The Wishing Jar Page 3

  A flash of light and movement caught her eye. A breeze had rustled the leaves outside the living room window, and shadows played across the bookcase next to the fireplace. Her eye was drawn to the old ginger jar that sat on the second shelf.

  The Wishing Jar, Mom called it. Another piece of history, handed down through the generations. One more symbol of what it meant to be a Quinn.

  Neal watched the interplay of light and shadow over the jar. It almost looked as if the phoenix were moving, ruffling its wings in preparation for flight.

  She would fly away, too, if she could.

  She leaned back against the sofa cushions and closed her eyes. “God,” she murmured, “I wish my life were different.”

  4

  Granny Q

  Edith Quinn Long braced herself against the wall in the dimly lit hallway and stared up at the photograph of herself and her husband on their wedding day. She had been so young back then, just after the war, so innocent and full of expectations. Sam, bless him, had been a basket of nerves the whole week leading up to the wedding, and for a brief while Edith had wondered if he had gotten cold feet and wanted to change his mind.

  “Land sakes, woman,” he had blustered, “I never heard such a ridiculous idea in all my born days!” He had gentled then, seeing her fearful expression, and stroked her hand while he explained. “I’ve never done this before—getting married, I mean. And I never intend to do it again. You’re the only woman who could ever fill up my heart. The vows I’ll take—and gladly, mind you— go straight to the ears of God. That makes it a serious matter, between myself and the Almighty. And you, of course.”

  He had smiled into her eyes and kissed her. “Come Saturday, when the legalities are out of the way and my ring is on your finger, I won’t be so all-fired wound up. We’ll be happy, you wait and see. Our life together is all I’ve ever wanted, so don’t go worrying yourself over nothing.”

  He had been right, Edith recalled. They had been happy— gloriously, deliriously happy. With Sam there had never been a moment when the honeymoon ended and dull routine set in. Always, they had taken delight in one another—and in little Abby, once she came along. Sam had been a wonderful father, and after Abby’s marriage to John Mac and the arrival of Neal Grace, an even better grandfather.

  Strange, Edith thought, how the past could wind around your heart and not let go. She could still see him, laughing by the fire as he wrestled on the floor with his granddaughter. Making a solemn ritual out of carving the Thanksgiving turkey. Padding his slim frame with bed pillows—pillows that saved him a broken bone or two that Christmas Eve he got the crazy notion to climb up on the roof so little Neal Grace could hear Santa arrive.

  Sam had been dead nearly five years now—and yet he remained. In her heart. In this house. In the legacy of love he had left behind. She could hear echoes of his voice every time the wind blew through the eaves, and the scent of him—cherry pipe tobacco and Old Spice—permeated the walls like incense.

  At night sometimes he called to her, floating through her dreams, caressing her skin on a breeze. She had never known, until Sam died, how thin the walls could be between this world and the next—so thin that at times she almost felt she could see eternity, like looking through a sheer curtain into forever.

  She had peered through, just once, the night of her stroke. When the lightning bolt in her head had struck, turning her legs to jelly and leaving her lying helpless on the living room rug, she had felt Sam so near, touching her, holding her hand. The pain and fear had vanished, and through her closed eyelids she had seen him, beckoning to her, urging her forward.

  At that moment, she had wanted nothing more than to follow him. She lay there, eagerly awaiting the end and the new beginning, praying with all the faith she could muster that no one would interfere until she had made it to where Sam waited on the other side.

  But Abby found her. Sirens and flashing lights pierced the darkness. The agony in her head returned. Unfamiliar faces hovered over her like vultures, and when she tried to scream, to tell them to leave her alone and let her go, her voice failed her and she couldn’t speak.

  The doctors said it was a miracle she had lived and told her that, with dedication to a program of physical therapy, she might regain even greater use of her paralyzed arm and leg. But the therapy was painful and exhausting, and Edith had no heart for it. What was the point? She would still be here, wouldn’t she, without the man she loved, without any reason to go on?

  And so Edith dragged her numb left side through empty days and even emptier nights, listening to Sam’s whisper under the eaves and forcing herself to get up every morning and pretend to be happy that she had cheated death.

  She hadn’t tried to explain her feelings to her daughter or her granddaughter or her friends. No one would understand. She was alive, after all, and didn’t everybody say that life was precious, no matter what kind of life it turned out to be? Didn’t she have her daughter and her granddaughter to console her and care for her in her waning years? She was, people kept telling her, one of the lucky ones.

  Edith lurched on down to the end of the hall and paused to catch her breath, propping one hand on the small walnut chest that stood at the lower landing. The antique mirror hanging above it was cloudy and spotted with age, but she could still see her reflection. The woman who stared back at her was barely recognizable as the same one in the wedding photograph. One side of her face hung slack and loose, unable to respond to her brain’s commands. Words came out of the distorted mouth slurred and unintelligible, even to her own ears.

  But she could still see, could still hear. And she saw how Neal Grace looked at her, heard the unspoken revulsion between every muttered word that passed for conversation. The girl could barely stand to look at her. The magic between them was gone.

  And it had been magic. For years there had been a bond connecting Edith’s heart to her granddaughter’s—stronger, if such a thing were possible, than the connection she had with her own child. Most children adored their grandparents, of course. They enjoyed being spoiled and pampered and doted on. Grandparents could love their grandchildren unconditionally, leaving the complications of discipline and training and correction up to the parents.

  But with Edith and Neal Grace, it was more than that. Much more. Since the moment of that child’s birth there had been a kind of soul-bridge between them, an understanding and commitment that went unspoken because it was far beyond the realm of any words. Minutes after her granddaughter’s birth, Edith had held the squirming, squalling infant in her arms and breathed on her, watching in wonder as the baby settled down, closed her eyes, and nestled into her grandmother’s arms as if she had found a second comforting womb.

  Perhaps the bond had been forged because Abby had been so weak after the difficult delivery, and Edith had stepped in to care for the baby. Or perhaps Neal Grace simply sensed the love in her grandmother’s touch and responded to it. Whatever the case, from the instant Neal Grace made her entrance into the world, she had been her grandmother’s child.

  Until now.

  Now the girl kept to herself, hiding in her room behind a closed door, spending as little time as possible in the common areas of the house. She spoke only when it was absolutely necessary, and despite her mother’s constant reprimands, didn’t seem to care that she was being rude.

  Edith tried to tell herself that Neal Grace was only going through a phase, being a rebellious teenager, and that she would grow out of it. But she knew better. The girl she loved so fiercely was . . .

  Ashamed of her.

  Edith looked up the stairs. She couldn’t see her granddaughter’s room from this vantage point, but she knew the door would be closed. It always was. Muffled music drifted down from overhead. She couldn’t hear the words, and doubted she would have understood them had she been standing right next to the stereo speakers. For a moment she hesitated, longing to go upstairs and talk to the child, to try once more to reestablish the bond that somehow had b
een severed.

  But it was no use. Slowly, painstakingly, she reversed course, limped into the living room, and sank down onto the sofa in front of the fireplace.

  It was beginning to get dark. Abby would be home soon. They would have another stilted, awkward dinner, just the three of them, and then Neal Grace would retreat into her own world again.

  Edith sighed and leaned back against the sofa pillows. Her eyes came to rest on the bookcase next to the fireplace, on the small ginger jar her own grandmother Gracie had bought from a street peddler nearly a hundred years ago. Outside, a car turned the corner in front of the house, and the headlights cast a faint sweep of bluish light in an arc across the wall. The gilding on the phoenix caught the light and sent it flashing, as if the bird had ruffled its wings.

  “When the phoenix flies, your wishes will come true,” Edith murmured, recalling the long-held family legend.

  And what would she wish for? That her life would turn out different? That she wouldn’t be such a burden to her daughter, such an embarrassment to her granddaughter?

  It didn’t matter what she wished. Wishing didn’t make it so.

  And yet her heart betrayed her, and she found herself wishing she could be with Sam again.

  5

  The Sky and the Stars

  and the Music

  All afternoon, as she worked with Ford putting the final touches on the October issue, Abby had not been able to rid her mind of the image of the fiddler Devin Connor with his eyes closed and his face turned toward the sky. The music swirled through her mind like wood smoke, permeating her senses with its haunting refrains.

  “Abby, come back to earth,” Ford said for the third time in an hour. “That photograph doesn’t go there; it goes here.” He leaned across her and clicked the mouse, dragging the photo across the screen. “It’s nearly five. How about if we call it quits and finish this tomorrow?”

  Relieved, Abby left Ford to tidy up the office and made a quick exit. She had intended to drive out to the Farmer’s Market, pick up a few fresh vegetables for dinner, and make Mama a real meal rather than a collection of leftovers stir-fried in the wok.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she found herself heading in the opposite direction, northward up the Blue Ridge Parkway, past the watershed, past Craggy Gardens, all the way to Mount Mitchell.

  It was nearly dusk by the time she pulled into a deserted overlook, dug in her bag for her cell phone, and punched in her home number. After four rings, the answering machine picked up. Her mother would hear it, even if she wouldn’t answer the phone.

  “Mama, it’s Abby. I’m going to be a little late, but don’t worry. I’ll fix dinner when I get home. If Neal Grace shows up, tell her not to go anywhere tonight.”

  She hesitated for a second, then added, “Love you. Bye.”

  For a second or two she waited, watching until the green screen on the phone went to black. Then she got out and sat on the warm hood of the car, facing the mountains.

  Below her, evening mist hung like stretched cotton in the layered valleys between the mountain ridges. The setting sun illuminated the clouds above the farthest range with a red-gold hue, and the sky deepened from blue to dusky purple to navy.

  Abby could feel it in her body—a creeping lethargy, as if earth’s gravity were gradually increasing and no one else had noticed. Every morning the weight seemed greater, the sheer effort of existence more demanding. Every night the yoke lay more heavily upon her, the burden of making a living, caring for Mama, trying in vain to keep Neal Grace connected to the family.

  And remembering not to scream out loud where anyone could hear.

  What had become of the life she had always envisioned when she was younger and the branches of the world hung low with ripe possibilities, waiting to drop fruit into her hand? Her heart answered before her mind had a chance to object. She knew what had happened. John Mac had died.

  Abby had never subscribed to the unhealthy notion that marriage was “two halves seeking to form a whole.” She had been whole when she met John McDougall, and no one on earth would have described him as half of anything. They hadn’t needed each other to make life complete.

  And yet, when they fell in love, something miraculous had happened. Abby had found herself opened to an entirely new dimension of light and depth and color and music, as if she had been living in black and white and suddenly turned the corner to find the world painted with a thousand brilliant hues. John Mac’s love for her—and hers for him—changed everything.

  She soon discovered he had a gift for changing lives. As director of Blue Ridge Enterprises, a small nonprofit organization, he helped the underprivileged develop sustainable businesses. He pointed with pride to the city’s numerous restaurants, shops, and home-based endeavors now owned and operated by men and women who had once lived on welfare and fed their families with groceries from the shelves of local food banks.

  Everyone who knew John McDougall loved him. When he and Abby married, their elaborate reception was catered, free of charge, by Christine, a single mom whom John Mac had helped turn her cooking and baking skills into a profitable business. They were chauffeured to the ceremony by Willie, who now owned a fleet of eight stretch limousines, thanks to John Mac’s assistance in financing his first taxicab.

  Abby had been so proud of him, so awed by his selfless giving. Every life he touched was transformed for the better, including hers. With John Mac, love was the norm and loneliness a distant memory.

  Abby had never even considered that her residence in this bright new world might not be permanent, that someday she might have to return to the old black-and-white, two-dimensional life. Until a drunk driver in a speeding car ripped away the light and color and shrouded her world in shadow.

  Now she was back in that gray, flat land, and she had no idea what to do next, where to go from here.

  What kind of life could she build without the man she loved? How could she regain the light and the color and the music? Abby wasn’t certain. She didn’t know what she wanted— only that this wasn’t it, this daily grind of deadlines and sameness and stress.

  She ought to be grateful, she supposed. She had an interesting job, a beautiful old house that had been in her family for generations, a healthy bank account, good friends. But no one else, not even those who knew her well, could understand how she felt inside. The gnawing in her gut, the tensing of every nerve, the black hole at the pit of her being that threatened to swallow her whole.

  The final rays of sunlight faded from the high clouds. Abby turned her face up toward the darkening sky. Behind her closed eyelids, she could see the image of Devin Connor, playing his fiddle first to the heavens and then to the laughing child in the stroller. She could hear the childhood tune, its simple threads woven with passion and purpose into an intricate melody. Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . .

  She opened her eyes. At the edge of the horizon, where the ebony hips of the mountains butted up against the sky, the first star winked on. Like a small, bright candle beckoning her forward.

  Still Abby sat there, watching. As the darkness deepened, more stars appeared—thousands, millions of them, close enough to touch, yet a lifetime away. Galaxies upon galaxies, calling to her, whispering secrets on the humid night air.

  Abigail Quinn could not understand the voices of the stars. And yet for the first time since John Mac’s death, she felt a tiny stirring within her, the weak but determined heartbeat of hope.

  Abby’s newfound sense of promise vanished the moment she stepped foot over the threshold of her own home. Mama sat unmoving on the sofa in the living room—in the dark. Abby could hear rock-and-roll music coming from upstairs. Obviously Neal Grace was home, sequestered in her room.

  Stifling her annoyance, she made a sweep of the living room, snapping on lights, until her circuit brought her back around to her mother. “What are you doing sitting in the dark?” she said.

  She hadn’t intended it to come out as an accusation, and yet her to
ne betrayed her. As soon as she looked into Mama’s eyes and saw the wrinkled, sagging face streaked with tears, she regretted her harshness. She sat down and took her mother’s hand. “Mama, what’s wrong?”

  Her mother said nothing, just lifted one shoulder—the right one, the good one—in a shrug.

  Abby closed her eyes and prayed for patience. Then her nostrils caught the lingering scent of something charred, and she jerked her head up. “Mama, did you use the stove today?”

  Like a naughty child caught in an act of disobedience, Mama lowered her eyes. “Yeshh. Baked cookies for girls.”

  “You baked cookies for the girls?” Abby repeated. “What girls?”

  “NeeGrace and T’rese.”

  “Teresa? You mean T. J.?”

  Mama nodded. “But I burned ’em. And spilt the milk.”

  Abby shook her head. “Ah, Mama, what am I going to do with you? You know you shouldn’t be trying to cook when I’m not here. You could hurt yourself.”

  “Sorry.” Mama bit her lip.

  “It’s all right.” Abby gave her mother a quick hug. “I just worry about you. Promise you won’t do it again?”

  When Mama nodded assent, Abby got to her feet, extended both hands, and forced her face into a smile. “Come on, then. You can keep me company while I fix supper.”

  Together they shuffled into the kitchen, Abby slowing her pace to match her mother’s. When Mama was settled in one of the chairs next to the table, Abby turned her attention to the problem of dinner. She opened the freezer and peered in.

  “We’ve got two family-sized entrees: one chicken pasta, one lasagna,” she called over her shoulder. “Which one do you want?”

  “Chicken,” Mama said.

  “OK, chicken it is. That’s Neal Grace’s favorite anyway.” Abby retrieved the chicken pasta from the freezer and read the instructions to herself as she removed the shrink-wrap. Preheat to 350. She turned toward the stove and saw a little red light glowing next to the oven controls. Not only had Mama burned the cookies, she had forgotten to turn off the oven. “Step one,” she muttered. “Looks like the preheating’s done.”