Sweet Mercy

by Jean Brashear

  It was then that the sun rose for Lily. “Hi, Mama. Can you handle a visitor?”

  “You bet.” But her voice came out a croak, and when she tried to push herself higher on the pillow, she grimaced.

  “Should you be moving?”

  “I want to see you.”

  “I’m here.” Lily adjusted the pillow behind her and stroked her hair. “How about some water?”

  “Yes. Please.” Her mother leaned forward and winced. Her hand shook on the cup, so Lily steadied it.

  “Are you hurting, Mama?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Lily could tell she wasn’t. “Would you like me to find the nurse?”

  “It’s a half hour until I can take my next dose. Nothing for her to do.”

  “I can ask. I’ll be right—” Half-turned, she stilled with the touch of her mother’s hand on her arm.

  “I’ll make it. Sit and talk to me. That’s the best medicine of all. Tell me how you’re doing, sweetheart. Catch me up on everyone.”

  Lily pulled a chair close and sat clasping her mother’s hand, careful not to jostle her IV. “I’m fine. Had to check on you before I started watering.”

  “I’m so sorry the burden of this has fallen most on you, honey.”

  “It’s nothing, Mama. You’re awake, and you’re going to get well. That’s all that matters.”

  “How’s Cal doing?” her mother asked.

  A picture of the thoroughly disreputable Calvin Robicheaux popped into her mind, his dark eyes gleaming with challenge. She shook her head to dislodge it.

  “Is he helping you?”

  Relief silenced her for a second. Mama hadn’t read her mind, for a change. She was ready to talk business. “Depends on what you mean by help.”

  “She means am I lettin’ you lie around like a pampered princess, sugar,” a very familiar voice said from the doorway.

  “Cal,” her mother noted with obvious pleasure. “How nice.”

  “I have to keep tabs on my best girl,” he said, approaching the bed. “You look a lot better awake, chère.”

  Lily leaped from her chair and gave him wide berth.

  Smoothly, he replaced her and pressed a courtly kiss to her mother’s hand, then frowned. “You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

  His presumption galled Lily. “It’s too soon for her next dose,” she snapped.

  “No? Well, let ol’ Cal here see what he can manage. Don’t go anywhere now, you hear?” He winked at her mother and left the room.

  Her mother chuckled. “If I were thirty years younger…”

  “You’d have better taste than that…that—”

  “That what, honey? Scoundrel? Scamp? Oh, darling, I hope not. A man like that was born to make women’s hearts beat fast.”

  “Women being the operative word. That alley cat wouldn’t recognize monogamy if it bit him on the—”

  “My, my, our Cal can rile you up, can’t he?”

  “He’s obnoxious and rude and high-handed and—” Lily spluttered.

  “And loyal and kind and brave,” her mother noted. “And I’d bet that he’s put in a lot of hours since I’ve been in here, hasn’t he?”

  “He’s not kind,” Lily said. “And I don’t get what’s so brave. He’s an ex-con, Mama.”

  “Who made a dumb kid’s mistake and paid for it,” her mother admonished. “He’s been honest and dependable ever since he’s been with us, and he’s put in hours he didn’t get paid for, just because he believes in doing a job right. I’m surprised at you, Lily. You have a quick temper, but you’re not usually unfair.”

  “Me? I’m not unfair—”

  “Then why does he get under your skin so?” Her mother’s eyes crinkled. “As if I couldn’t guess.”

  “You don’t know everything, Mama.”

  “Don’ sass your mama, chère.” Cal strolled in as though he had nothing better to do. He winked at Lily, who scowled back at him. Then he stepped aside as the nurse entered.

  “Mr. Robicheaux—”

  “Oh, Cal, sugar, please.”

  The nurse dimpled. “Cal, then. Mrs. Smith, Cal says your medication isn’t keeping up with your pain level. We can talk to the doctor about putting you on a demand system through your IV so you can have more control over your remediation.”

  “I don’t like drugging myself. I’ll do fine.”

  “Marian, chère, pain is hard on the body when it’s trying to heal. You should take the offer, so you can be back with us sooner.”

  “My head gets fuzzy. I don’t want to slip back—”

  Lily’s throat tightened. Her mother was afraid of falling back into unconsciousness. “That won’t happen, will it?” she asked the nurse.

  “No. And we won’t let you sleep too much, but at the moment, rest is critical. Don’t worry, though—later today, the physical therapist will be here, and he’ll be putting you to work.”

  “That’s good. I need to get out of this place. I want to go home. Tend to my plants.”

  Lily heard the longing in her mother’s voice, and tears threatened. There was nothing she desired more than to have her mother home, too. “You will, Mama. But you have to rest first. You take your medication, and I’ll get on to work, so you don’t have to be concerned. The plants are in good hands.”

  “Of course they are, sweetheart.” She accepted Lily’s hug, then glanced past her. “And I thank you for standing by my daughter, Cal. She’s lucky to have you.”

  Cal glanced at Lily with a slow, wicked smile, then turned it into another, sweeter one for her mother. “She thinks so, too, chère. She’s just shy about sayin’ it.”

  Her mother giggled. Giggled.

  Lily glared at Cal and crossed the room. “’Bye, Mama. I’ll see you this evening. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, sweet girl.”

  Lily charged down the hall.

  “You are, you know, sugar. Lucky to have me.” Cal caught up with her with no seeming effort.

  “Bite me, Calvin.”

  He held his gimme cap over his heart. “Oh, darlin’, I thought you’d never ask.”

  She broke into a trot, but his chuckles followed her.

  * * *

  GAMBLE LEFT THE NURSERY after a grinning Cal and a disgruntled Lily arrived. He’d already done the morning watering, just as Lily had shown him the day before; now it was his turn to visit his mom.

  But he wasn’t going to face her and be forced to admit that he hadn’t yet gone inside the cottage. Not because she would look down on him for the lack, but because she’d fretted over him so when he was lost in grief; he had no wish to give her reason to worry over him ever again.

  However much he dreaded confronting the ruins of a dream, it was time. And despite Jezebel’s offer, he must do it alone. He entered the lane marked by the sign Charlotte had designed and he had painted. His heartbeat picked up as the truck rolled into the tunnel of trees dotted, here and there, by delicate dogwood blossoms, small, creamy stars in cool, dense shade.

  When he emerged into stark sunlight, he blinked against the glare.

  In the sprawling green glade, the noose of memory waited for him.

  He stopped the pickup just before the final bend. Breathed deep. Approached the gate.

  Welcome To Honey Creek Cottage. Faded but still there in her flowing script.

  He got out, opened it, brushed one hand over the words.

  Then jumped back in, gunned the engine and shot down the gravel drive. Didn’t allow himself to pause until he’d come to a halt in front of the garage that had once been his studio. Maybe going in the back door would be easier.

  As he climbed the two steps and dug for the key that had never left his key ring, his gaze arrested on the trellis and its rambler rose. Charlotte had hoped for the scent to waft into the kitchen, and it had. Likewise, the honeysuckle planted outside their bedroom window had perfumed many a night and greeted them each morning.

  The canes of the damask rose tangled togeth
er, some of them rubbing others raw. Jezebel was right. They needed pruning.

  As he pulled open the screen door, he noted the worn paint beside the handle where time and hands had eroded the color.

  Sweetheart Blue. He could still recall the day he’d finished the last coat and hung the door, twelve, no, thirteen years before. When they’d been young, and life had been so full of promise.

  He unlocked the door and stepped inside the mudroom that led to the kitchen, glancing around. His mother’s old washer and dryer, which she’d given them until they could afford better. Instead, they’d paid medical bills and he’d learned to replace belts and motors.

  Get on with it. At this rate, Mom will be out of the hospital before you finish the tour.

  So, steeling himself, he walked into Charlotte’s kitchen.

  The first thing he noticed was the absence of mouthwatering aromas. Even after she’d died, they’d lingered. She had been one hell of a cook, and old-fashioned about it, to boot. She’d refused to let him begin his day with anything less than a full breakfast, no matter how often that had meant her dragging herself from bed and much-needed rest.

  And he’d let her, once he’d understood what it meant to her not to be an invalid.

  His veins might be clogged from the bacon and butter-drenched biscuits, the fluffy, golden eggs, the strong, just-right coffee…but he hadn’t cared then and still couldn’t. Man, had those meals been delicious. Pot roast tender enough to cut with a fork, pies with light, flaky crusts…never before or since had he eaten so well.

  For a moment, the room took on the glow it had once possessed, and he could almost see her there at the stove, humming to herself, blond tendrils escaping from the ponytail and, heat-curled, trailing over her nape. He’d cross the room as quietly as possible and attempt to kiss that spot before she heard him—

  And the smile, her smile when she turned…the one reserved solely for him.

  The image dissolved then, and the old, dark guilt struck. He gripped the counter’s edge and suffered, once again, the raking claws of loss.

  But to his surprise, he also felt the faint, soft touch of that long-treasured pleasure, as if something of Charlotte hovered nearby.

  He paused, closed his eyes. Listened for all he was worth.

  Please, he said to her in silence. Be here. Know how much I wish—

  Too much. More than was possible. Certainly more than he deserved.

  Any sense of her vanished. He swallowed hard and pushed forward into the rest of the house.

  In the living room, he was confronted with the only one of his paintings to survive the night he’d tried to paint Charlotte to keep from losing her completely—and, consumed by rage at his inability to do so, had snapped stretcher bars like matchsticks, sliced canvases to ragged strips. Grief had howled in his ears, and he’d been reaching for the one she’d loved most: the cottage as they’d dreamed it before it was built.

  Every slashing tear would have hurt her, but none more than that one. A remnant of sanity had stilled his hand. He’d fallen to the floor, clutching it, and the next morning, his mother had found him there. Levi had been summoned to spirit him away, and during his absence, his mother and Lily had cleaned up the wreckage. Dismantled, too, the nursery he’d made his mother leave alone as his penance.

  Thank God that room was empty now. He had no idea what had happened to any of it, even the crib he’d poured so many hours into making.

  And he didn’t care.

  He halted for a moment in front of the fireplace and studied the only remaining sample of his previous work.

  Realized he was better now. Painted with a surer hand.

  But one more calculated. This piece still vibrated with youth and hope. Sorrow had been a stranger to him then, as had remorse. The young man—boy, really—who’d created this had imagined no sins past forgiveness.

  Gamble turned away from the reminder of the best part of him. Reluctantly, he made his way to the second heart of this place: the bedroom. The bed where the child who killed Charlotte had been created.

  Each step dragged at him, drained him. If he’d ever considered living here again, the notion died now. Being inside these walls was sheer torture, where once he’d felt embraced. Safe and cherished. Strong.

  Desperate for distraction as he moved down the hall, he yanked his attention from the past to the present and noticed the lack of cobwebs or dust.

  His mother’s doing, almost certainly, in hope that he would change his mind and return for her birthday. Never thinking that she might wind up fighting for her life.

  Suddenly, he yearned to be done with this and nearly wheeled to escape and head for the hospital. Surely he’d faced enough demons.

  And let them better you, if you can’t open that last door.

  He clasped the knob and shoved. Forced himself inside.

  Sunlight poured through sparkling beveled-glass windows, casting rainbows on the honey-gold pine floors. How many hours had he spent, measuring, cutting, fitting boards…varnishing them to a satin glow? Laughing and talking with Charlotte, who plied him with endless glasses of sweet tea.

  The bed was still theirs, but her serene cream and blue linens were gone. In their place was a comforter in forest green, ocean-deep blue, merlot-rich burgundy and coppery bronze. No more frilly curtains, no crystal decanters. He strode to the closet and hesitated, uncertain what he wished to see, her clothes or their absence.

  He pulled the door open, and emptiness mocked him.

  Mom, why—?

  But he knew. He’d roared at her when she’d suggested going through Charlotte’s things, giving them away. Ordered her out of his house.

  She’d kept coming back, but the subject was not reopened. Her determination to have him back into life, however, had not abated.

  She wanted him to face this, but she had tried to block the worst of the blows.

  He glanced past his own clothes, spread to take up more of the space, sniffing for any trace of Charlotte that might have lingered.

  All he could smell, though, was cedar.

  And he couldn’t hear her voice in his head anymore. Panic jittered inside him as he tore through memory, grasping for any snippet.

  Mom, how could you do this? You’ve stolen her from me. I’ve lost her. He charged from the room, head swiveling from side to side as he sought evidence of his wife’s existence and realized that, save for memory, she’d been expunged, every last whisper of her, from the place that was, ever and always, hers. Only hers.

  He slammed outside, already yanking the keys from his pocket, leaped into the truck and shifted it into Reverse. He backed from the drive so fast he narrowly missed one of Charlotte’s prized dogwoods—

  He jammed on the brakes, threw the vehicle into Park—

  Grasped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white—

  Then dropped his head onto crossed arms.

  * * *

  JEZEBEL DROVE down the lane, intending to study the cottage in solitude and hoping to find that it had lost its hold on her. That she could let her dream go.

  Distracted by her thoughts, she nearly ran into the back of a pickup, a figure crumpled in the driver’s seat. She braked to a halt and leaped out, leaving her door open.

  She neared and recognized him.

  Gamble. Oh, dear heaven. Was he—

  She was almost close enough to grab for the door handle when she realized that his shoulders were shaking. She backed away from a moment too private to be shared with a stranger.

  But before she could, he lifted his head and spotted her.

  Jezebel froze. He looked awful. Ravaged. Wounded, soul-deep. “I—I’m sorry. I was just—” She tensed, expecting him to erupt from the truck and let her have it, full-bore.

  He merely stared as if too exhausted to react. What to say? If she’d ever felt more awkward in her life, she couldn’t recall it.

  He seemed so lost, she couldn’t allow herself to yield to the urge to flee. I
nstead, she tackled the situation head-on. “Are you coming or leaving?”

  He didn’t answer, but a muscle in his jaw jumped.

  She inhaled a deep breath and soldiered on. “Would you like some company?”

  He flinched. Though she would rather run, she made herself take a step closer. “Gamble, I’ll turn around and drive out now, if that’s what you prefer, but if you’d rather not be alone—”

  “Stop talking,” he barked. He jerked the door open and charged out, clutching the frame. His eyes were burning holes. “Why are you—” With visible effort, he halted. Focused on the ground. “It doesn’t matter why you’re here. Just go, Jezebel.” A shudder racked him. “Please.”

  No option seemed more attractive than doing as he asked, but an inner voice whispered that even if she were the worst choice, he needed someone right now.

  But he was also a man who bottled things inside. He wouldn’t be comfortable talking this out; few men were, and he was more contained than most.

  So she’d distract him. She squared her shoulders and strolled past him. “I’ve been reading up on azaleas, but there’s one thing I can’t figure. How can you be sure when you’re overfertilizing?”

  The silence was deafening, but she didn’t look back. A convict tiptoeing past the guards couldn’t be more nervous, but she figured one of two things would happen: he’d explode or he’d answer her. Either reaction would get him out of the obviously very bad place he was in. She wasn’t afraid that he’d hurt her physically; for all the complications of their brief liaison, she’d witnessed a gentleness and concern in him that relieved her of that worry.

  She forged on, approaching the nearest tree. “This is a dogwood, right? It’s a pity they can’t bloom longer, but I guess we wouldn’t appreciate them as much if they did.” Chattering your way to the firing line, huh, Jez?

  “Do you have to prune these, too? And is it important to seal the wounds?”

  “Jezebel.” His voice was flat.

  “Yes?”

  “What the hell are you doing?” She caught a faint note of curiosity.

  She smiled weakly, as only someone stalling the executioner could. “Admiring your yard?”

  He exhaled in a gust. “What would I have to say to get you to go away?”