Where Hope Begins Read online

  And Shelby . . . she looked like me. Blond curls and dimples and a goofy grin I could never get enough of. Dust sits along the top of her fourth-grade photograph. The last one we have of her. I take a tissue from the pocket of my bathrobe, wipe it clean, and put the picture back in place.

  The built-in bookcases on the far side of the room beckon. I check the shelves for any gaps, thinking Kevin might have taken some of his favorites. But all the old books we’ve collected over the years sit in place. We’ve amassed quite a collection. Scouring surrounding towns’ bookshops for antiquated copies of well-loved stories was a shared hobby.

  My eyes smart a little as I glance at the long black cross on the hardcover spine of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. I probably paid more than I should have for the 1934 first edition, signed by the illustrator, but it was Kevin’s fortieth birthday and I wanted to surprise him. Kevin loves Chaucer. We have books by Dickens, the Brontë sisters, poems by Emily Dickinson and John Donne, Whitman and Emerson. Some books are leather-bound, others have well-worn hard covers, all with delicate pages and illustrations to delight the eye. Next to the fraying copy of Winnie-the-Pooh that we read to the kids over and over again should sit our treasured copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. It went missing shortly after Shelby died. We turned the house upside down looking. I thought perhaps Adam or Zoe had stashed it away someplace, but we never did find it.

  The carefully color-coordinated room with its expensive furnishings, beige tones, and black baby grand that nobody plays in the alcove by the large bay window sags with loneliness tonight. I never imagined it would be this way. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  Kevin found the land. He came home late one night in August, years ago. The kids were racing around the kitchen of our overpopulated bungalow. The window air-conditioning unit had up and quit that morning, and the lazy stand-up fan only blew hot air across the room. I was desperate to get dinner on the table.

  “Shelby, stop singing and help me out here!” At nine, she’s old enough to corral Zoe and Adam. The past few days, though, she’s been obsessed with the latest boy band, and I’m about to lose my last nerve.

  Adam, four and all boy, has captured a stinkbug, brought it inside, and is chasing Zoe around the house with it. Seven-year-old Zoe is not fond of bugs, and her shrieks let the entire neighborhood know it.

  Kevin bangs through the back door, his face split in a handsome grin that even after almost ten years of marriage still makes my stomach flip.

  “Welcome to bedlam, Mr. Barrington.” I burn my hand on the lid of the pot and mutter a word that makes him smile wider. He ignores the shrieking, dodges flying legs, and sneaks up behind me.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” His low growl makes me laugh. He smells like summer. Wrapped in his strong arms, it’s easy to forget the chaos. Easy to forget we have three children who need to be fed, bathed, and put to bed. He lifts my hair off my sweaty neck and plants a kiss. There. And there. That spot . . . Oh, he is wicked.

  “Kevin.” I sigh and lean against him. “The kids. Dinner—”

  “Can wait. Actually . . .” He spins me around, his eyes shining with secrets. “We’ll go out. Who wants to go out to eat?”

  All three of them immediately stop the rampage and jump around us instead.

  “McDonald’s!”

  “Chuck E. Cheese!”

  “Denny’s!”

  I catch his eye and raise a brow. Words aren’t necessary at this point. He knows what he’s done.

  But he just grins. “We can eat whatever you made tomorrow. Cover it. I’ll clean up when we get back”—he snakes a hand around my head and pulls me in for a long kiss—“from looking at the plot of land we’re going to build our new home on.”

  That last year we had together, all five of us, was magical.

  Three months after moving into this home we planned to raise our family in, everything changed. In one split second, when I wasn’t looking, Shelby was taken from us.

  I’m not sure she ever saw the oncoming car that swerved across the road to avoid a cat and sent her and her pink pedal bike flying through the air.

  I didn’t.

  But I should have.

  I shut down the thoughts before they suck me in.

  It’s not something you ever get over, losing a child. But it is something you have to learn to live with.

  Years later, I still don’t know how.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad.”

  —HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

  Today will be about survival.

  I scan my to-do list on Monday morning. I’ve already made calls, arranged for others to take up the slack during my absence. I apologized for not knowing when I’ll return. I’m going to miss taking meals to the seniors who have become friends over the years. I will also miss the quiet sanctuary of the library, where I sorted and stacked and sought refuge surrounded by stories of other worlds, other lives. Spending my days doing things for other people helps me feel less useless.

  After we lost Shelby, I did anything I could to get out of the house until the kids came home from school. Pilates, yoga, tennis, volunteering at church and school. Anything that would put me to work, keep me busy. These days, when I return home at the end of a long day, the silence unsettles me. Will it be like this the rest of my life?

  Getting away now feels necessary. For my sanity, if nothing else.

  I take the highway exit and head for the entrance to Stop & Shop. Beth’s kids are going to come in and feed Adam’s fish and water the plants while I’m gone. I want to make sure there’s enough fish food, and I’ll get a few groceries so I don’t have to stop before I reach the Berkshires tomorrow.

  I brake for the car in front of me while I make a mental list of things I need. The car moves forward, and subconsciously I see it’s Kevin’s car. But Kevin wouldn’t be shopping on a Monday morning. He’d be in the city, at work. I suck in a breath and look closer. There’s a woman behind the wheel. Not Kevin’s car. But it is.

  The Princeton decal Zoe proudly placed there her first weekend home tells me it is.

  Awesome.

  My heart thunders as I debate my next move. Ramming the back of the spotless black Mercedes that is only two years old is a tempting option, but I don’t have time to deal with the ramifications of that impulsive urge. The sensible thing to do would be to back up and find someplace else to shop.

  Since when have I been sensible?

  My stomach churns as I pull into a parking space a row behind her.

  Her name is Alison. Kramer. Alison the home-wrecker Kramer. I’ve met her on several occasions. She and Kevin were business colleagues at my father’s company. They were both let go shortly after news of the affair broke.

  Kevin has a new position with another insurance company in Boston, and Alison . . . apparently spends her days driving my husband’s car.

  Next thing I know, I’m trailing her into the store. I grab a cart and follow at a distance. She’s not as stunning as I remember her being. But she’s tall. And thin. And ten years younger than me. Silky dark hair hangs to the middle of her back. Of course she’s wearing yoga pants. Skinny women who can pull that off make me even more aware of the extra pounds I’ve put on. Although at last glance, the bathroom scale said stress has shaved off several of them. One good thing has come from this fiasco.

  Alison is not a fast shopper. She ponders, compares labels. Reaches for healthy options, checks her iPhone every few seconds. She’s probably got a list on there. I’m more of a “grab and go and get out” kind of consumer and she’s boring me. Two months ago, had I been in this position, I might have marched right up to her and slapped her hard across the face. I still want to but don’t have the energy. How pathetic is this? I’m stalking my husband’s lover. In Stop & Shop. I have stooped to new lows.

  What was I planning to do, accost her? Demand she take her h
ands off my husband and return him to his rightful place immediately? The truth is, he was gone long before she came along.

  I’m not doing this.

  I spin my cart around, find the fish food and the few other items I need, and hightail it out of there.

  The cursor on the laptop screen blinks as I ponder how best to answer the outpouring of irate responses on my blog after my last missive describing my new state of abandonment. The things these women are saying about Kevin—well, not that they know it’s Kevin. I’ve never used our real names in all the years I’ve been writing, and tonight I’m grateful for that. There is venom and an almost unhinged hatred here, flat-out man-bashing.

  An uncomfortable knot tightens my stomach. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let it get this far. This isn’t what I intended when I first started the blog. Back then we consoled each other, shared stories of lost loved ones, and I found the outlet provided some relief. But this . . . this I don’t like. I sigh and click away from the site. I need more time to think.

  The doorbell rings as I’m lugging my suitcase down the stairs before I go to bed. I want to get an early start in the morning. The clock in the hall says it’s around nine fifteen, which means it’s closer to ten. My pulse picks up as the doorbell chimes echo through the house a second time. I can’t imagine who’s out there at this hour. Unless Beth forgot to grab the extra key I put out for her this afternoon. This is why I need a dog.

  Peeking through the curtains out the sidelight window, I exhale. Disarm the security system. Open the door and stand there, a bit out of breath and more than a little wary.

  “Kevin. It’s kind of late.” And you scared the crap out of me.

  He stands on the front porch, staring at me, snow in his hair. The white stuff is falling in a frenetic dance around the streetlights at the bottom of our winding drive. I hope I’ll be able to leave tomorrow.

  “I didn’t check the time.” He’s in casual mode, jeans and sneakers and his favorite Boston Red Sox sweatshirt under an unzipped leather jacket. He looks me up and down, taking in the shabby sweater I’m wearing over a pair of gray sweatpants. “Can I come in? It’s cold out here.”

  I cross my arms, move aside, and he enters the warm house, stamps his feet on the mat, and nails me with an anguished expression I don’t understand. His normally neat hair is windblown and dark shadows underline his eyes. If he hasn’t been sleeping well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Or sorry.

  “Adam says you’re going to the lake house. Tomorrow?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks backward.

  “Leaving first thing.” I indicate the suitcase that sits beside him and bite back a “Duh.” “Weather permitting.”

  “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

  “I said I’d text you.”

  Ripples run across his forehead. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “What do you want, Kevin?” I don’t have time to stand here and argue with him. Actually, I do. I’m just not in the mood.

  “I’d like to know where you’re going to be,” he says in a quiet voice that is slightly unnerving. “Just because we’re not together doesn’t mean I don’t need to know where—”

  “Oh, it doesn’t?” I shake my head and move toward the hallway on the other side of the stairs. “I think that’s exactly what it means. You moved out. You want a divorce. You don’t get to know what I do and don’t do on a daily basis anymore.”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “It’s not?” I turn to face him and tear trembling fingers through my hair. He’s unbelievable. “Well, clearly I don’t know how it works. They don’t have a how-to guide for this one. On second thought, I think they do. Divorce for Dummies. Maybe you can get me a copy for Christmas.”

  “God, Savannah.”

  “God? You want to bring him into this now? It’s a little late, don’t you think?” My chest is so tight I can’t stand to look at him.

  He follows me down the hall, stalks across the spacious kitchen, gets a glass from the cupboard, and fills it at the tap. Stands with his back to me as he drains the glass and sets it in the sink.

  “Why are you here, Kevin?” I shouldn’t have let him in.

  He makes a measured turn and sighs. “I wanted to ask if you . . . will you tell Zoe I’d really like to hear from her? Ask her to call me?”

  He looks bereft, and I suddenly want to hug him. No idea where that came from. “I can ask her, but I can’t promise she will.”

  “Okay.” He nods, strolls along the counter, and picks up a prescription bottle. Glances at it, then at me. His mouth turns downward. A familiar fear fills his eyes. “You’re taking meds again?”

  He needs to go, needs to stop tormenting me with his presence. “Dr. Clarke thought it would be a good idea. As a preventative measure. He thought that finding out my husband has been having an affair and wants to divorce me might send me sailing toward another nervous breakdown.”

  Kevin swears again, puts the small orange bottle back where he found it, and takes a step toward me. But that’s it. One step. It’s not enough, yet in the same breath it is too much.

  “Did you get the snow tires put on the Escalade?”

  “I forgot.” The luxury SUV probably doesn’t need winter tires. But Kevin has always insisted we change tires seasonally on every car we’ve ever owned.

  “Are they in the garage?” He’s already taking off his jacket.

  “No, I hauled them out into the garden. Thought they’d make cool lawn ornaments. Picked up some gnomes too. Look, you don’t have to—”

  “Savannah, give it a rest. For once, just . . . stop. Please.” He sends me a despairing look and yanks open the back door to the garage.

  “Knock yourself out,” I mutter. The walls close in and I flounder for things to do. Put the kettle on. Sort through unpaid bills. Make sure my cell phone, laptop, and iPad are charged. Make a feeble attempt at texting Zoe.

  Yur father heree. Be in a pan in thee . . .

  I give up. How is anybody supposed to type with their thumbs? It’s unnatural. I erase the message before I succumb to childishness, manage to text that I’ll call her before I leave tomorrow instead, and hit Send. I think it actually goes. I’ll talk to her about calling Kevin when we speak. Maybe. About five seconds later my phone buzzes with a

  Cool. Love you.

  It’s the little victories that count. So I smile.

  An hour later Kevin stomps back into the kitchen, disheveled, a dirt smear on his face. He’s breathing like he just ran the Boston Marathon. Which he does. Every year. A wicked part of me wants to ask if I need to go make sure he really tightened the lug nuts. Remorse pricks. Kevin may be an adulterer, but he’s not a killer.

  “What’s so funny?” He dries his hands after washing them, staring at me through cool eyes.

  Guess that giggle snuck out of me unawares. “Nothing. Thanks for doing that.” I manage a smile and indicate the kettle. “Want tea? Water’s still hot.”

  “No.” He reaches for his coat, pauses, his brows arching downward in a perplexed frown. “Were you . . . at Stop & Shop this morning?”

  Shoot. She saw me. “I was.” No point in lying.

  Kevin pulls on his jacket and sighs. “Alison thinks you’re stalking her.”

  “For crying out loud, Kevin! It’s a grocery store. I was not . . .” I widen my eyes at the sight of his grin. He actually thinks this is amusing. I should tell him where to take his warped sense of humor and what to do with it when he gets there. But that grin . . .

  An unwanted tug pulls my stomach inward. I inhale and fight the feeling. “Are we done here, because I’d like to get some sleep tonight. At least try to.”

  He gets serious and clears his throat a couple of times. “Can I run upstairs? I forgot something the other day.”

  My husband is asking permission to go upstairs.

  This is new. And sad.

  Terribly, tragically sad.

  I shrug and let him go.
>
  This has been the strangest day and I’m so ready for it to end. I wait by the front door and he jogs back down a few minutes later, a wooden box under one arm. It’s about the size of a large jewelry box and looks old but well made. Mahogany maybe. I don’t recognize it.

  “Running off with the family fortune, Kev?” It’s a joke, but his look tells me it’s a crass one. Still, I want to know what’s in that box. “Seriously. What is that?”

  For a minute I think he’s going to storm past me, slam the door in my face. Then he shrugs, holds out the box, and flips the lid.

  Pictures of Shelby scream through the silence.

  There are colorful, childish drawings of houses and horses and happy families. Father’s Day cards, birthday cards, and report cards. And the delicate silver cross we picked out together and gave her the day she was baptized.

  My breath hitches and the images blur.

  I . . . can’t . . .

  The room starts to spin.

  Ten years disintegrate in ten seconds and we’re standing in a stark hospital room, holding our daughter’s hand, watching life slip away from her. Absolutely powerless to do a thing about it. Parents are supposed to protect their children. Not watch them die.

  I shut the lid and push the box back toward him. Our eyes meet. I can almost hear our hearts pounding together in steady staccato. And somehow we connect in a way that hasn’t happened in months, maybe years.

  Kevin’s eyes glisten. “You know how they said we should have a memory box . . .” The words choke him. “Something to keep things in, things that were important . . .” He bites his lower lip and swallows whatever he was about to say next. “I shouldn’t have shown you. You’re upset.”

  “It’s okay.” I wipe tears and try to smile. But there is nothing to smile about in this moment. Nothing remotely pleasant in uncovering yet another layer to the man you thought you knew everything about. “You never cease to amaze me, Kevin.” My words sound cold. Like the icy wind that blows around the house this evening. Bitter as the lemon I dunked in my tea earlier. And I have to say what I’ve been thinking all day. “I don’t want her here when I’m gone. Alison. Not in our house. My house.”