Let It Go (27 page)

“What do you feel like?” Savannah requires more.

“Happy. Light. Liberated, maybe,” Buffy rummages through words to describe the new wave of emotions, provoked by her heavy yet emancipating conversation with Nadine. “Like a new chapter is beginning. I think maybe I feel free, honey.”

“Oh Mama, that’s great!” Savannah embraces her, a quiet laughter resonating between them.

“It feels strange,” Buffy admits, “but in a good way.” She turns Savannah toward the house, looking through the front door at Brody in the kitchen as he sets up the butcher block. “You see now, there’s a part of me that wanted to point out how big that butcher block is. Too big for my kitchen, really.”

“Mama,” Savannah scolds, the typical hard to please Buffy Bondurant surfacing.

“But then the other part shrugs her shoulders and says, ‘What does it really matter?’” Buffy quickly affirms. “It is a little big, but it’s still beautiful. And he must have worked awful hard on it. That’s what you girls would say, ‘Don’t sweat the small stuff, Mama.’” Savannah giggles at the comical way Buffy mocks her, Vangie and Jac. “I never liked sweating anyway. It’s not very ladylike.” Buffy winks.

“So, what do you think?” Savannah inquires of her mother’s opinion of the sweet, brutish man assembling her butcher block.

“Well now, to be honest. Here goes that part of me.” Buffy shakes her head with a grin. “It’s going to take some time to get used to seeing you with someone other than Jack. He was part of this family for eight years, Savannah. I’m trying here, but I can’t change overnight.”

“Okay,” Savannah respectfully accepts her mother’s feelings. “What does the other part say?”

“If he makes you happy, then I’m happy for you. That’s all I want, is for my children to be happy. And it doesn’t hurt that he made that gorgeous butcher block for me.” Buffy chuckles, directing Savannah back inside.

“That’s what he does, Mama. He makes stuff…art…with his hands.” Savannah turns her palms upright, exaggerating her declaration. “You should see some of his other pieces. I think it’s sooo sexy,” Savannah drawls out her delighted affection.

“Easy now, honey. I’m making progress, but I think you should stick to saving the expletives for your sisters.” She pats Savannah’s hand gingerly as she holds it in hers.

“You’re all set, Miss Buffy,” Brody boasts pridefully. “Lock your wheels when you want to use it. Or roll it away for storage.” Brody demonstrates. “This granite top,” he knocks his knuckles against the deep crimson stone, “is better than wood any day of the week. Doesn’t harbor as much bacteria. And it’s more durable. They say you can take frozen chicken straight out of the freezer and thaw it on granite in twenty minutes flat. The stone absorbs the cold, I guess.” Brody shrugs. “I wouldn’t know exactly, being a bachelor and all.” He chuckles at his less than stellar cooking habits.

“How about I have you and Savannah over for dinner next week and we’ll test that theory?” Buffy offers.

“You haven’t had fried chicken until you’ve tasted Buffy Bondurant’s secret recipe. She pan-fries it. That way it doesn’t sit in a vat of oil,” Savannah says, playing to Brody’s fitness and healthy lifestyle.

“I’d like that. A home-cooked meal is one of my favorite things,” Brody says, winking at Savannah as if to say,
hint hint.

Buffy glides her hand across the smooth, crimson inspired granite top, admiring the rare, one-of-a-kind piece, plotting her next high tea with her nosy neighbor. “This will blow ol’ Widow McKettrick’s pool boy right out of the water.” She giggles satisfactorily. “Don’t be surprised if she hits you up for a replica.”

“That piece there isn’t easily accessible. That’s red ravel from Namibia,” Brody informs.

“Good!” Buffy says, content that her neighbor may be hard-pressed to find a copycat.

“Mama!” a distressed Vangie exhausts, breaking through the front door.

“What is it, honey?” Buffy rushes to her, her hands palpating Vangie’s face and forehead. “You look like you just seen a ghost. You’re burning up, child.” Buffy comments on the temperature and clammy feel of her skin.

“I was right. That no-count husband of mine is a liar AND a cheat.” Vangie leans against the front door, her balance teetering with the revelation. “That ‘friendly’ little email he got from that woman. The one he said was the mother of a possible football player they were trying to recruit. Well, she texted him the other night. He was in bed. I texted her back as if I was Payton.”

“Evangeline, you didn’t,” Buffy exhausts.

“Oh yes I did. Told her to meet me…Payton…dirty dog…at this hotel downtown.” Vangie explains through rampant breaths. “I just came from there. Let’s just say she wasn’t any too pleased to open her nasty little door of ill-repute to find my investigating mug.”

“You didn’t do anything to the woman, did you?” Buffy covers her hand with her mouth.

“No, Mama. I didn’t do anything except inform her that her
lover boy
had a wife and two young girls at home. And that I would appreciate it if she kept her homewrecking paws off my husband.” Vangie’s eyes dart about wildly, filling up with tears, having just come face to face with a woman capable of turning her entire world upside down. “How could he do this? Not just to me, but our babies?”

Buffy takes her by the arm, supporting her balance to a chair at the kitchen table. “Now, Vangie, I know it hurts, honey. But you must calm down. Just breathe,” Buffy coaxes.

Savannah runs a dishtowel under cool water. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to Brody. “You can leave. I’ll have Mama take me home later.” Brody shakes his head, saying nothing, unsure of what to say in this moment. He simply props himself against the stove attempting to stay out of the way. Savannah delivers the wet dishtowel to Vangie, encouraging her to rest it over her forehead as she sits down beside her at the table. “Where are Luka and Zoey?”

“At home with Payton,” Vangie replies. “He may be a con artist of a husband, but he’s a great daddy.” The admission causes her tears to downpour. “He doesn’t even know that I know. I came straight here,” she says, her words breaking up through sobs. “Mama, what do I do?” Vangie lays her head down on the table, defeated. Savannah runs her fingers through her sister’s long, dark hair and down over her tense back.

“I think that’s a conversation you should have with Payton, honey,” Buffy answers.

“Payton? I can’t go home to him, Mama.” Vangie looks up through bloodshot eyes. “Do you know what I want to do to him right now?” She winds the dishtowel up in her hands as if making a noose. “The selfish bastard.” She returns her head to the table, shame and anger at odds in her toiling heart.

“I know, honey. But, sooner or later you’re going to have to talk to him about this. You don’t want to break up your family, do you?” Buffy’s eyes now filling with moisture as she relives her own experience with infidelity, somehow watching her daughter go through the motions proves more damaging.

“She doesn’t have to accept this behavior, Mama, just because she has kids,” Savannah defends. “I can help with Zoey and Luka. Y’all can move in with me.”

“Now, don’t go jumping to extremes, Savannah. First, just let her process everything,” Buffy argues. “You stay right here, honey. For as long as you need. To get it figured out.”

Vangie throws the dishtowel down and pushes up from the table, pacing between the living room and the kitchen. “Fifteen years. Five...dating in college. Ten...married. And this is the thanks I get. I was a good architect. I quit my job at the firm for
him,
to stay home and raise
his
babies, so he could pursue
his
career. Then he trifles off with some ‘working girl’…a college football reporter, no less.” Vangie’s mouth takes a break, her feet still shuffling aimlessly.

“How long has this been going on? Are we talking a one-time affair or what?” Buffy attempts to reason.

“I don’t know, Mama. As soon as that…
woman,”
Vangie bites, curbing the urge to call her names, “opened the door and saw me, she slammed it in my face.”

“Well then, you don’t even know if Payton actually cheated on you,” Buffy says hopeful.

Vangie gives her a perturbed look. “It doesn’t really matter, now does it? He lied about who this woman is, his association with her, and she showed up at the hotel after receiving a text from who she thought was him,” Vangie points out. “It doesn’t matter if he did or he didn’t…he was obviously thinking about it. It was a matter of time. And that’s the bottom line, Mama.” Vangie clears her throat, attempting to get a grip on her rising voice, the hurt slowly disappearing as anger and resentment fill the gap.

“But is it worth breaking up your beautiful family, Evangeline? Over something that might have been,” Buffy whispers softly.

“And, to top it all off, it wasn’t like she was some PYT,” Vangie continues, her eighties youth showing itself, her mother’s words not even registering.

“PYT?” Buffy looks to Savannah for clarification, used to doing such over the course of her daughters’ adolescence, oblivious to popular culture.

“Pretty Young Thing,” Savannah whispers the Michael Jackson inspired catchphrase quickly for fear of interrupting a purging Vangie.

“She
was
attractive, but older than me. I’m guessing mid-forties.” Vangie throws her hands in the air confused. “I mean, if your husband is going to cheat, shouldn’t it be with some young, happening thing? Isn’t that the way this crap goes? They chase younger women to recapture their youth?”

“Not anymore,” Savannah pipes, unable to hold her tongue,
“cougar fever
, I believe they call it.” She rolls her eyes. “Her name wasn’t Candida Wooten, was it?” Savannah throws Brody a sarcastic glance, surprising herself at the unsettled, jealous apprehension.

Vangie follows Savannah’s eyes, noticing for the first time that Brody is actually present. “You must be Brody.” Vangie smiles, patting at her wayward hair and mussed makeup. “You must think the absolute worst.” Vangie grows self-conscious. “So much for first impressions. My apologies. It’s usually not this dysfunctional around here,” she tells a little white lie considering the latest maladjusted revelations.

“Please. Don’t apologize.” Brody holds his hands up at shoulder level. “If anyone’s sorry here, it’s me, for the intrusion. Maybe I should wait outside.” He pushes up off of the stove, looking toward the front door.

“Don’t move,” Vangie says sternly, her head cocking to the side in thought. “You’re a man. If you were in Payton’s situation, how should I approach you?”

Brody sucks in air through his teeth, growing uncomfortable about being dragged into the conversation.

“Well…” Savannah prefaces, quite curious as to his answer, “go ahead.” Even Buffy turns to face him, her expression also begging of his reply.

Brody clears his throat. “The way I see it, you have three choices. You can leave, breaking up your family. Maybe that’s what’s best for you. But I doubt it’s optimal for your girls. Quite frankly, it sucks,” he speaks from experience. “Pardon my French,” he says to Buffy. “You and your husband will spend the rest of your life trying to make up for that…with your kids.”

“The other two options?” Vangie presses, option one at odds with her maternal instinct.

“You can stay and continue on, the way things have been, for your girls. But I doubt that will solve anything. You’ll resent your husband, and he’ll grow to resent you, and your kids will feel that energy.” Brody takes turns looking down at the floor and then up at Vangie, eye contact difficult to maintain what with three pairs of female eyes staring back at him.

“The way things have been?” Savannah asks, slightly annoyed at his insinuation, as if Vangie has done or failed to do something in her marriage to deserve being cheated on.

“I’m just saying, happy, satisfied and respectable men usually don’t make a habit of looking outside their marriage for physical affection.” Brody’s shoulder shrugs, a nervous twitch.

“So it’s Vangie’s fault?” Savannah follows up sternly. “Maybe Payton’s
not
respectable,” she forces the thought, knowing him to be otherwise in his actions with Vangie and his daughters.

“Now Savannah, don’t get upset with him. I asked his opinion,” Vangie comes to Brody’s defense. “And I’m sure some of this is my fault. I’m not exactly fulfilled these days. Payton knows that. I’ve become that mom who has absolutely nothing to talk about but my kids. That mom who has no existence other than my kids and my husband.”

“That’s not true,” Savannah encourages.

“Oh, but it is.” Vangie flops back down into the chair at the kitchen table. “I used to be fun and relatively exciting,” she laments, trying to remember that woman. “Now it seems the only thing I’m good at is scheduling, managing and micro-managing my kids
and
my husband. I cook, I clean, I get on Luka and Zoey about their homework and cleaning their rooms, then I nag around behind Payton, treating him as a third child. I go to bed, only to wake up and do it all over again.” Holding her head in her hands, she says, “It’s exhausting. Mama, I don’t know how you did it.”

Buffy looks at her, Vangie’s testimony not exactly a marveling interpretation of motherhood. However, her take and circumstance are very much akin to Buffy’s. Wondering where in the crossroads of life her middle child stopped rebelling and gave in to becoming her mother, forfeiting her own identity for that of a man and her children. “I should have been a better example, Evangeline.”

“That’s not how I meant it, Mama,” Vangie attempts to retract.

“It’s easy to lose yourself, honey. Hell, I’m trying to find myself just now, and I’m fifty-six years old.” Buffy shakes her head at herself. Savannah and Vangie watch their mother, both in awe that she actually uttered the word
hell
. In their thirty-something years of life, they cannot recall her cursing.

“Mama, are you okay?” Vangie inquires.

“Now you sound like Savannah.” Buffy giggles, rising to the cabinet above the refrigerator. “You might as well take a seat, Brody,” she instructs in passing him by, “make yourself comfortable.” Savannah and Vangie watch in complete silence as their mother pulls a quarter-full bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, pouring a stout serving into four tumblers. “This was your daddy’s secret stash. Thought maybe I’d finish it off eventually,” Buffy explains, nimbly serving her guests, reserving a tumbler for herself. “Now seems as good a time as any.” She takes a big gulp, forcing it down, awaiting her company to do the same.