The Lavender Hour

by Anne Leclaire

  “How did you stand it in the end?” I asked. “When everything was hopeless.”

  He seemed to understand I was asking about more than Monica. “There's a middle ground you have to find.”

  “A middle ground?”

  “Between clinging to false hope and falling into hopelessness.”

  “I don't understand. How can there be a middle ground?”

  “The middle ground is that space—maybe a few months or weeks or a day, even an hour—that you can reasonably hope for.”

  It wasn't enough. I wanted more.

  THERE WAS a roar of laughter from the front of the room. While we'd been talking, Lily had been opening gifts, and now she held up one—Faye's, I noticed from the gift wrap. It was a T-shirt inscribed

  WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN RARELY MAKE HISTORY. Lily slipped it on right over her dress.

  I looked at my uncle and saw him smile at Lily.

  “I think this trip she is so goddamned set on taking is crazy,” I said.

  “Why?” His voice held no judgment. He seemed to honestly want my answer.

  “Why? Let's start with she doesn't know the first thing about sailing.”

  “She'll make a good mate. And Jan's nephew and his wife are flying in from Denver to meet them in Norfolk. Both are experienced sailors.”

  “That's the first I've heard of it,” I said, and wondered why neither Lily nor Ashley had thought to give me this crucial piece of information.

  He looked over to where Lily was opening another gift. She looked both silly and spunky in the teal dress and Faye's T-shirt. “Your mother is stronger than you give her credit for, Jessie. She always was the tougher of the two.”

  I looked at him, surprised, and then realized he was right. Lily had always been the enforcer. My daddy had been the easy one.

  “Well, I've monopolized you enough for one evening. There's a gentleman across the room who has been looking over here for the last ten minutes. He seems to be growing impatient. Shall we oblige?”

  “In a moment,” I said. “You go ahead. Mingle with the widows. I'll be right there. No disrespect to Aunt Monica, but as Ashley would say, you're fresh meat on the market.”

  He laughed and kissed my head. “You've grown into a magnificent woman,” he said before he left. “I always knew you would.”

  Across the room, I heard Lily give a shout of glee. She was tipsy, I saw now, and nearly stumbled. Jan was at her side instantly, steadying her, smiling at her, as if she were absolutely perfect. I thought about what Ashley had said earlier. He's a nice man. He makes her happy. Give him a chance.

  Lily caught my eye, held it for a long moment. I raised my glass in the air and smiled. “I love you, Mama,” I mouthed.

  Lily grinned and blew me a kiss.

  I sent one back, and then waited while Bill Miller crossed the room and made his way back to me.

  eighhteen

  MY FLIGHT LANDED at Logan at four thirty, but we were, delayed at the gate because of a mechanical problem with the door, and it was well after five by the time I had reclaimed the Toyota and headed back toward the Cape. I was light-headed with exhaustion, both from the party, which had gone on until nearly three in the morning, and from the emotions of the trip. It had been difficult to say good-bye to Lily. Earlier that day, when Ashley picked me up at the house, I'd had the distinct and unshakable feeling that I was parting from my childhood home for the last time and had been unable to hide my tears.

  “I won't have you worrying,” Lily had said, misunderstanding.

  “I'm not, Mama,” I'd said. I'm sad.

  “I'm embarking on an incredible journey. The trip of my lifetime.” Lily had sounded like a child on Christmas Eve. “And I don't want to have anyone dampen it with their tears.”

  “We'll write every day,” Jan said. At the party, he'd announced that he'd made arrangements to e-mail from aboard the Odyssey every day of the two weeks the trip would take. Fourteen days seemed both an unbelievably short time to make a transatlantic voyage and a terribly long time to be out to sea. Since I hadn't bothered with an Internet hookup at the Cape cottage, Ashley promised that she'd keep me informed. Our tiff in the ladies' room of the club was forgotten, although she still thought I was crazy not to have latched onto Bill.

  Before the party ended, he had asked if he could drive me to the airport on Sunday and mentioned the possibility of flying to the Cape for a weekend. “I don't think so,” I'd said, and saw the flash of surprise on his face before he regained control.

  “Perhaps another time,” he said, but we both knew it wouldn't happen.

  Ashley couldn't understand why I didn't even try. “What's so wrong about him?” she asked.

  He's not Luke, I thought but could not say. “Stop trying to fix my life for me,” I'd said instead.

  “Well, somebody should,” she said.

  AS I headed south out of Boston, I exceeded the speed limit, hoping to arrive back on the Cape in time to see Luke. I was held up again by repairs on the Sagamore Bridge but still managed to make it to the Harwich exit of the Mid-Cape Highway by quarter to seven. I stopped by the cottage to unload my luggage and phone Nona.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi, Jessie,” she said. She sounded spent.

  “I just got in,” I said. “How's Luke?”

  There was a pause—long enough for my heart to go flat— before she answered. “About the same.”

  “I thought I might stop by.”

  “He's sleeping now,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said, unable to conceal my disappointment.

  “Can you come by in the morning?”

  “Sure. And tell him I called, okay?”

  I rang Faye next, but there was no answer. Too antsy to stay at the cottage, I got back in the Toyota and, with no clear destination in mind, headed toward Chatham, eventually ending up at the parking lot by the Coast Guard station. I turned off the ignition, rolled down the window, and listened to the lapping of waves, remembering the day I'd sat there with Luke. That day seemed very long ago. In the last light of evening, I watched one of the fishing fleet come through the cut. On the sidewalk, two boys skateboarded recklessly past, narrowly missing a family of four just coming up from the beach. The mother and two children were blond; the father had hair as dark as Luke's, reminding me of a story a woman from L.A. once told me. The woman's mother had been Danish and her father Jewish. She and her brother had hair as dark as their father's, and when they were young, their mother colored their hair blond and washed their arms in peroxide to bleach them, too. The woman had sent me her hair to fashion into a necklace. It was wiry and defiantly black. Her story held the entire history of her family, she said. I watched as the family climbed into a green sedan, not even taking time to brush the sand off their feet. I imagined them going off to a dinner of fried clams.

  I needed sleep, but I put off returning to the empty cottage. It took all my resolve not to go to Luke's, regardless of what Nona had said. Even watching him sleep would bring me a measure of comfort. On the way back down Main Street, I pulled over in front of the Squire. The first of the college crowd had arrived for the summer, and the bar side of the restaurant was jammed. I found an empty stool and ordered a beer.

  “Pretty busy,” I said to the bartender.

  “It will only get worse,” he said, and told me a local band was going to be playing later. I was aware of appraising glances coming my way, and, too exhausted to fend off anyone, I kept my eyes focused on my beer.

  The bartender slid a bowl of pretzels in front of me. “Want to order anything from the menu?”

  “Not right now, thanks,” I said, although I hadn't eaten since noon.

  “Let me know when you're ready,”he said, and drew a round of drafts for a group at the other end of the bar. He was back in minutes and set a bottle in front of me.

  I raised an eyebrow. “I didn't order this,” I said.

  “Compliments of the gentleman,” he said, indicating someone st
anding off to my right.

  I turned and saw Rich. He took that as an invitation and edged his way through the crowd.

  “Nice surprise seeing you here,” he said.

  I used the noise of the crowd to avoid replying.

  “Good band tonight,” he said. “The Total Strangers. You know them?”

  I pantomimed difficulty in hearing him through the noise of the bar crowd.

  He picked up my beer and, before I could react or resist, led me to a table. I stumbled once, and he caught me. “This is better, yes?” he said when we were seated.

  “I really can't stay,” I said. “I just stopped in for a quick beer.”

  He ignored this. “Luke tells me you're from Virginia.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was stationed there,” he said. “When I was in the navy. Norfolk.”

  I pictured the map at Lily's party. The big yellow arrow that pointed to Norfolk, the matching one aimed at the Azores.

  “So where exactly in Virginia are you from?”

  “Richmond,” I said.

  “You still have family there?”

  “My mama and a sister.” I hated this kind of bar talk. “How's Rocker doing?”

  “Great. I take him to work with me. Now he thinks he owns the truck.”

  “I bet he misses Luke,” I said.

  “I don't know. He seems to be adjusting.”

  “How long have you known him for?”

  “Rocker?”

  “Luke.”

  “About twenty years.” He signaled for another round.

  “Not for me,” I said, but when the waiter came over, he brought two beers. I looked down, amazed to see I'd nearly finished the one in front of me. Aware I had a slight buzz on—exhaustion and no dinner—I resolved to nurse this one. The band came in, and we watched them set up. I wanted to ask Rich a million questions about Luke, and at the same time, I didn't want to talk about him at all. I stood up.

  “You're not going?” Rich said.

  “Ladies' room,” I said. I stumbled again when I took a step, and he cupped his palm on the small of my back. Instantly I flashed on the image of Jan helping Lily at the party in exactly that way. I tightened my fingers on his arm, steadied myself. “Sorry,” I said. “Too many beers on an empty stomach.”

  “No such thing as too many beers.”

  His arm was hard, muscular beneath my hand. He was not tall, probably five seven to my five three. We would be what Ashley and I used to call pelvic matchups. My face warmed at the thought. Definitely too much to drink. I pulled my hand away. Inside the restroom, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. No makeup. Hair a mess. Looking as tired as I felt. I was not up to a night of fending off passes and decided to slip away through an exit on the restaurant side, but when I came out, Rich was waiting.

  “Hey,” he said. He narrowed the space between us until I was backed against the wall. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and he was edging one gear past third on the drink scale. I wasn't far behind. In the background, the Total Strangers began to play, guitar leading the way. He reached over and brushed my hair away from my forehead, then stroked my cheek. Wait a minute, my brain said, protesting. His thumb touched the pulse point in the hollow at my throat. His slightly calloused fingers stroked my collarbone. It had been a long time, and my body responded immediately.

  “This is a mistake,” I said. Mistake, mistake, mistake, my brain echoed.

  “Is it?” he said, his mouth slightly curved.

  I was aware of music, the buzz of conversation, the clink of glasses, a waitress calling “Coming through,” and tried to nod. He held my gaze. I gave myself over to the hard comfort of male arms. It felt so good to be held. Looking back now, I can see that, in that moment, I was lost, confusing grief with desire. I closed my eyes. My lips, traitorous and independent, opened beneath his.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw Paige. She was watching us, her mouth curled in a triumphant smile. Like a cat with a mouthful of cream, Grandma Ruth would say.

  “Shit,”I said, then, “Paige,”but the girl turned and walked away.

  “Hey,” Rich said. “No harm. No foul.” He reached for me again.

  nineteen

  I SLEPT BADLY, my night punctuated with anxiety dreams. I woke with a headache and a mouth made dry by the haunting remnant of a dream, one so vivid that, propelled by an irrational sense of foreboding, I got up and crossed the hall to the workroom. I had not drawn the shades—I seldom did—and the floorboards were awash with morning light. Through the window, I could see people down on the beach, walking the shore.

  The envelope containing Luke's hair was there in the desk drawer where I had placed it. Touching it, I was taken with an absurd sense of relief. In the dream, a woman's hands—not mine— had braided the lock of Luke's hair into the shape of a noose. Black and glossy and strong. And clearly meant for me. I laughed at my foolishness—that I'd had to actually check on his hair—and returned the envelope to the drawer. Months later, I would recall this morning and wonder at the wisdom of my subconscious. It had sent me the only prescient dream I had ever had.

  In the bathroom, I urinated for what felt like five minutes—all that beer—and, remembering the details of the evening at the Squire, grew nearly giddy with relief that I had escaped the close call of Rich. What had I been thinking, letting him kiss me, kissing him back? For I had, I most definitely had. Well, at least I'd disentangled myself after that one kiss, escaped. But not before Paige had seen us. And had Paige not been there, watching us with her lips curved in that strangely triumphant expression, where might the night have headed? Where indeed? Would drunken lust—even in the morning I could recall my body's response to him—have led me to stagger into one more ill-fated romance only to have to flee from it days or weeks or months later? Well, I refused to think about it. I had not gone to bed with Rich. I chose to see this as a victory over past history. I showered, dressed, drank about a gallon of water, and swallowed two aspirin, then headed over to Luke's.

  NONA LOOKED exhausted, absolutely shrunken with fatigue. When I hugged her, her breath was a long sigh against my neck before she drew back.

  “Well, enough of that,” she said.

  I knew not to offer sympathy. “Is Helen coming to pick you up?”

  “Not today. I'm not going out today. I was up most of the night. With Luke.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “He didn't sleep?”

  “On and off. Mostly off.” I read in her eyes the knowledge that this was the beginning of the really bad nights. “The doctor was by earlier. He changed Luke's medication. Put him on liquid morphine. He said that should help, but…” She shrugged. Beneath her exhaustion, there was fear.

  I closed my mind against the contagion of it. “What can I do? Can I pick up anything at the store? Run errands?”

  “Can you just stay here awhile? With Luke?”

  “As long as you need.”

  “I'm going to go up and lie down. See if I can get a nap.”

  “You go ahead,” I said. “I can stay all day if you need.”

  “I doubt I'll be able to go off.”

  “Even if you can only get a rest,” I said.

  “Yes,”Nona said. Then, “You go on in. He'll be glad to see you.”

  THE ROOM was absolutely still. “Hi,” I whispered.

  He didn't answer, and I thought he was asleep. Then he opened his eyes and stared straight at me.

  About the same, Nona had said during our call on Saturday night when I'd asked how he was, but I saw at once this was not true. He had failed in the last three days, more than I would have thought possible. He had shed more weight and was sculpted down to the beauty of bone, the starkness of a Byzantine saint. His hands, when I took them into mine, were icy. He pulled them away. There was an IV tube running into his arm. I noticed a box of Depends in the corner. Digestive is the first to go. Then bowels and bladder.

  “Can I get you anything? Would you like to play backgammon?”
I thought suddenly of those long-ago August evenings when Lily and my daddy played dominoes, a memory I could almost reach out and touch.

  He didn't answer.

  It was the first real day of summer, already in the high seventies, and the window was open a few inches. I could hear the birds singing in the backyard. “Nona's gone up to try and take a nap,” I told him.

  He still wouldn't speak.

  “What's wrong?”

  He sighed. “So I'm being an ass,” he said. His voice was weak.

  “What?”

  “It's just…”

  “What is it? What do you want? What can I do?” Was he in pain? Did he need more morphine?

  “It's funny.”

  “What?”

  “I'm dying. I'm dying, and I still have room for jealousy.”

  I understood then that Paige had told him about seeing me with Rich, understood the meaning of the smile the girl gave me at the bar. She hadn't wasted a minute. She must have come by earlier that morning or on her way home last night.

  “Listen,” I said, needing to explain. He lifted his hand and pressed his fingers against my lips.

  “Nothing happened,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “Really. Nothing.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  Overhead, the floorboards in Nona's room creaked, then fell silent.

  Luke laid his hand on the side of the bed. “Lie here with me?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I'm cold.”

  “Shall I close the window?”

  “No. I need to hear the birds. Just lie with me.”

  I stretched out at his side, curled my body to his, smelled the faint odor of urine on his skin. I laid my head on his chest.

  “Is this too heavy for you?”

  “No.”

  I stroked his chest and listened to his heartbeat, followed his breathing, patterning mine to his. I thought about the middle ground Uncle Brent had spoken of. The territory between hope and hopelessness that just two days before I'd rejected as not enough. I would take that now. Would take weeks. Days. Anything. I no longer believed that if you loved a person enough, you could save his life, but I needed to believe you could extend it.