Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  His eyes narrow. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?” I rise now to match his stance. “Is Whitman cheating on my sister?”

  “Oh, man.” He turns toward his truck, clearly upset he’s said the wrong thing. I rush behind, demanding details, but he changes his tone, insisting he may have gotten it wrong.

  “Maybe so, but I need to hear it anyway.” I lean against the truck to stop him from opening the door. “Fisher, please. This is my sister we’re talking about.”

  He shifts his weight, as if unsure.

  “Think how you’d feel if it were Finn.”

  This gets him, and after a pause, he spills. “I don’t know how to say it, Lovey. Yes. Whitman cheats. All the time. Brags about having a girl in every town. Doesn’t even try to hide it.”

  My stomach sinks with a sudden sickness. I have a strong urge to rush right to Bitsy and sweep her off to Arizona. Fly her far away from small-town gossip and good ol’ boys who never grow up.

  “Are you really surprised? Whitman’s always been a cheat. Far back as I can remember. It’s who he is.”

  I’m flooded with memories of their wedding, when I caught him with one of Bitsy’s bridesmaids. He was leaning in close, brushing curls from her shoulder and giving her his best come-and-get-it grin. I let him know I was on to him, and he smirked as if he didn’t care. When I told Bitsy, she was in the bride’s room, adjusting her veil before walking the aisle. She told me to mind my own business. Then she drew closer, with heat. “You really can’t stand for me to be happy, can you?”

  “Does Bitsy know?” My heart is pounding and I bend low, pressing my palms against the truck for support.

  “How could she not?”

  “Because, Fisher. The wife is always the last to know.” I scowl at him, angry at every man who ever lived. Why so many liars? “I have to tell her.”

  He touches my arm and I retract. “Be careful, Lovey. She’s not like you.”

  “That doesn’t mean she wants a cheat for a husband.”

  Fisher holds his eyes on mine, and it’s clear he doesn’t see things so black and white.

  “Why would anybody want that?” I’m indignant.

  “Maybe she likes her life the way it is, Lovey. There are women who go along with it. Everybody gets what they want. It evens out.”

  “Or maybe she loves him! This isn’t a game, Fisher. It’s my sister’s life we’re talking about. And her children’s.”

  He lets the dust settle before giving in and leaning his hand against mine.

  I pull away. “You think Bitsy is happy, Fisher? Really? Look at her.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not Bitsy. But if I were her, I wouldn’t have married someone like Whitman in the first place. Don’t you think she knew what she was signing up for?”

  “So I guess that means you know what you’re signing up for? Marrying a player like Blaire?” I let the rest go unsaid.

  Fisher stays silent too, but his jaw tenses as we climb back into our seats.

  I stare at the A-frame roof across the street, its stained glass windows blue and orange, a cross centered high above the door. Bitsy’s wedding took place within walking distance from here in the church where we were baptized. It was an elaborate Southern affair, earning her the cover of Mississippi magazine. With fourteen bridesmaids and twice as many showers, the events filled an entire year: engagement teas and girls’ getaways, Delta hunting trips for the guys, and equally elaborate bachelor and bachelorette parties. There was also a honey-do shower, a sip-and-see when the bridesmaids’ dresses came in, even a racy boudoir shindig hosted by a few of Bitsy’s more promiscuous sorority sisters.

  Most considered it the wedding of the year, if not the decade, and people still compliment Mother on the flowers, the harpist, the double-decker rental that carried guests to the private reception. More than four hundred friends witnessed Bitsy and Whitman stand at the altar and vow to love one another, to preserve the holy state of matrimony, to remain loyal partners for life.

  Did the words mean anything? To either of them? I don’t know, but I can only assume Bitsy went into it with as much trust and love as I felt for Fisher and then for Reed. So as I stare at the stained glass windows, all I can think about is saving my sister from a liar, a cheat, and a broken heart.

  TWENTY

  Fisher puts the truck in gear and drives a couple of blocks to the downtown square where he parks without speaking. Then, after a longer-than-comfortable silence, he exits the truck. He is feeding loose change into the meter when I join him.

  “Fisher.” I touch his arm with gentle pressure. “I was way out of line. I’m sorry. You and Blaire . . . That’s none of my business.”

  He gives me pardon, extending his elbow until I accept the offer, a kind gesture I never would have received from Reed—a man who liked to walk five, sometimes ten steps ahead of me. I weave my hand through, and we stroll arm in arm beneath the awnings, Fisher’s strong bicep taut against my palm, warmth seeping through his sleeve.

  “I shouldn’t be shocked to learn about Whitman. Should know by now not to trust anybody.”

  “That’s not a very Lovey thing to say.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’d been burned like I have, you’d understand.” I keep my eyes on the storefront displays, disappearing into the brightly colored dresses, pottery made from river clay, and racks of Ole Miss merchandise.

  “Maybe you’ll tell me that story someday,” Fisher says, not prying too much here in public, a kindness I appreciate. When I pause at Square Books, he gives me time to examine the titles. “You know what my mom says?”

  I lean my head, wait for more.

  “She says it’s a really bad way to live when you don’t trust anybody. Says it’s even worse when you don’t trust yourself.”

  I am still mulling over these words when we enter the restaurant. Finn and Alice are already seated at a table for four. They stand, each of them greeting me with hugs and kindness. The room is small and narrow, so other patrons turn to observe the commotion. A few nod hellos, but none are recognizable to me.

  “Finn has been talking about you for years,” Alice says warmly. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

  She’s an attractive woman, with girl-next-door dimples and kind brown eyes. I picture her at home tackling projects the rest of us pin on our Pinterest boards but never get around to attempting. She’s the sort of person I’d want to be, if life had gone as planned.

  We start with neutral topics: her children, her job teaching kindergarten. But we quickly steer into deeper waters, analyzing the gap between Oxford’s haves and have-nots, discussing the current political tensions, the Confederate flag, church.

  When the waiter serves our appetizers, the conversation comes to a pause for the first time. “Gosh, we’ve only been here twenty minutes, and we’ve already broken every rule of polite conversation,” I tease. “Money, politics, and religion.”

  “Welcome home, Lovey,” Finn says. “You never should have left your tribe.”

  “I second that.” Fisher holds up his wine for a toast, and four glasses clink together, serving as our mealtime prayer. With this, we pass the string beans. They’ve been marinated in a vinaigrette, tossed alongside squash, eggplant, and cherry tomatoes. We pair this with a slice of garlic bread, served hot and toasty from the grill, and I top mine with a dollop of white anchovy bruschetta. The menu claims it has been combined with house chili, mint butter, and radish greens, which delivers a flavor-packed punch. I swoon. “No matter what I say, do not let me get on that plane.”

  “Y’all heard the lady.” Fisher grants me another smile. The more we chat, the more I feel at home, and I realize how much I miss this easy banter. We fill in each other’s sentences with a roundabout open flow, maintaining a casual but frantic pace. We are all laughing, talking over one another, enjoying shared portions of panzanella, when Bitsy enters the restaurant, her girl gang in tow. I smile, but she’s no longer the vulnerable sister fr
om the poolside tea party. Now she’s retreated back behind her shell, hardened and closed.

  The sleek, slim row of tables has provided an elegant, if not romantic setting thus far, but now it feels suffocating and small. My first instinct is to rush Bitsy into the restroom and tell her what I’ve learned about her cheating husband, but Fisher gives me a stark look of warning, so I bite my tongue. For now.

  “Lovey? What a surprise.” Bitsy eyes our foursome with suspicion but stays on her best behavior. She waves politely to friends two tables down, then greets another walking by. She seems to know everyone here, but she doesn’t bother introducing me. Instead, she encourages her party to grab the back table where she’ll catch up with them soon.

  “How’s Blaire?” she asks Fisher, then turns to put me in my place.

  It almost works, until Fisher takes a shot right back. “She’s great, Bitsy. How’s Whitman?”

  My sister plays the queen bee, answering cheerfully in true socialite form, but her eye twitches twice. No matter how much she harms me, I don’t like to think of her being hurt. All I want to do is rescue her from the fire.

  “He’s out of town. For work,” Bitsy aims again. I show no reaction as jabs bounce like ping-pong balls across our table. Thankfully, Fisher knows my sister well enough to do the same, but this only makes her swing harder. Finally, she leans in and whispers, with a volume loud enough for all four of us to hear, “You may not know Lovey as well as you think you do, Fisher. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then she stands with a snap and moves to join her friends in the back.

  “Some things never change.” Finn looks to Alice, as if he’ll explain later.

  “Sticks and stones,” Fisher adds, grabbing a second scoop of string beans. “She’s just trying to stir up trouble.”

  I sigh, certain that’s exactly what she’ll do. “Blaire knows we came to dinner together. Right?”

  Finn takes a bite of his entrée. Alice sips her wine. Fisher looks down at his plate. No one answers.

  “She doesn’t know?” This certainly flies beyond every healthy boundary I have worked so hard to maintain.

  “She will now,” Finn says, trying to lighten the mood.

  I finish my wine in one long sip. “Maybe it’s best I head home.”

  “Nah, Lovey. Don’t let Bitsy ruin this.” Fisher reaches for my hand. “We’re having fun.”

  “It has been fun, so let’s leave it at that.” I smile but stand firm. “I’ll call Uber. You should call Blaire.”

  Despite Fisher’s protest, I pull cash from my wallet and leave my share on the table. “I insist. Otherwise people might call this a date.” I give Fisher a polite but steady stare. “It’s not a date.”

  I suffer all night, one bad dream after another. Finally, I give up and grab my laptop, hoping to get all my worries off my mind. It’s not until I dive into e-mail that I remember I was supposed to call The Dragon. Between the garden and Mary Evelyn’s birthday tea and the unfortunate nondate, I completely forgot about work, something I’m finding easier to do the longer I stay in Mississippi. I write myself a note and add it to my planner: Call Dragon. First thing in the morning, I will make that call.

  In the meantime I draft some e-mails, confirm the script has been finalized, and send approval to the casting agent, who has done an outstanding job finding actors for the shoot. Women of all ages and ethnicities—one is pregnant and another has lost both breasts to cancer. Authenticity is what I love, showcasing the female spirit of resiliency. Perfect! I include in my comments. Diverse. Modern. Effective. Strong work.

  I’ve marked twelve tasks off my list by the time I close my computer, a productive hour. Hopefully now I’ll get some rest. I listen to my white noise app, I recite old poems, I count backward from a thousand, I sing Emmylou Harris songs. Still, sleep does not come, and I regret having slacked on my yoga routine. Clearly, it’s catching up with me.

  Instead of worrying over Whitman’s crude behaviors and Bitsy’s harsh words in the restaurant, I keep busy by sorting through an old box of photos. The snapshots offer flashbacks from simpler times. Sleepovers, living room campouts, Christmas morning mayhem, Tooth Fairy visits. There’s one of Bitsy and me playing in Mother’s flower garden when even the roses were young. We had threaded clover through each other’s hair, wore vines of ivy around our wrists.

  In every picture I’m laughing and playing and looking to Bitsy as if she were the center of my universe. In fact, she was. When I reach another first-day-of-school photo, I’ve had more than I can handle. How I long to find that sweet, innocent Lovey again. The one who trusted everyone, who felt loved by them too. The tender spirit incapable of hurting a fly, always swooping in to save spiders and lizards when Bitsy tried to squash them. The spunky Lovey who was content building camps and catching fish.

  Where is that girl with such an open heart? And how can I bring her back to life?

  While I flip through the pages, I’m realizing this album is different from the one we viewed together at the kitchen table. Here, as the years are documented, so are Bitsy’s jealous side glances, noted in frame after frame when the camera’s focus is on me. Is it possible my sister has always worn a mask, like Reed? Even from the start, was she happy and personable to others while secretly trying to destroy me when no one was watching?

  I fumble through the images, studying her eyes, her smiles, her posture, following the timeline of our lives. Here, a nervous three-year-old Bitsy holds me in her small hands, her grin broad and proud and happy. Love exists in this smile and in the tender way she cradles me against her lap, the pink blanket tucked carefully around my newborn form. And later, at my first birthday party, when Bitsy stands beside me, teaching me how to blow out the candles and make a wish. She’s sincere and helpful in her pose, no jealousy reflected at all. Again, at Christmas. I’m three; Bitsy, six. We are giddily opening a present wrapped for the two of us. We aren’t fighting over the shiny strings. We don’t care who gets more of the paper. We’re completely absorbed in shared delight. What happened to us?

  I keep moving through the years, until I stumble across one shot that changes everything. Chief took this photo. I remember the moment, a few days after Blaire Dayton moved to Oxford and called us dirty. I’m eight; Bitsy, eleven. We are in the garden with Mother, surrounded by a jungle of vibrant dahlias. I used to pretend the cupped blooms were beds for fairies and that the miniature sprites camped there, watching over us as we played. I’m taken back now, as if time is just one long drink and I can steal a swallow whenever I want.

  Summer 1979

  Mother reads to us from my favorite book: Pippi Longstocking. She pretends she’s different characters and that we are all in Villa Villekulla, but we never really leave this garden.

  Pippi is funny. And brave. She lives with a polka-dot horse and a monkey. Which means Pippi makes up all her own rules and doesn’t let anybody tell her what to do.

  I move closer to Mother as she reads about Pippi going to the circus. Bitsy sits behind her, listening even though she says this is a little-kid story. Mother promises we’ll read Anne of Green Gables next, and this is the only reason Bitsy pays any attention. I know because she tells us so.

  “‘He’s the strongest man in the world,’” Mother reads. “‘Man, yes,’ said Pippi, ‘but I am the strongest girl in the world, remember that.’”

  Then Mother turns to me, puts her hand on my cheek, and says, “You’re just like Pippi, aren’t you, Lovey? Strongest girl in the world.”

  I smile big as the dahlias. It doesn’t matter anymore if I ever get to go to Villa Villekulla, because now there’s no other place in the world I want to be. I’ll stay forever right here in my garden. With my family. At my home. Where Mother says I am the strongest girl in the world.

  This is when Chief snaps the picture. Just when I’m glowing in my mother’s bright light, absorbing all her attention and affection. But what of my sister? Still sitting in Mother’s shadow, Bitsy is no longer the smiling,
supportive sibling. Instead, her arms are crossed tight across her waist. Her lips are low, and she glares at me with a look that holds only hate. Could this be it? The tipping point? The moment when Bitsy first felt pushed to the side while I relished Mother’s full adoration in the garden?

  I leave this image and continue sorting. Sure enough, this is the place where the side stares begin. The envious slant eyes, a sign of bitter competition. Fisher was right. It all came down to Mother’s affection. Bitsy wanted it all.

  Is this why she blamed me for the fire? Could she really have struck the match, as Fisher suspects? Torched the gardening equipment so Mother and I could no longer enjoy working the flowers together? Could a little sibling rivalry really go this far? And if so, how has she held on to that lie all these years?

  The vibrating buzz of my cell phone wakes me. Arizona. Oh no! I sit up in bed and quickly answer, pushing the stash of photos to the side. “Brynn? I’m so sorry. I’m about to call her right now.”

  “Too late.” Brynn speaks in a tone I’ve never heard. “She’s pulling you from Jansana.”

  “What?”

  “I tried to tell you, Eva. She’s been a ticking time bomb. As soon as I got here this morning, she stormed over and started in on me: ‘This is too big a campaign to lose, Maxwell. If Eva can’t commit to seeing this through, then I’ll have to take it the rest of the way.’”

  “This makes no sense. There’s no one else with this relationship.” I am pacing the floor. “What did you tell her?”

  “I explained how you’ve been working from the road and that we have it under control. Showed her the production schedule, assured her everything is on track. She doesn’t care, Eva. This is what we were afraid of.”

  Outside, dark clouds block the morning sun. “You did everything right, Brynn. I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  “I can’t lose Jansana, Eva. My whole career is on the line.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m calling now.” I disconnect and make the call I should have made yesterday. If only I hadn’t let small-town drama drag me away from my real life.