“By the way, Wesley,” he said, “Congratulations on winning that case. I kept up with the reports about it.”
“One of the biggest cases we’ve had around here,” Mr. PL said and looked at his son with pride. “Got Wes in with the biggest firm around, too. He worked his—” He cleared his throat, then started again. “His extra hours, nights, but it paid off.”
Wes perked up. “And it got me in the position to do what I’ve put off much too long. The most beautiful girl in the world and I are—” he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him “—getting married.”
Wesley looked into her face and she turned toward him with a smile. It seemed to Symon like one of those she’d mentioned that a contestant wears even when she doesn’t feel like smiling. He was probably wrong. It was himself who didn’t feel like smiling.
And then Wes looked straight across at Symon like a guy who’d beat him out in a huge swimming competition one time by that millimeter of a second. Won?
Shouldn’t have done that, Wesley. It boils my blood. We weren’t competing. I never had her. Well, except for those moments in the creek, but what’s that compared with a few years? I don’t like the way you looked at me. Want to compete? What do you call winning? Money? Awards? Recognition?
Okay, let’s go.
“Incidentally,” Symon said, holding Wesley’s gaze. “That big twist your firm came up with that helped win the case sounded familiar.”
Wes cocked his head. “To be honest, it came from a book. The senior partner said we can get a lot of creative ideas like that.” He shrugged. “He keeps me so busy I don’t have time to read much.” He turned to his dad. “What was the name of that book?”
Mr. PL hesitated with a studied look on his face, so Symon said, “Lord of the Wrings.”
Wesley laughed. “I think you’d better check with Tolkien about that.”
“W-R-I-N-G-S,” Symon spelled. “The title was meant to attract attention, and it did. Alludes to what the villain does to his victims’ necks.”
Mr. PL’s eyes seemed stuck, as if that resemblance he’d mentioned wasn’t about Symon’s dad after all. “I’ve read all the books, that, um—”
Symon thought, What do I have to do? Strike a photographer’s pose? Get that expression in my eyes the photographer told me to get by thinking of the most sexy girl I could think of and staring at the camera? Unbutton my shirt enough to show the alluring swimmer-barbell-bench-pressed chest I had in the photo on the back of the books?
“Um. De...Berry?” He was shaking his head.
Mrs. PL turned and stared him in the face, her cool demeanor destroyed. “I read those, too. You are?” Her voice rose an octave. “Aren’t you?”
His glance moved to Miss B. He expected to see uneasiness on her face. Instead she looked at him with a softness one would expect from a proud, loving mom.
Yes, this was who he was. He wasn’t just someone who can drop a boulder in a creek. He could drop a bombshell. So he said, “That’s my middle name.”
“Sy DeBerry. Wow.” Mr. PL leaned back with the kind of pleasure Sy had seen on the faces of many fans. “You’re quite famous.”
“In some literary circles.”
“Oh, don’t be modest. Those books are brilliant. I guess that means the author is brilliant.” He laughed at what he must have thought was a joke, so Symon did, too. What Symon thought might have been tension at the table changed to their pleasure and asking more questions and saying they’d have to get back to reading now, of course had heard of his books and his name but didn’t know that’s who he was and why hadn’t Miss B told them. She said, “You never asked.”
Lizzie said, “We have a celebrity in our midst.” She poked Annabelle. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t know,” she said flatly. She did not look him in the eye, but she pasted on a smile. Good. So, she thought she had played a kissing game in the creek with the caretaker’s son. Didn’t know she was kissing the famous Sy DeBerry who’d kissed many girls in the past and had no doubt there’d be others.
“But I’m not the one to be celebrated tonight,” he said graciously, and looked at Wes and Annabelle. Wes looked a little pale. Annabelle looked flushed. Lizzie was smiling all over herself.
And so. They all knew now. The celebrity in their midst was not Wesley Powers-Lippincott and his promotion. Or Annabelle Yarwood and her engagement ring. Sy DeBerry was. And he didn’t have to landscape. Didn’t have to freeload off somebody’s cottage. Didn’t have to have a particular girl. Didn’t have to write a book about his childhood to be noticed. Didn’t really need anything or anybody.
He was fine. Just fine.
Then why did he feel, during all this acceptance, like such a blooming failure?
Chapter 23
The harder she tried, the worse it got. Wes asked her if she’d known all that and she said no. The men, even Wes, went out to the patio and she could hear snatches of conversation about books, and murder, and court cases, and New York, and Lizzie said, “Your face is as red as your dress. What’s the matter?”
“I feel stupid. I didn’t know he was famous.”
“Well, you should be thrilled.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Just makes him more interesting.”
“He’s not interesting.”
She went over to Aunt B and Wes’s mom, who were discussing the responsibilities of the bride’s side of things and the groom’s. “Why didn’t you tell me he was Sy DeBerry?”
“I thought you knew. You know he’s a writer. I assumed he told you his pen name.” She tried to explain. “Many writers have pseudonyms.”
Annabelle nodded but that didn’t help. He should have at least told her before he kissed her, so she could’ve known who she was kissing.
He must have had a lot of fun with her little book deal.
She went back to Megan and Lizzie, who decided they should check him out on the internet. That just made her fume even more. Megan pled, “It’s only a name.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a whole different life.”
“Looks like a pretty good one,” Lizzie said, defensively.
Annabelle sighed. “It’s just that he kept it secret. I mean, I’ve told him everything about me.”
“You did?”
“Well, a lot. We had fun together. Talked. Worked on my book. Rode the waves at Tybee.”
“Kissed in the—”
Annabelle put her hand over Lizzie’s mouth. “No more of that. That was the other fellow. I don’t know this one.”
“Okay,” Lizzie said when the hand was removed. “You hate him.”
She shook her head. “I’m indifferent. So let’s talk about bridesmaids.”
“I have to go,” Megan said. “Michael and I need to spend a little time together.”
“Paul and I should go to the restaurant,” Lizzie said. “Paul wants to make sure the new chef is doing okay.”
The men were coming in. Soon they all left except Annabelle and Wes.
“I’ll see how Willamina and Doris are doing,” Aunt B said.
Annabelle was even upset with Wesley. “You sure were friendly with him to have not liked him before tonight,” she accused.
“He’s okay. What I didn’t like was his spending time with you.”
“Well, it upsets me that he didn’t say he was two people.”
“It’s only a name. And why do you care, anyway?”
She looked at him. How could she say because she’d bared her soul to Symon Sinclair or whoever he was. She thought they were friends. They’d grown close. They’d... “I don’t. I don’t care at all.”
Feeling her face growing hot, she heaved a sigh. “I’m going outside for some air.”
She went out on the p
atio.
Aunt B had said Symon could make up a story about anything. Well, he made up lies. And a person could lie by omission. That’s what he’d done.
She should have heeded Wes’s warnings all along.
She looked down at the cottage. Symon came out and got into his car.
Going somewhere.
Well, so what?
She marched back into the house and into the kitchen, where Wesley was talking with Aunt B. Willamina gave Annabelle a wide-eyed look as if to say, Pretty is as pretty does.
Well, Wesley liked her pretty. He needed pretty.
Since Symon wasn’t here to see her stick out her tongue at him, she simply put her arm around Wesley’s waist and he side-hugged her.
Aunt B put on her indifferent teacher expression and Annabelle didn’t want to see what kind of glance she and Willamina might share.
“Want to sit on the porch?”
“Sure,” he said.
They went out and both sat in rockers.
She felt duped. Betrayed. But that was okay. He probably laughed about her little book. Well, that was okay too. Like she’d reminded herself before, what was a book compared to a wedding?
She looked out across the lawn at the moonlight shining on the yellow green grass looking like a fine carpet and emitting a freshly mowed aroma.
Wesley reached for her hand and held it on the rocker arm. She smiled at him as his thumb gently caressed the band of the ring on her finger.
Chapter 24
On Saturday morning, Symon walked down to the creek to confirm what he’d concluded last night. After leaving Miss B’s he’d gone to River Street, listened to some music, being alone in a crowd which he didn’t mind, and sat on a stone wall looking at the waving girl.
She’d waved for years, maybe trying to tell herself her lover had gone forever, or maybe hoping he would return.
Years wasted? Symon wasn’t one to waste time, or to fool himself for very long. He’d been foolish enough to think the kiss in the creek had meant something. Not the first one necessarily because he knew about attraction, acting on impulse, mistakes, human nature or whatever you might call it. It was the second one he thought about. He’d been ready to back away but she’d instigated that one.
Maybe he was kidding himself. It could just be because they’d related so well at Pirate’s Cave, on the porch, at the bookstore, planting flowers, organizing her book, riding the waves at Tybee, and most of all kissing him in the creek.
Now he told himself it had been good. They’d both enjoyed it. But she’d made it clear from the first she was committed to Wesley. He had no business feeling betrayed because she kissed him then went off and immediately got herself engaged. She’d said plainly she was as committed to Wesley as if she’d had a ring.
They’d both taken a side trip from their intended destination. Hers with Wesley because he’d been away on a court case. His with Miss B because she’d been away at Tybee.
So, he’d just leave that stone girl waving to a lost lover. It wasn’t his style. He had a life to live. He’d decided Wesley was an all right fellow, although it didn’t matter what he thought. It mattered what Annabelle thought.
Symon would simply tell her, if she seemed uncomfortable around him, that he was sorry if she thought he’d disrespected her. He hadn’t intended that. He just hadn’t had much practice in self-discipline.
There, that was settled, and he wouldn’t stand staring at a creek like the stone girl stared out across the river waving to a lost lover. He walked back up the path and saw Miss B sitting at a table on the patio, so he and Mudd strolled up to her. She greeted him with a hand extended to touch his, and then turned her cheek for him to kiss.
“Here’s coffee.” She gestured at the pot and extra cup on a tray. “I thought you might show up,” she added as he pulled out one of the white wicker chairs, “You made quite an impression last night.”
He reached for the cup. “Yes, as Sy DeBerry.”
“They accepted you as Symon Sinclair,” she reprimanded him.
He acknowledged that with a nod, and poured his coffee. “Yes, but not in the same way.” He’d been esteemed as an accomplished author.
“That’s right.” Her words sounded like an accusation. “Annabelle feels you were dishonest with her.”
“Why? Because I didn’t tell her I sold a lot of books and made a lot of money?”
“Yes. That’s what you do and who you are.”
“I don’t want acceptance because of that.”
She gave him a long look. “It’s what you’ve wanted from the time you were just a little boy. You wanted to be loved and accepted, to feel like you were a part of things, not separated by a picket fence.”
He looked at his cup, raised it to his mouth and drank, then set it down. She knew him. She’d been the one who’d told him what his dad wouldn’t even speak about.
“I need to know,” he’d said, when he was just a boy, “even if it’s because she hated me.”
She said, “I can show you why your mama left.”
She took him down to an apple tree. Next to it was a boulder like somebody had placed it there. He looked at the date etched into the rock.”
“Under there...well, not under there. She’s really in heaven. But under that rock is where your little sister was buried.”
He looked at the date. Four years after he was born. His mama had left when he was four. She had a suitcase. She hugged him and said not to forget she loved him she’d come back for him. But she never came back and years later, though Miss B didn’t know for sure, she heard she got killed in a train wreck.
Miss B had told him all she knew. At first his parents had been happy and loved each other. But he had his drinking problems already. He’d stop for a while, then go on a binge. He came in late, drunk, and she fussed. He got mad and slapped her. She tried to brace herself by grabbing the back of a kitchen chair. It fell over and he tried to grab her and she jerked away and lost her balance. She fell. That little girl came before he could even get her out the door.
“How do you know that?”
She took a deep breath. “He called me. It was too late for a doctor. It happened so easily, he said, so quickly. She never forgave him. She talked to me but she was never right after that. It did something to her mind and emotions. He began to drink more. He couldn’t stand the guilt. She screamed her hatred for him.”
Symon realized he was nodding. “Did I see that?”
“You didn’t see her break down after she was cleaned up and in bed. But she was screaming her hatred for your dad and he was crying and begging.”
“I don’t remember it, but I think I feel it as if it’s in me somewhere.”
“Formative years are most important, and become a part of us, even if we can’t remember them.”
Symon had touched the rock. His little sister. He said, “I should hate him.”
“No.” Miss B took a few steps to an oak and laid her hand on it. “He hated himself enough for everybody. He never forgave himself. I was walking in the woods one day and heard a strange noise. I went farther and hid behind a tree and watched your dad hug that rock and wail and say he didn’t mean it and cry for God’s and your mother’s forgiveness. And in between, he nursed the bottle. I was afraid he might see me and go into a rage, so I stayed still and quiet. Finally, he lay prone on the ground, crying, and I slipped away.” Tears were in her eyes. “He was a beaten man.”
Symon had felt the sadness. Knew it in his dad from that day on.
Miss B had touched his arm that day and said, “Don’t hate him. He lost so much. But he has you.”
Now, all these years later, he lifted his head but didn’t look directly at her. How had she known back then about losing? She’d still had her parents and her brothe
r. She’d married Brandley when Symon was ten. He did the math. Almost twenty years ago. She would have been in her early forties.
He’d never asked her about her personal life before that. He couldn’t. He was just a boy and she a grown woman. He a worker and she the employer and owner of the big house and the cottage in which he lived.
But she understood so much. Everything, it seemed. His gaze met hers and she looked away, smiling wanly.
“Those were good years, weren’t they?” he said. “You and I.”
“The best,” she said without reservation and looked directly at him. “The summers were best. I didn’t have to do anything but sit on the porch, talk to you, play with you, watch you. You were my...joy.” Quickly she said, “What are your plans now?”
He had enough stories for The Cherry Tree. He had enough ideas from which to choose for other books. But he would have those even if he hadn’t returned to Savannah. He had no reason to change his plans from what he intended the day he returned to this property.
“Maybe find a place on Tybee. Or a place connected with a lot of history.” He glanced at the house. “Or even a big house like this.”
“What would you do with such a big place?”
“Well,” he mused, “if I took the position of writer-in-residence at the university, which appeals to me very much,” he said and she returned his smile, “I would have graciously invite students or faculty here for meetings, as you’ve done in the past. Maybe get a group of aspiring writers together. Lead some seminars. Teach them how to put their own experiences into their stories. Like you did with me.” Like he’d done with Annabelle.
He realized those things had been forming in his mind. What he’d like to do. Before he got sidetracked. Maybe someday he’d meet a woman he could share such dreams with. Maybe a teacher... He shook away the thoughts. He didn’t need to get into any fantasies.
“And at times just enjoy being alone. Except with a few cats and dogs.”
She laughed lightly, then sighed. “Have you been to Paris?”
“No, but I’d love to go.” Maybe she wanted to get away for a while. Have him go with her. He’d like to get away. A continent, an ocean away. He and Miss B could see the sights. Like mom and son. Now there was a setting for a novel. He nodded. “Sounds intriguing. Shall we go?”
The Caretaker's Son Page 13
