Queen of Broken Hearts

by Cassandra King

  As is often the case when another woman is involved, the dissolution of Haley and Austin’s marriage is moving at lightning speed. A married man receives a lot of pressure from the other woman to file the divorce papers, since the man who keeps promising and doesn’t come through has become such a cliché. I remind myself wryly that Austin’s paramour is experienced in these matters. Having successfully broken up another home, she can provide Austin with step-by-step instructions. I dare not say anything to Haley, but I believe that Austin got cold feet a few weeks after moving out. When he vacillated, Little Miss Muffet sent the photo to Haley. To think that Abbie and Zach will have a woman like that for a stepmother—assuming Austin marries her, as he seems so hell-bent on doing—makes my blood run cold. The photograph of Austin and Miss Muffet (Austin being the one sitting on her tuffet, Jasmine pointed out) became a source of depression and disillusionment to Haley, and not just for revealing Austin’s cheating. Once over the shock of seeing the graphic proof of her husband’s affair, she assumed it would be a prized document, leverage in what is turning out to be her inevitable divorce from Austin. Rather than burst her bubble, I took the coward’s way out and let Lana Martin do it. I simply couldn’t bear to.

  Sitting next to Haley in the lawyer’s office, I turn my head from the sight of Haley’s apoplectic rage on hearing that Austin’s adultery will be a fairly insignificant factor in the divorce case. It’s the final insult for the wronged party, Lana tells her gently when Haley bursts into helpless tears. Lana’s sympathetic eyes meet mine over Haley’s bent head, and I’m grateful she didn’t tell Haley the really infuriating part. Had Haley been the one caught in adultery, especially with an incriminating photograph, it would’ve been much more of a factor. When Haley and Austin attended a preliminary meeting with their lawyers, Haley’s bitterness increased. Stopping by afterward to give me a report, she cried in outrage, “I didn’t want this. None of it! Why did I have to sit there and listen to every sickening detail of Austin’s affair only to have the lawyers say it doesn’t really matter in the divorce?” Why, indeed, I thought, unable to offer any consolation.

  The reality of divorce is an extremely bitter pill to swallow, as Haley will discover. The turmoil of the breakup tends to mask that fact. I find that the adrenaline-fueled drama is a necessary jump start for the process, however. In many ways, it’s pure reflex. Prod an amoeba with a sharp instrument, and you’ll get a reaction; why not an even more intense response to pain from a million-celled organism? The problem is, getting addicted to the emotional high of this phase is a surefire way of delaying recovery. I’ve heard every imaginable story from my clients, some tragic, others undeniably comic. One woman got her ex’s new weed-eater and chased him all over the yard with it, much to the neighbors’ delight; another took a baseball bat and gleefully bashed in the car her husband had spent a fortune and many months lovingly restoring. I’ve heard numerous stories of shocking scenes enacted during this period, one of the most memorable being a client who crashed her ex’s wedding so she could scream obscenities during the church service. When escorted out by the ushers, she promptly found a ladder, stuck her head through a window above the altar, and continued her harangue.

  Haley’s initial phase had been self-destructive, so I’d kept my silence when she became almost murderously angry with Austin and spent hours with Jasmine, plotting revenge. The good thing about anger is, it’s a fiery emotion that usually burns itself out. When Haley finally started attending my weekly group meetings and forming friendships with some of the women who are in the same stage of the process, I allowed myself a small—very small—sigh of relief. She’s by no means there yet, and she will go through the usual ups and downs of a breakup. Every time she gets better, something will happen to set her back, like the night Abbie woke up crying for her daddy and pushed her mother away, inconsolable. I know that all of them—Haley, Zach, and Abbie—will have plenty of those bad days. Eventually there will be more good ones than bad, but that time is still a long way off.

  The first of March, Wayfarer’s Landing Retreat Center is complete, ready for final touches in preparation for the first retreat, scheduled for later in the month. Because of the trauma of Haley and Austin’s breakup, my excitement has been tamped down. But the day I take Zach and Abbie to see the new building that’s sprung up next to their gramma Zoe’s, I feel lighthearted and carefree, full of anticipation, for the first time in months.

  Abbie has changed since her daddy left, becoming quieter and more subdued, and I watch her carefully as she takes Zach’s hand and runs across the driveway to the new building. She looks impossibly adorable: Jasmine French-braided her flaxen hair into two stubby pigtails, and Haley dressed her in a short pleated skirt with a white turtleneck and tights. Haley tried to tell her that the preppy look is spoiled by the silver-studded red cowboy boots I gave her for Christmas, but Abbie won’t part with them. Zach’s wearing his, too, but hasn’t quite gotten the hang of them, and I hide a smile at his stumbling gait as Abbie drags him along behind her. I wasn’t sure what I’d tell the children about the new building, but Abbie solved it. “Gramma Zoe has a new house,” Zach announced, but Abbie shushed him. “No, Zach—you know the ladies who come to see Grams in her office? She’s building them a place to dance.”

  There’s a lot of activity at the retreat site on this bright, briskly cold day. The winter sun hangs high and lemon-yellow, and the air, sweet as cider, is sharp with the scent of pine needles, wood smoke, and freshly turned earth. Dory and some of the White Rings are laying the groundwork for the landscaping today. Hearing Zach and Abbie’s squeals, Dory gets to her feet and turns toward them. In spite of the dirt coating her gardening gloves, she sweeps up both Zach and Abbie, one in each arm, and kisses their rosy cheeks noisily. Hearing their chirps of excitement, Etta appears on the porch, hands on her hips. With a big grin, she calls out, “Look who’s here—my babies!” We joke about the children being communal property, passed around among us when we crave the feel of soft cuddly bodies and chubby arms and sloppy kisses, all given freely, with pure unadulterated affection. Zach wiggles out of Dory’s grasp to run to Etta, knowing she’ll let him dig through her purse until he finds a piece of Juicy Fruit gum.

  “How’s it coming, flower child?” I ask Dory after greeting the White Rings, who are kneeling and digging at different intervals around the ground in front of the porch, which Dory is transforming into flower beds. Or will be, once spring arrives. Everything in Dory’s calendar is lunar. She has mysterious ways of determining when to plant, based on the moon cycles and the tide and the number of days after the last frost, none of which make a lick of sense to me. The Landing has been one of Dory’s biggest challenges, she told me, not only because of the sandy soil and brackish water but also due to the abundance of critters. She’s determined to preserve the wild beauty of the place, so in addition to planting hundreds of azalea bushes, she’s adding indigenous native plants such as tea olive and oleander and sawgrass, which will survive anything, even hungry deer, raccoons, and rabbits.

  After she adjusts the Bama cap she wears to shade her eyes from the sun, Dory motions widely and says, “Let me show you what we’re doing.” Last time we were out here, she showed me the diagrams for the placement of the plants, which amazed me. Until I met Dory, I always assumed you stuck plants in the ground and hoped they looked good in bloom, but her flower beds are as carefully laid out as a mosaic.

  After a brief tour of the future flower beds, we start toward the steps of the building, lured by the fragrance of the apple cider Etta is heating up. A genius at organization, Etta insisted on coming out and making sure everything was put in its proper spot. I protested only halfheartedly, since it was a dreaded duty I’d assigned to myself. Etta earns extra pay by helping out at the retreats, so she knows everything about how they run and what’s needed. But this is all new for us, and the details have been mind-boggling. All I’d needed at the conference center were my and the participants’ materi
als; here we need cooking equipment, dishes, a stocked pantry, and linens. In spite of all the White Rings do, I’m having to hire extra help. Without knowing how everything will work out until we have the first one, I’ve scheduled a retreat for every month except the summer, in deference to our unbearable heat. As Etta has so aptly put it, we will start out by running on faith.

  Before Dory and I reach the stone steps leading to the front porch, I stop her, glancing up to make sure the kids are still inside with Etta and out of earshot. “Are things any better now?” I ask her, lowering my voice.

  Dory hesitates, then shrugs. “Oh, Clare. I can only imagine what you’re thinking …”

  I give her arm a shake, frowning. “Come on, honey. This isn’t about me. You know how pleased I was with the way things were going with you and Son. I’m terribly upset.”

  As both Rye and I had predicted and feared, Son’s good behavior finally took a nosedive. Hearing about it distressed me, but Rye swore he was relieved, saying now we didn’t have to worry about the four horsemen of the apocalypse riding into Fairhope. Following the passage of our only winter months, January and February, gardeners began to look ahead, and by the end of February, Dory’s seasonal business of garden design was much in demand. The reality of her work hit Son hard. To give the devil his due, he restrained himself at first, then lost it when Dory told him that of course she would continue to help with the retreats, too. When Dory related the scene to me, it hit me for the first time why Son had stayed so saintly. Dory had always given a huge chunk of her time to volunteer work; evidently Son assumed her business would replace that time, with the added bonus of bringing in extra cash. Once he saw otherwise, he did a backflip and landed with a hard and heavy thud.

  “Son’s still pouting,” Dory tells me in a whisper. “He’s gone on without me.” It was a proposed trip that triggered the fallout; Bama is playing LSU in some kind of basketball tournament, and Son surprised her with hard-to-come-by tickets. She surprised him even more by saying there was no way she could go this weekend, for him to take some of his buddies or the boys instead.

  “Good,” I say firmly. “You and Son have always been joined at the hip, which is far from healthy. The best thing that can come of this would be his seeing he can go places and do things without always having to drag you along with him.”

  Dory nods and scratches her face, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Her eyes are vague and troubled. “I think so, too. But the thought of going through what we did last year tears me apart. I can’t do it again, and I’ve told Son that. If he starts all that crap again, I don’t want to think about what might happen.”

  “As I recall, Son swore to us that he’d leave if he did it again. I’d pack his suitcase and have it ready if I were you.”

  She says with a sigh, “Sometimes I don’t know which is worse—splitting up and going through the kind of pain Haley’s endured these last months, or putting up with Son’s tantrums.”

  “Dammit, Dory, I’ll tell you what’s worse. Have you missed every single thing that goes on at the retreats?” I cry in exasperation. “It’s about recovery. Haley will recover. The others who are coming to the retreat, they’ll recover. They went through hell to get where they are, but they can put it behind them and move on. You, on the other hand, will have Son causing you misery for the rest of your life if you allow it.”

  Dory smiles gently and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Calm down, honey. I’m not going to allow that. I can’t go back to that kind of life again. When Son returns, I’m sitting him down and telling him that, too. I intend to make myself perfectly clear.”

  I study her, somewhat abashed. “Well, good. Good! It’s a relief to hear you say it.”

  Above our heads comes a small voice, and we look up to see Abbie hanging over the log rail of the porch, the red cowboy boots dangling close to our heads. “Hey, Grams! Miss Etta said for y’all to come get some cider. What are you and Miss Dory fussing about, anyway?”

  With a laugh, I put an arm around Dory’s waist. “We’re not fussing, honey. We’re just talking.”

  Abbie wrinkles her brow, unconvinced. “Huh! Sounds like fussing to me. Miss Etta put cim-ma-non sticks in the cider, and Zach tried to eat his. They real good.”

  “I can’t wait,” Dory says. “Cim-ma-non’s my favorite.”

  The White Rings finish digging up the flower beds and take a cider break, then Etta gives a tour of the facilities. Again I feel excitement welling up when I follow Etta as obediently as the others, hoping I can remember where she’s stored everything. The main gathering room and the kitchen underwent the most extensive remodeling and expansion. In spite of the newness of the wide-planked flooring and the freshly painted walls in the great room, and the addition of sleek cabinetry and work surfaces and a gleaming tiled floor in the kitchen, the rustic ambiance has been preserved, as I’d hoped. I’d envisioned a lodgelike setting, stylishly furnished to be attractive and appealing, with comfort as the main consideration. A soft place to fall, Dory had said, summing it up perfectly.

  Giggling, the kids tumble on the new mattresses, still wrapped in plastic and atop the bunks, but I put on my sternest frown when Zach starts bouncing like a rubber ball. He has to get in one last jump, and he bangs his head on the top bunk. When his lower lip trembles, he looks around for sympathy and is instantly engulfed by his surrogate mamas, clucking and cooing and rubbing the top of his head. I motion for Abbie to follow me. “This is Gram’s secret room,” I tell her, opening a door to the new addition in the back. It’s a small but quite doable office; I’m moving over a sleeper sofa from my house so I can stay during the retreats.

  I’m unprepared for the pang I experience when Abbie curiously explores all the little nooks and crannies of the built-in desk. Lex built everything himself. When it neared completion, he wouldn’t allow me to see it until he added the finishing touches. It’s as compact and precise as a ship’s quarters, which I expected from him. What I didn’t expect was the way he’d disguised the hand-me-down wood donated by a local lumber company by sanding it so smoothly, then painting it a shade of midnight blue so dark it is almost black. The contrast of the deep blue and the white-painted walls is not only smart and chic, it also makes a great work space. Since adding the office was an expense I bemoaned, I wasn’t going to decorate it, or even paint it, really, just stick an old desk and sleeper sofa in it. Now I fear I haven’t adequately expressed my gratitude to Lex, and I make a mental note to give him a call. We’ve both played it cool since the unsettling incident between us when he slept on my couch. I’ve seen him at work on the retreat site, but that’s it. Our once warm and cherished friendship has become cool and businesslike.

  When Etta and the White Rings depart, Dory enlists the help of the kids in watering the new plants, knowing they’d like nothing better than dipping a couple of Zoe’s gourds in buckets of water and carrying them to the plants. But when she goes behind the building to look for the gourds, she calls out to them to come see what she’s found—hurry! In her excitement, Abbie runs off and leaves Zach behind, so I take his hand, and we follow. I groan when I see what she’s called them for, afraid Dory will be transported into a religious trance. To the side of the building, in the brittle winter grass, is a huge and perfect ring of mushrooms.

  “Look,” she exclaims. “A fairy ring!” She turns her awestruck eyes my way. “It’s a sign. A blessing for Wayfarer’s Landing.”

  “Where are the fairies?” Zach demands, and the three of them squat reverently by the circle. I back away and leave them, glancing over my shoulder to see Dory speaking in a low voice and pointing to the ring, following the circle with her finger. By the expressions of wonder on Zach and Abbie’s faces as they gaze up at her, I know Dory’s passing on the stories of the magic circle that she received at their age. I start up the front steps, thinking I’ll get some things put in place in my office while the kids are occupied. Then something hits me: It’s the first time since Austin left that I
’ve been with Abbie and she hasn’t mentioned her daddy.

  The watering is almost done when Zoe Catherine and Cooter drive up and park by the dock. I intentionally haven’t told Zoe I was bringing the kids. Saturday mornings are reserved for her and Cooter’s flea market junkets, which they both enjoy, and which get them out. Waving, she and Cooter get out of the truck, bundled up like Eskimos. Just as they cross the oyster-shell driveway to what is now a wide grassy lawn stretching out in front of the retreat site, Genghis Khan spots them. It’s as though he was watching for them to drive up, and he heads after them, mincing along with his haughty little steps.

  “Hey! Find anything at the flea market?” I call out, coming down the steps to give them a hug.

  “You won’t believe what Cooter’s got,” Zoe says, and he reaches in the pocket of his coat to bring out a small vial of white powder.

  I study it, then look up at him quizzically. “You bought coke at a flea market?”

  “Ha. Look at the label! I got it at the farm-and-market store when we stopped to get some vitamins for the guinea hens.” He holds it up for me to see, and I read it, squinting.

  “Since I can’t read Latin, I don’t know what it is,” I tell him.

  Cooter grunts derisively. “Damn, woman! It’s that stuff you put in rooters’ mash to make them more manly. So your roosters will have the get-up-and-go to chase the hens. You know.”

  “Oh!” Blushing, I dare ask him, “What’s it called?”

  Cooter shrugs and puts it back in his pocket. “Don’t know. But it tastes like peppermint.”

  Zoe lets out a hoot, and my eyes widen. Fortunately I’m spared further details by the appearance of Zach and Abbie, who’ve spotted Cooter and Gramma Zoe and run around the building toward them. A grin splits Cooter’s face, and he lets out a cry that could raise the dead.