Queen of Broken Hearts

by Cassandra King

  “I believe you. But …” I hesitate, biting my lip. It’s such a difficult thing, not interfering in your kids’ lives.

  “But what?” She leans toward me with a frown.

  “Just that it takes a while to adjust to a new job. You have to set your boundaries. Austin will learn to do that as he gets used to the job and determines his responsibilities. Maybe you should leave it alone for a while, let him work it out.”

  Haley’s thoughtful. Then she plops a scallop in her mouth. After chewing carefully and swallowing, she tilts her head and regards me. “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “My very best professional advice,” I say with a smile.

  “Not everybody’s mom is a therapist. Guess I’d be a fool not to listen to you, huh?”

  “You could never be a fool, sweetheart, even if you tried.”

  Haley rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “You of all people cannot say that with a straight face.”

  Austin comes back into the room and stands with his hands on his hips, looking from me to Haley with his eyebrows raised. “Did I miss something?”

  “Just Mom giving me advice, is all.”

  “Thank God. Now if only you’ll listen to her,” he says.

  Haley gets to her feet and goes to her husband, kissing him lightly on the mouth and then on each cheek. “I love you, sweetie, even when you act like a turd,” she declares.

  Austin puts an arm around his wife’s shoulder and says casually, “Love you, too.” He turns and looks down at me. “Why don’t we have some of that chocolate cake Clare brought?”

  It’s later, on the drive home, that I recall Haley’s offhand remark about her being a fool. Coupled with her unexpected comment at Mateer’s this afternoon, I have to wonder what’s going on with her. Even though she and I have put the heartbreak of the past behind us—as much as it’s possible—every now and then it surfaces, like a log submerged beneath murky waters that is dislodged by an unexpected current. One thing I’m sure of, nothing can be gained by its reappearance. Especially now, with Mack dead. Once we’d buried him, Haley and I buried that awful period in our lives and, hopefully, our guilt with it.

  Chapter Seven

  Several days after the hellacious one that started with Son bursting into my office, I don’t get home from work until after dark, an hour later than I planned. I realize how tired I am only as I kick off my shoes in the foyer and lean against the front door, eyes closed, before getting up the energy to move again. Lex is here, his Jeep out front and the lights on in the back of the house. I didn’t call him to say I was running late due to a crisis with a client—Helen Murray again—but I should have. I should’ve asked him to meet me at Mateer’s or the Colony instead of here. I’ve invited Lex to dinner, but no way I can cook now; I’m way too wiped out. Part of my plan had been to go by the pier and get some fish fresh off the boat for our supper, but they were closed. Oh well. That’s why the Lord invented grilled cheese sandwiches, I guess.

  Walking back to the kitchen, I loosen the belt of my white slacks, pull out my silk shirt from the waistband, then unfasten the heavy gold earrings Dory gave me for my birthday, dropping them on the sideboard of the dining room. By the time I enter the kitchen, I’m half undressed, and it feels so good I decide not to even mention going to a restaurant for dinner. Grilled cheese it is. In the kitchen doorway, I stand for a moment, not taking in the sight I’m seeing. Lex, whom I’ve thought of as the most undomestic of men, is at the stove, where he appears to be cooking something in an iron skillet. Something, I realize, that smells so rich and buttery it makes my mouth water and my knees go weak. “What on earth?” I say.

  “And hello to you, too, Clare,” he says cheerily, but he doesn’t look up from the skillet. “You’re just in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  Frowning in concentration, Lex glances my way. “Dinner.” He does a double take when I unbutton the top button of my blouse as I walk over to the stove to see what he’s cooking. “But it can wait, if you have something else in mind,” he adds, grinning.

  “Not very likely, since I can hardly muster up the energy to undress.”

  “You’re doing a pretty good job of it.”

  “Look who’s talking, you barefooted yard dog.” I stand by the stove with my hands on my hips and watch as he swirls a huge pat of butter around in the sizzling skillet, filling the kitchen with a wonderful smell. Then, as precisely as a surgeon, he makes an oblong slice on the top of a couple of hoagie buns, opens them up, and plops them into the browned butter.

  “Couldn’t find the right kind of buns,” he mutters as he flips them with a snap of his wrist, “so I had to improvise. Won’t be as good, but it’ll have to do.”

  “Lex, did I miss something? We’ve been friends for—what?—a few months now, and I’ve never seen you cook a thing. Not a fried egg, or a piece of toast, or a—a—hot dog, even. Yet here you are, not only cooking up something fabulous-smelling but acting like you know what you’re doing.”

  He flips the buns again to brown on the other side. “I’d be a disgrace to the state of Maine if I couldn’t make a decent crab roll.”

  “Oh, bull. No way you’re making crab rolls.” I laugh and move away from the stove to grab an opened bottle of Shiraz and pour myself a glass. “I was planning on making us a grilled cheese sandwich,” I say over my shoulder. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Not crab rolls but some kind of Yankee grilled cheese? Hope it goes with red wine.”

  Jerking up his head in surprise, Lex stops grilling long enough to stare at me. “Don’t tell me you made a big deal of inviting me to dinner, then planned on serving me grilled cheese sandwiches?”

  “Well, no,” I admit. “I was going to do something wonderful and healthy with fish and fresh vegetables, but I didn’t count on working so late. I just decided on grilled cheese when I walked in the door. And I know how to make them light, with nonfat cheese and make-believe-it’s-butter, or whatever you call that stuff.”

  “I told you I’d take you out to dinner, but no, you insisted on cooking.” He scowls and waves the spatula at me. “When I get here precisely on time, I see to my surprise that you’ve got nothing out for dinner, and nothing in the fridge, either. Nada. So I go into action. It will be your great fortune and even greater honor to partake of my crab rolls. Lobster rolls are much better, but these are quicker.”

  “I still don’t believe you.” I take a sip of wine. “Where are they, then?”

  “Where are what?”

  “The crab rolls!”

  “You have to make them. Like most food, they don’t magically appear on the table. Actually, that’s not true, in your case. Sit down and I’ll bring yours to you.” He nods his head toward the little table with the built-in cushioned seats under the bay window.

  Silent but still skeptical, I obey, then watch him go to the fridge and pull out a small bowl with a flourish. “The crab mixture,” he explains, as though conducting a cooking show, with me as the audience. He takes a couple of plates and, on each one, centers a crispy browned roll oozing with what I can only hope is play-like-it’s-butter. Opening them gently, he piles the crab mixture inside and brings our plates over to the table. Returning with the wine, he refills my glass, pours his, and sits down heavily. “Mud in your eye,” he says, raising his glass carefully so as not to slosh a single drop.

  The crab roll is incredible, tart with lemon juice and mayo, crunchy with chopped cucumbers and capers, and oh so sweet with lump crabmeat. I fall on mine, so famished that I don’t say a word until I’ve finished every morsel and used my fingertips to collect the crumbs. “Mmm,” I say, licking my fingers. “That was unbelievable!”

  “Haven’t eaten anything all day, have you?” Lex is halfway through his, and I look at the remaining half longingly. Rolling his eyes, he breaks off a huge piece and hands it to me. I devour it, too hungry to be ladylike. “Slow down,” Lex scolds. “I made a blueberry pie, too. A true taste-of-Maine s
upper.”

  “You did not!”

  Laughing, he pushes back his chair and goes to the counter, where he opens a bakery box. “Naw, I bought the pie. The blueberries you guys have down here aren’t worth a damn. They’re big as baseballs.”

  “What does that mean? The bigger the better, right?”

  “Pure Southern propaganda. You’ll see after you’ve had Maine blueberries. Tiny little turds, but man, are they sweet. We’ll have to wait till next August now, but I’ll order some wild ones from Bar Harbor and make you a real pie.”

  “Better be careful,” I say with a smile. “You’ll spoil me. I could get used to this.” As soon as the words are out, I reach for my wineglass, wishing I could take them back. I’ve worked so hard to maintain a platonic relationship, then to make a crack like that! I dare to glance sideways at Lex, relieved that he didn’t notice, so intent was he on putting two slices of pie in the microwave and punching in the time. While the pie is heating, he spoons decaf into my coffeemaker nonchalantly.

  “Shall we have our little discussion here at the table while you eat your pie, or do you want to go into the den and put up your feet?” I ask when he pours our coffee.

  Eyebrows raised, he glances at me as he pulls out his chair and sits down. “What discussion?” he asks, trying to appear innocent.

  “You know what discussion. The one I invited you over to have.”

  “I knew there was a catch,” he says with a shake of his head. “Always strings attached to your invitations.”

  “Lex! You promised. I called and asked if you wanted to talk about your evening with Elinor at Mateer’s the other night. And you said no, not over the phone. So I said come to dinner, then.”

  “You misunderstood me. You thought my saying ‘not over the phone’ implied I would talk face-to-face instead.”

  “Well, of course I did, idiot. Anyone would.”

  “Doesn’t count, because I had to cook my own dinner,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. “Since I had to cook, I don’t have to talk.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. It doesn’t work that way, mister. Tell it.”

  But Lex shakes his dark head again, then says casually, “There’s nothing to tell. Just Elinor’s usual crap. One day she’s all lovey-dovey, and the next time I see her, she’s remote and cold again. Been that way our entire relationship.” He stops to glare at me defiantly. “And I’m not going to talk about it, you hear?”

  “But you need to,” I cry, leaning toward him. “Elinor’s trying to get you back, isn’t she?” When he shrugs, refusing to look at me as he eats his slice of pie, I smile wearily. “Must be something in the air. First Son and Dory, now you and Elinor.”

  “Elinor didn’t say anything about us getting back together,” he says gruffly. “She just wants us to be on friendlier terms, doesn’t want me acting like a jerk and upsetting Alexia. You know. I’ve told you all that.”

  “And how do you feel about it?”

  Lex lays down his fork to glare at me. “Do you people have that phrase engraved on the front lobe of your brain? You must say it in your sleep.”

  I return his glare, but he switches gears on me. “You want to hear all about Elinor,” he says, “yet you never say anything about your so-called friend, pretty boy.”

  “I assume you mean Rye.”

  “I mean that cousin of yours who has the hots for you.”

  “Jesus, Lex! You know how to play dirty, don’t you? I’ve told you, he’s not my cousin, he’s Mack’s. You don’t really think Southerners are like that, do you?” I ignore his look and say suspiciously, “And what’s this about? You’ve known from day one that he and I are close and see a lot of each other. Why ask me about him now?”

  Ignoring my question, Lex frowns at me. “How old is that guy, anyway? Too old for you, that’s for sure.”

  “He most certainly is not. That’s ridiculous.”

  “How old is he, Clare?”

  “Ah … he’s sixty-two,” I admit, “but you’d never know it. He’s in great shape.”

  “Must be all that dancing you guys do,” he grumbles.

  “You’ve never offered to take me dancing! And I’ve said many times that it’s something I really enjoy, the best stress reliever in my life. But I can hardly go dancing by myself, so Rye and I have been doing it for years.” Flushing, I hastily add, “Dancing, that is.”

  Lex looks shocked. “For years? What about your old man? He actually allowed you to go out with other guys? Alabama men are wimpier than I thought.”

  I sigh mightily and shake my head. “I’m not believing we’re having this conversation. After our wedding dance at the reception, Mack never danced another step. He hated it as bad as you seem to. So he was delighted that I had Rye to dance with.” I don’t dare tell Lex about Mack’s teasing; I’ve got sense enough to know that he’d be even worse. Instead, I repeat, “You still haven’t told me why you’re asking about Rye.”

  “When I first got here, he called, and I answered your phone. I talked to him.”

  With a sigh, I put my face in my hands. “Not again! Poor Rye.”

  “He was checking to see if you had a retreat this weekend, or if you wanted to go to some dance with him Saturday night.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what you told him.”

  “All I told him was that you were taking a little nap while I prepared dinner.”

  “A nap! Ha. Rye knows me better than that.”

  Eyes gleaming wickedly, Lex grins, enjoying this. “I said I could go upstairs and wake you if he’d hold on, but I’d rather not. I implied we’d worn ourselves out since you got in from work.”

  “Lex, that’s awful. Surely you didn’t say that. You’re teasing, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re teasing.”

  “Call and ask him. I’ll bring you the phone.”

  “I’m afraid to. I don’t believe you, but you’re such a crazy fool, I never know when you’re kidding. Tell me the truth—you didn’t really do that to Rye, did you?”

  He looks at me a long moment before shaking his head ruefully. “Of course I’m having you on. You don’t think I’d talk to a poor elderly cousin of yours like that, do you? Jeez! What kind of person do you think I am?”

  I met Lex Yarbrough the first of the summer, the magical night of his first Jubilee. In our area, Jubilees are more than a strange phenomenon of nature; they are a celebration of life on Mobile Bay. When you’re new to this region, you hear so many stories and legends associated with Jubilee that it becomes a must-have experience. My first summer in Fairhope, right after Mack and I married, I thrilled just to hear the word. Mack and Son had talked about Jubilees as though the Almighty sent them as a special sign of His favor to those smart enough to live on the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay. I questioned this by asking if Buddha felt the same way about the folks at the only other place in the world Jubilees occurred, somewhere in Japan. Naturally Dory thought the Jubilees were mystical experiences full of symbolic interpretations, but she teased Son and Mack as well, asking why, if the people here were in such good favor with the Almighty, the fish didn’t wash up on the shore already cleaned. Although a lot of hard work and missed sleep is involved with Jubilees, nothing has ever dampened my enthusiasm for them. I’d worked myself into such a state of anticipation that my first one was almost a holy experience. Even today, all these years later, I can’t resist the Jubilee cry that goes up and down the shore whenever one occurs.

  I have my own personal bell ringer, Zoe Catherine. The first night of June brought with it a full moon, and Zoe Catherine called me right after midnight, startling me out of a deep sleep. It took me a minute to realize she was saying that Jubilee Joe had appeared to Cooter, and that she and Cooter were getting dressed to leave. If I wanted to take part, I should meet them at the beach about half a mile north of the marina.

  “Now lemme speak to Rye,” she demanded. Unlike Haley and Austin, Zoe doesn’t tease me about Rye, but she refuses to believe that we aren’t love
rs. A lusty woman who has had more than her share of men, Zoe finds my avowed abstinence incomprehensible. That night I told her that as far as I knew, Rye was at home in his own bed, and she cackled before hanging up abruptly.

  Rye, too, loved Jubilees, but only as an excuse to socialize. A lot of people hauled beer or snacks to the shore, but not the ever elegant Rye Ballenger. He was a popular addition to the festivities because while everyone else was gigging fish, Rye was making runs back and forth to his antique-filled waterfront house, making sure his friends didn’t run out of his special mixture of Southern Comfort, crushed mint leaves, and sugar. The longer the Jubilee went on, the more smashed Rye and his high-society friends got.

  I almost didn’t go that night. There again, the mysterious workings of fate, if you believe in that kind of thing. Although I tried to make myself get up, I kept dozing off. It was one of the few weekends I didn’t have a retreat, and I’d planned to take some much needed time off. The phone rang again, and this time it was Rye, as excited as a boy after Zoe’s call. “You cannot miss a Jubilee, Clare!” he declared, horrified. The old guard and aristocrats of the town took offense at anyone not genuflecting at the mere mention of Jubilee; anything less was a sacrilege. “It might be the only one we have this summer,” he added for good measure. “I’m mixing juleps as we speak.” I told him I’d think about it, hung up the phone, then dozed off again. When he called back fifteen minutes later, I said all right, all right, I was on my way.

  Even though the Jubilee cry hadn’t gone out yet, a fairly large crowd was gathered on the shore when I left my car at the marina and walked to the place Zoe had said she’d be. Because I couldn’t bear to gig fish, I carried only a net and sack with me. I’d left a cooler in the car, not wanting to tote it, and my flashlight was on a cord hanging from my wrist. Although only a light breeze blew over the bay, it was chilly, and I was glad I’d worn a hooded pullover with my jeans. Mack always waded barefoot in the waters of the bay when we had Jubilees, as most people did, but I’d learned long ago to wear sneakers. Even though I liked nothing better than going barefoot in warm salty water, Jubilees always brought tons of seaweed, and I hated the way it felt whipping around my feet and legs. I wasn’t real fond of the jellyfish and stingrays that came ashore, either.