Val pulls out her phone and initiates an order for extra pizza.
“They need a traffic director at the door,” Felicity says to Earlene. “You’d be good at that.” She flashes dimples as she says it, all sweetness and light and spun sugar, but there’s a flicker of something stronger in her eyes. Maybe I’ve underestimated her and the church won’t eat her alive after all.
Earlene takes to the suggestion like Moses takes to tuna, ordering everybody around as if it’s her God-given right.
I carry in a box, mostly to keep myself busy. I pause when I set it down, seeing the room with new eyes. The pink coverlet and matching curtains are an expenditure I’d talked Thomas into the year our daughter turned twelve, arguing that God loved beauty and our daughter deserved a pleasant space of her own. No clutter anywhere, no knickknacks or decoration. There never had been, I realize with a pang. I never had to get on her case to make her clean her room. It was always painfully, perfectly neat.
A huge framed print of Adam and Eve hangs over her bed. They are clothed in animal skins, looking wistfully back at Eden, blocked by a terrifying angel with a flaming sword.
“Hell of a picture,” Lance says, setting down a box with a little grunt of effort.
“I’ve always hated it.”
And feared it. I’ve had dreams about that angel. What was the effect on a small child left alone with him in the dark? I should have fought Thomas. If there had to be an angel on the wall, it should have been a guardian angel. There are a million pictures like that, of angels shepherding children through danger. Why didn’t we hang one of those?
The answer is acid in my belly. Fear and guilt are great manipulators. Thomas wanted her to feel those things. And I allowed it. I press one hand over my mouth, swamped with regret.
Lance rests a steadying hand on my shoulder, his face a question.
“You two having a private confab or what?” Bernie asks. She’s lugging a box that appears to be heavy, even for her, and I step aside to make room for her to bring it in. Lance touches my arm, an unspoken message that I can’t interpret.
When I reach the front door, a kid is standing there with pizza boxes piled so high, he can barely see over them. The smell of pepperoni and cheese wafts into the air.
“Let’s take them to the backyard,” I say.
He follows me through the house, and I help him stack the boxes on the deck. A slight stirring in the hedge alerts me to the presence of Moses, predictably unhappy with the invasion of all of these strangers.
Val was planning to pay for the pizza, I know, but I take care of it before she gets a chance. She’s the soul of generosity, but I know her budget is tight. Bernie and Tara come through with the cooler.
“All done,” Bernie says. “Figured we’d bring the rest of the party back here. You okay, Liz?”
I glance up at her, surprised at the perceptive question.
“Your daughter is a spitfire. Mine, too. Mixed blessing when she moved back in for a bit. We fought. Fur and feathers flying.”
“But you worked it out?”
She grimaces, then laughs. “We still speak, if that’s what you mean. She didn’t stay long. Kids. Just as much grief as husbands, only you can’t get rid of them.”
“What’s this about getting rid of husbands?” Tara flashes her impish grin. “I always suspected you helped yours along, Bern.”
Bernie strikes a seductive pose. “Black widow. That’s me.”
“I’m ready for a beer.” Geoff walks right into the middle of us, clueless when we all start laughing.
“Me, too.” Pastor Steve reaches into the cooler and pops the top off a can of Bud. He takes a good long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and sighing with contentment. “That hits the spot. Thank the good Lord for beer and pizza. I hope you got pepperoni.”
I try to picture Thomas, sweaty and laughing, guzzling beer and eating pizza. My mind boggles, failing utterly.
Val appears with paper plates and napkins, the church ladies behind her, casseroles in hand.
I extend an olive branch. “Earlene, that pie looks mouthwatering. How about right over here?”
She still doesn’t speak to me, but her posture thaws, just a little, and I know she’ll forgive me eventually for our earlier conversation, even though she will never forget.
As everybody starts filling their plates, I think about going to fetch Abigail. She must be hungry. After a moment of indecision, I opt for leaving her alone. This day has been hard enough for her already; if she wants to socialize, she’ll come out on her own.
The church people gravitate to one side of the lawn, theater people to the other, but the margins of the groups seem easier, the tension defrayed by shared work and the promise of food. I’m about to ask Pastor Steve to say a blessing, something I know needs to happen, when Bill surprises me by removing his hat and saying, “I’m happy to say grace.”
I smile at him, grateful. “Thank you, Bill.”
He nods, bows his head, and says, simple and heartfelt, “Dear Lord, thank you for this day and for the company. Bless this house and bless this food. Amen.”
Cheerful chaos around getting food and drinks eases any final awkwardness.
Pastor Steve, beer in one hand and plate in the other, crosses the line entirely and settles down next to Bernie. “So, Bernie, is it? What do you do when you’re not moving boxes?”
“Real estate.”
“She sold my place after my divorce,” Tara says. “That’s how we met.” Then, to me, she says, “I don’t know how you live in a house where you watched somebody die.”
“It’s not easy,” I answer, which is the truth, only it’s the memory of the living man more than the dead one that is causing me distress.
“Have you thought about moving? This place would go in a heartbeat,” Bernie says, looking around with sharp eyes. “It’s an excellent location. A family would snap it right up. So close to the schools.”
“Is that even allowed?” I laugh to cover the fact that my question is genuine. Moving feels like the violation of an unwritten rule. I hadn’t even considered the possibility.
“No!” Val exclaims. “What would I do without you next door?”
“Where would you want to move to?” Bernie persists. “Any ideas?”
She’s serious. This is not a theoretical conversation. Bernie’s not engaging in wishful thinking or imaginary adventures. She’s a businesswoman. She sells houses. I stare at her, an expansive sensation of freedom growing inside my chest. A new house. One that belongs to me, that I can turn into a home.
“I used to dream of living out of town,” I say with a quiet sense of wonder. “Maybe a couple of acres. Somewhere quiet.”
A movement draws my eyes, and I see Abigail standing on the deck, staring at me, her face stricken. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t, her expression says.
I very nearly rush into apology and explanation: “Of course I’m not going to sell the house, I’m just making conversation. I’d never move from here, not when it’s so important to you to keep it unchanged, to preserve all of the memories . . .” But before the words can reach my lips, the truth hits me.
Cutting Abigail free of the past is my first step toward rescuing both of us. It wouldn’t be selfish. It would be the right thing to do. All at once, I can taste freedom, can clearly picture moving through a space I love, one shaped by my tastes and my needs. One free of Thomas.
“Say the word and I’m your huckleberry,” Bernie says, oblivious to the drama playing out between me and my daughter.
Abigail descends the steps in slow motion and crosses the yard, settling into the grass beside me.
Lance opens the mushroom, onion, and sausage box. “You want one, Liz? Abigail?”
“No, thanks,” Abigail says. “Not hungry.”
“I’ll take one.”
Lance drops a gooey slice onto my plate, and I lift it with my hands and take a huge bite of cheesy, spicy goodness.
Pastor Steve opens a second beer and grins at his wife. “I know this is a stretch, but if you decide to move, this would be the perfect house for Felicity and me. No pressure or anything, of course.”
Felicity squeals, upsetting her plate as she flings her arms around his neck. “I’d love to buy a house. Could we really?”
He kisses her, both of them laughing. “You’d like that, Bunny?”
“I hate the apartment.” She kisses him again.
“Plenty of houses to look at,” he says. “I just thought, if you were going to sell anyway, then that would be so easy for both of us.”
“We are not selling the house,” Abigail protests. “Mom was just daydreaming. She does that.” Her tone is dismissive, pushing my rebellion button.
“Feel like giving us a tour?” Bernie is already on her feet, snapping photos of the yard. “I mean, I know we’ve been in the house, but we haven’t really seen it. Just in case the interested parties turn out to be deadbeats. Might as well be ready to put it on the market.”
“Oooh, yes!” Felicity crams a large wedge of crust into her mouth and claps her hands.
The whole troupe of them get to their feet, brushing off grass and leaves and converging on the house as if they haven’t all just been through it with moving boxes.
“You coming?” I ask Abigail, torn by what I plan to do and the fear of what it will do to our relationship.
“No, I am not coming.”
I force a cheerful smile. “Have a slice of pizza. You’re too thin.” The door bangs behind me, and I pray for a sign that I’m on the right track, and not setting foot on the road to hell.
Chapter Fifteen
May 9, 2019
Dear Inner Liz,
I guess you’re not so inner anymore. Wow. Go figure. That’s a revelation. I should be happy about being more . . . me. But this whole being-responsible-and-creating-my-own-life thing is getting complicated. I sat Abigail down and talked to her about my idea of buying a new house. That went well. Ha. She was cold and pushed the guilt buttons. I took the bait and got mad, and we had a rehash of the wax museum conversation.
The Elizabeth part of me wanted to fix it. To give in, to go along. But I can’t bring myself to do that anymore. She doesn’t know that I called Bernie and told her I want to take a look at some houses. She doesn’t know that I’ve been researching online universities. No decisive action yet on either front, but I’m entertaining the possibilities. I’m telling myself it will be good for her, too, but am I just telling myself stories so I’ll feel better? Am I selfish?
If I gave up everything I want and let her boss me, would it repair our relationship? We’d have surface peace, I guess, but it wouldn’t be . . . true. I’d be pretending again, being somebody I’m not. And I don’t really think that’s okay, either. I thought wisdom was supposed to come with advancing age, but that’s a joke, apparently. What you get with advancing age is hot flashes and weight gain and children who think you’re decrepit.
Tonight’s rehearsal is all about music, and Bill chooses to focus on me and Lance, putting together choreography for our solos and duets. Everyone else is supposed to be off running lines, but most of them are still sitting in their seats, watching.
I’ve come a long way since my involuntary audition. I don’t mind an audience; as a matter of fact, having eyes on me onstage makes it easier to slip into Lacey. The stage chemistry between me and Lance is still sizzling, and I’ve stopped fighting it. I tell myself it’s like a roller coaster—a safe thrill with built-in limits. I can allow myself to luxuriate in his touch onstage while trusting that it’s not going anywhere else.
There have been no more invitations to run lines over dessert or coffee. When we’re offstage, Lance is polite, supportive, friendly. His presence still accelerates my heart and starts butterflies flitting about in my stomach, but we seem to have come to an unspoken agreement not to act on our attraction. I’m fine, I tell myself. This is how it needs to be between us.
But tonight, as I step onto the stairs to climb up onto the stage, Lance follows me instead of vaulting up onto the stage the way he usually does. His hand rests lightly on my lower back, steadying me, and his touch seems to burn through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I glance up and he is glancing down, and the intensity of that moment of connection drives all reason from my brain. All I can think about are sensitive lips and a strong chin and eyes that seem to see everything I’ve been trying to hide.
When we get up on the stage, the space seems smaller than usual—either that or Lance seems larger. It’s hard to focus, hard to catch my breath. Fortunately I don’t need to remember lines.
“Okay, let’s block it out,” Bill calls, walking up the stairs to join us. “Steph, just play through, will you?”
The pianist starts playing “Say Yes to Me.”
“Walk to center stage, and stand facing each other,” Bill directs. I close my eyes for a bar or two, invoking Lacey. When I can clearly feel her energy, I raise my chin and let my gaze meet Lance’s. We stand there, music flowing over and between us, until Bill says, “Turn to face the audience here. We’ll put you each in a separate spotlight until the end of the second verse. Now, turn toward each other again, step closer. Closer. Here we’ll go with one spotlight, just the two of you on a dark stage.”
There’s a slow burn in Lance’s eyes, a tension in his body, that wakes a response from me.
“Darcy takes her hands here,” Bill says, oblivious, and my hands are engulfed in Lance’s strong ones. One small step forward, and my body would be pressed against his. If we stand here any longer, I’m going to take that step, no matter who is watching. It’s like he’s a magnet and I’m iron and nothing can keep us apart.
“Okay,” Bill says. “Let’s do it with vocals. Places!”
Singing makes it worse. I can’t keep my emotions out of my voice, and I swear I can hear Lance’s soul. As our voices twine together in the last duet, we stand so close I can feel his body heat. So close a breath of wind could barely come between us.
When the music ends, I’m not sure if I’m still breathing.
“He needs to kiss her,” Bernie calls out from the front row. “He would, here, wouldn’t he? I mean, that’s the whole point of the song.”
“She’s right,” Tara agrees.
“I think so,” Bill says. “It would add so much to the feels the audience is having. A perfect opportunity to seize them by the heartstrings and suck them in. It’s not required, but are you two up for a little stage kiss?”
“I am.” Lance’s voice is deeper than usual, roughened, and his gaze holds that same intensity.
I tilt my head back, breath held.
“Lacey?” It’s a request for permission, but he doesn’t wait for the answer. His head is already bending toward mine. There is time for me to stop this. To say, “No, I couldn’t possibly, we shouldn’t I’m married oh God I’m a widow.” I’m headed for hellfire because I want this kiss, crave it.
Lance’s face is so close to mine I can’t see his eyes anymore, and I close my own. His hand cups my face, gently, gently, and his lips are not dry or dutiful, they are warm, they are alive and mine also are alive and oh God I have never been kissed like this in the course of my entire existence.
When Lance breaks the kiss, he keeps his head bent so we are looking into each other’s eyes, our lips so close we are sharing oxygen, one breath sufficient for both of us, his hand still warm on my face.
Applause from the group jars me back into myself.
I feel woozy, unsteady. Lance grabs my hand and turns me toward the auditorium so we can take a bow. And then he leads me across the stage, down the stairs, hand in hand all the way, never letting go until I collapse into my seat.
Val hugs me. “That was amazing! The chemistry between the two of you is hot!”
Chemistry. Acting and chemistry. That’s all this is.
I manage, somehow, to focus on the rest of the rehearsal. To remember to sing in the r
ight places, but everything is a blur except for Lance. He has become the focal point of every scene, every song, every movement that I make.
After rehearsal, Jayce calls me into a back room to talk about costuming and to take some measurements. When I walk out, still a little dazed, the theater is empty, the lights turned down. I walk down the center aisle, my right hand brushing the backs of the seats.
And Lance is still there, in the very back, waiting for me.
I look around for Val, for Bill, for anybody, but there is nobody to rescue me from me.
“Hey,” Lance says, just the single word, as if it’s natural that he would wait, and we walk out the door together, side by side but not quite touching.
Outside my car, I stop to look up at him. “Good night, then. I’ll see you—”
“I want to kiss you. Again. Now.”
“Oh.”
“Would you mind?”
I should tell him, “Yes, I mind. We can’t do this. We shouldn’t.” But all I seem capable of is gazing into his eyes. Lance lets his hands settle on my waist, pulls my body in against his. My softness meets muscle, strong thighs, hard belly and ribs.
And then he’s kissing me, deeper than onstage. I open to it and his tongue touches mine, requesting permission, and the way he strokes and awakens the soft surfaces of my mouth is a wonder.
A low sound escapes him, almost a growl, and my body comes alive in a way it never has before. Need swamps me. I want him to fill all of me, all of the empty spaces. His hands slide down over my hips, pulling me against him so I can feel the pressure of him hard in the soft space between my legs.
I gasp at the intensity of it, the understanding that his need is as great as mine.
My hands explore the skin of his back, the long line of muscle, and a sound I never knew I could make finds its way out of my throat and against his lips.
He pulls away, his breath hard and fast.
A Borrowed Life Page 12
