“Don’t forget the Maritime Museum and the military fort!” Whitman cried. He laughed, to a joke apparently only he understood.
Edgewater rolled his hands over the wheel with a strange look. “The military fort is a point of strong opinion among the locals. You’ll find them divided between those who agree with all our tax dollars going to its continued restoration, and those who’d just as soon see her broken down into boards and tossed into the Atlantic.” He flipped his turn signal and eased down the start of a long driveway, flanked by tall emerald trees very different than the ones Augustus was used to in Louisiana. Tires crunched on gravel. “In any case, you can’t miss it. It’s an eyesore.”
Edgewater parked the car at the back of the looming, gabled Victorian. From the back, it had an eerie, foreboding presence, one that beckoned to Augustus in a way that made him feel as if his imagination had run wild.
“One last thing,” he said. “Your neighbors. To the east, the Auslanders are a middle-aged German couple. They don’t speak much English and won’t give you any trouble. If you see ’em, give ’em a wave, and that’s enough. To the west, you’ll find Andrew and Claire St. Andrews. They’ve been here, oh some years now, but they’re from Scotland and you’ll hear it when you speak to them. They have a young son, Jonathan. He’s about two, I reckon. He’ll be in my Carla’s class, when the time comes, I think.” Edgewater ran his hands over his face. Whitman watched him in anticipation.
“But, ah, what I really want to tell you about Mr. St. Andrews is that he’s actually Doctor St. Andrews. And I hesitate to tell you this, because it’s one of the island’s secrets, and we keep our secrets better than anybody, but if you find yourself or your wife in need of medical care, Dr. St. Andrews can help.”
“Off the record,” Whitman said with emphasis.
“What does that mean?” Augustus pressed. “Off the record? Is he not really a doctor?”
“Oh, he’s a doctor,” Edgewater said with a short laugh. “Best one I ever saw. But he couldn’t get the business license to open shop officially on the island, so he runs his own out of his house.”
“Off the record,” Whitman repeated.
“And this is illegal, I take it,” Augustus said.
“We do what we have to do out here, Mr. Deschanel,” Edgewater said. “We take care of our own. We don’t take too well to outsiders telling us what’s good and what’s not.”
Augustus didn’t know what to say to this.
“But you’re not an outsider now, are you, Mr. Deschanel?” Edgewater added with a laugh. “Even if you and your missus are just summer birds.”
* * *
Summer Island loved their parades. They had one every Sunday, and if there wasn’t a reason, they made one up. They had the Heron Hollow Parade one day, and the Fort Summer Island Parade another. Then there was the Summer Island Lighthouse Anniversary parade, followed by the Farnsworth Fellowship parade. The latter, he was told by their new friend, Mayor George Cairne, was a celebration of community fellowship, marked by their town food supply that was available to anyone in need. Their harvest came earlier, so far north, so they celebrated this in the summer instead of fall.
Yes, the Summer Islanders loved their parades.
This was one of the first things Augustus learned about the small community, shut off from the world.
The second thing was that everyone was nice to the point that Augustus was constantly in suspicion of their motives. From the saccharine smiles of Mrs. McElroy as she whisked Ekatherina away to meet the other women, to the overzealous back claps and laughter from Mr. Aldridge and the men when they bought Augustus beer after beer, he could not help but feel as if he’d dropped not into an actual town, but instead a play about one. One where all the actors were in on it, but the audience was not.
The outward appearance of every single person they met on the island was one of amity and brotherhood. He saw no fights or disagreements, not even among the men who had been drinking all day, only to take their friends’ wives for a spin at the evening dance. No one said anything that would betray whatever lay behind the town’s veneer.
No one was this more true of than George Cairne. Augustus didn’t know what he’d been expecting, hearing the men describe him in the car that first day, but it wasn’t what he saw when they were introduced.
George was a beguilingly handsome man who couldn’t be older than thirty. Augustus thought he looked far younger, in fact, but couldn’t imagine a town as clannish and careful as Summer Island electing a child to manage their affairs. He insisted Augustus and his wife join him for dinner almost every evening, and, though he was married, his eyes were for Ekatherina alone on those nights as he practically begged her to tell him stories of her homeland.
Augustus bristled at the attention to his wife—and didn’t miss Mrs. Cairne’s similar disapproval in her tight expressions—but learned more from this handsome stranger’s inquisitive asks than he had on his own. While he spent his days on calls to the office, worried about what he’d left behind, Ekatherina had found company among people who did for her what he should have been doing. He was ashamed that it took this man to help him know his own wife, and he went to bed most nights frustrated.
Meanwhile, Ekatherina blossomed.
She loved the parades. Loved the over-sweet women and their false friendships. Adored George Cairne’s bright smiles and deep focus as he hung upon her every word.
On the evening of the Farnsworth Fellowship Celebration, after they’d been on Summer Island four weeks to the day, Ekatherina started drinking early and forgot to pace herself. She’d enjoyed the cabernet Farnsworth produced from his small vineyard and continued to drink it as she laughed with Sheila McElroy and danced with George Cairne, not once, but three times, to the light of the bonfire. Andrew St. Andrews, a man Augustus was happy to discover shared his love of pragmatism, raised his glass of Scottish whisky and said, “Blessings come in verra odd packages a’times.”
That night, Augustus watched her as she let her dress fall to the floor of their bedroom. She’d forgotten her modesty in her drunkenness and turned to him with a sparkle in her eye.
“You do for me,” she whispered, half-slurring, half-deadly serious. “You do for me, husband. You know what I need and you do. You love me.”
Augustus swallowed back his hurt at his own inequities, laid bare by the dashing George Cairne almost every night since they’d arrived, and nodded. “I love you very much, Ekatherina. I only want you to be happy.”
“I am happy. Thanks to you, I am very happy. For once I think not of what worry me.”
Ekatherina didn’t reach for her nightgown. She made her way to him and settled herself over his lap. “I love you, husband. Can you forgive me, for not showing so much?”
Augustus blinked. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, and then he lifted them to touch her nude, hot flesh. Ah, she was beautiful. So beautiful she caused all his fears to evaporate away as if they’d never been. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
“I show you now,” she whispered against his ear, and Augustus melted in her arms, in a mix of love and relief.
Nine
Show Them Who You Are
Amnesty nibbled on Evangeline’s earlobe. Evangeline cringed, afraid to tell her she hated her ears, hated when they were touched. Really hated being touched anywhere, always had, but not by Amnesty. She was afraid Amnesty would stop touching her.
This guy called the Fonz made jokes on the small black and white television Evangeline had trucked over to the house. She didn’t know about this show, but Amnesty roared with laughter at the anachronistic friendship of Arthur Fonzarelli and Richie Cunningham. Evangeline had always felt the laugh tracks on a sitcom were insulting… pandering, to the lowest common viewing denominator, telling them when it was appropriate to laugh. Often, the laugh tracks on these shows appeared at the least funny times, and yet people laughed, because they were told to.
Evangeline ran her friend’s
baby fine blond strands through her fingers. She loved Amnesty’s hair, which was so unlike her own wild mane. She loved to marvel at it; to touch it. To imagine her own hair so silky and smooth, and without the need for constant attention to keep it from running free. What must that be like?
And then she felt guilty for the thought, for Amnesty’s hair was the least of her priorities, and always would be as long as her abusive father was in the picture.
She still refused, or perhaps simply neglected, to talk about him, not beyond that first moment of vulnerability where she’d given Evangeline a problem to solve. Amnesty, over time in staying at this safe and well-protected house, became less jumpy at loud sounds and stopped sleeping with one eye open. Sometimes, Evangeline would watch her as she slept and think how much more beautiful Amnesty was when she was at peace and not forced to look over her shoulder.
Evangeline propped herself up on an elbow. “Hey, I have an idea.”
“You have a lot of ideas,” Amnesty said, smiling.
“Yeah, but this one might surprise you.”
“Oh?”
“Up for an adventure?”
“With you, always.”
* * *
Evangeline changed her mind six or seven times on the walk deeper into Uptown. The tree had always been her place, first, for the many years she’d grown up in Oak Haven, and later, when she needed to get away and Magnolia Grace felt oppressive. Evangeline had always been the most in tune with herself when she was alone and unfettered by the oddities and needs of others. It wasn’t enough simply to hide… she had to transcend, to move beyond where others could touch her, could reach her, and just be.
Amnesty had always been good about not asking too many questions. This seemed fair, given how unwilling she was to part with her own answers, and Evangeline liked to think this was a sign that her friend possessed a high emotional intelligence. In any case, she appreciated it now, as they entered Audubon Park, and made their way back toward the zoo, and the place Evangeline was only partly sure she was ready to share with another.
Because, really, who was Amnesty? A complete stranger whose affections depended entirely on Evangeline’s acquiescence to her unwillingness to share anything about herself. Amnesty probably wasn’t even her name. And everything else? Was that true?
Amnesty slipped her fingers through Evangeline’s, and the inner sigh that followed chided her about her overactive brain and trust issues.
The park was alive with activity on a Saturday. Joggers navigated the path, parents and children fed the birds down at the water. But this wasn’t where Evangeline wanted to take her, and she hoped it would be quieter when they reached the destination.
Evangeline started to sweat. She could blame the sweltering humidity, but she’d never been affected by extreme temperatures, not like most. She didn’t know why. Assumed it might be something to do with being a healer, because Colleen was the same. She didn’t think she’d ever seen her older sister break a sweat unless she was stressing about her studies.
“I would’ve worn my tennis shoes if I’d known we were going for the long haul!” Amnesty declared. Evangeline wondered if she even owned a pair of tennis shoes. She’d never seen her wear anything except the brown boots currently on her feet.
“Almost there,” Evangeline replied. They’d just crossed over Magazine Street, which divided the majority of the park from what lay beyond: the zoo, and this other place, that Evangeline prayed would be empty.
Amnesty squeezed her hand tighter and moved closer so their shoulders were touching. Evangeline felt a chill cut through the hot day.
And then they were there. Evangeline’s soul eased even being in the presence of the low, bowing arms of the giant oak. There were many live oaks in the park that held court with their drooping limbs, welcoming you, but none like the Tree of Life. It was not the first tree to take this name, and it would not be the last, but it was hers, and that was all she cared about.
“Wow.” Amnesty whistled. “I had no idea this was here.”
“It’s kind of tucked away,” Evangeline said, though it was no longer such a secret, and she’d come, more than once, and had to turn back when she’d come upon lovers making out, or a family having a picnic under the canopy of leaves.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Amnesty asked, and she scrambled up the nearest branch, skittering her way up like a spider monkey.
Evangeline loved her in that moment, the moment where she feared she’d opened herself up too much and, somehow, her friend had known just what to do.
She laughed and followed her. She pretended not to know the best route upward. It was best to let Amnesty discover the maze of branches herself, and the reward when she reached the center, where they could sit and watch the world.
Amnesty found it with ease… as if she was born to climb, to explore, to seek beyond. She nestled back into a tangle of branches and waited for Evangeline to get there.
Evangeline’s heart soared at the giggle of glee that came next.
“Look at all the animals!” she cried. “Evangeline, you have to see this!”
“I’m almost there!” she called back, though she’d seen it, she’d seen it all, so many times.
She started to settle in across from Amnesty, but Amnesty moved to the left to allow her into the small alcove she’d found. The small spot was so intimate; more, somehow, than cuddling on the couch, or holding hands.
When Amnesty’s face started to fall at the hesitation, Evangeline bounded over and into the spot. Amnesty’s arm came around her, and Evangeline let herself fall into the embrace, heart open, soul happy.
“This is your place, isn’t it?” Amnesty said. Before Evangeline could answer, she nodded, and added, “Yes, this is definitely an Evangeline place. I can feel it. And you wanted… me here? I’ll bet you’ve never taken anyone else.”
“Yes to the first question… no to the second.”
“Why not?” Amnesty threw her hands up moments after the question. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”
Just because you won’t, doesn’t mean I won’t. I want to know you so badly, and maybe the way to do that, for now, is to let you see through the windows I keep shuttered.
“I don’t know,” Evangeline said after a sharp consideration of the answer… one she wasn’t even entirely sure about. “I’ve never had a friend I wanted this near to me. As for my family, well, we’re close, but not in that way.”
“I get what you mean.”
Evangeline doubted that, seeing as Amnesty was an only child, but it wasn’t her place to disabuse her of the thought. “If there were any siblings I’d take here, it would be Augustus or Colleen, and neither one of them would find this excursion much more than a waste of their time.”
“A waste!” Amnesty clutched her chest in mock, but slightly serious, offense. “How could time with nature be a waste?”
“They’re both so focused on their future.”
“Couldn’t the future involve a beautiful tree and a few moments with someone you love?”
Evangeline blinked. Her mouth went dry. “Yeah, I suppose, but just not for them.”
Amnesty leaned her head against a nearby branch. “I find that really sad.”
“Happiness is pursuing what we need and want, though,” Evangeline replied. “I don’t think either of them would be happy up here in a tree, because what they want is down there.”
“And you? What do you want?”
Evangeline hadn’t spent much time considering this question, because within that answer lay all the myriad reasons and horrors that had tied her to New Orleans. She had aspirations, too, but to pursue them meant first addressing why she could not, and even she—the sister everyone thought possessed no emotional intelligence of her own—was self-aware enough to recognize she was still, even now, bottling away the things she could not ever talk about.
“I just want to be here, in this moment,” Evangeline said, a
nd that was about as close to the truth as she could step.
Amnesty reached over and touched Evangeline’s springy curls. They responded to her touch, bouncing and reassembling in even more fantastical patterns. Her hair, of all things, made her feel so ugly and unwanted, but Amnesty’s touch, full of wonder and affection, softened that about as much as it could be softened.
“This moment,” Amnesty repeated. She wound Evangeline’s hair into a tight fist, pulling it back from her face, and she watched her with such honest scrutiny that Evangeline almost willed herself to fall out of the tree to avoid the assessment.
Amnesty pressed her forehead to Evangeline’s. Then, head to the side, she pressed her lips to Evangeline’s, parting them with her tongue. Gentle, but leaving no room for interpretation of her intentions.
Evangeline wound her arms around Amnesty and surrendered herself to the kiss.
* * *
Anytime Maureen thought it was a good idea to have lunch with her sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, Chelsea Sullivan, she regretted that idea about half the time.
Chelsea was different than the other Sullivans. She wasn’t a goody-goody like her three older brothers, or the numerous attorneys lumbering around the family law office. She’d been squirreling a flask into her private school skirts since she was thirteen, and had been using the slumber party excuse to sneak out just as long. She cursed like a sailor, but could morph back into the angel her parents believed her to be with no more than a blink of an eye. She was equal parts rebel and sweetheart, but the trouble, for Maureen, was that she preferred Chelsea when she was the former and couldn’t stand her when she was the latter. Predicting which side of her friend would show up was about as accurate and fickle as predicting the weather in New Orleans.
Nineteen Seventy-Four Page 8
