by Karen White
He looked genuinely disappointed. “That’s why I stopped by. I was driving home and thought I’d say hello, invite you to the festival tomorrow.”
“Sorry, she’s already got a date.” Mabry actually made to close the door. I shot her an angry glance as I stopped the door with my hand.
“But if you’re there, too,” I said, “I’m sure Bennett won’t mind if I dance with you.”
I felt Mabry’s gaze boring into the side of my head.
“Terrific,” Jackson said, sending me his quarterback smile. I felt a small ripple roll through my veins. “I’ll see you there.”
“Not if I see you first,” I said, and want to slap myself for saying something so stupid and incomprehensibly immature—something the sixteen-year-old me would have said—but I didn’t get the chance, because Mabry had already closed the door in his face.
twenty-nine
Ceecee
2010
Ceecee hummed to the music on the stereo as she swept the dusting rag across the dark wood of the dining room table, carefully lifting one silver candelabra and then the next so as not to scratch the table’s varnished surface.
The pair had been a wedding gift from Bitty’s parents, and now Ceecee considered them a cherished heirloom that she’d one day pass down to Larkin. She didn’t think Larkin had a dining table, much less a dining room, in her Brooklyn apartment, but that didn’t worry Ceecee. She had no doubt that by the time she departed this earth, Larkin would have come to her senses and moved back home.
She moved to the sideboard, spotting the album Mack had brought down from the attic, open to a page near the back. She pulled the album closer to look at the photograph stuck in the middle, then carefully lifted the plastic cover and removed it. Her heart ached as she looked at it, her memories thick with grief and longing. It was the photograph of Reggie and Boyd on the day they’d all gone to the Pavilion and posed behind the cardboard cutouts.
In the years since, Ceecee had often wished she could turn back time to that exact day. That moment. So much pain could have been avoided. And Margaret might still be alive.
She turned at the sound of feet clattering on the stairs, and spotted Larkin wearing a too-large bathing suit held together in the back with shoestrings and carrying a frayed Little Mermaid beach towel that had probably been in the linen closet since Larkin was a little girl.
Larkin poked her head into the room. “‘Moon River.’ Andy Williams.” Grinning, she said, “Am I right?”
“Have you ever been wrong?”
“No, ma’am,” Larkin said, still grinning. She eyed the album. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.”
Ceecee felt a prickle of heat trickle down her spine.
“When Mabry and I were looking through these photographs, we found one of two young men, one of whom I assumed was my grandfather. It was black-and-white, so I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t figure out which one was him.”
“That’s because you take after your grandmother. And that’s not a bad thing.” Ceecee pressed the photograph she’d been looking at against her housecoat, hoping Larkin didn’t notice.
“Yes, but I could swear Mama resembled one of them more than the other. Although Mabry and I thought the men looked related.”
Ceecee forced a laugh and continued dusting. “Yes, well, as you said, it’s an old photo.”
“Let me show you what I mean.” Larkin flipped through the album, the crease between her brows deepening. “That’s funny. I’m sure we didn’t take it out.” She glanced over at the gleaming dining table. “I wonder where it could be.”
“It can’t have gone far,” Ceecee said reassuringly. She scrubbed at an imaginary smudge on the sideboard as she carefully slid the photograph into the pocket of her housecoat. “Where are you off to this morning?”
“Thought I’d lay out on the dock and try to get some color. I’m as pale as the underside of a fish. I think a tan would complement the yellow dress, don’t you agree?”
Ceecee nodded, remembering Margaret’s golden skin against the yellow of the dress. That was in the days before people knew what UV rays or skin damage were. It was almost unfair that Margaret would never have to regret her days of sun worship, remaining young and unwrinkled for eternity.
But even as the thought passed through her mind, Ceecee cringed. “Yes, it would. But you need to protect your skin, too. You don’t want to look like shoe leather before you’re thirty.”
“Don’t worry—I already put on my sunscreen. And I’ve got a conference call at eleven thirty, so I can’t stay out too long. I’ll visit Mama at the hospital when I’m done.”
There was a hitch in her voice, and Ceecee reached over to stroke Larkin’s cheek. “It’s hard on all of us, sweetheart. But I know how extra hard it’s been on you.”
“I’m finding out so much about her now. I just wish . . .” She stopped.
“Don’t. Wishing won’t change anything. Your mama raised you the way she did because that’s what she thought was best. Heaven knows I did my best to fill in, but I think we can both agree that there were big faults in my methods. The one thing you should never have to wonder is whether you were loved. If every child was given the amount of love you were, the world would be a much better place.”
There were tears in Larkin’s beautiful eyes as she regarded Ceecee. “Then why am I such a mess?”
Ceecee leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t you know? It’s because everything that’s beautiful and worthwhile on this earth starts out as a pile of mess. Think of butterflies. It’s the struggle to get past the messy part that makes us who we are.”
“But what if I can’t get past it? Does that mean I’m a failure?”
“Never,” Ceecee said. “You are so strong and brave. You always have been, with or without my interference.”
She studied Larkin for a long moment, remembering her as a young girl, how she’d tried to smooth over any bumps in Larkin’s life, and wondered how much she should say. “I probably shouldn’t have interfered so much in your life. You would have been just fine figuring it out on your own. I was trying to fulfill an obligation I owed. I couldn’t have been all bad, because you’ve never stopped kicking and screaming. Some people give up the first time they fall down. For others, failure makes them stronger. It makes them keep trying until they figure out their purpose in this world.”
Larkin looked at her skeptically. “Really? So my purpose was to be a copywriter for an advertising agency?”
Ceecee hugged her, smelling the coconut scent of sunscreen. “If that makes you happy, then yes. But if something’s still missing, then you’re not done fighting.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” She handed the album to Ceecee. “I’ll be on the dock if you need me.” She walked to the foyer, then retraced her steps. “What did you mean about fulfilling an obligation?”
The tightness in Ceecee’s heart came back again, the weight of the years pressing hard against her chest. “To Margaret. Because she died so young. Before she could see her daughter or granddaughter grow up.”
“But it wasn’t your fault.” Larkin’s eyes were sad as they regarded Ceecee, her expression so much like Margaret’s that Ceecee thought her heart might break all over again. “Whether or not you needed to be, I’m glad you were always there for me.”
Larkin gave her a small smile, then disappeared around the corner. Ceecee didn’t move until she heard the slamming of the back door. Then she sat down, took the photograph from her pocket, and began to cry, only vaguely aware of it slipping from her fingers and onto the floor.
* * *
• • •
Ceecee
1952
Ivy Darlington Madsen arrived on an early-February evening. Her birth was almost as quiet an affair as Margaret and Boyd’s wedding with the justi
ce of the peace. Bitty and the court clerk were the witnesses. Ceecee remained at her mother’s house, tending roses, pricking her fingers repeatedly until her mother told her to weed the vegetable patch instead.
As promised, Ceecee visited Margaret every day of her pregnancy, making sure she ate and taking her for walks in the Carrowmore gardens. She made sure they stayed far from the Tree of Dreams, focusing instead on Mrs. Darlington’s beloved cutting garden, planted with boxwood and southern yew hedges and decorated with silver germander, sage, and dainty flowering serissa. She and Bitty drove Margaret into Charleston several times to buy supplies for the baby and the nursery. Despite the baby’s untimely existence, it would want for nothing.
Boyd was busy with his growing medical practice. Gradually, he took over more and more of the work from Dr. Griffith; his hours were long, which made it easy for Ceecee to avoid him. She could almost pretend that he was back home in Charleston, that Margaret’s husband was someone else entirely. It was easier that way.
The week of Margaret’s wedding, she’d begun to dream of drowning. The cool water of the river would sweep over her head, and she’d be looking up through the surface to see the Tree of Dreams and Carrowmore. She would drift farther and farther from shore, reaching out her hand for someone to grasp, but no one did. She’d jerk awake just as her feet touched the riverbed, gasping to fill her lungs with air.
Bitty said it was because she wouldn’t confront the reality of her life and that as soon as she did, she could sleep again. But Ceecee couldn’t let it go. The pain was all she had to hold on to. The only thing keeping her afloat.
So, each day Ceecee visited a demure version of Margaret she hadn’t quite gotten used to yet, checked on the progress of the pregnancy and Margaret’s health, and then crossed off the day on the calendar, as if she were a prisoner marking time until release.
She and Bitty were with Margaret when her water broke. Before Boyd or an ambulance could be called, Margaret announced that the baby was coming; true to the impulsive and impatient Darlington nature, the baby was born in the foyer at Carrowmore on Mrs. Darlington’s Aubusson rug. Boyd and Dr. Griffith were both on house calls, so it was Ceecee’s mother who cut the umbilical cord and delivered the afterbirth, declaring the rug already ruined.
When she made to hand the squalling baby to Margaret, Margaret looked at it for a moment, her face a mask of pain and grief, then turned her head. So Ceecee’s mother gave the baby to Ceecee.
“What are you going to name her?” Mrs. Purnell asked gently, her gaze on Margaret.
“Ivy,” Ceecee said, looking down at the bundle in her arms. Their eyes met. When people talked about love at first sight, Ceecee would always remember that moment. Because that’s what it was between her and Margaret’s daughter. As soon as she was placed in Ceecee’s arms, Ivy quieted and began suckling on her fist, her warm round body pressing against Ceecee’s chest as soothing to her heart as honey.
“Ivy,” Margaret repeated, her voice dry. “Her name is Ivy Darlington Madsen.” Her eyes were glazed with pain, and darkened with sorrow and despair. Despite everything, Ceecee felt pity for her. Margaret had made a mistake, a permanent one. Overwhelmed by grief at the loss of her parents and the man she loved, she had snatched at the closest solution. But as Ceecee’s mother had told her more than once, making a decision in haste was like building a house on a swamp.
“Ivy,” Ceecee repeated, looking into the baby’s perfect face, pink and rounded because little Ivy had decided not to go through the trauma of a long childbirth. “She’s beautiful,” Ceecee said, surprised to find herself close to tears. “Just like her mama.”
“Don’t say that,” Margaret said, turning her face away again. “Make sure she knows she’s smart and strong. Those qualities will help her through life a lot more than just beauty.”
“Go fill a basin with warm water so we can properly wash mother and baby,” Mrs. Purnell said to Bitty. Turning to Margaret, she said, “I don’t want to move you until Boyd gets here, but do you think if we prop you up on some pillows, you would be able to nurse the baby?”
Margaret’s dead eyes fell on Ivy, as if she finally comprehended what had just happened, that she had brought another human being into the world and had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to do next.
“We bought powdered formula and bottles,” Bitty said. Ceecee could tell by her shaking hand that she was dying for a cigarette.
Ceecee’s mother gave a curt nod. “That’s probably best.” She put a gentle hand on Ceecee’s arm. “Are you okay with feeding the baby?”
Ceecee lifted her chin and met her mother’s sympathetic eyes. She’d not told her mother everything, but somehow her mother knew. Knew of her heartbreak, and her resolution to survive it. Maybe that’s what being a mother was—not so much the act of giving birth, but the sense of understanding and love born from the need to protect. “Yes,” Ceecee said, looking down into Ivy’s face as the baby began to cry a pitiful chirp that sounded like a tiny bird.
After the baby had been washed and a diaper placed on her small bottom—after only three tries—Ceecee settled into a rocking chair in the nursery upstairs. She held the bottle to Ivy’s rosebud lips. When Boyd said they could pretend the child was theirs, she hadn’t believed him. How could someone without blood ties ever love a child the way a real mother would?
But sitting in the chair and feeding Ivy, feeling the warm body relax against her own and the tiny hand encircle her finger, Ceecee knew that she could.
The door opened and Boyd was there, filling the doorway, his eyes on hers. For a brief moment she allowed herself to believe that Ivy really was theirs, that Margaret and Reggie didn’t exist, and that they were a family of three.
“Hello, Sessalee,” he said hesitantly, hanging back.
The sound of her name on his lips brought her back to harsh reality, the bottle slipping from Ivy’s mouth and making her cry. Ceecee quickly replaced it, glad for the distraction.
“Bitty said you were very brave.”
Ceecee shook her head, reluctantly meeting his eyes. “The baby came so fast that we didn’t have time to think about it. Besides, we’ve both seen Gone with the Wind, so we knew what to do.”
His mouth quirked, making her pulse quicken no matter how much she told it not to. “Bitty said you did all the work, and she just did what you told her to. I’m proud of you.”
She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t his to be proud of, but she didn’t. It felt too good to be the object of his pride and attention, no matter how wrong she knew it to be. “How’s Margaret?”
His expression sobered. “She doesn’t want to go to the hospital. I’ve examined her and I agree, so she’ll stay here at Carrowmore. I’ve just brought her upstairs to her bed. Bitty and your mother are dressing her in a fresh nightgown. I’ve asked the cook to bring her something to eat.”
Boyd approached and knelt next to the chair, placing his large hand over Ivy’s mostly bald head, a patch of strawberry blond hair sprouting in small swirls at the top. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She is. But not very patient.” Ceecee tried to smile but found she couldn’t. It had been a while since she’d offered a real smile, as if the weight of her sorrow tugged too hard on the sides of her mouth.
Boyd used his thumb to gently brush Ivy’s peach fuzz. They watched as Ivy’s eyes drifted closed, the nipple slipping from her lips. “I was hoping she’d have Reggie’s red hair. He always hated it, but every generation in our family has always had at least one redhead.” He took the bottle as Ceecee shifted the baby to her shoulder and began to pat the tiny back.
“So, what do we do now, Sessalee?”
She made the mistake of meeting his gaze, remembering how much she loved him, no matter how hard she’d tried to stop. But she couldn’t forget the platinum band on Margaret’s left hand, or the baby in her arms. Or the v
ows and promises she and others had made that she would not break.
She closed her eyes, gently rocking the baby, the motion keeping her calm. “I go home to my parents’ house and assist my father in his parish, arrange for all the flowers at weddings and funerals. I’m quite good at it, you know. I will teach Ivy to call me Aunt Ceecee because that’s what I will be to her even though I will always love her like a daughter. And you will remain at Carrowmore with your wife and child and become a respectable doctor just like you planned.”
“This isn’t what I planned, Sessalee.” His voice sounded broken, and she had to keep her eyes closed so she couldn’t see him and want to go to him.
“It’s not what I planned, either. But it is what it is, Boyd. There’s no changing any of it. And the sooner we both realize that, the sooner we can both find new happiness.”
“Run away with me,” he said impulsively. “You, me, and the baby. We can start a new life somewhere. A place where no one knows us. I can always find work. And you know that Margaret would be happier, too. She would thrive, playing the wronged and deserted wife.”
Ceecee felt sick. If only she could pretend that she hadn’t thought the same thing; if only she knew that they wouldn’t be tormented for the rest of their lives by what they’d done. “You know we can’t,” she said. “We both know you could never do such a thing.”
She’d stopped rocking, and the baby began to squirm. Standing, she began pacing, patting the baby’s back until she settled again.
“I love you, Sessalee. I don’t expect I’ll ever quit.”
Ceecee stood still at the window overlooking the rear yard and the river, the Tree of Dreams a solid frame to the left side of the view. She recalled the ribbons that had been placed in the tree, dreams and wishes made with innocence and naïveté, or careless vanity and false bravado. I will love Sessalee Purnell until I die, and will hope every day that we will find a way to spend our lives together.
