A Sardonic Death Chap. 1

A Chopin mazurka sparkled from my phone. “Penny for your thoughts,” I answered, knowing I sounded like a smart aleck.
A chuckle. “This is Ophelia Reid.”

It took a nanosecond for the gears in my cranial computer to hum in counterpoint to the whine of my rental car’s tires on the interstate. It was my landscape design client’s wife. I’d missed my promised meeting date with Aidan Reid two weeks ago. And although I’d left him an apologetic message when I realized I couldn’t get back to Annapolis when I’d hoped, he’d obviously asked his wife to rebuke me.

In the exit lane to the airport, holding the phone to my ear: “Yes, Ms. Reid. I’m terribly sorry about the delay. As your husband may have told you, I’ve been out of town—”

“That’s not why I’m calling, Miss Summers.”
I held my breath.
“Aidan died last week.”
Oh.My.God.
“I am so sorry,” I said feigning sorrow with the best of intentions.

It was a serious blow. My first important garden design commission had crash-dived into a mess of manure. I had so looked forward to gorgeous photos of the new Ravenscroft entry landscape in my sales portfolio.

Easy come, easy go, whispered my late lamented Grandpa Jack, who occasionally sends me astute observations from beyond the grave.
No! my brain answered.

“Aidan wanted so much to work with you.” This was awkward. I had never met this woman.
“Ummm…is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid, except I’d like to discuss your preliminary design when you get back.”

My panic level subsided at the same time that I mentally kicked myself for selfishly thinking only of my own career.

“I’ll be in Annapolis tomorrow,” I said. “I can give you a call and we could find a time to meet.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Penelope.”

That was weird. I’d told Aidan my name was Penny and my business card didn’t show my full name. Just Penny. “Likewise, Ms. Reid.” I was ready to tap my phone off.

“Penelope?” There it was again.
Penny has always been short for Penelope, Grandpa Jack whispered.
“Yes…?”
“Another, even bigger reason why I’m looking forward to meeting you is…” She paused for a breath as if she couldn’t remember. “Is because twenty-three years ago, my name was Joan Summers.”

I swerved to the shoulder, stomped the brake, and scrunched to a stop. “Mom?”

I couldn’t believe that this Ophelia Reid was the same woman who abandoned us twenty-three years ago.

I snagged the Delta steward as he checked my seatbelt and ordered two airline-sized bottles of chardonnay. In the air, as soon as the seat belt sign was switched off, the steward slipped me my prizes, a plastic cup and paper napkin. I chugged one and set the other on my tray.

Joan Summers, aka Mom, had left our family in the nineties for what my brother Spencer and I assumed was a flower-in-your-hair escape from the realities of motherhood. In my heart, though, I knew the catalyst for her getaway was the drowning death of my little brother Josh. Which I’d tortured myself for years into believing was my fault. I still believe it.

At the ripe young age of ten, my life had been ruptured. There were ten with-Mom years which were increasingly difficult to recall. Then all the post-Mom years. Twenty-three of them now. Dad raised us as well as he knew how.

My brother Spencer and I assumed Mom had joined a commune somewhere growing organic veggies. Or had become part of a group to protest research on animals. Whatever. As my life stretched into high school, four years at the Naval Academy, six years in uniform, and now four years back in Annapolis, I had long since accepted that we would never see her again. As a ten-year-old, I’d concocted several punishments for her if she ever reappeared. One involved adding dog kibble to her granola. Another was to dye her undies with Montblanc pen ink. A third would be to ask my friend Sheree to use her makeup kit to give me a bruise and black eye that I could tell the school nurse I had received from Mom. It might not have worked, but I was angry. As the years passed, though, I finally decided that I’d have to get by without a mother. I could “tough it out” as we used to say but even now, I’m still trying to understand her abandoning us.

I poured the second little bottle of chardonnay into the cup and wondered how I would handle meeting this woman who had cheated me out of my childhood. The real question was how my life might have been different if she hadn’t left. And that, I concluded, was a kind of Zen riddle: one for which there is no answer. Did that mean my anger was focused on the unknowable? And did that mean I was truly angry, or did I only think I ought to feel angry?

Ultimately, I would tough it out because my hope for this commission was much bigger than my need to dredge up the past. Photographs of the Reid’s new entry could help sell my design services to future clients. It would be huge for my budding career.

The call also brought up the question of how Aiden Reid had died. When I’d left the preliminary concept with him, he seemed to be in perfect health. Ebullient, in his early fifties, only slightly overweight, his sandy hair in a ponytail, and anxious to contribute to the design process.

With another swallow of chardonnay, I wondered whether he might have realized I was Ophelia’s daughter. I doubted it. Although when we first met, there was something about him that seemed vaguely familiar. What on earth could have caused his death in the three short weeks I was in North Carolina?

Let it go, Grandpa Jack whispered. People die. Get over it.