Tea and Primroses (20 page)

“Why haven’t you?”

“You know, same old thing. I’m afraid to make a mistake.”

“You won’t fail, Sutton. You can do this in your sleep.”

She reached out, touching the side of his face, leaving her hand there, feeling the stubble on his cheek with the tips of her fingers. “You always had this way of making me feel like I could do anything.”

“You can.”

“The world’s cruel. I’ve learned that since you left. I’m not made to fight and scratch. It’s better for me to live small. Nothing is new here. I know every inch of the roads here, the houses, the beach, Legley Bay, everything is the same, day after day. I thought about it a lot when I was in Paris. Do you know how much courage it took for me to leave here and go there by myself, not knowing anyone or the language? But I went everywhere, all the museums and sites, and drank espresso and wine at small cafes, and it made me feel different, more independent and capable and curious, less afraid than I used to be. All of which made me wonder what I’ve missed staying in Oregon instead of venturing out into the world. I thought maybe you were right after all, that to find yourself you have to go away from home.”

He put his hand over hers and brought it into his lap. “You’ve always been completely unpretentious and unapologetic about wanting to live here. It was one of the things I loved about you.”

Loved
. In the past tense. Could he love her again?

She took in a deep breath. “When I was in Paris I had this ridiculous fantasy you would somehow show up, even though I had no idea where in Europe you were living. The school was on this busy street, with cars and buses whizzing by, and the noise of the city was loud, honking horns and shouts and the roar of engines, which I hated. When I stepped out of the bakery in the late afternoons, I stood under the awning, watching all this humanity and I looked for you. Every day I had the same illogical thought. Today will be the day he’ll come. And then I would walk to my hotel, the feel of flour on my skin and the Parisians bustling by me and I wondered if you had ever walked the same path. And in the museums, all I ever thought of was you. What did you think of this painting or that? How I wished you were there to explain to me the subtleties or the history or just hold my hand while the beauty entered my body.”

Declan’s eyes were glassy. “I wouldn’t have guessed you wanted me to come.”

“I did.”

He rubbed under his eyes and yawned. The first light of dawn was outside the windows.

“You need to sleep.” She stood. “Stretch out here for a bit.”

“No, I’m fine. Are you hungry? I could make you something. Anything you want.”

“Absolutely not. You’re sleeping for the next several hours.”

“You’re so bossy.”

She laughed. “We both know you’re the bossy one of the two of us.”

But he didn’t answer. His eyes were closed; he was asleep. Declan was always able to sleep in an instant. She watched him, allowing herself to take in every line and detail of his face: the lock of hair that always fell over his forehead; the scar above his mouth where a ball, thrown by Peter when they were twelve, had split open his lip; his black, thick lashes splayed over his high cheekbones.

Cinnamon rolls. Declan should have them when he woke up.

She headed to the kitchen, rummaging around for ingredients and a large bowl and the metal measuring spoons Roma had first taught her to bake with.

She scalded the milk first, letting the thin film form over the top, and set it aside to cool while she added a package of yeast and warm water to her mother’s largest mixing bowl. Opening the door to the deck, the sea air and the sound of waves filled the room. She turned on the oven.

Pecans
. It came to her suddenly. Declan liked pecans in his cinnamon rolls. For the crunch, he always said. There might be some left from last holiday season; she had made a pecan pie for Aggie, who was the only woman left on the planet who would eat that many calories in one sitting. It came from all the years of eating low-calorie bean soup, thought Sutton. Aggie could afford to eat the whole pecan pie by herself at least once a year.

Sutton searched the pantry for pecans. Finally, she found a bag way in the back, behind a package of brown sugar, hardened from neglect. She chopped them and set them aside while she mixed together the flour, sugar, melted butter, and now-cooled scalded milk in a large bowl. Then, putting flour onto the surface of the counter, she began to knead the dough. With every push and tug, she tried to keep her mind from thinking of the manuscript or of her mother making love with Patrick Waters. Or of Declan, asleep in the other room. But it was no use. Despite the pleasure of the dough on her fingers and the familiar physical exertion of kneading, the thoughts came. She’d loved Declan like her mother loved Patrick Waters. What had she said about their first kiss?
This is what all the fuss is about
.

That was what she’d felt for Declan the first time he ever kissed her. And then, afterward, when his hands had learned how to touch her just exactly right, she’d thought then,
I cannot live without this man
.

What had happened to Patrick and her mother? Why had they parted?

What had happened between Declan and her?

She’d said no to his marriage proposal and he’d left without a backward glance. That was almost six years ago and not one word from him. And each moment of silence stung like a physical blow. Even now, six years later, it continued to hurt. And then Roger had come to her, so eager, so willing to take her as she was. But she didn’t want to marry him. Being in the same room with Declan made that obvious. Had her mother loved Miller Byrd like she had Patrick Waters?

She put the kneaded dough in the bowl and set it to rise on the table in the sunshine. Yawning, she suddenly felt too tired to go on. The vision of Declan, asleep on the couch, flashed through her mind. Maybe she could lie next to him, just for a few minutes. He probably wouldn’t even wake up.

In the front room, she found him in the same position she’d left him in, sleeping on his side facing out, his cheek resting on a throw pillow. She sat first and stretched out next to him. His arms came around her chest, pulling her tight.

“Sutton,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

But he didn’t answer. A second later she felt his chest moving in the rhythm of sleep. She let herself relax and breathed in the scent of his cologne, pretending this moment might last forever. She fell asleep.

She woke several hours later with a start. Declan’s arms were still tight around her. When she moved, he made a small grunt but didn’t open his eyes. She scooted from the couch and went to the kitchen. It was nearing ten a.m. Her dough would be ready. She punched it down and rolled it out into a rectangle and sprinkled it with melted butter, then the sugar and cinnamon mixture. Lastly, she sprinkled crushed pecans over the top.

As she cut the dough into strips, she thought of the day Declan had asked her to marry him.

It was early morning and they walked on the beach toward the hidden cove. They’d been up late the night before making love, silently so as not to wake Constance, but had risen early anyway, to enjoy their last time together before Sutton had to leave for her last quarter at pastry school in Portland.

They huddled in the cove on a blanket. He put his arm around her.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” she said.

“I’m sorry I’ve acted so crazy this summer.”

She squeezed his hand, thinking of the shock they’d all felt when Roma had died and of her mother’s debilitating depression. “How else could you act?”

“I have to let it, go, Sutton. My mother’s dead and we’ll probably never figure out how she died or who she was with. I know she was murdered but Tim Ball has no leads. It’s like the guy she was with that night never existed.”

“I know.” She kissed his cheek.

“Sutton, I want to get married. Next summer, after you’re done with culinary school.”

She stared at him. “Married?”

“Yes, Baby, married. I mean, will you marry me?” He reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a small box. It had a ring inside: a small, round diamond that sparkled in the sun. “I have two tickets to Europe. Open-ended. We can travel after the wedding, for as long we want.” He pulled the ring from the box. “I wish it was bigger.”

She didn’t move. Her eyes fixed on the ring for a long moment.

He picked up her hand. “Do you want to try it on? Size seven. Your mother told me.”

“My mother knows about this?”

“Yes, she’s psyched. Tried to get me to take some money for a ring but I wanted to buy it with my own money. But she bought plane tickets to Europe for our honeymoon. It was her idea, actually, knowing how much I want to travel.”

Sutton looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t marry you.”

“Why?”

“I’m just not ready. I’m too young. I’m not even twenty-five yet. And your mother just died. You’re not thinking straight. And neither is my mother. Neither of you have any right to try and plan my future without consulting me. I have to make my own way without my mother’s money and that means I have to finish school and get a job, not become a wife. Traveling the world is your dream, not mine. Sometimes I wonder if either of you know me at all. I’m sorry, Declan, but I just need more time. Why did you have to ask now and ruin everything?” She got up from the sand, stumbling on the skirt of her sundress, and then began to run up the beach to home.

Now, she put the rolls in the oven and put the kettle on for tea. It was true, of course, that she hadn’t been ready. She had needed time to prove to herself she could be independent from her mother and Declan. But it was also that she’d felt unsure she could ever be enough for him. What had her mother said to Patrick Waters? She was complicated in an uncomplicated life. Declan was complicated, moody and intense, artistic. He yearned for adventure and vast experiences. He yearned for a complicated life. Sutton was uncomplicated and wanted an uncomplicated life. She yearned for the familiar and simple.

She was jarred from her thoughts when Declan entered the kitchen looking like the little boy he’d once been, face puffy with sleep and an indentation from the pillow on his cheek. He held a newspaper in his hands. “
New York Times
did an obituary of your mother. It’s very nice. Did you arrange it?”

“No. Janie.”

He raked a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “So, there’s something else.” Moving into the room, he sat at the table with her. “There’s an article in the Book section. The press knows she was murdered.” He set the newspaper next to the salt and pepper shakers. “And there’s press outside the gate. They can’t get in, of course, but it wouldn’t surprise me if helicopters show up trying to get photos. Best to stay inside today unless you want to be filmed.”

“Why are they interested in the house? They know she’s dead.”

“American journalists. You know how it is. Any hint of scandal and they swarm.”

“Thank God we had the memorial before they found out. We wouldn’t have been able to keep them out of here yesterday.”

“I thought of that too.” He cocked his head to the side, watching her. “I had a dream that you were sleeping next to me on the couch.”

She averted her eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah. It seemed so real.” He shivered, moving toward the open door and shutting it. He crossed his arms, looking at her. “Sutton, did you ever think of me at all after I left?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He was still, watching her.

“I guarantee you I’ve thought of you more than you’ve thought of me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I’ve been here, Dec, in our same world. You’ve traveled all over, had so many adventures. It’s not possible to hold the past close when the present is so vivid.”

He shook his head, his dark eyes hooded. “It’s the opposite, actually. The more vivid your present, the clearer your past.”

The timer on the oven chirped. Sutton grabbed an oven mitt and took out the pan of rolls. The room filled with the smell of cinnamon and butter.

“When did you make these?” He moved toward the stove.

“While you were napping.”

He made a groaning sound and clutched his stomach. “With pecans?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “No matter how far I go into the world, Sutton Mansfield, nothing compares to your cinnamon rolls.”

***

Moments later, they sat in the front room, with a platter of the gooey rolls on the coffee table. Sutton was on one end of the couch with her legs curled under her and Declan was on the other, sitting straight up with the pages of the manuscript in his lap. As he read, he set the pages next to him on the couch, one by one, his voice soft as the brilliant August sun flooded the lovely room, the sea’s consistent waves keeping rhythm with the prose.

P
ATRICK

I was on my way on foot from the newspaper office to Doris’s one late afternoon in mid-November to finish my column; Patrick was to pick me up at five to take me home to dinner at his place. I hadn’t spent a night in my little studio in two weeks. The snows had come but I was warm in my heavy jacket, hat, and gloves. I thought of Patrick as I walked along the show-shoveled sidewalk on the main street of town. Everything seemed almost magical covered in snow, or perhaps it was just that I was in love. The evening before Patrick had made me so senseless in bed I’d felt delirious for hours afterward, my legs shaky and my stomach full of the now familiar butterflies; just thinking of it now, my stomach did a flop and my pulse quickened. Warm suddenly, I ripped the wool hat from my head.