Queen of Broken Hearts

by Cassandra King

  From the time we moved into the house, this room belonged to Mack. He claimed it as his study the first day we planned the renovation. I push open the door and walk in, sighing in relief. The mystery is solved. The same thing happened one other time, but I’d forgotten. I’d heard the noise in the daytime then, with none of the uncertainties and fears that nightfall brings. Ghosts show themselves only in the dark of night, and if Mack were going to haunt any room in the house, it’d be this one. Smiling at my foolish fancies, I walk over and pull the chain on the ceiling fan, which whirls with a rasping sound, the noise that penetrated my sleep and woke me. Carlita was cleaning in here today and, as she did on one other occasion, forgot to turn off the fan. Once I pull the chain, the room is silent as a tomb.

  But for the furniture, the room is bare, because when Mack died, I packed away all his stuff. Except for one thing—the gun rack he had specially made for his collection of hunting rifles and shotguns. The day after the accident, I asked Rye to take it away. I didn’t care what he did with it as long as he got it out of my sight forever. Moving through the cold moonlight, I cross the room and sit down in the brown leather chair that belonged to Mack’s father. Although Papa Mack gave him a desk when we first moved in, Mack brought the chair from his father’s house many years later. Right after his father died, Aileen, Mack’s stepmother, told him and his stepbrothers to come get what they wanted. Afterward, she sold the house on the bay and moved to Miami with the considerable fortune Papa Mack had left her, most of which was supposed to have been Mack’s inheritance. Minus occasional visits to her sons and grandchildren who still live in this area, Aileen stays away from Fairhope. In poor health, she didn’t even come to Mack’s funeral.

  I sit on the edge of the leather chair and look around the room, which remains vibrant with Mack’s presence even though it’s been swept clean of his things. God, I can still see him sitting at the desk, his back to the door. Sometimes I’d come in, tiptoe across the room, and stand behind his chair, poised to put my hands over his eyes. “Tea rose,” he’d say without turning around. “If you’re going to sneak up on me, baby, change your perfume.” But I couldn’t because tea rose was his favorite, the scent he gave me every year. I’d lean over him, my arms wrapped around his shoulders, and bury my face in the sweet skin of his neck, inhaling hungrily.

  If tea rose was my signature aroma, Mack’s was pine and cypress and mudflats and marsh grass and wood smoke, the smells of the outdoors that he loved so much. I appeared calm and collected throughout the whole ordeal of Mack’s funeral because I was dazed with shock. But I had one bad moment. At the funeral home, the family had to be there a few minutes before the visitation; Zoe, Haley, Austin, and I held one another up as we walked into the visitation room, with its muted lighting and hymns playing solemnly in the background. Because of his head injury, Mack’s casket would remain closed, a photograph of him in his baseball uniform on an easel beside it. Haley and Zoe had dissolved at the sight of the photo, but I’d sought out the funeral home director, standing discreetly to one side.

  “Would you open the casket?” I said, my voice rising to a wail as I pulled frantically on his arms, and Rye came to take me away, looking apologetically at the poor guy. “All I wanted was to put my face on Mack’s neck,” I sobbed into Rye’s shoulder. “I wanted the smell of him one last time.”

  Tucking my feet under, I lean back in the chair and allow myself to remember the way it was before Mack left me forever. We’d been so crazy in love, consumed by a fire that never really died out. In spite of everything, I loved Mack Ballenger in a way I’ll never love anyone again. I’m sure of that now, these long lonely years after his death. After all this time, my grief is still as raw as a fresh wound. I’ve survived by channeling it in other directions, as a trench dug out from a stream of water will direct the water’s flow elsewhere. Dig enough trenches, and the stream will become a trickle.

  My eyes fall on the small sofa in the corner. I remember when Mack brought it home, a year after we married. I’d complained long and loud about his buying it because our budget was so tight. Mack had been determined not to work in his father’s bank, so he was renovating old houses, and I was working at a therapy practice in Mobile, in addition to driving back and forth to LSU for my doctorate. Even if we could’ve afforded it, I thought the sofa was hideously ugly, squat and plaid and cumbersome. But Mack had loved it and lugged it into his study. When I remember the way we ended up using the cushions, I lower my face into my hands.

  The following year the renovation was finished, and we had a housewarming party to celebrate Mack’s long hard year of fixing up our house. Exactly two weeks later, Hurricane Frederick slammed into the Gulf Coast, hitting the Fairhope area particularly hard. Mack could do nothing but watch the damage to our beloved house in horror and disbelief. We grabbed the cushions off the ugly sofa and barricaded ourselves with them as we huddled under the staircase. From there, we watched the new shingles of his roof, which had caused Mack the most difficulty and inflamed his old shoulder injury, fly by the windows like little missiles. I wept in Mack’s arms and tried not to see the hurricane as symbolic of the outside forces that are always out there, waiting to sweep in and bring destruction to whatever it is we spend our lives building.

  I raise my head, wishing I hadn’t come down here and resurrected the ghosts of the past, yet unable to get up and go back to my lonely bed. I packed up Mack’s things and closed off his study in an attempt to put my loss behind me. And most of the time, it worked. But tonight it won’t let me go, release me so I can return to the life I’ve made without him. Start out by putting your feet on the floor, I tell myself. That’s easy enough, isn’t it? Just put your feet on the floor and get out of this damned chair that Mack’s presence still occupies. Don’t dare lean your head back and close your eyes, because it will come back to you, that awful day when Mack went into the swamps and never came back. Worst of all, you’ll be forced to face what you haven’t been able to all these years—what really happened that day and what it was that drove Mack to the woods in the first place.

  Chapter Nine

  The Grand Hotel in Point Clear is exactly that—grand. Nestled in some of the most magnificent oaks on the Eastern Shore, it’s a place of such elegance and splendor that it takes my breath away. As if the hotel and grounds weren’t glorious enough, it has a dazzling and panoramic view of Mobile Bay. Even I have to admit that it’s the perfect setting for an anniversary party, especially if you’ve got big bucks like Son Rodgers and can afford to rent the entire dining room, which seats over two hundred, and hire a world-class jazz band. While waiting for the happy couple to appear, I look around in amazement, trying to keep from gaping. The buffet tables border on the obscene. Heavy silver bowls as big as washtubs are piled high with boiled shrimp or lump crabmeat; there’s a reddish-pink prime rib that’s the size of a whale; in the center is an ice sculpture of a soaring swan with the wingspan of an albatross. Rye nudges me and mutters, “Guess the Son King is trying to recapture the good old days of his reign at Versailles.”

  “Shhh,” I say, poking him back. There’s a flurry of excitement at the door, and Son and Dory appear. I can’t get tickled just as the happy couple walk in, or the tears I held back during the ceremony might come pouring out. But it’s Dory who bursts into tears as she enters the expansive dining room to the cheers of the well-wishers gathered under a ceiling of silver balloons and streamers. Even Son is touched, and when he pulls out a handkerchief to dab at his eyes, I move out of reach of Rye’s elbow.

  Jackson and Shaw, looking handsome and sophisticated in white dinner jackets, step up to stand by their parents, and Jackson taps on the microphone to quiet the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says with a tremulous smile, “allow me to present my mom and dad.” After a round of applause and waves from Son and Dory, Jackson leans in to the microphone to ask Father Gibbs to say a blessing. Afterward, the distinguished, silver-haired priest links arms with Dory and Son
and poses for one of many pictures that will be taken that night. My heart sinks when Dory catches my eye and motions for me to join them. I dare not look Rye’s way as Son plants himself between Dory and me with a big grin, his arms around both of us while flashbulbs go off. Dory’s tears have vanished, and her bubbling laughter floats over the dining room like the streamers twirling from the ceiling. Jackson reminds everyone that the buffet is ready, and I make my way through the crowd, seeking out Rye.

  It would’ve been a much more difficult evening to get through had not something occurred that dissipated any remaining tension between Dory and me and lightened my mood considerably. When Dory asked if I still had my bridemaid’s dress, I admitted it was in the attic, but no way in hell would I wear it. She’d engaged a seamstress to update her wedding gown, and I let her have a look at the bridesmaid’s dress after realizing the only other thing I had was the cocktail dress I wore to every dressy event I attended. But showing up in black at Dory’s renewal ceremony, even if appropriate, would’ve been seen as a contradiction to my avowed support. I’d either have to find time to go shopping in Mobile, or get something from Elinor’s shop, neither of which was appealing. So I stood in front of the mirror in Dory’s bedroom as the seamstress struggled to squeeze my middle-aged body into a size-four bridesmaid’s dress. When I met Dory’s eyes in the mirror, I snickered. Bad move. The zipper popped open, and a seam split with a sickening sound. Dory tried to keep a straight face, but soon we were both howling while the poor seamstress sat back on her heels helplessly. Dory insisted I wear a dress she’d bought in France, which she tactfully described as loosely fitted. It was a lovely thing of hand-loomed champagne lace, and Dory was right, sort of. Except for a daring neckline and snug bodice, it fit me perfectly.

  “I’m not wearing this,” I said, red-faced. “I’ve never worn anything cut this low, even a swimsuit.”

  Dory said of course I hadn’t worn anything like it, and that was my problem. The seamstress chimed in and said it was très chic; she was probably afraid she’d have to repair the bridemaid’s dress if I turned it down. Dory added, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Elinor’s flat as a fried egg; think how jealous she’ll be when you stroll by with Lex on your arm.” At my bemused expression, she asked sharply, “You are going with Lex, aren’t you? That’s what he told me when I asked him to the renewal ceremony.” It was a relief when Dory had overruled Son and declared the ceremony should be limited to a small group of family and close friends. Otherwise, Son would’ve invited half of Fairhope.

  Grimacing, I told her the truth, knowing what I was in for. “I did tell Lex I’d go with him, but Rye reminded me I’d already promised him.”

  Dory blinked. “You told two men you’d go to the party with them?”

  I nodded sheepishly. “Not intentionally, of course, but it turns out I did.”

  She clapped her hands in glee. “La-de-da. Cinder-priss-butt-rella going to the ball with two gentlemen callers!”

  “Cinderella went to the ball alone, remember? Which is what I wish I were doing.”

  Oblivious to the shocked face of the elderly seamstress, Dory studied me for a long moment, then said in all seriousness, “Something I’ve been meaning to say to you, Clare. This abstinence thing of yours has gone on way too long. Maybe the dress will do the trick, but if not, I might have to put a bug in Rye’s ear.”

  “So help me, Dory,” I said, “if you say one word to anybody, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  I’d barely gotten home when Haley called me. “Hot damn, Mom!” She laughed. “Dory just told me about your two dates. Not bad for an old broad, huh? I feel bad for Lex, though. Probably hurt his poor old Yankee feelings, but it serves him right for two-timing you with his ex.”

  “I’m hanging up now. And you, young lady, are out of my will. Disinherited. I’m never speaking to you or Dory again, and I’m leaving everything to Abbie and Zach.”

  “Uh-oh, I’d better behave, then. If you marry Rye, you’ll be rich, and I’ll be sorry. Hey, will I inherit twice, since you’ll be both my mom and my cousin?”

  After we leave the mile-long buffet line at the party, I try to maneuver Rye in another direction so we won’t be seated with Dory and Son, but Dory’s having none of it. As soon as I sit down, she puts a hand to the side of her mouth and whispers, “Told you that dress was sexy. Rye can’t keep his eyes off you. Tonight’s the night.”

  “Don’t you dare start that,” I hiss.

  Rye, who’s sitting on the other side of me, turns his head our way, and I stop midsentence. “I heard my name, Dory,” he says, and I hold my breath.

  She smiles at him and flutters her lashes. “I was just saying how terribly handsome you look in your tux, darling. But you always do, whatever you wear. Clare’s a lucky woman.”

  “Hey, what about me?” Son cries indignantly.

  “You’re a lucky man, too, Son,” she says, then turns her attention back to me. “I expect a full report in the morning,” she whispers in my ear. “Salacious details for my next meditation.”

  Son glances around the table at the other couples, mostly his and Dory’s relatives, and chuckles uneasily. “Looks like Dory’s not gonna let us in on her and Clare’s secret, folks.”

  Dory puts her hands to her cheek in mock horror. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t want to embarrass you, love. I was telling Clare that you look almost as handsome as Rye tonight.”

  “Aw, really?” Son grins. “Thanks, sugar.” Holding his glass high, he says, “Hey, y’all, I’d like to propose a toast to the best wife any man’s ever had.” His face aglow, he turns toward her. “Talk about lucky! I’m the luckiest man alive that Dory has put up with me for twenty-five years.”

  “Amen to that,” I mutter. When we click our glasses, Rye smiles at me knowingly. Both of us have been reluctant to admit that so far, Dory has been right about Son’s miraculous conversion. Except for the time he burst into my office, he’s behaved admirably. Rye said if Son keeps it up, we’d better be careful, or hell will be freezing over.

  I turn my attention to my dinner plate, even though it’s difficult with Rye watching me so closely. I’m not sure if it’s the daring neckline or what, but Dory’s right—he’s been staring at me all night. After the plates are cleared away, I join in the light chatter around the dinner table, and he continues to regard me. My cheeks burn when the others at our table glance from me to him curiously. Dory keeps smirking and nudging me under the table until, pretending to straighten my chair, I shift out of her reach. Finally the endless dinner is over, and the toasts begin. With a sigh of relief, I turn my chair to face the podium where Jackson and Son stand, trying to get the attention of the noisy crowd. Thankfully, I don’t have to make a toast. Dory had been so thrilled that I’d agreed to stand up with her at the ceremony, she’d granted me a major concession by saying casually, “Let the guys handle the toasts, okay?”

  The toasts go on and on, and after each one, a beaming Son bends over to kiss his bride. Just when I think I can’t stomach it a minute longer, Father Gibbs takes the floor and launches into a long-winded tribute to the happy couple, the perfect opportunity for me to study the guests. Directly in my line of vision is the table where Lex sits with Elinor. When I’d called him to explain how I unintentionally accepted two rides to the party, he’d pretended to misunderstand me and said, “Since there’s not room for the three of us in my Jeep, guess we’re taking his Mercedes.” When I admitted that Rye had asked me first, Lex said with a snort, “Well, hell. I’ll take Elinor, then,” and hung up.

  The table where I tried to steer Rye before we were intercepted by Dory is positioned by the door, where Zoe Catherine sits with Cooter. Zoe hadn’t wanted to come, though Dory had begged her so piteously that she’d given in but said she was leaving after dinner. She’d confessed later that she was nervous about bringing Cooter to such an elegant function with all of Fairhope society in attendance, especially with the free-flowing
booze. In the buffet line, I did a double take when I spotted the two of them entering. Zoe was in a getup I’d never seen before, something she and Cooter must have found at one of the flea markets they frequent, searching for material for her nature sanctuary. Flung dramatically around her shoulders was a black-and-turquoise shawl embroidered with a huge sequined peacock, and her white hair was piled high into a bun and secured with chopsticks. Or they looked like chopsticks. Knowing Zoe, they could be anything. And I wouldn’t have recognized Cooter. I’d never seen him in a suit before, though Zoe has assured me that he keeps one on hand for funerals. With his long gray hair slicked back in a ponytail, cowboy boots, and a string tie, he looks like a desperado who hitched his mount outside and meandered in to see where the noise was coming from.

  Another table I keep eyeing is Haley and Austin’s. A hopeless romantic, Haley was aghast that I’d dreaded the renewal ceremony, saying even though I didn’t like Son, I had to agree it was a sweet idea, didn’t I? I most certainly did not, I informed her shortly, but it didn’t dampen her enthusiasm. On the contrary, she hoped to convince Austin that they should do the same for their tenth anniversary next year, and she couldn’t wait for the service. At the church, I’d entered from the side door with Dory and Son, Jackson, Shaw, and Father Gibbs, so I hadn’t been able to see the folks in the candlelit chapel until afterward. As Rye and I were leaving, I’d been surprised not to see Haley there. I feared their sitter hadn’t shown up, and regretted that she missed it. At the Grand Hotel, Rye was gallantly helping me out of the car when I spotted Haley and Austin at the front door. I was about to call out to her when I realized they were hissing at each other furiously. “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise,” Rye murmured. He’s far from the fatherly type, but to give him credit, since Mack died, he’s made a clumsy effort when it comes to Haley and the kids. Inside, I’d sought Haley out, but she’d been sullen and noncommittal, glaring at Austin out of the corner of her eye. I beat a hasty retreat, reminding myself that I was off duty tonight.