When Light Breaks

by Patti Callahan Henry

  I walked from table to table greeting players, their wives and guests. I checked every last detail, including who received the vegetarian plate. Jimmy finished his song to loud applause. He grabbed the microphone and asked Phil Mickelson to come to the stage and say a few words about winning the Inaugural Palmetto Pointe Open.

  Charlotte, Daddy, Brian, and Deirdre sat at a table in the far left corner. I wandered toward them, leaned down and hugged each one.

  Charlotte stood. “Wow, darlin’, you have so outdone yourself. This is absolutely amazing.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brian came next. “The band is unbelievable. You downplayed how good they are.”

  “They sound great in here, don’t they?”

  They all nodded. Deirdre lifted her hand, pointed to the stage with her wineglass. “You were right, I woulda recognized Jimmy.” She shook her head. “Crazy memories.”

  “Yes, crazy.” I pulled a stray leaf from the palm frond off their table, when Caroline walked up next to me, tapped my elbow.

  “Kara, we have an issue with a steak that’s too raw. Would you like me to talk to the patron or do you want to?”

  I turned toward my family and Charlotte and rolled my eyes. “Y’all have so much fun that it counts for me too.” I walked off with Caroline. “I’ll send the caterer out. You can continue to walk the tables and check on people, make sure there’s no other major crisis.”

  Caroline touched the shoulder of a young woman next to her. “Kara, I’d like you to meet my friend, Mia.”

  I nodded. “Hi, Mia. Nice to meet you, hope you enjoy the party.”

  “Thank you.” She nodded her head of round, bulbous curls surrounding a cherub-dimpled face. “What an amazing party. The band is fab.”

  “Thanks.” A slow tingle of recognition spread down my arms and chest, then reached my mind. Mia?

  Peyton.

  Caroline and Mia wound through the crowd. I caught up to them, touched Caroline’s elbow. “Excuse us, Mia. I need to talk to Caroline.”

  “No problem. I need to get back to my table.” She nodded, glanced over her shoulder with a slight grimace.

  “Caroline, who was that?”

  “An old friend I talked into buying one of these tickets for charity.” She shifted her weight back and forth on her stiletto heels.

  “You knew she used to be engaged to Peyton, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. She’s my best friend—I tried to tell you a couple times that my dearest friend used to date him, but it always seemed like the wrong time, and I didn’t want to get fired . . . and—”

  “Date him? She was engaged to him, Caroline.”

  “I know, but it wasn’t for long, and . . . I’m sorry, I guess I shoulda said something.”

  “Yeah, that probably would’ve been a good idea. Anything you’d like to tell me now?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  I swiveled on my heels to walk away when a thought, like the poke of a sharp pin against my chest, came to me. I stopped, looked back to Caroline. “Does Peyton know you’re friends with Mia?”

  She grimaced. “Yes, my boyfriend and I went out with them a few times a couple years ago.”

  “Thank you, Caroline. Please check on table six. It looks as though they’re trying to get our attention.”

  I glanced around the room for Peyton, and found him leaning against a pillar at the back of the room. I wound my way toward him. He pulled me close. “I love you, Kara. You know that.”

  I didn’t answer, but I did allow his arm to rest over my shoulder.

  We stood together and listened to Phil thank the crowd, then ask Peyton to come onstage and say a few words to his hometown fans. He grabbed my hand, led me toward the stage to thunderous applause.

  When the tables had been cleared and the band had packed up and gone, I stood at the back of the room with the satisfaction of a job well done. We’d raised well over our monetary goal for the Tuberous Sclerosis Society. I sighed, picked up my satchel and headed for the back door. Peyton had left hours earlier with his golf buddies; I’d see him in the morning. I had a few questions to ask him, but now was definitely not the time.

  The parking lot was empty save for the catering trucks, employee cars, and the Unknown Souls bus. I clicked the button on my key to unlock the car door, then turned to the sound of popping gravel. Jack stood against the band bus, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. His chinos were wrinkled, his cotton button-down open at the top. A gas lamp flickered from the back door of the clubhouse, sending shadows across his face, his hair.

  We stood like this for a long moment, neither of us moving, staring at each other across the dark night. Then he stepped into the bus and closed the door. I glanced up at the sky, at a single star shimmering above. “I won,” I said out loud. “I saw it first.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I entered the foyer with the last of the grocery bags, shut the door behind me with my foot. I was moving toward the kitchen when I heard a knock, loud and insistent.

  “I’m coming,” I said, and dropped the bag onto the kitchen counter. Fatigue pulled at me like an anchor. I just wanted to unload these groceries and crawl into bed. The tournament and benefit had gone so well, and the following week had been hectic with wrap-up. I just wanted to crash.

  I opened the door to Jack.

  He stood on my porch in madras shorts and a white, wrinkled button-down with rolled-up sleeves. His tan arms glowed in the overhead gas lantern. Evening had settled into night and I couldn’t see past him.

  “Kara,” he said.

  “Hi, Jack,” I said. “Did we forget to pay you or something?” I tapped the side of my forehead with my finger. “I’m so damn tired I can’t remember. . . .” An unnamed emotion pushed against my chest wanting to get out.

  He placed his hands on either side of my face. I froze; my heart stopped and waited. Then he leaned in and kissed me and the thought returned: one. I pulled away. “What are you doing?”

  “I came to see you. . . . Follow me,” he said, and motioned toward the yard.

  I did.

  We wound our way around the lawns to the end of the street, where an old footbridge hovered over the marsh. Night overtook us; only the sounds of the water flowing into the estuary filled the air. Then he stopped, pulled me toward him. “Okay, I’ve practiced this . . . so just listen.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “Kara, I’ve loved you since I can remember loving at all. I didn’t come find you last time, I let it go, but I won’t let go this time. I can’t.”

  “No.” I dropped my face into my hands, but I still tasted his kiss—warm, sweet. Everything in me reached for him, but I wouldn’t allow it. Hadn’t I already learned the lesson? It was foolish to believe this was real—like Maeve’s story—running after an old story, a legend or myth, when I had a real life, a true story already. “I can’t do this, Jack. I’m engaged. I’ve promised another man to marry him—there is integrity in that.”

  “There is integrity in being who you really are.”

  “There’s . . . a promise.” I twisted to the edge of the footbridge. “You only love what you remember about me. You don’t know me.”

  He touched my arm. “Just listen.”

  Mist surrounded us, as if it had been there all along, but it just now touched us. “Jack, this is too hard. You can’t come here and tell me you love me when I—”

  “When you what?”

  “I have a whole life: I have a fiancé, I have plans and . . . I mailed the invitations.”

  “Change them.”

  “Change what?”

  “Change your well-laid plans, Kara.”

  “I can’t, Jack.”

  We stared at each other across the years that had once separated us.

  “I did come back. I told you I would and I did,” he said.

  “I’m the one who found you, Jack, remember? You didn’t come looking for me.”

  “Yes, I did.
Right now. I am here right now. I did come find you.”

  “This isn’t some cute Irish love legend.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The reasons I found you were all about curiosity—about the past and first love. I got carried away with a story and it wasn’t even true.” My voice cracked at the last word.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but the reasons don’t matter, Kara.” His face shone without any light falling on it. I longed to grab him, wrap my hands in his hair, surround myself with this confession and acceptance. But something held me back—something to do with the very loud voice in my head telling me not to foolishly run after selfish dreams and desires. Something to do with messing up my life by discarding my plans, abandoning my good character.

  He repeated his words. “The reasons you found me don’t matter—at all. All that matters is that we’ve found each other, that we are supposed to be together, that I adore you and love you and always have. I don’t see how it could be any other way. Your life is so damn full that you can’t even see or hear what matters . . . how much I adore you.”

  “That is not all that matters.” My voice came higher and harder than any time I could remember since I was a child.

  “What else matters, Kara? What your father thinks? What Deirdre thinks? What the residents of Palmetto Pointe think? What else matters?”

  “Honoring a promise matters. I can’t just go chasing after the next good feeling, the next best thing. This is real life, with real invitations mailed, real rings and real family.”

  “Where is the strong girl who stood up to my drunk father on a summer morning, the woman who came to find me in Savannah? The woman who always knows what she wants? The right thing? Is the right thing always pleasing everybody else, not being who you are? Fulfilling somebody else’s idea of Kara Larson and who she should be instead of who you believe you are?”

  “What gives you the right to say that?” A furious wind rose behind my words. “I am the Kara Larson I want to be. The Kara Larson I . . . am.”

  “Okay. If that is true . . . I’ll leave. Now.” He paused. “But I don’t believe it’s true. I see the hints of you in there: the girl who loves fiercely and not logically.”

  “Believe what you want,” I said.

  He turned away from me then, and I felt as though my body rose above me. I understood that as much as I hurt now, the pain would be worse later: wondering if I should have embraced him, loved him—it would be worse later than even now.

  Strength, I needed strength. I faced the water to find it—but felt only a hollow emptiness that my promises could not fill. I turned to Jack, but his back was to me.

  “Jack,” I said, or thought I said as he walked across the bridge, away from me.

  He spoke, but he didn’t turn. “I’m looking for the reasons you came back into my life. I’m looking up, down, to the left, to the right, and I can find only one.” He moved back around now, returned to me, touched the side of my face and kissed me. “The reason is because I love you. If there is one thing I will not do, it is force you to feel something that isn’t there for me—to talk you into something you don’t want.”

  Then he walked away, and I was alone again.

  I don’t know how long I stayed in the dark, but I believed that if I stayed long enough I could leave what had just happened inside the ink-blot night. But I couldn’t, so I rose, went home, packed my suitcase.

  Half an hour later, I stood on my brother’s front porch, stared out to the water. Daddy didn’t like Brian living here, a shack on Silver Creek surrounded by stores and bars. But it was Brian’s one act of official rebellion—if it could even be called that.

  I knocked on the door, and it opened as I lifted my hand a second time. Brian threw his arms around me. “Hey, Sis, whatcha doing here?”

  I shrugged. “Running away. I was hoping I could stay here for a couple days.”

  Brian drew his hand through his long blond curls, pointed down to my suitcase. “Haven’t run very far, huh?”

  “I guess not, but it counts.” I grinned and shrugged. “The first and last time I ran away, I went home that same night. Still got grounded because I was late for dinner—the unforgivable sin.”

  “That would be my sister. If you’re gonna run away, at least do it in a safe and reasonable manner.” He grinned and backed up, knowing that my pinch to the side of his arm was imminent.

  Instead, I picked up my suitcase. “Can I come in or not?”

  He swept his hand across the warped heart-of-pine floors. “Of course. I guess I’ll cancel my hot date tonight.”

  I followed him to the back of the house, where he took my suitcase and threw it on a bed in a cramped room. I stood in the doorway. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “You can stay as long as you want. But you gotta tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m not sure, Brian. I just had this desperate need to get away. Far away. But, like you said, this is as far as I made it.”

  “Why didn’t you go to Deirdre’s?” He leaned against the door-jamb.

  I rolled my eyes. “You have to ask?”

  “Or Charlotte’s, or your fiancé’s?”

  “Okay.” I held up my palms in surrender. “If you don’t want me here, just say so.”

  “No, you’re more than welcome. Can I do anything?”

  “I’d love a drink.” I pushed him back with my hands, then gave his left biceps the deserved pinch from the front-door conversation.

  He jumped back. “Kara Larson, you are so lucky I’m your brother.”

  And as his footsteps echoed down the hallway, I whispered, “Yes, I am.”

  I threw my suitcase on the guest bed pushed up against the wall, which doubled as a couch in Brian’s half-used art studio. I touched the edges of a just-begun long-abandoned painting of sea oats. Were any of us Larson children listening to the hints of our heart, or were we all hiding our desire in the back corner room?

  I sighed and walked out onto the porch. The dark creek spread before Brian’s porch like the silver-edged infinity I’d imagined my mama had slipped into all those years ago. The moon hid behind the house. I took a deep breath and settled into the rocking chair.

  “Well,” I said to my brother, imitating my dad’s voice, “I just don’t understand why you would live in such a place.”

  “I know, it’s a dump.” Brian sat down next to me, handed me a glass of scotch and ice.

  “You are so lucky.” I took a long swallow of the drink, let my head cloud over with its warmth. I wanted the questions to take on a fuzzy edge.

  “I am lucky,” Brian said, “and so are you. So tell me why you’re here.”

  “You really don’t have to listen to it, Brian. I just needed a place to crash and think things through.”

  He sat with me for a moment, and we absorbed the sound of the incoming tide we couldn’t see in the darkness, flowing over the oyster shells with a wind-chime song. These tides had gone on before me, and would go on after me. They had gone on before Maeve and before Mama and before life.

  “Brian—go on your date, I just need to be quiet anyway.”

  He hugged me before he left. “Wake me if you want to talk.”

  The dream is clouded; I make out the shapes of the landscape, but not the details. I am late for my wedding, and I can’t find the correct turn off Magnolia Street to the church. I go up and down, up and down, walking on the sidewalks I’ve known my whole life, but they are different, shifted to the right or maybe the left and the turn is gone. I am starting to panic, running and ruining my hand-appliquéd water pearls on the silk stiletto heels. The turn is gone. I run back to the garden shop—the one where I bought the angel—and call for Mrs. Marshall, but she isn’t there; she’s gone to my wedding.

  I startled, awakened with a cold panic.

  Confusion drifted over me like dust settling on a windowsill. I couldn’t pull past the wondering—where was I? Why? Where was Peyton and
why was he mad at me? Why couldn’t I find him?

  I opened my eyes to an art easel in the corner of the room—Brian’s house. I jumped from the bed and dressed, went outside to the rising morning to yank a rowboat from beneath the porch.

  I launched the boat, leaned back to watch the sun rise over the cordgrass blowing sideways inside the wind; I trailed my fingers along the water. Be careful what you believe . . .

  I spoke out loud, “I believe . . . ,” and found a vacant space as empty as the discarded shells on the mud banks.

  I tried again, lifting my face to the wind. “I believed . . .” And I realized that, this time, I spoke about the past—about what I had believed. “I believed that Mama left us willingly, I believed that I loved Peyton with a full heart, I believed Jack was gone forever.” I took a deep breath, lifted my voice to the sky. “I believed I knew my heart, I believed Maeve’s story. . . .”

  The sun burst from the horizon in a streak of pink light and the world unfolded; it opened and spread its wings wide and broad, and for the briefest moment, I saw it all—all the questions. I didn’t see any answers, but the questions, which had been rattling around in my brain like pieces of broken china I couldn’t put back together, became as delineated as the coastline: What was my story? Why was I here? Should I marry Peyton, and did I love him as I should? What were my gifts and how should I use them? Did I love Jack or only the youth he represented—a time when I felt loved?

  I drew back from these larger questions, attempted to fold the world back in around me like a blanket, so that it would surround me and comfort me. If I understood the questions, where were the answers?

  Mama’s words came to me: In the hints of your heart.

  In all the times I’d tried to find her, remember her, listen for the whisper of her voice, I’d only found scraps of torn memory. Now her words I’d never actually heard washed over me.