by Donna Ball
Megan just shook her head. “I couldn’t forget the look on his face,” she whispered. “And I couldn’t forgive myself for putting it there. No matter what I said or did, it wouldn’t make that look go away. Some things are just ... broken. And nothing can ever make them the way they were again.”
Annabelle leaned back against the pillows and opened her arms to her granddaughter. Megan crawled into her arms, her head resting on her grandmother’s shoulder. They were quiet for a long time, just holding each other. Then Annabelle said, “You’re right. Things between you will never be the same again. Sometimes broken things can’t be fixed, and trying always leaves a scar. But sometimes the scar is what binds them together, and you’ll never know until you try. You’ve punished yourself long enough. You have to tell your husband the truth, sweet girl. You have to tell him how you feel.”
“It’s too late. So much hurt, so much distance … it wouldn’t matter now.”
“Do you want your marriage?”
Megan whispered, “Yes.”
“Then fight for it,” commanded Annabelle simply.
“I can’t.” Megan closed her eyes and then squeezed them tightly for a brief moment to hold back the hot blur of tears. “I’m not the kind of person who can do that. I know you always wanted me to be, I wish I could be, but … I’m not that kind of person. I just … can’t.”
Annabelle drew in a slow soft breath, fighting back all the things she wanted to say, wished she could say, knowing they would make no difference. It was the final curse of age and wisdom: knowing too much, and being able to do absolutely nothing about it. So in the end she squeezed her granddaughter’s shoulders, kissed her hair, and held her, just as she had done when she was a child, until she fell asleep.
~*~
Josh said, “Her name is Amy. She is ...” His face, as he struggled to find the words, was so transformed that words were not even necessary. The smile that was in his heart found its way to his eyes. “It’s like you can’t even describe, you know? How can two such screwed-up people make something so perfect? The first time I saw her I wasn’t even expecting it, what she did to me. It was like everything in the whole world changed right then and there was only one thing that mattered and that was making sure that nothing bad ever happened to her, not ever.”
He glanced down at his coffee, took a sip. “She was six months old when I left. She used to laugh when she saw me, you know, like she was so happy inside just to see me walk in the room she couldn’t keep it in. That’s kind of the way I felt when I saw her too. Now she’s almost two. She’s walking.” He said it with wonder. “Walking.”
He took a deep breath. “The thing was, Eva had a record, but I’d never been picked up before. I thought I could get off maybe with time served. Turns out I was wrong. Anyway, a baby needs her mother and Eva had been straight for so long ... I thought she could do it. I thought for Amy’s sake she could do it. Turns out I was wrong about that too.”
By now the smile was completely gone from his eyes, leaving them bleak and stripped. “When Leda called to tell me about, you know, about Eva, she promised she would take care of Amy. It was only two more months. It’d been over a year and I thought Amy would be okay with her for another two months. I thought I could trust her. But in the end …” His lips tightened, and so did his hand on the coffee cup, and so did his voice. “In the end she was just like everybody else. She boogied. With my kid. And I don’t have a clue in hell as to where to start looking for her.”
Artie swiped the paper napkin across his mouth, looking thoughtful. He was thoughtful for so long that Josh looked up from the depths of his coffee, waiting for Artie to say something. What Artie said was, “I was just thinking about your dad. He’s a grandfather and doesn’t even know it. Why didn’t you call him when you were arrested, Josh? That’s what families are for, to help a fellow out when he’s in trouble.”
Josh’s jaw knotted, and he curled his fingers tightly around the handle of his coffee cup. “I was stupid,” he said. “I didn’t want him to know ... I thought I could handle it. Now it’s too late. He doesn’t want to hear from me. Not after everything … I can’t go back to him. Not until I can make him proud of me again.”
Josh sucked in a breath, and took a gulp of coffee. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. All this time I thought I could make up for everything if I just got this one thing right. If I could keep this one promise to this one little person who was depending on me to make sure nothing bad ever happened to her. But I blew it. Hell, I don’t even know what I was thinking, anyway. What do I know about raising a kid even if I could find her? Look at me, an ex-con, no job, no money … She’s better off with Leda, wherever she is.”
Another gulp of coffee, and he put the cup down. “So anyway, Artie, thanks for the ride. It’s been nice knowing you.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his last ten-dollar bill.
“That’s it, huh?” The shadow of disappointment in Artie’s eyes surprised Josh, and irritated him. “You’re just going to give up?”
“Didn’t you hear me, man?” Josh’s tone was sharp; he couldn’t help it. “She’s gone. I don’t know where to look. It’s over. And don’t give me any of that crap about dying fifty feet from the watering hole. If I knew where the water was, I’d go there. But I don’t. It’s over.”
Artie sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, “you don’t spend six years hanging out with the most famous tracker in the world without learning a thing or two. And the first thing Kit Carson taught me was that if you want to find out where somebody went, you start with where they were.”
He drained the last of his coffee, slapped a twenty on the table and stood. When Josh just sat there, looking stunned and upstaged, Artie said, “Our deal was for Kansas City. Are you coming or not?”
Josh said, “I told you, she’s not there. There’s no point.”
Artie said, “Fifty feet, my friend. Fifty feet.” He moved to the door.
Josh sat there for another long moment, jaw tightening, heart racing. Then he drained his coffee in a single swallow and, for reasons he would never afterward be able to explain, he followed.
NINE
The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.
Oscar Wilde
The glow of Derrick’s smug smile could have powered a small nation as he followed Paul into the kitchen, arms flung open wide as though to embrace the very air itself. “Not only did Dr. Fredericks pronounce me to be in astonishing physical condition for a man my age—astonishing, that was his exact word choice—but he said there was absolutely no sign, none whatsoever, of cardiac disease.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Paul, returning a quick smile as he checked his messages. “Congratulations. That’s wonderful news.”
“Says he of little faith.” He opened the refrigerator and checked the contents. “Not only that, but he said he had never seen such a remarkable recovery in all of his years of practice. Remarkable, that was his word.”
“Yes, I know. I was there, remember?”
Derrick removed a platter containing the remainder of the baked ham from the previous evening’s dinner, along with a package of cheese and a loaf of fresh bread from the farmer’s market. “He said my blood pressure was lower than his. Lower than yours!”
“That wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Paul muttered, swiping a finger across the screen of his phone and scanning the next page.
“Purline was right,” declared Derrick. He set the lunch ingredients on the stainless steel center island and went to the cupboard for plates. “It’s all about fresh local food, not about how it’s prepared. Where is she anyway? I want to talk to her about short ribs for dinner.”
“She’s right here,” Purline called through the open window, “sitting on the porch snapping beans for that soup kitchen of yours. And stay out of that ham, that’s for tonight’s casserole. You’re having cold tomato soup and egg salad sandwiches for lunch. It’s in the fridge.�
�
Purline was a bit of a fanatic about fresh air, and kept the tall windows that opened onto the porch open on all but the most stifling days. Since the back part of the house was on a separate air-conditioning unit from the guest quarters, this had not presented much of a problem so far, and Paul and Derrick were actually beginning to enjoy the fresh breezes and garden scents that blew through their living area almost constantly.
Paul went over to the window, saw Purline sitting on the porch deftly snapping green beans into a pot while reading a magazine, and said, “Thank you, Purline. But it’s not a soup kitchen.”
Derrick quickly put the ham back in the refrigerator and removed the soup and the egg salad, echoing, “Thank you, Purline, found it.” Though he wrinkled his nose and mouthed to Paul, Egg salad! which was not his favorite.
Purline called, “I heard that!”
Derrick whipped his head around toward the window, staring, and Paul grinned before turning back to his phone. Everyone knew how Derrick felt about egg salad.
Recovering himself with a small shake of his head, Derrick went to the cupboard. “And you know who else was right?” he demanded. “Harmony. She told me my heart was completely healed weeks before Dr. Fredericks did. She told me I’d get a good report, remember? And she was right!”
Suddenly Paul tossed his phone onto the counter, sank down onto one of the red stools and let his head fall back in a brief gesture of despair and surrender. “Well, if she was, that was the only thing she was right about,” he said bitterly. “I can’t believe this.”
Derrick set two woven placemats, two bowls, and two luncheon plates on the counter, looking at him curiously.
“That so-called chef she hired?” demanded Paul. “The one that’s supposed to be the hottest up-and-coming young thing in the city? The one that Emeril Lagosse’s friend supposedly recommended? He owns a food truck!”
Derrick fumbled for a stool and sat down heavily, slack-jawed. “But—you were going to check him out!”
“What do you think I just did?”
“I mean sooner! I mean before we hired him!”
“We’ve both been a little busy, in case you haven’t noticed. And after Harmony said he’d been written up in the Post …”
Derrick looked at him in mounting dread. “She did mean the Washington Post, right?”
Paul just looked helpless and defeated.
Derrick sagged back. “But—but the menu! The butternut squash risotto served with local goat cheese! The Asian pears poached in wine sauce! The grilled Chesapeake Bay scallops served over Swiss Chard and sweet corn fritters with an apple wood-smoked bacon and caramelized onion cream! The smoked trout on sweet potato cakes with a purple basil sauce and apple-carrot slaw fresh from the garden! The—”
Paul raised a hand in self-defense, groaning. “I know, I know. He probably downloaded the entire menu from the Internet. Why, oh why, didn’t we take the time to go into the city and taste his food? Why did we trust our entire future to a crazy person?”
“But … but …” Derrick stammered, still struggling with disbelief. “Emeril … Nancy Reagan …”
“Oh, please! Harmony Haven knows Emeril Lagosse about as well as this, this fraud she hired knows crème brulee! And let’s not even talk about Nancy Reagan!” Paul sat up straighter, his frustration mounting. “I haven’t gotten one single RSVP from any of those celebrities she promised. Mick Jagger—”
“Keith Richards,” Derrick corrected absently.
“Either one. Ryan Seacrest, Ann Curry, Heather Locklear ... Purline was right. The only stars she’s ever seen were in her head.”
Purline called through the window, “Maybe next time you’ll listen to what a country girl has to say.”
Derrick returned wearily, “Thank you, Purline.”
Paul tightened his jaw. “We’ve got to find someone else.”
“We can’t! Harmony already sent him a check—and a contract! Besides, who are we going to find at this late date?”
“Well, that’s just marvelous! And it is also …” Paul pushed determinedly to his feet, “the last straw. “I’ve been nice. I’ve been polite. I’ve pretended to be amused by her endless stories and enchanted by her ridiculous pseudo-spiritual nonsense, I’ve ignored her hideous taste in clothing and don’t even get me started on those absurd feather earrings! But this is beyond what even a southern”— he put emphasis on the word for Paul’s benefit—“gentleman should be expected to tolerate. I am having it out with her once and for all.”
Derrick placed a steadying hand on his arm. “We’ll both have it out with her,” he assured him, “as soon as you calm down. I suppose you’ve figured out how to fire someone you never hired?”
Paul drew a sharp breath, thought about it, then sat down hard, defeated. “Not yet,” he admitted. “But I will.”
“Poor old soul,” said Derrick. “She meant well, I suppose. She still has to go,” he assured Paul quickly, “and she had absolutely no right at all to sweep in here and take over when she didn’t have the first idea what she was doing, but you have to feel sorry for her. In a way.”
Paul looked very far from feeling sorry for anyone other than himself. “The worst part is I traded on the names she gave me to get Yeses from half the people on my list,” Paul said. “Now they’ll all think I’m the worst kind of name-dropper and a liar as well. My reputation is ruined. ”
Derrick said, “No, the worst part is that everyone who does show up is going to be eating from a food truck.”
“I suppose the good news is that since Lester Carson tactfully declined to respond to our invitation yet again, at least we won’t be reading about the debacle in the Times.”
“That’s true,” agreed Derrick bleakly. “Only in Southern Living, Travel and Lodging, Great B&Bs of the United States and the travel sections of the Atlanta Journal Constitution, the Washington Post, the Richmond Times-Dispatch …”
Paul held up a hand for mercy, stifling another groan. And while they were still trying to absorb the horror that lay ahead, Purline offered, “See, if you’d called Smokey’s Barbecue like I told you, you wouldn’t be in this fix.”
Paul closed his eyes in a gesture of long-suffering forbearance. “Purline, don’t you have anything at all to do besides sit on the porch and listen to private conversations?”
Derrick winced at the perfectly predictable repercussions from that, but Purline did not reply. Just as both men were starting to relax, however, the screen door slammed shut and Purline marched into the kitchen and plopped the bowl of green beans down on the counter. “It just so happens,” she informed them, “I’ve got a gracious plenty to do, thank you very much.” She jerked open the utility drawer and took out a box of kitchen matches. “And just for that, I’m not even going to tell you my good news.”
Paul and Derrick looked at the matches in alarm. “What are you going to do with those matches?”
“I’m going to burn up all that trash I pulled out of the shed like you told me to,” she replied impatiently, “so y’all can bring in your fancy fountains and tents and whatnot for all them fancy party folk that probably won’t even show up anyhow.” Glaring at them, she demanded, “Well? Do you want to hear it or not?”
Paul said meekly, “Hear what, Purline?”
“My good news.” And without giving either of them a chance to reply, she drew up her shoulders, smiled broadly, and announced, “It just so happens that my cousin Trish is coming into town to see her mama on the fourteenth of August and she’s staying all week. She said she’d be happy to sing a number or two at your shindig, and seeing as how it was me asking, won’t even charge you a cent.” Her smile grew into a grin. “How about that?”
Somehow the two men managed to almost summon up a full smile between them. “It just gets better and better,” Derrick said.
“Remember that when it comes time to write my Christmas bonus check,” replied Purline. “And I need somebody to keep an eye on that fire with a garde
n hose while I get started on supper. Are y’all going to eat your lunch, or just look at it?”
Derrick sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite, Purline. I’ll come with you.”
“I’ll clear the table,” said Paul. “I’m just not up to doing anything more useful than that.”
Purline made a rather obvious effort not to roll her eyes as she tossed him the box of matches. “I’ll take care of the kitchen,” she said. “Y’all start the fire. Gasoline is in the garden house, next to the lawnmower,” she added, as though they didn’t know that—which they didn’t. The only person who had been near the lawnmower since they had taken over the place was the boy they had hired to mow the lawn once a week.
“We could always ask Bridget,” Derrick suggested, uncoiling the garden hose.
“I’d sooner die,” Paul said. “After all she’s done for us?”
“I suppose it is a bit much,” Derrick agreed unhappily.
“Besides,” Paul added when he returned from the garden house with a red plastic gallon can marked “gasoline,” “she already turned me down.”
Derrick dragged the garden hose over to the pile of rotting wood, empty crates, cardboard boxes and unidentifiable detritus that Purline had piled up outside the shed they had used as a temporary kennel for the dogs before they were happily re-homed. “That reminds me,” Derrick said. “I stopped by and took Mr. Briggs some of Purline’s cake yesterday. His granddaughter was there. She comes over just about every day now to play with the dog.”
For a moment, the preoccupation melted from Paul’s face. “Now, that’s nice,” he said. “He was just lonely, that was all. Now he’s got a dog and a family to keep him company.”
Derrick frowned a little. “He renamed the dog Butch. Why do people do that?”
Paul declined to answer, nudging the pile of trash with his foot. “What is all this stuff? Why did we never notice it before?”
