Twolly stares at me from behind the intersecting lines. “Oh, that’s ducky.”
ANDREW ARRIVES EARLY that day to pick me up. Before we leave, I make him follow the trail. I give him an old spinning wheel spool upon which there is a scrolled note: Follow this thread; there’s nothing to dread; your Valentine surprise is straight ahead.
His blue eyes spark. As he walks, he wraps the stray line on the spool. Poor Grams is trapped on the davenport until the game is finished. I’ve forgiven her and my father for mercilessly teasing me as I prepared Andrew’s surprise because they are holding their tongues now.
The game ends after several trips up and down the stairs, pirouettes around each dining room chair, circles around every item in the parlor, a brief waltz through my father’s study, and dips from different spots in the kitchen. His gift is on the back porch wrapped in a huge box that contains a series of other boxes. In the end, after our noses are sufficiently cold, he opens his final package—a pound of penny candy separated in wax paper rows. On top of the licorice sticks, there is a small card. I had spent hours on the words now concealed within the envelope. Even though I mean what it says, I’m afraid of how he will react. I’ve never written such a thing to a man in my life.
What sweetness lies in wait each time I bring your lips to mine, a confection so perfect that its syrup infuses my daydreams and becomes real when I close my eyes.
Razi
Andrew swallows hard. He stares at me. I quietly look back, trying to read his dazed, flushed expression. “My God, Razi,” he finally says. “Thank you.” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me with stunning, yet delightful, force.
He is still blushing when we go inside to grab our coats and leave. I receive only one wink from Grams as we scamper out.
He has a queer little smile on his face as we drive to the mysterious rendezvous spot. He’s as talkative as usual, but he’s nervous. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel in a way that isn’t bored or playful. His foot taps the floorboard when we stop at signs. That makes me nervous. I have seen him flustered only once, the night we met.
I don’t say a word when we end up in a neighborhood I have never visited. There are shotgun houses lined along the streets, with windows and doors closed tight and sealed with strips of cloth. A few houses have dormant trees in the tiny front yards. Little children stop their games and stare at the car as we drive slowly down the dirt road. I wave at them, and they wave back, smiling and pointing.
Andrew parks the roadster in front of a narrow house painted conch shell pink. “We’re here,” he says. I sit stunned until he opens the side door for me. “Hello, Simon,” he tells a boy about eleven years old who is mending the wooden fence in front of the house.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Andrew.” Simon has two nails trapped between his lips. He smiles, which creases the corners of his eyes and makes him look grown up. “Ma-Maw’s been expecting you.” He grabs the nails by his narrow-fingered left hand and nods to me. “Good afternoon, Miss.”
“Simon Beeker, Miss Raziela Nolan. Simon is Emmaline’s grandson.”
“How do you do?” I say.
“Fine, Miss. And you?”
“Well, thank you.”
“You better get on over, Mr. Andrew. You know how she is about being prompt.” Simon bobs his head, as if in approval.
Andrew glances at his wristwatch. “I’m not late.”
“No. But she just—well, she just glad to have you, is all.”
“Would you mind letting her know we’re here? I have some preparations. Thank you.”
“No, sir. Good day, Miss Nolan. You have a musical first name.”
“Thank you, Simon.”
I watch Simon run up the clean, solid porch steps. Andrew touches my hand. When I look at him, he dangles a scarf in front of my eyes. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“At least you didn’t hesitate.” He blindfolds me and spins me around.
I take his arm and hear the dry, dead grass scrunch under my shoes. I smell a stew cooking slow and long nearby. Someone picks a guitar within earshot. A whispery tinkle reminds me of a table being set. A hinge creaks in the distance. I am led a little farther.
“When I take it off, I want you to look straight ahead until your eyes adjust. Then I’ll let you turn around.”
I blink and focus on the wide stripes of his tie. “I’m fine now.”
“Then turn.”
This garden would make an English lady die of envy. In the dead of February, the small backyard is a blush of blooms. A redbud tree weeps its rosy promise of leaves. A row of camellias is heavy with pink flowers. In the right corner is an exotic Japanese magnolia so perfect it looks watercolored. Nearby, a patch of early roses curl open like the hands of sleeping infants. Toward the back of the yard, there is a dormant crape myrtle draped with yards of sheer pink ribbon and decorated with tiny silver bells. Underneath is a table covered with a white cloth, two cushioned chairs, and a setting of china.
“Remarkable,” I whisper.
“Let’s sit down.” He raises his hand to direct me toward the table. He pulls out my chair, seats me, and eases into the chair on the other side. A small wood-burning stove at the base of the tree puffs pecan wood smoke. Across from us are budding azaleas, which line the back of the house.
Emmaline appears in her back door and moves forward with her beautiful smile and a tray. “Good afternoon, Miss Razi, Mr. Andrew. I’m gonna set this out here, and you call if you need. Here’s a little bell, just in case. You have a nice visit, now.” She lays out three plates and pours coffee. I swear she winks at him.
“Thank you, Emmaline.” Andrew grins tightly.
I am struck dumb. I look at what she placed on the table. There is fruit on one plate and tiny sandwiches on the other. Her famous petits fours are stacked in a pyramid in the center. The frosting is narcissus white with miniature flowers of pink petals, yellow centers, and light green leaves.
He raises his eyebrows as if he is waiting for me to speak.
“You amaze me, Andrew O’Connell.”
“Likewise.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He takes a sip of coffee, black as usual.
I reach for the snacks and build my own little stack of cakes. We nibble in silence for a few moments. “Emmaline makes the best petits fours I’ve ever had.” I wipe my mouth with a pressed linen napkin.
“I know. You mentioned that to me.”
“When?”
“The night we met. You finished some before we walked to the park.”
“I’d forgotten.”
“You called them ‘ambrosia.’”
“Did I?”
“Yes. You know what the mythology is about ambrosia, don’t you?”
I think for a moment while I swallow another one. “Food of the gods.”
“Indeed. Which imparts”—he pauses, watches my eyes—“immortality.”
My body rushes with momentum, but I am floating as I fall. “That’s what I told you when I was up in the tree. That I wanted to be immortal.”
“That’s what I remember.” He raises his cup. “To that lifetime of trouble you intend to cause. And to the immortality of your delightful soul.”
I return the toast. Everything inside my body has turned to marmalade. To distract myself, I leave my snack on the table and walk up to the crape myrtle that is so simply and beautifully decorated. “Did Emmaline plant all of this?”
“Yes. Her family has lived here since she was a girl. Before she worked for my family, she was with another. The lady of the house was clearing out her family home’s garden, and she gave the plants to Emmaline. Most of the trees and shrubs have been growing in her garden for close to thirty years.”
“How did you know this was here?”
“By accident. She got sick one day, and Mother thought she would be more comfortable at her own home. She was too ill to walk all that way, and I didn’t thi
nk the streetcars came close enough to shorten the walk adequately. I shouldn’t have been driving then—I was maybe fourteen—but Mother didn’t drive at all, and Father was away on a trip. And neither would have come to this area.” He pours more coffee for us both. “Her mother was still alive, old as Methuselah and so frail. Her daughter—Simon’s mother—wouldn’t be home for a while. They both lost their husbands to the Spanish flu back in ’eighteen. Well, I got Emmaline comfortable and went outside to get more wood for the fire. It was about this time of year. I couldn’t believe what I saw. One wouldn’t expect it, wouldn’t you agree? She was in no mood to talk that day, but I asked her about it when she came back to work. Ever since, she’s told me about the state of her garden as the seasons change. Everything she plants blooms pink or close to it, she said. It’s her favorite color.”
“She obviously takes a great deal of pride in it.”
“Aside from her family, this is all she has.”
“Seems to me she has you, too, in a way.”
“Emmaline deserves a second time around. She’s earned it. She’s worked hard since she was old enough to walk. I promised myself that she will never want for anything. She’s been good to me all my life. Loyalty works both ways, don’t you think?”
“Among honorable men, anyway.”
He smiles reflectively and walks over to me. I have calmed myself down. Andrew reaches above his head and unties a loop of ribbon. His hand snuffs a silver glint. “Razi, you’re quite a good sport.”
“I am, aren’t I?” I laugh.
He suppresses his chuckle. I twist an edge of ribbon between my fingers, level with my heart. He puts his hand on my shoulder. The ribbon drops. I place my hands flat on his chest under the clover-leaf lapels and slip my palms to his waist. I suddenly remember the stray freckle on the front of his left hip, an inch below where my right thumb rests.
“I think—I think that I have never enjoyed someone’s company so much as yours.” Andrew keeps his eyes on mine.
“I would have to say the same of you.” I force myself not to look down. His gaze makes me lightheaded.
“And I believe I’ve never had so much fun.”
“And I believe I’ve never met someone so smart and charming and handsome.” I want him to kiss me. I would first if I weren’t so curious about what he’s going to say. I feel through the tension of his hands that he is absolutely focused on the moment. An intensity emanates from him, as if he wills himself courage he doesn’t think he has. I am delirious with the waves under my skin.
“And you’re venturesome and bright and lovely.”
“You’re going to make me blush.”
His hands skim down my arms, and he links his fingers at the small of my back. “Razi,” he says in a voice that makes me feel as if he has breathed me in and won’t let me go, “I love you.” He is so matter-of-fact, I almost think he’s kidding.
“I love you, too.”
Then he kisses me with lips so limber I nearly bend in half over his arms. The first few seconds, he is entirely responsible for keeping me on my feet. I have fallen for him, and I know for certain that he has for me.
“Here.” He reaches around my neck. “So you don’t forget.”
He clasps a delicate locket that hangs an inch above my beating heart. I open the tiny latch. Inside, it simply reads, “For Razi. Love, Andrew.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“You’re welcome.”
A ridge of dampness collects along the black line of his hair. I rub it dry with my thumb. “Jeepers creepers, were you anxious. Haven’t you done that before?” I laugh.
“I never meant it like this.” He gives me an affectionate grin.
“Me neither.” I wait for the panic. When I don’t feel it, that scares me even more.
HE IS SOMEWHERE with that camera. He says every photograph is practice for the ones he’ll take during his travels around the world. Lately, he takes the camera wherever he goes, in case he sees something to capture. Most of the photos don’t satisfy him—the light was wrong or the subject left a blur or his focus was poor—but he keeps the ones that he likes in a little box. What possesses him, I have no idea, because he spares nothing the lens. Inside that box, I’ve seen a hodgepodge of what turned his eye—a sunset on drowsing morning glories, Emmaline’s hands around a bone china teacup, men chatting outside the Pickwick Club, a freshly painted Creole cottage. I love them all. Andrew takes the commonplace and recasts it as incredible.
I roll on the grass and snuggle my chin into the blades. One meets the edge of my lip, and I bite. As I chew, I rest my ear on the ground. The grass struggles to straighten itself under my weight. I hear it groan.
“You haven’t dressed?”
“Why bother? No one out here but me, you, the birds, and the bees.”
Andrew holds the camera at his hip. “Exhibitionist.”
“Voyeur.” I lie on my side and curl my knees into my belly. Grass fringes every curve. Slowly, he raises the camera up to his face. He steps aside, back, aside again. He’s behind me. “Put that down. What if it goes off accidentally?”
“It won’t.”
“Andrew.”
“Let me.”
“You’ve been in the sun too long.”
“No one else will see them. You know I develop my own.”
I turn only my face to look at him. That glint isn’t there, not the same one I know anyway. “Okay, I’ll make you a deal. You tell me your middle name, and I’ll let you.”
“Too easy. I’ll give you three guesses. If you miss, I get to take your photograph. If you’re right—well, what do you want?”
“You have to trace me with a feather until I beg you to stop, and you don’t.”
There—there’s the libidinous spark I expected. “I accept the terms.”
“Now, now. It’s so obvious. You were a fool to suggest the game, Mr. O’Connell. Your middle name is your father’s. Patrick.”
“No. Don’t move.”
“Percy. A popular name in these parts.”
“No. Stay still. The way the light touches your back—”
“Pierce. A name with some history.”
His hand strokes along my spine and pushes my rear further into the tuck, a sweet blind path of desire humming through my skin. “Better luck next time. Don’t move.” The shutter snaps once, twice, three times. Andrew kneels down at my side but doesn’t touch me. I lie flat on my back.
“Beautiful,” he says distantly.
I place my hand on his chest and feel the center of the maze, the point where his vessels begin and end. What I want—soon, now—we are not prepared for me to ask.
AFTER HE RETURNED from his early morning exercise with his Saturday running group, Scott cooked breakfast—pancakes, eggs, ham slices, fresh fruit salad, and homemade biscuits. Amy and Chloe sat on the back steps drinking coffee in their pajamas while a pair of cardinals, sparrows, and three squirrels nibbled at the feeder. The girls barely spoke, but they were comfortable together. When Scott called them in, Chloe kissed him on the cheek, and Amy gave him a light peck on the lips when he turned to her. He was content in a way he hadn’t been in a while. So was Amy. After they finished eating, Scott cleaned up before he left to entertain himself for the day.
While Amy showered and dressed, Chloe amused herself. First, she looked through the jewelry chest’s contents. She tried on bracelets and admired necklaces. When she found Andrew’s ring, she read the inscription . . . why, it beats so I can love you . . . gave a puzzled smile, and slipped it on her thumb. Once the jewelry was put away, Chloe went into the front room. She studied the bookcase, ran her fingers along the walnut carvings, and opened the doors. The rich, dusky smell encouraged her to nudge into the shelves.
I struggled to hold the air still, noiseless, and warm. That focus gave me respite from the unpredictable surge. Only a few feet away, on a small table, my naked body lay exposed, along with the emotions connected to the man responsible for
the photographs. His ring was a reminder of the answers I didn’t have a chance to give. As much as I wished I could admire the sleek, polished circle again, I refused to bring it into the light through my own volition. And the bookcase, with its one original, wavy-paned door and the other flat, too-perfect replacement—what it represented and what it held was more than I was prepared to acknowledge. Not yet.
Chloe went to the corner of the room, where a few photo boxes were stacked on a narrow set of shelves. She selected one at random, which contained several photographs from their college years. Smiling, Chloe settled on the living room sofa and began to glance through the snapshots.
“Good, you’re entertained,” Amy said as she walked in. “Want more coffee?”
Chloe nodded. “That jewelry is gorgeous. You said your aunt made some of it?”
“Yeah,” Amy shouted from the kitchen. “She specialized in metals and stones.”
“Did she make that ring? That silver and blue one?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. She liked to make necklaces and bracelets.”
Chloe flicked through the photo box quickly. With a perplexed frown, she started to look at each one carefully. Moments later, Amy handed her friend a huge mug and sat down with her own little cup in the oversized chair.
“I never did ask what you thought of that DVD I sent,” Chloe said.
“Embarrassed and amused.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever cared about anything so much since.”
“Too much effort.”
“To be honest, I didn’t watch the whole thing. Did we talk about the die-in?”
“No. That came later that summer, I think,” Amy said.
“Remember we got lost in the French Quarter? Got bad directions. That girl who was driving. Jesus. Those prairie skirts over her Sasquatch legs. And she ran almost every stop sign. Nearly hit a couple of drunk guys.”
“I don’t remember.”
“She had the best outfit for the event, though. A black veil and a dress covered in metal coat hanger chain mail. Hard core.”
“You flung yourself on the ground wailing, ‘Patriarchy has murdered me.’”
The Mercy of Thin Air Page 17
