by Nora Roberts
She headed west out of Charleston, then dipped south to begin her planned circle of the state before landing in Progress. The list of artists and craftsmen she intended to visit was neatly typed and in her new briefcase. Directions for each were included, and it meant taking a number of back roads. Time-consuming, but necessary.
She’d already made arrangements with several southern artists to display and sell their work in the shop she would open on Market Street, but she needed more. Starting small didn’t mean not starting well.
Start-up costs, buying stock, finding an acceptable place to live were going to take nearly every penny she’d saved. She intended to make it worthwhile, and she intended to make more.
In a week, if everything went as planned, she would begin setting up shop. By the end of May, she would open the doors. Then they would see.
As for the rest, she would deal with what came when it came. When the time was right, she would drive down the long, shady lane to Beaux Reves and face the Lavelles.
She would face Hope.
At the end of a week, Tory was exhausted, several hundred dollars poorer thanks to a cracked radiator, and ready to call an end to her travels. The replacement radiator meant she had to postpone her arrival in Florence until the following morning, and make do for a night with the dubious comfort of a motel off Route 9 outside of Chester.
The room stank of stale smoke, and its amenities included a sliver of soap and pay movies designed to stimulate the sexual appetites of the rent-by-the-hour clientele that kept the establishment out of bankruptcy. There were stains on the carpet, the origin of which she decided it best not to contemplate.
She’d paid cash for one night because she didn’t like the idea of handing over her credit card to a sly-eyed clerk who smelled like the gin he cleverly disguised in a coffee mug.
The room was as unappealing as the idea of climbing back behind the wheel for another hour, but it was there. Tory carried the single flimsy chair to the door and hooked its spindly top under the knob. She decided it was every bit as security-proof as the thin and rusted chain. Still, using both gave her the illusion of safety.
It was a mistake, she knew, to allow herself to become so fatigued. Resistance went down. But everything had conspired against her. The potter she’d seen in Greenville had been temperamental and difficult to pin down. If he hadn’t also been brilliant, Tory would have walked out of his studio after twenty minutes instead of spending two hours praising, placating, and persuading.
The car had taken another four hours, between getting towed, negotiating for a reconditioned radiator at the junkyard, browbeating the mechanic to do the repair on the spot.
Add to that, she admitted it was her own stupidity that had landed her in the By the Way Inn. If she’d simply booked a room back in Greenville, or stopped at one of the perfectly respectable motor lodges on the interstate, she wouldn’t be stumbling with exhaustion around a smelly room.
Only one night, she reminded herself, as she eyed the dingy green cover on the bed. For pocket change, it offered the questionable delights of Magic Fingers.
She decided to pass.
Just a few hours’ sleep, then she’d be on her way to Florence, where her grandmother would have the guest room—clean sheets, a hot bath—ready. She just had to get through the night.
Without even taking off her shoes, she lay down on the spread and closed her eyes.
Bodies in motion, slicked with sweat.
Baby, yeah, baby. Give it to me. Harder!
A woman weeping, pain rolling through her hot as lava.
Oh God, God, what am I going to do? Where can I go? Any place but back. Please don’t let him find me.
Scattered thoughts and fumbling hands, all panicked excitement and raging guilt.
What if I get pregnant? My mother will kill me. Is it going to hurt? Does he really love me?
Images, thoughts, voices washed over her in waves of shapes and sounds.
Leave me alone, she demanded. Just leave me alone. With her eyes still shut, Tory imagined a wall, thick and high and white. She built it brick by brick until it stood between her and all the memories left hanging in the room like smoke. Behind the wall was all cool, clear blue. Water to float in, to sink in. And finally, to sleep in.
And high above that pale blue pool the sun was white and warm. She could hear birdsong, and the lap of water as she trailed her hands through it. Her body was weightless here, her mind quiet. At the edges of the pool she could see the grand live oaks and their lacing of moss, and a willow bowing like a courtier to dip its fronds in the glassy surface.
Smiling to herself she closed her eyes and drifted.
The sound of laughter was high and bright, a girl’s careless joy. Lazily, Tory opened her eyes.
There, by the willow, Hope stood waving.
Hey, Tory! Hey, I was looking for you.
Joy struck first, a bright arrow. Turning in the water, Tory waved back. Come on in. The water’s great.
We get caught skinny-dipping, we’re both going to get it. But giggling, Hope shucked off her shoes, her shorts, then her shirt. I thought you went away.
Don’t be dopey. Where would I go?
I’ve been looking a long time. Slowly, Hope eased into the water. Willow slim and marble white. Her hair spread out to float on the surface. Gold against blue. Forever and ever.
The water darkened, began to stir. The graceful fronds of the willow snapped up like whips. And the water was cold, suddenly so cold Tory began to shiver.
Storm’s coming up. We’d better go in.
It’s over my head. I can’t reach the bottom. You have to help me. As the water churned, Hope flailed out, her thin young arms beating, spewing up curtains of water that had gone the murky brown of a marsh.
Tory struck out, strong strokes, frantic speed, but every arm span took her farther away from where the young girl struggled. The water burned her lungs, dragged at her feet. She felt herself going under, felt herself drowning with Hope’s voice inside her head.
You have to come. You have to hurry.
She awoke in the dark, her mouth full of the taste of the swamp. Without the heart or energy to build her wall again, Tory rolled out of bed. In the bathroom, she splashed rusty water on her face, then raised it, dripping, to the mirror.
Eyes shadowed and still glazed from the dream stared back at her. Too late to turn back, she thought. It always was.
She grabbed her purse and the unused travel kit she’d brought in with her.
The dark was soothing now, and the candy bar and soft drink she’d bought from the rumbling vending machine outside her room kept her system wired. She turned on the radio to distract her mind. She wanted to think of nothing but the road.
When she hit the heart of the state the sun was up, and the traffic thick. She stopped to refuel the gas-guzzling station wagon before heading east. When she passed the exit that led to where her parents had once again relocated, her stomach clenched and stayed tight for another thirty miles.
She thought of her grandmother, of the stock loaded in the back of the car or being shipped to Progress. She thought of her budget for the next six months and the work involved in having her store up and running by Memorial Day.
She thought of anything but the real reason driving her back to Progress.
Just outside of Florence she stopped again and used the rest room of a Shell station to brush her hair, apply some makeup. The artifice wouldn’t fool her grandmother, but at least she’d have made an effort.
She stopped again, on impulse, at a florist. Her grandmother’s gardens were always a showplace, but the dozen pink tulips were another kind of effort. She lived—had lived, Tory reminded herself—just under two hours from her grandmother and hadn’t made the trip, the effort of it, since Christmas.
When she turned down the pretty street with its blooming dogwoods and redbuds she wondered why. It was a good place, the kind of neighborhood where children played in the yards
and dogs napped in the shade. A gossip-over-the-backyard-fence kind of place where people noticed strange cars and kept their eye on their neighbor’s house as much out of consideration as curiosity.
Iris Mooney’s house sat in the middle of the block, bandbox neat with old and enormous azaleas guarding the foundation. The blooms were past their peak, but the faded pinks and purples added a delicate color to the strong blue paint her grandmother had chosen. As expected, her front garden was lush and lovely, the gentle slope of the yard well trimmed and the stoop scrubbed and swept.
A pickup truck with the sign ANYTIME PLUMBING was parked in the drive behind her grandmother’s aging compact. Tory pulled to the curb. The tension she’d ignored along the drive began to ease as she walked toward the house.
She didn’t knock. She’d never had to knock on this door, and had always known it would open in welcome to her. There had been times when that alone had kept her from crumbling.
It surprised her to find the house quiet. It was nearly ten, she noted, as she stepped inside. She’d expected to find her grandmother in her garden, or fussing around inside the house.
The living room was cluttered, as always, with furniture, knickknacks, books. And, Tory noted, a vase holding a dozen red roses that made her tulips look like poor relations. She set aside her suitcase, her purse, then turning toward the hallway called out.
“Gran? Are you home?” Carrying the flowers, she started back toward the bedrooms, then lifted her eyebrows when she heard the movement behind her grandmother’s closed door.
“Tory? Honey-pot, I’ll be right out. Go on back and … get yourself some iced tea.”
With a shrug, Tory kept walking toward the kitchen, glancing back once when she heard what sounded like a muffled giggle.
She laid the flowers on the counter, then opened the refrigerator. The pitcher of tea was waiting, made as she enjoyed it most, with slices of lemon and sprigs of mint. Gran never forgot anything, Tory thought, and felt tears of sentiment and fatigue sting her eyes.
She blinked them back when she heard Gran’s quick steps. “Goodness, you’re early! I didn’t expect you until after noon, if that.” Small, slim and agile, Iris Mooney swept into the room and caught Tory in a hard hug.
“I got an early start, and just kept going. Did I wake you? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“What?”
“You’re still in your robe.”
“Oh. Ha.” After one last squeeze, Iris drew back. “I’m just as fine as rain. Let me look at you. Aw, honey, you’re wore out.”
“Just a little tired. But you. You look wonderful.”
It was inevitably true. Sixty-seven years of living had lined her face, but it hadn’t dulled the magnolia skin or dimmed the deep gray of her eyes. Her hair had been red in her youth, and she saw that it remained that way. If God had meant a woman to be gray, Iris liked to say, he wouldn’t have invented Miss Clairol. She took care of herself, and pampered her looks.
Which, she thought now, was more than she could say about her granddaughter.
“You sit down right here. I’m going to fix you some breakfast.”
“Don’t trouble, Gran.”
“You know better than to argue with me, don’t you? Now, sit.” She pointed to a chair at the little ice cream parlor table. “Oh, look at these. Aren’t they pretty!” She swept up the tulips, her delight in them sparkling in her eyes. “You’re the sweetest thing, my Tory.”
“I’ve missed you, Gran. I’m sorry I haven’t visited.”
“You’ve got your own life, which is what I always wanted for you. Now, you just relax and when you’ve got your feet back under you, you can tell me all about your trip.”
“It was worth every mile. I found some wonderful pieces.”
“Got my eye for pretty things.” She winked, turning just in time to see her granddaughter gape at the man who had stepped into the kitchen doorway.
He was tall as an oak with a chest wide as a Buick. His grizzled hank of hair was the color and texture of steel wool. His eyes were the burnished brown of acorns and drooped like a basset hound’s. His leathered face was tanned to match. He cleared his throat with an exaggerated flourish, then nodded at Tory.
“Morning,” he began in an upcountry drawl. “Ah… Miz Mooney, I got that drain cleared for you.”
“Cecil, stop being a moron, you don’t even have your toolbox with you.” Iris set aside a carton of eggs. “No need to blush,” she told him. “My granddaughter’s not going to faint at the notion her grandma’s got herself a beau. Tory, this is Cecil Axton, the reason I’m not dressed at ten this morning.”
“Iris.” The blush rose up to his cheeks like fire under cordwood. “I’m pleased to meet you, Tory. Your gran’s been looking forward to seeing you.”
“How do you do,” Tory said, for lack of something more clever. She offered a hand, and because she was still dazed, and Cecil’s feelings were so close to the surface, she had a quick and blurred image of just what had made her grandmother giggle behind the bedroom door.
She shut it off fast as her eyes met Cecil’s with mutual mortification. “You’re … you’re a plumber, Mr. Axton?”
“He came to fix my water heater,” Iris put in, “and’s been keeping me warm ever since.”
“Iris.” Cecil ducked his head, hunched the twin mountains of his shoulders, but couldn’t quite hide the grin. “I gotta get on. Hope you enjoy your visit, Tory.”
“Don’t you think about running off without kissing me good-bye.” To solve the matter, Iris crossed to him, took his weathered face between her hands to pull it down to her level, and kissed him firm on the mouth. “There now, lightning did not strike, thunder did not roll, and the child here did not collapse in shock.” She kissed him again, then patted his cheek. “You go on, handsome, and have a good day.”
“I guess I’ll, um, see you later on.”
“You’d better. We decided on this, Cecil. Now, you scat. I’ll talk to Tory.”
“I’m going.” With a hesitant smile, he turned to Tory. “You can argue with this woman, but it just gives you a headache.” He took a faded blue gimme cap from a kitchen peg, set it on his wiry hair, and hurried out.
“Isn’t he the cutest thing? I got some nice lean bacon here. How do you want your eggs?”
“In chocolate chip cookies. Gran.” Tory drew a careful breath and rose. “It’s absolutely none of my business, but…”
“Of course it’s not your business, unless I invite you into it, which I have.” Iris laid bacon in the old black spider skillet to sizzle. “I’m going to be very disappointed in you, Tory, if you’re shocked and appalled by the idea of your grandmother having a sex life.”
Tory winced, but managed to compose her face when Iris turned toward her. “Not shocked, not appalled, but certainly a little disconcerted. The idea of coming here this morning and nearly walking in on … hmmm.”
“Well, you were early, honey-pot. I’m going to fry these eggs, and we’re both going to indulge in a nice, greasy midmorning breakfast.”
“I guess you worked up an appetite.”
Iris blinked, then threw back her head and laughed. “Now, that’s my girl. You worry me, sugar plum, when you don’t smile.”
“What have I got to smile about? You’re the one having sex.”
Amused, Iris cocked her head. “And whose fault is that?”
“Yours. You saw Cecil first.” Tory got down two glasses, poured the tea. How many women, she wondered, could claim a grandmother who had hot affairs with the plumber? She wasn’t sure whether she should be proud or amused, and decided the combination of both suited the situation. “He seems like a very nice man.”
“He is. Better, he’s a very good man.” Iris poked at the bacon and decided to get it done all at once. “Tory, he’s living here.”
“Living? You’re living with him?”
“He wants to get married, but I’m not sure that’s what I want. So I’m taking him for what
you might call a test drive.”
“I think I’ll just sit down after all. Jesus, Gran. Have you told Mama?”
“No, and I don’t intend to as I can live without the lecture on living in sin and perdition and God’s almighty plan. Your mama is the biggest pain in the butt since self-service gas stations. How any daughter of mine turned out to be such a mouse of a woman is beyond me.”
“Survival,” Tory murmured, but Iris only snarled.
“She’d’ve survived just fine if she’d walked out on that son of a bitch she married twenty-five years ago, or any day since. That’s her choice, Tory. If she had any gumption, she’d have made a different one. You did.”
“Did I? I don’t know what choices I made or which were made for me. I don’t know which were right and which were wrong. And here I am, Gran, circling right back to where I started. I tell myself I’m in charge now. That it’s all my decision. But under it all, I know I just can’t stop it.”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know the answer.”
“Then you’ll keep going until you find it. You’ve got such a strong light in you, Tory. You’ll find your way.”
“So you always said. But the one thing that’s always scared me the most is being lost.”
“I should have helped you more. I should have been there for you.”
“Gran.” Tory rose, crossed the room to wrap her arms around Iris’s waist, to press cheek to cheek while the bacon snapped and sizzled. “You’ve always been the one steady hand in my life. I wouldn’t be here without you.”
“Yes, you would.” Iris patted Tory’s hand, then briskly lifted out bacon to drain. “You’re stronger than the lot of us put together. And that, if you ask me, is what scared Hannibal Bodeen. He wanted to break you, out of his own fear. In the end, well, he forged you, didn’t he? Ignorant s.o.b.” She cracked an egg on the side of the skillet, let it slide into the bubbling grease. “Make us some toast, honey-pot.”
“She’s nothing like you. Mama,” Tory said as she dropped bread into the toaster. “She’s nothing like you at all.”
