Driftwood Lane (Nantucket #4)(23)

She squeezed again to no effect, then noticed as the smoke cleared that the fire was already out. Jake was pulling up the old window sashes.

“You trying to burn the place down? That fireplace hasn’t been used in years.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

“The inch of dirt in the grate?”

“I thought it was ashes.” She set down the extinguisher and opened another window, coughing. “What’s wrong with it anyway?”

“Bird’s nest, cracked flue pipe, who knows?”

The smoke was slowly rolling out the windows, the air inside clearing. “Shouldn’t the smoke detectors be going off?”

He opened the door, heedless of the bugs that were probably coming in. “Count your blessings.”

Great. Something else wrong. Maybe they needed fresh batteries.

“I’ll have a look at the fireplace later if you want.”

“The smoke detectors are priority one now. Start on that next,” she said, still stung by his tone.

He gave a mock salute and left the room.

Meridith carried the box of photos into the kitchen and set it on the island. Not as comfy in here, but at least she could breathe, and she had plenty of room to sort.

She opened the window and door to air out the room, then settled on a stool. The photos had been tossed into the box haphazardly. She found pictures of T. J. and Noelle in the Galaxie for some parade, mixed with photos of Christmas and Ben’s birth.

As she sorted, an idea formed. She’d make an album, one for each of the children, something to remember their parents, their family. As the idea settled, she became excited as she anticipated their responses. She would buy special acid-free albums and use scrapbooking decorations as she’d done for her own high school scrapbook. It would be a keepsake the children would treasure all their lives.

Meridith began sorting the photos by child. She’d worry about chronology later. She found a photo of Max when he was younger, sitting on a motorcycle with a man who could only be Uncle Jay, but a black helmet covered the man’s head. Too bad. She was curious to see what this paragon looked like. And there didn’t seem to be any other photos of him. Strange.

She paused over a recent photo of Noelle with her mother cuddled on one of the Adirondack chairs down by the shore. It must’ve been spring or fall. Eva, wearing a periwinkle hoodie, had her arms wrapped around Noelle and smiled with her whole face. Noelle’s head rested on her mother’s shoulder, and she turned a shy smile toward the cameraman—her father?

Meridith felt a tweak of jealousy. The photo captured a moment of contentment between Eva and Noelle, and Meridith knew instinctively it was the norm, not the exception. Noelle was a lucky girl to have been loved that way.

The second the thought formed, she chided herself. How could she be jealous of a relationship that had just been stolen from the child? She was certain Noelle didn’t feel lucky at all. Though maybe someday, when they were on better terms, she’d articulate how blessed Noelle had been to have loving parents.

Meridith laid the photo in Noelle’s pile and pulled a small shoebox from the larger box. She opened the lid and found the box filled with more memorabilia.

A smoke alarm beeped loudly. At least Jake was working on them.

She withdrew a paper from the shoebox and unfolded it. It took a moment for the words to register, for the title to ring a bell.

The heading read Restaurant Hospitality Magazine and below that was an article on food safety in restaurants—her article. It was printed off the computer. Her photo was centered on the page.

She stared at the paper as if it would explain itself. How had her father acquired it? Why? Maybe Eva ran across it while doing research for Summer Place and printed it out.

Meridith set the article aside and grabbed a rubber-banded stack of greeting cards. Maybe she should turn the children’s albums into scrapbooks, so she could include the cards and pictures they’d drawn.

She removed the rubber band and opened the first card. Her hands froze as she read the signature. Love, Meridith. The writing was large and sloppy, the size of the letters inconsistent. It was a birthday card. She opened the next card. Father’s Day, her signature.

Her heart drummed out a hard, heavy beat. Christmas. Father’s Day. Birthday. At least twenty cards, some with a sentence or two accompanying the signature. I love you, Daddy. You’re the best. Then the later ones. I miss you, Dad.

She closed the card in her hand, bundled them back into the rubber band. So he’d kept her cards. Big deal. Would’ve been nice if he’d picked up the phone and asked if they had grocery money. If they’d been evicted. If her mother was conscious.

She wanted to toss the shoebox aside, but she forced herself to finish. A few coloring-book pages; a cheap ring, warped and tarnished; school photos; a poem written on pale-green primary writing paper:

Daddys give hugs and kises

Daddys make hambergers on the gril

Daddys read bedtime storys

Daddys love

Meridith wadded up the paper and threw it into the wastebasket. Daddies don’t leave their child with an incompetent parent. Daddies don’t remarry and forget their firstborn child. She’d written him letters, waited for him to contact her. Sometimes she’d nearly picked up the ringing phone, praying it was him, even though her mom had forbidden answering it because of the bill collectors. Eventually she stopped writing, stopped hoping. Her mom said her daddy had left her, too, and it was best she just put him from her mind.