Afterward they lay together, at ease, the tension between them spent. She felt weary and yet wide awake, wanting to drink in his form just as it was in that moment.
“What will your mother think, with you still married?” she asked.
He shrugged, and she understood that he wasn’t sure. “I’ll tell her I’m divorcing Frances.” Then he rolled over to look at her. “Can I tell her that we’re going to marry?”
She felt her eyes get big. “Are you asking me?”
“Are you saying yes?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Then I’ll tell my mother I’m going to marry you the minute I’m able. Until then she’ll have to live with our untraditional arrangement.” He pulled her closer. “It’s quite impossible to describe how I feel about you.”
“And I you.”
They talked for a while longer. She told him details of her life in Atmore, of her children, of her friendship with Midwife Stone. “How small my life must seem to you,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not small. Nothing could be small with you in the center of it.”
When she told him how she’d taken to wearing William’s boots and clothes for the outside work after his death, she expected Nathaniel to laugh, but instead his eyes had softened as he pushed a stray piece of hair from her face. “I know it’s been harder than you let on, and I’m sorry for it.”
“Isn’t that true for most of us?” she asked. “We just make do with what we have without complaint, always hopeful tomorrow will be better.”
“Most, not all.” His face darkened, and she knew he was thinking of Frances. “I have to tell Frances’s mother what happened.”
She nodded, smoothing her fingers along his cheekbone. “Sleep first. Call her when you wake up.”
He agreed and closed his eyes. She watched him drift toward sleep until his face was slack, and he breathed in and out with even repetition. He was both new and yet familiar—her family she had not known existed. After a few minutes she began to drift off to sleep, thinking about Birdie and Emma. Her daughters must be attended to as well. Emma would be beside herself over the news. But Lydia took her own advice and slept first.
Chapter 53
Whitmore
* * *
Whit was dreaming. He was on the lake, rowing. His mother called out to him from the back door of the lake house, waving her arms over her head. “Come inside,” she said. He increased his pace toward her, and his strokes were smooth and easy, but then the water turned thicker, the texture of blood, and the boat was stuck. A hand reached up to pull him under the dark water. He tried to scream, but no sound came.
He woke to Jeselle, stroking his face. “Whit, it’s just a dream.” His eyes fixed to her. “Jes, we need to go to the lake house, see our mothers. Say goodbye properly.”
Chapter 54
Nathaniel
* * *
Nathaniel didn’t wake until early evening. Lydia was still asleep, curled up like a cat, her hands clasped at her stomach. He took in her long, lean limbs, the callouses on the sides of her big toes, made, he was sure, from the man’s work she had been forced to take on after her husband’s death. He watched her for some moments, thinking about the events of the day, wishing only to stay and gaze upon the flush of her cheek.
Instead, he rose from the bed and bathed and dressed in clean clothes, quiet so as not to wake her. Though unsure how to explain the events of the last several days to either woman, he must call Clare and then his own mother. He walked to the motel’s office, his mind reeling. After giving the attendant a dollar for use of the phone, he called Clare first. She answered on the first ring. Waiting, he thought.
He began to tell her everything, first with trepidation, until the truths unfolded from him in a steady succession, sorrow and relief combining, knowing that his words whittled away at the soul of this good woman. He understood she did not deserve the grief that would ultimately possess her after hearing of everything Frances had done. But he knew, too, that it was important for the facts to be told, that it mattered more than anything that at last they all understood the truth.
Finally, he told her about the horrible night when the gardener died and he’d lost his career because of Frances’s voracious appetite for attention. Clare cried then, in sobs that were nearly unbearable to hear. He pushed onward, wanting it to be over. “I’m filing for divorce, Clare.”
“I’m glad for you, dear boy. You deserve a chance at happiness,” she said, sounding defeated, dull. And then almost without pause she went on, “I’ve known, or suspected, that Frances went up there that night of her own volition. I never outright asked her because I didn’t want to know the answer. I couldn’t stand the thought that her carelessness, her disregard for others, would’ve caused you to lose your career. I’m so terribly sorry, Nate. Nothing I do can ever make up for it or change the fact that she’s my daughter. I raised her. There’s no one to blame but me.”
“Clare, you also raised Whit.” He paused, hating her grief, hating Frances.
“Do you remember the doctor we took her to, years ago? Do you recall how angry he made me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I knew it was true, what he said, but I couldn’t accept it, couldn’t look at it.”
“Clare, it’s all done now. There’s nothing to be done except for us to move on.”
“Yes, I suppose. Nate…” She paused. He heard her take in a shaky breath. “Since the first day you came into my family I’ve loved you like my own.”
“That’s your way.”
She chuckled in a mournful way. “What good has come from it?”
“Oh, Clare, Whit has come of it. All his goodness, his generous spirit, it all comes from you and the way you’ve been all his life.” Then he told her his plans for Maine, and then of France for Jeselle and Whit.
“Nate, could Cassie and I take the train to Maine?”
“Not all the way to where my mother lives. You’d need a car.”
He heard her sniffling. “I don’t know how to drive. Neither does Cassie.”
“Clare, what do you mean?”
“Cassie and I should go with you. To Maine. To look after our children.”
“What about Frank?”
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t care?” Without a pause she continued, “We could take one of our cars. But you or Jeselle or Whit would have to drive us.”
“We could come for you.” He hesitated before speaking—knowing once he said Lydia’s name that Clare would know it all. “The kids and Lydia.”
“Lydia?”
“My friend.”
Silence, and then Clare in a wobbly voice said, “I see.”
“It was her idea about sending the kids to France. She has progressive ideas. She’s northern.” As if that explained everything.
“She helped Whit and Jes?”
“Yes, with everything. It was all her.” Crackling on the other end of the phone was the melody to his beating heart as he struggled to find the right words. “I didn’t look for it. I’ve been loyal all these long years. I want you to know that. But I love her.”
“I can’t think what to say.”
“Say it’s all right, Clare.” Suddenly he knew he wanted her to release him, that he needed absolution from her in a way that didn’t make sense, given everything. But it was there nonetheless.
“You must go, Nate, if it’s toward happiness, which is what I want for you above all else.” She sniffed; he heard her crying. “I’ll miss you terribly.”
He felt his own tears coming, breathed into them, his voice shaky now. “Thank you, Clare.” Then, “We’ll come get you. Tomorrow.”
Chapter 55
Whitmore
* * *
Whitmore’s ribs ached by the time they approached the lake house. He’d been in the front seat while Nathaniel drove, trying not to cry out when they hit bumps and potholes as they wound through the pines. He knew professing pain h
urt Jes, so he kept it to himself.
When they turned the corner and saw the familiar sight of the lake house, he glanced at the backseat where Jeselle sat, huddled in the corner, her face tight, brown eyes darting back and forth like they did when she was nervous.
Nate stopped the car in front of the house and looked over at Whit. “Ready?”
Whitmore didn’t need to glance in the mirror to know how horrific his face still looked. Because of the broken nose, his face was black and blue, especially the skin under his eyes and over his cheekbones. His eyes were bloodshot, and he couldn’t walk without wincing. “I’m afraid Mother might faint at the sight of me.”
When they slid out of the car, Lydia hung back, looking unusually uncertain. Nate went to her and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and slipped into the front passenger side of the car. Whit took Jeselle’s hand. “Stay close.”
They walked to the door, hands clasped. Jeselle reached up and used the knocker as if they were strangers. Nate hung back, near the gate. “You two go on,” he called out. “We’ll be here. Waiting.”
Clare yanked open the front door, with puffy eyes and uncombed hair, dressed in a plaid cotton housedress. Her eyes darted between their faces and then to their intertwined hands. Something went across her face—he could not discern if it was pride or rebellion or sadness. Then she held out her arms, wide enough for both of them. They both leaned into her, and she wrapped an arm around each of them. She smelled as she always did, of talcum powder and French perfume.
“Mother, I’ve missed you.”
“Me too, darlin’. I’m so happy you came home.”
His mother withdrew from the hug and peered at Jeselle’s stomach. She put her hand softly on its roundness. “My goodness,” was all she said. She looked at Whit and touched his cheek gingerly with the tips of her cool white fingers. “Whitmore, your face. Does it hurt much?”
“A little, but I’m alive.”
“Thank God.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the corners of her eyes.
“Mrs. Bellmont, where’s Mama?” Jeselle asked.
“In the kitchen.” Clare backed up and motioned for them to come inside. “She’s fixed something for y’all to eat. Where’s Nate?”
“Outside.”
“You two go on in. I need to talk to him.”
Chapter 56
Nathaniel
* * *
Nathaniel saw Clare coming toward him. She looked years older than when he’d last seen her. His heart constricted. Damn you, Frances. May you rot in hell.
“Nate.” She reached out and pulled him to her. “Thank you for bringing them to me.” Taken aback by the gesture, he stood stiffly for a second before softening into the embrace.
“Let’s walk. I have some rather upsetting news. I don’t think I can tell it without walking.”
She seemed unsteady on her feet, and he offered her his arm, which she took as they walked to the lakeshore and then to the end of the pier. At the edge, he felt her shiver despite the June heat. Something mimicking physical pain moved its way across her face.
“Frank called me from Atlanta. Frances showed up at the house. She was alone.” Clare paused, and her gray eyes that matched the dark smudges underneath her bottom eyelashes looked away from him, toward the hazy sky. “It’ll rain later.” At first he took this as an afterthought, but then she continued, “Like that night you were hurt. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Frances showed him photos. Dreadful photographs the young man had taken of her. Apparently he’s a photographer of the risqué variety. Postcards and such.”
He covered his eyes. “Oh, God.” Bile rose in his throat.
“She threatened to send the photos around to everyone we knew unless Frank gave her money, knowing he’d rather be penniless than have society see those photos of his daughter.”
“Did he?”
“He had no choice. He said goodbye to her. Forever. Frank told her to never contact any of us again.”
“She’s gone to California, then?”
“I suppose.” Her eyes had turned a dull gray and were hooded with downcast lashes.
He turned away, looking at the lake. Dozens of water bugs made rings on the water. A jay called to its mate.
“Nate, it’s nearly impossible to explain to a man what it’s like to be a woman in this time. I don’t excuse her behavior, but I know what it’s like to feel trapped in your own life. God knows I’ve been trapped in this life for so long now that I can’t even remember who I once was. Or who I wanted to be.”
There was a pebble near his foot. He kicked it into the water. “Clare, I mean no disrespect, but no one could’ve felt more trapped in his life than I.”
“Yes, I know, Nate. I know.” Tears were falling down her cheeks and onto the collar of her dress. “Nate, there’s something else. Frank went crazy after Frances left, with grief and disappointment about her, and about Whit’s choice. Frances told him. I don’t know which felt like the worse of the two betrayals. That’s how he saw them, you know, as betrayals to a southern lifestyle he spent his life trying to preserve.
“After she left with the money in her pocketbook, he called me, slurring his words the way he does when he drinks, ranting about Whitmore and Jes, saying it was all my fault, that if I’d been a better mother none of this would’ve happened. He told me he was headed up here in the morning, that he planned on giving us what we deserved.” She wiped her face, words choking in the back of her throat. “But I got a call later from the police.” Her voice sounded wooden now. “He crashed his car into a tree, that silver flask of his in his lap. He’s dead.” She paused and looked toward the sky. “A witness to the accident told the police it was like watching someone driving blind.”
Chapter 57
Jeselle
* * *
Mama stood at the stove, frying up eggs and hot cakes. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking at Jeselle’s belly. “You got big.”
“Yes. I’ve missed you, Mama.”
Mama reached out and folded Jeselle into her arms. Her sinewy frame felt like home. “Baby girl,” she whispered. Jeselle looked up and saw tears running down Mama’s face. It was the first time she’d ever seen her cry.
Mama motioned for Jeselle and Whit to sit at the table. “Got some food fixed for you.” She put a plate of hot cakes in front of Whitmore. “It’s foolish, Mr. Whitmore. What you’ve done. But brave too.”
“I guess I don’t have to tell you I’d die for Jes.”
“You’ve done proved that, sure enough.” Mama sniffed and moved back to the stove. “Don’t mean I think it’s right. None of it.”
Jeselle glanced out the window and saw Mrs. Bellmont on her knees at the end of the pier. Nate was kneeling beside her, a hand on her back. Whit and Jeselle exchanged glances.
“Go out to your mother,” Mama said to Whit. “She has something to tell you.”
They watched him hobble out. As Whit came upon his mother, Nate helped Mrs. Bellmont to her feet, and she held out her hands to Whit. “What is it?” Jeselle asked.
“Frank Bellmont’s dead. Drove his car into a tree.”
“Drunk?” asked Jeselle.
Mama continued to look out the window toward the lake. “No. I did it.”
“What do you mean?”
Silence.
“Mama?”
“Remember when the birds kept up and dying?”
“Yes.”
“I figured what berry was doing it, months ago. So I gathered some and snuck down to Atlanta. Ground them up and put them in his flask. Made it so it’d look like drink that done it.”
“Mama. No. Why?”
“He told Miz Bellmont he was coming to kill both of us and you and Whitmore too.” She turned toward Jeselle, tipping her chin between her calloused fingers. “You’ll learn this, Jessie, once you hold that baby in your arms. No one will ever harm her if you have any say
in the matter. Mama bears, that’s all we are.”
“What if you get caught?”
“I won’t. But it don’t matter if I do because you’ll be safe, and that’s all I care about. All I’ve ever cared about.”
“Oh, Mama, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re the best thing ever happened to me, and don’t you forget it.”
“Does Mrs. Bellmont know?”
“No. And Mr. Whit can’t know either. Do you understand?”
“Starting a marriage with secrets, Mama?”
“It’s better they don’t know. When you love someone like we do Miz Bellmont and Whit, well, sometimes you have to protect them from the truth when it would hurt more than the lie. You understand?”
“I think so.”
Jeselle sank into the window seat, watching as Nate walked toward the car.
Her eyes shifted back to Whit and Mrs. Bellmont. Mrs. Bellmont gazed at the ground, holding on to Whit’s arm. Her mouth moved, surely telling him the dreadful news. As if someone punched him in his aching ribs, he flinched, stepping away from Mrs. Bellmont, like an animal anticipating a trap but jerking away at the last moment. A shudder went through his body. He stooped over, his back rising and falling. Then, he stood to his full height, peering back at the water, his hand hovering over his forehead to shield his eyes from the blazing sun. After a moment, he turned and took Mrs. Bellmont into his arms and held her against him. Whit’s mouth moved, and Jeselle imagined he said something of comfort—a mention of the future that she could cling to with all her might, as they had done. And in that posture, that gesture, Jeselle saw both the past and the future. Standing there was both the man he’d become and the father he would be. Perhaps feeling Jeselle’s eyes upon him, he turned toward the house. When he saw her at the window, he placed his hand over his heart and, like so many times before, they anchored to one another. He tucked his mother’s arm into his own. And they walked together, toward the house.
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