by Tamara Leigh
“Yeah,” Birdie’s twin, Miles, calls from where he’s once more hanging upside down from the rolling ladder I’ve pulled him off twice. “You gotta say the magic words.”
Outrageous! Even my dirt-between-the-toes, scab-ridden, snot-on-the-sleeve nephew is buying into the fantasy.
I jump up from the armchair, cross the library, and unhook his ankles from a rung. “You keep doin’ that and you’ll bust your head wide open, mister.” I set him on his feet. “And your mama will—” No, Bonnie won’t. “Well, she’ll be tempted to give you a whoopin’.”
Face bright with upside-down color, he glowers at me.
I’d glower back if I weren’t so grateful for the distraction he provided. “All right, then.” I slap at the ridiculously stiff skirt of the dress cousin Maggie loaned me for my brother’s wedding. “Let’s rejoin the party—”
“You don’t wanna say it.” Miles sets his little legs wide apart. “Do ya?”
So much for my distraction.
“You don’t like Birdie’s stories ’cause they have happy endings. And you don’t.”
I clench my toes in the pointy, painfully snug shoes on loan from Piper.
“Yep.” Miles punches his fists to his hips. “Even Mama said so.”
She did? My own sister? I shake my head, causing the dreads Maggie pulled away from my face with a satin-covered headband to sweep my back. “That’s not true.”
“Then say the words!” Birdie stands like an angry tin soldier, an arm thrust out, the silly book extended.
“Admit it,” Miles singsongs.
I snap back around and catch my breath at the superior, knowing look on his five-year-old face. He’s his father’s son, all right, a miniature Professor Claude de Feuilles, child development expert.
“You’re not happy.” The little professor-in-training, who looks anything but with his stiffly spiked hair and Harley-Davidson attitude, gives me a nod of encouragement.
I know better than to bristle with two cranky, nap-deprived children, but it’s happening. Feeling as if I’m watching myself from across the room, I cross my arms over my chest.
Pull back.
“I’ll admit to no such thing.”
Don’t go there. Do not! Go there!
Miles rolls his eyes. “That’s ’cause you’re afraid. Mama said so. Didn’t she, Birdie?”
Why is Bonnie discussing my personal life with her barely-out-of-diapers children?
“Uh-huh. I heard it.”
“See.” Miles gives me a told-you-so nod. “Last night on the drive down here, Mama told Daddy this day would be hard on you. That you wouldn’t be happy for Uncle Bart ’cause you’re not happy.”
Not true! Not that I’m thrilled with our brother’s choice of bride, but—come on! Trinity Templeton? Nice enough, but she’s not operating on a full charge, which wouldn’t be so bad if Bart made up for the difference. Far from it, his past history with illegal stimulants having stripped him of a few billion brain cells.
“She said your heart is”—Miles scrunches up his nose, as if assailed by a terrible odor—“constipated.”
What?!
“That you need an M&M, and I don’t think she meant the little chocolate kind you eat. Probably one of those—”
“I am not constipated.”
What happened to bristling?
I lean down and in a tightly controlled voice say, “I’m realistic.”
Behind me, Birdie stomps the hardwood floor. “Say the magic words!”
“Nope.” Miles shakes his head. “You’re constipated.”
I draw a very deep breath and shift my very cramped jaw. “Re-al-is-tic.”
He opens his eyes wide. “Con-sti-pa-ted.”
Back off. The kid’s five years old.
“Look, just because I don’t believe in fooling a naive little girl into thinkin’ a prince is going to be waiting for her at the other end of childhood and that he’ll save her from a fate worse than death and take her to his castle and they’ll live”—I flap a hand—“you know, it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.”
Isn’t there?
“No sir, it means I know better. There may be a prince, and he may have a castle, and they may be happy for a time, but don’t count on it lasting. Oh no. He’ll get bored or caught up in his work or start cheatin’—you know, decide to put that glass slipper on some other damsel’s foot or kiss another sleeping beauty—or he’ll just up and die like Easton—”
No, nothing at all wrong with you, Bridget Pickwick Buchanan, whose ugly widow’s weeds are showing.
“See,” Miles singsongs again.
Unfortunately, I do. And as I slowly straighten, I hear the sniffles that precede a little girl’s sobs.
“Now you done it!” Miles hustles past me. “You got Birdie all upset.”
I turn, and sure enough, she’s staring at me with flooded eyes and an open, trembling mouth. “The prince dies?” She gasp-sobs. “He dies and leaves the princess alone?” The book falls from her hand, and its meeting with the hardwood floors echoes around the library, followed by more sobs.
“No!” I spring forward, grimacing at the raspy sound the skirt makes as I attempt to reach Birdie before Miles.
He gets there first and puts an arm around her. A meltable moment, my mama would call it. After she gave me a good dressing-down.
“It’s okay, Birdie,” he soothes as I halt before them. “The prince doesn’t die.”
Yes, he does, but what possessed me to say so? And what if I’ve scarred her for life?
Miles pats her head onto his shoulder. “Aunt Bridge is just”—he gives me the evil eye—“constipated.”
“Yes, Birdie.” I drop to my knees. “I am. My heart, that is. Constipated.”
After a long moment, she turns her head and, upper lip shiny with the stuff running out of her nose, says in a small hiccupy voice, “Really? The prince doesn’t die?”
“No.” I grab the book from the floor. “Look.” I flip to the back. “There they are, riding off into the sunset—er, to his castle. Happy. See, it says so.” I tap H, E, and A.
Her eyes linger there; then she sniffs hard, causing that stuff to whoosh back up her nose and my gag reflex to go to town. “Really happy, Aunt Bridge?”
“Yes.”
“Nope.” Her barely there eyebrows bunching, she lifts her head from Miles’s shoulder. “Not unless you say it.”
Oh dear Go—No, He and I are not talking. Well, He may be talking, but I’m not listening.
“I think you’d better.” Miles punctuates his advice by thrusting his hands into his pockets like his dad does.
“Sure.” I look down at the page. “And they lived…” My voice wobbles.
Come on, it’s just a fairy tale—inflated, overstated fiction for tykes. Tykes!
I clear my throat. “They lived happily…ever…after.”
Birdie blinks in slow motion. “The magic words. Happily…ever…after.” Her body relaxes into a sigh. “That’s a nice way to say it, like you wanna hold onto it forever.”
Or unstick it from the roof of your mouth. “The end.” I close the book, and it’s all I can do not to toss it over my shoulder. “Here you go.”
She reverently clasps it to her chest. “Happily…ever…after.”
Peachy. I stand and pat the skirt back down into its stand-alone shape. “More cake, guys?”
“Finally!” Miles charges past me.
Next time—No, there won’t be a next time. I’m done with Little Golden Books and their kind. Finished. That’s it.
Birdie hurries to catch up with her brother. “I want a piece of chocolate cake.”
And I want to go home. How much longer before this thing is over? I check my watch as I follow. I’ve been in this dress for four hours. And these shoes.
Outside the library, I pause at the grand staircase, yank off the heels, and try to flex my toes. But they’re numb. I declare, if I have to have anything amputated, som
ebody’s going to hear about it. I snatch up the shoes and hobble into the hallway, through the kitchen, and outside into a bright day abuzz with wedding revelers.
No matter the season, the beauty of Uncle Obe’s garden always gets to me, but especially now that it and the entire Pickwick estate will soon be passing out of Pickwick hands to be sold to the highest bidder.
For months, I’ve about killed myself trying to find a way around the sale that will provide restitution to those our family has wronged, as well as something of an inheritance to my kin and me, but everywhere I turn, there are walls.
“Hey, babies,” my sister’s voice rings out, “did you have fun with Aunt Bridget?”
I stop midstep and look to the linen-covered table where a large three-tiered wedding cake was the centerpiece earlier. Only one tier remains, and it’s had its share of knifings. Under normal circumstances, that would be surprising, since there are fewer than fifty guests, but the caterer, Martha, does make the best cakes in all of Pickwick.
“Yeah.” Miles holds out a plate for his mother to fill. “Until Aunt Bridge made Birdie cry.”
My little sister’s gasp shoots around those standing in the twenty feet between us. “What happened?”
“Aunt Bridge didn’t want to finish the book, did she, Birdie?”
Still hugging it, my niece shakes her head. “No.”
“Well”—Bonnie slowly slides a piece of cake onto Miles’s plate, then Birdie’s—“maybe she’s tired.”
“Nuh-uh.” Miles leans his face into the cake, takes a bite, and with crumbs spilling and frosting flecking, says, “She told us the prince went and gave the glass slipper to another girl and kissed Sleeping Beauty and then died.”
“Oh.” Bonnie’s lids flutter. “Huh.” Sunlight glints off the knife in her hand as she meets my gaze. “Well.” She forces a smile. “Hmm.” Back to her daughter. “We know that’s not true, don’t we, Roberta baby?”
Birdie bounces her head. “They lived happily…ever…after.”
Time to go. But as much as I long to skedaddle, I am civilized, despite rumors to the contrary. I search out my brother where he stands with Trinity, my mother and father, and Uncle Obe in the gazebo that was built specifically for the reception. Fortunately, it lies opposite Bonnie. A quick congratulations, good luck, and I’m out of here.
“Bridget!”
I hurry past my cousin Luc and his wife, Tiffany, around Uncle Obe’s attorney, Artemis Bleeker, and his loopy wife.
“Bridget! Don’t think I don’t know you can hear me.”
And so can everyone else. I swing around. “Bonbon!”
She rushes the last five feet. “I know we’re mostly family here, but I’m going to do you the kindness of talking to you in private.” She steps aside and points to the mansion. “Shall we?”
I don’t want to, but neither do I want to throw a shadow over Bart’s special day, and it’s fast approaching, going by the attention turning our way. “Of course.” I set off ahead of her, raise my eyebrows at Maggie when she turns a worried face to me, and give Piper a shrug when she frowns.
Upon reentering the kitchen, I keep going until we’re near the pantry, where our voices are less likely to carry, then turn and raise my hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to say what I did. I didn’t mean to make her cry.”
She thrusts her face near mine, causing my hackles to go haywire. I don’t like my personal space being invaded, even if it’s by my own sister. My hotheaded sister.
Suddenly, her finger is in my face, and I have the overwhelming urge to bite it. But I won’t. No, that would end badly. I take a step back.
“I trust you with my most precious possessions,” Mama Bear growls, “and what do you do? Try to steal my babies’ sweetness and innocence with that ‘life is dark and I’m gonna make it darker’ outlook of yours.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just on edge, what with tryin’ to find a buyer for the estate who won’t desecrate it by turning it into a crowded development or nasty theme park. And now Uncle Obe has gone and listed it, and the real estate agents are startin’ to swarm…” I sigh. “It’s too much, Bonbon.”
She stares at me through narrowed lids. “Don’t you Bonbon me!”
I could go toe to toe with her—really, I could—but I’m the one who lost control in front of her five-year-olds. I just wish she wouldn’t stomp all over my personal space. I clear my throat. “Look, I never meant to—”
“Yes, you did!” The finger again. “You can’t stand for anybody to be happy if you can’t be happy.”
Ignore the finger—blank it out!
“That’s not true.” My throat strains from the effort to keep my voice level. “I—”
“Woe is me. My husband’s dead, and I refuse to get over it. Even though it’s been four years!”
I suck breath.
Oh, God. I mean, no! I’m not talking to You. Of course, I could use more self-control about now. But that doesn’t mean I’m talking to You!
“Have mercy on us, Bridget! Stop casting your widowhood like a net, catching little ones in it and saying stuff like that just because Easton’s dead.”
Just because? I clench my hands at my sides. “Maybe…” My voice sounds all wet and buggered up with that stuff that buggered Birdie’s nose. “Maybe I said it because my constipated heart needs an M&M. Do you think?”
Bonnie startles so hard I have to check the whereabouts of my hands to be certain I didn’t slap her. Not that I would, but she might slap me.
“Oh.” She takes a step back. “Oh.” A nervous laugh causes her anger to slip, then she swallows almost hard enough for the sound to echo. “They told you I said that?”
Having regained some of my personal space, my shoulders unbind a little. “Out of the mouths of babes.”
“Uh, yeah. I didn’t realize they were listening. After all, they had their iPod earphones in and were singing along.” She frowns. “I think.”
Suddenly beyond tired, I pull a hand down my face, grateful as always that I never took to makeup. “It’s all right. I know you didn’t mean it to hurt me.”
She raises her hands palms up. “I needed to talk it out with Claude. You know how I worry about you.”
Not really, but we do live a ways from each other, averaging one visit a year when she, Claude, and the kids drive through on their way to somewhere else. “I truly am sorry for what I said to Birdie and Miles. I promise I won’t let it happen again.”
She steps forward, once more invading my space, and this time I’m the one who startles when she lays a hand on my cheek. “How are you going to keep that promise, Bridget, when you’re just about as tightly wrapped in your widow’s weeds as the day he died?”
Don’t pull back. It’s your sister, not Boone or another of those “widow sniffers” trying to get a hook into the lonely little widow.
Licking my dry lips, I long for my Burt’s Bees lip balm. “I’ve accepted it. It’s just taking me longer than some to adjust. But I am adjustin’.”
Her eyes snap. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“No, if you were adjusting, you wouldn’t still be wearing your wedding ring.”
I catch my breath. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Yes, there is.” She grabs my hand and lifts it before my face. “It’s time. Past time. You have to let him go.”
I do not like this. “I have. I accept that he’s gone—”
“No, not gone. That implies he’s coming back, and he isn’t. He’s dead. And you have to start calling it what it is and get on with your life. Not yours and Easton’s life. Your life.”
I pull my hand free. “I’m getting there.”
She snorts. “At this rate, you’ll be in your own grave before you let him go. And that makes me plain sad.” She thrusts her chin forward. “Take off the ring, Bridget.”
“I will when it’s—”
“Take it off.”
“But—”
“Gi
ve me your hand.”
I don’t want to, and yet my arm seems to lift on its own.
With a surprisingly gentle touch, my little sister takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. “I promise you, it’s for the better.”
As I hold my breath, she tugs and twists off the ring.
I stare at it between her thumb and forefinger, wondering how fast the air is going out of me and how long it will be before my deflated self pools on the floor. But it doesn’t happen. I miss the constriction around my finger, and I may be a little numb, but that’s it. I must be in shock.
“Okay?” Bonnie asks.
“I think so.”
Her sigh is so long and heavy it would probably move my dreads if they weren’t pulled back. “All right.” She presses the ring into the center of my palm. “Put that in a good place where you won’t be looking at it every day, hear?”
I close my fingers around it. How’s that for a good place? “I hear.”
She gives me the suspicious eye, then smoothes her blouse. “All right, then, let’s go outside so everyone will see I didn’t yank out those ugly dreadlocks of yours.”
“They aren’t ugly.”
“Well, they aren’t beautiful either. Just”—she waves a hand at my head—“more widow’s weeds.”
She’s not the first to call them that, seeing as Easton had dreads and always wanted me to give them a try. Unfortunately, God didn’t give him a chance to see how I look in them. I squeeze my fingers so tight, the ring digs into my flesh. No, God up there looking down here had other plans for my man, and they didn’t include me. If ever there was a good reason not to talk to Him or His Son, that would be it.
“They’re next,” Bonnie says.
“What?”
“The dreads. They have to go.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I don’t have the energy. Besides, maybe she’s right. Ever since that night on the mansion’s roof months ago when one of my dreads got caught in the workings of the telescope and I had to cut it free, I’ve considered returning to my formerly smooth, shiny blond hair that, before Easton’s death, fell like a silk curtain down my back.
