The Girls on Rose Hill (4 page)

Molly nodded. She kissed Rose's forehead and left without looking at me. This morning's chemo session and our little altercation had clearly exhausted Molly. I was exhausted as well. I sat beside my mother and stroked her thin hand as she slept.

Chapter 4

Ellen

"Girls, come on," I shouted up the stairs. "You're going to miss your flight." The girls giggled in reply. After my semi-altercation with Molly, Veronica offered to cancel her graduation trip to Italy, but I wouldn't let her. Veronica and her friend Hailey were meeting up with their friend Alison Shanley and her parents. Alison's mother, Nancy, had been a Bunco friend of mine before I went back to work. And before my husband Brendan flirted with her in full view of all my friends. Allison and I still had a very cordial relationship. If I stopped talking to every woman in D.C. Brendan had either slept with or wanted to sleep with, I'd practically be a mute.

The girls were originally scheduled to fly out of Dulles with the Shanleys, but after my mother got sick we changed Veronica's ticket and Veronica convinced Hailey to do the same. I think she could convince Hailey to chug bleach if she wanted to. Well, there are leaders and there are followers in this world and my little red haired daughter was definitely a leader. She wasn't mean spirited about it and generally didn't abuse her power over her band of followers. Veronica was blessed with her father's natural charisma. Fortunately, in her case, that charisma was tempered by a tender heart.

Honestly, I was relieved to see Veronica go. Ever since I found that photo, all I wanted to do was tear the house apart and search for clues about Mr. Mystery's identity. Instead, I'd spent the last two days entertaining Veronica and her sidekick. Their happy teenaged chatter grated on my already frayed nerves but I smiled through it.

"Veronica, the car's here." I ordered a car to take the girls to JFK because my uncle Danny and I were on Rose duty this weekend. Molly was in Boston for her daughter-in-law's baby shower and Paul and Lisa had a wedding out on the East End of Long Island. Rose perked up a bit a day or so after her final chemo session, but it was clear the end was near. If I was a good daughter, I'd put this whole unknown father thing out of my mind and focus on the parent I did have. The parent who needed me. But, as Molly could attest, I'd never been a good daughter.

I wasn't sure why that was exactly. Before I started school, I'd adored my mother. She would spend hours plaiting my hair and playing dolls. Rose never yelled or nagged me to put my coat on. She was more like a big sister than a mother. It wasn't until first grade that I noticed Rose was unlike all the other mothers, with their perfectly coiffed hair and their heels and lipstick; mothers like Barbara Conroy. Rose wore her hair in a nun-like page boy, her jet black hair lank and stick-straight. Her clothes were anything but fashionable. As I looked back on it now, Rose had tried to fit in. She volunteered for every committee, and one year she was even a class mother, but she was ill at ease among the wealthy suburban matrons, most of whom were her senior by several years. By third grade, I'd managed to lose the notices asking for volunteers and whenever I needed to be dropped off at a birthday party or girl scout function, I'd ask Kitty to take me. Kitty was close enough in age to some of the older mothers, but more importantly, with her bright blond hair, stylish clothes and easy laugh, she fit right in. Kitty became quite popular with the other mothers, and was old enough that the other mothers viewed her flirty ways as endearing rather than threatening.

So little by little, Kitty took over more of the public parenting role while Rose slowly faded into the background. That's not to say that we didn't have a relationship of sorts. Rose always made sure that I ate healthy food since if it was up to Kitty I would've lived on tea and chocolate biscuits. Rose was also very attentive to my school work and would spend hours with me working on book reports and science projects. But when it came to the fun stuff, like discussing who to invite to my next birthday party or what to wear to a dance, I turned to Kitty.

Of course as I got older and figured out that, while I may have been a "little gift from heaven" as my mother liked to tell me, my origins were likely less celestial, my relationship with my mother became more rocky. Regardless of how many ways I posed the question, she never provided even a hint as to who my father was and the circumstances of my conception. Hell, my mother was so buttoned up about anything even remotely sexual that she could barely say the word "tampon." I would cry, whine, yell, but nothing I did could penetrate my mother's impassive silence. I was so angry with her after yet another one of her refusals to tell me about my father, I accepted a scholarship to Boston College despite her objections and forged her signature on the paperwork. At the end of that summer I left for Boston and then four years later for Georgetown Law School. After that, I never came home if I could help it.

With my three, I tried very hard to be the kind of mother I'd wished I had. We lived in an exclusive neighborhood and the children attended prestigious schools and wore designer clothes. Not to say that things were perfect. Given Brendan's work schedule and, if I was honest, lack of real interest, most of the day to day parenting duties fell on me. But I was lucky in the sense that what Brendan denied us in time and attention, he more than made up for in cash. Brendan was one of the most successful litigators in D.C. so we wanted for nothing. Nothing material anyway. Until Veronica was in the third grade, I stayed home with the kids full time and even had the assistance of a part time nanny. So while I made sure the kids did their homework and washed behind their ears, I also cheered Mike and Timmy at all their lacrosse games and knew the ins and outs of Veronica's very intricate social life.

"You're going to hit rush hour and miss that plane if you don't get down here!"

"Oh, relax, Mom." Veronica dragged her enormous back pack down the stairs. "Our flight's not 'til six."

"Are you girls planning on hiring a sherpa to cart those things around?"

Hailey giggled. Veronica snarked, "Oh, please, Mom."

"Well, you'll build up muscle anyway. Okay, you have passports, tickets, cameras?"

"Yes, of course we do."

"All right, just checking." I handed Veronica an envelope of cash. "Make sure you tip the driver."

"I know, I know," Veronica said, in full eye roll mode.

"Come on, give your poor mother a kiss." I pulled her into an unwanted embrace. My sons were such cuddlers and still crushed me with their bear hugs but prickly Veronica was never very demonstrative and always wiggled her little body out of my frequent hugs. Well, I hopefully she'll be this averse to touch when surrounded by throngs of handsome Italian men. I begged the girls to be careful as they clattered out the door.

The house was now silent, save for the distant whir of the engines of boaters lucky enough to get an early start on the weekend. I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost four. If I was lucky, I could still catch Brendan at his office before he headed off to a "client dinner" with whoever was the flavor of the month. Last I checked, it was Christine Schatten, a thirty-six year old partner in his firm's Corporate Securities department. Tall, big boned, dark-haired Christine was not his usual type. Brendan usually went for either the fresh young things in the legal assistants pool or older, elegant married women looking for a little excitement in between spa treatments and charity functions. Usually they were petite and blond, like me. But unlike me, they usually didn't last very long.

Christine with her mannish laugh and ticking biological clock? I didn't see her making it past Labor Day. We'd met over the years at various firm functions, and a few years ago had even played tennis together at the annual summer outing. Christine was always friendly, in a casual, offhand sort of way, to both myself and to Brendan. As a member of the Corporate Securities department, they didn't work together much, but then last February one of her clients was indicted for insider trading, and she brought Brendan in as defense counsel. I didn't think much of it when Brendan had to go into the office a few weekends to work with Christine, but then when I saw her at the firm's Memorial Day picnic, I knew. She'd carefully avoided looking at Brendan and when I greeted her, her voice was unnaturally high and her eyes darted around, as if looking for an escape route. I knew.

"Brendan Mills' office."

"Susan, hi. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Ellen. Thank God it's Friday, right? How are you holding up?" Susan asked, her voice full of concern. Susan had been with Brendan since he was a young associate and was looking forward to retirement next year.

"I'm hanging in there, Susan, thanks for asking. Is he in?"

"He's not in his office. I think he's down on the Corporate floor."

Of course he was. "I need to speak to him before I go back to the hospital."

"Of course, dear. Hold on." Susan had seen many Christines come and go. I knew she'd make sure he interrupted whatever he was doing and come to the phone.

"Sweetheart, how are you? I'm so glad you called." If Brendan didn't say that every time I called, in the same husky, slightly flirtatious voice, I'd almost believe him.

"Hi. Just wanted to let you know that Veronica is on her way to the airport."

"Wonderful news! I'm sure she'll have a great time."

"What's not to love about Italy, right?" I said in a pleasant, conversational voice, my default tone when discussing household matters with Brendan.

"We had a great time on our honeymoon, remember?" I recalled never ending morning sickness and Brendan flirting with the hotel maid. Yeah, good times.

"Listen," I said, wanting to end this trip down memory lane, "when do you think you'll be able to get up here?"

"I have a few cases that are really heating up. I probably won't be able to make it for at least two weeks."

"My mother may not survive two weeks, Brendan," I said, my tone no longer so pleasant.

"This insider trading case is a killer, you know that."

"And that's why you hired all those fine associates. And of course your other partners," I said, emphasizing the word partners. "Rose has been your mother-in-law for almost twenty years. She's always been fond of you, and she's been asking for you. You need to come here and at least say good-bye."

"Honey, you know if I could I would."

"I'm not asking this for me, Brendan. I'm asking for Rose. I want you here on Sunday."

"Sweetheart, be reasonable."

"Don't sweetheart me," I snapped. "Tell Christine to change whatever plans she has for you because you'll be busy saying good-bye to your dying mother-in-law." There, I'd done it. I'd broken our silent agreement never to name his current paramour.

Brendan chuckled. "You and your imagination, Ellen. You know Christine is a colleague."

"Colleague, my ass. I'm not joking here, Brendan. Do not push me on this. Sunday. By eleven. No excuses." I slammed down the phone. My heart raced as I leaned against the faded formica countertop. No matter how many times I'd had to twist Brendan's arm to participate in even the most rudimentary family activities, it never failed to rattle me. I'd had years of practice blackmailing him into attending dance recitals and graduation parties. I even had to threaten him with bodily dismemberment before he would "swing by" the hospital after Timmy's appendectomy. You would think I'd have it down by now.

I took three deep breaths, as I had learned in my many yoga classes, but of course, as usual, they didn't work. The walls of the cramped airless kitchen closed in on me. Barefoot, I rushed out of the avocado kitchen, past the ghost of the ficus in the hallway and through the front door.

A soft breeze met me as I ran down the wooden steps, and then across the road to the small boathouse. Painted a sparkling white and trimmed in the same shade of blue as the house, it sat only a few feet from the road. The pounding in my head subsided as I made my way along the narrow footpath beside the boathouse. The tiny stones pinched my bare feet. When I reached the wooden deck attached to the back of the boathouse, I lifted a wooden planter filled with cheerful red geraniums and found the boathouse key. The boathouse's new sliding glass door slid smoothly, unlike its rusted predecessor. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness until I found the unfamiliar light switch. Last year Paul and Lisa renovated the boathouse originally built by Kitty's husband Peter, which had slowly disintegrated since Peter's death. Paul, Lisa and their children used the boathouse the most, so Lisa had gone all out, and added a small kitchenette with granite countertops, Italian terra cotta tile and a large beverage center. I helped myself to one of Lisa's bottles of pino grigio and poured a generous glass.

The deck's cushioned Adirondack chairs were a great improvement over the plastic lawn chairs of my youth. I stretched out on the one closest to the ramp that led to the small dock. The pino grigio was cold and sharp, and as I gulped my anger and tension dissipated. I stared out into the harbor and squinted in the still strong afternoon sun. I should have brought my sunglasses. The harbor was busy with several small speedboats bobbing near the bridge. Without my glasses I could just make out the rods held carelessly by the beer drinking fisherman. The men shouted over blaring 70s classic rock, surely scaring away any potential fish. In the distance a sleek gray sailboat sliced through the harbor's gentle swells and headed toward the low bridge. The boat tacked left and expertly maneuvered next to the Conroy's dock, only a few yards from my chair.