Book Clubbed (A Booktown Mystery) Page 5

“Shhh! Don’t say it so loud. But, yes, they are.”

  “This is wonderful! We must start making the plans for Ginny’s baby shower. What’s she having? A boy or a girl?”

  “She doesn’t even know yet. And knowing her, she won’t want to know before the birth. And you can’t give a baby shower when the baby isn’t even due for at least another six months.”

  “We have to wait that long?” Angelica asked, disappointed.

  “I’m sure that’s just what Ginny will be saying a few months from now.”

  Angelica looked positively delighted and Tricia could almost hear her sister’s thoughts buzzing with plans for a baby shower. If there was one thing Angelica did exceptionally well, it was throw a party—any kind of party.

  “That’s not all the news I have to share,” Tricia said.

  “Twins!” Angelica guessed.

  “No! Will you calm down?”

  “I can’t help myself. Our Ginny having a baby.”

  “Our Ginny? You didn’t even like her until last year.”

  “Well, I like her lots now. What’s behind us is behind us. And anyway, if you hadn’t used her as a living shield from my phone calls to you, I would have liked her a whole lot better right from the start.”

  “Let’s not bring up the past,” Tricia implored.

  “You started it,” Angelica muttered crossly, taking another sip of her drink.

  “Let’s just be happy for her, because she’s not exactly thrilled with the news.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. She’s afraid Antonio and Nigela Ricita will force her to stop working.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe out of some outdated sense of morality, or family values, or something.”

  “I hardly think so. I mean, Ms. Ricita is a businesswoman, and a shrewd one at that. I can’t imagine anyone with her experience and foresight would force a new mother out of a job. Not in this day and age.”

  “I don’t think so, either, but Ginny is terrified someone else will be hired to take over the Happy Domestic.”

  “We’ve got to talk to Antonio,” Angelica said firmly.

  “No, we don’t. This has nothing to do with us. It’s a family matter.”

  “We’re family. Maybe not by blood, but with her mom and dad living down south, we’re all she’s got here in New Hampshire.”

  “It’s a nice thought,” Tricia conceded. “Ginny shared her concerns, and now she’s got me wondering if she’ll make the same mistakes Deborah did when she owned the Happy Domestic.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. Deborah didn’t know when she had a good thing.”

  “I’m not so sure the thing she had was any good at all,” Tricia said, taking another bite of her appetizer.

  “Whatever,” Angelica said dismissively. “The circumstances are totally different. As soon as she lays eyes on it, Ginny will love her baby like a mama bear loves her cub. All women feel that way.”

  “Not our mother.”

  Angelica sighed. “You’re not going to start that again, are you?”

  “Start? It’ll never end, not until she tells me what it was that I’ve done wrong. What I am that never suited her.”

  “Please, Trish, you’ve got to stop torturing yourself about Mother. She is who she is.”

  Tricia glanced at the clock. “What’s the time in Rio? I’ve a mind to just pick up the phone and ask her right now.”

  “Please don’t,” Angelica said.

  Tricia looked at her sister with suspicion. “Why not? Because it would upset her? What about me? I’ve been upset my entire life by our relationship—or lack thereof.”

  Angelica sighed and looked away. “I just have a bad feeling.”

  “About what? That she might actually tell me why she treats me the way she does? That she might hurt my feelings if she did? She once told me that she never thought they’d have a second child, but that can’t be it. Couples do get over that. And whatever it is she’d have to say couldn’t hurt much more than years of her indifference.”

  “That’s what you say now,” Angelica said quietly, and picked up another appetizer.

  “Then you do know what’s at the heart of all this,” Tricia accused.

  Angelica sighed. “I suppose you won’t be happy until I’ve told you everything—and broken Mother’s heart once again.”

  “How can telling me break her heart?”

  “Because you’re going to want to talk to her about it, and I’m telling you right now—she will not talk to you about it. If you call her and bring it up, she will hang up on you. If you flew down there and asked her in person, she would just run away.”

  “Good grief. What on earth could be so terrible she can’t even speak about it? Please, Ange, just tell me.”

  Angelica sighed and picked up her drink, taking a hearty sip. She set the glass down. “What you don’t know is that after you were born, Mother had what was then called a nervous breakdown.”

  “Don’t you mean postpartum depression?”

  Angelica shook her head. “No, it wasn’t brought on by a birth; it was brought on by a death.”

  “Who died?” Tricia asked. She certainly hadn’t heard this story before.

  Angelica sighed. “For years I’ve wrestled with my conscience about telling you the whole sordid tale. No good can come of your knowing, and talking about it to our parents would only reopen old wounds.”

  Tricia’s stomach did an immediate flip-flop. “Are you saying Daddy isn’t my biological father? That Mother—?”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Angelica chided. “Of course Daddy is your biological father. We’ve both got the Miles nose, after all. And anyway, if that were true, it would’ve been Daddy who’d taken a tailspin, not Mother.”

  “Then what in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “Our brother!”

  Tricia glared at her sister. “We never had a brother.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “I’m certain I would have remembered him if we had.”

  “Not unless your memory spans back to your time in the womb or shortly after birth.”

  “Are you saying . . . ?”

  “You were a twin. Fraternal, but you had a twin brother.”

  “I did? And he died at birth?” Tricia asked, aghast.

  “No, about two months later. Little Patrick was a SIDS baby.”

  Tricia had heard all about perfectly healthy babies suddenly dying with no apparent cause. The number of SIDS deaths had plunged once parents were encouraged to never let their babies sleep on their tummies, but when Tricia and everyone else in her generation was born, all babies slept that way.

  “Patrick,” she murmured, trying the name on for size.

  “Patrick and Patty. That’s what we called the two of you.”

  Patty. Tricia grimaced. That was what their mother had called her when she was most exasperated. “Oh, Patty,” she’d lament, which had always set Tricia’s teeth on edge.

  “So why did Mother treat me so shabbily after Patrick’s death? I would have thought as the surviving twin she’d have felt I was precious.”

  Angelica seemed to squirm. “Patrick was her favorite. I mean, it was obvious even to me, and I was only five. That little prince certainly knocked me off the princess throne.”

  As far back as Tricia could remember, their mother had doted on Angelica, while she’d always felt like an unwanted member of the family—that is, except for by her grandmother Miles, who had loved her unconditionally.

  “You see,” Angelica continued, “Mother had longed for a son. When she found out she was pregnant with twins, she hoped they’d be identical boys. She bought all kinds of matching outfits. Of course, they didn’t do ultrasounds in those days, so when you were
born, she was a bit disappointed.”

  “What would my name have been if I’d been born a boy?” Tricia asked.

  “Paul.”

  Paul Miles. Rather a boring moniker, Tricia decided. “I suppose Mother blamed me for Patrick’s death.”

  Angelica nodded sadly. “You were both sleeping in the same crib.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Remember, I was only five years old at the time.”

  “Did she think a two-month-old baby would deliberately smother her sibling?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica shrugged and reached for her drink once again.

  “But Mother once told me that I was a mistake—that she hadn’t wanted a second child,” she reiterated.

  “She wanted Patrick,” Angelica whispered.

  “And not me,” Tricia finished for her, bitterness gnawing at her soul.

  “I’m so sorry, Tricia,” Angelica said with tears in her eyes. “And I feel so ashamed.”

  “Why should you feel that way?”

  “Because I let Mother’s resentment color the way I felt about you for far too many years. You’re my sister and I love you—no matter what.”

  “And our mother doesn’t.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m sorry. Nothing can make up for what she’s done or how she feels.”

  Tricia sighed. This was all too much information to take in all at once, and yet it seemed to echo what she’d learned not an hour before from Joelle. Betsy Dittmeyer had changed—soured—after the death of her child. Was it so surprising that Tricia’s mother had had the very same experience? But oddly enough Tricia didn’t feel angry toward her mother. Instead, she felt sorry for her. And more, she felt a strong sense of relief. Nothing she had done in the past or could do in the future would ever make a difference to her mother. If she still loved her dead child . . . well, who could blame her?

  “Are you okay, Trish?” Angelica asked, sounding worried.

  “Yes. I am. And thank you for finally telling me.”

  “You have to promise me that you won’t tell Mother I told you.”

  “I promise.”

  “And that you’ll never bring it up.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure about that one. “I don’t know.”

  “Please,” Angelica pleaded.

  “I don’t know!” Tricia repeated. “I’m going to have to think about this long and hard. And I do mean long. Days. Weeks. Maybe even months.”

  Angelica lifted her glass and drained it, her expression distraught. “I knew I should never have told you.”

  “How could you keep such terrible secret to yourself for so long?” Tricia asked.

  “You’d be surprised how good we are at keeping secrets in this family,” Angelica said tartly.

  “Does that mean there are more?” Tricia demanded.

  Angelica pursed her lips, not taking the bait.

  “Did Mother make you swear not to tell me?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  If that was true, had their mother been waiting for decades for it to come out? What if she had? What if she’d wanted Angelica to tell the truth so she wouldn’t have to? And why had their father never said a word?

  “What are you thinking?” Angelica asked.

  “That our family might have healed from that terrible loss if only someone had spoken the truth a long, long time ago.”

  “I don’t disagree with you. But it wasn’t my secret to tell; it was Mother and Daddy’s.”

  Tricia turned away, taking another sip of her drink. Did the news of her infant brother’s death really change things between her and her parents? Their father had always been pleasant but distant. Why hadn’t he insisted her mother get counseling? But then her mother was not known for taking suggestions from anyone.

  Tricia heard Angelica open the oven door, felt the rush of heat on her back, and inhaled the aroma of something wonderful. She took another sip of her drink. It was all too much to take in in one evening. She needed to think it all through, but now wasn’t the time.

  Tricia turned back to the kitchen and found Angelica standing with a silver tray in hand, a dainty white paper doily offsetting the golden popovers she’d taken from the oven. She looked like she was about to cry.

  “I’m sorry, Tricia. Mother was wrong not to tell you. But I may have been wrong to tell you. Please don’t do anything rash.”

  Tricia sighed. “I will not mention any of this to Mother. At least not tonight. And not tomorrow, either. With everything that’s already happened today, it’s all just too much to contemplate.”

  “Here, have a blue cheese popover. It’ll make me feel better.”

  Tricia reached out and took one of the still-steaming appetizers. She blew on it, and then nibbled. As with almost everything Angelica cooked, it was delicious, and she said so.

  Angelica blew out a harsh breath. “I think I could use another martini. How about you?”

  Tricia shook her head. “I’m still working on mine.”

  Angelica nodded and turned back to the counter, picking up the gin bottle.

  Tricia stared into her glass, admiring the golden frill on the toothpick that pierced the olives. It looked so festive . . . the way Angelica had felt before Tricia had come over and ruined her mood, and probably her evening. Feeling the need to lighten the mood, she started to hum.

  As Angelica shook the cocktail shaker she absently joined in . . . and Tricia was sure if she looked outside, the moon might just look like a big pizza pie.

  SIX

  Despite hearing the distressing news about a deceased baby brother the night before, Tricia slept heavily and ended up waking later than she’d anticipated. She tried to put those thoughts out of her mind as she went through her usual morning routine and concentrated on the tasks that needed to be accomplished during the day. One of them was to stock up on coffee for her customers, and to purchase some kind of tasty treat to go along with it. Mr. Everett was particularly fond of the Patisserie’s thumbprint cookies, but Pixie had grumbled the last few times Tricia had put them out for her staff and customers. It was time to find something that Pixie would enjoy as well.

  Tricia donned her knit hat and wrapped a heavy scarf around her neck before she braved the fierce wind and trudged down the sidewalk toward the Patisserie. She glanced across the street and saw the lights were already on at the Happy Domestic and decided she’d visit Ginny to see how she was doing before she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue to open for the day.

  She paused to look through the heavy glass door before entering. The bakery was empty, save for Nikki, who sat on a stool behind the big glass display case filled with all sorts of wonderful baked goodies. The day before she’d been ecstatic when spreading her happy news. Now she looked anything but happy.

  Tricia wrestled with the door before she could wrench it open, and had to jump inside before the door slammed on her hand. Startled, Nikki looked up. “Good morning, Tricia.” The words were cheerful, but the delivery was not. It looked like she’d been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy and Tricia wasn’t sure she should mention it.

  “Hi, Nikki. Boy, that’s some wind. I hope it doesn’t keep potential customers from visiting us today.”

  “Same here. I’ve been open for more than an hour and you’re only my second customer.”

  “Things will pick up soon,” Tricia said optimistically. In reality, she knew sales wouldn’t get better until April—a full two months away—but there was no sense dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

  “What can I get you this morning?” Nikki asked.

  Tricia looked over the offerings. There were gaps in the big glass refrigerated case that also served as Nikki’s sales counter. Instead of several dozen cupcakes, only twelve were displayed, and they were plain—with no beautifully piped decorative flowers in
pastel shades. Several loaves of bread were stacked on the shelf behind the counter, but nowhere near the usual amount or variety. What was going on? Worst of all—there were absolutely no thumbprint cookies! Mr. Everett would be so disappointed, but that so much was absent meant something was definitely up.

  “I’ll take a couple of bran muffins and how about a dozen of those almond cookies.”

  “Coming right up,” Nikki said, her voice cracking.

  Tricia could no longer ignore Nikki’s beleaguered state. “Is everything okay?”

  Nikki shook her head. “I thought I’d be beyond morning sickness by now. But I’ve felt queasy all morning.” Was that all?

  “When’s your due date?”

  “September eighth,” Nikki said as she plucked two muffins from the rack behind her. “It seems so far away right now, but we have a lot of decisions to make before the baby comes.”

  “What kind of decisions?”

  “Mostly financial.” Nikki sniffed several times as she loaded the cookies into a separate white bakery bag. As she handed Tricia the sacks, she burst into tears.

  Tricia moved closer to the case, wishing she could get around it and give the poor distraught woman a hug. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Nikki looked up and shook her head. “Not unless you’ve got the name of a good marriage counselor.”

  Tricia clamped her teeth shut and tried not to wince. Nikki and Russ Smith had been married just over three months and already they were in trouble? Tricia didn’t want to get in the middle of their marital problems, but if she didn’t say anything—would that make her seem cold and indifferent to the poor woman’s suffering?

  “Things can’t be that bad,” she said.

  “But they are. Russ says I have to keep working after the baby arrives. That we can’t afford to live on only one income. I think he’s wrong, but he’s adamant. I want to be with our baby every moment of the day. I don’t want to miss that first step or first word. I’m going to breast-feed and later make my own baby food. Nothing will be too good for my child.”

  Did she intend to be a helicopter mom—constantly hovering over the poor kid? Oh, well, it wasn’t Tricia’s place to judge. “I’m sure the two of you will work everything out—and soon.”