by Vicki Lane
You’ve been down this road before, Elizabeth—back when you first met him. Things weren’t what they seemed. Still …
I shoved the letter I’d been going to ask him about into my pants pocket and extemporized. “I was just wondering if you had to work next weekend or not—I was kind of sketching out some plans …”
He leaned back in the chair, hand still on the mouse. “I don’t know for sure … It’ll depend—” The sound of Gloria’s heels tapping on the wooden floor of the living room stopped him.
“Lizzy?” she trilled. “I have a surprise for you! Lizzy, where are you?”
“Just a minute,” I called back. Summoning up a weak smile, I nodded at the computer screen. “Sorry I interrupted you—it’s no big deal about the weekend anyway.”
Phillip shot a curious glance at the bit of letter sticking out of my pocket but said nothing. He turned back to the computer as I headed for the living room and my sister and James, who had followed her from the bedroom, the clicking of his toenails echoing the tapping of her heels.
She was standing there with a gift-wrapped box held out before her—shiny deep purple paper, almost surely the shade known to designers as aubergine—wrapped with an intricate arrangement of silk cords in pale green hues.
“I found the most wonderful store—Bravissimo or something like that. The most gorgeous clothing—‘wearable art’ they call it. And when I saw this”—she placed the box in my hands—“well, I immediately thought of you! Go on—open it!”
“Gloria—you don’t need to get me stuff.” I sat down on the sofa and began to undo the cords. It seemed like sacrilege to destroy the lovely web they made. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was wondering what sort of wildly expensive, completely unusable thing she had gotten for me.
I had been to Bravissimo—a kind of fusion between an art gallery and a high-end boutique—dragged there by Laurel when a fellow artist friend of hers had a series of innovative little jackets on display in the elegant shop. Gorgeous little jackets—with astronomical price tags, as I recalled. Beautiful one-of-a-kind handmade garments fit for Oscar night or the sort of event I’d certainly never be attending.
Gloria perched on the other end of the sofa and watched as I pulled off the last cord and set it to the side. Her face was glowing with a pure, unselfconscious delight that made her look somehow younger and softer. James snuggled at her side.
“For goodness’ sake, just rip the paper off, Lizzy!” Gloria urged as I carefully peeled off the gold seals at either end of the package.
“It’s so pretty—I’ll save it to use again,” I answered, removing the thick glossy paper, rolling it up, and tying it with one of the silk cords. As I lifted the top of the white rectangular box, a hint of a clean, crisp fragrance wafted out from the folds of rustling tissue. Putting off the moment when I would be expected to gush over some costly, inappropriate, over-the-top piece of clothing, I smiled at my little sister. She obviously meant well. And I was going to do the right thing, even if it meant lying.
“Glory, this is really sweet of you—”
“Lizzy, if you don’t open your present this very minute, I’m going to scream!”
And so I did. I laid back the crackling leaves of tissue to see a shimmering of silk—periwinkle blue, lavender, blue-violet, cobalt—the most delicious shades of blue and purple all in one amazing fabric.
Carefully—no, reverently—I took the wonderful thing out of the box, stood, and shook out its glimmering folds.
A kimono—quite possibly the loveliest garment I’d ever seen. The colors—like all the irises of spring … like a mountain lake … like—
“I knew it was right for you,” Gloria crowed. “Go look in the mirror—hold it near your face and just see what it does for your eyes.”
“I don’t know what to say, Glory. It’s … it’s magnificent.”
And it was—I had thought I was beyond caring about clothes, but this … “What is this fabric? It’s incredible.”
“There’s a little folder in the box that tells all about it—it’s handwoven ikat silk—ikat is where they dye the silk threads in all different colors before they ever start to weave. The man in charge of the shop explained the process very nicely. That’s how they get all those shades fading into one another.”
I was staring in the mirror—maybe I was imagining it but my eyes did seem changed when I held the robe up to my face—deeper, with a hint of violet. The thought of how the silk would feel against my bare skin, of the delicious sensation of—
“Glory, I know how expensive things are at that place. You really shouldn’t—”
“Oh, hush! I knew you’d say that.” She beamed at me, still full of that happy goodwill. “Just think of it as a little something for your trousseau—and while we’re on the subject, tell me about your wedding plans. You said next month—but where? And what will you wear? I saw a lovely dress—”
There was a sudden coldness in the pit of my stomach. Of course, you’ve already “sorted” the matter, Aunt Dodie had written.
But I hadn’t. And now all the doubts that had tormented me before came boiling up out of the hidden places to buzz and chatter in my head.
“I … we wanted to wait till the end of June when Phillip’s kids and Rosemary could be here. We haven’t actually picked a day but—”
“Well, you’d better get cracking so you can send out a Save the Date card—no, it’s really too late for that. Might as well just go on and send the invitations.”
The old Gloria had returned.
I began to fold the lovely kimono, savoring the luxurious slide of the fabric against my fingers. With a last appreciative look, I laid the beautiful gift back in the tissue.
“The wedding’s only going to be small—a few phone calls or emails will take care of inviting people. We plan to be married here—”
“Here? Are you sure?” Gloria frowned. “Well, I suppose your garden is pretty enough but what if it rains? Let’s see, you could put the tent—”
“No tent,” I said. Suddenly it was an effort to talk about what had been an occasion I’d been looking forward to, keeping a surreptitious list that I amended from time to time. “Like I said, really small. If we had to, it could be right here in the living room. But nothing’s set in stone just yet.”
Nothing at all.
Chapter 5
Looking for Comfort
Monday, May 14, and Tuesday, May 15
Phillip was still at the computer when I told Gloria good night and headed for my bath. There has always been an unspoken pact between me and the rest of the world to the effect that no one bothers me when I’m in the tub—no phone calls, no messages, no questions. Even when the girls were very little, it was Sam who was on call while I zoned out in my bath for a half hour or so. This time of respite has kept me reasonably sane through various rough patches and I guard and treasure it. The old iron claw-foot tub where I can run the water hot and high, then relax with a book till the water gets too cool, has always been my safe place, my comfort and sanctuary where cares are left on the other side of the door. Unfortunately, however, this time I’d brought them in with me.
A friend had recently sent me a bottle of some wonderful-smelling orange-ginger bath gel and I dumped a generous dollop under the flowing faucet and watched the bubbles froth higher and higher. They seemed an apt reflection of the thoughts and suppositions, the hints and allegations that were threatening to overflow my mind, but hoping that the warm water would work its usual magic, I pulled off my clothes, pinned my braid atop my head, and stepped into the bath. My reading material—the latest New Yorker, as well as both of Dodie’s letters—lay on the edge of the wash basin but I ignored it all in favor of lying back, eyes closed, for a long thoughtful soak.
How could I, in Aunt Dodie’s words, “sort things” without making Phillip think I was having second thoughts, without making him think I didn’t trust him? Or, I mused, without letting him know what I’m worried about
—in case it’s true … What if Phillip is the mysterious Hawk that Sam didn’t trust? What if I shouldn’t trust him?
There was so much in the past … lies and half-truths … first from Sam … later from Phillip. Even in the beginning—Phillip’s moving to Asheville and looking me up—there’d been a hidden agenda.
All of that had been resolved, explained away by Phillip … at least, I’d thought it resolved. But I knew from bitter experience that the past has an ugly way of persevering … and becoming the present.
I stared at the white billows piled high atop the water, trying to put my unspoken questions into words: What exactly was in that first letter of Sam’s, the letter that had gone missing in its bright red mailing envelope? Wherever it was, why had it made Aunt Dodie think that I might not be going to marry “my Mr. Hawkins”? She had obviously believed there might be a connection between Phillip and this person called the Hawk, this person Sam had been worried about …
You need to read that letter from England again.
Sitting up, I reached for my towel, dried my hands, and took the airmail letter from its hiding place between the pages of the magazine. Hiding place? Is that how you’re really thinking … already? Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.
Skimming down the page, I stopped at this paragraph.
The peculiar thing is that Sam spends most of this letter telling the Old Gentleman about some strange “detached duty” he and this other man had been sent on. He asks the OG if he has obtained any information on “the matter I mentioned in my last letter” and then goes on to say that he’s not sure if he can trust the other man whom he calls the Hawk …”
That was it—the thing that was unsettling me. The strange “detached duty” Sam and this other man had been sent on, the other man Sam said he wasn’t sure he could trust—the man he called the Hawk.
It was years after Sam’s death when I had learned the truth about his time in the Navy during the Vietnam era—had learned that rather than serving aboard a supply ship, as he had told me, Sam had been “in country” and witness to a sickening atrocity.
And Phillip had been with him. Phillip Hawkins.
And it was Phillip who’d given me the full story—though Sam’s nightmares and the eventual diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder had made it obvious that there was more to his time in the Navy than he was willing to tell. I had always hated the fact that he wasn’t open with me—
Yes? And are you being open with Phillip?
No. I absolutely was not. The longer I lay in the cooling water, watching the scented foam disintegrate, the more warning bells went off. Phillip had come into my life for reasons I wasn’t made aware of till several years had gone by. He had not been what he seemed—
That all got straightened out, remember?
Maybe. But I had learned, to my sorrow, that though Vietnam was in the past, the evil brought to life by tragic events from that time was still alive, still dangerous. And though Phillip had seemed to be on the side of the angels, who could say if the scenes that played out two years ago were the final act?
Get off it, Elizabeth! You’re like a bloody rodent on an exercise wheel.
I grabbed the washcloth and wiped at my already clean face, trying to put these increasingly repetitive thoughts aside.
The Hawk … Mackenzie calls Phillip “Hawk.” It’s a logical nickname.
Did Sam ever call Phillip anything but Hawkins? They got together a few times after Vietnam—that time Sam met his Navy buddies in DC to see the Vietnam memorial … I’m pretty sure Sam always referred to him as Phillip—maybe Phil—or just Hawkins. And if he didn’t trust him, why did he go on keeping in touch with him?
This is bullshit, Elizabeth. You know this man.
I could hear him moving about the bedroom, the jingle of coins as he slid out of his slacks, the creak of the springs as he lay down, and the click of the reading light. He would be reading that Harlan Coben paperback, no doubt.
The water was cold now. And I’d decided. There would be no more secrecy, no more wondering. I would ask if he’d seen the red mailer, ask why he didn’t give me the airmail letter, ask if he’d ever been called the Hawk …
And we’d laugh at Aunt Dodie’s overwrought fears and I’d put on my beautiful gift from Gloria, sliding it over my freshly bathed body, and wait for him to notice how it turned my eyes to violet-blue …
I pulled the plug and hurriedly stepped out of the tub. As I toweled myself dry, I remembered that I hadn’t brought the kimono into the bathroom with me. There was just my usual oversized T-shirt—the magical garment was in its tissue-lined box, on a shelf in my closet.
Never mind—just go in there and show him this silly letter.
When I emerged from the bathroom, my teeth brushed, my hair loosed from its braid, my body soft and fragrant with lavender-scented powder, there he was, sound asleep, a book open on his chest and his reading glasses on his nose. He didn’t wake as I removed the book and the glasses, but when I crawled in beside him, he reached out a hand to give me a perfunctory pat on the leg, then, muttering something about an early start, rolled on his side and returned to the deep breathing of heavy sleep.
When I awoke he was gone.
I sat up and glared at the sun which was already well up—I’d lain awake for quite a while last night in spite of repeatedly reminding myself that there was nothing to worry about, that in the morning we’d straighten things out. And so I’d overslept.
Maybe he was in the kitchen fixing some breakfast … maybe there’d be a moment to talk before Gloria appeared in her lovely robe, makeup subtle but perfect, blond hair just slightly tousled … but no. There on the chest by the bed, where I’d put his book and glasses last night, was a note: Mac needed me early and we may be out of touch all day. I’ll try to call if I won’t be home at the usual time. Love you—P.
I frowned. Out of touch usually meant that some big bust was under way: a patch of marijuana hidden back on national forest land, a fence with a hoard of stolen chain saws, a meth lab, or even a moonshine still. This last was rare but a few hard-core fellows held to the old ways and turned out their white liquor in spite of the fact that you could buy cheaper stuff at any ABC store. What had begun simply, as a “value added” way of making a living from the corn that was one of the few crops easily grown in these mountains, was now almost a niche market. “Artisanal” moonshine, packaged quaintly in Mason jars half filled with peaches, blueberries, or some other fruit, was the drink of choice for a certain set.
I crumpled the note in my hand. Well, hell. But maybe he’d get home before Gloria—she had already informed me that she was going back into Asheville for a visit to a spa. “I knew I’d be worn out from a day of shopping, so I went on and scheduled a half-day treatment. Sometimes, I just need some ‘me time,’ you know, Lizzy?”
Good, I thought. Let her have her precious “me time.” As if there’s ever any other kind for Glory. It’ll give me a chance to go see Miss Birdie.
“Why, look who’s coming! What’s a-gonna happen?”
It was Miss Birdie’s standard greeting whenever more than a week or two passed without my stopping in. It had been longer than usual—the gardens were demanding at this time of year … and then I had to get ready for Gloria. I’d been going to stop several times but on one occasion Birdie’s truck had been gone and another day I’d seen Dorothy’s car and a strange vehicle there and had decided to postpone my visit. It always seems to me that with the quiet life she leads, Birdie’d probably rather not have all her visitors at once.
“Hey, Miss Birdie!” Grinning at my little neighbor as I climbed the steps to the cabin’s porch, I gave my standard response. “You remember who I am?”
“Come on in and git you a chair, Lizzie Beth,” she directed, her wrinkled face beaming as she held the screen door wide. “Wherever have you been all this time?”
Visiting Miss Birdie is always a comfort, from the predictability of her greeting to the
unchanging décor of her living room—the recliner facing the television set, the Bible and the telephone on a table beside the recliner, the feed store calendar and the fly swatter sharing a nail on the wall by the kitchen door, and the shelves filled with the little wooden animals her son Cletus had carved. It was in the wake of Cletus’s untimely death that I had really gotten to know Birdie and to appreciate her strength and wisdom. I only hope that when I’m her age—somewhere up in the eighties—that I can be as happy in my skin as she is in hers.
“Ben and that pretty Amandy stopped in day before yesterday.” Birdie took her place on the recliner as I dropped onto the plastic-covered sofa. “He said you and Phillip was planning a wedding next month and I said I knowed that sooner or later you was going to come around and I was glad to hear it.”
Par for the course. I don’t think I’ve ever managed to be the first to tell Miss Birdie any news. She seems to attract it like a magnet. Usually it’s her friend Bernice who keeps her informed about local goings-on—how many times has Birdie greeted me with the details of some late-breaking event, prefaced by “Bernice’s boy heard it on the scanner”?
“Well, that Ben! He beat me to it.” I was in defensive mode now, already a little guilty at not having stopped by earlier. “I was going to tell you as soon as we decided on a date but my sister—”
Birdie studied at me over the top of her glasses. “Ben told me his mommy was making a long visit. I seen a shiny little black and yellow car going down the road yesterday and again this morning. Reckon that must have been her.”
I explained that Gloria was a city girl and not used to shopping only once a week or less. “She’s still just getting settled but I’ll bring her over soon so she can meet you,” I promised, wondering what these two would make of one another.
“Now I’d like that just fine, Lizzie Beth.” Birdie’s bright blue eyes twinkled at me then turned to peer out the window. “Law, there goes that Roberts boy again; he’s up and down this road every whipstitch.” She watched the truck out of sight then turned back to me. “Tell me about your sister, Lizzie Beth. Seems like I remember you saying she lives in Florida. You uns haven’t seen much of one another over the years, now have you?”
