Dreams of Falling

by Karen White

  I smiled. “I will,” I said, surprised that I meant it.

  twenty-four

  Ceecee

  2010

  Ceecee stepped into the house from the back porch after working in her garden, the smells of moist earth and perspiration clinging to her. Whenever she was troubled, she found solace in weeding her flower beds and deadheading spent blooms. If only all of life’s problems could be eradicated as cleanly and swiftly.

  She heard a thump from upstairs and quickly slid out of her Keds and pulled off her gardening gloves. “Bitty?” She said it while she was still on the landing, not wanting to get to the top and find her friend collapsed on the floor, her last cigarette still clenched between her lips.

  “We’re in here,” Bitty called from Larkin’s bedroom.

  Ceecee paused in the doorway, noticing how every single dresser drawer had been pulled out, an assortment of brightly colored clothing strewn on the bed and floor.

  Larkin gave her a worried smile. “Don’t worry—I’ll clean this all up. I was just hoping to find an old bathing suit that might work to go out on Jackson’s boat. Everything at the stores was so . . . revealing.”

  Bitty, sitting on the bed, held up a bright yellow one-piece that Ceecee remembered Larkin wearing when she was about fifteen. “I told her I could use shoestrings to hold this one together in the back.” She didn’t laugh, which meant that she might actually be serious.

  “But it’s at least four sizes too big for her now.” Ceecee glanced around the piles on the bed, then moved to the ones on the floor. “All of these are.”

  “Exactly,” Bitty said, leaning back against the pillows.

  Larkin rolled her eyes and turned to the suitcase on the floor. She still hadn’t unpacked, as if she continued to believe that her mother would wake up any day now and she could leave.

  “Or,” she said, rummaging through a stack of clean and previously folded clothes Ceecee had placed on her dresser the day before, “I could wear this.” She held up a long black cotton dress as shapeless as a curtain panel. “It’s a maxi, so it goes down to my ankles, but it’s sleeveless, so I won’t get too hot.”

  “Perfect,” Bitty said at the same time Ceecee said, “No.”

  Larkin looked apologetic. “Sorry, Ceecee, but I think I’m going to go with Bitty on this one. It’s quick and easy, and I don’t have to go to another store.”

  “It’s just so . . . plain. Maybe you can take off that ridiculous necklace and wear something bigger and more eye-catching.”

  Bitty sat up, ready to argue, but Larkin held out her hands like a cop trying to stop traffic. “I’ll figure it out when I get dressed—it’s no big deal.” She glanced down at her watch. “I’ve got almost an hour, so since the two of you are together, I have some questions I was hoping you might be able to answer for me.”

  Bitty stayed on the bed but didn’t lean back on the pillows. Ceecee sat carefully on the tufted ottoman she’d bought when Larkin was little because Larkin had seen one just like it in an old black-and-white Hollywood glamour film and wanted one.

  Larkin began folding the scattered clothes as she spoke. “Mrs. Lynch was cleaning out her garage and found a bunch of papers that had belonged to her father when he was the fire chief.”

  Ceecee felt a frisson of alarm begin at the base of her spine, but she didn’t look up at Bitty. She couldn’t.

  “Anyway, he hadn’t kept much, but he did keep a folder about my grandmother and the fire. It included her obituary. There was a picture of her in her wedding dress.” She stopped moving for a moment and looked directly at Ceecee. “I don’t think I’d ever seen a picture of her before. I didn’t realize how much I look like her.”

  “You do,” Ceecee agreed. “Sometimes, when you walk into the room, I can almost think it’s her.”

  “Do I act like her?”

  “No,” Bitty said quickly. She met Ceecee’s eyes for a moment. “Margaret wasn’t like anyone else. She was beautiful, and kind, and giving until . . .”

  “Until her parents were killed,” Ceecee said, cutting her off. “She’d lived the perfect life before that, you see. And she wasn’t prepared to deal with her new . . . imperfect life.”

  Bitty coughed, turning away with her hand over her mouth. “I guess that’s a nice way to say it.”

  Larkin turned to Bitty. “Are you saying she changed after her parents died?”

  “No. More like . . .”

  “I have photo albums in the attic, Larkin,” Ceecee said, cutting Bitty off. “You might want to look at them. There’re photos of your grandmother when she was younger. But you’re going to have to go up to find them. I don’t think I can manage those stairs anymore.”

  “Thank you,” Larkin said, closing a dresser drawer with her hip. “I will.” She turned around to face them, leaning against the dresser. “There was something else in the file, too, that I was hoping one of you might be able to explain.”

  Ceecee schooled her expression into bland interest. “And that was . . . ?”

  “The official report of the fire that showed one person deceased—Margaret. The cause of the fire was marked as ‘undetermined.’”

  Ceecee nodded. “Yes, that’s how I remember it. Don’t you, Bitty?”

  It took Bitty a split second to nod her head in agreement.

  “But that’s not all. Someone—Bennett and I were thinking it was probably his grandfather, since he was the fire chief back then—had handwritten the word ‘suspicious.’”

  Ceecee found herself wondering if the blood could freeze inside your veins on a warm day. Or if she would be the first. She wasn’t sure where she found her voice to ask, “Was there anything else? Any further explanation?”

  Larkin shook her head. “No. But there were a lot of papers, and Bennett said he’d go through them and let me know if he found anything new.”

  “Maybe when the cause of a fire can’t be determined, they consider it suspicious,” Ceecee said, avoiding Bitty’s gaze.

  “Maybe,” Bitty said.

  “So, you never heard anything about a formal investigation, no rumors of anything suspicious?”

  Ceecee shook her head. “No. I was interviewed, of course, because I was there. But I have no memories of the night. All I remember is falling asleep, and then waking up outside with Ivy.”

  “Why were you there—at Carrowmore? That was the day after the hurricane.”

  Ceecee imagined she could hear the wind and the rain, the distant sirens. Taste the salt in the air. Hear, somewhere in the house, glass splintering as debris smashed a window. She’d been upstairs, in one of the guest rooms. She remembered that, remembered that there was no electricity and she’d left the drapes open so she could watch the fading daylight as the hurricane blew itself back to the sea. She remembered, too, that she hadn’t been afraid.

  She met Larkin’s questioning gaze. “I came to Carrowmore looking for Margaret and Ivy. I wanted to make sure they were safe.”

  “But where was everyone else? Where was Margaret’s husband?”

  “He’d been called away,” Ceecee said. “And Margaret . . . wasn’t well. She had what we called the ‘baby blues’—of course, now it’s postpartum depression. And I’m sure that wasn’t all of it—she missed her parents something awful, to start. There were other disappointments she’d faced in a short period of time. But she loved her baby; there was never any doubt about that. She was just . . . sad all the time. So, when we heard there was a hurricane coming, we were worried when we couldn’t find her.”

  “And you, Bitty? Where were you?” Larkin asked.

  Ceecee imagined she could hear the room hold its breath in anticipation.

  “I went looking for her, too. I even called the police, but they were too busy with keeping an eye on the storm to help me look for a woman we weren’t even sure was lost.” Bitty s
hrugged. “We’re not really sure of the timing of events, but at some point, Margaret found her way to Carrowmore to ride out the storm. Or she could have been there all along—we’ll never know.”

  “So, it could have been a lightning strike, or a candle Margaret lit for light.” Larkin’s voice sounded far away, as if she’d placed herself on that dark night in the old house as it faced a hurricane. She turned to Ceecee. “Where did they find her . . . afterward?”

  “Does any of this matter now?” Ceecee asked, trying not to remember what the house looked like when the fire trucks arrived. How she pictured the beautiful wedding room covered in soot. Everything the Darlingtons had ever cherished reduced to ashes.

  “Probably not,” Larkin agreed. “It’s just that Mama wrote me an e-mail the day she disappeared. She said she’d found out something about Carrowmore and the fire. About us. So, no, none of this matters now, I guess. But it might explain why Mama was at Carrowmore. Maybe even explain what she found out about Margaret, and why she thought it important enough to write on a ribbon.”

  “We’ll ask her when she wakes up,” Ceecee said. But even she was getting tired of it, of forcing an optimism she no longer felt. She stood, brushing her palms against her gardening pants. “I’d best see about supper.” Facing Larkin, she said, “You know, Larkin, if you take all of those old clothes out of the drawers, I’ll take them to the charity shop, and you’ll have room for the clothes you brought so you can finally unpack.”

  “I know—I just keep thinking that Mama will wake up any minute now and I can go back to New York. I can’t put my job on hold forever.”

  “Of course not. I just want you to feel more at home. Not like a visitor.”

  “But that’s what I am,” Larkin protested.

  Bitty stood, her knees cracking, and laughed. “You tell yourself that over and over again, sweetie, but it’ll never drain the salt water running through your veins. The outgoing tide might suck all the water from the creeks and marshes here, but eventually the ocean pushes it all back where it belongs.”

  Larkin turned back to the dresser and shoved another pile of old clothes inside. “Yeah, well, being here reminds me of that stupid girl I used to be. And I never want to find her again.”

  Bitty put her arm around Larkin’s shoulders and said fiercely, “You were never stupid. You were smarter than everyone else, because you didn’t let others tell you what you should think or say or do. Ceecee might have been over-the-top in her encouragement, but that’s what your staunchest supporters are supposed to do. You were brave, Larkin. That’s what your mama said, you know. After you left. And she was right.”

  Larkin kept her head down, her hands gently touching the items that had been on top of her dresser since her childhood. A Little Mermaid hairbrush, a participation trophy for a talent show in the shape of a quarter note. A framed photo of Larkin, Bennett, and Mabry in Wizard of Oz Halloween costumes. A dried piece of sweetgrass stuck between the glass and frame of the mirror.

  The clock chimed downstairs, and Larkin’s head jerked up. “It’s four thirty—I’d better hurry. Jackson will be here in half an hour.”

  Bitty squeezed her shoulders, then reached up to kiss her cheek. “Let me know if you want that can of Mace. I never leave home without it.”

  Ceecee kissed Larkin’s other cheek, then used her thumb to rub off the lipstick print. “I’ll go wrap a plate of my brownies for you to take with you.”

  Ceecee followed Bitty out of the room, glancing back as she closed the door to see Larkin looking at her reflection in the mirror as if she didn’t recognize the person staring back.

  * * *

  • • •

  Larkin

  2010

  I held the plate of brownies while I waited on Ceecee’s dock for Jackson, neatly avoiding the necessity of Jackson coming inside.

  My conversation with Bitty and Ceecee had unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t. Misguided, yes. Brave, no. The memory of the worst day of my life came back to me with horrifying clarity. After almost killing my best friend, I’d proceeded to walk away without any explanation, clarification, or excuses. I was a coward, too afraid to face the truth of what I was. Of what I’d done. And that girl was still there, inside me. I knew the longer I stayed, the better the chance would be that she would reemerge.

  Yet here I was, on the dock, waiting for Jackson Porter to come pick me up like in some sick form of déjà vu. Maybe I hadn’t shoved the old me far enough down into my psyche. And maybe I was waiting for the chance to relive that day, to hope for a more positive outcome. I almost laughed. Larkin Lanier—always the eternal optimist. That was one thing, at least, that I hadn’t buried completely.

  I heard the low rumble of a boat engine and turned to see Jackson approaching on a twenty-two-foot MasterCraft. Even in high school, he’d always had the nicest boat, even if it actually belonged to his father. But this boat was brand-new, the red paint of the manufacturer’s name vivid and bright. My first thought was that he was showing off, something the old me had once dreamed of. My second thought was one of relief that he hadn’t brought his father’s cabin cruiser. I remembered the small bunk with messy sheets in the cabin belowdecks, and shivered.

  Jackson slowed as he approached, his smile white in his tanned face, his eyes hidden behind Ray-Bans. His brown hair curled up over his USC baseball cap, and he looked so much like the boy I’d thought I’d been in love with for so long that I imagined I could feel the reel of years unspooling beneath my feet. I felt unsteady, unable to find a foothold, and it had nothing to do with the boat’s wake rocking the dock.

  “Whoa,” Jackson said, shutting off the engine and slowly drifting toward me. He took the plate first and set it down with his free hand, then helped me into the boat, but didn’t immediately let go of my hand. “You look beautiful, Larkin.”

  I couldn’t see his eyes, but I imagined they were on my mouth. I licked my lips. Even though I was twenty-seven years old, my high school daydreams hadn’t lost their luster.

  “Thank you.” I licked my lips again, my mouth dry. I breathed him in, smelling the familiar cologne and the male scent of sweat and sunscreen. I wished he’d take off his glasses so I could read his eyes, to confirm the sincerity of his apology in the bright light of day.

  He let go of my hand, eyeing my maxi dress with a frown. “I sure hope there’s a bathing suit under all those clothes. I brought the skis.”

  “I was hoping you’d remember that I don’t ski. When you had that party when we were juniors and everybody was skiing, I stayed on the boat and kept an eye out for anybody who fell.”

  “No, sorry, I don’t remember.” His forehead wrinkled in thought, but he shook his head. “Lots of people on the boat that day.”

  I didn’t mention that he’d asked me once before if I skied, and I’d told him that I didn’t. He said he’d teach me, but that’s not what happened.

  I sat down in the front of the boat while he pushed us away from the dock and started the engine again. As it idled, Jackson said, “I thought we’d go out into the bay and see if we can spot the smokestack from the Harvest Moon,” referring to the Union side-wheeled steam gunboat sunk in Winyah Bay by a Confederate mine. “I thought I’d drop anchor and we’d have a nice picnic dinner. I brought a bottle of champagne to celebrate.”

  “To celebrate?”

  “A reunion of old friends,” he said. “And our blank slate.”

  “I didn’t think we were friends, Jackson.” Why did I say those words? Maybe because I’d just been with Bitty, who knew the truth of everything without ever needing to be told. Or maybe it was because I was remembering dancing with Bennett in his parents’ garage and trying to recall why I’d once wished my dance partner was Jackson instead of him.

  “Weren’t we?” he asked, his smile intact, and I had the sudden realization that he a
ctually thought we had been.

  For self-preservation and the need to know the truth, I pressed on. “I used to hang around the periphery of your group, but I don’t think you ever said more than ten words to me. Until that time on your daddy’s boat.”

  “Really?” he said, still smiling, the boat idling and the thrum of the motor reminding me why I didn’t want to let this go.

  He held out his hand to me, and I stood to take it. Pulling me close, so I could smell the scent of him again, he said, “Larkin, as I said the other night, I remember you. And not just because we share a special memory. I remember that you were always the loudest fan in the stands at the football games, holding up those great banners.” His grin widened. “You helped some of the guys on the team with their English essays, too, because you were such a good writer. And I remember everyone standing to clap after your performance at the talent show . . .”

  I put my free hand over his mouth. “That’s enough.”

  He kissed my fingers, and I thought the heat would make my hand melt. Reluctantly, I dropped my hand.

  “See?” he said. “I remember.”

  I reached up to take off his sunglasses so I could see his eyes. They were bright green today, I noticed, reflecting the color of his T-shirt that molded nicely to his chest and football-player biceps. He leaned toward me, and I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, waiting for his kiss. A clean slate.

  “Hi, Larkin!”

  I jerked my head back at the child’s voice calling my name and turned toward the dock behind Ceecee’s house. Ellis ran toward us, wearing swimming trunks and a life jacket. He was running in front of Bennett, who was strolling casually behind him.

  I waved to Ellis but directed my annoyed gaze at Bennett. “What are you doing here? I thought you had to go back to Columbia.”

  Bennett stopped at the edge of the dock, his hand on Ellis’s shoulder. “Mabry and Jonathan are working the same shift today at the hospital. I decided to delay my departure so I could spend time with my favorite nephew.”