Hugh turned. “Everything alright back there?”
“Allergies,” she said.
“High pollen count this month. Bad time of the year for hay fever sufferers.” Hugh beamed. “Are you enjoying your time in Newton Rushford? Such a special place. I expressed my doubts about Gabriel leaving the army to come back, but who can resist that magnificent church?”
“You guys met in the army?” Marianne said.
“Yes. I did some work with Gabriel’s regiment.”
How bizarre. Nothing about this guy said military. In the copse up ahead, a woodpecker tapped away. Gabriel asked Hugh something, and their chatter slipped back into a pattern. They seemed to be discussing a personality clash in the youth group. Marianne stopped listening and ran lyrics silently to keep her mind from Jade.
Skirting the unkempt hedgerow, they continued on an uneven, overgrown path. Marianne raised her arms to avoid brushing against stinging nettles, and watched her feet. Tripping and falling face down in rabbit droppings was not high on her agenda. The landscape, no longer pancake flat, rolled across the estate of Gabriel’s patron, the modern-day lady of the manor. Apparently she had given her approval for them to enter private land. And yet Marianne had often dragged Gabriel across the estate to see the spring display of bluebells and primroses in the Old Wood. How odd that as an adult he sought permission for something they’d taken for granted as kids.
They clambered over the stile into the cool shade of the wood and followed the compacted dirt path. The air smelled of peat and fox, and a large bird swooped to their left.
“My, my,” Hugh said. “I think that was a tawny owl. Wish I’d brought my binoculars.”
The remnants of bluebell plants, their leaves yellowing and their flowers long gone, drooped on either side of the path. Birds sang to each other, and another woodpecker tapped.
“No bugs,” Marianne said.
“I’m sorry, my dear?” Hugh turned.
“At this time of the year in the North Carolina forest you can’t escape the stereo of frogs, crickets, katydids, and cicadas. Here it’s just birdsong. I mean, we have birds. Tons. The hawks are my favorite. Oh and the hummingbirds! I love my little hummers.”
“Feeling homesick?” Hugh beamed.
“No,” she lied, and continued walking past gnarled trees, her head down.
They crested a gentle slope, and a small clearing opened up ahead, bathed in sunlight. The perfect setting for fairy circles. Or satanic rituals under a full moon.
“Right,” Gabriel said, and pulled off his backpack. “Anyone for tea?”
Hugh shook out the tartan rug and gestured for Marianne to sit.
“Not joining me?” she said.
“Gummy knee, my dear. If I get down, the two of you will have to haul me back up.” He leaned against a twisted tree trunk. Sybil plopped down next to him, her chin resting on his boot. “Gabriel mentioned you work in the music industry?”
“My husband and I own a recording studio.”
“Record anyone big?”
“All the time,” she said.
“Got it. Discretion and all that. Most admirable.”
Sybil watched everything coming out of the backpack. When Gabriel reached in for the fondant fancies, she sat up, ears pricked. If Sybil weren’t a dog, Marianne would have said, Back off. “What’s your line of work?”
Hugh scratched behind Sybil’s ears. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
A setup, and she never saw it coming. Gabriel held out a plastic cup of milky tea, which she refused. Slowly, eyes fixed on him, she stood. “Wanted an opinion off the record, did you?”
“I’m semiretired and here as Gabriel’s friend, nothing more,” Hugh said.
“A friend who can give expert advice.” Ignoring him, Marianne kept glaring at Gabriel. “I’m going back to the house.”
“Please stay,” Gabriel said.
“Why? So your friend can give you free advice about the resident freak? I don’t appreciate being blindsided, Gabriel.” She turned to Hugh. “No offense, I’m sure you’re an A-plus psychiatrist, but I have a long history of being misdiagnosed, mistreated, and mismedicated. Not game for more of the same. I’m sure you understand.”
“Only too well, my dear. Were you first diagnosed with schizophrenia or unipolar depression?”
Gabriel, the treacherous toad, had shared more than her work experience. “The former. And then followed, ohhh, a good twenty years when every word that came out of my mouth was second-guessed and reinterpreted. The last time I was admitted to residential treatment, I was told my career was a delusion.” She turned back to Gabriel. “They took away my music, the only part of me that isn’t defective.”
At least he had the sense to stay quiet. Hugh, however, did not. That was the trouble with psychiatrists. They always assumed they knew best.
“I’m fully aware that my profession is not above reproach,” Hugh boomed, his voice so much larger than his stature. “But my job doesn’t define me any more than bipolar disorder defines you. I can only repeat that I’m off duty and not here to spy on you.”
“I didn’t accuse you of spying. Don’t put words into my mouth, I’m not paranoid.” Not yet. “I thought I could trust you, Gabriel. I thought you weren’t going to box me in. That was some impressive crap you dropped on me.”
Gabriel held her gaze with icy blue eyes that betrayed nothing: no drop of remorse, no twitch of anger. “I asked Hugh to join us because I needed help figuring out a possible problem with one of the girls in the youth group.”
“And if he happens to observe the deranged woman at the same time, that’s okay?”
“Quite frankly, yes.”
“Oh.” She sat back down and picked at the edge of the blanket. Honesty was the last thing she’d expected. In recent months she’d grown used to being discussed behind closed doors.
Something rustled through the ferns in the shade behind them, and Sybil bounded off to investigate, heading in the wrong direction.
“I asked you to promise me that you wouldn’t hurt yourself,” Gabriel said. “You declined. Hugh’s my backup.” He attempted once more to give her a cup of tea. This time she accepted. “You know how to manage your illness; I don’t. I was hoping Hugh could advise me on my behavior, not yours, so I don’t inadvertently makes things worse.”
“Mood disorders are fascinating: schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, cyclothymia, bipolar I, and bipolar II,” Hugh said, between slurps of tea.
“Not if you have one, I can assure you.”
“Are you bipolar I or II?”
“You’re the expert. What do you think?” Marianne tightened her grip on her plastic cup.
“It’s not for me to guess, my dear. Are you taking your meds?”
“Yes.” She looked him straight in the eye.
“Are you sleeping?”
“Not much. But I’m not used to these long days of never-ending light.”
“Are you in touch with your psychiatrist?”
“Affirmative.”
Gabriel glanced at her. That lie wasn’t quite so believable. “I know what I’m doing, and no offense, but you know nothing about me or my version of the illness.”
“Quite right.” Hugh chomped on a chocolate digestive. “Pick one hundred people with bipolar disorder and no two would have the same pattern. But might I make a suggestion?”
Seemed he was going to.
“Since you’re a long way from home, it would be wise to have some protocol in place here. Would you be willing to register with Gabriel’s GP?”
Gabriel gave a hesitant smile. “That’s not a bad idea. I’m still with the Pytle Surgery, Marianne. They might have your old medical records.”
“I’ll think about it. And for the record, Doctor, if you’re concerned about suicidal ideation, no, I don’t own a gun—oops, wrong country—and no, I’m not having suicidal thoughts. Although”—she narrowed her eyes at Gabriel—“I am thinking about throwing hot tea over
an old friend.”
“How about a fondant fancy?” Gabriel sat next to her. “Are the pink ones still your favorite?”
TWELVE
JADE
Jade sat on the shaded front steps of Nightjar. Despite the heat, a summer evening was in full swing in downtown Carrboro. A band played folksy music on the green space outside Weaver Street Market, and kids squealed. And now that she’d cleaned out and filled the feeders, the hummingbirds were back. Two red-throated males were fighting over the sugar water, their wings buzzing like souped-up bees, their chittering as soothing as wind chimes. Media Rage was still closeted in the studio with Darius and Sasha, and after only four days, this six p.m. ritual with the English vicar and the hummers was fast becoming an oasis of bliss. Not that she’d changed her opinions about birds or holy rollers, but those little feathered guys were so many levels of adorable, and what was not to love about a dude who was punctual to a fault, considerate as fuck, and funny?
If she was being flat-out honest, their text exchanges had become the highlight of her day and a much-needed escape from Darius, who had transformed into an aggressive perfectionist intent on making tracking room A explode with music day and night.
Her phone sounded the Sherwood Forest text alert she’d programmed in for Gabriel. Smiling, she read the screen.
Sorry I’m a little late. You’re not reporting me to the police, are you?
Jade glanced at her watch. He was two minutes behind schedule, tops. Let me consider that. How’s our favorite crazy person?
The gray bubble came up. She loved this part, the anticipation of what he’d say next.
I’d forgotten how she can suck all the air out of a room.
Too much energy?
No, just intense, and I’m used to living alone. It’s hard to find quiet time for my vicar-ish contemplation.
Contemplation?
Prayer.
That was a conversation killer. I’ll order you some noise-canceling earplugs on Amazon UK.
Gracious, no. Please don’t!
Dude, I have the company credit card number. Think of it as a thank-you gift from your imaginary houseguest.
I’m serious. I’m not comfortable with that.
Fine, she’d pay. She typed k and then went back and deleted it. He might text, but she doubted he used text shorthand. OK. How’s her mood?
Lighter. Moments of happiness.
Was that because of Gabriel? And if so, was that regular happy or this-guy-still-floats-my-boat happy?
Is she sleeping any better? Trick question.
Can’t say, but if that was an either/or question, I’d pick no. I’m not the world’s best sleeper and she’s often moving around when I’m up.
No late-night romps in the vicar’s bedroom, then. Hopefully Gabriel was fat and bald. He had to be Marianne’s age, which meant a couple of years younger than Darius, but Darius had the good-hair genes and a decent body since he was a health freak. Despite his weakness for chocolate and espresso.
You still haven’t reported back about her meds.
I won’t snoop, but she assured Hugh she was taking them. I’m choosing to trust her.
Not the smartest move, but she’d give him that one. Is she eating?
Like a bird. But she did sing for me tonight. Still has the voice of a nightingale.
Or a nightjar? Jade chewed the corner of her lip. Marianne had once told her the studio name was a random choice for a bird lover. What else had she lied about?
It would appear you’ve rumbled me. Yes, that was my nickname for her.
Darius must never know, OK? So, she’s still awake? Tell her it’s lights-out time.
Yes, ma’am.
Jade smiled. Marianne had never failed to choose good men. Even husband number two was a stand-up guy. Insane, with an armful of track marks, but he’d made Jade promise to take care of Marianne. Would Darius, one day, demand the same promise?
We’ve never talked about music. Are you musical?
Tone deaf. The choirmaster has forbidden me from singing hymns into the mic.
I meant real music, not churchy kumbaya.
Hymns aren’t real music?
C’mon, Padre. Not in my world.
He didn’t reply. Way to end a cozy little chat, Jade.
How about rock music? She typed quickly and hit “Send.”
U2 is my sermon writing music. Does that improve my street cred? And I like Tears for Fears, the Style Council . . .
Great, he was trapped in the eighties with songs that reminded him of life circa Marianne. I’ll work on a song list for you. Do you have an iTunes account?
Of course.
Praise the Lord. You do live in the modern age. Now that’s a band for you, the Strokes.
The studio door opened behind her. “What’s the news?” Darius said.
She turned. “Nothing much to report other than the fact she’s messing with his prayer time.”
“His prayer time?” Darius frowned.
“Man of God, remember? Let me sign off and I’ll be right there.”
Gotta get back to work. Nighty night, Father.
Nighty night, Atheist.
She smiled but kept her head down so Darius couldn’t see. “Gabriel’s more than up for the challenge of Marianne-sitting.”
“You think they’re having sex?”
“Yuck, no. He’s like Friar Tuck in that Robin Hood movie with Kevin Costner. Jolly and a bit spunky.” She got up and stretched. “Hard as it is for you and me to believe, he takes all this religious shit seriously. Would probably poke out his eyes with one of Marianne’s knitting needles before making the moves on a married woman.”
Great, now she was making up more shit. Gabriel seemed decent enough, but if she were placing bets on whether one of them crossed the line while they were shacked up together, her money would be on Marianne. She was always the wild card. And Darius’s glower suggested he’d taken her words for what they were: fake reassurance.
THIRTEEN
MARIANNE
Sleep? Who needed sleep? It was always light here. And God said, “Let there be light!” Light came with such energy, such creativity. Such power. Marianne spun around the kitchen and laughed. She could fly! Happiness beyond all reasoning. The world was hers for the taking! Girls In Motion needed to expand. Go global! Had the great minds of the world ever mapped out how productive you could be without sleep? No? Then she would!
Was this what happened to Gabriel when he found religion—the knowledge that he could move mountains? Had God seduced Gabriel the way mania had seduced her?
Hello, old friend, I’ve missed you.
Time to organize a fund-raiser for the organ. Committee, schmittee. Blah, blah, blah. Gabriel had far too many committee meetings and they led to nothing. Nothing! She could stage a gig, bring in rock stars. Snap her fingers and raise millions. Put Newton Rushford on the map.
She zipped around the kitchen. Only one cabinet left to clean out. Gabriel, Mr. Secondhand Guy, needed new everything.
She would cook tonight. A four-course meal! Now that the weather had warmed up, they ate dinner outside under Gabriel’s pergola. She needed a pergola for her deck. Must hire a local carpenter to make one. Sometimes they talked, she and Gabriel, sometimes they didn’t. They listened to music. It was always her iPod, not his, plugged into the dock. He let her choose the songs, but whenever she turned the music up, he turned it down. Party time! She would throw a party for the neighbors. Music. She needed music.
She swiped her iPod off the kitchen table and scrolled from one song to the next. Why could she not find the right music? She threw the iPod down and started fiddling with Gabriel’s radio. Last night he’d asked her to sing. She didn’t sing for an audience anymore, but she had for him. And she would for the organ fund-raiser. It would net millions. Millions! Her music would soar to the rafters. Inspire, move, transform.
Marianne ran through some warm-up vocal exercises. Then belted out the first verse of �
��Amazing Grace.” Still had the best voice in the world!
What was Gabriel doing today? Like a watchdog, he never strayed far. Hugh, who wasn’t so bad when he stopped acting the shrink, had popped in yesterday while Gabriel was out dealing with some dead guy’s family. After Hugh left she watched the entire first season of Downton Abbey because Gabriel had a wedding couple over, followed by a meeting with his “lay band,” the glorified group of helpers he talked about as if they were some kind of cult. Gabriel gave her the DVDs as a belated birthday present. He remembered her birthday was July 17. What a guy! Couldn’t remember when his was. Around Thanksgiving? Enough to put him a year ahead all through school. In playgroup she used to tell everyone they were twins, until some snotty-nosed kid called her stupid, and Gabriel had defended her honor with a wooden sword.
She spread her arms wide. Julie-fucking-Andrews in The Sound of Music! Her mind whirred, spitting out ticker tape facts, plans, answers to the universe. Faster than a computer, faster than the speed of light. What was she thinking, using meds to control this? She didn’t need meds. Life was so clear, so sharp, so beautiful. She could see particles. Quanta!
She needed a new outfit for the fund-raiser. Something spectacular! Her first performance in twenty years. She danced into Gabriel’s study, the one room in the house with personality: lots of lamps; a huge, black, messy desk—very contemporary, that was a shocker; a saggy black leather two-seater next to a small, round chrome table with a box of tissues—guess that was for the recently bereaved; rows and rows of books. Murder mysteries on the top shelf. Lots of memoirs about grief. And photos too. Him in graduation robes with his parents. A family photo of a beach vacay, the boys in shorts: Gabriel laughing; Simon frowning slightly with a forerunner of that sexy smirk. Total hunk, total fuck-up. Had Simon ever been truly happy? He put on a good show. World-class actor. But when people stopped applauding, Simon stopped pretending. Not with her, though. He didn’t hide shit from her. God, the things he used to do to her . . . Where was it the family went on vacation every summer? Cornwall!
Echoes of Family Page 10
