During each evening cocktail hour Bram dutifully reports how many pages he’s written or tells me about some of his research. He’s published cookbooks, but they’re the coffee-table kind with photographs of lavish dishes and fancy dinner parties. For those he created and perfected the recipes while his editor wrote the headings. The memoir will have some recipes, but he’s mainly telling the stories that go with them. He claims it’s the hardest and most grueling work he’s ever done, and he thinks that anyone who writes a book deserves a Nobel Prize just for finishing the damn thing. Based on the articles I’ve published in professional journals, I agree with him wholeheartedly. Writing isn’t for the faint of heart.
Deep in thought as I rinse out the thermos, I don’t hear Bram come up behind me, and I let out a startled yelp when he puts his hands on my waist and his lips to my neck. “You scared the devil out of me,” I laugh, leaning into him.
“Umm. I love it when you talk dirty,” Bram murmurs into my neck, in the melodious voice that always makes my knees go weak. I told him once that his voice melted my resolve like the hot wax dripping down a candle.
I turn to slip my arms around him, then peer up into the deep green of his eyes. “I just love it when you talk, period. You could read a phone book to me and it’d sound like the Song of Solomon.”
He raises an eyebrow and grins a wicked grin. “Damn, baby. That might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Then I need to work on my pillow talk,” I say, returning his grin.
“Wanna start now?” He cups my face in his hands for a kiss. When we pull away, he takes my arm to lead me upstairs, but I hold back.
“Let’s wait till we can fall asleep together. That’s my favorite part.”
“If that’s the case, then I need to work on my technique.” We laugh together, and his gaze falls on the thermos I dropped into the sink when he embraced me. “Wish I’d known you were seeing Nellie Bee today. I’ve got some papers to send Charlie.”
“I wasn’t planning on seeing her until later in the week, but she called an emergency sistah meeting.”
“Emergency meeting? What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you open our wine, and I’ll grab the glasses. I’ll tell you while we catch the last of the sun-glow.”
But when we settle into our favorite chairs on the piazza and clink our glasses together, I have second thoughts about sharing Nellie Bee’s concerns. Not only are the treetops gilded in the pinkish-gold glow of the setting sun, so are Bram and I—as well as the porch chairs and hanging plants and even the wineglasses in our hands, and it’s simply too beautiful to spoil. When he prods me about his sister’s so-called emergency meeting, I shake my head and hold up a hand until the glow has faded into twilight, and the cicadas tune up for their nightly concert. As is his habit, Bram likes to have a couple glasses of wine before starting dinner. Because of the mojitos, I can only have half a glass, so I make it last as long as possible while basking in the warm glow of our contentment.
Bram breaks into my reverie. “Okay, Bride of Dracula. What aren’t you telling me?”
That brings on a smile. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”
“That was our first big fight, best I remember.”
“Oh, yeah, and not long after we married. It was your fault, of course. You snapped at me about something and I snapped back. Somehow we ended up yelling at each other. I said your ancestor Bram Stoker would be proud of you because you suck, too. I thought it very clever of me.”
“Not as clever as me calling you the Bride of Dracula.”
“Was, too.”
“Was not.”
Again, we smile at each other, and I finish off my wine. When he holds up the bottle, I wave him off. Then, abruptly, as if to cover up his concern, he asks, “Is Nellie Bee sick? Or Charlie?”
“Oh, sweetheart—no,” I say, chagrined. “Nothing like that. Nellie Bee’s just worried about . . . ah . . . the special that the network’s doing, and how it’s going to work out.”
Bram rolls his eyes. “That’s ridiculous. It’ll go smooth as clockwork, as Nellie Bee knows full well. She’s been to enough of my shows.”
“Well, she’ll be in this one, which is quite different,” I remind him. I feel guilty putting it that way since that’s not Nellie Bee’s concern, but I’m loathe to bring Jocasta into our lovely evening.
“That’s even more ridiculous. Nellie Bee’s far from camera shy. Matter of fact, she’s as much of a showboat as I am. All she and Charlie have to do is the same as the original special—chat, eat, and have a jolly good time. Or at least, fake having one. I’m sure my big-mouth sister can handle that.”
“I don’t think that’s all she’s concerned about,” I say hesitantly.
Bram rolls his eyes again. “Oh, I know what’s bothering her, and I might’ve known she’d run to you about it. Which really annoys me, I have to say.” He pours himself another glass of wine then slams the bottle down on the glass-topped table between us, causing me to startle. “Nellie Bee needs to chill out, and I plan to tell her so. I don’t want her interfering in our marriage like she did my last one.”
I blink at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
Scowling, he turns his head to fix his dark gaze over the lagoon. The water’s so murky that even the lingering pink glow fails to brighten its blackness. Count Dracula’s beast-filled moat, I think, which usually amuses me. Today it feels ominous.
Bram rubs his face wearily. “I’m glad that you and Nellie Bee have bonded, Chris, I really am. At first I was a bit uneasy about the two of you getting so close because I know her so well. Too well. I adore my sister, but she can’t seem to stop meddling in my life. She’s always done it.”
“I don’t see it that way, Bram. She’s overly protective of you, but—”
“Overprotective?” he groans. “C’mon, Chris. I’m almost sixty years old. What the hell does my sister need to protect me from?”
From yourself, I want to say—to shout, even—but don’t. I see where he’s going with this and don’t like it. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself as I try to come up with the best approach to take. Bram pours himself another glass of wine, which I note with concern. I didn’t need Nellie Bee to tell me that he drinks more when he’s stressed; I’ve witnessed it. We all do at times, but his tendency to drown his sorrows has caused him too many problems not to be worrisome. “Bram . . .” I begin cautiously, but he stops me.
“Don’t answer that. It was a rhetorical question.” His tone raises my hackles, but he goes on. “Listen, Chris; you and I have been together over five years. We’re doing fine without anyone’s interference.” Turning his laser-like eyes on me, he asks, “Don’t you agree?”
I lean over to put a hand on his arm. “Sweetheart, of course we are. We get along beautifully.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “I can be hard to live with, I know. I’m difficult and demanding and hot-headed—”
“As well as tender, loving, and thoughtful. We are all flawed, Bram. I can certainly be difficult, too.”
“You’re stubborn as hell,” he says, and I smile.
“You weren’t supposed to agree with me.” When he smiles a bit ruefully, I press on. “But I don’t agree that Nellie Bee’s overprotectiveness will affect our marriage.” Not above pulling the therapy card when need be, I add, “And you know I’m alert to such things in the families I work with. I’m very much aware how family interference can be a harmful factor in a marital relationship.”
“Oh, God,” he says. “How did I end up with someone who uses phrases like that?”
Grinning, I swat his arm. “Just your good fortune, I guess.”
The mood lightens, and his shoulders relax as he sits back to sip his wine. As tempting as it is to let his accusation against Nellie Bee go, it’s not wise to let it become a rift between us. Switching back to therapist mode, I echo what he said. “Am I hearing you correctly, that you feel Nellie Bee
has a tendency to be overprotective and interfere in your life?”
He barks out a laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t just say that.”
“Bram!”
He looks at me with a mocking grin. “Yes, my dear Dr. Murray, you heard me correctly. My sister needs to give it a rest. I haven’t said anything before because you’re so fond of her, and . . . well . . . it hasn’t been necessary until now. But you need to know that Nellie Bee’s interference was a factor in the breakup of my marriage to Jocasta.”
“How so?”
Bram sighs, as if reluctant to say more. For a long minute I think he’s not going to, then he explains. “Nellie Bee disliked Jocasta from day one. Like I’ve told you, I met her when I was working in Charleston as a chef. Long before I got my own show. Jocasta was way out of my league, but somehow we hit it off and started dating. Mom and Da were still teaching at USC then; Nellie Bee was living with them to finish her master’s, so I took Jocasta to meet the family. I think Nellie Bee was intimidated by her, Jocasta coming from such a prominent old family. Whatever it was between them, it started then. Nellie Bee told our parents that Jocasta thought she was above our humble family. But Jocasta isn’t like that. It was just my sister’s insecurities coming out.”
I long to argue that, au contraire, I’d seen his snobbish ex-wife in action, but I let him have his say. “And what was Jocasta’s attitude toward Nellie Bee?”
“As you might imagine, she picked up on my sister’s dislike of her. They never got along. Which was regrettable to me since I loved them both. When I got my big break with the show, we bought the place on Fripp, and Jocasta and I started our family. Then Nellie Bee married Charlie and moved to Beaufort, where he had his law practice. Mikey was about six when the first real problems between Jocasta and me started. He was twelve when we split.”
He falls silent and I prod him to continue. “And you think Nellie Bee moving here gave her the opportunity to interfere in your marriage?”
“I know it did, Chris. Nothing my wife did found favor with my hyper-critical sister. But worse, she tried to turn me against Jocasta, too.”
“Oh? Tell me how.”
He fiddles with his wineglass, lost in thought. “I was traveling so much, and after we had Mikey, Jocasta no longer went along. Fripp can be a lonely place, and I understood when she and Mikey stayed with her parents in Charleston while I was away. Then Nellie Bee told me that Jocasta was seeing her old boyfriend—who her parents had wanted her to marry—when she was with them. Tongues were wagging all over South Carolina.”
I can’t let this go and say as gently as I can, knowing what a painful subject it is for him: “But sweetheart . . . you told me yourself that your marriage fell apart because your wife got involved with someone else. Surely you can’t blame your sister for that.”
“No. I blame myself. But Nellie Bee shares some blame, too. She set out to poison me against Jocasta by telling me about the old boyfriend, knowing I’d confront Jocasta about it. Which I did. I can be jealous, and we had frightful rows. Jocasta admitted seeing a lot of this guy when she was in Charleston, but swore it wasn’t serious. She was just lonely. I believed her, and we smoothed things over. Until Nellie Bee told Jocasta that I was seeing other women when I traveled—which I wasn’t, by the way—and Jocasta wasn’t as forgiving as I’d been. She’s jealous, too, and wouldn’t accept my denials. That’s when she took Michael, moved back in with her parents, and filed for divorce.”
I jump on the obvious flaw in his reasoning. “If you weren’t cheating on your wife, that means Nellie Bee lied, and for no reason except to cause trouble in your marriage. Do you really believe she’d do that to a beloved brother and nephew, even if she disliked her sister-in-law?”
Exasperated, he runs his hands through his hair. “No, of course not. But it didn’t happen quite that way. Nellie Bee found what she thought was evidence of my affairs, which she shared with Jocasta. If only she’d come to me instead, I could’ve explained it.”
“Evidence? What evidence?”
He glances at me, then sighs heavily. “I got fan mail, Chris. Still do, but nothing like then. It’s what happens in the business—male or female, you get propositioned. And some of the notes and letters were pretty graphic. Nellie Bee’s always nosed through my stuff, and she found some of them that I’d hidden from Jocasta. I should’ve destroyed them, so it was my fault. Damn my male ego, hanging on to them! And look what it costs me.”
It’s a lot for me to take in, and finally I say, “But Bram—why didn’t you tell me this? All you said was that your wife left you to marry a former boyfriend. And how much it hurt when she was awarded full custody, and you saw your son so infrequently.”
“Well, I also told you about Michael blaming me for the breakup. His mother told him that I’d cheated on her and cared more about my sordid affairs than him. That part’s entirely on Jocasta, so don’t think I’m not holding her blameless in this.”
“I know you’re not. But you certainly didn’t tell me that you blamed Nellie Bee for any of it.”
He lowers his head. “I don’t blame her, exactly. But I know what she’s up to. My sister’s having a shit fit about Jocasta’s inclusion in the TV special. That’s what her so-called emergency meeting was about, wasn’t it? She’s trying to enlist your support to stop it from happening.”
“Frankly, her concern seems legitimate to me—considering you failed to tell me not only that you were seeing your ex-wife when you and I met, but that you were seriously considering taking her back.”
Bram’s face darkens. “I was afraid she’d tell you that. Did she tell you how she found out?”
“Yes. You told her.”
“That’s true, but only after she confronted me, claiming she’d heard rumors about me seeing Jocasta. I didn’t buy it, because I knew she’d been snooping in my computer while I was gone. But I let it go.”
“Bram, that’s not the point. You should’ve been the one to tell me this, not your sister. I had to admit to her that it was news to me—despite you and I promising to be honest with each other about our past. That was extremely important to me.”
To my surprise, he gets up so abruptly that his chair slams against the wall. “I’ve got to start dinner,” he says.
“Oh no you don’t!” I stand to face him, and when he won’t meet my gaze, I move around my chair to stop him. “Don’t do this, Bram. We need to talk about it—”
“No, what we need to do is eat.” He looks down at me, but his expression’s guarded. “I’ve been working all day and I’m famished. I’m going to fix dinner, and we’ll talk later.”
Reluctantly, I step aside. Without a backwards glance, he brushes past me to go inside, and the door swings closed behind him. I stand for a few minutes before turning back around, flummoxed. Bram’s unexpected defense of his ex-wife shocks me more than his annoyance with his sister. I can’t decide whether to follow him inside, play sous chef as I usually do, or just let it be. Automatically I pull his chair away from the wall and line it up with mine. My obsessive-compulsive need for order, I think ruefully. If only I could take the bits and pieces of my life and line them up as neatly. With a sigh, I begin to gather the empty glasses and wine bottle to take inside.
When I set them on the kitchen counter, Bram’s at the stove with his back to me. As if nothing happened, he says over his shoulder, “I need your take on this mango sauce for the sea bass. Might have too much cilantro and serrano.”
“No such thing,” I say, forcing a light tone. “I’m a Texan, remember. To hear you tell it, I was wearing a sprig of cilantro behind my ear when we first met. Not true, but makes a good story.” I decide not to say anything about our confrontation until after dinner. Maybe it’s true, that he’s just tired and hungry.
Later, I’ve dozed off in bed when I hear Bram slipping into the room. Although it’s not unusual for him to come in after I’ve turned out the lamps and fallen asleep, I’m sure it’s deliberate tonight. D
uring dinner we talked about the food as he took notes, as he’s apt to do when creating new recipes. I’ve grown used to hearing him mutter things like “Needs salt, don’t you think?” as he takes a bite then scribbles away. He was so intent that I didn’t bring up our previous discussion until after we’d finished dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Then he held up a finger and said, “You’re right, sweetheart; we should talk this out. But first I need to make some calls.” After he’d scurried away to his office I went to mine for my own calls, catching both Victoria and William in, which rarely happens. Afterward I returned emails then went upstairs to read, waiting for Bram and our talk. He waited me out.
Annoyed as I am at his avoidance of me, I’m so groggy I can’t rouse myself to have another go at it—or at least, not for another argument. When Bram slips his arms around me, I turn to him, sleep-dazed, and his mouth covers mine. And with that, all thoughts of overprotective sisters and scheming ex-wives are pushed aside for less cerebral considerations. If his purpose was to put a stop to my questions, his method couldn’t have been more effective.
* * *
As soon as I hear the spin of gravel on the driveway, I shut down my computer with a smile. I tease Bram that I’m as excited about seeing his grandbaby as he is. My step-granddaughter! The way things look now with my kids, young professionals not ready to start a family, little Adeline O’Connor may be as close as I get. I stop by the bathroom to smooth down my hair and put on a touch of lip gloss. “They’re here, Bram,” I call out from the stairway leading up to his office. Because Michael and Missy have so much baby paraphernalia, they rented a car at the airport. I hear car doors slamming but wait for Bram before going down to play hostess.
Reunion Beach Page 23
