The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  After lunch, Gran took another short nap, then a physical therapist showed up to work with her. Gran needed another rest after that. I sorted through some of my mother’s old clothes in the guest room, then Nadine prepared a too-early-for-anyone-under-the-age-of-eighty dinner. The night-shift worker, a middle-aged woman named Hazel, arrived at six. I’d no sooner gone through Gran’s schedule and shown her around the house than three ladies from Gran’s Sunday school class dropped by for a visit. After greeting them, pouring iced tea, and chatting for a few moments, I excused myself and headed out for a run. Gran had been right; after a day being cooped up, I needed to get out of the house.

  I saw Peggy heading out of Matt’s house as I trotted down the porch steps. We both waved, then met halfway across the lawn.

  “How are things going?” she asked.

  I smiled. “We’re off to a slow start sorting through Gran’s belongings, but I’m hearing all kinds of fascinating stories.”

  “You ought to write them down.”

  I’d been thinking the same thing. I nodded.

  Peggy hooked her thumb toward Matt’s house. “I was just putting the girls’ laundry away. They’re at our house playing Wii with Griff. Matt was held up at work.”

  “What does he do?” I asked.

  “He heads up the Public Protection Division of the Louisiana Justice Department. He investigates and prosecutes charges of pollution, consumer fraud, equal opportunity violations, and other things that affect the public welfare.”

  “Wow. Sounds like a big job.”

  “It is. Which makes being a single parent especially tough. I’m so glad he moved to Wedding Tree so we can help out.”

  “I’m sure the girls enjoy being near you.”

  “Yes, but a move is still a big adjustment. That’s why I’m so excited about you doing a mural in their room. I’m afraid I sweetened the idea of moving here by promising that their room could look like a princesses’ chamber. Do you have time to take a look at it now?”

  “Sure.” I was curious to see the inside of the house. It was a Georgian-style home, much larger than Gran’s, with big white columns. An elderly woman had lived there when I was a kid, and Gran and I used to take her cookies and flowers. I remembered an overgrown lawn, faded floral wallpaper, and drape-dimmed windows. The place had struck me as dark and spooky.

  Now it was anything but. Peggy opened the new beveled-glass door and led me into a wide, hardwood foyer. A large chandelier hung over the entryway. Sunlight poured in through the transom windows around the door and from the large windows in the dining room and living room. “Wow!” I looked around, taking in the fawn-colored walls. “This is gorgeous! I remember it as being kind of dark and run-down.”

  She nodded. “After Katrina, it was bought by a furniture store owner from New Orleans. He completely renovated it, then kept it in spotless condition. It was move-in ready when Matt bought it.” She gestured toward the staircase. “The girls’ room is on the second floor.”

  I moved toward the stairs, then Peggy’s phone beeped. “Excuse me,” she said, pulling it out of the pocket of her denim jacket. I admired the carving on the newel post while she had a brief conversation.

  She clicked off and gave me a chagrined smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to go pick up Griff’s heart medicine before the pharmacy closes.”

  “No problem. We can do this another time.”

  “No, no, dear—you go right ahead. Take a right at the top of the stairs. It’s the first bedroom on the left—the one with the twin beds.” She dropped the phone back in her pocket. “Take your time. And thank you so much!” She hurried out and pulled the door closed behind her.

  It was weird, being in someone’s home with no one there. This would never have happened in Chicago. But then, small-town life in southern Louisiana was completely different. With a shrug, I headed upstairs.

  I found the girls’ room easily enough. It was painted pink, and there were two twin beds with Disney princess comforters, two gold-trimmed white dressers with mirrors, a child-sized bookcase, and a tall antique bureau. The room had a large window with built-in plantation shutters that looked out to the front yard.

  The walls were bare of artwork, but I noticed several framed photos on the bureau. I stepped closer. Every picture featured a beautiful blond woman—holding an infant, reading to a baby, sitting in front of a Christmas tree with Matt and two towheaded toddlers. My heart swelled with the magnitude of their loss. They’d been a picture-perfect family—the kind you’d see in a packaged picture frame. The girls were adorable, their mother as gorgeous as any model, and Matt . . . My stomach gave a funny little dip. Well, he wasn’t hard on the eyes, either.

  But I wasn’t here to think about Matt. I was here to think about painting this room as if it were part of a castle. I forced my attention to the layout, took some snapshots with my phone, and started imagining what and where I could paint. Maybe I could put the girls’ mother somewhere in the painting. The idea sparked a rush of creative excitement unlike anything I’d felt since college.

  Inspired, I studied the photos on the bureau again. I needed to see more pictures of her, shot from different angles. Maybe there were more photos in other rooms. I headed out into the hall and toward the master bedroom. Through the open door, I could see a collection of frames on the long, mirrored bureau. Curious, I flipped on the light and walked inside.

  The room was as plain as a vanilla wafer. The walls were bare and beige, and the tailored drapes exactly matched the walls. I guessed they’d come with the house and Matt had simply moved in. The furniture was simple yet elegant, a tasteful mix of new things and antiques—most likely the furniture he’d shared with his wife. The king bed was covered with a plain brown comforter, unbrightened by throw pillows or a colorful blanket. A lone lump against the headboard indicated the comforter covered a single pillow.

  I walked over and picked up a silver frame on the bureau. It held a wedding picture, showing a glowing bride and a beaming Matt. My heart fluttered. Once again, I was struck by the stunning beauty of the couple. They looked like the figurines on top of a cake. Perfect. Just perfect. The kind of perfection that makes your chest ache.

  It wasn’t the bridal gown—which was fitted and strapless, breathtaking in its simplicity—or the woman’s hair or flowers or even her flawless face and figure that made my throat thicken. It was the way Matt was looking at her. His gaze were so tender, so full of love . . . It was exactly the way every woman longed to have a man look at her.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  I jumped at the gruff male voice, nearly dropping the photo, and whipped around to see Matt standing in the doorway. He regarded me in exactly the way every woman does not want a man to look at her. Angry. Outraged. Suspicious.

  “I, uh . . . Peggy, uh . . .”

  He stood there, glaring.

  “. . . Peggy let me in,” I managed.

  “To go through my bedroom?”

  “No.” My face burned. I could feel it turning the color of a boiled beet. “I, uh, was looking at the girls’ room to see about painting a mural.”

  “This isn’t the girls’ room.”

  “I—I know.” Sweat broke out on my upper lip. “I saw it, and I looked at the pictures, and I thought your ex-wife looked so beautiful . . .” I ran out of words.

  His scowl deepened. “First of all, she’s not my ex-wife. We didn’t divorce.”

  “I—I know. I meant your dead wife.” I immediately realized how harsh that sounded. “No—late! Your late wife. Or—or your wife who’s passed. Or . . .”

  He slashed his hand through the air, cutting me off. His scowl was so dark it reminded me of those scary trees in Snow White. “Secondly, being let in the house doesn’t give you the right to snoop through my belongings.”

  “I wasn’t snooping!” But I was, and my shame knew
no bounds. “I mean, I didn’t open drawers or anything. I just wanted to see your pictures.”

  “So you just invited yourself in for a look around?” His glower deepened. “You just thought that would be okay?”

  I slinked backward. “I, uh . . . didn’t really think.”

  “You didn’t think.”

  Oh fudpuckers. Hearing my own words come out of his mouth made me feel like a total moron.

  “Do you usually have impulse control issues?”

  “No. Not . . . not usually.” He was being a jerk, but he had every right. I wanted to melt right through the floor in a puddle of mortification. “Look—I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have come in here. But the photos in the girls’ room were so beautiful, and I was thinking I might be able to incorporate your . . . your . . .” Oh, God. Here I was again, faced with the same problem. “I mean, their mother in the painting, and I wanted to find a photo that showed her from different angles, and your bedroom door was open, and I saw the . . .”

  The front door opened, then slammed. Excited girls’ voices sounded below.

  “I don’t want the girls to find you here,” Matt said in a dark, low voice.

  “Okay.” I stood stock-still, not knowing exactly what he wanted me to do. Was there another staircase? Did he want me to hide in a closet? Bail out a second-story window? “Where . . . ?”

  “Daddy!” called a child’s voice from downstairs.

  “Get out of here.” His voice was a whispered growl.

  “But they’ll see me if I go downstairs.”

  “So don’t.” He looked at me as if I were a halfwit. “Just get the hell out of my bedroom.”

  “Oh!” I set the photo down, accidentally tipping it over. I tried to right it and fumbled.

  He snatched it from me. “For God’s sake—go back to the girls’ room. Now!”

  I scampered out the door, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process, and flew down the hallway.

  “Daddy, where are you?”

  “Up here, girls!” His tone was completely different. He sounded easygoing, friendly—nice.

  Multiple feet charged up the stairs like a tiny herd of rhinos. “I got news!” called a girl’s voice.

  “I can’t wait to hear it.” His voice held no trace of the snarl I’d received a moment earlier.

  I stood in the pink bedroom, my heart pounding, and listened to the scamper of feet. I drew several deep breaths, trying to calm myself, feeling guilty as a burglar.

  11

  matt

  My reaction to finding Hope in my bedroom was all out of proportion. I knew it even as I was chewing her out, but I couldn’t seem to dial it down. Seeing her standing there holding my wedding picture had hit some kind of primal button.

  I don’t need a shrink to tell me why: I’d fantasized about Hope while I was showering last night, and I felt guilty as hell about it. When I’d sought release since my wife’s death, I used to conjure up memories of Christine, or think about some anonymous female body part. I hadn’t fantasized about a specific, living person. Finding the woman I’d jacked off to the night before standing in my bedroom, holding a picture of Christine and me at our wedding . . . well, it just set me off. And I didn’t want my daughters to come home and find us in my bedroom together, and to think . . .

  I balled my fingers into fists so hard that my fingernails dug into my palms. What the hell was I worried they would think? They were four and five years old, for Christ’s sake! My own dirty mind was creating problems that didn’t exist.

  The girls clambered to the top of the stairs, wearing tutus over their leotards, their hair pulled back in ballerina buns. I pulled them both into a tight hug.

  “What’s your news?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a new loose tooth!” Zoey stepped out of my embrace, opened her mouth, and wiggled an incisor.

  I grinned. “Well, the tooth fairy needs to be put on notice.”

  “Hey—she’s already here!” Sophie pointed down the hall.

  I looked up to see Hope standing in the girls’ bedroom doorway, her face a flaming shade of fuchsia.

  She lifted her hand in a little wave. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m really not the tooth fairy.”

  “So why are you here?” Zoey asked.

  Damn good question. I decided to let Hope answer it herself.

  “Your, um, grandmother asked me to come take a look at your bedroom and see about painting a mural.”

  Zoey cocked her head at a quizzical angle. “What’s a mural?”

  “A painting on a wall. I understand you want your room to look like a castle.”

  “Yay!” Both girls jumped up and down and squealed.

  “What’s the cause for celebration?”

  I turned to see Jillian standing at the top of the stairs, with Peggy behind her.

  “Hope’s gonna paint our bedroom like a castle!” Sophie announced.

  Jillian’s lips pulled tight. It was an expression Christine used to make—a mix of displeasure and worry. It was gone so fast I wondered if I’d imagined it, but it tapped into a reflexive, vestigial husband part of me that immediately dumped an I-need-to-fix-this rush of adrenaline into my bloodstream. The additional adrenaline only served to exacerbate my irritation, but now it focused on Jillian.

  Damn it. Why did she always have to be around, with those ghostly little micro-expressions and Christine-like body parts and other creepy similarities to my wife?

  “How lovely.” Jillian was smiling at Hope, but the curve of her mouth looked forced. “But how will you find the time while caring for your grandmother?” Her tone was innocuous, but the implied judgment was hard to miss.

  It wasn’t lost on Hope, judging from the way she wrapped her arms around herself and stiffened. “Gran, uh, has home health aides around the clock.”

  “Adelaide volunteered her, and I talked Hope into accepting the job,” Peggy said, coming up the final stair and joining us at the top of the landing. “Hope can’t spend all of her time cooped up in that house or she’ll go crazy.”

  “No one told me anything about it,” Jillian said.

  Because it’s none of your business. The thought made me feel unkind and petty.

  “Did you bring your paints?” Sophie asked.

  Hope shook her head. “First I need to talk to you and find out exactly what you want. Then I’ll draw a sketch, then I’ll make any changes you want, and when everyone agrees, then we’ll get started on the actual walls.”

  This induced another round of girlish jumping and squealing.

  “Well.” Jillian gave a tight smile. “I’ll go start dinner.”

  “Thanks, but no need,” I said. “I’m going to fire up the grill.”

  “Hamburgs?” Sophie asked eagerly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yay!” From Sophie’s standpoint, it was shaping up to be a perfect evening.

  “I can make a salad,” Jillian said.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it covered.”

  Silence hung heavy in the air.

  “Maybe Jillian can join us,” Zoey said.

  I swallowed. “I thought we’d have a quiet night with just the three of us.”

  “It can be quiet with Jillian, too,” Zoey said.

  Peggy turned to Jillian. “Dad and I were hoping you’d have dinner with us. We’re going to Covington to Del Porto. You said you wanted to try the place.”

  Relief flooded through me. I sent her a silent thanks for the bailout.

  “Sure,” Jillian said. “Sounds lovely.”

  “Well, then, let’s leave these folks in peace and let Hope talk to the girls about what they want.”

  Peggy hugged the girls, then kissed me on the cheek. Jillian followed suit. I tensed as she approached me. Had Jillian always kissed me hello and good-by
e, or was this a new development? I wasn’t sure. I only knew that lately I’d become uneasy with it, but I didn’t know how to stop it.

  I caught the scent of her perfume as she moved in. A band squeezed around my chest. Good God—she was wearing Clinique’s “Happy,” the same scent Christine used to wear.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed, either. “You smell like Mommy,” Zoey said.

  Jillian patted her cheek. “Well, I’m the next best thing.”

  The answer made me irrationally angry. There was no next best thing. No one was like Christine—not even close. And the fact Jillian was trying just made me crazy.

  I drew a deep breath and held it until she and Peggy had made their way down the stairs and out the door. I blew it out in a heavy sigh.

  “You okay, Daddy?” Zoey asked.

  “Sure.” Zoey could be way too perceptive. I forced a smile and ruffled her hair. “I’m going to start the burgers. Why don’t you and Sophie tell Hope what you want your room to look like?”

  With that, I headed downstairs, drawing my first easy breath since arriving home.

  12

  hope

  Zoey was the spitting image of Sophie, but taller, thinner, and much more solemn. She regarded me skeptically as she sank down on her bed. “Are you really an artist?”

  It was a question I sometimes asked myself. “Well, I have a college degree in painting and design.”

  “I like to paint, too,” she said.

  “Really? That’s great! You can help with the mural.”

  Her face lit up with a gap-toothed smile. “Cool!”

  “Me, too!” Sophie said.

  Zoey shook her head. “You’re too small.”

  I tried to play peacemaker. “I’m sure we can find parts for both of you to paint.”

  Zoey looked doubtful. “She’s really messy. We want it to look good.”

  “Oh, it will.” I sat down beside her. “So tell me what you want.”

  Sophie climbed up on the bed with us. “A castle with a moat and a drawbridge and a tower!”