Leaves Read online

  Praise for Michael Baron:

  “Nicholas Sparks fans will rejoice to hear there’s a new male author on the scene who writes beautifully about love and emotionally charged relationships.”

  – RT Book Reviews

  “I never thought a guy could write women’s fiction this well. If you want deeply emotional, totally romantic novels that take you into the heart of a man, you need to read Michael Baron.”

  – New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “Michael Baron writes with deep sensitivity of the power of love to transform and heal in the face of overwhelming tragedy.”

  – #1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs

  “Michael Baron knows how to pull every string of a reader’s heart.”

  – Crystal Book Reviews

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  The Story Plant

  The Aronica-Miller Publishing Project, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2012 by The Fiction Studio

  Cover design by Barbara Aronica-Buck

  Print ISBN-13: 978-0-9841905-4-6

  E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-011-3

  Visit our website at www.thestoryplant.com

  and the author’s website at www.michaelbaronbooks.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except as provided by US Copyright Law.

  For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant Printing: September 2012

  Printed in The United States of America

  Also by Michael Baron:

  When You Went Away

  Crossing the Bridge

  The Journey Home

  Spinning

  Anything

  A Winter Discovery

  To my family.

  Acknowledgments

  The idea for this novel was launched at the Deacon Timothy Pratt Bed and Breakfast in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, so I’d like to thank them for both their hospitality and their inspiration.

  Thanks to my wife and children for their never-ending support, and to the rest of my family for providing the emotional foundation for this novel.

  Thanks to Barbara Aronica-Buck for the beautiful covers she always provides.

  Thanks to Sue Rasmussen for doing an excellent job of catching my dumb mistakes.

  Thanks to my agents Danny Baror and Heather Baror-Shapiro for always being on my side.

  Thanks to the countless musical and culinary artists who inspired Maria’s and Deborah’s scenes.

  And thanks to the leaves. If you’ve never been along the Connecticut River Valley in the early fall, you owe it to yourself.

  There’s quite a bit of music mentioned in this novel. You can follow along by going to this link that The Story Plant has set up.

  Prologue

  The car pulled up to the inn at the corner of Oak and Sugar Maple. The passengers came from Parsippany, New Jersey, but they could as easily have come from Boston or New York or Dayton, Ohio. They could even have flown in from Heathrow the night before.

  The leaves were the reason that people came, whether it was for an overnight diversion or to settle for decades, raising generations of others who would remain nearby. The hundreds of miles of coastline, the dramatic topography, the distinctive architecture, and the Revolutionary-era history were all attractions, all contributors to a sturdy economy and buoyant property values. But the signature of the Connecticut River Valley was its October leaves.

  Few places in America, or in fact, anywhere in the world, were capable of presenting a fall palette as varied and vibrant as this one. The warm, wet springs, the moderate summers, and early autumn days drenched in sunlight and crisped by cool evenings conspired to urge the trees into broad displays of color. The yellows of the hickory. The bronzes of the beech. The purples of the sumac. The oranges of the sassafras. The scarlets of the maple and the oak. The leaves were an industry here, the vehicle that filled every town in the area for the entire month with “leaf peepers,” traveling from places where nature didn’t provide such a rich visual bounty.

  The visitors stayed in places like the Sugar Maple Inn in Oldham, Connecticut. The Sugar Maple had opened its doors thirty-two years earlier, after Joseph and Bethany Gold drove up from Long Island and decided to stay in Oldham the rest of their lives. It was known regionally for the magnificent dinners it served, the homemade cookies and chocolates it left for every guest, and the artisan quilts that adorned each bed in its dozen visitor rooms. But Joseph had been gone four years now and Bethany had joined him in the summer. In the days after Bethany’s death, the Gold children, all of who still lived in Oldham, made the reluctant decision to sell the Sugar Maple to an organization that operated country inns all along the Eastern seaboard. It would officially change hands November first.

  So as this month began, the Golds prepared for the last days they would hold this property that had done so much to define them, this physical centerpiece of their family. October was always a meaningful month to them, on occasion even a momentous one. However, none could have possibly anticipated just what this October would bring.

  For this October, certain threads would fray and certain binds would loosen. Unspoken words would be uttered at last while things that needed to be said would be withheld. Tradition would be honored and the past would be rejected. One heart would beat for another’s for the first time, while one heart would stop beating forever. And a message would be delivered that was essential to all who heard it.

  All before the last of the leaves came to ground.

  One

  Wednesday, October 6

  Twenty-five days before the party

  “Yes, I know I’m late,” Tyler Gold said, not making eye contact with his brother or his sisters as he entered the common room of the inn. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll get over it,” Corrina said in the sharp tone he’d grown accustomed to hearing from her. It was difficult to know these days if she was angry with him for a specific reason or simply angry with him because he existed.

  Deborah called out from the dining room. “Dinner’s getting worse by the minute. Is Tyler here yet?”

  He was a little surprised they’d bothered to wait for him and simultaneously wished they hadn’t, though Deborah’s cooking would almost certainly be the most pleasant thing about this evening.

  “I’m here.”

  He made his way into the dining room with the rest of them, Maxwell clapping him on the shoulder as he passed by. These days Tyler felt more like the baby of the family around these people than he had since before he’d graduated high school. He had no idea why that was, given how world-weary the past year had made him feel otherwise.

  Deborah ladled soup from a tureen, something orange and redolent of cinnamon and nutmeg. She topped each bowl with a dab of sour cream and snipped fresh chives over that. Ever the maestro, even in this crowd.

  “Deborah, stop waiting on us,” Maria said. “We’re perfectly capable of serving our own soup.”

  Deborah simply smiled at her older sister, finishing at last and sitting with the rest of them.

  Then the lights went out.

  Just like when Dad died, Tyler thought instantly. It had been the night of the funeral. A beautiful but unsatisfying service that followed three days of communal heartache and eulog
izing. Mourners came back to the inn with them that day, but at night the family gathered alone for dinner. Mom had been crying for a week, but just before the meal began, she stood at the head of the table, raised her wineglass, and said, “Joseph, what you gave us will be with us forever.” Tyler touched his glass with the others and sipped through his tears. He knew what she’d said was true, but it didn’t help him miss his father any less.

  As Mom sat down after that tribute, the room went dark. For a moment, no one said anything. Then Maria started singing, her voice somewhat otherworldly coming out of the black. She sang “Autumn Leaves,” Dad’s favorite song. Tyler joined her, the youngest sibling attempting to lend ragged harmony to the oldest. It was the only jazz standard to which he knew all the words, in fact the only jazz standard on his iPod. Soon, all of them were singing, Mom’s voice, nearly as mellifluous as Maria’s, coming in last and with a purity that refuted her sadness. When the song ended, they sat in silence, Tyler half-expecting Maria to continue with another song, an impromptu concert to mark the occasion.

  At last, Maxwell went to the basement, flicked a circuit breaker, and the power came back on. However, the tenor of the day, of that terrible week, had changed. After all the comfort they’d tried to bring each other at the wake and the funeral, it seemed to Tyler that this group song had managed to give them a modicum of peace.

  Tyler didn’t know whether anyone else seated at the table tonight flashed back to that previous power failure the way he did. All he knew was that the lights went back on of their own accord a few minutes later.

  And this time no one sang.

  **^^^**

  “I’m just saying that I think we’re getting off to a bad start with the party,” Corrina said, her fork poised outward above her plate. “We have less than a month – a lot less than a month, really – to get everything together.”

  And what happens if we don’t get everything together perfectly, Tyler thought. Will a huge hole open up and swallow us, taking all of Oldham with it? The party meant a lot to him, too, especially this year, but Corrina had a way of making it sound like the fate of the free world depended on having just the right balloons.

  Maxwell leaned toward Corrina’s still-suspended fork. “I really would dedicate all of my time to it, Cor, but I kinda have this job thing that gets in the way. I mean if it wasn’t for the annoying obligation to feed my family, I’d take care of the entire party myself.”

  Corrina scowled. “Yes, I have a job too, Maxwell. Yet I still manage to think about this function a little. It’s called multitasking. Try it sometime.”

  “Great salmon,” Maria said to Deborah in a stage whisper.

  Deborah rolled her eyes toward Maxwell and Corrina. “Thanks.”

  “I can do more,” Tyler said, not really stopping to think. The fact was he could do more. Without Patrice and with business as slow as it was, he had much more free time than he needed or wanted.

  Corrina shook her head. “You have enough on your plate.”

  “Really, I don’t.”

  “It’s fine, Tyler. We’ll get it all done.”

  There was no way to win with her right now. If he said he was maxed out, she would have criticized him for that. At least Ryan wasn’t here to sneer at him tonight.

  This was the first Wednesday in two months that all of them had gotten together for dinner. It hadn’t been a weekly thing since before Mom got sick. Corrina, for reasons known only to her, wanted this particular one to be a siblings-only event. No spouses or kids. Tyler wondered how Gardner, Annie, and Doug felt about being excluded. Were they offended or relieved? Almost certainly the latter. Maybe they were even laughing together at a nearby restaurant.

  “Let’s just go over everyone’s responsibilities again, so we’re clear,” Maria said.

  Corrina sighed. “You’re taking care of the entertainment, Maria. And it really is getting tight if you want to book a DJ. Deborah is doing the food, obviously, and we need to finalize the menu soon. Maxwell is in charge of promotion and publicity, and Tyler needs to take care of the decorations.”

  “It’s all very doable,” Maxwell said.

  “As long as we really want to do it.”

  Maxwell narrowed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t we want to do it? We all agreed to throw one more Halloween party.”

  Corrina seemed a little flustered by this confrontation. Tyler thought she might even cry. “It just doesn’t feel like we’re giving this our all.”

  Tyler stood up. “We’ll get it done. We’ll even get it done well. Maybe not as well as Mom and Dad always did it, but it’ll be good. Listen, I have to run.”

  Corrina offered him a confused expression. “You’re leaving already?”

  “I know I should have cleared the whole night, but I couldn’t. I need to get some shots cleaned up before tomorrow, and I’m already gonna be at this until just before dawn. Deborah, thanks; dinner was great. I’ll see you all soon.”

  No one rose as Tyler left the table, which was just as well. At this point, he felt as though he needed a little distance from all of them. He stepped out of the inn and headed home. Maybe he truly would spend some time touching up some photos on his computer, though it could certainly wait until tomorrow or even next week.

  It was an okay option if there was nothing good on TV.

  Two

  Thursday, October 7

  Twenty-four days before the party

  Tyler was dreaming of dancing pumpkins when the clock radio came on. For a moment, the pumpkins swayed to the rhythm of the song before Tyler realized what was going on. Why’d I set the alarm? I don’t have to be anywhere this morning.

  The song was James Taylor’s version of “Up on the Roof,” one of Maria’s favorites. He remembered when she bought the album and played the song in what seemed to be an endless loop. It was the first pop song Tyler knew by heart – he was six at the time – and one afternoon, he found himself humming it while passing Maria’s bedroom.

  “Do you know what you’re humming?” she said.

  “It’s that roof song.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, that roof song. You like it?”

  “You play it all the time.”

  “But do you like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s good.”

  She seemed very happy to learn this. “Do you want to hear some more stuff like that?”

  “Sure.”

  Maria invited him into her room and showed him her considerable record collection. She pulled out albums and played him a variety of songs: new stuff like Jackson Browne, Boston, and Bruce Springsteen, and cherished records like Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman, Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks, and the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. Tyler had heard some of this stuff before – Maria always had music on in her room – but he listened to it differently now as his sister pointed out the way a drumbeat changed in a certain place or the way the singer sang the same words differently each time. He thought key changes were the coolest thing in the world and loved the fact that none of his friends had any idea what he was talking about when he pointed one out.

  After that, he and Maria became close music buddies. Every time she bought a new album, she invited him in to listen, and when she went off to college, she came back to tell him about all the new bands she’d heard. He loved that they had this between them, and he especially loved it when he got the opportunity to reciprocate by introducing her to new stuff as he got older.

  When was the last time they’d gotten together to talk about new music? Did Maria even listen to new music now?

  He finally got up the energy to shut off the radio, still trying to remember why he set it in the first place. He reached across the bed to flick the toggle. But the alarm wasn’t set. The clock read four eighteen. Was he dreaming? His dreams were never that vivid.

  James Taylor ad-libbed his way toward the end
of the song, which faded out gently. Convinced now that he was truly awake – more awake than he would expect to be at four nineteen in the morning – Tyler wondered which song would come up next. What was the song that came after this one on the album? But the radio remained silent.

  He lay back in bed, thinking, this isn’t a convenient time for me to lose my mind.

  **^^^**

  It’s a funny thing. They’re always at their most beautiful just before they die. The new photos had just come out of the printer, and Tyler found the richness and depth of color in them moving. The leaves in Oldham had just begun to change, but it was already obvious the foliage was going to be stunning this fall. He’d read in the local paper that conditions were near-optimal this year, though the media around here tended to say the same before relatively muted seasons. The local equivalent of propaganda. Still, if these first days were any indication, it would be a gorgeous month.

  This was the first opportunity he’d had this year to photograph leaves as they came off the trees. There were three or four great shots here. A burnt umber sassafras set alone against a vivid blue sky, curling upward as though attempting to take flight. An almost coppery beech juxtaposed against a stand of trees across the park just beginning to be dotted with yellow. A lemony hickory as it pirouetted just inches from the ground. Those were the best of this lot, and they were very good. People would buy these.