“Of course not, because he’s just so into you.”
“The curse, I know.” Charlotte made a clucking noise. “Drive carefully. Call me when you get home. I want to hear every detail of your trip.”
I hung up and focused on the road. Two other fiancées. How could I not know this? My mind twisted around trying to figure out who they could’ve been, and I realized I didn’t know much about Peyton’s life . . . before me.
When I pulled up into my driveway, he was pacing back and forth, his Jaguar in the driveway. I parked and took a deep breath, wishing there’d been time for a hot shower and a sustaining cup of coffee before I had to face him.
I parked my car and faced him in the driveway. “Where the hell have you been, Kara?”
“Savannah.” I squinted at him in the sunlight. “I thought you were in Miami or I would’ve called.”
“What were you doing in Savannah?”
“Well, I went to check out that band—Unknown Souls—and it ends up that the singer and songwriter are old friends of mine. I hung out with them for a while, and then it was too late to drive home, so I stayed at the Courtyard Savannah.”
His face turned red, blotched. “Who are these guys?”
“Old friends who used to live next door.”
“What? How come you never told me about them? When you were looking at that Web site, you could have told me you knew them.”
“Like telling me about your two other fiancées?”
His lips formed a straight line; he closed, then opened his eyes and shook his head. “They weren’t important to us in any way.”
“Useful information, maybe? Useful so that I didn’t have to feel like a fool when my best friend told me?”
“Charlotte?” He punched a fist into the other palm. “She’s so freaking nosy, acts like she’s your mother half the time.”
“That’s not fair, Peyton.” My heart slowed, tears threatened. “You absolutely can’t be mad at Charlotte for telling me something you should’ve told me at least a year ago. I can’t believe no one else ever let me know . . . from the tour or anything.”
“Because it’s not important.”
I attempted to push my hair back from my eyes. Our voices were raised now, too loud for a quiet Saturday. I glanced up at the house. Deirdre stood at the front door, Daddy behind her, and they could easily hear us. I waved at them, then looked back to Peyton and lowered my voice. “Would you like to tell me now who they were?”
“You don’t know either of them. And it doesn’t have anything to do with us.” His facial features softened into those of the calm, beautiful man I knew and had promised to marry; the man with the hardened mouth and clenched teeth dissolved into the morning. He placed his arms around me and pulled me to him. My head fell against him where his shoulders curved to his chest. Something small and mean in me noticed that this was a completely different place than where my head rested on Jack, against the cleft below his throat.
“I love you, Kara. Those women were just the mistakes I had to make to get to you. Huge mistakes.”
My heart softened. What woman wouldn’t want to hear these words? I looked up at him, but something small had shifted. Maybe I was too tired, too frazzled to know. I hugged him back and kissed him. “I need a shower. Why don’t you come over for dinner—family dinner tonight, okay?”
He stepped back from me. “Okay. But please don’t ever disappear like that again.”
I nodded toward the house. “We’ll talk about it later. We appear to have an audience right now.”
He kissed me again and walked toward his car, then turned to me. “I love you, Kara,” he mouthed as he clicked the remote on his keys to unlock his car.
“You too,” I whispered, and turned to the house. “You too.”
When I reached the bottom step, Deirdre looked at me. “He’s been engaged before?”
I looked behind her for Daddy; he was walking away down the front hall.
“Be careful, Kara,” she said.
Anger rose in me like a tunnel of wind. “What do you mean, Deirdre? I am careful.”
She shook her head and turned away from me. “You can lose his love just as easily as it came to you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said.”
I walked past her and up to my room. You can lose his love.
I sat on my bed, dropped my head into my hands, and covered my ears to shut out the one word that had followed me: “lose.”
Deirdre set the table with the Wedgwood and Waterford. I lit candles set inside hurricane glasses, which served as centerpieces. Two of Brian’s paintings hung on the far wall of the dining room: a palmetto backlit against the sunset and the tip of a sailboat rounding the bend of a tidal creek. The hummocks were pock-marked with fiddler crabs. Soft sweeps of sand showed where the water danced in its tidal retreat. Each brushstroke created a brilliant detail, capturing the furious beauty of the Lowcountry. I had seen lesser paintings in the galleries around South Carolina. I shook my head; Brian needed to paint more often, not sit in a law office with Daddy.
Deirdre entered the dining room. “Why are you standing there staring at the wall?”
“I’m looking at Brian’s paintings.”
She rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t paint anymore.”
I touched the edge of the frame. “How do you know?”
“Have you seen a new painting any time in the last six or seven years?” she asked.
“Have you been to his house?” I motioned toward the front door. “Have you bothered to visit him or see him or—”
“Don’t you dare lecture me.” Deirdre’s teeth clamped down on each other; her jaw twitched.
I held up my hands. “I’m not lecturing you. I promise. . . . Thanks for cooking tonight.”
Deirdre made a noise that sounded vaguely like the snort of a white-tailed deer startled in the woods, and walked back into the kitchen. It was her turn to cook, and I wandered gratefully through the dining room; I couldn’t have focused on a menu tonight.
Brian had arrived an hour earlier and sat in the library with Daddy talking about some land he wanted the family trust to purchase off Fifth Street. I was tired in a way that went beyond the need for sleep; I craved respite from my thoughts, my confusion.
A knock sounded on the front door and I opened it to Peyton. “Hmmm . . . smells good in here.” He nuzzled my neck.
“Deirdre is cooking her famous pot roast with vegetables. Daddy’s favorite.”
He walked in. His khakis were pressed with a sharp line down the front; his golf shirt’s collar lay flat, as if it had been glued to his shoulders. His hair was thick, warm to look at, as if it might be giving off heat. He exuded the same aura as when I first met him—capable, truly capable of taking care of everything, of me.
“Where’s your dad?” He glanced into the hallway.
I waved toward the library. “In there, with Brian.”
He nodded and walked toward the library—just like family.
I entered the kitchen and helped Deirdre put the meal on serving platters. She held a full glass of red wine in one hand. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed her eyes and leaned against the counter.
“You okay?” I touched her arm.
“Yes. I’m fine.” She didn’t open her eyes.
I glanced over at the wine bottle; half the merlot was gone.
“Is there anything I can do?” I lifted the bowl of mashed potatoes, piled high and covered in melting butter.
“No.” She opened her eyes, squinting at me. “You have too much to worry about in your own life without being worried about mine—or Bill’s.”
“Don’t, Deirdre. Don’t pick a fight with me when you’re not mad at me. Take it out on him, not me. I’ve tried to talk to you about y’all’s separation a hundred times. Even now I’m here to talk when you’re ready.”
She took a deep breath. “Not now.”
I nodded. “
Okay. . . .” I carried the potatoes into the dining room, set the bowl on the table and hollered for Daddy, Brian, and Peyton to come eat. They entered the dining room. Peyton came over to me, wrapped his arms around me.
“Deirdre, you need help in there?” I hollered toward the kitchen.
“Got it.” She emerged with a pot roast balanced precariously on an oversized cornflower-blue Wedgwood platter. The plate always made me remember Mama bringing the turkey to the table for Christmas dinner. In the memory she had an orb of light over her head, and although I was sure I had conjured that part up, I wasn’t going to ask anyone if it was true. Sometimes it is just nice to hold a memory, even if it isn’t exactly accurate.
Deirdre’s steps were unsteady, her left hand grasping the side of the platter and her wineglass simultaneously.
“Whoa. . . .” I moved toward her. “Let me get that.”
“No.” She turned away. “I can take care of it myself.” The platter tilted, and in slow motion the entire roast slipped from the plate and fell to the Oriental rug. I moved to grab the meat and ended up with gravy and mashed carrots between my fingers and down the front of my silk shirt.
“Kara Margarite Larson.” Her words screeched across the room.
I jumped back, held up my sticky hands. “What? I was trying to help.”
“You’ve made me drop the dinner.” Tears came to her eyes. She slammed her wineglass down on the table; drops of red splashed onto her beige linen place mat.
Daddy stood up. “No big deal, here.” He grabbed a large napkin, picked up the roast with it and placed the meat back on the platter.
Peyton’s mouth hung open, his bourbon highball glass in midair.
Daddy took a knife, cut off the back portion of the roast and disappeared into the kitchen, then quickly returned. “Okay, good as new. The neighborhood dogs will have the perfect meal tonight, and we’ll get the part that never touched the ground.”
“I’ll clean that up,” I said, and went to the kitchen for a towel and carpet cleaner. When I came back into the dining room, everyone was sitting and a place mat covered the stain.
Daddy motioned for me to sit. “We’ll clean it all later. Let’s eat this delicious meal Deirdre has prepared for us.”
After Brian had blessed the food and the awkward silence melted, conversation began again. Daddy asked Peyton who he was paired with for the pro-am. Brian wanted to know about the concert.
“It was great,” I said. “You should’ve seen it.” My gaze caught Peyton’s.
“Tell me about it,” he said, “I haven’t heard that band in years.”
“They’re quite good. So, Brian, tell us how the malpractice suit is coming along.”
He shrugged. “Just doing it to pay the bills . . . nothing near as interesting as hearing about the Sullivan boys. Don’t change the subject.”
“Really, it’s not that interesting,” I said. “Jimmy is still loud and funny and large—larger than life. Jack looks different—longer hair, beard. But not so different you wouldn’t recognize him. They started this band about five years ago to raise money for a foster home in Texas. And . . . that’s about it.”
“What about sweet Mrs. Sullivan?” Deirdre’s sarcastic tone cut through the room.
“She was sweet,” I said.
“That’s what I just said.” Deirdre took a bite of her roast.
“That’s not what you meant, though.” I glanced at Daddy.
Brian touched my leg, his signal to let it go.
“Anyway,” I said, “Jack really didn’t say what she was doing. I guess I should’ve asked.”
“Especially since you spent so much time with them.” Peyton leaned back in his chair, lifted his eyebrows at me.
We all turned and stared at him, mouths open, but it was Daddy who spoke first. “So, Peyton, how was this last tournament? Did you move up in the rankings?”
He shook his head, lifted his glass. “Fell, actually. But I’ll make up for it next week. You’ll be there, right?” He nodded toward me.
“Of course.”
Deirdre reached across me. “Kara, please pass the potatoes and finish your story.”
“There’s nothing more to tell.” I took a bite of carrots.
“Well, I’m sure there is,” Deirdre said. “What did the music sound like? What did Jack have to say about his past, where they’ve been? How much he loves you.”
“What?” I gripped my fork tighter, tried to swallow.
“That boy has been in love with you since first grade. Surely that much hasn’t changed.” She looked at Peyton.
“A lot has changed.” My teeth clenched, my jaw tightened.
“Well, if Peyton can have his little secrets about all his past almost-wives, I guess you can have yours.”
Daddy stood now. “Deirdre, I believe you’ve had a wee bit too much of that red wine there. Why don’t you excuse yourself and take a break from all this work you’ve done tonight?”
Deirdre stood, but she didn’t move to leave. Then her hand flew over her mouth and she ran from the room. In the silence, as we all stared at each other, the sound of retching came from the kitchen.
“Nice,” Brian said, and stood. He looked down at Peyton. “Well, I’m so glad you could join us for a nice family dinner. Want to go to the Oyster Shack with me, grab a beer?”
I wanted to bury my face in the tablecloth.
Peyton came to my side. “Brian, you stay, but Kara, I think I should leave now. Call me when things . . . settle down.”
At the front door, I hugged him, kissed him. “Let me go talk to Deirdre. I’m sorry she was so brutal to you. She didn’t mean it.”
He grabbed my shoulders, looked into my eyes. “Yes, she did mean it, and I should’ve told you about my engagements a long, long time ago.”
“Yes, but she didn’t need to unload on you. I love you. I’ll call you in a little bit.”
The front door clicked shut, and with Peyton gone, Daddy’s voice rose. “What in the living hell is going on here? What . . .”
Deirdre came back into the dining room, a wet washcloth in her hand. “I’m sorry,” I think she said, but her voice cracked, and she fell into the chair. “I’m so sorry. That was pretty reprehensible, wasn’t it?”
I sat next to her, lay my arm around her shoulder. “What is going on with you?”
Daddy stood and began pacing the room. “This is what I was always afraid would happen. Your mother would not want to see this, see you fall apart like this.”
Deirdre pushed my arm off her shoulder and stood. “How would you know what Mama would want? She is gone.” Spittle landed on her bottom lip.
Daddy’s face crumpled; he shook his head. “Because she told me exactly what she wanted for all of you—and this isn’t it.”
Deirdre’s fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. “What do you mean? Mama told you what she wanted and you never told us?”
Daddy glanced around the room, his face white, closed in. “Don’t you get disrespectful and judgmental with me, Deirdre Marie. Your mother was out of it toward the end, but she would not want you—or us—to fall apart like this.”
“Daddy,” I whispered, feeling something of great import moving toward us. “What did she say?”
He stared at each of us, one at a time, allowing his stare to rest on each of our faces before he spoke. “Your mother was a dreamer, a wisher, a wanter. Toward the end, she lost sight of the more realistic parts of life. She faded back and forth between dreams and reality.” Pain crossed his face like a quick shadow, moved, flickered and disappeared. He walked around the table, picked up crystal glasses, set them back down. “Your mama fought until the very end, trying experimental treatments . . . wanting to stay here . . . with our family.”
“You never told us that,” I said. “I thought she quit the meds because she . . . gave up, wanted to leave, that she couldn’t stand it one more day.” My voice came in a whisper, as though I were a scared child.
Daddy stared at me. “No.” He placed one hand over his chest. “God, no, she stopped the traditional treatment because she knew it wasn’t working, and she tried an experimental new drug—it didn’t work either.”
“I believed . . . she gave up, left us.” I stifled a cry.
“Oh, dear God, did I let you believe that, Kara?” He stepped toward me.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. My memories are all so mixed up.” I slumped back into a chair.
Daddy spoke softly. “She loved all of you so much, she tried everything out there, every treatment, every tea, every medication. There is no way to explain what it was like to watch the only woman I had ever loved die, and I knew she was dying but I couldn’t admit that I knew. It was hell.”
“Why have we never talked about this?” I asked. No one spoke; I tried again. “Why haven’t we ever talked?” I stood, spread my hands apart. “I believed she wanted to leave.” I took a step toward Daddy. “What did she say?”
He glanced upward as if he could see through the ceiling, find Mama and ask her what she had said. Then he looked directly at me. “She said for me to tell all of you to please remember to follow the hints of your heart . . . to listen. Those were . . . her last words.”
“What does that mean?” Deirdre’s voice echoed across the room.
Brian came to her. “Just listen, sis. Just listen.”
“She was so afraid that without her here, in the pain of losing her, all of you would shut your hearts,” Daddy said.
The magnificent substance of his words cowered in the corner of the room, crouching and ready to move toward me when I would allow it. This understanding—that Mama hadn’t left us willingly, that all I’d believed of her death was wrong—stretched and advanced on my heart in lumbering motions. “Why didn’t you ever tell us this?”
“You were so young,” Daddy said. “Her wish was so . . . abstract.” He stumbled on his words, and his eyes wandered as though he were lost. “Follow the hints of your heart. It only seemed to confuse the real issue—her death.”
“But my God, Daddy, those were her last words,” Deirdre cried. “She asked you to tell us that, she asked you to tell us, and you never did.”
Patti Callahan Henry Page 14
