I spent the entire time sitting straight up (‘train your spine to be straight, Sweetheart, it will always serve you well’) between Caleb and Zach. I cried when they closed the casket, although I wasn’t watching, and again when they lowered it graveside. Other than that, I didn’t open my mouth the entire time. I know it was rude of me, with old acquaintances taking the trouble to come offer me their sympathy, but other than half-smiles and nods and clasped hands, I couldn’t communicate with them.
Zach repeated “Thank you for coming,” over and over, and I was grateful. His girlfriend had come in late Saturday night, and was standing as quietly as I on his other side, frighteningly elegant in a simple black shift dress. Bernadette barely registered her, although Frank, I could see, was making an effort to treat her kindly and include her in the many many conversations. I was glad about that, at least.
One other thing I recall vividly about the funeral. I was kneeling by Pappa’s marker, brushing invisible dust off of it just for the cool of the marble against my sweating palm. A shadow over me proved to be Uncle Dermot. His eyes were moist.
“Your Pappa was a great man, you know,” he said quietly.
I nodded.
“He had his flaws. We all have our flaws. But not all of us are so aware of them, so intent on atoning for them.”
I stood up. What did Uncle Dermot know? But he wouldn’t answer my puzzled look, and glancing at Gran’s grave beside us, I couldn’t ask him anything, no matter how veiled.
Uncle Dermot closed his eyes a moment and then patted at my back. “A great man,” he repeated, and then Bernadette was between us and we all turned to take our seats under the green canvas canopy, ready to recite the Lord’s Prayer and very much not ready to see Gran’s remains descend into their final resting place.
Rebecca stayed the night with us, and after the rest of the guests had shuffled off in groups and twos, she and I sat on the sofa sandwiched together between Caleb and Zach on the ends. Frank and Bernadette and her brothers just kept moving. Not quickly, just consistently. Frank would carry a cup to the kitchen, then Matthew would wander past and pick up the napkin that had been under it. Even in my haze—I had succumbed to a sudden-onset exhaustion—I realized I liked Rebecca a great deal. Mostly she just sat and held Zach’s hand and let us be as quiet as we wanted. After her initial offer to help clean up was refused, she recognized the way the prior generation was finding tasks was vital to them just then, and didn’t try to interfere. She didn’t shift around and try to get more comfortable as we squeezed against each other. I liked her calm and her acceptance of the prevailing mood. And Zach was leaning against her as if she was the most stable doorway in the midst of an earthquake. I’m projecting that’s how he felt, anyway, since I was doing the same thing to Caleb.
‘The kids’ slept at Gran’s house that night, and sooner than we’d have liked, Bernadette and Dermot came by with fresh berries and Bernadette’s organic pancake mix. It gave me chills to use the rest of Gran’s half-gallon of milk, and we all left her favorite mug in the cabinet when pouring our coffee, but no one talked about it.
Zach had obviously shared our plans; Bernadette seemed content with us leaving. Dermot was taking a week’s bereavement leave, and he and Matthew would begin to go through Gran’s house. Bernadette held my hand as she told me about it, giving me a look promising I would return and not feel violated. She told me after the retreat, they all wanted me to move into Gran’s for a while, until they decided ‘what to do.’ I knew they meant selling the house and dividing the proceeds, but I left my sealed lips as they were. Dermot was standing in the door to the den, leafing through the old Sears catalog and smiling briefly when he came across Pappa’s war letters home.
“Look,” he said, tilting the book towards her.
She nodded. “I know.”
They smiled at each other, the smile of their father’s children, transported from the days when the two of them were as tight with each other as Zach and I were now. And then I willed myself not to think, because my life sucked enough as it was without trying to figure out if Rebecca and Caleb would interrupt the always-there-for-you status quo of Zach and I.
Matthew came by in time to say goodbye. The cars were loaded—Rebecca would follow us out of town and veer towards Austin, and Zach would meet her there in time for an early dinner. We group-hugged, and I caught Zach’s smile when Bernadette thanked Rebecca, who asked that Frank be told good-bye from her. Frank was at the store, unavoidably, and had told us to not worry about stopping by. In other words, he was too drained to say farewell to his kids, and Zach just nodded without commenting. He refused Caleb’s offer to drive.
I blinked, and we were on the road, and I blinked again, and Caleb was driving after all, while Zach lay in the back seat with his eyes closed.
He wasn’t sleeping, though. “I like her,” I said.
He smiled slowly.
“Yeah, she’s great,” Caleb added.
“And Frank and Bernadette like her.”
Then he opened his right eye, briefly. “They do, actually, don’t they?”
I nodded. “They do.”
“They like Caleb, too.”
“Yeah.”
“They do?” Caleb asked, with a quick grin.
“You know they do.” I took hold of his forearm. “You’ve been great.”
He shrugged. Each time our bodies moved against each other, I felt my spirit circling back down to rejoin my form, so I kept my hand on him. “Thanks.”
Eventually, quietly, we reached Wimberley. The too-bright FireWind sign looked weather-beaten and friendly. Caleb brought us to my cabin, not even glancing at the turn to his own, popping the trunk before turning to my brother. “Are you okay to get back, man?”
Zach stretched. “Sure.”
“Thanks again for all the rides.”
“Anytime.” He paused, shook his head vigorously. “Okay, I’m just going to go. Email me later on and let me know how you’re doing.”
We huddled in a hug, then Zach folded himself into the driver’s seat and took off without a final wave through the windshield.
Caleb wrapped his arm around me. “He’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
“So will you.”
And then I looked up at him, at his strong cheekbones, his concerned brown eyes, his focus only on me. “I know,” I repeated, and walked us inside.
We skipped lunch, falling instead into a peaceful long sleep on the top of my bed. The later afternoon was still bright, the sun through the bedroom window increasingly hot. Caleb was so gentle as he eased out of bed, but I woke up anyway.
“I’m not ready for real life to begin,” I told him, muffling a yawn.
“I know, sweetie.”
“You should get your stuff done, though. Don’t be sitting around babying me and neglecting yourself, you’ve done enough of that.”
“I’m not neglected, and I’ve been doing nothing I haven’t wanted to do.”
Suppressing a groan, I sat up. “Would you like to walk up the creek with me?”
“As a matter of fact, I would.”
“Shower first or later?”
“Later.”
“Let’s go.”
The woods were so much cooler than Houston, especially when compared with the forced barrenness of the Medical Center. I drew the oxygen-rich air into my lungs and sniff-sneezed at the pollen but my eyes actually felt good watering against the allergens. The itching was annoying, but having some reason for my eyes to self-lubricate after all the dry crying was a relief.
Caleb ended up going to dinner alone, bringing me back a plate as well as Lizzy and Wren. Before we’d finished with the condolences, Rafael stopped by with a large handful of maidenhair and black-eyed Susan, and a quiet, “I’m sorry for your loss.” He refused my invitation to join us.
By Tuesday lunch I’d climbed onto the swing of things. Theo was spending more time in the dining room with the four of us, which meant Bran
don and Angelica spent more time getting out of there asap. And Rafael continued to be late or not show for meals, but sometimes sat over coffee with us, as well. He never said much, but Sargie’s approving beam as she walked past and saw six artists sharing a plate of brownies did engender rolled eyes and sub-breath mutterings.
Most of the time, we were somehow past the point of talking about work. Once in a while, we’d get on the subject, in more than a general ‘so how’s it going?’ kind of way. Wren pointed out, one night in my cabin, that Theo no longer talked divine inspiration. She was so perceptive it scared me. At least she was no longer pissed at Caleb and me. The time we’d been in Houston had probably helped—because she had some distance, or because she felt sorry for me, or because she saw a depth proving the relationship was more than a physical thing, I don’t know. I didn’t want to know, I just wanted to put it all behind us.
Caleb had basically moved into ValeSong, although he left most of his camera equipment at LakeFire, and fiddled around there a few hours a day. Developing, manipulating images, whatever. He and Lizzy and I had carted his small sofa over to ValeSong, so there was comfortable seating for five in my den. We had to shuffle around to get to the coffee maker and fridge, but it worked. Theo found out about my stash of beer and came by more often if the front porch light was on. Zach emailed a thumbs-up icon when I asked him and Rebecca to come by over the weekend with more booze and to hang out.
Not so much when Caleb was around—he tended to see it coming and distract me, I think—but on those mornings when he slipped out of bed to shoot the dawn light, I’d wake up with wet eyes from sad Gran dreams. I kept wanting but not wanting to pack up her fabric scraps and use or not use them in Patchy Men or Tea Time Mosaics, which occupied me when I needed a break from my men. Once or twice, Lizzy brought up the Irish O’Connors, but I didn’t let her get into it, and she let up.
I felt like myself, but a sketch in pastel rather than an oil.
On Friday, without quite realizing how I’d gotten there, I finished Nine Patchy Men. I took a quick jog down to the road and back in along a side path to the creek, went straight to the shower, and came out with the towel still turbaned in my hair to take a look.
The first thing you noticed was the standard-issue masculinity of the army blanket against the incongruously bright patches. I had abandoned the more traditional nine-patch form in order to feature the blanket, and had concentrated on providing as much detail in as small a space as possible for the individual men. I wanted it to invite close inspection, for each patch to be it’s own presentation of ‘patchiness’ rather than going for a cumulative effect. Wren had pointed out it would be more like a series of vignettes that way, rather than an overwhelming bash against the male gender. I couldn’t even remember what she’d said; it was her usual intuitive way of drawing the ideas from my own vision rather than imposing her thoughts on my art.
So I headed to Wren’s cabin to ask her to come and judge me. It started to drizzle as I walked, so I didn’t see her clearly when she asked me in. Once I’d brushed the hair off my forehead and dried my eyes on the belly of my shirt, I noticed her own damp cheeks.
“Hon, what’s up? Are you okay?”
She nodded, not in the least convincing, and sat down. I followed.
“So what’s up then? You’re not sick, are you?”
The breath she drew sucked half the air out of the room, but it didn’t lighten her mood. “May as well be.”
“Why?” Nothing. “Wren, why? What’s wrong?” I sat back and looked at her. Beneath the rims, her eyes were smudged with black, and she was gnawing at a fingernail edged in orange ceramic glazes—which surely wasn’t healthy snacking material. “Is it work?”
She rolled her eyes so dramatically I could hear the snide thoughts.
“Well, what about work, then?” I bit my snippy tongue. Impatience wasn’t going to help either of us.
She stood abruptly and said, “Come on,” without looking to see if I was going to trail after her into her studio. Though, naturally, I was.
With an upward jerk of her chin, she invited me to inspect the orange house. It was small, half of a one-bedroom duplex she’d left open at the adjoining wall, dollhouse-style. There wasn’t much furniture: a brown-orange table and chair, a sunflower-gold bedspread over a futon on the floor, a tangerine carpet.
She had glazed it in preparation for firing, and then gone back to reshape the front door area and the sitting room. There were still raw clay edges and a distinct lack of detail around the front stoop.
“Well?”
I shrugged my left shoulder. “I like the open effect, that’s cool. Like you’re cutting yourself off from the world around you.” The duplex was her current home, the place she was now forced to leave.
“And the door?”
“Well, I guess, I just don’t know what you’re doing there.”
“Exactly,” she muttered, bitter. “I know what I’m trying to do there, but I’m not doing it. I’m just creating a fucking huge mess.”
“Wren.”
“Don’t patronize me, Ash! I know a fucking huge mess when I see one. And this is one.”
“But, Mother God, you can fix it, right? I mean, maybe not this one, but you can use it as a template and do the next one the way you want,” I paused to see if she was gonna listen, when she slammed her left fist down on the house, crumbling it and splatter-staining us both in the process. “Wren—hey!”
Lauren was glaring from within a furrowed brow, and not speaking to me so much as grousing at the air around me. “Supposed to be the happy one. Supposed to look like a beautiful sunset, a sunset and sunrise rolled into one, a new beginning and a place of rest. Supposed to be vibrant and fill you with a longing to come in, sit down, get to know this place. Supposed to put the others to shame but infuse them with power at the same time. Instead it’s a big, fucking, damn mess!” And she flattened what was left of the roof with the heels of both hands.
“Wren, sweetie, come on. A lot of that was in there. It just, you just need to take another stab at it.”
“Shut up, Ash. Just shut up, okay?”
“Fine. All right. Look, I’ll just leave.”
“What’d you even come here for, anyway?”
Well, that was a trap door to a whole snake pit of negativity if ever I saw one. I shook my head. “Just was taking a break, wanted to say hi.”
“Sweet of you.” She couldn’t have meant it less.
“I was going to see if you wanted to take a walk,” a half-truth. “But then it started to rain.”
“So you probably guessed, my answer is no, I don’t want to go on a fucking walk. Can you just leave now?”
“Yeah, I can.” Shit, I should be more gracious. She was obviously beyond frustrated. “Wren, really, you’ll get it. Come on by if you want to talk or get away from here. But you’ll get it.” I leaned toward her to hug her shoulder but she moved away, so I caught myself by turning towards the door. When I got home, I took down the Men so she wouldn’t see it first thing, but she never even came by, anyway.
“I just don’t get it, is all,” I protested to Caleb, later on. “It’s not like I put her down or anything. I was trying to be supportive. Or I was until she got all snappy at me.”
He was blasé. “That’s how she is. I told you. It has nothing to do with you, but just wait—she’ll treat you differently from now on.”
“No she won’t.” I even sounded like I believed it.
“She will. She did me. She’s not gonna stop talking to you, not like before, but she’ll stop trying to listen. She’ll stop noticing if you’re being nice or you’re interested or whatever.”
He wasn’t even blushing. “So, you were interested in her.” I don’t know how I said it—it just slipped out, unplanned. I kept letting my guard down with him. Or I was comfortable.
“Huh?”
“Don’t stall. You told me that first night you weren’t ever interested in her, and now you
’re admitting you were.”
“No, I meant her work.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Did too.”
“Caleb, my love, you did not. Give me some credit. I don’t mind, but you did lie.”
He growled, softly. Kind of a variation on his pre-speaking hum. “Ash, I was never interested in Wren. Or not really. Just like I told you, I knew she was interested and when I thought you weren’t, I thought about it. For like a minute. But by then she was all weird with me, so I didn’t pursue it.”
“So if she’d responded, you’d have gone for it?”
“God, what are you, a lawyer? Stop putting words in my mouth!”
So to shut off his spigot of indignation, I put something else in his mouth. He pulled back a moment later and confessed he probably would have gone for it with Wren if she’d let him. I found the ticklish spot under his knees.
“But only because I was so dejected and frustrated about you not caring for me. I was feeling like such an idiot chasing after you all over the place.” He found a sensitive spot of my own.
“You were not chasing after me.” I tickled my way from knees to upper thighs. Higher.
“I was, too. You just ignored every one of my advances.” His hands left my body to guide my fingers around his erection. He hummed before speaking again. “Anyway, I never could have fallen in love with Wren. You’re the one for me, Ashlyn. You know it, too.”
It restored significant piece of peace to my soul to be able to make love with Caleb again. And in the morning, even though he’d slipped out early, I didn’t wake up crying. I felt rested for the first time in almost two weeks.
Chapter 20
The next afternoon, Zach and Rebecca took Caleb and I on a drive along the Devil’s Backbone. We kept stopping at the scenic overlooks to wander off as couples and admire the views, and each other. Back in the car, we giggled ferociously at Rebecca’s lampooning of all things Zach and at Caleb’s and my stories of Sargie and the other charmers at FireWind. Rebecca turned out to be a huge Lisette Model fan, which pretty much bonded her and Caleb like epoxy.
Retreat to Love Page 23
