“You know I wouldn’t let that happen.”
Putting her glass on the table, she lowers her head and says in an anguished voice, “I didn’t know about it until Son came home for lunch and I mentioned that you’d called. I could tell by his expression that something was wrong, and finally he said that you must’ve told me what happened. I had no idea what he was talking about, so he spilled it out, the whole awful thing. I said that I hoped by God he was happy, because nothing could’ve made your point clearer. You hadn’t wanted me with him because of tantrums like that, and he knows it. But you know? Son used to always have an excuse, no matter what. It was never his fault. This time was different. He took full blame and was really sorry for the way he behaved. Like I told you Saturday, he’s a changed man.”
I’m sure my expression reveals my thoughts because Dory says grimly, “It’ll be harder than ever to make a believer of you, won’t it?”
I lean over to put a hand on her arm. “I haven’t seen any proof of Son’s being a reformed man—definitely not after his shenanigans today—but I’ll be glad to be proved wrong about him. All I want is for you to find some happiness, if there’s any to be found.”
She chews her lip, deep in thought. “You know, I don’t think you’ve ever realized how much I want your approval. How I’ve always wanted your approval.”
This shocks me, and I don’t know how to respond. I’ve always thought I was the one who longed to be accepted by her. Could it be true that she feels the same way about me? Dory sips her drink and looks past me, out the window to the bay. The sun has disappeared, and Mobile Bay is opalescent with twilight. Her face is composed and her voice even, but her eyes still hold a faraway sadness in their depths.
“From the first day we met in that study group,” she says softly, “I admired you so much. There were no gray areas for you. You knew exactly how you felt about everything, and you stood by your principles, no matter the cost.” She states it with no hint of censure, but I grimace.
“Jesus, that makes me sound like such a pious little shit.”
She smiles, cocking an eyebrow at me. “Well?”
I put my empty glass beside hers on the table. “Dory? Son said that you’d had another crying episode. I’m pretty sure it’s just an emotional release, but I’m concerned about you. Stress is more dangerous than any of us realize, and you’ve had more than your share lately.”
She nods solemnly. “I’m feeling much better now. My meditation is helping me to regain my balance.” She glances my way, then clears her throat. “Ah, the plans are complete for the anniversary party and the ceremony beforehand. That’s all I’m going to say about it, except for this: It was so very thoughtless of me to have asked you what I did, and I regret it. If I could take it back, I would.” She stops and looks at me helplessly.
It hangs heavy in the air between us, like an ominous rain cloud. Eyes lowered, I jiggle the ice in my glass. I have to take several deep breaths before I can make myself say it. When I do, it comes out so quietly that Dory doesn’t hear me. “I’ll do it,” I repeat, my voice stronger this time.
“You’ll do it?”
I nod, and Dory’s hands fly to her mouth, her gold-green eyes bright as jewels. “You will? Really? You’ll stand up with me at the renewal ceremony?” Again I nod, unable to speak, and Dory regards me suspiciously. “You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh, Clare—” she begins, but I wave her off.
“I’ll do it, but I’d rather not talk about it, okay? Let’s give it a little time.”
“I don’t want you to if you don’t feel right about it,” she says with a frown, and I shake my head.
“You know how stubborn I am, and I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t feel like it was something I need to do. Something I want to do,” I amend quickly.
“I do know that. It’s that fierce integrity of yours that I love most about you. There’s no way I can tell you what this means to me …” Her voice falters, and she takes a deep, trembling breath. “I can’t tell you how much—”
But we’re interrupted by the slamming of the back door, and both of us jump when Son appears, poking his head around the kitchen door. “Hey!” he calls out. “You two through with your girlie talk?”
“Come here, Son,” Dory commands in a tight voice. “I believe you have something to say to Clare.”
I get to my feet with dread, but Son is an entirely different person than he was this morning. What I see is the public persona of Andrew Jackson Rodgers, Jr., smooth, affable, and charming, the man from the coffee shop last Friday. He removes his sports jacket and loosens his tie as he approaches the sofa, the civic-minded businessman returning from a vestry meeting, doing his Christian duty by helping to run the affairs of his beloved church. When he stands in front of me, he hangs his head and tries to look sheepish. I can’t help myself: I experience a mean-spirited thrill of joy when I notice for the first time the thinning spot on the crown of his head. Son is nothing if not vain, especially over his head of golden-brown curls.
“I’m too embarrassed to face you, Clare,” he says meekly, then peeks up for my reaction. “I can’t believe I acted like such a jerk this morning.”
I have no intention of letting him off the hook easily. “Neither can I. I certainly hope you’ll never do anything like that again.”
“I told Clare she should’ve let the sheriff haul you off to jail,” Dory says, her arms folded as she glares at him. “Would’ve served you right.”
Son shakes his head mournfully. “I don’t know what came over me. I was so worried about Dory that I lost my head. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
I gasp, but before I can say what I’m thinking, Dory beats me to it. “You showed your ass, all right,” she says with a snort, “but I’d say trashing my workshop wins the Son Rodgers gold medal of stupidity.”
“I know, I know,” Son moans. “I told you this morning, Clare, and I told Dory at lunch, all I’m asking for is another chance to prove how much I’ve changed.”
“One more last chance, huh?” I say dryly, but it’s lost on Son, naturally, and he nods eagerly.
“That’s all I’m asking! I know I’m gonna mess up every now and then, and I messed up big-time this morning. But from now on, I’m going to do better.” He looks first at Dory, then at me. “Tell you what, Clare. In front of both of you, I’ll make this promise.” He raises his hand as if to say the pledge of allegiance. “If I fuck up like that again—or any way at all—Dory won’t have to kick me out. I’ll leave. I swear to God, I’ll leave and never bother her again. She can have the house, the land, whatever, and I won’t even argue. How does that sound?”
He adds the last part with a lopsided, dimpled grin and the implied assurance that I’ll be unable to resist him. Give him one thing, he never gives up trying, but he’s dumber than I imagined if he doesn’t think I’ll call his bluff. I hold out a hand to him. “You’ve got a deal.”
“You won’t regret this, wait and see.” Son brushes aside my hand in order to pull me into a hug, and I pat his back halfheartedly, my eyes meeting Dory’s over his shoulder. She’s looking at me so hopefully that I make myself return her smile.
The soft, sweet bodies of Abbie and Zach burrow against me, one on each side. I’m propped on a stack of pillows in Abbie’s antique white bed, the headboard featuring a colorful field of wildflowers painted by Dory. The two children are deliciously warm and damp, smelling like shampoo and bubble bath, dressed in animal-print PJs. I hold up the book so they can see the pictures as I read one of Abbie’s favorite stories, Are You My Mother?, about a little bird who falls out of his nest, then goes on a search for the mama bird.
Tonight Zach’s big brown eyes, so like his daddy’s, are drooping sleepily, and his thumb keeps going to his mouth in spite of Abbie’s attempts to shame him. “Only babies suck their thumbs,” she tells him haughtily, and Zach dutifully removes it, only to forget and plop it back in w
hen I turn the next page.
By the time we finish the book, Zach has fallen asleep, his little body limp and heavy against me. His long eyelashes sweep against his cheeks, and his thumb is firmly planted in his mouth. I kiss the top of his fuzzy head, and he stirs, his round pink mouth pumping his thumb steadily. Abbie reaches over to pull out his thumb, but I stop her. “It’s okay, honey,” I whisper. “He needs that thumb now, but he’ll stop when he gets a little bigger, don’t worry.”
“But Grams, his teeth will stick out,” she cries, looking up at me in horror. “Gramma Zoe said so, and she said for me not to let him do it.”
“Your teeth don’t stick out, and you sucked your thumb when you were two, like Zach. Trust me, okay? Has Grams ever lied to you?”
Abbie thinks about it for such a long time, her face screwed up in concentration, that I can’t help but laugh. “I’ll move Zach to his room, pumpkin, then I’ll be right back to tuck you in, okay?” I ease down and put my legs over the side of the bed before gathering Zach in my arms.
As usual, Abbie grabs hold of my arm and tries to keep me with her. “One more story, Grams—pleeeze!”
“Now, Abbie, what did your daddy say? Two stories and that’s it. It’s already past your bedtime, and we cheated by reading the bird book twice.” I lean over and whisper, “But don’t tell Daddy. That’s our secret, okay?”
As if on cue, the door of her room opens, and Austin sticks his head in, frowning. “I knew I’d catch you begging Grams for one more,” he says, stern-faced. “Bedtime for you, young lady.” He crosses the room and takes the sleeping boy from me, and Abbie stands on the bed and reaches across me, grabbing her father around the waist. “Dad-dee!” she pleads. “Can’t Grams read me a short one?”
“She most certainly cannot. Give me a good-night kiss, then let Grams tuck you in and say your prayers with you,” he says, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Not content with a mere peck on the cheek, Abbie grabs her daddy around his neck, hard, which almost causes him to lose his balance as she plants wet, noisy kisses on his cheek. When he straightens up, Abbie looks at me and grins, her face aglow and her eyes shining.
“I’m going to marry my daddy when I grow up,” she announces, and I smile at her, ruffling her stick-straight blond hair, which always flies around her face despite her mother’s endless attempts to tame it with braids, barrettes, or bows. Abbie looks so much like Haley that it’s astonishing, but she has her daddy’s whimsical, gap-toothed smile.
“Then what will your poor mama do?” I ask her, helping her under the covers while Austin moves across the room with the sleeping Zach, rolling his eyes at me as he goes out the door.
“Oh, she can be married to him, too,” Abbie says magnanimously, throwing her arms around my neck and pulling me down for her good-night kiss. “Or she can get her a divorce, like everybody else.”
“Abbie Jordan!” Try as I may, I cannot keep from smiling ruefully. “You know that’s not true. Not everyone gets divorced, although it must seem like it sometimes.”
“Uh-huh, they do, too. And besides, I know that’s what you do.”
“What?” I dare ask.
“Help people who don’t want to be married anymore get them a divorce. That’s what you do, isn’t it, Grams?”
I sigh and look down at her. The door opens, and Austin sticks his head back in, eyebrows raised, but I wave him away. When he leaves, I turn back to Abbie. “No, sweetheart, that’s not what Grams does, but I can see how you’d be confused about it. What I do is try to help people adjust—I mean, ah—not be so sad when things don’t work out and they have to get a divorce. Nobody wants to get divorced, but sometimes … well, sometimes it just happens, and …” I falter, not sure how to explain such a thing to a four-year-old.
“Know what? Lindsay in my Sunday school? Her mommy and daddy got a divorce, and she has to live with her mommy, but her brother lives with her daddy. I don’t want Zach to live with Daddy if Mommy and Daddy get a divorce and I have to live with Mommy! What will Zach do for a big sister?” Her wide eyes are troubled at the thought, and I kiss her cheek again before turning out the lamp by her bedside. She’s afraid of the dark, but her seashell-shaped night-light provides enough illumination for me to see her clearly.
“Shhh. You’re a lucky little girl, Abbie-kins. Your mommy and daddy love you and Zach more than anything, so you’ll always be a family.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then she brightens and says, “Oh! So Lindsay’s mommy and daddy didn’t love her and her little brother that much, right?”
Way to go, Grams. Open mouth, insert foot. “That’s not what I meant, honey. I’m sure that Lindsay’s mommy and daddy love them and were very sad when they had to get a divorce. What I want you to remember is this: Your mommy and daddy love each other as much as they love you and Zach, so you don’t have to worry about anything like that, okay?”
Her brow furrowed under wispy bangs, Abbie studies me. “You promise?”
“I promise, sweetheart. Now, let’s say your prayers, and remember what I always say to you, okay?”
“Sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Haley and Austin are putting supper on the table when I leave Abbie’s room and go into the kitchen. They fed the kids earlier and insisted that I stay while Austin grilled some fresh bay scallops for our supper. I protested, not wanting them going to that much trouble on a school night, but they wouldn’t hear of my leaving. Austin has fixed our plates, a mound of salad greens glistening with oil and vinegar, topped with sweet bay scallops, grilled deep brown. We join hands and bow our heads for the blessing, reaching across the table awkwardly with just the three of us, then squeeze hands after the “amen.” It pleases me more than I let on that Austin and Haley are devout Episcopalians, committed to bringing up the children in the church. In spite of what my detractors say, I’m an advocate of strong ties to the church and community as an important part of a family unit.
“This looks marvelous, Austin,” I say, shaking out my napkin. “Now I’m grateful that you twisted my arm to stay.”
“And I’m grateful that scallops were on sale today,” Haley says with a twinkle in her eyes as Austin flushes. We tease him about his thriftiness, though I let up once I noticed him becoming so defensive about it. Mack, who never liked Austin as much as I did, finding his son-in-law a bit too goody-goody for his taste, was the one to start it. He was merciless with the teasing once Haley told us that Austin washed and reused aluminum foil, plastic wrap, and dental floss.
“Not funny, Haley,” Austin says touchily.
Unperturbed, Haley passes a basket of French bread my way. “I’m glad you rescued them from the half-price bin, honey, because I’m starving. I had a measly peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich for lunch, but not a thing since.”
“Except a couple of margaritas and a ton of taco chips,” Austin remarks, dodging when she swats at his arm. “And as you know, Clare,” he continues, “if your daughter had prepared dinner tonight, we’d have been lucky to get a peanut-butter sandwich.”
“Bull hockey,” Haley says. “I’m getting to be a much better cook. That Southern Living subscription you gave me, Mom? This weekend I made two things from the September issue, and they were really good. Weren’t they, Austin? I fixed Curry Coconut Shrimp and served it with Pear and Walnut Salad.”
“Which one was which?” Austin asks, then winks at me.
“Very funny. The kids didn’t much like the curry, but they ate every bit of their salad. And I’m going to make a leek and potato frittata Sunday morning.”
“The kids won’t eat that crap,” Austin tells her. “They always want my pancakes on Sunday.”
“Oh, I’ll bet they’ll eat frittata, Austin,” I chime in brightly. “It’ll be somewhat like scrambled eggs, with hash browns added. Maybe you should leave the leeks out, though.”
“What are leeks, anyway?” Haley asks, and Austin snorts. The main conflict I’ve observed in their marriage has to d
o with Haley’s domestic skills, or lack thereof. A couple of times I’ve been a witness to a sure-enough shouting match when Austin complained about Haley’s cooking, the house not being cleaned to his satisfaction, the laundry piled up, or the fridge full of moldy leftovers. He’s a confirmed neat freak, while the happy-go-lucky Haley is oblivious to mess and clutter.
“Besides,” Haley says, putting a hand on Austin’s arm and smiling up at him prettily, “there’s no sense in me being in the kitchen when you’re such a good cook.”
Usually Austin melts when she flatters him, but his face remains impassive as he says testily, “Has it ever occurred to you that I might enjoy coming home to a nice dinner occasionally? It’s difficult to work as hard as I do, then come in late and have to cook.”
“Oh, pardon me,” Haley snaps. “Like I don’t work hard, too.”
“Yeah, right. Kindergarten kids! Spend one day struggling with surly college students, and you’d see the difference in what we do. Not only that, you’re home by four o’clock. You have no idea.”
Haley turns to me indignantly, seeking support. “Can you believe this? Austin has turned into a chauvinist pig since he got that new promotion! Mr. Big wants a Stepford wife or something.”
“All men want a Stepford wife, honey,” I say lightly. “I want a Stepford wife.”
They both chuckle, and the tension dissipates. When the phone rings and Austin starts to get up, Haley says, “Let the machine get it.” Again she turns to me for help, an occupational hazard I encounter often. “Another bad thing about the new job. They call Austin constantly. He never has a free minute anymore.”
Austin gets to his feet and starts for the phone. “Unfortunately, it goes with the territory,” he says over his shoulder.
When he’s gone and we can hear his voice in the hallway, discussing a problem at the learning lab, Haley sighs mightily. “It’s every single night and all weekend. I swear to God.”
Queen of Broken Hearts Page 15
