One More Time (31 page)

‘Honesty’
is what is written on the side of the box.

And Leslie knows with sudden clarity that this is the only box she really needs.

Leslie awakened with tears on her cheeks, knowing what she had to do.

* * *

It was late Saturday morning and Beverly was looking for her sweaters. She was freezing cold and had been since arriving here. Part of the problem, she knew, was that arranging a funeral was depressing stuff and another part of the problem was that she wasn’t sleeping well. Either way, she didn’t want to get sick and she didn’t want to impose any further on Leslie.

Even borrowing a sweater might tip the scales too far. Beverly never could tell what Leslie was thinking, or what she really thought, and she wasn’t prepared to be tossed out the door again.

She needed a few days to catch her breath.

Beverly’s own sweaters had to be in one of these boxes near the door of the living room, but she couldn’t say that she had packed with any measure of organization. The quest was complicated by the fact that she was constantly getting distracted by some unexpected item, because the movers hadn’t packed with any care when they’d stepped in to help.

It was a mess. Fragile things needed to be righted and rewrapped. Delicate fibers needed to be flattened and folded. As a bonus, it kept Beverly’s hands busy and her thoughts occupied. After some initial curiosity, the girls had crashed in the foyer. Champagne was snoring and one of them was farting—Beverly chose not to speculate further.

In the next box she opened, she found a bottle of Chanel Allure, dumped on its side and threatening to spill its contents. She treated herself to a spritz, then set it upright on one of her own end tables (which was not currently at the end of anything).

She found her favorite Cole Haan sling backs chucked into the top of a large carton, not safely nestled in their individual felt bags within their designated box. Fortunately, they had no new dings or creases. She set them aside and looked for that shoebox, without a lot of initial success.

She found the plastic cup from her bathroom swathed in six layers of tissue paper—while the perfume bottle had been unwrapped—and damned all movers to Hell.

Or at least Purgatory.

For a long time.

She muttered under her breath about the merits of a good straw sherry, the disadvantages of a perceptive eldest son taking responsibility for her recovery, and the woeful appropriation of a very nice stainless steel insulated thermos. She ripped open another crate and stopped cold.

“Oh.” The sound left her lips, barely more than an exhalation. The girls heard it though and looked up with interest, poodle dreams forgotten for the moment.

The small familiar boxes were dumped into the larger carton, at sixes and sevens. To Beverly’s relief, each small smooth orange box was still closed, its contents safe from disarray. There were forty-nine of them, Beverly knew this without counting the individual gift boxes, just as she knew that not a one of them had ever had its contents disturbed.

She caressed the top one, appreciating the idea of it.

They were Hermès boxes, the kind used to package their trademark scarves. Flat square boxes that exuded luxury. They were orange with gold detailing, so beautiful that they were almost a gift in themselves.

Each year, Beverly knew, Hermès issued a silk scarf, a commemorative design for that year. They made them now in many colors, but the traditional color of the house was a vibrant orange and the signature scarf was always available in that orange.

It was a color that Beverly could not wear. Yet Robert, convinced that he had found the perfect gift, apparently not noticing that Beverly had never cracked a single scarf out of its gift box, had given her one every single year to mark their anniversary.

Forty-nine pristine orange scarves, in their forty-nine pristine orange boxes. Forty-nine gifts evicted from their hiding place in the back of her bottom drawer and forced into her field of vision again, with astonishingly bad timing.

Forty-nine years of memories, good bad and indifferent.

Beverly blinked back her tears and flicked open the top box. She pulled out the scarf with some impatience and unfurled it, shaking out the shimmering silk of it. It was large, probably a yard on each side, as gleaming and bright as the robes of a Buddhist monk. The hue of saffron and citrus.

It was gloriously vibrant, the hue of life and optimism and joy.

What had happened to her joy?

There was a card in the bottom of the box, illustrating a number of ways to tie your scarf. This was clearly for foreigners, as Beverly was convinced that French women were born knowing sixty-three chic ways to tie a square silk scarf.

Or maybe they were initiated into the arcane secrets of the scarf at puberty.

At any rate, she had an idea and one that didn’t require instructions. She doubted that there were instructions provided for decking out your dog in a Hermès scarf, but one never knew with the French. The girls were poodles, after all.

She folded that top scarf diagonally, rolled it and twisted it a bit, then wound it onto Champagne’s collar.

“You can wear this color,” she informed the dog. “And poodles are French, so I think you need a bit more style than this collar offers.”

Champagne sniffled the silk, as if confirming that it had been arranged to her satisfaction. She then shook herself and it did fall a bit better.

The orange looked fantastic on Caviar with her dark fur, like fire against the night. She bit the one corner and tugged, giving the scarf more of a rakish air.

Beverly sat back on her heels, pleased with the results. The door clicked and Annette came into the foyer, skepticism marring the prettiness of her features. She was wearing a black T-shirt, emblazoned with the name of something unfamiliar to Beverly, and the color did nothing for her. She dropped her backpack on the floor and surveyed her grandmother skeptically. “Aren’t those Hermès scarves?”

“What do you know about Hermès scarves?”

Annette shrugged, a gesture that Beverly despised because it looked common. “Only that some of the girls at school think they’re the thing to have.”

She wanted to grab her granddaughter by the shoulders and compel her to stand straight, to be proud of her natural beauty, to wear colors that drew eyes to her beauty.

Which gave her an idea.

“Do you want one, then?”

Annette’s eyes narrowed with a suspicion that ran so deep it wasn’t easily disguised. “Because the dogs don’t need any more?”

“Because it will suit your coloring. I’ve never been able to wear them because of that orange.”

“You could wear orange.”

Beverly shook her head. “No. I look like I have jaundice if I do. Here, you try. I think the undertone of your skin is different from mine.” And the orange would flatter her more than the black, Beverly was certain.

Annette reached out a hand, then hesitated. “You’re going to just give me one? Just like that? What are you going to want for it?”

Beverly dug out a gift box and presented it to her granddaughter. “A chance.” As soon as she said it, she knew it was true. She smiled, watching the uncertainty fade from her granddaughter’s expression. “That’s all I want from you; one more chance to be a grandmother.”

Annette’s eyes widened and her fingers brushed the box, the slowness of the gesture revealing how badly she wanted that scarf.

“Or maybe even a grandma,” Beverly added boldly.

“As if,” Annette breathed, clearly thinking she wouldn’t be heard.

Beverly arched a brow. “You’re not giving me much of a chance.”

Annette flushed. “Sorry. Can I still have the scarf?”

“Can I still have a chance?”

Their gazes met. Beverly smiled tentatively, and was relieved when Annette smiled in return. “Okay.” Annette fingered the scarf. “But how do you tie it so it looks cool?”

Beverly’s smile widened. “I see that it’s time to initiate you into the arcane secrets of the sisterhood of scarf-wearers.”

Annette’s eyes lit in anticipation. “No way.”

“Way,” Beverly retorted. “Let me show you a few things I learned in Paris.”

* * *

Leslie circled the kitchen, one eye on the phone sitting silently on the counter. The house was empty, her privacy was complete. The day had been long and quiet, one spent marking papers like most Saturdays. On this Saturday, though, she’d been planning what to say and how to say it. She’d been revising a script in her head all day long, and it was as good as it was going to get.

She was nervous, her palms sweaty. Asking for what you want was worse than being thrown to the lions.

It was Saturday night in a little town close to the big city and she was barefoot in her kitchen, a flurry of snow tinkling against the windows. Annette was walking the poodles; Beverly had gone somewhere, maybe an AA meeting.

It was time to eat some crow.

If only she could work up her nerve.

If only Matt had been anywhere other than where he was.

But there was nothing for it. She pounced on the phone suddenly, before she could change her mind, got Sharan’s number from directory assistance and quickly punched in the number. A lump rose in her throat and her heartbeat began to pound in her ears.

Great, she had the smooth assurance of sixteen again. That would make things easier.

“Hello?” A woman. Well, that shouldn’t have been a surprise.

“Hi, is this Sharan?” Leslie tried to sound as if she called this number all the time.

“Yes, it is.”

“Hi, Sharan, it’s Leslie Coxwell. Would Matt happen to be there?”

“And it’s very nice to talk to you, too, Leslie.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been quite the week.”

“Hasn’t it, though?” Leslie didn’t have much time to decide what to make of that. “Hang on, he’s here.”

Sharan put the phone down with a clatter that made Leslie wince. There was music playing, rollicking jazz that put Leslie in mind of speakeasies and people jitterbugging, laughing loud and cutting loose.

Is that what he was doing? She could only imagine.

“What’s the matter?” Matt demanded, his voice rough, and she jumped.

“Nothing’s the matter. I just wanted to talk to you.” Leslie heard him breathe a sigh of relief. “Well, something is the matter, but not in the way you think. I owe you an apology, maybe more than one. I haven’t been listening very well. I haven’t been asking very many questions and I haven’t been sharing my own thoughts and worries with you. I haven’t done a very good job lately of being a good partner.”

It wasn’t a particularly flattering confession and Matt’s silence only made it harder. Leslie charged onward. “And so, you were right, in thinking that I wouldn’t understand you and even in thinking that I might not be very accommodating of you changing the rules. I saw what I wanted, what I thought I needed, and didn’t see much further.”

Leslie took a ragged breath. “But you were wrong about me, too. I might have forgotten about my principles in order to guarantee my paycheck, in order to make sure that you weren’t disappointed, but you’ve reminded me of that again. I’ve been making some changes. I’ve been trying to be the person I want to be.”

She smiled and shook her head, knowing that she sounded like she was begging and not really caring.

Maybe she
was
begging.

Maybe it was about time.

“Annette says that I should just make you love me again, but the thing is that I never did that. You always were the one to make things happen. You always were the one to smooth the way and manage the details, and I just carried on with my own plans. It’s been an unbalanced relationship, Matt, though I only see that now. And I’d like a chance to strike a new balance. I’d like a chance to find a way for both of us to have our principles, and to have them together.”

She swallowed, achingly aware of his silence. But if you’re going to eat crow, you’ve got to clean your plate. “I love you, Matt, though I don’t think I appreciated how much until you were gone. I don’t want to split up without giving us one more try.”

Those last words might have been a penny tossed down a well. The silence was like waiting for the splash far below.

There was no splash and no response. Leslie figured it would be her luck to have given the genie at the bottom of the well a concussion with her coin.

The line crackled slightly. Having said what she’d called to say, Leslie was fresh out of words. All the same, she didn’t want to hang up.

Matt cleared his throat, as if feeling awkward, something he seldom did.

At least as far as Leslie knew.

What else didn’t she know?

“So, how’d it go at work yesterday?” he asked, as if they were either strangers or so familiar to each other as to be disinteresting. Leslie was disoriented by this change of subject, until she remembered that he wasn’t alone.

But what did this mean? Did he even care about what she’d just said? He must have heard her.

Or maybe he was looking for evidence of change.

“Oh, well, I challenged Dinkelmann to let me teach my way and we’d tally it up at the end of the term. If the kids’ averages drop, then I’ll quit: if they improve, he has to let me teach my way.”

She could hear Matt’s surprise. “And he went for that?”

“I think he’s expecting me to blow it. It will be easier to be rid of me if I quit then for him to try to fire a tenured professor.”

“And then what happens?”

“Well, I’m not planning on blowing it,” Leslie said, trying to sound humorous and confident. She was pretty sure she failed on both counts. “But I have it on good authority that if you follow your heart, things should work out.”

It was a clear reference to Matt’s comment the previous day, but he didn’t pick up on it. In fact, he didn’t say anything. There was another unwelcome portent.

Eating crow didn’t seem to be bringing in the results.

Leslie’s mouth went dry. At the very least, she had to find out when he was coming back,
if
he was coming back. “Your mother has pretty much completed the funeral arrangements for your dad,” she said. “The service will be Wednesday in Rosemount.”