The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  But she was already moving toward the kitchen. “I promised the girls I’d make spaghetti and meat sauce. Mom bought all the ingredients this afternoon.”

  I swallowed as I followed her. When I first moved to Wedding Tree, Jillian occasionally cooked dinner for the girls when I was held up at work, but lately, she was doing it even when I was home. I wanted to break the pattern, but tonight didn’t seem like the time to do it, what with promises made and ingredients bought and all. “What can I do to help?” I asked.

  “You can chop the onions.”

  I’d hoped she’d say “nothing,” so I could leave the room. Working beside her in the kitchen seemed too couple-ish, too . . . intimate. Jillian was my sister-in-law, but lately, she was acting more and more like a wife.

  I hadn’t foreseen this complication when I’d moved from New Orleans to Wedding Tree in January. Christine’s mother and father had offered to help with the kids, and it had seemed like the ideal solution—especially after the third nanny quit.

  The girls didn’t do anything in particular to drive the nannies away, although heaven knows they can be a handful. The first nanny, Miranda, had been a gem. A grandmotherly woman with a gold front tooth and a nurturing nature, she stayed with us for a year and a half. The girls were at their worst then—it was right after their mother’s death and all of us were raw. She’d been a lifesaver. But then Miranda’s daughter had triplets, and she’d moved to Houston to help her—which was understandable, but it left us in the lurch, and the girls grieved Miranda almost as much as they’d grieved their mother.

  I put the girls in daycare, but one or the other was always sick, and as the attorney heading up the Public Protection Division of the Louisiana Justice Department, I had court dates and other hard-to-miss job obligations, plus I had to frequently travel.

  So I hired Ashleigh. I should have known better—she was a nineteen-year-old anorexic brunette who reported for nanny duty in high heels—but I was desperate. She was inattentive and constantly texting her friends, interested only in planning her nights out, sulking if I needed her to stay late. As soon as she found a job that left all her evenings free, she was gone.

  The woman after her was Gretchen, and well . . . the girls just never warmed to her. She was fortyish and hyper-efficient, but her personality was as frosty as her streaked hair. The girls started throwing tantrums and clinging to me and acting out in ways that the pediatrician said were normal for kids who’ve experienced a loss, but I couldn’t help but think it was partially due to Gretchen’s aura of detachment. When she told me another family had offered her more money, I wished her luck and said good-bye.

  My in-laws, Peggy and Griff Armand, had suggested that we move to Wedding Tree before, but I hadn’t wanted to uproot the girls. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to uproot myself, either; the thought of leaving the home I’d shared with Christine had seemed like more than I could bear.

  Two years after Christine’s death, though, continuation of location seemed a lot less important than continuation of caretakers. Wedding Tree was halfway between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, and since I split most of my time between the two cities, it made sense logistically.

  The move made sense emotionally, as well. “Why hire a stranger to help with the girls, when we would love to watch them?” Peggy had said. “Zoey starts kindergarten next year, so this is a good time to move and get settled. And there’s a fabulous half-day preschool run by our church that both girls would just love.”

  “And I can help,” Jillian had added. She was a middle school teacher and her late afternoons were free, although that wasn’t really a consideration when I made the decision to move to Wedding Tree. If Jillian crossed my mind at all, it was only as a backup for Peggy.

  I certainly hadn’t anticipated the way Jillian would insinuate herself into our lives. Every evening when I went to Peggy’s to pick up the girls, there she was. She trailed us home and made dinner. She stayed and washed clothes and cleaned the house. It was almost as if she lived here.

  As if she wanted to live here. I was getting the uncomfortable feeling that she harbored romantic aspirations I didn’t share.

  Her hand brushed against my leg as she reached into the bottom cabinet for a pan. Was the touch deliberate? It seemed like her body was grazing mine with increasing frequency, but maybe I was just more aware of it. I shifted away.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Any interesting cases?”

  “I really can’t talk about them.” More to the point, I didn’t want to.

  “You used to talk about them with Christine.”

  “Christine was my wife.” The words came out a little too bluntly.

  The pans rattled as she extracted one. “Well, I know how to keep a confidence, too, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She carried the pan—or was it a pot? I didn’t really know the difference—to the sink and filled it with water. “Christine told me lots of things I never told anyone.”

  What kind of things? Things about my cases, or more personal things about the two of us together? What kind of mind game was Jillian playing here?

  Irritation flashed through me, rapidly followed by a chaser of guilt. My thoughts drifted back to the woman next door. I wished I were standing in her kitchen right now. No history, no baggage, no awkward sense of subtle coercion—nothing but a slinky, Hollywood-style nightie standing between us.

  “It’s been a long day, and I’m kind of fried,” I said. “I don’t much feel like talking.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure your work exhausts you.”

  What exhausts me is dealing with you. It was an unkind thought, but it was the truth.

  Somewhere along the way, it had become awkward, always having her around. And there were other things, things that weren’t her fault.

  Sometimes, when I caught a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye, she looked so much like Christine that my heart would skip a beat. She was far from a dead ringer, but there were odd little physical similarities—the curve of her back when she knelt to talk to the girls, the shape of her calves, the way her toes perfectly slanted downward in her sandals. A year ago, these things were daggers to my heart. Now, they were just irrational annoyances.

  And lately, it had gotten worse. She’d grown out her hair, and two weeks ago, she’d turned up blond. And she’d lost weight, as if she were trying for Christine’s willowy frame. I wondered if she thought that by making herself look more like Christine, I’d find her more attractive.

  But then, maybe I was just imagining it all—which means I’m a total ass. It’s possible I’m looking for reasons to resent her just because she’s similar to Christine, but not Christine. Close, but no cigar.

  I finished chopping the onion. I slid the cutting board toward her and put the knife in the sink, then washed my hands. “If you’ve got things covered here, I’ll go hang out with the girls.”

  “Oh. Okay, sure.” Was I looking for it because I felt kind of guilty, or did her voice carry an undertone of disappointment?

  All I knew for sure was that the air seemed lighter in the foyer. I inhaled a deep lungful and headed toward the sound of my daughters’ laughter, the tightness in my chest melting with every step.

  There they were, the two halves of my heart—sprawled on the floral rug in the middle of the den, their blond heads close together, shoving stuffed animals into their Barbie Dreamhouse. I stood in the doorway and drank in the scene. Winnie the Pooh hung upside down out the third-floor window, a naked Barbie rode astride Eeyore through the dollhouse living room, and a teddy bear’s pink fur overflowed the kitchen’s door and windows.

  Zoey looked up at me with her big brown eyes, too serious for a five-year-old. “Hi, Daddy! We’re playin’ zoo.”

  “Looks more like Animal House,” I remarked.

  If Chr
istine were here, she would have said something like, “Let’s make little teddy bear togas.” She’d always been willing to laugh at my lame attempts at humor, always been ready with a quick comeback, always been able to crack me up with a witty observation. Playful banter, I think it’s called—that’s another thing I miss about her. How long would I keep discovering new things I missed?

  Or rediscovering old ones. My thoughts flicked to the woman next door.

  “Let’s go to the real zoo this weekend,” Zoey said, cramming a toy zebra onto the dollhouse potty.

  I sat down cross-legged on the floor beside them. “Okay.” We had a family membership to the Audubon Zoo, the Aquarium of the Americas, and the Insectarium in New Orleans, and when we’d lived there, the girls and I were frequent visitors.

  “Aunt Jillian said she hasn’t been to the zoo since she was a teenager,” Zoey said. “She can’t wait to see the monkeys.”

  Wait—the “we” included Jillian? My enthusiasm tanked. “How about just the three of us go?”

  Zoey’s jaw jutted out. “I want Aunt Jillian to come, too. She said she could.”

  Once again, plans had been set in motion without my knowledge or consent. I stifled a sigh, reminding myself that I’d moved here so that the girls would have a sense of family. Looking at them now, I had to say it was a good decision. They were both thriving; they slept through the night now, their appetites were good, and neither one had thrown a tantrum in months.

  It was only natural that they’d grow attached to Jillian; she was their aunt, and she loved them. It was wrong of me to deprive them of her company just because I was a little paranoid. “Okay,” I said. “The more, the merrier. Let’s see if Grandpop and Gramma can come, too.” Having the in-laws along would defuse the Jillian factor.

  “Wahoo!” exclaimed Zoey. She jumped to her feet and headed for the kitchen. “Aunt Jillian!” she called. “We’re all gonna go to the zoo!”

  Sophie looked up at me. “Can the tooth fairy granddaughter lady come, too?”

  The image of the brunette next door flashed in my brain like neon. “I, uh, think she’ll need to stay and take care of her grandmother.”

  “We could ask her.”

  “We don’t know her well enough to invite her out like that.” Although it would certainly make things a lot more interesting from my perspective.

  “If she went with us, we’d get to know her better.”

  I ruffled Sophie’s hair. “She’s just visiting. I don’t think she’ll be in town very long.”

  I wondered just how long she planned to stay in Wedding Tree. I wondered what she did for a living and where she lived.

  I wondered why I was wondering all these things about a woman I’d barely met.

  I thought about the way she’d filled out that sparkly sheer gown, and I immediately knew the answer. I unwound my legs and rose. “Come on, sport. We’d better wash up for dinner.”

  And while I was at it, I’d better clean up my thoughts, as well.

  5

  adelaide

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY

  Watch your head, Mom.” Eddie cushioned the top of my noggin with his hand as if I’d never gotten into an automobile before—when the fact is, I’d ridden in enough cars to fill an antique road show, starting with my granddaddy’s Model T.

  Of course, that’s what I was now. An antique.

  One thing those old cars had going for them—you didn’t have to fuss with that ridiculous strap contraption Eddie was easing over my head and clicking across my lap. What the heck was that annoying thing called? I can’t remember. I can remember the license plate of our family car back in 1939—122-147—but I can’t remember the name of this silly restraint device. It’s sad to remember just enough to know how much you’re forgetting.

  “Ralph and I will meet you at the house,” Eddie said.

  “Fine,” I said, although I didn’t really register what he’d said. I was too caught up in noticing that there seemed to be two Eddies. Something was wrong with my vision, because sometimes I saw double and even triple.

  Becky—no, it was Hope; I’d seen her face fall too many times when I’d called her the wrong name over the last few days, and I sure didn’t want to do that again—smiled at me. “Does the seat belt hurt your ribs?”

  Seat belt—that’s what it was called. And why on earth was she asking about my ribs? Something must be wrong with them. That must be why my lower chest throbbed. “I’m fine, dear.”

  But I wasn’t. I was confused and disoriented, and my hands were clammy. Thoughts flitted in and out of my head like hummingbirds, pausing for just a few seconds before winging on their way. I couldn’t seem to hold on to any of them.

  I knew I was in a car, but where the heck were we? I looked around, searching for clues. A woman in a blue medical outfit—what do they call it? Scraps?—was pushing a wheelchair away from the curb. “Take care now, Mrs. McCauley,” she said.

  The hospital—that’s right. I’d fallen, hit my head, and cracked my ribs. Relief washed through me—first relief that I could remember where I was, and then relief that I was leaving. The next time I came here, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be so lucky.

  My days in the hospital all blended together in my memory like that cottage cheese and Jell-O recipe I used to make, opaque and filled with chunks of crunchy stuff that tasted the same—only instead of apples and celery, these chunks were made up of having my blood pressure checked, being helped to bathroom, and feeling a stranger’s hands bathe me in the shower.

  It was humbling, being on the receiving end of bathing and bathroom care. I’d performed the tasks for Charlie when he was first injured, but getting the help myself . . . well, I knew it had been hard on Charlie, but I had a new appreciation of just how hard. I think it must have been worse to get help from a spouse than from a stranger—especially knowing that the spouse had been about to leave you.

  One thing I do remember clearly about my stay in the hospital—it stands out, as sure as nuts in Jell-O—was that visit with Mother. If I didn’t want to spend eternity getting tongue-lashed, I had to tell Hope everything and take care of that piece of business I’d put off for decades. The thought made my breakfast turn sour in my stomach.

  I must have closed my eyes and dozed for a moment, because the next thing I knew, Hope was pulling up in front of the house. Time has become uneven. It slides by unnoticed, as if nothing is changing, and then all of a sudden, I look around and everything’s different.

  “Sit tight, and I’ll get your walker out of the trunk,” Hope said.

  My walker? I didn’t need a walker, like an old lady! Or did I? Maybe so. I couldn’t risk falling again until I finished following Mother’s instructions.

  The sun was shining, and the tulips in the yard were in full bloom—bright bursts of brilliant yellow and white, blinding as a flashbulb. A handsome officer’s face floated into my memory, and my mind started to go down a rabbit hole, but then my eye caught the hot pink flash of azaleas, just starting to bud, and my thoughts zoomed even further backward, back to childhood.

  I was five years old, crouched beside the azalea bed with my mother. She wore her brown-checked housedress, flowered cotton gloves, and her floppy straw gardening hat. I had a gardening hat and a pair of gloves, too, but I’d taken them off after about two minutes. I’d never liked the feel of things on my hands or head.

  “Your skin is going to turn as brown and rough as leather,” Mother had fussed. She’d always been after me for unladylike behavior, but I didn’t think that ladies seemed to have much fun. Gardening was the one ladylike activity I loved, because it involved digging in the dirt. On this particular day, Mother and I were mixing old coffee grounds into the soil under the azaleas. She said it made them bloom longer. I remember dipping the grounds out of a big Crisco can, and inhaling deeply. I’d loved the mingled scent of coffee and
dirt and growing things.

  So odd, how I could remember long-ago things like they happened yesterday, yet yesterday’s events seemed covered with moss.

  Eddie and Ralph pulled their car into the drive behind us, and I used that infernal walker to get to the porch. Eddie helped me up the steps—the steps were a nice, clean gray, as if they’d been newly painted—and then I was in the house, and Snowball was bouncing around my feet, dancing as if it were Christmas, New Year’s, and every other holiday all rolled into one big, fat, joyful, beefy bone.

  Hope picked him up so I didn’t trip over him, while Eddie led me into the living room and got me settled in a chair. Hope set Snowball in my lap, where he licked my face and wagged his tail as I talked to him and petted him, and it was only after he calmed down and curled into a soft, strokable ball that I realized I was sitting in the floral chair where my mother used do her hand sewing when she listened to the radio. Of course, that was back when the chair was in her house, and the radio was a piece of furniture.

  I closed my eyes and it was like I was transported back to my childhood home. I could practically feel the itchy wool sofa. Daddy’s leather chair was angled beside it, the armrest worn and cracked, and . . .

  “Okay, Mom?”

  Eddie’s question made me jerk my eyes open. He was sitting on the sofa in my living room and I believe he’d been talking for quite a while, but I hadn’t been paying attention. Oh dear. How rude of me!

  “Okay?” he asked again.

  I was ashamed to admit that I hadn’t been following his conversation. “Fine,” I said. Fine was a word that seemed suitable for most responses.

  He rose, and the red-haired man seated beside him—Rufus? Rupert? I couldn’t recall his name, dadburn it—rose with him. “Well, then, we’d better get going. Our plane leaves at noon.” Eddie came over and kissed my cheek. “We’ll be back to get you at the beginning of June.”

  Alarm shot through me. “Get me?” I echoed blankly.