Page 43 of The Singing Trees
Leaving the car, they rounded the monstrosity to take in the full view of the cove. A wide expanse of grass turning green after winter looked to have been rolled down like carpet from the house to the water. Annalisa imagined it would take her six hours to mow all of it, but surely they had a team of landscapers. It was a splendid cloudless day,windy but magnificent. Whitecaps collided on the surface of the water. She wondered what it would be like to live here, to never have to worry about money, to wake up with a view of the water. Was it jealousy she felt? Perhaps more craving than jealousy.
Atop a tall pole near the shore, the Maine flag and a yellow-and-blue windsock gently whipped in the wind. Thomas pointed to the sailboat that danced with the current at the end of the dock. “That’s our new Hinckley, my dad’s pride and joy.” She followed his finger to the smaller boat tied to the opposite side of the dock. “And that Boston Whaler Montauk is mine. Well, at least it was. I’m sure my dad will be reacquiring it.”
He led her through the side door into the kitchen, where Mrs.Barnes waited with a tray of cookies. “I’m delighted you’re here, Annalisa, truly.” Her bright-green apron looked like it had never been worn before.
Annalisa took one of the chocolate chip peace offerings from the tray and took a bite. “They’re delicious,” she lied, thinking that if you dated outside of Italian, you were lowering the bar as far as food was concerned. She tried not to gape as she looked at all the fancy appliances peppering the elaborate kitchen. Nonna would have flipped.
Mrs.Barnes set down the tray. “I’d like to say something to both of you, if you don’t mind.”
Annalisa glanced at Thomas, who looked as caught off guard as she was.
“I’m...” Her eyes reddened. “I’m happy for you both, and I’m sorry for the way Bill is handling the situation. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he’s as hardheaded as they come. Thomas, as I’ve told you a million times, he only wants the best for you—”
“And he’s the best at showing it,” Thomas interrupted.
“Let me finish,” Mrs.Barnes said sternly. “I’m afraid he doesn’t know what the ‘best’ is. His parents were the same way. They essentially forced him into law school and tied him to a desk at the firm. I’m gladyou’re going your own way, and I suppose choosing the woman you love is a part of that freedom.” She turned to Annalisa, who was happy to hear such sincerity.
“From what Thomas and Emma have told me,” she said, “he’s lucky to have you, and...he cares so much about you. No matter what Bill has to say, I don’t want to miss out on my son’s future. On both of your futures. I support the two of you in your move, and I’m happy to see that you’re so in love. Believe it or not, Bill and I felt that way for a long time...” Pain suddenly painted her face.
“Thank you, Mrs.Barnes,” Annalisa said, truly touched by her words.
Thomas stepped toward his mother. “That means a lot, Mom. Thank you.” They hugged awkwardly, and Annalisa thought that Mrs.Barnes looked terribly lonely, just like Nonna.
After they broke apart, she brushed off her hands on her apron like she was dusting away the past. “Anyway, you two go enjoy yourselves. I just wanted to say my piece.”
“Where’s Emma?” Annalisa asked. Maybe Mrs.Barnes and Emma were both coming around. “I’d like to say hi.”
Thomas started to leave the kitchen and gestured for her to follow. “She’s upstairs.”
Mrs.Barnes untied her apron, as if her work were done. “She’ll come down in a little while.”
Annalisa followed Thomas down a hallway, took a left, then a right, then went down another hallway before entering the living room. She almost said that she could fit her whole house in this room, but she didn’t want to show how uncomfortable she felt. It wasn’t only the house. No matter how many cookies Mrs.Barnes made—or how many confessions she gave—this place still didn’t feel warm. Neither the moose head above the mantel nor the watercolors of golf courses helped.
“I’ve never seen so many pillows in my life,” she whispered, studying the fancy furniture that was arranged to look through the large,polished bay windows out over the water. She gawked at the massive oil painting above the couch, wrapped in a gold-gilded frame. It captured a typical Maine day in the fall: sailboats and fishing boats bobbing on the water, seagulls nose-diving into the water, lobstermen dumping their catches onto the deck, the wind snapping the mast lines and rippling the water.
This was exactly what she never wanted to paint: classic Davenport. Impressive but not disruptive. She sat on a couch, noticing its stiffness. She put her hands behind her head and stared out over the water. “So this is what it’s like to be Thomas Barnes. What a life.”
Thomas sat next to her. “Trade you.”
He had a point there. “Maybe for an afternoon, but I can’t paint this view.”
“And it won’t be mine to trade anyway,” he added with an uncharacteristic coldness.
Feeling like she was on a mission and hoping she might melt some of the cold in this house, she asked, “Do you mind if I go see Emma? It’s really been bothering me. Which one of the fifty bedrooms is hers?”
Armed with his directions, she climbed the stairs and enjoyed a look at Thomas’s family photos as she walked down the long hallway that echoed with each step of her boots. When she reached Emma’s door, she gave a quick knock. A Beatles record played on the other side.
“Hi, Emma, can I come in? It’s Annalisa.” Putting her ear to the door, all she could hear was Paul McCartney’s voice offering to sing a lullaby.
After a second knock, she said much louder, “Emma?”
“What do you want?” came her angry voice from the other side. “I have nothing to say to you.”
It had been more than a week since Thomas had broken the news, and it was clearly still an open wound. “Please, I just want to talk.”
When no answer came, she tested the knob and pushed the door open. A sallow-faced Emma sat in a puffy chair in the back of the roomnext to her record player. Her arms were wrapped around her shins, and she was barefoot.
“I didn’t say you could come in,” Emma snapped.
