At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [95]
He didn’t recognize the woman who was speaking to him. He did not know what to reply. All he could manage was a hoarse, “It doesn’t have to be like that. Don’t make it sound like that.”
Was that regret or pity he saw in her eyes? She said, softly, “What would it be like, Andy? What would it be like for us? Would it be happily ever after? Would it be marriage?”
Over and over, for the rest of his life, he would wonder what might have happened had he answered her then. Had he not hesitated. Had he found the words. But even as he drew a breath, not even knowing what he was going to say, she shook her head.
“No,” she said, and her smile was strained and far away. “I didn’t think so. Face it, lover, it was fun, but that’s all it was. I knew that, even if you didn’t. This is 1967, and I’ve got a life. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it.”
She picked up her palette, and her brushes, and turned away from him. And within the week, she was gone.
And that was how he came to be standing in his living room alone while laughter and music from his own party spilled across the lawn from the winery a few hundred yards away, a forty-five-year-old man about to be elected District Court judge, in love with a girl half his age. He was sipping the newly labeled Shiraz, which was much too young to be drunk, and barely tasting it.
After a moment he heard a step in the hall, followed by the subtle flowery scent of the perfume his mother always wore. She stood beside him for a moment, studying the muraled alcoves that flanked the fireplace with a critical eye. Then she said, “I prefer the one in the winery, don’t you?”
He said simply, “Yes.”
“I can’t imagine what happened. Clearly, she has talent. But the quality here is not nearly up to the standard of the mural in the tasting room. Everyone is raving about it. This one . . . I can’t say, precisely, but it looks rushed, don’t you think? She even left out the building.”
She waited for a reply, and he could feel the sharpness of her gaze upon him, but he did not respond, with either look or word, and finally she shrugged. “Ah, well. I suppose she was anxious to move on.”
He stared into his wine. “I suppose.”
“I would never say anything to her, of course. But it’s rather embarrassing, really. I think I’ll have the alcoves boxed in. They’ve always been wasted space, anyway. What do you think?”
“I think that’s fine, Mother.”
“She certainly was a charming child,” his mother went on. “Delightful to have around, for a while. But all that youth and energy . . .” She sighed. “I rather imagine it would try the nerves after a time. Don’t you agree?”
He raised his head to look at her, and their eyes held for a long time. She revealed nothing but a cool smile.
And then she said, “Do come out soon, dear. Your guests are also voters.”
When she was gone, he took up the bottle to refill his glass, but instead he simply stood there, staring at the label. He stared at it for a long time. And then, without warning, he threw the bottle across the room, where it crashed on the floor, and spilled wine pooled on the polished boards like blood.
No one at Blackwell Farms ever knew about the baby girl born to Emmy Marie Hodge eight months later. Emily sent Christmas cards to her mother, Marilee, for a few years, but eventually lost touch.
Within a week after the party, Andrew had the mural in the winery painted over, and no one ever asked why. Andrew was elected District Court judge, and he spent the rest of his life fulfilling that position. The 1967 Shiraz won awards, but midway through the run, Andrew discontinued the label. And, once the alcoves in the living room were enclosed, it should have been an easy enough matter to forget that Emmy Marie Hodge had ever existed.
But it wasn’t.
19
Hard Choices
They dressed in their Sunday best for the meeting the next