeeze toy. "But…she's not you!" Then the little girl buried her head in the crook of Nancy's neck, sobs racking her body.
Nancy held her daughter close, finding no triumph in Brin's preference. Instead, she understood fully, maybe for the first time, how divorce broke the hearts of the innocent.
Brin sniffled against her shoulder, then swiping her cheeks with her fists, drew back. "But you'll be there, right, Mom?"
"Of course, sweetie."
"And you'll be okay?" Her expression was suffused with doubt.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
Brin fidgeted with the sash at her waist. She hung her head. "You know."
"No, I don't."
"When you come to the recital, you won't be sick, will you? Like sometimes at night when your eyes are all red and you don't pronounce words right and you get mad when we haven't even done nothing."
Dear God! Was that how her daughter saw her? Had she embarrassed Brin before?
She laid her hands on Brin's shoulders and looked directly into her daughter's worried eyes. "I will be just fine. I promise."
Brin breathed a sigh of relief. "Good," she said. "Cuz you're my favorite mother."
Because of the upcoming Christmas holidays and the end of the first segment of the writing course, the group had agreed to meet just one more time before the New Year. Faith had helped Marsha with the preparations, since it was going to be more party than work.
Everyone arrived within ten minutes of each other, and immediately began admiring Marsha's holiday decorations. Large pots of poinsettias surrounded the fireplace, and the mantel was festooned with fresh greenery on which stood several small manger scenes collected from all over the globe. A tall slender tree stood in one corner, its brilliant gold and red ornaments reflecting the brightly colored lights.
"Wow," Ashleigh enthused. "I can't believe the change in this place."
Marsha laughed. "It is amazing, isn't it? I can't tell you how long it's been since I've been in one place long enough to decorate. And decorating never was my thing."
"Whatever, your results are terrific."
"Jon thinks so, too. In fact, he sees real hope for me on the domestic front."
"Does that mean you'll be sticking around New Hope?" Faith inquired.
Marsha, never the blushing type, reddened. "I'm giving it serious thought."
"Well, about time," Nancy said swooping over to join them. "Take it from me, a good man is hard to find."
Catherine joined the group. "But worth the effort."
The group mood turned serious. "I imagine the holidays will be difficult for you," Faith said.
Catherine smiled sadly. "I've had better. But we must never get so caught up in the hustle-bustle or the problems that we forget what it is we're really celebrating."
Faith marveled at the older woman's strength and faith. These holidays would be particularly bittersweet for Catherine. She glanced at Nancy, her brittle laugh a response to some remark of Ashleigh's. And bittersweet for Nancy, as well. Faith stood away from the group, listening to Nancy carry on about Brin's upcoming dance recital. Yet beneath her bantering tone lay a subtext of vulnerability.
Faith ached for her and for the confrontation she knew was to follow. How would Nancy react? Would she hear their love and concern? Or would she interpret it as judgment?
After refreshments, Catherine suggested that each woman tell her plans for the holidays. "Since I don't have any except being with Graham, I need to live vicariously."
Faith observed Nancy wince when Marsha and Ashleigh talked about the joy of having someone special with whom to share the holidays. Maybe it was just her, but Faith could feel the tension building when Nancy, with manic enthusiasm, talked about the big Christmas plans she had for Scott and Brin. When she finished, she leaned back in her chair and with a dramatic gesture said, "Where's the wine? Aren't we celebrating?"
Catherine caught Faith's eye, then cleared her throat. "We have decided not to serve wine at our meetings."
Nancy snapped to attention. "Who decided? I was certainly not consulted."
Faith responded. "We all did. This is a working group. Maybe we've been too lax about alcohol."
Nancy's face hardened. "This is about me, isn't it?"
Ashleigh stared down at her knees, and Marsha turned away from Nancy's accusatory gaze.
Catherine bit the bullet. "Yes, Nancy it is. We're concerned about you."
"What? You think I'm a lush or something?"
"Those are your words, not mine," Catherine responded. "But we have noticed that you are doing an abnormal amount of drinking."
"I can hold my liquor."
"No." Faith spoke firmly. "You can't. You're jeopardizing your health and possibly that of your children."
Nancy sprang to her feet and glared down at Faith. "You told them, didn't you? About that day?"
"Yes, I did."
"Some friend you are!"
Slowly, Faith stood and faced Nancy. "I hope I am. Somebody needs to get your attention. You're too bright and witty and good to drown yourself in a bottle. To risk losing your children."
Nancy's nostrils flared. "Lose my children? Are you out of your mind?"
Marsha joined Faith. "Richard could sue for custody, unless you get a hold of yourself."
"We just want to help," Ashleigh said from her chair.
"When I need your ever-lovin' help, I'll damn sure ask for it." Nancy stared from one to the next, anger and incredulity darkening her pupils.
"Nancy, the kindest thing I can say to you is that you have a serious drinking problem and you need help." Catherine tried to put a hand on Nancy's arm, but she shook it off.
"Me? Have a problem?" She snorted. "The only problem I've got is a bunch of nosy women I thought were my friends gossiping and telling lies about me." She glared at Faith. "Who needs it?"
Then before Faith could do anything to stop her, Nancy picked up her coat and strode to the doorway, where she stopped, her body trembling with rage. "I resign," she screamed at them before leaving the house, slamming the door in her wake.
"Oh, dear Lord," Faith murmured under her breath. "What have we done?"
Faith had felt uneasy ever since Nancy had stormed out of her house, anger and denial propelling her departure. A week had passed, during which Faith had left several messages on Nancy's answering machine, but her calls had not been returned. Marsha had stopped by Nancy's house. No one had answered the door.
Nancy needed the group. What if something happened and she went off the deep end? Faith would never forgive herself. Catherine had offered some advice, based on a conversation with Niall Killian, himself a recovering alcoholic. Until something happened to force Nancy to acknowledge her problem and seek help, he said there was little others could do except stand by, prepared to be supportive.
At some point Richard was bound to discover Nancy's growing dependence on alcohol. If her behavior endangered Brin and Scott, he would be compelled to act. Faith couldn't imagine what it would do to Nancy to lose her children.
The women in the critique group could understand the devastation the divorce had caused. Nancy's whole identity had been wrapped up in being a wife and mother. Without a man in her life, she thought of herself as worthless. Yet she was a vital, attractive woman, well-fixed, with every reason to embrace a new beginning. What deep insecurities had driven her to seek comfort from a bottle?
Faith could rationalize all day about the progress of alcoholism and the necessity for the person to hit rock bottom. The fact remained she felt both helpless and responsible.
Nancy studied herself in the mirror, struck by the absurdity. Here she was decked out in her black, floor-length taffeta skirt and scoop-necked black sweater, her tiny waist cinched with a red-plaid holiday sash, ready to go — by herself — to the annual neighborhood Christmas open house when last year she and Richard — the devoted couple — had hosted the gathering.
She had considered not going, but with the children at Richard's, it would be a long weekend without some diversion. When she had accepted the party invitation, she had indulged the hope that Eric West might provide that diversion. Until Blondie had shown up this past weekend, greeted again with his unbridled enthusiasm.
On the nightstand by her bed was a half-empty glass of merlot. One more drink for the road before she sashayed down the street to the Bensons'. The wine, warm in her belly, gave her a temporary sense of well-being. She picked up her mink coat, shrugged into its comforting embrace and set off for the party.
Once there, her worst fears were confirmed. Three husbands surrounded her immediately, offering to get her a drink, an invitation she was delighted to accept after spotting one of the wives across the room shooting daggers at her. She took the bourbon and water thrust into her hand, excused herself and wandered toward the dining room, where a food-laden table awaited. Although several of the guests made small talk with her, they wandered off in couples, leaving her standing there like a mannequin on display. She emptied her highball glass and moved toward the bar, where only men congregated. But she wanted — needed — a refill.
When she turned from the bar, a double bourbon in her hand, her breath caught in her throat. Eric West had just come into the room, looking gorgeous in tan slacks, a maroon turtleneck and a blue blazer. And now, a huge smile adorning his face, he was making his way across the room to her. "Merry Christmas, Nancy. I was hoping you'd be here."
"Why is that?" She hoped she wasn't batting her eyes coquettishly.
He indicated to the bartender to give him one of what Nancy had. "Since moving here, I've been so busy at work, I haven't had a chance to get very well acquainted. It was nice to walk in and spot a familiar face."
Wonderful. Every girl wants to be a "familiar face."
"And a pretty one."
Whoa, had she heard right? A "pretty one"? "Thank you, kind sir."
He picked up his drink and took a sip. "Hey, that'll get your attention."
Nancy felt her face flush. "It is a bit stout, isn't it?"
He raised his glass. "But it can be nursed. That'll save me a trip back to the bar." He took her by the arm and steered her to a quiet corner of the living room. "Now, I know what groceries you buy and that you have two kids who catch the school bus every morning at seven-fifty. What else do I need to know about Nancy Beckman?"
Nothing in his easygoing, affectionate manner was threatening. He seemed to be a genuinely nice man. But his question left her speechless. What was there to tell about herself? She could hardly say she was a wronged woman desperate to find a man, terrified of being alone and constantly worried about what would happen to her and her children. "I'm afraid I'm not very interesting."
He moved closer and tilted her chin. "Ah, that's where you're wrong." He turned his head and studied the guests clustered in groups around the room before facing her again. "They're all nice people, but it's you I want to know about."
She was tempted to fall under the spell of his charm. But it took only one flashback to the gorgeous blonde throwing herself into his arms to save Nancy. Men were all alike. Faithfulness? Devotion? Eric West was no better than Richard. And she was not about to become the other woman!
"I think you know all there is to know." She glanced over his shoulder. "And if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to my daughter's ballet teacher before she gets away."
"I didn't offend you, did I?"
She forced a smile. "Of course not." She twiddled her fingers. "See you in the neighborhood."
She followed the ballet teacher into the kitchen and once out of Eric West's sight, belted down the rest of her drink. After a quick conversation about the upcoming recital, Nancy retrieved her coat and, unnoticed, slipped out the front door.
It was only eight when she returned home. Everything about the party had been a disaster. Seeing happy couple after happy couple, listening to cheery talk about holiday plans, and feeling the ogling eyes of several married men had reinforced why divorce resulted in a double standard — single men were desirable social assets while an available single woman was a hostess's albatross. Worse yet, she'd almost let her guard down with Eric. Handsome, masculine, attentive — for a moment there he'd actually made her feel desirable.
She went upstairs, stripped off her party finery, donned fuzzy slippers, a cozy flannel gown and matching robe, and went back down to the family room. Outside, the houses were bedecked with colorful lights and the illuminated figures of reindeer, snowmen and angels. Inside, her own tree lights glimmered in the darkened room. Everywhere she looked was a reminder of past Christmases when she and Richard had decorated together, been Santa Claus coconspirators, kissed under the mistletoe.
A pity party. That's what she needed. She moved to the CD player and loaded it with Christmas music. Then she picked up a fireplace match and lighted every pine-scented candle in the room. Finally she rummaged past the vodka, gin and scotch in the liquor cabinet and located a bottle of 80 proof whiskey, not usually her drink of choice, but it had gone down smoothly tonight — about the only thing that had.
Listening to the strains of "I'll Be Home for Christmas," she nursed her bourbon, its sticky sweetness honey on her tongue. Every succeeding carol opened further the wound of her aloneness; each holiday sentiment mocked her vision of the way her life had been destined to turn out.
When she got up to replenish her drink, she pulled a photo album from the bookcase and forced herself to study the pictures. Bringing baby Brin home from the hospital; an Easter egg hunt in the park when Scott was a toddler; the Christmas they took the kids skiing. One of Richard in his tuxedo accepting an award at a dental convention. Her own face, smiling up at her from poolside on their romantic tenth-anniversary getaway.
Each turn of the page sliced through her like a knife. Who were those happy people? How had she ever been so innocent? Trusting?
She lugged the bottle of bourbon over to the coffee table, refilling her glass whenever it got low.
Then she came to last Christmas. Darling Brin. Scotty. They had been so excited. So happy. As she studied the images, the pictures began to blur. She squinted, trying to bring their precious faces into focus. Then, like the sudden eruption of a long dormant volcano, the tears came, choking her with anger and regret. Blinded, her chest aching, she reached for the bottle, accidentally knocking it to the floor. Finally she found her glass, wrapped her fingers around it as if it were a lifeline, and drained the contents.
She had no one. Not even the critique group.
Why was that? She should know.
But she couldn't remember.
Picking up the hem of her robe, she wiped her face. Everything looked distorted, the only reality the glass she held in her hand.
She should go to bed. Yes, that would feel good. If she could just sink into the mattress, fold the comforter around her and forget.
She tried to stand up, but her legs wobbled beneath her and she collapsed back onto the sofa. Was she getting the flu? A sickly pine fragrance filled her mouth and nose, and colors blurred against the far wall. What was that shape? A tree? Why did her house smell like a forest?
Upstairs. She needed to get to bed.
Once more she levered herself up, started across the room, then tripped over something. A bottle? She was so very tired. If she could just make it to her bed, but upstairs was so far.
Head spinning, she turned around, studying her surroundings. A sofa. If she could just lie down. Close her eyes. Only for a little bit.
She braced herself against the coffee table, accidentally shoved the photo album to the floor, then dove into the welcome softness of the sofa and immediately fell asleep, too oblivious to notice the photo album had knocked over one of the scented candles.
Too far gone to observe hot wax seeping onto a throw rug.
Or to douse the lick of flame fueling itself as it crept across the floor toward the windows.
Angels. Singing. No, cherubs. Children. Nancy tried to open her eyes. "Sle-eep in heavenly peace." Then quiet, except for a metallic clicking beside her head. She tried to form a word. Who? She worked her lips, but no sound came. Her throat hurt. Mouth tasted like ashes. Something pressed against her face. Covering her mouth.
Again, voices. Singing. Heaven? Maybe heaven.
Then, from a very great distance, came a question. "Nancy, can you hear me? Wiggle your finger if you can."
Finger? She knew that word. Way down at the end of her arm, she moved her hand.
"Good."
Again she tried to open her eyes. She couldn't. When she tried to speak, she heard only a guttural growl. Her voice? Why couldn't she speak?
Then that other voice spoke again. "You've had a narrow escape. You're in the hospital. You're suffering from smoke inhalation. We have you on oxygen."
Smoke? She didn't smoke. Her chest hurt. She tried to speak again. "What…happened?" Had she asked the question aloud or just in her mind? She couldn't tell.
"The fire marshal is continuing his investigation, but he thinks a candle started the fire."
Fire? She'd been in a fire? With a supreme effort she managed another word.
"Children?"
"They're fine. They were with your husband."
I don't have a husband. Behind her scratchy lids, tears oozed. She wanted to raise her hands and tear off the mask, but she couldn't. She was so tired.
"Just now you seemed to respond to the music. It's Christmas carols on the radio." The nurse did something with the tubing hooked up to her arm. "I'm giving you some medication now. Get some sleep. In the morning the swelling will have eased. You're a lucky lady. It would've been so much worse if your neighbor hadn't seen the flames and rescued you."
Neighbor? What neighbor? As the sedative took effect, she focused on the only neighbor she knew who might have saved her. That handsome one with the cleft chin and dimples and eyes so blue. So blue. She felt her body relax, her mind drifting off to a place where angels sang and a good man loved her.
"Mom? Mom!"
Nancy struggled to open her eyes, her lids seemingly glued together. Kids calling. Somebody needed her. Had to get there. Finally through her slotted lashes, she saw a prick of light. "Brin? Scott?"
"Are you all right, Mom?"
A sweet little voice. She needed to answer. "Fine," she whispered, her throat sandpapery.
"My God, Nancy, you've had us scared to death!"
Richard? "Kids?"
"They're fine. Helen and I are taking care of them while you're in the hospital."
Helen?
"The insurance adjusters are at the house. Thank goodness the fire department got there when they did. Most of the damage is confined to the family room."
Nancy tried to keep alert, she really did, but she couldn't concentrate. She simply wanted to sleep.
Two days later Nancy sat in a chair looking out the window of her hospital room, trying to remember what had happened. How she could have been so careless.
But the last thing she could recall was coming home from the Bensons' party, changing her clothes and having a nightcap. One? Two? Oh, God, how many? What was happening to her?
Yesterday an investigator from the fire department had come to take a statement from her. He informed her they'd found an empty bottle in the debris and asked her if she'd been drinking. He also told her that without Eric West's quick action, she might have died.
She lifted a shaky hand to her face and wiped away the tear that rolled down her cheek. How could she face anyone again? Face herself?
Behind her, she sensed the door open. She didn't turn around. "I don't want to see anybody," she said in a voice still husky and raw.
Faith came over and knelt in front of her. "I hope we can change your mind."
Looking beyond Faith, Nancy saw Catherine and Niall Killian standing by the bed. "I resigned," Nancy reminded them, silently begging them to leave her alone.
Catherine perched on the edge of the bed. "You may have resigned from us, but we haven't resigned from you."
"The others would have been here, too," Faith said, "but we didn't want to overwhelm you."
"Why are you here?" Embarrassed and ashamed, Nancy wanted them out of the room.
Faith picked up her hands and held them closely. "Oh, honey, because we care for you."
"I don't see how you can."
Catherine nodded. "I know. It's hard to imagine you can be loved when you feel unlovable. But we do love you. All of us."
Nancy refused to let them soften her up. She didn't deserve their friendship. She nodded at Niall. "What's he doing here?"
Niall stepped forward. "I hope I have some information that could be helpful to you."
"What about?"
"Your drinking habit."
A surge of anger exploded in Nancy's chest. "Drinking habit?" She glared first at Faith, then at Catherine. "Is that what you think?"
Niall spoke softly. "It doesn't matter what they think. What's important is what you think. I'll admit from firsthand experience that denial's a whole lot easier than taking the first step to admit to a problem."
"Denial? What denial?"
Faith gripped Nancy's hand. "We have been concerned about you for some time. You don't seem able to stop with social drinking. Often your drinking seems to result from anger and fear. You're using alcohol as an escape, an opiate."
"What I do is my own business, not any of yours."
"No, Nancy, that's not true." Catherine spoke softly but firmly. "It becomes everyone's business when you nearly burn down your house. What if the children had been there?"
Nancy turned away from the accusation in Catherine's eyes. "But I didn't…" She couldn't finish. All three were staring at her, and there was no escaping their judgment. Oh, God, had she caused the fire? Could she have endangered the children? Her mouth filled with bile. Could she again? Would she?
"Nancy?" Niall stood directly in front of her.
Nancy raised her head, aware several minutes had elapsed. Faith still grasped her hand. Catherine slowly got up from the bed and put her arm around Nancy's shoulder.
Nancy tried to make herself small, to scoot away from their overwhelming love. But something prevented her from doing anything other than covering her face with her hands and letting hot tears stream down her cheeks. She couldn't go on by herself. Not one more day. The only sound in the room was that of her shuddering sobs.
Catherine moved to the bedside table and selected a tissue, which she handed to Nancy. "What do you think? Are you ready?"
Slowly she lifted her head, sensing she was on the brink of a life-altering decision. At first when she started to speak, her voice failed her, but she cleared her throat, and finally got out the words. "You're right. My drinking is out of control." She struggled on. "I need help."
"And we want to give you that help," Niall said quietly.
"How?"
"You've taken the first step — admitting you have a problem. Alcoholism is a disease, not a character flaw. The good news is there is a solution. If it's all right with you, I'd like to tell you a little about my story. Then maybe we can talk a bit about Alcoholics Anonymous and finding you a sponsor."
Nancy only thought she had been scared before. Her admission of alcohol abuse terrified her.
But Niall was offering a way out of the hell she had created for herself. She looked up, tears glittering in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'm ready."
After Catherine, Niall and Faith left, Nancy realized that, strangely enough, for the first time in a long while she had some control over her life. Niall had suggested that in addition to starting the Twelve Step program, she have a complete physical. He'd raised the possibility that her alcohol abuse was, in part, an attempt to mask depression that could be treated in more effective ways.
Wearied by their visit, she rang for the nurse and, with help, crawled back into bed. Yet one huge fear kept her from drifting off to sleep. Richard. He would ultimately find out the cause of the fire. Maybe already had. Would he seek custody of the children? The mere thought caused her stomach to churn. He had already taken so much from her. Surely he wouldn't take the most important part of all?
She would have to talk with him. Make sure he understood she loved Brin and Scott enough to do whatever it would take to keep them with her. But not today. Today she was so tired…so very tired.
When she opened her eyes, it was dark outside. Only one dim light illuminated her room. She lay motionless, slowly coming to. Aware of a scent. Faint. Pleasant. She managed a weak smile. Roses? She inhaled, thrilled that she could smell again. Definitely roses.
From the chair in the corner of the room, a figure rose. One with broad shoulders. "Waking up, sleepyhead?"
She knew that voice. She turned her head. "Eric?"
"None other. Had to come see for myself how the fair damsel is doing."
Nancy closed her eyes briefly, before looking up. "Thank you for rescuing me." She licked her lips. "I don't know how I can ever repay you."
He picked up her hand and held it between his two warm ones. "Just get well. Come home."
It wasn't fair how wonderful it felt to experience his fingers caressing hers, to see the concern and compassion in his eyes, to want to prolong this moment forever. She had to tell him. It was far too late for lies. "The fire? It was my fault." She struggled to go on, the admission more painful that anything she had ever done. "I was drunk."
He smoothed her hair back off her forehead. "That wasn't easy to say, was it?"
Damn him. He wasn't supposed to be nice. To understand. He was supposed to walk out of the room in disgust.
"No."
"So you made a mistake? Do you think you're the only one who ever did?"
"Some mistakes are bigger than others."
"Agreed. But yours is nothing that can't be fixed."
"I'm so scared." Why had she blurted that out? He was her neighbor, not her confessor.
"Change can be frightening. What are you going to do?"
No one had confronted her with that question. But if she was to heal, she had to move forward. "I'm going to ask my friend to take me to AA."
Eric squeezed her hand. "Good girl. Admitting to your problem doesn't make you a bad person, you know." He studied her, then, smiling, cocked his head. "In fact, it makes you a brave one. And someone I want to know better."
Nancy tried to conjure up an image of the attractive blonde, to steel herself against further disappointment, but all she could do was smile back at him. "Thank you." Again, she inhaled the airy floral fragrance. Looking beyond him, on the dresser she spotted a dozen pink roses. She raised her eyebrows. "The flowers?"
"A small token of my esteem."
Esteem? Since when did she deserve esteem? "Eric?" Darn it, she wouldn't cry. "I'm glad you're my neighbor."
The next day Marsha picked her up at the hospital to take her home. Once settled in the car, Nancy held the roses in her lap.
Pointing at the flowers, Marsha shot her an amused look. "An admirer?"
Nancy buried her face in the bouquet. "I wish."
"Someday, kiddo. I promise it'll happen. Look at me. I thought I had the world by the tail. Big-time career journalist. No need for a man. I could handle it all myself."
"Except you couldn't."
"Yeah, except I couldn't. I had worked for years building emotional walls, keeping feelings off-limits. That's no way to live." She put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot onto the four-lane highway. "It took Jon's coming back into my life to show me I'd been dishonest with myself."
"I guess we're kind of alike." Nancy paused, considering her next words. "I've been blaming everyone else — especially Richard and Helen — for my problems. Making my children bear the brunt of my hurt. I'm trying to look at myself more honestly. But the truth? I don't like what I see."
Marsha stopped for a red light. "Don't be too hard on yourself. You're only human."
"Someone else told me that," Nancy whispered.
"Well, pay attention, then. Sure, you've got some life-changing decisions to make, but you don't have to do this by yourself. After all, you've got the majorly wonderful, stronger-than-a-hundred-men critique group pulling for you!"
Nancy smiled, warmed by her friend's approval and humor. "I do, don't I?" she said wonderingly.
When they pulled into Nancy's street and she saw her home, one wing devastated by the fire, her mood abruptly changed. "Oh, God. I had no idea."
"It could have been a lot worse," Marsha reminded her. "It's still livable. The insurance company contractor has blocked off the family room, pending your decisions about remodeling."
Walking up the drive toward the house, Nancy spotted a charred brick lying near the foundation. "Wait." She stopped, studying the blackened surface. Then she stooped down and picked it up, knowing she would keep it as a symbol of what she had nearly lost because of her irresponsible behavior.
She couldn't think of a better deterrent to alcohol.
Nancy waited with her heart in her throat for the children to arrive home from school. The memory of the fear she had read in their eyes at the hospital saddened her. How could she have put them through such an ordeal?
She watched out the window as the school bus slowed and discharged several children. She'd expected Brin and Scott to race up the walk, eager to see her. Instead, they seemed in no hurry, Scott dragging his book bag behind him, Brin studying the ground in front of her. Nancy opened the door and held out her arms. Brin stepped into her embrace, but made no effort to hug her back. Scott just stood there, a worried frown marring his expression.
"I'm so glad you're home," Nancy said. "I've missed you so much."
Brin studied her warily. "Are you okay now?"
Nancy put her arms around the children and led them into the living room. "I'm much better. But I think we need to talk."
The children plunked down their bags and followed her. She sat in the middle of the sofa and gestured them to sit on either side of her. How desperately she wanted to remove the doubt and apprehension from their faces. "Did you get along all right at Daddy's?"
"I guess," Brin mumbled.
"Helen makes these yummy pancakes shaped like frogs," Scott volunteered. "And Daddy took me to the arcade yesterday."
"I'm sorry about the family room." Nancy studied them for a reaction.
"That's okay." Brin still wouldn't look at her.
"Have I been worrying you lately?"
Brin picked at a scab on her knee. Scotty gave a noncommital shrug.
"Brin?" Nancy tilted her daughter's chin.
"I don't like it when you're sick."
"How do you mean, 'sick'?"
"You know, like at night when you get mean and say how tired you are and you drink that whiskey."
Brin's words painted an ugly portrait, but one Nancy had to face. "Did I scare you?"
"Kinda," Scott admitted.
"It's all because of the dumb divorce." Brin folded her arms defensively. "You and Daddy should never have done it."
Nancy closed her eyes, wondering if she and Richard had ever adequately explained their separation. "Grown-ups aren't perfect. That doesn't make us bad people. Sometimes we grow apart and get unhappy. That happened to us. Our divorce made me very sad, too. But none of it was your fault."
"That's what Daddy says," Brin allowed.
"From now on, things are going to get better." Brin looked at her with open skepticism. "I'm going to get some help, so I can be happier."
Scott looked shocked. "Don't we make you happy?"
"Of course you do. But don't you think, just maybe, I could be more fun?"
Scott brightened. "Like Helen?"
A week ago that remark would've crushed her. Now she could only be thankful that Helen had helped her kids through this rough patch. "Well, maybe not like Helen, but like me, only more fun. What do you say?"
Brin's eyes were teary. "Promise?"
"I promise." She gave them both hugs. "Now scoot on up to your rooms and change your clothes. We're going to the ice cream parlor."
The two started for the stairs, but then Brin turned around with one last comment. "Oh, I almost forgot. Daddy wants you to call him tonight. He says it's important."
Nancy's heart sank.
Late that night, unable to stop trembling, Nancy hung up the phone. Richard had made it abundantly clear that he knew about her drinking and would be vigilant in protecting the children. He had stopped short of mentioning custody, but had laid out his expectations in no uncertain terms. What broke her heart were his final words. "I loved you once. That woman I knew then would never have let this happen. I'm counting on you to get yourself some help. Do it not just for the children's sakes, but for your own."
Who was that woman he had once loved? Could she find her again?
Still shaking, Nancy walked to the liquor cabinet, craving more than anything the escape she knew could be found in a glass of vodka, neat. As if a hidden mechanism controlled her movements, she opened the door and, one by one, studied every bottle, each beckoning her with cobra-like charm. Then she let her eyes fall to the obstacle she had placed in front of the bottles. The altar on which hung all her hopes. A blackened brick.
One temptation at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time.
She could do it. She had to do it.
"Mom, hurry, we'll be late!" Brin, her long hair drawn back in a dancer's bun, waited by the front door. "We have to be there by six-thirty to put our costumes on."
Nancy hurried down the stairs. "I'm ready. Where's your brother?"
"Playing with his dumb video game."
Nancy called to Scott, slipped into her coat, then studied her daughter. Her face was flushed with excitement. "You're going to do well, honey. I'm so proud of you."
Although the children had still been leery of her, gradually through her first week home, they'd loosened up and begun acting more like themselves. Nancy had never thought she'd welcome the infighting of sibling rivalry, but right now it was music to her ears. It meant they were no longer walking on eggshells around her.
By the time the three of them arrived at the auditorium where the recital was being held, Nancy's nerves had started to fray. This would be her first time since the fire to attend an event where Richard and Helen would be present. She visibly sagged thinking of facing the long succession of such events — birthdays, sporting events, graduations, weddings. The truth was a divorce was never really over, not when children were involved.
After depositing Brin backstage, she and Scott searched for seats near the front. Letting her eyes drift over the crowd, she spotted Richard and Helen at the same time Scott did. He grabbed her hand and started moving in their direction. "C'mon, Mom. There's Dad. I bet he's saving us seats."
Short of making a scene and, in the process, disappointing her son, she had no choice but to follow in his wake. Richard stood up, nodded stiffly to her, and indicated two seats. Scott grabbed the one on the other side of his dad, leaving Nancy to sit next to Helen, who smiled uncertainly and said, "I imagine Brin is beside herself."
Nancy couldn't believe she was going to sit here and engage in polite conversation with Helen. "She's quite excited." She fingered her program nervously, the certainty growing in her about what she had to say next. "I should have called you, Helen. It was thoughtful of you to keep Brin and Scott while I was in the hospital."
Helen laid a hand on Nancy's. "I love them," she said simply. Removing her hand, as if she feared she'd overstepped her bounds, she went on. "I've been wondering if maybe, well, maybe the two of us could talk sometime." She turned to Nancy, a plea apparent in her expression. "I know I'm not their mother. You are. And that's as it should be. I would never try to replace you even if I could. But if we talked…"
Nancy finished her sentence. "It would help the kids." Before, had she let bitterness overwhelm reason where Brin and Scott were concerned? After all, there was no escaping the reality that Helen would be a part of her children's lives on into the future.
"And we could present a united front about discipline and other things."
A weight upended in Nancy's stomach, leaving her with an overwhelming sense of peace. "I would like that very much."
Helen's face dissolved into a genuine smile. "I'll call you."
Just then the lights dimmed, the curtains parted, and the opening number began. But it wasn't only the pirouetting Brin of whom Nancy was proud. She was proud of herself.
It was a start. The Barbie demon had been overcome. In her place was simply Helen, a caring young woman she had misjudged.
Looking out the kitchen window, Faith studied the darkening skies. Snow was predicted, but not until this evening. She had been looking forward to this afternoon's impromptu gathering of the critique group in her home. She'd missed being together over the holidays. The new session of the writing class didn't begin for another week, and they hadn't all been together since before Christmas — and before Nancy's fire. Besides, she knew they all wanted an opportunity to demonstrate their support for Nancy.
Ashleigh and Marsha arrived first, then Nancy and, finally, Catherine. After hugs all around, they gathered in the family room. They'd been comparing notes about Christmas, when, suddenly, Nancy gave a delighted cry, bounded across the room and held up Ashleigh's left hand. "When were you going to tell us?"
"Wow, Ashleigh, I call that a diamond!" Marsha effused.
"It was a very special Christmas,"Ashleigh admitted, beaming, as the others gathered around to examine the beautiful engagement ring.
"I take it Newsweek's loss is New Hope's gain," Nancy asked, her eyes sparkling.
"I've discovered it's not so much what I'm giving up as what I'm taking on," Ashleigh said with a smile.
"Yeah," Marsha added, "you're taking on a couple of wild and crazy kids."
"Watch it, Cowen." Ashleigh pointed at Marsha. "You know what happens to women who say they're never going to have children."
Marsha winked at her. "I know what I'm doing. Besides, it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind."
"Or to have Jon change it for her," Catherine said with a knowing smile.
"Okay, okay. I'll admit it. He's wonderful."
Nancy held out her hands, asking for attention. "I have a confession."
"Ooh, sounds intriguing," Faith said, sitting back down on the sofa. The others found their seats, as well. "Okay, Nancy, lay it on us."
"I used to be jealous of all of you," Nancy began.
Faith became aware of a shift in mood. Good-natured frivolity gave way to attentive silence.
"First, Ashleigh, of you."
Ashleigh looked astonished. "Me?"
"You reminded me of Helen. A gorgeous young woman sought after by a handsome older man. I had to keep reminding myself that you weren't her." She hesitated, then looked at Marsha. "And you. You had your life in order. You knew what you wanted and where you were going. And the icing on the cake? Even though you claimed not to need a man, you welcomed Jon back into your life. I envied you all of that."
Faith started to interrupt, to change the subject, but Nancy forestalled her with a lift of her finger. "Oh, Faith, you sweet thing. I almost wanted Ben to have been having an affair so I could have had a partner in self-pity. You're my idol, though. I want to be the kind of mother you are. And maybe…" her voice trailed off wistfully "…someday, the kind of wife you are."
Faith's eyes misted. "Thank you."
Finally Nancy's gaze came to rest on Catherine. "As for you, dear friend, I wondered if I would ever become as wise, as compassionate as you. Even though you have the huge responsibility of caring for Graham, you always have time for us." Nancy hung her head. "I was brash and self-absorbed and you — well, you were always the calm voice of reason."
She paused, looking from one to the next. "I love you all and thank you so much for your friendship. And for enlisting Niall to help me get on track with AA." Then, chuckling, she put her palms together prayer-fashion. "Now, can I please unresign?"
Laughter and applause broke out. Faith served coffee and dessert amid the chatter of new writing projects, children's antics, current events and New Year's resolutions. It was so good to be together again.
As the wind picked up outside, snowflakes began drifting from the sky. "The kids'll be wild tonight," Faith said, "waiting to see if school will be cancelled tomorrow. It never fails. Just when I was planning to write all day."
"Have you heard anything further from your editor?" Marsha asked.
"No." Faith rubbed her cold hands together. "I keep hoping no news is good news."
Ashleigh held up crossed fingers. "I'm pulling for you. It's a great book, Faith."
Marsha pumped a fist in the air. "When you sell, then we'll really have a party!"
Amid the laughter, at first Faith didn't hear the musical tone of a cell phone. But then she noticed Catherine get up, fumble in her purse, and step into the entry hall.
One by one, the others fell silent. Then Catherine's strained voice reached them. "I'll meet the ambulance at the hospital."
When she came back into the room, ashen-faced, she stumbled, grabbing up her coat. Then, straightening, her wounded eyes sought theirs. "It's Graham. He's had a massive stroke."
"In my Father's house are many mansions…." Nancy let her mind drift from the minister's words. She couldn't imagine the pain Catherine must be feeling. And yet was it tinged with relief, as well? Graham's suffering had been devastating not only to Catherine but to his whole family. His last stroke had proved too much. He died before Catherine reached the hospital that day.
In the front row, Catherine sat flanked by her son and daughter. The church was packed with mourners. Nancy prayed her friend could find some comfort in such an outpouring of love and support. The days ahead would be difficult, and Catherine would need the critique group now more than ever. Yet Nancy knew they would all be there for Catherine, just as they had been for her.
To her left sat Faith, Ashleigh and Marsha. Across the aisle she spotted Niall Killian and several other members of the writing class. How far they had all come in a few short months. Strangers once, they were now interconnected in ways Nancy could never have predicted.
Huddled between her children, Catherine seemed diminished, as if the blow of her husband's death had aged her overnight. Yet no one could ever fault her. She had been a model of devotion and self-sacrifice.
Catherine and Graham. Theirs must have been a great love. In that thought came an epiphany. Did I love Richard that unselfishly? Could I have stood by nursing him through catastrophic illness? Would memories of better days have propelled me to such acts of devotion? In all honesty, she couldn't be sure.
Nancy automatically bowed her head when she heard "Let us pray," but she was oblivious to the minister's intercession, caught up in the liberating recognition that Richard was not the love of her life, maybe never had been. Oh, she would always be grateful to him for giving her such wonderful children. But she was no longer in love with him. The possibilities of this revelation made her giddy. She could genuinely wish him well — wish Helen well. Richard no longer had the power to control her life. She was in charge of it.
Faith nudged her to her feet for the final hymn, "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones." When the alleluias filled the church, Nancy took them as a message of comfort and hope, both for Catherine and for herself.
Valentine's Day had come and gone and Nancy had not been remotely tempted to feel sorry for herself. Not when so much was going well in her life. The AA sponsor Niall had introduced her to was a wonderful grandmotherly type who had been sober for twelve years and was more approachable and helpful than Nancy could ever have imagined.
Brin no longer acted so much like her mother's keeper and smiled more than she had in a long time. Scott, while still devoted to his father, had told Nancy just the other night that she was "an okay mom for a girl." Eric West's blond friend still arrived every other weekend, but Nancy no longer felt jealous. Eric had been wonderful to her in the hospital, and she wished him nothing but the best.
Right up there at the top of her list of blessings was an exciting new writing project. When the class resumed in January, Nancy had consulted Niall about what direction she should take since abandoning her mystery. He had encouraged her, again, to "harness her emotions" by telling her own story. In fact, he had offered her powerful motivation when he said, "Nancy, you could be a fine writer, but probably never of mysteries. You have experiences, insights and wisdom that could be helpful to others. By sharing these things, who knows? Maybe you'll discover your true voice. With work, your story might well be publishable."
Now, sitting at her desk, she mulled over this week's assignment: to write a query letter for one of your writing projects. Query letters were all-important deal makers or breakers. If you couldn't get an editor to request a manuscript, obviously you had no chance of being published.
Nancy chewed on her pen for several minutes. Finally she began writing.
Young women today are sent mixed messages about the sources of self-worth. Growing up with preconceived role expectations and later experiencing the disconnect between those expectations and reality can throw any woman for a loop. New Hope: What I Know Now I Didn't Know Then is an exploration, partially based on my own experiences with divorce and alcohol addiction, of the challenges women face and the resources available to meet those challenges.
Not great, but a start. She added a paragraph outlining her credentials, then closed with a line about having the manuscript available for the editor's consideration. She would be able to write a much stronger query letter once she'd actually completed the book, which she fully intended to do. Already the critique group had applauded her early efforts.
When a twig brushed against the window pane, Nancy stood up, stretched and looked outside. It was a sunny day, unseasonably warm for February. Exercise. Another of her AA sponsor's suggestions. Nancy had forgotten how energizing a brisk walk could be. On a whim, she grabbed her sweatshirt, changed into her sneakers and left the house. Three times around the block and she was a new woman.
Cheeks flushed, she rounded the corner for home, amused at the antics of several cardinals fighting for territory around a birdfeeder in the Bensons' yard. Ahead, she noticed Eric's car pulling into his drive. He parked, got out and waved at her. "Nice day for a walk."
When he crossed the street toward her, she chastised herself. Heart flutters had no place in her new life. The man was unavailable, but tell that to her nerve endings!
"Where have you been keeping yourself?" He stood hands in his pockets, smiling at her in a way that made her wish for things that could never be.
She gave him the short answer — mothering, writing. But when he showed actual interest by asking several more questions, she found herself blurting out that she was attending AA meetings.
"Good for you. I like a woman who doesn't pretend things are okay when they're not. AA is a great community."
"Are you familiar with it?"
"Yeah. A teammate of mine in college got messed up with drugs and alcohol. The Twelve Step program literally saved his life. Now, believe it or not, he's a motivational speaker."
Relief flooded through Nancy. He wouldn't be judgmental, but then she hadn't expected him to be. "It's one day at a time for me, but each day is a little better than the last."
"You could make my day better," he said, a hopeful smile on his face.
"I could? How's that?"
"Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?"
Nancy's jaw locked. He couldn't be serious. Yet he was looking at her as if his fate hung on her answer. "But…" The words stuck in her throat. She didn't want to ask, but she wouldn't play games, either. "What about your, uh, girlfriend?"
His brow furrowed. "Girlfriend? What are you talking about?"
"You know. The lovely blonde who often spends the weekends with you?"
"Ginny?" He laughed an incredulous laugh. "She's not my girlfriend."
Hope stuck in her throat. "She's not?"
"No, she's my sister, in town for a series of work-related seminars." His eyes twinkled. "Were you jealous?"
"Yes…no, I mean…"
He put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him. "Nancy Beckman, I'm going to take that as a 'yes-Eric-I'll-go-out-to-dinner-with-you.'"
She looked up into eyes so blue she could swim in them forever. "Yes, Eric," she breathed rapturously, "I'll go out to dinner with you."
When Nancy arrived at Ashleigh's for the next critique group meeting, she was delighted to find Catherine in attendance for the first time since Graham's death. Though still hollow-eyed, she had a serenity about her that Nancy found remarkable. As soon as everyone was seated, Catherine asked if she could read first. When she began, an empathetic silence filled the room.
Her vignette about an evening last fall with Graham when he not only knew who she was, but recalled with love and laughter the night he proposed to her was poignant without being maudlin, sentimental without being overstated. When Catherine finished, there wasn't a dry eye to be seen.
"Thank you for letting me share that," Catherine said in a husky voice. "It's important for me, especially now, to remember the good times." She hesitated. "Because there were quite a few that weren't so good. It's hard to talk about things like this with the children."
Marsha leaned forward. "We're here for you. You can say anything to us."
"I know that. You are all such a comfort."
"And it's not just us. Lots of people in our class care for you," Ashleigh added.
Faith joined in. "And think you're a talented writer."
"I suspect my writing will be even more important to me now."
"Yes, I imagine it will," Nancy said. "At least mine is to me."
"And we have lots of help." Ashleigh looked around the room, soliciting agreement. "Niall is a wonderful teacher."
Nancy just made out Catherine's whispered comment. "Niall is a wonderful man."
Man? Nancy studied her friend. She hadn't echoed the word teacher. She'd said man. Nancy knew Niall had befriended Catherine and been one of those standing by to lend his support. But was there more? Nancy mentally shook her head. Now who was being the romantic?
"And so, a little birdie told me, is Eric West." Faith's comment jolted Nancy back to reality — and to the awareness she was blushing.
"What are you talking about?"
Faith rolled her eyes. "Oh, well, you know how it is when little Boy Scouts get together. One thing leads to another, and next thing you know, they're discussing their mothers' social lives."
Nancy grinned. "I'll string that little informer up by his toes."
Ashleigh set down her manuscript. "Forget about the writing. I want the scoop. Who's Eric West?"
Nancy discovered she had quite a bit to say on her favorite subject. It felt so comfortable to share her feelings with this special group of friends who, she knew, actually did love her unconditionally.
When she finished extolling Eric's virtues, Ashleigh stood up. "Is everybody ready?" Smiling, the others nodded.
Nancy was clueless. "For what?"
"Our celebration." Ashleigh crossed to the kitchen counter and returned bearing a tray with five glasses and a bottle.
Nancy's nerves twitched, and involuntarily her mouth salivated. She balled her fists. "I can't do this."
"It's sparkling grape juice," Ashleigh announced. "You didn't think we were going to lead you astray, did you?"
Relief washed through Nancy. Recovering, she asked, "What are we celebrating?"
Smugly, Ashleigh poured the grape juice and handed each a glass. "You."
Nancy was confused. "Me?"
"Raise your glasses, girls," Marsha said.
Then, their loving eyes fixed on her, they said in chorus, "To Nancy and one month of sobriety!"
Her eyes swimming with tears, Nancy studied each beautiful face, realizing that from this moment on, she would, indeed, live each day in "new hope."
The End