“Robert told me that he spoke to you,” Meredith said, “about what happened ... before.”
“He did.”
Meredith nodded slowly. “Well. Even so, I want you to hear how sorry I am for any hurt we’ve caused. It was wrong—I was wrong. I realize it’s not an excuse, but I hope you can see we had only the best intentions for Jack.”
“I know that, Meredith. He and I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Of course.”
Hands still clasped, Meredith gazed back at her. After a moment, they both angled their eyes toward the walls, the polished wooden floor. Tension could be wrung from the silence.
Perhaps this was enough for their first exchange. There was no indication they would ever resuscitate even half their former closeness, but nothing to say there was a need for it. Pleasant civility for Jack’s sake would be sufficient.
“I’ll go tell Jack I’m leaving,” Audra said. “Then I’ll be back around six if that still works.”
Meredith nodded and formed another rigid smile. “Six is perfect.”
Audra gripped her keys, a small asset of escape, and headed for the dining room to reach the kitchen. She was steps away from the formal table when Meredith spoke.
“I was afraid you were forgetting him.”
More than the words, it was the faltering tone that turned Audra around.
Moisture welled in Meredith’s eyes and her lips quivered. “I know how much you loved Devon. In my heart, I’ve always known it. And I understand you need to move on. I told myself this when you sold the house, and the furniture. But then you made it clear you wanted to be far away from anything to do with him—and us. And when you talked about the soldier you met, a new man in Jack’s life ...”
All at once, Audra saw Meredith’s efforts from an altered view. The stories in her lily garden, the visits to the cemetery, the pictures of Devon on shelves and tables, the resistance to Audra and Jack moving.
Both women had been treating the same wound with two vastly different remedies—neither of which had worked.
Meredith shook her head, her face growing mottled. “You have every right to do all of those things, and truly you should. I mean that. Devon was my son, but you’re my daughter, Audra, and I want you to be happy.”
Audra sucked in a breath. She never would have foreseen the effect of those words.
“I’m just so terrified he’ll be forgotten,” Meredith said hoarsely. “That little by little, Devon will fade from Jack’s life, and that one day Jack will have no idea what a special father he had—” The rest dropped off as she covered her face. She wept quietly into her palms, her shoulders shaking.
Audra couldn’t stop her own tears from rising. Right or wrong, her will to hold a grudge drifted away as if pulled by a current.
She moved closer to Meredith and laid a hand on her arm. In a whisper, a single word spilled out: “Mom . . .”
Though nothing followed, Meredith lowered her hands and reached out for an embrace. Audra accepted without pause, the connection so long overdue she could have cried for that alone.
“I could never forget him,” Audra said softly.
How pointless to have ever tried. After all, part of her would always love Devon, and she would forever see him in Jack.
Meredith nodded against Audra’s shoulder, as if she had heard her thoughts.
Once the moment had settled and they had both caught their breaths, a question nagged at Audra. She debated on discussing it another day, not wanting to reverse the progress they had made. Given their past, it could come off as a challenge. But now, more than ever, she needed to know.
“Could I ask you something?”
Meredith looked at her, a smile in her eyes. “Anything.”
“After everything you’ve been through, how do you still have faith? I mean, there are so many tragedies that are just so senseless.”
Meredith thought on this a moment. She sniffed and wiped the streaks from her face before answering. “I’ve had plenty of my own doubts,” she admitted. “I think that’s normal when it comes to believing in anything you can’t absolutely prove.” She sighed and shrugged lightly. “But one day I realized that faith is a choice. For me, it’s a hunch I feel in my heart. And once I understood that, the decision was easy.”
Audra took in the words, an idea to mull over, and nodded.
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies.” Robert looked tentative at first, then pleased at the scene.
“What is it, honey?” Meredith asked.
“Just wanted to see if there’s any objection to me whipping up some omelets. Jack said he’s getting a little hungry.”
Meredith regarded Audra. “Would that be all right?”
Memories of the omelets Devon used to cook, his favorite “breakfast-for-dinner” feature, made Audra smile. “Jack would love that,” she replied, and added, “It was his dad’s specialty.”
The corners of Meredith’s mouth rose and her eyes glinted.
“Audra, any chance you’d like to join us?” Robert asked.
Before Audra could respond, she remembered her awaiting meeting. “I’m afraid I can’t today.”
“Ah, well,” he said wistfully. “Another time, then.”
In lieu of an open-ended delay, she said, “How about next Saturday?”
60
With no plans for the remainder of the afternoon, Vivian ambled through the city. She had left her meeting at the park in what felt a lone procession of mourning. Not until her feet throbbed from the endless clacking of her shoes, however, did she realize which grief surprised her most. For it was Agent Gerard’s parting words that seized her still, the wish for her to be happy.
At one time in her life, she’d had a clear picture of what happiness entailed. But no longer. It had become a term in a language she barely recalled. A dream she mistook for truth until waking, and like water through her fingers, it had slipped away.
She was reflecting upon this when her mind registered she had landed at the apartment. She fished the key from her purse, only to find she had left their home unlocked. Inside, she closed the door behind her. She had just set down her handbag when the clock chimed four.
Had she been gone that long? She had intended to swing by the butcher shop. She would have to rush there and back to have any chance of preparing a decent, timely meal.
Again she retrieved her keys. Clutching her purse, she opened the door.
“Going already?”
She spun around, heart racing, before she placed the voice. She calmed herself with pats to the chest and shut the door. Pulling on her six o’clock smile, she proceeded past the kitchen and found Gene tucked away in the living room. He sat on the sofa chair, slouched and cross-legged, a small glass in his hand.
“I didn’t know you’d be home so early,” she said.
“You don’t say.” He gulped down the drink, which she presumed to be water until he snatched the bottle from the end table, and he poured a hefty amount. Vivian had no need to read the label to recognize it as gin. It was not a liquor Gene typically owned, but she knew the scent from her mother.
He put the bottle aside uncapped, almost catching a corner of the table. “Well, don’t let me keep you, if you got somewhere else you wanna be.”
Due to his father’s past, Gene never indulged in more than a few beers at a time. A little wine or schnapps when hosting guests.
“I was just going to the store,” she said. “Gene, is everything all right?”
“Which store?” he said.
“The butcher’s. I’d planned to buy meat on the way home, but I forgot.”
“Must’ve had a lot on your mind. All that running around keeping you busy.” He swirled his gin with a loose wrist. His words slightly dragged as if formed by a swollen tongue. “What is it you were out doing anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.”
She kept her answer simple, her uneasiness growing. “I just went to the park.”
“Ah, yeah. The p
ark,” he said. “And ... ?”
“And then ... I walked around the city.”
“That’s it, huh? Nothing more to it?” He threw back half a glassful.
“Gene–”
“Who’d you meet at Prospect Park, Vivian?”
The question jarred her, as pointed as his gaze.
“As chance would have it,” he said, “I’d accidentally left a file for work here. When I came to grab it at lunchtime, I ran into Mrs. O’Donnell. Told me I’d just missed you. That she tried to say hello, but you were in such a rush you didn’t notice. Seems wherever you were going was pretty important.”
On the table, beside the bottle, lay a crumpled piece of paper. It bore words Vivian recognized and a jagged edge. He had ripped it from the scheduling book she had stored in her vanity.
Prospect Pk.–2pm, was all she had written.
Her first instinct was to protest over the invasion of her privacy, and, more than that, his presumption of her guilt. Yet she reconsidered. She had entered an interrogation room, not her home. And this man wasn’t her husband, but an Intelligence officer on a mission.
“So?” he pressed.
“I assure you, it was nothing inappropriate. You’ve got the wrong–”
He slammed his glass down. “Tell me who you saw!”
Liquor splashed and Vivian flinched. She thought of Agent Gerard and envisioned Binnen Bridge, the setting of a past reunion she and Gene would never discuss, from a portion of history they pretended did not exist. These were the reasons she had skipped any mention of today’s outing.
Of course, if he wanted to know, she would supply every detail from the FBI-regardless of confidential status. But not now. Not in light of his current state.
“We’ll talk about this later,” she said evenly, “when you’re thinking clearly.” She turned for the bedroom to prevent their argument from exploding. Yet she went no farther than the gaping door, stopped by the sight.
Her garments had been scattered over the bed and floor. Drawers of her nightstand and vanity had been upended in a search. For what? Evidence of an affair?
Her jewelry box since childhood lay on its side. Trinkets and brooches had cascaded into a mound. Vivian’s head pounded as she knelt on the carpet and scooped them up. The necklace chains were kinked and snarled, a precise reflection of everything in their lives.
“Viel Feind, viel Ehr,” Gene said, now filling the doorway. He was reading the engraved necklace that dangled from his fist. “Let me guess. It means he’ll love you for eternity-am I right? That somehow you lovebirds will always be together.”
Tears stung her eyes. Stiffly she shook her head. “No.”
“What, then?”
“It’s just an old German saying. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“So, why’d you keep it? If it doesn’t mean anything.” His neck muscles flexed as he answered his own question: “Because you still love that Kraut traitor. That’s why!” He pitched the necklace across the room.
Vivian recoiled into herself, her arms and legs quivering. Every second slogged by as if dragged through mud. She doubted she would ever move from this spot.
After a time, she registered only quiet in the room, aside from her choppy breaths.
She edged her head upward and found Gene still there, yet with an altered demeanor. Hands fisted at his temples, he stood with his back against the doorjamb. Though his eyelids were shut, she knew what lay behind them. It was not fury, but pain and fear. He wasn’t battling Vivian, or even his suspicions, as much as himself.
She unfolded her body and rose to her feet. Tears rolled hot down her face. “Gene, please ... listen to me.”
He showed no sign of agreeing, but she walked toward him regardless in slow but determined steps. “I know I hurt you. With all of my heart, I am so sorry for that. If you need to hear it a thousand times, I will gladly say it. Or if you need something else, please tell me. Otherwise, you have to stop punishing me for a past I can’t change.”
She was a few feet from him when his arms lowered to his sides. His eyes eased open, but his gaze remained on the floor.
“If we’re going to be a family,” she told him, “if we’re going to have any chance at happiness together, you have to find a way to forgive me, for both of our sakes. And the child’s.” She moved an inch closer, wanting to reach for him, but afraid to scare him away. “I know you still love me. And I love you too, despite what you might think.”
She waited for a reaction, anything at all.
Finally, gradually, he raised his eyes but stopped before her face. “I have to go,” he said, and turned to leave the room.
“Gene, no. We have to talk.” She followed him toward the door. They needed to finish this, to see this through. “Don’t run away.” She grabbed his arm to keep him there, but he jerked himself free, throwing Vivian off-balance. She stumbled backward into the wall and slid down onto her tailbone.
Gene stared, frozen, but just for an instant. In a panic he collapsed onto his knees. “Oh, Jesus.” He reached for her belly but drew back, as if his fingertips were fashioned with blades. As if somehow, the hands of his father had replaced his own.
She saw this in Gene’s face as he said, “My God, what have I done?”
“It’s all right. . . .” Vivian felt only a throbbing on her backside, the coming of a bruise. She knew with certainty no harm had befallen the baby, and very little to herself. “It was just an accident. The baby’s fine.”
Gene nodded, though absent of conviction. “I’m getting a doctor.” He went to rise, and Vivian grasped his sleeve.
“Everything’s okay. Gene, please, sit with me.”
In his eyes a flood of emotions mounted. His lips tightened, upholding a crumbling dam.
This time he would not fight her. With great care, he took a seat at her side.
Together they sat in silence. No words would serve as a treaty. No utterance would magically rebuild the bridge. But Vivian had faith that if both were willing, they could repair the connection one plank at a time.
The thought brought to mind Mrs. Langtree’s house, a project not entirely different. In fact, it was during the eve of that day, riding in the truck Gene had borrowed, that he and Vivian had shared their first deliberate and meaningful touch.
Praying it could work again, she placed her hand over his. Just as before, he said nothing; just as before, he did not pull away.
Vivian tipped her head to rest on his shoulder. He smelled of soap and pine and home.
Seconds later, he did withdraw his hand and leaned forward as if readying to leave. Yet to her relief, he was only shifting his body to lay his arm over her shoulder. When his chin settled on her crown, she could have sworn a few tears dampened the top of her hair. She closed her eyes, treasuring his hold, and felt the numbness of her soul start to lift.
Years later, Vivian would look back at that day. She would realize it was in that very hallway, the two of them stripped to little more than bones, that not just healing began, but love. Real love, in the truest and deepest sense. A far contrast to the dizzying, volatile whirlwind she had once taken to define the word.
The most wonderful type of love, she had learned, was the kind built with care and over time, through forgiveness and understanding, compromise and compassion, trust and acceptance. It was hidden in the minutiae of everyday life; it was in the traded smiles during a radio show or the peaceful lulls on an evening stroll.
Pain and fear would not be erased like the marks on a blackboard. Nothing real ever disappears that simply. But over days, weeks, months, the good outweighed all, until the initial impetus of their wedding dissolved into the background.
Never did that hold truer than on the morning when the nurse summoned Gene. “Would you like to meet your daughter?” she asked.
The moisture welling in his eyes supplied the answer. As if handling fine crystal, he cradled the small bundle in his arms, and Vivian knew right then, with certainty beyond me
asure, that Gene-her beloved husband-would never treat their darling Judith as less than his own, that together they were a family sealed by a bond. A bond that nothing, and no one, could break.
61
It was the start of a family reunified. From the turn of events with Meredith, Audra’s mind was still reeling when she arrived at the coffee shop.
At a far table by the window, Sean raised his hand.
The mere sight of him placed all other thoughts on hold. In a flurry of images, their encounter in the barn came rushing back. She fended off the memory. There was no room for complications with just three weeks until the move. She was only here to say good-bye.
She walked steadily past the line of customers that stretched from the entrance. Patrons filled most of the tables in the room, chatting with friends, shuffling through newspapers, typing on laptops. The scents of espresso and warm muffins led a path to Sean’s table.
“Morning,” he said.
“Hi.” She glanced at his mouth, remembered how it had felt on hers, and wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
“Oh, here. This for you.” He slid a paper cup across the table. The string from a tea bag dangled from the lid. “I got here a little early and the line was getting long. If you want something else, I’d be happy to grab it for you.”
She recognized the flavor printed on the tag, a decaf favorite named “Calm.” After the morning she’d had—make that the entire month—nothing sounded better.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a seat. “It’s perfect.”
He nodded. As she settled in, he drank from the slot of his lidded cup. He looked freshly showered and shaven in a collared, short-sleeved shirt. The bronze fabric complemented his eyes, which had notably relaxed since she’d last seen him.
“You look better,” she observed. “Not that you looked bad before. You just—never mind.”
A slanted smile crossed his lips. “It’s okay. I am doing better.”
The Pieces We Keep Page 35
