But Rivers continued reading, and anxiety whipped up inside her chest, thrashing like a kite caught in a gale.
January 1964
I found a silver flask in the flower bed by the driveway. The sun shimmering on it caught my eye. When I picked up the vile thing, opened it, and took a whiff, my heart seemed to crack into a hundred rigid shards, like the broken shells underfoot. My stomach emptied as I thought of what might come next.
I asked Frank about the flask, and he swore it wasn’t his. He insisted some teenager must have thrown it out of a passing car or walking home from the beach in an effort not to get in trouble. I begged him to tell me the truth. I told him he could get help, and I would support him. I’ve heard of groups that meet to help each other overcome their issues. He cursed and told me I was crazy and that I should quit badgering him. If I kept on, I’d be the one driving him to drink.
I don’t know what to believe.
March 1964
The old Frank is back in full fury. I’m brokenhearted. He’d been well for so long. I guess I had become too comfortable, too at ease...too happy. Then one evening he just didn’t come home. For three long days and nights, I prayed. I drove around with the girls. I called his friends and the clubs where he played. I called the police, for goodness’ sake, thinking someone had killed him. I almost wished he’d been in a wreck or knocked in the head, that he was injured but would live.
If only Frank were just confused.
But I knew better. He was on another bender.
Then in the middle of the fourth night, he stumbled in, flipping on the lights, waking the girls, slurring his words, telling some big tales of where he’d been... Lies.
The misery has returned.
Sniffling, Rivers brushed tears from her cheeks. After five years of sobriety, Frank relapsed. The same amount of time Cooper had been in recovery. Would the grandson be able to maintain it any better than his grandfather? Another reason she could never risk her heart to someone who struggled with addiction—the evil always lurking in the shadows.
Painful memories tore through Rivers like an angry flash flood. The theatrical late entrances on school nights, Mom’s voice, decibels louder than her normal volume, explaining how the office staff had attended some big event, then they’d all gone to Beale Street or the Peabody for drinks. She’d devise stories of huge traffic jams, or someone’s car getting towed, or how she’d come upon a wreck where she just had to help the poor accident victims. Those were some of the customary lies, but then there were some downright nutty ones, too, that, even as a child, Rivers had thought farfetched. Like the time Mom claimed a gorilla had escaped the zoo and was on the loose, so she couldn’t leave the bar. Another time there was a story involving an Elvis impersonator stalking her and how she’d had to take refuge at a “friend’s” place.
With calm whispers, Dad would lead Mom back to the master bedroom of their little home and put her to bed. Once he had her quieted, he always came down the hall to find Rivers in her room. He would press a kiss on her forehead and repeat the mantra.
“God loves you, Rivers. He has a special plan just for you.”
Looking back, Rivers had wanted to believe so badly that her mother was out saving accident victims or delivering stray puppies or doing any of the things in her crazy stories.
Not out getting smashed with another man.
The car accident had driven home the truth in a very public way.
The phone on the coffee table chimed with a text. Rivers set aside the journal and read the message. Gabby had sent the address earlier but now was asking if she should save a seat near the back of the church.
Rivers let her head fall forward. Maybe God had a special plan for her like Dad had promised, but right now, maybe that special plan wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe she just wanted an easy and simple and uncomplicated life.
A life around sober people.
Chapter 21
ON THE BACK ROW OF chairs inside the community church, Cooper struggled to keep his eyes open. Voices echoed around the walls of the old auditorium. The gang from Re-Claimed wore somber expressions, worry for Angelo pressing on their minds. Most addicts in recovery realized—if they were honest—they were straddling a razor’s edge, only one drink or pill away from losing their sobriety. That’s why the slogan one day at a time helped keep them sane.
“Wake up, or your crush will catch you drooling.” Davis’s elbow knifed into Cooper’s arm.
“What?” His numb brain tried to make sense of the barb.
With an exaggerated move of his head, Davis pointed to the end of the row where Gabby stood, directing Star and Rivers their way. Star’s face was pale, but her chin had a determined jut to it.
Rivers was the one who gave him a jolt. Her eyes wore dark circles, a weariness in their depths that tugged at his chest. Cooper blinked hard at the image. Gabby was a true miracle worker, but it seemed a little much for Star and Rivers to attend worship today.
Star sat with a wince on the end of the row, signaling for Rivers and Gabby to go past her. There were exactly four seats remaining. Gabby sat beside Star and set a large handbag in the chair beside her, leaving the chair right next to him for Rivers.
Her eyes met his for a moment before she sat. “Hi.”
“If I’d known...” He stopped himself from saying he would’ve picked her up. She’d made it very clear she didn’t want his help the night before. “How did it go at the hospital?”
“Could’ve been worse.” Clearly, Rivers was exhausted. She seemed to be forcing her eyelids open.
“Why is Star here?” He lowered his voice to a whisper.
She leaned closer but kept her gaze forward. “I think she wants to one-up me for some crazy reason. Like she’s got something to prove.”
He couldn’t stop a smirk. He’d seen that before. “We’ll have to figure out how to use that attitude to our advantage.”
Her head pivoting toward him, Rivers cocked an eyebrow, but she didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.
“I mean we as in the staff. I know that’s not why you came to St. Simons, and you’ll be leaving as soon as you...” How could he finish that sentence without sounding disappointed or hurt and without injuring her heart further? “...take care of your business.”
Her lips clamped together, and the corners of her mouth turned down. Obviously, he’d chosen the wrong words. Again. But was there another less painful way to say you’re cleaning out the baggage of the dead?
Music began, ending the conversation. Just in time to keep him from shoving his foot farther down his throat. He stood and joined the energetic praise songs, despite the battle-weariness weighing on him, and tried not to think about the woman next to him.
The minister began a sermon on Jonah, explaining how God called him to go preach to an enemy nation, but Jonah had run away, unwilling to accept God’s mission. His attempted escape only landed him in a worse situation—the belly of a fish. Scrubbing a hand across his forehead, Cooper tried to focus on Brother Bruce’s words.
“People, we are daily in a battle. Evil pushes and pulls against us. If Satan can’t get us off track, he distracts us. Our intentions might be respectable in our busyness, especially in the world’s view. We do a good deed. We take care of our family. We work hard at our job, we keep the laws of the land, and we go to church. We may even volunteer in the community. All good, but what is best?”
His volume and passion rose. “Jonah didn’t mind preaching to his own people, but when God asked him to step out of that comfort zone and preach to his enemies in Nineveh, Jonah shook his head and ran. In pursuit of our good deeds, we may be failing those people God puts in our path, and in turn, failing to do what the Lord has commanded us. The lost are all around, Church. God doesn’t ask if they are your kind of folks, or if you’re comfortable doing what He asks. There’s not a qualifier when He says, ‘Go.’ He didn’t ask you if His plan was okay with you, or if this is a good time for you.”
Someone in the audience yelled, “Preach on.” Another said, “That’s right.”
Rivers fidgeted. She dug into her purse until she plucked out a tissue and a piece of chewing gum.
What did she think about all this? Their church service was a little louder and livelier than some, and Brother Bruce was on fire today. Something must really have him stirred up.
“Like Jonah, we often run from the mission set before us. Who has every intention of telling others about Jesus Christ this week? As a Christian, shouldn’t that be our intention?”
Several members answered “Amen.”
“Luke 19:10 says, ‘For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.’ Are we to do any less? Isn’t that our mission, Church? We need to open our eyes. The field is ripe for harvest. Reach out a hand and offer that lifeline to eternity. Guess what? Life is riddled with death. We don’t know when our last day will come. We don’t know the last day for the person sitting next to us. Do you believe God sent His Son to save you from your sins? Because He did. But He also sent His son to save that person you really don’t want to deal with. That person who makes you uncomfortable, that person who pushes your buttons.”
Rivers lifted the tissue and blotted her eyes. Was she crying? Cooper fought the urge to turn to see.
“What’s more important to you? God’s mission? Your good intentions? Your comfort? Your job or being on time to church? I mean, I want you here in the chairs, but what’s the purpose of all this?” He swept his arms in a wide circle. “What is the purpose if we don’t leave this room and share the light of the Gospel into the dark corners of the world where God has planted us?”
THE WORDS LANDED ON her and pressed hard. When could she get out of here? The minister finally ended his message, which was slaughtering her heart, and now another man led the closing prayer. Rivers pressed the tissue under her eyes in an attempt to erase unwanted tears.
Before the echo of the final amen faded, she stood, hoping to scoot out, but Gabby was already helping Star to her feet, and Rivers didn’t dare push past them.
“I better get this little chickadee in a bed.” Gabby locked elbows with Star but turned back to Rivers. “We can hold art therapy tomorrow night with the ladies, if you want to try leading a session.”
Conviction lay heavy on her heart. Wasn’t she like Jonah, hoping to run rather than share the Gospel with people she considered the worst of sinners? Having grace for this sort of weakness in others seemed to be a test she had to take over and over until she passed. And she was tired of repeating it. Maybe now was the time to truly learn some compassion for strugglers like Star.
“Okay. Does the lesson format matter? And what time?”
“After dinner, seven o’clock? You’re welcome to eat with us, and you’re free to be creative with the class.”
“I’ll see you at seven.” Rivers shifted her gaze for a sideways glance at Cooper. His dark hair swept across his forehead in that careless, perfect way. He’d stayed back to talk to the minister and Shane, Jordan’s step-uncle. From their expressions, the conversation wasn’t a pleasant one. She’d love to get out of there before Shane started his pitch for selling her properties again. She had enough stress without that pressure.
Cooper glanced her way with those soulful eyes that shone like living onyx stones. His gaze began a twirling sensation in her stomach. She turned and focused on the exit.
Having grace and mercy for addicts didn’t mean she had to be in a romantic relationship with one. Stella’s letters and her own mother were proof of those risks.
AND SHE WAS GONE.
Cooper pulled his concentration back to the infuriating conversation at hand. Anger thundered through his arms to his fists as he stood with the minister and listened to Shane.
“So the petition states Re-Claimed is running a rehab in a residentially zoned area.” Shane continued his explanation with a business-like air. As if this news wasn’t ugly. “If it’s found they’re in violation of a zoning law, they could be facing a hefty fine per day.”
“Since when did sober mean sinless?” Brother Bruce sighed.
A current of dread swept over Cooper. Another bomb dropping into his life. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After five years in the same neighborhood with no incidents to speak of, someone had started a petition against Re-Claimed, wanting them to move. Good grief. “Why now?”
“Who knows?” Shane shrugged. “Someone new in the neighborhood, maybe. Or one of your residents’ criminal history got out. Could be anything. With social media, rumors spread faster than fleas.”
Brother Bruce’s brows knit together. “Heard about this last night from a deacon. I scrapped the sermon I’d planned and let God do the talking. We can’t change society without changing hearts, and Re-Claimed is doing that.”
True, and Gabby had done her research. “Fair Housing laws should side with Re-Claimed. They are the functional equivalent of a family, and they can’t be discriminated against.”
“But the other side contends that you’re providing professional services, which makes you a rehab facility. You could get tied up with legal bills either way.”
Legal bills, fines, petitions. First the gallery and now Re-Claimed. Doubt and weariness assaulted Cooper’s soul like the Atlantic’s tides, threatening to sweep him out into the abyss. It seemed that everything in his life was being stripped away, and he didn’t have much left to lose.
Chapter 22
AFTER A NAP ON THE couch, Rivers spent the afternoon and evening cleaning out another bedroom, sorting through all the little things people collect over a lifetime. She divided the items into piles.
Items that might be worth something, like a collection of hand-blown glass and crystal swans, she set aside. She’d have to get those appraised. Then there was a pile that charity might accept. After all, some people enjoyed wearing and decorating with vintage items. Another pile that might be of sentimental value to the family. Would Brooklyn and Pearl want anything? This was their mother’s life. Why would they just leave it all? Picturing her almost-mother-in-law and her twin as little girls pulled Rivers back to the journal.
She paused her work, returned to the living room, and picked up the book. The draw to know more about this tragic family drama sucked her in like powerful, channeled currents of water pulling her away from safe shores. Lying on the blue-and-white Turkish rug, she propped herself on her elbows and dove back into the past.
March 1964
Pearl is so sick. I’m afraid for her life. Her appendix ruptured. I should have known better. I’m a terrible mother. I thought she was just upset about Frank. We all were sick over what he’s become. This is all my fault for being such an idiot.
He finally sobered enough to come to the hospital. I shouldn’t have let him, but Pearl was so glad to see him there.
I don’t know what to do about him. How long will he last this time? I don’t know what to do about my marriage.
April 1964
Pearl is recovering at home, but she’s still weak. The infection was so bad. I grieve night and day about failing her. Brooklyn barely leaves her side. When one hurts, it seems the other feels the pain as well.
Frank is back, trying to help, but I am cautious with my reliance on him.
May 1964
Frank didn’t come home, and I asked a neighbor to stay with the girls. They were asleep already, and I went looking for him at the club. I just had this feeling in my gut. And there he was—his arms wrapped around another woman, dancing, whispering in her ear. I can’t erase the image, nor this final betrayal and devastation. I let him know I was there, then left to grieve alone.
Daddy paid his lawyer to begin divorce proceedings, and he has even agreed to see me again as long as I don’t change my mind.
I won’t change my mind.
July 1964
I’m pregnant. With all the insanity, I hadn’t noticed the signs, but the doctor confirmed it today. I am afraid to tell anyone. Betty
and Daddy will be disappointed. My friends will think I’m a fool, which I am, but I had forgotten how much so. I dare not tell Frank. He’s so angry when he comes around, and I don’t allow him to come inside. The girls shouldn’t have to be exposed to such behavior. I know they miss the father they loved, but this is not the same man. I don’t know how, but I’ll care for this child too.
September 1964
I had to call the police. Betty and Daddy insisted after Frank’s harassment continued to escalate. I keep the door locked day and night. If he catches us outside, he is rough with me, grabbing my arms, shaking me and yelling. I won’t change my mind about the divorce. I will protect my girls and this child growing in my womb. I have kept the baby hidden, wearing baggy clothing. Not even Betty knows. The divorce could be affected if anyone found out. I hope Frank never finds out.
Groaning, Rivers closed the journal and surveyed the cottage. How awful. Enough of this misery for now. No one in Jordan’s family had ever mentioned another sibling, so whatever happened had to have been tragic. For all its charm, the walls of this cottage had seen much misery. One person’s actions, one person’s addiction, rippled out into the lives of so many others.
A breath of fresh air to clear her head would be nice. She should check in with Dad too. Rivers pushed to her feet, grabbed her cell, and made her way outside onto the back deck. Red lights flashed in the driveway next door. The muscles of her stomach compressed. What was wrong with Priscilla?
Rivers tiptoed barefoot across the yards, ignoring the broken shells stabbing her feet. Her neighbor sat on a gurney, arguing with the paramedic.
“I’ll hire a driver to take me to the doctor tomorrow.” Forehead contorting, Priscilla motioned to the house. “I can’t just leave.”
“Priscilla, can I help you?” Rivers ventured closer.
Her neighbor’s expression softened. “Oh, sweetie, could you? My son called them. I was on the phone with him, and I guess I fainted. Now they want to take me to the hospital for tests.”
The Art of Rivers Page 14
