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Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
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ex-girlfriend of Tedâs hadnât testified that he roughed her up after they split, Liza probably would have been raised in a juvenile detention home. I wonder where she is now, and how much she remembers about that night. I never could understand what Audrey saw in Ted in the first place. He wasnât fit to carry Will Bartonâs hat. But some women need a man, and Audrey was one of them, I guess. If only I hadnât encouraged Will to take riding lessons . . .
Half an hour later, reinforced with juice, toast, and a final cup of coffee, Georgette left her house and got into her car. As she backed out of the driveway onto Hardscrabble Road, she gave an appreciative glance at the pale yellow, clapboard house that had been her home for the last twenty-five years. Despite her business worries, she never failed to feel cheered by the cozy appeal of the former carriage house with its quirky arch over the front door, an unexplainable add-on to the original building.
I want to spend the rest of my life here, she thought, then tried to brush off the sudden chill that washed over her.
11
M y mother and father were buried from St. Josephâs Church. It was built on West Main Street in 1860. A school wing was added in 1962. Behind the church there is a cemetery where some of the early settlers of Mendham are buried. Among them are my ancestors.
My motherâs maiden name was Sutton, a name that goes back to the late eighteenth century, when gristmills and sawmills and forges were dotted among the rolling acres of farmland. Our original home once stood near the Pitney homestead on Cold Hill Road. The Pitney family still owns that house. In the late eighteen hundreds, the original Sutton house was demolished by a new owner.
My mother grew up on Mountainside Road, the child of older parents who fortunately for them did not live to suffer her death at age thirty-six. That home, like so many others, has been gracefully restored and expanded. I have the vaguest of childhood memories of being in thathouse. One firm memory I do have is that of my grandmotherâs friends telling my mother in no uncertain terms that my grandmother never approved of Ted Cartwright.
When I was enrolled at St. Josephâs, there were still mostly nuns on the staff. But this morning, as I walked down the hall to the pre-K class, Jackâs hand in mine, I could see that the teachers were almost all members of the laity, as the non-religious are called.
Jack already had been to nursery school in New York, and he loves to be with other children. Even so, he clung to my hand as the teacher, Miss Durkin, came over to greet him, and with a worried note in his voice, he asked, âYou will come back for me, wonât you, Mom?â
His father has been dead two years. Surely by now whatever memory he has of Larry has faded, replaced probably by a vague sense of anxiety about losing me. I know, because after the day a priest from St. Josephâs, accompanied by the owner of the Washington Valley stables, came to our home to tell us that my fatherâs horse had bolted, and that he had died instantly in a fall, I was always afraid that something would happen to my mother.
And it did. By my hand.
My mother blamed herself for my fatherâs accident. A born rider, she had often said she wished he could ride with her. Looking back, I believe he had a secret fear of horses, and, of course, horses sense that. For my mother, it was as necessary toride as it was to breathe. After she dropped me off at school she inevitably headed to the stable at the Peapack Riding Club, where she could find some solace for her grief.
I felt a tug on my hand. Jack was waiting for me to reassure him. âWhat time is class over?â I asked Miss Durkin.
She knew what I was doing. âTwelve oâclock,â she said.
Jack can tell time. I knelt down so that our faces would be even. Jack has a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. His
Half an hour later, reinforced with juice, toast, and a final cup of coffee, Georgette left her house and got into her car. As she backed out of the driveway onto Hardscrabble Road, she gave an appreciative glance at the pale yellow, clapboard house that had been her home for the last twenty-five years. Despite her business worries, she never failed to feel cheered by the cozy appeal of the former carriage house with its quirky arch over the front door, an unexplainable add-on to the original building.
I want to spend the rest of my life here, she thought, then tried to brush off the sudden chill that washed over her.
11
M y mother and father were buried from St. Josephâs Church. It was built on West Main Street in 1860. A school wing was added in 1962. Behind the church there is a cemetery where some of the early settlers of Mendham are buried. Among them are my ancestors.
My motherâs maiden name was Sutton, a name that goes back to the late eighteenth century, when gristmills and sawmills and forges were dotted among the rolling acres of farmland. Our original home once stood near the Pitney homestead on Cold Hill Road. The Pitney family still owns that house. In the late eighteen hundreds, the original Sutton house was demolished by a new owner.
My mother grew up on Mountainside Road, the child of older parents who fortunately for them did not live to suffer her death at age thirty-six. That home, like so many others, has been gracefully restored and expanded. I have the vaguest of childhood memories of being in thathouse. One firm memory I do have is that of my grandmotherâs friends telling my mother in no uncertain terms that my grandmother never approved of Ted Cartwright.
When I was enrolled at St. Josephâs, there were still mostly nuns on the staff. But this morning, as I walked down the hall to the pre-K class, Jackâs hand in mine, I could see that the teachers were almost all members of the laity, as the non-religious are called.
Jack already had been to nursery school in New York, and he loves to be with other children. Even so, he clung to my hand as the teacher, Miss Durkin, came over to greet him, and with a worried note in his voice, he asked, âYou will come back for me, wonât you, Mom?â
His father has been dead two years. Surely by now whatever memory he has of Larry has faded, replaced probably by a vague sense of anxiety about losing me. I know, because after the day a priest from St. Josephâs, accompanied by the owner of the Washington Valley stables, came to our home to tell us that my fatherâs horse had bolted, and that he had died instantly in a fall, I was always afraid that something would happen to my mother.
And it did. By my hand.
My mother blamed herself for my fatherâs accident. A born rider, she had often said she wished he could ride with her. Looking back, I believe he had a secret fear of horses, and, of course, horses sense that. For my mother, it was as necessary toride as it was to breathe. After she dropped me off at school she inevitably headed to the stable at the Peapack Riding Club, where she could find some solace for her grief.
I felt a tug on my hand. Jack was waiting for me to reassure him. âWhat time is class over?â I asked Miss Durkin.
She knew what I was doing. âTwelve oâclock,â she said.
Jack can tell time. I knelt down so that our faces would be even. Jack has a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. His
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