Skylar and I both stop fuming at each other and look at Baylor. We speak simultaneously.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“What are you talking about?” Skylar says.
Baylor’s eyes narrow, putting a crinkle in her nose as she says, “The tattoo.”
I look at Skylar in confusion to see she has the exact same expression on her face as I do. I turn back to her sister. “Uh, Erin didn’t have any tattoos, Baylor.”
Baylor’s jaw falls open. Then her hand comes up to cover her gasp. “She never showed you?” Her eyes dart between me and Skylar.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Skylar asks.
“The day of the ultrasound,” Baylor explains. “The afternoon Erin spent with Mason and me. The day she gave us the letters. She made us find a tattoo artist willing to come to the townhouse. Then she swore us to secrecy. She said she was going to show you both when the time was right. I just assumed . . .” Her sad eyes fall on the urn. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. She must have forgotten. I should have told you.”
“What was it?” Skylar asks. “What kind of tattoo did she get?”
Baylor shakes her head. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t show us. She said it was private and only for you.” She gestures to Skylar’s belly. “The four of you.”
“How did we not see it?” I ask. “Where was it?”
“I’m pretty sure she got it on her lower back,” Baylor says.
My face is overcome with shock. “My wife got a tramp stamp?” I ask, incredulously, looking between the two women in the room. “My wife. The prim and proper elementary school teacher who wouldn’t go outside without 100 SPF for fear of damaging her flawless skin.”
All of a sudden, the three of us burst out in laughter. Skylar laughs so hard she crosses her legs, probably so she won’t pee her pants. Baylor wipes under her eyes when they start watering. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience, watching the three of us as we bond over this completely out-of-character thing that my wife did.
“Well, it was on her bucket list,” Baylor says, trying to catch her breath.
“Oh, shit.” I immediately have another thought that has me sobering up and standing up straight. “She didn’t get any piercings that we couldn’t see, did she?”
“Uh . . .” Skylar draws her eyebrows. “Don’t you think you would have noticed that? You know, when you—”
“Skylar!” Baylor interrupts, giving her an evil eye.
I shrug at them. “No. I wouldn’t have noticed. We couldn’t . . . she couldn’t . . . not for a while.”
“I’m so sorry,” Skylar says. “That was insensitive of me.” She walks over and touches the silver urn on the mantle. “God, I wish we could have seen her tattoo.”
I look down at my own tattoos. I’m fully aware of the process. “Who was the tattoo artist?” I ask Baylor. “All the reputable ones keep records and drawings of their art. If we’re lucky, they may have even taken a picture of it after they inked her.”
Baylor writes down the name of the place where the artist works and hands it to me. I look at my watch to see that it’s almost five o’clock. I turn to Skylar. “You up for this?”
“Are you kidding? Hell yes!” She pulls out her phone and walks into the other room shouting back, “I just need to make a quick call first.”
I can’t help the smile that overtakes my face.
Griffin – 1
John-the-food-guy – 0
Okay, so technically, John has had a few more dates with her than I have. But as far as I’m concerned, the game starts now, and Griffin Pearce never fucking loses.
~ ~ ~
I can’t tear my eyes away from the picture. It’s definitely Erin’s lower back. The photo shows the unmistakable mole that was right next to one of her sexy ass-dimples. I trace my finger over the words and names that make up the infinity symbol.
Fate. Faith. Family.
She was always talking about those things. I take out my camera and snap a picture of the photo. I wish she would have shown it to us. The permanence of this is even more meaningful than the letter Erin wrote me. I wonder if we’d seen it back then, would things have played out differently? What was she waiting for and why didn’t she show us right away?
Once again, I curse the cancer that, in the end, robbed her of her memory. Her personality. Her life.
I look over to find Skylar holding the tattoo stencil. “It’s beautiful,” she says, turning her attention to the artist. “Can I get a copy of this?”
Spike, the tattoo artist and shop owner, who I’m sure got his name by the way he wears his hair in blue four-inch spikes sticking out every-which-way from his head, takes the stencil from her. “I don’t see why not. It was her design.”
My jaw drops in surprise. “Really?” I examine the sketch that came from the woman who had trouble making stick figures. She used to complain that her second-graders could draw better than she could. “She designed this?” I shake my head in amazement.
“She did.” He nods, taking the stencil over to his copy machine. “It’s a bit elementary, but when I offered to clean it up, she wouldn’t let me change a thing.”
Elementary. Skylar and I give each other a knowing smile as Spike makes her a copy.
He hands it to her. “Promise to come back here when you want to get yours?”
“Me?” Skylar’s voice squeaks about an octave higher than normal. “No, I won’t be getting one. I just want to remember it—put it in my scrapbook of her.”
As we wait for a cab outside the building, she stares at the copy of the stencil, running her finger over the words just as I did. I look over her shoulder and admire it.
Without averting her eyes from it, she says. “I don’t have a birthday this year.”
A cab pulls up to the curb and I hold the door open for her. “Huh?” I ask, as she scoots across the seat to make room for me.
“Last week you said you didn’t know when my birthday was. Well, I don’t have one this year. I was born on February 29th. Technically, I won’t have another birthday for three more years.” As she talks, she stares out the window into the darkening streets of Midtown Manhattan.
I study the back of her head, taking in her long wavy hair. I reach out and take a lock of it, rubbing it between my fingers, contemplating if Aaron will have her unique blend of light and dark hair.
“And my favorite color is black,” she adds quietly, as if divulging this information to me might somehow compromise her determination to evade me.
“Black isn’t a color,” I say. “In fact, it’s the absence of color.”
She glances at me long enough to roll her eyes before looking back out the window. “Whatever, Mr. Photographer.”
I laugh. “Okay, black it is. And thanks for telling me.”
She nods her head and goes back to tracing the tattoo as I turn my attention to my phone. I quickly text Mason, letting him know we have four weeks to pull off the best non-birthday party anyone has ever seen.
chapter twenty-eight
“Is there anything else you need to tell me, Dix?” Although he’s been helping me plan the party for the last two weeks, this is the first time we’ve gotten together since we went out for drinks. The party has become more than just Skylar’s non-birthday party. At Baylor’s suggestion, it’s also morphed into a baby shower.
“Tell you?” he asks, as we move the last of the boxes we packed down into the basement.
I neatly stack my box in the storage area. I pull the marker from my pocket and label it ‘Erin’s school stuff.’ Logically, I know there’s no good reason to keep any of these things. It’s mostly class pictures, correspondence and certificates. But I can’t bring myself to just throw five years of her life into the garbage. It was hard enough to get myself to clean out the study.
“As in, are there any more secrets you’ve been keeping from me?” I replace the cap on the marker and stare him down. “First you didn’t
tell me about the letters Erin wrote. Then you withheld information about Skylar dating. And now, I find out my wife got a tattoo? What the hell else don’t I know about? You seem to know more about my life than I do.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Erin swore me to secrecy, man. What did you expect? She isn’t someone you break a promise to.”
Guilt permeates my every pore. I think about the promise I broke by running away. The one time I failed Erin. Failed Skylar and the baby. Failed all those who were most important to me. I have vowed to rectify my epic mistake. Maybe this party is the chance I need to do just that.
“How many letters are there?” I grunt, as we pick up the large desk we brought down, trying to fit it into the corner of the basement.
He shakes his head at me, shooting me a look of sympathy. “Sorry. I can’t tell you that. You’ll get them when and if the situation calls for it. Her explicit instructions. I gave her my word. Scout’s honor.”
I smack the back of his head as we walk towards the stairs. “You were never a damn Boy Scout.”
He tries to duck away from my assault, laughing. “So, how are things with Skylar these days?”
I snort air through my nose. “The woman is a goddamn contradiction. I know she wants me. I can feel it. She’s holding back, but I can’t figure out why. And that asshole John keeps coming around. I wish she’d just dump him already. I don’t get her, Dix.”
We stand in the double-door entry of what was once the study, examining our handiwork. I put the finishing touch in the room—the flowers I had delivered earlier along with everything else.
Mason straightens a picture we hung. “Maybe she thinks you’re just honoring Erin’s dying wish. Have you ever told her differently?” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Could be it’s time for that grand gesture, my friend.”
“Isn’t that what this party is all about?”
He laughs. “Anyone can plan a party, G. It’s what you do at the party that counts.”
I nod, thinking about his words when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I smile when I see the name on the screen. I slide my finger across the surface to answer it, putting her on speaker. “Piper. Thanks for calling me back, I know it must be late there.”
“You wanted to talk to me about a party you’re planning for Skylar? I’m not sure what I can do all the way from Istanbul.”
I don’t know Piper personally. But Skylar and Baylor talk about her enough that I feel I do. What I do know is that she rarely comes home. Skylar said the last time she was here was for Baylor’s wedding and even then, she only stayed two days.
I know it’s a longshot, but I ask anyway. “I would love to surprise Skylar by having you at the party.”
There’s a long pause before she says, “No-can-do, Griffin.”
“I’d be more than happy to pay your round-trip airfare. Actually, I insist on it, Piper. It would be great to have you here.”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “It’s not the money. I just can’t make it.”
“Have you spoken with Baylor? Did she tell you that it’s a birthday party and a baby shower? I know it would mean a lot to Skylar, and the rest of your family, if you could make an appearance.”
“No, Griffin,” she raises her voice. “Please just drop it. I’ll send gifts. I’ll call her. But I can’t come. I’m sorry.”
I look at Mason to see if he has any bright ideas. He shrugs.
“Please reconsider,” I ask. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you here.”
I hear her heavy sigh through the phone. “How many different ways can I say it? I’m not coming. I already told this to Baylor when she called to beg me. I have to go now. It’s late.”
Before I can say goodbye the line goes dead.
“What a bitch,” Mason says, gathering his things to leave. “How is it possible that the other two Mitchell sisters are even related to that one? What the hell happened there?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t sound at all like the person they make her out to be.” I walk him to the door. “Hey, thanks, man. I appreciate all the help. You’re a good guy.”
He leans in and gives me a hug that can only be shared by two confident heterosexual males. “Anything for you, G. You know that.”
~ ~ ~
“Dad, would you please stop apologizing already?” I roll my eyes because my father can’t see them through the phone. Every time we talk, which is about once a week lately, he tells me he’s sorry for abandoning me and mom. I recline into the studio couch thinking of how I’d be a hypocrite not to forgive him now, after I basically did the same thing.
Okay, so maybe I only left for a few months while he checked out on us for years, but I’m trying to cut him some slack and repair our relationship as much as I can. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re planning family vacations together. But we’re . . . amenable. Friendly even. Erin would be happy.
We start discussing Mason and the shit-sandwich served to him by Johnny Henley refusing to retire. My hand falls into the crack between the cushion and the arm of the couch. Something pokes me. I reach down and come out with a handful of pictures.
Pictures of me.
I scrutinize the stack of photos while making excuses to get off the phone. We plan to have lunch next week and then say goodbye.
I can’t believe what I’m staring at. I remember seeing one picture of me there on the couch the night I came back for my things. But I didn’t think much of it then; my studio is full of pictures. But this . . . this is a pile of pictures hidden by a woman with a serious crush. Not only are there several pictures of me that she took at Erin’s picnic, but older ones, photos taken by Erin when we were in college. Pictures taken at birthdays, holidays, and awards ceremonies. Some of the pictures have Erin in them, but most are just me. Skylar must have found them when she went through Erin’s things.
My smile widens as I think of her sitting here looking at them. She doesn’t want me to know she thinks about me. I laugh to myself as I go over to a file cabinet and pull out a picture I’d filed away long ago. My senior picture. I was eighteen. My hair was even longer and more unruly than it is now and I’m pretty sure I didn’t even own a straight razor. I take the picture to the couch and put it in the middle of the stack before I tuck them back where I found them. I’m onto you, Mitchell.
I hear the front door slam shut. When I reach the top of the stairs, I find Skylar staring wide-eyed into the old study. I’m not even sure she hears me come up behind her. I follow her gaze as her eyes take in everything Mason and I did while she was at work.
We transformed the room into a child’s playroom. There’s a play mat on the floor with one of those mobile things over it. A bassinet swing that will convert into a regular chair swing as Aaron grows older. Next to that is a play saucer with all sorts of beads and toys to keep him occupied. The bookshelves are lined with parenting manuals, Dr. Seuss books, and a bunch of other crap the baby superstore sent over. In the corner, I had them put another rocker so we won’t always have to trek upstairs to use the one in his room. I finished the room out with a small pack-and-play crib that has a changing table attachment on the side.
She eyes the pictures on the wall. I’d blown up the photo from Skylar’s night stand. The one with Erin touching her belly at the picnic. On the opposite wall, I enlarged the drawing of Erin’s tattoo and had it matted and mounted in a wrought-iron frame outlined in the shape of flowers. Finally, her eyes settle on the vase of white lilies on the small table by the rocker.
Even from behind, I can see her hand come up to work the locket. I take a step closer and she must finally hear me because she startles. “Oh my God, Griffin. How did you . . . when did you?” She turns to face me, but her eyes don’t meet mine quite yet. They fall beyond me, onto the new large play structure I had erected this afternoon in the back yard.
Her hand covers her mouth in surprise. “You did all this?” Her eyes lock with mine.
I give her a smile and a
shrug.
She gestures to the swing set outside. “You know he won’t be able to use that for years, right?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Just say thank you, Skylar.”
“Thank you,” she says, reaching out like she wants to touch my arm, but then pulling back before she makes contact. “Of course, thank you.” She walks into the playroom and sits on the rocker. “It will be so nice not to have to go up and down the stairs for every little thing. And the pictures—” she waves her hand around the room “—they’re perfect, Griffin. It’s all perfect.”
She plucks a single lily from the bouquet and places it across her belly. Then she closes her eyes and relaxes into the soft gliding motion of the chair. What I would give to have my camera in hand right now. What I would give to snap a picture of her belly while she’s holding the flower against it. What I would then give to kiss the woman holding the flower and tell her every single feeling that is coursing through my body at this very second.
“Skylar.” My voice is like sandpaper. I clear my throat and brace for her refusal. “I would really like to take a picture of you right now. Can I?”
She glances down at her outfit and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she nods.
Without giving her another second to think about it, I race down to my studio to grab my camera. In seconds, I’m back, snapping picture after picture of her. I must take dozens before I stop and take a breath. Then the photographer in me kicks in and I start spouting out directions. “I think it would be a really dramatic black-and-white if you’d lift your shirt a bit and hold the flower against your belly.”
I look up from the viewfinder and catch her raised eyebrows. She wants to protest, but before her words come out, I say, “Skylar, I’m a professional. Believe me, you’ll thank me later. It will be a beautiful photo.”
She hesitates, but then acquiesces as the hand not holding the flower slowly raises her black shirt and tucks it under her breasts. The shirt bunches awkwardly so I ask her to stand up and turn sideways. I take dozens more pictures, having her move a hand this way or the flower that way. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that one of these will be my new favorite picture.
White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) Page 24
