Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [85]
She said those last words with a kind of wonder. Mara looked toward the window with wistful eyes, as though she were seeing the previous day play itself out all over again. In the next moment the corners of her mouth hinted at a smile.
I myself felt as though I’d been left at a cliffhanger, and I was leaning forward on the bed, waiting for the next installment of the story. When Mara didn’t go on, I insisted, “So then what happened?”
My words drew her back, and for a moment she looked annoyed. But then she smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Then we ate lunch and talked about books and stuff.”
“That’s it?”
“Oh, and we gave each other Christmas gifts.”
“Did he like the book?”
She nodded. “He said he’d always cherish it.”
“So what did he give you?”
“This.” She leaned back and dug around in the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out something silver and shiny and handed it to me across the gap between the beds. It was a charm bracelet bearing a single charm, round as a full moon and engraved on one side in an elegant script: Sweet dreams, Beatrice.
“It’s real pretty,” I said.
“Yeah.” She smiled sadly.
“So are you ever going to see him again?”
“I think so. Someday. But probably not for a long time.”
I studied the charm for a moment. “I’m sorry, Mara.”
“It’s all right.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“About . . . William Remmick, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
Mara nodded. “I’m writing it all down,” she said.
“Like a book or something?”
“No.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t know why, but it’s a play. That’s how it came to me.”
“A play?”
“Yeah. I wrote the first act on the train ride home. Because Daddy – William Remmick – said that’s what a real poet does. She takes her sadness and turns it into something beautiful. He said almost all good literature springs from sorrow.”
“It does?”
“Yeah. That’s what he said, and I think he’s right. He said if I’m serious about being a writer, that’s what I need to learn to do.”
I didn’t understand, but then, I wasn’t a writer. “Can I read the play when you’re done?”
“Maybe someday.” She took a long deep breath, and changed the subject. “Have you heard anything from your dad?” she asked quietly.
I shook my head no. “The waitress at the café said he’s in Chicago.”
“What for?”
“Work, I guess.”
“Well, since he’s up there, maybe he’ll buy you a Christmas present from Marshall Field or someplace like that. They have much better stores there than they do here in Mills River.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I handed Mara the bracelet. “Hey, guess what.”
“What?”
“Mom’s not seeing Tom Barrows anymore. Or not so much, anyway.”
For the first time that day, her face opened up in a genuine smile. “Yeah? What happened?”
“I don’t know for sure. I guess – ”
As I was speaking the doorbell rang, and in another moment Tillie called up the stairs, “Roz, is Mara up there with you?”
“Yeah,” I called back. “She’s up here.”
“Well, tell her that her father’s here looking for her.”
I looked at Mara. “Your father’s here.”
“I heard.” She giggled. “I’m not deaf.”
“Do you have to go already?”
“Yeah. Daddy promised we’d go pick out our Christmas tree this morning.”
“You don’t have your tree yet?”
“No.” Mara jumped from the bed and hollered toward the door, “Coming, Daddy!”
She stopped and turned, giving me the oddest look. Then she shrugged, smiled, called again, “I’ll be right there, Daddy!”
I watched her fly down the stairs and into the arms of the big dark teddy bear of a man waiting for her by the front door.
“Come on, baby,” he said. “There’s a tree out there with your name on it, and we’ve got to go find it before it ends up in the wrong house.”
Mara turned back to me, smiled, and waved. Then she took her daddy’s hand and disappeared out the