Даниэла Стил - Finding Ashley [calibre]

“I’d like to cook dinner for you tonight,” Norm suggested, and made no mention of the kiss the day before. Melissa was mildly embarrassed by it, but she had enjoyed it. She had decided to ignore it when she saw him again, and treat it as an aberration. Everything was spinning out of control around her. She didn’t want her friendship with Norm to do that too. She had no room in her life for a man and a relationship. She couldn’t handle that too. Finding her daughter again was enough for now. But he sounded so sweet on the phone, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Why don’t I come over at seven, and whip up something for you? Things are pretty exciting for you right now. I have a feeling you won’t eat if someone doesn’t make it for you.” She laughed. He was right. She hadn’t eaten the night before, and wasn’t hungry now. There was too much to think about, which seemed so much more important.

“You don’t have to cook for me, Norm,” she said kindly.

“No, but I’d like to. Leave it to me, I’ll do something easy. We can save soufflés for another time,” he said, and she laughed again. Cooking was mathematical and precise to him, like building houses, and he liked that. He had been a whiz at math in school, and terrible at writing and abstract concepts, which had been Melissa’s strength, and led to her writing later on.

She ambled around the house all day, feeling disconnected. She wanted to call Hattie, but knew she couldn’t reach her at the hospital unless it was an emergency. The idea that she was finally going to meet her daughter was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in years, but also terrified her. Who was the girl she had thought of as “Ashley” for more than thirty years? Would she like her natural mother? Was she angry at her? She had a right to be. Melissa knew she would have to face her daughter honestly, and herself now. How could she explain that she hadn’t tried harder to find her? But the trail had been stone cold after the convent burned the records. And Melissa hadn’t been old enough to look for her before that, or to want to. It was already too late by the time she called Saint Blaise’s to try and find her.

There was so much to think about, and now Norm wanted to cook dinner for her. She didn’t think it was a good idea to get in any deeper, but she had agreed to let him come.

She felt drunk and hungover all day, and she was neither. She was drunk on the changes in her life. She thought of it as she stood in the shower, the warm water raining down on her, which woke her up a little.

She put on a simple white sweater and jeans, a little makeup, and looked fresh and felt a little more awake when the doorbell rang, and she let Norm in. His arms were full of bags from the grocery store, and he was carrying a big box tied with string, with a handle, with air holes punched into it. He set all of it down in the kitchen, and there was a thumping from the box, which smelled faintly of fish and seaweed. He opened it to show her two huge live lobsters, with their claws bound. He had driven to Boston to get them. He had brought a good white wine, and crab salad as a first course. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work as soon as he got there, and Melissa set the table with linen placemats and napkins.

She watched him cook the lobsters, which he managed masterfully. He had opened the chardonnay, and she poured each of them a glass to drink while he cooked. They chatted easily as they always had, and the kiss was never mentioned. She was hoping he’d forget it, and how vulnerable she’d been after hearing about Hattie finding Michaela. It was her life’s dream and fondest hope, and now she wasn’t sure she was equal to it, and the explaining she’d have to do to justify her actions. All her life she had blamed her mother and said that abandoning the baby was her fault. But was it? Could she have stopped it and refused to go to Ireland, or to give the baby up? What if she had refused to sign the papers? She had let it happen, and now she had to face the person she had hurt most in the process. She just hoped that the people who had adopted her daughter had been good to her. Being a movie star didn’t guarantee that, as history had shown with others, famous for abusing their children. She prayed that Marla Moore wasn’t one of them.

Norm could see that Melissa was troubled and distracted as they sat down at the table. The lobsters looked huge on the plates where he had set them with lemon and melted butter. She’d put the salad in a bowl, and he lowered the lights after she lit the candles. She smiled thinking that before he had built things in the house, and now he was enjoying the fruits of his labors, and how well it all worked. He had fully remodeled the kitchen, although she had refused all the fancy equipment he’d suggested. It was simple and modern and functional, and there was a cozy place to sit and eat. It didn’t look like a rocket ship the way his did, with every kind of technology available. She didn’t want or need that.

“You’ve got some exciting changes happening,” he said quietly, as they ate the lobster. It was delicious.

“That’s a vast understatement,” she said with a sigh, and looked at him. He was a good man. She loved his outdoorsy mountain man look, and realized how little she knew about him. She knew he was from Boston, had gone to Yale and dropped out, and had been married and had no children, but she knew none of the details. He never talked about them, and she hadn’t asked, not wanting to share her own history in any intimate way in exchange. He knew about both her children now, and the fact that until recently she no longer had any. In her own eyes, she wasn’t a mother anymore after Robbie died. And now she was about to be again, with the reappearance of Ashley in her life—Michaela. She had to correct herself every time she thought about her.

And as though he sensed what she was thinking, he talked about himself during dinner, more than he had before. It wasn’t relevant before this, but with the kiss the day before, it could be.

“I haven’t been seriously involved with anyone in a long time,” he said quietly. “I’ve been divorced for eight years.” She knew he had just turned fifty. They were almost the same age, since she was forty-nine, about to turn fifty herself. “We were married for nine years, and I think we were both surprised it lasted that long. My wife was an ambitious woman. My family was in politics and so was hers, and I think she thought that she’d get me headed in that direction eventually. My grandfather was the governor of Massachusetts when I was a boy. My father was a senator. I hate politics and everything it stands for. She’s married to a senator from Texas now, which is everything she wanted from me and I didn’t give her. I told her what my plans were before we got married and she didn’t believe me. I wanted a simple country life. We moved here the year after we got married, and I started my construction business. She hated every minute of it, and was in Boston all the time. We tried to have kids for a while, and once we knew that wasn’t going to happen, she lost interest in our marriage. In her mind, she was trapped with a rustic carpenter, and she hated me for it. We hardly saw each other for the last four years we were married. She was away most of the time, in Boston or New York. For the first five years we were trying to have kids, which was hard on her. It’s a depressing process when it doesn’t work, and we tried everything. She blamed me for it, but it turned out to be her. I was okay with it, but she wasn’t. She wanted to adopt, and I wouldn’t. I love children, but don’t need my own to be happy. My brother, Ted, has five boys and I love being an uncle. It’s enough.

“My brother is a lawyer in Boston, and so is his wife. They both went to Yale, undergrad and law school. Everyone in my family did, and graduated, except me. I’m severely dyslexic and struggled as a kid, I’m better with my hands, and at math. My wife hated the fact that I had no political ambitions, building houses didn’t count for her as an occupation. She thought it was blue-collar work and was ashamed of it. I’m proud of every house I built or worked on.” He smiled at Melissa and was proud of hers too, and so was she. She had enjoyed their collaboration for four years. “So that’s me,” he said comfortably. “What about you?” he asked her. “Do you miss writing books?” Now that he knew she was a bestselling published author, which impressed him. The written word always did, since it was hard for him. He was good at other things, like his construction business, which was very successful locally.