The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  Gary hooked his thumb in the direction of their house, where a brand-new Dodge Pioneer station wagon sat in the driveway. “Come on, Wes—you’re not even twenty-seven, and you’re driving a station wagon. I’m just assuming you’d have to be pretty ball-less to let her talk you into something like that.”

  Wes gritted his teeth but kept smiling. “Sometimes it’s easier to give in without an argument. The sooner you realize that, the happier you’ll be.”

  Recalling what Wes had said, I asked, “Are you moving in with your dad?”

  “Yeah—Lacy and I decided the apartment’s really too small for a family of three. Dad invited us. I think he’s a little lonely here without Mother. And Lacy’s happy to have Ray Von here to help.”

  I tried not to cringe outwardly as Wes spoke Lacy’s name. His wife. I forced a smile. “I’m sure Ray Von will enjoy having a young person in the house again.”

  Gary kissed the top of my head. “I’ll come by and see you later. Got to help my big brother.” Gary left my side and walked by Wes. As he passed, Wes cuffed him on the side of the head. “That’s for calling me ball-less.”

  Gary shot a fist out and caught Wes on the arm. They faced each other with identical expressions of affection mixed with antagonism. I excused myself in an attempt to break the tension, noting how much of the little boy was still left in both men.

  I cursed aloud when I saw the blue light flashing on the inside dashboard of the car behind me on St. Charles Avenue. I wondered how long it had been following me—it was hard to see out the rear window with balloons and flowers filling the backseat.

  “You are so stupid,” I said to the young woman in the mirror as I waited for the officer to get out of his car and approach. I had been saying that to her for weeks as I had thrown myself into settling in, my new job, and preparations for Gary’s party. I’d been completely naive, believing that four years had changed my feelings for Wes, or would have prepared me for living next door to him, his wife, and his two-and-a-half-year-old son, Johnny.

  I started at a tapping on my window. I opened it and looked at the man, wondering where I had seen him before. He wasn’t wearing a uniform but held out a badge, and I recognized the name, Pierre Houlihan. He had been the detective in charge of the interrogation at the Guidrys’ house after Mrs. Guidry disappeared.

  “I wasn’t speeding,” I said.

  “I know. That’s not why I pulled you over.”

  I looked at my watch. Hardly enough time as it was to get everything ready for tonight. All that was left of my patience evaporated. “Look, Detective. Would you mind just going ahead and giving me a ticket for whatever it is I’m guilty of? I really need to get going.”

  He tucked his almost nonexistent chin into his ample neck. “Do you think you’re guilty of something, Miss Mercier?”

  Panic seized me at the mention of my name. “You know who I am?”

  He regarded me with light brown eyes. “Yes, I do.”

  I slowly reached over and flipped off my radio, my heart pumping faster. “Why were you following me?”

  Lieutenant Houlihan opened my car door and asked me to step out. He stood back from the car and put his hands up, palms toward me, in a gesture of peace. We were near the intersection of St. Charles and Jackson and I prayed nobody I knew would see me. I had never known anybody to be asked to step outside of their car.

  “Miss Mercier, I’m not here to intimidate you. I just wanted to talk to you alone—away from your friends and family. Just you and me in a little heart-to-heart.” He regarded me steadily, and his eyes under his black fedora weren’t unkind. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you again before you left, and I’ve been waiting a long time for you to return.”

  “Lieutenant Houlihan, if I had anything I wanted to say to you, I would have called. I still have your card. Somewhere.”

  He gave me a crooked grin. “Somewhere. Right.” He paused and lit a cigarette, his movements casual but precise. “So, tell me. Where do you think Mrs. Guidry is?”

  I crossed my arms in front of me, suddenly feeling cold despite the heat. “All I know is what everybody else knows. She ran off with another man.” I looked away, not able to meet his eyes, and hoped he didn’t notice. Wes had told me that she’d left with the artist who’d painted the portrait of her, but that his father didn’t want anyone to know, as if that were somehow more of an embarrassment than her running off with a complete stranger. Maybe as far as society gossip was concerned, the unknown was always far more romantic than the facts.

  Detective Houlihan took a long drag on his cigarette, studying the red car filled with balloons. “Can you think of any reason why Wes might lie to you—or to us—about his mother’s whereabouts?”

  His gaze turned back to me, cold and calculating this time. I rubbed my hands up and down my arms. “Of course not! Why would he lie about such a thing? He loved his mother. He would give anything to have her back.”

  Shrewd eyes stared into mine. “Anything?”

  “He loved his mother,” I said again. “Why are you asking all these questions? Why would you think Wes would lie?”

  Lieutenant Houlihan flicked cigarette ash on the pavement. “It’s what I do, Miss Mercier. Since Mrs. Guidry isn’t here to tell me where she is, it’s my job to find out and make sure that’s where she wants to be.” He looked at me closely.

  I didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. He stuck the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. “What about Mr. Guidry? Did he love his wife?”

  I remembered Wes’s parents, their odd relationship, and how I’d seen them in bed together at River Song. “Yes—he loved her. In a way.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “In what way?”

  My eyes refused to meet his. “She was delicate. I imagine it was difficult living with her. But I only saw them during the summers. I don’t know what they were like the rest of the time.”

  He took another drag of the cigarette and dropped it on the ground, crushing it out under his heel. “Uh-huh. Well . . .” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled business card and held it out to me. Then he smiled and shook my hand.

  “Miss Mercier, it’s been a pleasure. And please send my regards to your father.”

  My hand stilled in his, then dropped to my side. “My father? How do you know my father?”

  His fists formed little balls in his pockets. He looked at me, his expression grim. “I was one of the uniformed cops who responded to the emergency call when your mother was killed.”

  “Oh,” I said, my voice small, suddenly smelling blood and feeling the weight of the darkness around me.

  I must have looked odd, because I felt his hand on my arm, steadying me. His voice was solicitous. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Can I get in my car now?”

  Gently, he led me to my side of the car and held the door open. “Are you sure you’re okay? I could drive you home.”

  “No, really—I’m fine. I just felt a little light-headed for a moment. It’s probably the heat. I’m not used to it yet.” My hands gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

  Lieutenant Houlihan crossed his arms on the car door and leaned in the window. “One more thing. Have you heard from Xavier Williams?”

  “No, I haven’t. Not since I left four years ago. Why?”

  He examined his fingernails closely. “We’d like to question him, but nobody seems to know where he is.” He raised his eyes to mine. “It’s just odd that they would disappear at the same time.”

  My head pounded, keeping rhythm with the flashing blue police light. “I’m sorry I can’t help you further, Lieutenant Houlihan. I’ll be sure and call you if I think of anything.” I waved his business card in front of him.

  “Yes, you do that.” He removed his arms and I raised the window, turning the ignition simultaneously with the other hand. My tires squealed as I pulled out into traffic and headed home.

  Gary and I sat next to each other on the piano bench, si
pping punch and watching people. Soft music from a live band drifted through every room, only the resonant beat audible over the din of people talking. I tried eating some of the hors d’oeuvres, but everything tasted bland. I found myself nibbling on crackers as I sat at the bench, crumbs scattered on my black dress. Gary had tried to get me to pick a more colorful hue, but I was drawn to black. When I’d stepped out of the dressing room at Maison Blanche, Gary whistled, and I knew that I had found the perfect dress.

  Laughter erupted from a corner of the room and we both turned to see Lacy, stunning in an ice blue sheath dress, her figure as slim as it had been before she had Johnny. My gaze traveled over her shoulder and I saw Wes, and our eyes met. I looked away, whispered an excuse to Gary, and left for the sanctuary of the kitchen.

  Trays of food brought by the caterers sat on the counter by the oven. Piles of plates, scraped clean, towered in stacked rows. I sat at the kitchen table, still clutching my glass of punch, and watched as two waiters scurried in with more plates and put another platter in the oven to heat. They slid out the door without a word, leaving me in silence, the low roar of people mercifully blocked by the swinging door.

  I shut my eyes, listening to the distant hum of voices until I detected an acrid odor creeping through the closed oven. I turned my head to see a coil of dark smoke eking its way out of both sides of the door. I popped out of my chair, rushed to the door, and opened it. I coughed as my face and shoulders were immediately engulfed in the smoke. Without thinking, I stuck my hand into the mayhem and grabbed the tray to yank it out. As my fingers made contact with the metal, I screamed—but didn’t let go. It was as if I didn’t at first realize what was burning my fingers.

  I finally let go of the tray, dropping it on the open lid of the oven door and hearing it clatter onto the ceramic floor, the puffed pastries somersaulting like fat cats. My eyes smarted from the smoke and the pain, and my mouth opened in a silent wail. The kitchen door swung open and Wes stood in the doorway, tall, dark, and like an avenging angel with the oven smoke swirling around him.

  “Aimee! What happened?”

  I looked at my hand, now red and shiny and reminding me of a tomato without its peel. I clutched the wrist with the other hand and held it up to him.

  He rushed into the room, the door swinging shut behind him and fanning the smoke in fat puffs toward us. I coughed and leaned against the counter, my hand throbbing. He grabbed me and spun me around to face the sink. He stood behind me as he turned on the cold-water tap and then, holding my hand in his, held it under the cool stream.

  I flinched as the water hit my wound, and pulled my hand away. Gently, Wes guided it back under the water, using his other hand to soften the flow by splaying his fingers under the tap and then letting the runoff drip from his hand to mine.

  I sagged against him and raised my eyes to the window over the sink. I saw the reflection of his eyes as we regarded each other. His face was curved and distorted from the old glass, only a ghost of the real man. I wanted to reach and touch the man in the glass, but knew he would be cold and lifeless against my pliant fingers, his warm flesh unobtainable to me.

  “It hurts.” My voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “I know,” he said, and kissed the top of my head.

  I closed my eyes and leaned into him, listening to the hollow sound of water hitting the metal sink.

  Eventually, he shut off the tap and led me back to the kitchen table. Then he grabbed a handful of ice from a bucket left behind by one of the waiters and wrapped it in a kitchen towel. Pulling out a chair, he sat in front of me and held the ice pack on my hand, his large hands cupping mine.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked and I found I couldn’t look at him.

  “It’s not your fault. I was just careless. . . .”

  His hand squeezed mine, forcing me to look up.

  “That’s not what I mean—and you know it.”

  I nodded. “I know.” I swallowed, looking for words. “I can’t stop the way I feel about you, Wes. I try, but I don’t think it will ever stop.”

  He started to speak, but I raised my other hand to silence him. “What hurts me most is that you were able to let me go so easily.”

  His eyes rounded in shock. “Easily? My God, Aimee, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” He leaned toward me, his hands now covering mine. “I’ll never get over you, Aimee. It will always be you.”

  I tried to pull away from him, remembering the hurt and betrayal, his sudden and inexplicable change of heart. “Then tell me why. Then maybe I could make my head and heart understand.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You need to know about Gary.”

  All was quiet in the kitchen as we contemplated each other, the sounds of the party distant and inconsequential to us. “What about him?”

  “Gary’s not as healthy as he would like us to think. His heart’s not very strong.” He squeezed my hands. “He loves you, Aimee. Do you think you could try to love him back?”

  Before I could answer, the door swung open and Lacy breezed into the kitchen, followed closely by Gary. Gary held the door with his arm as Lacy stood, icy and blue, with her arms folded over her chest.

  She looked at me but spoke to Wes. “You’ve been gone a long time.” She clenched her lips, her bright blue gaze moving from Wes, then to me, and then to my swaddled hand, still held in his.

  “She had an accident.” Wes gently moved my hand to my lap and slid his chair back. Without a word, he stood and moved to Lacy as Gary stepped forward and sat down where Wes had been. He picked up my hand and unwrapped the towel. Ice slipped out and hit the floor, dancing on the ceramic tiles.

  Lacy and Wes left the room but neither Gary nor I turned to look or say good-bye.

  Gary spoke softly. “Are you okay?”

  My lip trembled as I looked up at Gary. “Don’t you dare be nice to me now—I’ll start crying again.”

  “Not a problem,” he said, moving his chair closer so he could lean back while still holding my hand. “Your boobs are too big and are practically falling out of your dress.”

  I sat up, shocked. “What?”

  He grinned his most endearing grin. “Don’t feel like crying anymore, do you?”

  I leaned forward and hit him on the shoulder with my good hand. Then I sat back in the chair again, suddenly self-conscious. “Are they really?”

  His grin this time was nothing but lascivious. “Oh, yes. But you’ll never hear any complaints from me.”

  I felt my face break into a smile. “I don’t know if I should slap you or hug you.”

  He put his hand to his forehead. “Oh, baby—how ’bout both?”

  I laughed outright now, relieved at the sound. I wasn’t sure I still remembered how.

  My grandmother entered the kitchen, her brows knitted together. Her face uncreased as she spotted me. “There you are, Aimee. I’ve been wondering where you had disappeared to. You’ve been neglecting your hostessing duties.”

  She paused as she regarded my wrapped hand. “What happened?”

  “I burned it.” I showed my palm to her, the side of it now covered in a thin, watery blister.

  Gary stood. “She’s not feeling well. I thought I might walk her home now, if you think it’s okay.”

  Grandmother looked at me, sympathy in her eyes. “Certainly. You do look tired. I’m sure Gary’s father won’t mind if I take over.” She bent and kissed me on the cheek, then left, the sound of her sensible heels strong and purposeful.

  We exited through the back door and walked slowly to my grandmother’s house, pausing on the garden path as a large palmetto bug skittered by in front of us. I had a great aversion for the giant insects and Gary usually teased me about it. But not tonight.

  Mrs. Guidry’s garden wilted with neglect. The wind rustled the dead leaves on the vines as they clung tenaciously to dried stalks. Shriveled brown blooms bowed toward the tired grass, returning to the earth from which they had sprung. I shut
the gate behind me, staring at the lifeless fountain, the little boy still and alone in the wrecked garden. My hand lingered on the wrought iron as I recalled the woman who had once given this place life and wondered if the new life she had found was as barren now as the garden she had left behind.

  “Sit with me for a while.” I indicated the swing on my grandmother’s wraparound porch. Gary held it still for me as I sat and then he joined me in the dim glow of the porch light. We swung in silence, listening to the night sounds of the city and the creak of the chain. A frog croaked from the Creole box shrubs, hopefully dining on fat, juicy mosquitoes. The scents of late-summer oleander and phlox hung in the humid air, enfolding us like a blanket. A storm-borne breeze carried with it the smell of rain. It picked up the leaves of the magnolia tree, the streetlight creating moving shadows under the long branches.

  There was something about the moving shadows that made me think of my mother, a deep memory that stayed hidden and wouldn’t be dislodged. I turned to Gary. “Do you still think about your mother?”

  He clenched his hands, and then relaxed them. “Yeah. I do. All the time. I didn’t tell you, but a few years ago I hired a private investigator to find her. I just couldn’t believe she would go off like that and never contact us again. Wes and my father were furious when they found out—it’s like they wanted to write her out of our lives just like she had written us out of hers. Not that it matters anyway. The PI never found anything.”

  “Did he interview Abe Holt?”

  “I never talked to the PI about it, but Wes did. Said most PIs were in it for the money, so he took over the investigation because he knew how to deal with him. Wes told me the PI interviewed Mr. Holt, and that Mr. Holt admitted to having an affair with my mother, but that she’d abandoned him shortly after they left New Orleans and he hadn’t heard from her since.” Gary clenched his jaw. “I don’t blame her, you know. Life with my father would have sent even a saint astray. I just don’t understand why she would never write to me or call me.”