Queen of Broken Hearts (21 page)

Way to go, Grams. Open mouth, insert foot. “That's not what I meant, honey. I'm sure that Lindsay's mommy and daddy love them and were very sad when they had to get a divorce. What I want you to remember is this: Your mommy and daddy love each other as much as they love you and Zach, so you don't have to worry about anything like that, okay?”

Her brow furrowed under wispy bangs, Abbie studies me. “You promise?”

“I promise, sweetheart. Now, let's say your prayers, and remember what I always say to you, okay?”

“Sleep tight, and don't let the bedbugs bite.”

Haley and Austin are putting supper on the table when I leave Abbie's room and go into the kitchen. They fed the kids earlier and insisted that I stay while Austin grilled some fresh bay scallops for our supper. I protested, not wanting them going to that much trouble on a school night, but they wouldn't hear of my leaving. Austin has fixed our plates, a mound of salad greens glistening with oil and vinegar, topped with sweet bay scallops, grilled deep brown. We join hands and bow our heads for the blessing, reaching across the table awkwardly with just the three of us, then squeeze hands after the “amen.” It pleases me more than I let on that Austin and Haley are devout Episcopalians, committed to bringing up the children in the church. In spite of what my detractors say, I'm an advocate of strong ties to the church and community as an important part of a family unit.

“This looks marvelous, Austin,” I say, shaking out my napkin. “Now I'm grateful that you twisted my arm to stay.”

“And I'm grateful that scallops were on sale today,” Haley says with a twinkle in her eyes as Austin flushes. We tease him about his thriftiness, though I let up once I noticed him becoming so defensive about it. Mack, who never liked Austin as much as I did, finding his son-in-law a bit too goody-goody for his taste, was the one to start it. He was merciless with the teasing once Haley told us that Austin washed and reused aluminum foil, plastic wrap, and dental floss.

“Not funny, Haley,” Austin says touchily.

Unperturbed, Haley passes a basket of French bread my way. “I'm glad you rescued them from the half-price bin, honey, because I'm starving. I had a measly peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich for lunch, but not a thing since.”

“Except a couple of margaritas and a ton of taco chips,” Austin remarks, dodging when she swats at his arm. “And as you know, Clare,” he continues, “if your daughter had prepared dinner tonight, we'd have been lucky to get a peanut-butter sandwich.”

“Bull hockey,” Haley says. “I'm getting to be a much better cook. That
Southern Living
subscription you gave me, Mom? This weekend I made two things from the September issue, and they were really good. Weren't they, Austin? I fixed Curry Coconut Shrimp and served it with Pear and Walnut Salad.”

“Which one was which?” Austin asks, then winks at me.

“Very funny. The kids didn't much like the curry, but they ate every bit of their salad. And I'm going to make a leek and potato frittata Sunday morning.”

“The kids won't eat that crap,” Austin tells her. “They always want my pancakes on Sunday.”

“Oh, I'll bet they'll eat frittata, Austin,” I chime in brightly. “It'll be somewhat like scrambled eggs, with hash browns added. Maybe you should leave the leeks out, though.”

“What are leeks, anyway?” Haley asks, and Austin snorts. The main conflict I've observed in their marriage has to do with Haley's domestic skills, or lack thereof. A couple of times I've been a witness to a sure-enough shouting match when Austin complained about Haley's cooking, the house not being cleaned to his satisfaction, the laundry piled up, or the fridge full of moldy leftovers. He's a confirmed neat freak, while the happy-go-lucky Haley is oblivious to mess and clutter.

“Besides,” Haley says, putting a hand on Austin's arm and smiling up at him prettily, “there's no sense in me being in the kitchen when you're such a good cook.”

Usually Austin melts when she flatters him, but his face remains impassive as he says testily, “Has it ever occurred to you that I might enjoy coming home to a nice dinner occasionally? It's difficult to work as hard as I do, then come in late and have to cook.”

“Oh,
pardon
me,” Haley snaps. “Like I don't work hard, too.”

“Yeah, right. Kindergarten kids! Spend one day struggling with surly college students, and you'd see the difference in what we do. Not only that, you're home by four o'clock. You have no idea.”

Haley turns to me indignantly, seeking support. “Can you believe this? Austin has turned into a chauvinist pig since he got that new promotion! Mr. Big wants a Stepford wife or something.”

“All men want a Stepford wife, honey,” I say lightly. “
I
want a Stepford wife.”

They both chuckle, and the tension dissipates. When the phone rings and Austin starts to get up, Haley says, “Let the machine get it.” Again she turns to me for help, an occupational hazard I encounter often. “Another bad thing about the new job. They call Austin constantly. He never has a free minute anymore.”

Austin gets to his feet and starts for the phone. “Unfortunately, it goes with the territory,” he says over his shoulder.

When he's gone and we can hear his voice in the hallway, discussing a problem at the learning lab, Haley sighs mightily. “It's every single night and all weekend. I swear to God.”

“I believe you. But …” I hesitate, biting my lip. It's such a difficult thing, not interfering in your kids' lives.

“But what?” She leans toward me with a frown.

“Just that it takes a while to adjust to a new job. You have to set your boundaries. Austin will learn to do that as he gets used to the job and determines his responsibilities. Maybe you should leave it alone for a while, let him work it out.”

Haley's thoughtful. Then she plops a scallop in her mouth. After chewing carefully and swallowing, she tilts her head and regards me. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“My very best professional advice,” I say with a smile.

“Not everybody's mom is a therapist. Guess I'd be a fool not to listen to you, huh?”

“You could never be a fool, sweetheart, even if you tried.”

Haley rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “You of all people cannot say that with a straight face.”

Austin comes back into the room and stands with his hands on his hips, looking from me to Haley with his eyebrows raised. “Did I miss something?”

“Just Mom giving me advice, is all.”

“Thank God. Now if only you'll listen to her,” he says.

Haley gets to her feet and goes to her husband, kissing him lightly on the mouth and then on each cheek. “I love you, sweetie, even when you act like a turd,” she declares.

Austin puts an arm around his wife's shoulder and says casually, “Love you, too.” He turns and looks down at me. “Why don't we have some of that chocolate cake Clare brought?”

It's later, on the drive home, that I recall Haley's offhand remark about her being a fool. Coupled with her unexpected comment at Mateer's this afternoon, I have to wonder what's going on with her. Even though she and I have put the heartbreak of the past behind us—as much as it's possible—every now and then it surfaces, like a log submerged beneath murky waters that is dislodged by an unexpected current. One thing I'm sure of, nothing can be gained by its reappearance. Especially now, with Mack dead. Once we'd buried him, Haley and I buried that awful period in our lives and, hopefully, our guilt with it.

Several days after the hellacious one that started with Son bursting into my office, I don't get home from work until after dark, an hour later than I planned. I realize how tired I am only as I kick off my shoes in the foyer and lean against the front door, eyes closed, before getting up the energy to move again. Lex is here, his Jeep out front and the lights on in the back of the house. I didn't call him to say I was running late due to a crisis with a client—Helen Murray again—but I should have. I should've asked him to meet me at Mateer's or the Colony instead of here. I've invited Lex to dinner, but no way I can cook now; I'm way too wiped out. Part of my plan had been to go by the pier and get some fish fresh off the boat for our supper, but they were closed. Oh well. That's why the Lord invented grilled cheese sandwiches, I guess.

Walking back to the kitchen, I loosen the belt of my white slacks, pull out my silk shirt from the waistband, then unfasten the heavy gold earrings Dory gave me for my birthday, dropping them on the sideboard of the dining room. By the time I enter the kitchen, I'm half undressed, and it feels so good I decide not to even mention going to a restaurant for dinner. Grilled cheese it is. In the kitchen doorway, I stand for a moment, not taking in the sight I'm seeing. Lex, whom I've thought of as the most undomestic of men, is at the stove, where he appears to be cooking something in an iron skillet. Something, I realize, that smells so rich and buttery it makes my mouth water and my knees go weak. “What on earth?” I say.

“And hello to you, too, Clare,” he says cheerily, but he doesn't look up from the skillet. “You're just in time.”

“In time for what?”

Frowning in concentration, Lex glances my way. “Dinner.” He does a double take when I unbutton the top button of my blouse as I walk over to the stove to see what he's cooking. “But it can wait, if you have something else in mind,” he adds, grinning.

“Not very likely, since I can hardly muster up the energy to undress.”

“You're doing a pretty good job of it.”

“Look who's talking, you barefooted yard dog.” I stand by the stove with my hands on my hips and watch as he swirls a huge pat of butter around in the sizzling skillet, filling the kitchen with a wonderful smell. Then, as precisely as a surgeon, he makes an oblong slice on the top of a couple of hoagie buns, opens them up, and plops them into the browned butter.

“Couldn't find the right kind of buns,” he mutters as he flips them with a snap of his wrist, “so I had to improvise. Won't be as good, but it'll have to do.”

“Lex, did I miss something? We've been friends for—what?—a few months now, and I've never seen you cook a thing. Not a fried egg, or a piece of toast, or a—a—hot dog, even. Yet here you are, not only cooking up something fabulous-smelling but acting like you know what you're doing.”

He flips the buns again to brown on the other side. “I'd be a disgrace to the state of Maine if I couldn't make a decent crab roll.”

“Oh, bull. No way you're making crab rolls.” I laugh and move away from the stove to grab an opened bottle of Shiraz and pour myself a glass. “I was planning on making us a grilled cheese sandwich,” I say over my shoulder. “That's what you're doing, isn't it? Not crab rolls but some kind of Yankee grilled cheese? Hope it goes with red wine.”

Jerking up his head in surprise, Lex stops grilling long enough to stare at me. “Don't tell me you made a big deal of inviting me to dinner, then planned on serving me grilled cheese sandwiches?”

“Well, no,” I admit. “I was going to do something wonderful and healthy with fish and fresh vegetables, but I didn't count on working so late. I just decided on grilled cheese when I walked in the door. And I know how to make them light, with nonfat cheese and make-believe-it's-butter, or whatever you call that stuff.”

“I told you I'd take you out to dinner, but no, you insisted on cooking.” He scowls and waves the spatula at me. “When I get here precisely on time, I see to my surprise that you've got nothing out for dinner, and nothing in the fridge, either.
Nada.
So I go into action. It will be your great fortune and even greater honor to partake of my crab rolls. Lobster rolls are much better, but these are quicker.”

“I still don't believe you.” I take a sip of wine. “Where are they, then?”

“Where are what?”

“The crab rolls!”

“You have to make them. Like most food, they don't magically appear on the table. Actually, that's not true, in your case. Sit down and I'll bring yours to you.” He nods his head toward the little table with the built-in cushioned seats under the bay window.

Silent but still skeptical, I obey, then watch him go to the fridge and pull out a small bowl with a flourish. “The crab mixture,” he explains, as though conducting a cooking show, with me as the audience. He takes a couple of plates and, on each one, centers a crispy browned roll oozing with what I can only hope is play-like-it's-butter. Opening them gently, he piles the crab mixture inside and brings our plates over to the table. Returning with the wine, he refills my glass, pours his, and sits down heavily. “Mud in your eye,” he says, raising his glass carefully so as not to slosh a single drop.

The crab roll is incredible, tart with lemon juice and mayo, crunchy with chopped cucumbers and capers, and oh so sweet with lump crabmeat. I fall on mine, so famished that I don't say a word until I've finished every morsel and used my fingertips to collect the crumbs. “Mmm,” I say, licking my fingers. “That was unbelievable!”