by Lori Wilde
“You’re too hard on her,” he said, but thought, Who are you, Martha Stewart? “Cut her some slack.”
“We’ve had this discussion a million times.”
“And you always win.”
“That’s right, and don’t make me say why.”
Skylar.
Their eldest daughter’s name hung in the air between them, painful as a third-degree burn. Jim Bob blinked and stared hard at the crossword puzzle.
He couldn’t say for sure when his marriage had started to unravel; certainly Skylar’s death had been a pivotal turning point. But if he were being honest, Jim Bob would admit the marriage had been fraying long before then, and he had no real idea why. He still loved Honey, deep down inside, but they hadn’t been close in a very long time.
In fact, when he thought back on their life together, he wondered if they’d ever really been emotionally intimate. Honey was always on guard, worried about presenting a glossy image of the impeccable wife, hostess, mother, or what have you. It felt like she was a consummate actress who’d perfected a role in a long-running play, and she was determined to get rave reviews each and every night.
And she expected him to play the perfect leading man, although she never hesitated to let him know how he failed to live up to the role.
He supposed her insistence on living what she called the “proper way” came from being a blue blood with a pedigree she could trace back to European royalty. While his family, before his great-grandfather had struck oil back in the 1920s, had been nothing but dirt-poor farmers. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, foolish things like not allowing Delaney to wear a used wedding veil mattered greatly to his wife.
With a clarity undiminished by the passing years, Jim Bob remembered the first time he laid eyes on Honey. He’d been attending a summer seminar at the University of Pennsylvania, and he’d seen her striding purposefully across campus as if she knew exactly who she was and where she was going and she wasn’t about to let anything or anyone stand in her way.
That strong sense of purpose was what had initially attracted him to her. She possessed a special something that he lacked—a driving force that pushed her to continually better herself. He admired the quality, but honestly did not fully understand it. Honey was a doer, whereas Jim Bob was just happy to be along for the ride. In that regard, Delaney had taken after him.
Growing up the youngest of the three Cartwright brothers, with a larger-than-life father, Jim Bob had gotten lost in the shuffle of his legendary family. He was laid-back and easygoing. Loved having a good time and believed that life took care of itself, that you really shouldn’t have to work so hard at it. Unlike Honey, who discounted anything that came easily.
His family had loved Honey from the minute they’d met her. Both because her blue-blood status gave respectable cache to their oil field money and because they believed she was exactly what Jim Bob needed to give him some direction in life.
They were right on both counts.
Honey had taken to his family like, well, a duck to water. Her own mother had died shortly after they’d met and she had no other immediate family. She’d told Jim Bob she didn’t get along with her distant relatives, since they’d forsaken her during her mother’s long illness. Medical bills had drained most of the fortune her father had made in textiles. Even her family home had been mortgaged to the hilt. They’d never been back to Philadelphia, and none of Honey’s relatives ever called or came to visit.
But her high-society cache and Honey’s unerring sense of direction hadn’t brought Jim Bob the happiness he’d thought their marriage was supposed to provide. His children had been the only things that had given him real joy.
And then Skylar had been killed.
Honey blamed him wholly, completely. Blamed his permissiveness and what she called his screwed-up priorities. Putting fun ahead of safety. And he couldn’t fault her for it. He’d actually pleaded Skylar’s case for less restriction, convincing Honey to untie the apron strings and let Skylar go to that damnable rock concert. Jim Bob never regretted any decision more.
When Honey had told him he would get absolutely no say in raising Delaney, he’d stepped out of the picture as far as discipline was concerned. Even when he didn’t agree with something his wife was doing, like putting Delaney on a strict diet, or pressuring her into plastic surgery, or egging her on to marry Evan, he’d kept his mouth shut. Jim Bob’s ideas on child rearing had gotten his oldest daughter killed. What in the hell did he know? He couldn’t buck Honey on anything.
Jim Bob peered over the top of his newspaper. Honey was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wedding veil as if it were a poisonous viper. She was so damn determined this wedding had to meet some impossibly high standard she’d set up in her own mind. It was costing him a fortune, but the money wasn’t what bothered Jim Bob. He worried that Delaney was getting married simply to please her mother.
Not that he disliked his future son-in-law. Evan Van Zandt was a good guy and came from a very respectable family. Delaney could do far worse. It was just that, because of Honey’s overprotectiveness, Delaney had never really experienced life. Evan was the only man she’d ever dated. She’d never lived on her own, nor was she well traveled. She hadn’t even worked at anything other than this little business venture she’d started, except teaching undergrads when she was working on her master’s degree.
If it weren’t for Honey pressuring her friends into using All the World’s a Stage when they sold their houses, he doubted Delaney could keep the business afloat without tapping into the trust fund his mother had set up for her. Jim Bob couldn’t help feeling that his daughter deserved so much more out of life.
But how could he advise Delaney on marriage when his own was in such rocky shape?
Where had things gotten so messed up?
He looked at Honey. A sweep of blond hair had fallen across her cheek, and his heart wadded in his chest. The past was gone, and he felt the future ebbing away like hourglass sand. God, he’d screwed things up so badly.
“I’ve let you down,” he said to Honey.
“Excuse me?” She looked up, assessing him with cool green eyes that revealed nothing. The same inscrutable eyes Delaney had inherited.
“Over the years, I haven’t been the kind of husband you deserved.”
She stared at him for a long moment then said, in the oddest tone of voice, “I got exactly what I deserved.”
“You didn’t deserve an alcoholic.”
“James Robert, you’ve been sober for fifteen years. It’s all in the past. Forget about it.”
“I’ll never be able to forget it. Or what I did to you and Delaney,” he said. “I haven’t really made full amends.”
“Yes, you have.”
“If I’d truly made amends then why haven’t you forgiven me? I’m so sorry I hurt you, Honey. So very sorry.”
“You’re forgiven. Now can we stop talking about this, please?”
“You should have divorced me.”
“I’m going to keep this veil,” she said, getting up and crossing the room to put the veil in her closet. “If Delaney wants it back, she’s going to have to ask me for it.”
It irritated him that she pretended to forgive him when he knew she hadn’t. She punished him every day. Like she was doing now. By not allowing him to say what he needed to say. By dismissing his apology as inconsequential.
“I want things to be better between us,” Jim Bob said. “Like they used to be when we were first married. Remember?”
“Let’s go to sleep, James Robert. It’s late.”
“Stop changing the subject. I don’t want to talk about wedding veils. I want to talk about us. How we’re going to spend the rest of our lives once Delaney is married and off on her own and she’s no longer the glue holding us together.”
Honey looked at him with those calm green eyes that revealed nothing about what she was really feeling. “I don’t know what you intend to do, but I’m planning on l
iving my life exactly as I have been.”
“Filling it up with what? Charity events and Pilates and spa dates with your friends?”
“Why, yes.”
“Where do I fit into your plans?”
“What is it that you want from me?”
I want you to love me the way you used to! He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some feeling into her. But you couldn’t force people to feel something for you if they didn’t.
His chest constricted. “What happened, Honey? What happened to the girl I married? The one who had big dreams and an even bigger heart? The one who used to laugh at my jokes and let her hair down once in a while? The one who told me we were a team and as long as we were together, nothing could break us?”
She reached across the bed and stroked his cheek with her index finger, the unexpected tenderness in her eyes cutting straight to his heart. “Delaney’s grown now. We’re in our mid-fifties. What’s past is past. I can’t be something I no longer am, and I can’t bring Skylar back. Now please, can we just go to bed?”
He wanted to shout. He wanted to throw something against the wall. Anything to get her attention.
But he did not.
Jim Bob put the crossword puzzle aside, turned out the light, and slid down in bed. He reached for Honey and pulled her into his embrace. She did not resist, but she held her body so stiffly against him, he could take no comfort in her arms.
She was an ice queen. Beautiful, but untouchable. Impossible to know even after thirty-four years of marriage.
There was no getting through to her. He’d been trying for years. She had her idea of the way things were supposed to be, and Honey refused to budge. The terrible thing was, much as he still loved her, Jim Bob didn’t know if he could live with that anymore.
Divorce was an ugly word, but he was almost ready to say it.
When Honey had finally fallen asleep, Jim Bob got up, went to the closet, took out the wedding veil, and put it back underneath his daughter’s bed.
Someone in this family damn well deserved to hold on to their dreams.
On Monday, after seeing Evan off at the airport, Delaney guided her silver Acura south toward Galveston Island to meet Lucia Vinetti. Her mind wandered during the fifty-minute drive and for some inexplicable reason, she found herself thinking about the man she’d thrown the tarp over outside Evan’s office. The man from her mysterious vision.
Why did she keep thinking about him?
She liked well-groomed, well-bred men. Not scruffy, tough guys who stared at her as if they could see every thought that passed through her head.
Even now, just recalling the way his dark eyes had stared at her caused Delaney’s body to tingle.
She shivered. She didn’t like feeling this way. It upset her equilibrium. And she had spent her life putting on a calm face. Passive nonresistance had taken her this far in life, and she was sticking with it.
Forget the guy. He’s just an illusion. An image of masculine perfection you’ve conjured in your own mind. Focus on the job at hand. This is what you want. Your own base of clients and referrals, so you can prove to your mother that you don’t need her interfering in your life.
Although it was just a small step, this new project represented the freedom she’d longed for, but had just been too afraid to reach out and grab. Winning this contract was a huge deal for her, and she wasn’t going to let the memory of some studly guy she’d briefly brushed up against distract her from her goal.
She longed to make her business something special. Something that was hers alone, but until now she’d been floating along, just letting her mother make things happen for her. Taking the path of least resistance. It was her pattern.
Delaney crossed the bridge onto Galveston Island and traveled the main thoroughfare. At the next red light, she consulted her notes for the correct address. Lucia’s place was several blocks north of the beach.
When she turned onto Seawall Boulevard, the sight of the Gulf of Mexico made her smile. Her mother hated Galveston, with its scandalous island history and touristy atmosphere, precisely the two things Delaney loved most about the town.
She found the adorable old Victorian residence without any problem. The lawn, while trimmed short, was not landscaped with any particular design in mind. A hedge here, a flower bed there, a clump of coconut-bearing palm trees thrown in.
The house was painted an outdated color of canary yellow and trimmed in powder blue. Wind chimes dangled from the porch and pink flamingos decorated the yard. Whimsical, kitschy, and cute, but definitely not for the more upscale clientele willing to pay top dollar for an island retreat. Delaney took out her notebook and jotted: work on curb appeal.
She parked in the driveway beside a white ten-year-old American-made sedan and hurried up the sidewalk. Before she even had a chance to knock, the door was thrown open, revealing Trudie Klausman dressed in a pink Bermuda shorts set and a bright red fedora and beside her stood a kind-faced woman in her early seventies. She wore a floral-print housedress covered with a well-worn, faded blue gingham apron.
The sight of the woman conjured images in Delaney’s mind of chocolate chip cookies and pastries made from scratch with loving hands. Lucia looked like the grandmother Delaney had always longed for, but never had. Her mother’s mother had died before Honey had even married her father. And her father’s mother had been infirm with a debilitating illness, living the remainder of her years in a private care facility. Delaney had never known her grandmother when she’d been spry and healthy.
“It’s so good to see you,” Trudie said. “This is my friend Lucia. Lucia, meet Delaney Cartwright.”
She held out her hand to Lucia, but the elderly woman ignored her outstretched palm and instead enveloped her in an embrace that smelled like vanilla extract and lavender soap. “Welcome to my home, Delaney. It’s so nice to meet you. Trudie’s told me so many wonderful things about you.”
A glow of warmth at the woman’s friendliness stole through her. After meeting Lucia, she wanted the job more than ever. “Thank you, Mrs. Vinetti. I’m honored that you’re considering hiring All the World’s a Stage.”
“Please, call me Lucia.”
“Lucia it is.” Delaney smiled.
“Come inside,” Lucia invited. “I can’t wait to see what you think of the house.”
In true Victorian fashion the rooms were small, but plentiful. While the house was exceptionally clean, and the woodwork phenomenal, it was a little worse for the wear. Fifty-two years of family living jam-packed the house with knickknacks and photographs and keepsakes.
It looked as if Lucia never threw anything away, and apparently a lot of people had given her many things over the years she felt obligated to display. Her homey style, while wonderful for living in, was too jumbled for enticing buyers. Nothing was cohesive. Not design or color schemes. Not furniture style or window treatments. If Lucia were to show the house in its present state, potential buyers would see it as overcrowded, old-fashioned, and out of step.
Delaney, however, loved it.
Lucia’s house presented her first real decorating challenge. Her mother’s friends and acquaintances were the kind of women who redecorated every few years. They were well aware of trends and fashions. Staging their homes for sale had usually consisted of little more than rearranging furniture for the best layout or bringing bits of nature indoors to create a breezy feel or simply giving the place a good cleaning.
“Trudie tells me you’re engaged to be married,” Lucia said.
“Yes, August fourth.”
“That’s wonderful.” Lucia beamed. “How did you and your fiancé meet?”
“We’ve known each other since we were small children. Before that really. Our mothers met in Lamaze class.”
“So you don’t really have a story about how you two first laid eyes on each other?” Trudie asked.
“No,” Delaney admitted. As far back as she could remember, Evan had been there. Like a security blanke
t.
“It’s almost as if you’re marrying your brother, huh?” Trudie asked.
“No, no.” Delaney forced a laugh. Trudie’s statement disturbed her because her relationship with Evan was more like brother and sister than passionate lovers. “It’s nice. Marrying someone you know so well.”
“I guess I could see it. Built-in trust and all that,” Trudie said. “But I’d be afraid I’d miss the sparks of really falling madly in love.”
“This window seat is adorable, Lucia,” Delaney said, purposefully directing the conversation off herself as they entered one of the bedrooms on the first floor that had been converted into a library.
Bookcases lined the walls. Delaney took a peek at the titles. Georgette Heyer, Jane Austen, Mary Stewart, Daphne du Maurier. Many of the same books that lined her own shelves at home.
“My Leo made it for me,” Lucia said with a sigh in her voice. “So I could curl up and read and still look outside to keep an eye on the children chasing butterflies in the backyard flower garden.”
“The window seat is definitely the highlight of this room,” Delaney said, relieved that she’d seemed to have sidetracked Trudie from talk of romance.
Lucia ushered her down the hallway, Trudie bringing up the rear. “And here’s the kitchen. I raised six children of my own here and then my four grandchildren, after my daughter-in-law died and my son, Vincent, needed help with the little ones. They’re all big ones now, but they come back to visit me often.”
Delaney surveyed the room.
The wallpaper was faded. It would have to be replaced. The appliances were all circa the mid-eighties. The dining table was even older than the appliances and bore the scars of too many children banging on it with silverware and toys. The linoleum was peeling in the corner by the refrigerator, and there was a burn mark the size of a saucepan bottom on the Formica countertop.
“This is the heart of the house,” Delaney breathed, surprised at the nostalgia welling up inside her. But that was silly. How could she be nostalgic for something she’d never had? She wished with all her might she could have grown up in such a home where kids were allowed to spill and sprawl and their growth spurts were marked in colored pencil on the wall beside the back door.
