We ran toward the line of oaks. I laughed, immediately soaked. “I don’t think we can squeeze in there anymore.”
We ducked together under the branches. Jack pulled me to him. “Looks like we still fit.”
I didn’t know whether he meant that we fit together or that we fit under the tree. I scooted backward on my bottom. “Wow, I do still fit in here.” I looked up at him. “I haven’t come in here since you left.”
“Really?”
“I waited.” I picked a leaf off the lower root, feeling I could say anything, that the thoughts and emotions would stay here, under the tree, and not be carried outside with us.
“You waited for me?” He touched my bottom lip, held his finger there.
Everything in me stilled: thoughts, reactions, rationalizations all quieted. I touched his hand. “A long time. Then I finally had to stop. . . .”
He leaned toward me now, never moving his hand. “Am I too late? Did you wait too long?” Then his hand moved as his lips touched mine, found my mouth.
Thunder pounded our hideout; I jumped back. “Jack . . .”
“Wow, this place is so full of . . . so much.”
“I know.”
He pushed the wet hair off my face. “How could you still live here and not feel the past all the time? Your mama, my daddy, us?”
“Just because you stay in one place doesn’t mean life doesn’t go on as it went on for you—new experiences, new people. You don’t have to leave to move on.”
“But sitting here with you, under these roots, it’s like time never moved, like—”
An unbidden tear escaped my eye; I wiped it away. “Don’t, Jack. I’m confused enough. Don’t do this. You’re remembering what we had then, who I was then. Memory and love are elusive enough. I can’t confuse what I remember with what is real.”
“No,” he said, and put both hands in my hair now. “I know the difference.”
I turned away. “Please. I’ve had an awful night. Can we change the subject?” The rain pelted the trees, creating a symphony that I wanted to slip into like a silk nightgown.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low and raspy, “change of subject coming up. How did you end up being an event planner for the golf tour?”
“I’m called a service manager. Daddy got me an internship during college and . . .”
“You just stayed?”
“Yes. It’s a great job. . . . I have thought about changing, though.”
“To do what?”
I held the words tightly; I couldn’t bear to share my desire one more time and have it shot down, ridiculed. I shook my head. “I’m just thinking—that’s all, just thinking.”
“About?”
In the shadowed cave, I spoke. “I’m exploring . . . going to photography school.”
“Now that, sweet Kara, is something I would expect you to be doing. You have always loved nature, loved capturing it in pictures. You should definitely—” He stopped, placed his hand over mine. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t give you my opinion. I don’t know you well enough to . . .”
“But you do,” I said. “You do know me well enough.” I wanted to reach for Jack, hold him, but I pushed my hands under my bottom. “What ever happened to your dad?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Mom kept us moving. He never caught up with us and she never told me. I’ve thought about trying to find him, but—why?”
“Because he’s your dad.”
“Who beat us, beat his wife and drank his way into oblivion. He’s probably dead or in jail or . . . on the street.”
“I guess I’d just want to know.”
“That’s because you love your dad.”
“Well, then, how’s your mom?”
“I think she’s finally come to a peaceful place in her life. She lives in Virginia Beach in a small cottage behind some sand dunes.”
“Please send her my love.”
“I will.”
The rain had stopped now; the thunderstorm disappeared as fast as it had come, as though it had only visited to force us back under our trees.
Then there was nothing left to do but touch his cheek, run my finger along his chin.
“One,” I said in a whisper.
“One what?”
I shook my head. “Oh, just damn, Jack.”
He smiled, crooked, sweet. “Kara.”
“This is absolutely not in my plans,” I said.
“Yeah, you weren’t exactly dressed for an evening in the root caves.”
I looked down at my off-white pants, my pink blouse. “Ruined.”
“Yes, you’re absolutely ruined.” He grinned, reached for me again.
“Jack, I don’t want to do it all . . . wrong. Mess things up. Please let me sort this out. I think we’re mixing up the past with now, story with truth. . . .”
He closed his eyes, nodded.
We shimmied our way out of the trees, stood and looked at each other over the wet grass.
I hesitated, then spoke. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”
“I don’t want to bother you or your family. But I do want you to know that if you still need a band for that benefit in a few weeks, we can do it. No problem.”
“Really?” I hugged him. “That is just such awesome news. When I go to work tomorrow I won’t get fired. The only thing I could find during this time of year—wedding and graduation season—was a string quartet. This is just so great.” I reached my hand up to give Jack a high five, and he hit my hand, laughed with his head back.
“I’m glad I can make you so happy,” he said. “Doesn’t take much, does it?”
I reached for my engagement ring, twisted it around my finger. “Come on in, have a drink—celebrate that I will not have my butt chewed out tomorrow morning.”
By the time we entered the house and I’d poured us each a glass of wine, Daddy came home. He stood in the doorway of the library, narrowed his eyes at both of us.
“Jack Sullivan?” Daddy took another step into the room.
Jack nodded. “Yes, sir.” He held out his hand. “Good to see you.”
Daddy shook his hand. “I can honestly say I never thought I’d see you in this house again.”
Jack dropped his hand, placed his glass of wine on the side table. “I should probably be going now.” He nodded at me. “Kara, we’ll talk soon and I’ll get the details for the concert.” He moved toward the entranceway.
“No,” I said, “don’t leave.” I glanced at my father. “That was so rude, Daddy. He just stopped by to say hello and bail me out of big trouble.”
“Trouble?” Daddy raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Yes, I lost the band for the benefit and Jack’s band is going to save my . . . job.”
Daddy nodded at Jack. “Thank you.” But his words were empty of anything but indifference. Then he gave me the look: the one I’d dreaded my entire childhood. His eyebrows moved together, then down. His mouth pursed forward, but he didn’t speak. I felt like I was eleven years old and late for dinner, late for something—just late. When love is sparse in a house without a mama and with an angry sister, when approval has love as its sidestepping companion, disapproval is avoided at all costs.
Daddy approved of Peyton.
The thought caught me by surprise, like realizing the tide has come in and washed over your feet, swept away your beach towel and book. I wanted to rebel against this need inside of me, this desire to earn my daddy’s approval.
Jack was almost out the door; I went to him, grabbed his arm. “Stay,” I said.
Daddy made a noise that sounded like a grunt, and turned his face from me, then walked from the room. Jack and I watched him leave, then he came to me, touched my arm. “Are you sure?”
“Sit,” I said, and made a motion toward the leather club chair.
Jack sat, lifted his glass of wine. “Wow, he still doesn’t like me after all these years.”
“I’ve never understood it, Jack, and I’m sorry.” I sa
t in my chair.
“It’s not that complicated. He knows, and always has, that I’m not good enough for you.”
“That is not true.”
“True or not, it is what he believes.”
I sighed, leaned back. “Sometimes it just doesn’t matter if it’s true, does it?” A chill ran through me and a single name burst forward: O’Leary. I bit down on it; tucked it into my heart to look at later.
“You know what?” he said. “You look almost exactly the same. Especially when you’re curled up in that chair. I almost expect to see a Nancy Drew novel on your lap, or cross-stitch on the table next to you.”
“Talk about remembering odd details.”
“Yeah, but not until now. I could never give you a life . . . like this. One that your daddy gives you, one your fiancé will give you.”
“Don’t say that . . . you make me sound so shallow, as if material comfort is all that matters to me.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s all that matters to you. It’s just an observation. My life is nomadic at best. And look what you have here.” He gestured with his hand. “I don’t have the . . . means for this style of life. I travel, move around. I don’t even have a place I call home.”
“But you want one, right?”
“Yes, but not if it’s filled with nonsense and busyness, not meaningful in any way.”
“Are you saying my life—”
“No,” he interrupted me. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that I need my life to be meaningful—I need to contribute somehow. And right now that means I have no place to call home.”
“Jack . . .”
He held up his hand. “Just the facts.” He tilted his head at me as footsteps echoed in the hallway. We glanced toward the doors. “I really think I need to be going,” he said, and stood.
I nodded and rose with him, staring directly at his face. I moved toward him, touched his arm. “Thanks for . . . everything. Really. Are you sure this gig isn’t a hardship on the band?”
“No. We’d love to do it.” He took my hand and squeezed it.
I dropped my hand from his. “We probably can’t afford you.” “Ah, hell, whatever your budget is, we’ll do it.”
“Why?”
“Because—it’s you. And exposure is exposure.”
I let out a whoop and threw my arms around his neck. Someone coughed; I turned to stare at Peyton. I released Jack. Peyton stood at the threshold of the library, his mouth straight, the muscles in his cheek clenching and unclenching.
I moved toward him. “Hi, honey,” I said.
He nodded at me.
I reached his side. “This is Jack, Jack Sullivan. He used to live next door. He’s the songwriter for the Unknown Souls. Anyway, he stopped by to tell me they can play the tour benefit.”
Peyton nodded again. He was beginning to look like an angry bobble-head statue.
Jack walked toward him, held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Peyton. Congratulations on your engagement and on winning the BellSouth tournament. That chip out of the sand trap on five was magnificent.”
Peyton smiled, held out his hand. “Thank you. Nice to meet you too. Thank you so much for being willing to play the benefit. Your band should draw a huge crowd.”
Jack glanced toward the door. “Well, I best be going.”
“Yes,” Peyton said, “thanks for stopping by.”
I opened my mouth, closed it. What could I say now?
Jack nodded at both of us and closed the door behind him. Peyton and I stood in the hallway. “What the hell was that about?” He backed away from me.
“Just what I said it was about.”
“I come here to tell you I’m sorry, to try and find a way to talk to you about what happened at the restaurant, and I find you in the arms of another man. And why are you soaking wet?”
I looked down at my pants streaked with mud, my wet blouse. “Got caught in the thunderstorm. . . .”
“What did you do?” He touched my shirtsleeve. “Roll around in the mud?”
“Peyton, please . . . he stopped by . . .” I stuttered, stumbled on my words.
“A phone call wouldn’t have sufficed?”
“He was looking at his old house. Look, why don’t we just discuss us, what happened at the restaurant?”
“I’m not in the mood now.” Peyton turned away from me.
“Please don’t be this way. I want to find a way to talk all this out, be able to discuss what is important between us.”
“No secrets, right, Kara? Isn’t that what you asked for the other night? No secrets. Seems like you have some of your own.”
“Jack is not a secret—he’s an old neighbor.”
Peyton sat down on the bottom step of the staircase, dropped his head in his hands. “Tonight, about the photography, I just meant you should give some thought to what you want to do, not run impulsively after it.”
“Okay, I will. I will give it more thought. But we could talk about it.” I touched his clenched fist. “Maybe now isn’t a good time, but maybe you could listen to why I want to try.”
He took my hand, stroked my palm. “I’m sorry, Kara. I’m just under a lot of pressure, and when you said you wanted to leave . . .”
“I didn’t say I wanted to leave. I said I wanted to consider photography school, that I wanted to explore my options.”
“I’m a schmuck,” he said, and drew me toward him.
I fell against his chest.
“Kara, I need to ask you one more question.”
I drew back. “Okay.”
“Where did you say you stayed in Savannah when you went to check out the band for the tournament?”
“The Courtyard Savannah. I told you that already.”
“Then why don’t they have you in the register?”
I pushed away from him. “You checked?”
“Obviously I needed to. No secrets? Shit.” He stood, kicked the edge of the stairwell.
“I never lied. I told you I stayed there . . . I didn’t say I had my own room.”
He leaned down and put his hands on both my shoulders. “That, Kara, is no different from me not telling you I’d been engaged before. You spent the night in some guy’s hotel room.”
“On the couch.”
“Oh, what a gentleman.” He rolled his eyes. Peyton stood up straight and fought for control. I’d seen this struggle before, on the golf course. He stood taller, looked ahead, and his nostrils flared as he took a couple of deep breaths.
The next words that came out of my mouth were unbidden. “I’m not a bad shot.”
“What?” He focused in on me.
“You’re acting like you just had a bad shot on sixteen while you’re two strokes behind.”
“You’re very perceptive, Kara, because that is exactly how I feel. Except right now I’m on eighteen and it’s a golf course I’ve never played before and it’s sudden death for the championship. Something is going on with you and you’re just not acting like yourself. I think I need to go home before this descends into a fight we regret.”
“I agree.”
Peyton kissed me. “I love you. I really do. I’m sorry about this night. Let’s wake up tomorrow and start all over, okay?”
“Good deal.”
He walked out the door, and I sat back in the chair, picked up my glass and let the wine spill warmly all the way down to the knot in my stomach.
No, I wasn’t acting like myself at all. At least not the self I’d grown accustomed to being over the past few years.
I reached for the words Mama had told Daddy. Listen to the hints of your heart. Should a wish from the past influence today? Should an old woman’s story change the present? I didn’t know, but I thought I was about to find out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My head spun in a thousand directions, like a multicol ored pinwheel in the wind, while I waited in the kitchen for Daddy to come get his coffee the next morning. I’d been up most of the nigh
t, tossing from the left to the right in my bed while trying to find a comfortable spot on my down pillow. Daddy walked in rubbing the stubble on his chin.
“Good morning,” I said, attempting a smile.
He nodded at me, then glanced away. He grabbed his coffee mug, poured himself a cup.
A palpable tension shimmered between us, and I knew only one way to make it disappear, to diminish this loneliness—I needed to tell Daddy I was sorry for being disrespectful, that Jack meant nothing to me. I opened my mouth to try, but the words wouldn’t come.
Sunlight streaked through the window at that moment, casting a sharp yellow glow on Daddy’s face. His wrinkles were set deeper, his stubble now gray, and my heart reverberated with love.
He turned away from me, then walked out of the kitchen without saying a word. I called after him. “Daddy, don’t be mad at me.” I sounded like a child, like a desperate child.
He returned. “It is all well and good to listen to your heart, as your mother said, but you must also have integrity and character. Kara, my biggest fear was that if I ever told you all what your mother said before she died, it would do more harm than good.”
“Don’t let that be a fear, Daddy. That is not what that wish means to me. I think she just meant that I need to think about what I’m doing, about who I am.” I took a long breath, and with the new day coming through the window, soft and full, I found words that I didn’t even realize I’d hidden in the safer part of my heart. “I . . . have been afraid to think about what I really want because it might not be what other people want.”
Daddy nodded.
“I feel like you gave me a gift—Mama’s words before I get married.”
He wrapped his hands around his mug and stared at me, but didn’t speak.
I moved toward him. “Do you think you could ever love again?”
His face blanched, his hands gripping his mug tighter. “Kara Margarite, that would not be any of your business.”
“She would want you to love again, Daddy. She would.”
He turned around and walked from the room without speaking. My stomach knotted like a rope pulled tighter and tighter.
Daddy and Peyton: wanting and needing only the Kara they knew. A sob began to rise from the back of my throat, but I held it tight, let it dissolve before I moved, ran up the stairs to my room and grabbed several rolls of undeveloped film.
Patti Callahan Henry Page 17
