Tea and Primroses (30 page)

“It counts for a lot. I’m sorry I’m such a pill.”

“Takes one to know one.” Gigi paused. “What am I going to do about Jack?”

“Have you called him?”

“Well, no. Isn’t the man supposed to call?”

“Maybe in this case it might be worth a try. He might be feeling weird and that it was just a one night deal or something.”

“I’m the first woman he’s been with since his wife died.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes. Between all the hot sex we talked about a lot of things.”

“No wonder you haven’t heard from him. He’s probably feeling overwhelmed. Go back to my place. Call him.”

“Yes, I will. You’re right. I should just call him.” Gigi walked to the bar and set her half-empty glass of wine on the counter. “What’s going on with you?”

“You won’t believe the last couple of days. First, Declan and I had a big fight and then we kissed and slept in the same bed and admitted to one another the old feelings still exist but we’ve been distracted by my mother’s story and haven’t really figured anything out.” She pointed at the manuscript and as succinctly as possible told Gigi everything they’d read. She ended with the biggest shock of all. “I think Patrick Waters might be my real father.”

“What the hell? How is that possible? What does Declan say?”

As if on cue, they heard the front door open and close. “That’s probably him now,” Sutton whispered.

Declan came into the front room, holding a plain paper bag with what was probably paint supplies. He smiled and hugged Gigi. “You two drinking again?”

“Mostly just me,” said Gigi. “But I have to go.” She turned to Sutton. “Call me when you’ve finished the rest of the manuscript.”

“I will.”

“I’ll walk you out,” said Declan.

After they left the room, Sutton remained on the couch, fiddling with the trim of a throw blanket, her stomach in knots, waiting for Declan to return.

A few minutes later, he came in, stopping at the bar to pour some of the white wine into a fresh glass. With his back to her, still at the bar, he spoke in a flat tone. “What did he want?”

“He just wanted to talk, Dec. He needed answers. And closure, I suppose.”

He turned around to look at her. “Is it over between you? Please don’t lie to me.”

“Yes.”

“The thought of his hands on you makes me want to puke.”

“Declan.” She whispered his name, looking down at the blanket, twisting the fringe with her fingers.

He was beside her then, kneeling on the floor. “What is it?”

“I never slept with him.” Her bottom lip trembled.

Staring at her, his eyes wider than the moment before, he went perfectly still. “You didn’t?”

“Over the years there were a few men I liked that I slept with but every time it made me feel utterly alone, like everything inside me emptied out and I was just this brittle vessel of nothingness. And in the middle of that nothingness was the thought of you. It felt like I was dying when another man touched me—your name was a chant in my head. So I stopped trying. Roger was willing to wait until we got married. I convinced myself that it would be okay with him but I didn’t have to test that theory as long as we weren’t married yet. That’s why he was pushing me so hard to set a date. I’ve wanted so very much to be happy, to feel less alone, but filling the space with anyone but you makes it impossible.”

“I don’t know what to say.” His eyes were glassy. “I was gone too long.”

“You were gone too long.” She touched the sides of his face. “Read me more of the story.”

R
OMA

Years moved along as they do. I made a life for myself after Miller died, becoming more isolated and holding ever tighter to those I loved. When I wasn’t working, I spent time with Sutton, feeling an instinctive urge to protect her, to keep her close. Sometimes I thought my eyes might catch fire, I watched her with such intensity. Louise had another baby. Jack was the opposite of his brother, timid and cerebral. Peter protected him like Declan protected Sutton. The books continued to come, the characters unable to let me rest and plots falling into me in the craziest moments: during my morning bicycle ride into town, at the grocery store picking out peaches, in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. After my sixth book, when Sutton was in first grade and Declan in third, Hollywood called. I answered. And overnight, I became rich. I had a house built by the sea with a fence around it and a gate that only the Balls, Roma, and my father knew the code to. I remodeled the little house in town I’d bought for Roma and Declan. I sent my father, Clara, and Reggie on a trip around the world. I was happy for the financial success, because of what it could do for the people I loved.

I sent my rabbit’s foot with Reggie, for good luck.

One day, that same year, I received a call from Louise. She’d left Tim, she said, and moved with the boys into Aggie’s house. I put aside my work for the day. “I have wine,” I said. “Come over.” She arrived twenty minutes later, looking shaken and wan.

“He’s been cheating on me,” she said, taking the glass of wine from my outstretched hand and sitting at the kitchen counter. “Over and over. Again and again. Woman after woman.”

I stared at her in disbelief. What did she mean?

As if I’d asked the question out loud, she continued, “I’ve never told you because I was ashamed. The checkout girl at the supermarket was just the first. That I know about.”

“Louise, I don’t know what to say.” But inside I was thinking,
how is this possible? How are you best friends with someone for most of your life and not know her husband was a serial cheater?
“How did you find out?”

“I’ve known.” She went on to tell me in detail about the long list of women: the checkout girl, the wife of the Boy Scout leader, and the list went on until the latest, some waif of a girl that had not only called the house but sat across the street in her car. “Peter saw her on the way to the bus stop. I know it. Oh, Connie, I’ve been such a fool.”

I went around the kitchen island to hug her. She sobbed in my arms as I stroked her long blond hair. Louise. Perfect, sweet, beautiful Louise. Why would a man cheat on a woman like this? There was only one answer. He was a flawed, sick man. I told her so, letting all my hatred come to the surface. “Tim Ball’s a child who never got over being the town’s football star. What an ass.”

“I know you’re right but I’ve loved him all my life and now I don’t know what to do.” Louise pulled away slightly as I handed her a tissue.

I poured more wine into her glass, trying to think of something encouraging. “You’ll be all right. You did the right thing to leave him. For you and the boys. You can stay here, if you want.”

Louise sniffed and the corners of her mouth went up into a slight, sad smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you, but it’s better for us to live with my mom. She’s crazy but she loves us. It’s best for the boys.” She put her fingers around the stem of her glass and gazed into the yellow liquid as if examining something in a microscope. “My biggest fear all these years has been moving in with my mother, having to face her with my failures, but now it’s happened, it isn’t so bad. She welcomed me in without question or criticism. This morning she left the newspaper on the kitchen table with a listing for an open position at the elementary school for a classroom aid. No note or anything, just the ad circled.”

I chuckled. “Aggie’s one of a kind, no doubt. Maybe you should go back to school. Get that teaching degree you always talked about when we were kids. You’d be such a great teacher. I’ll pay for it.”

“Connie, you’re a good friend.” She started to cry again.

I pushed the wine glass closer to her. “But today, cry, drink wine, and don’t think too hard about the future.”

She took a sip, wiping under her eyes. “You still love him, don’t you? After all these years?”

I gazed at her for a moment, over my wineglass. “Who?”

“Patrick.”

I averted my eyes and drank more wine. “How did you know?”

“You’ve let it ruin your chances at loving again. You know this, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t care.”

“Well, I do. I hate watching year after year as you sit in this house and do nothing but fret over Sutton and your work. There’s more to life, you know.”

“How much I still love him—it’s my secret, I guess, my shame.” I pushed her shoulder gently with my fingers. “But anyway, I thought we were talking about you.”

“Do you ever think about contacting him?”

I hesitated. “I don’t.” I moved around the island and opened the refrigerator. “We need cheese.”

Louise didn’t push any further. She knew me well enough to know when a discussion was closed.

That night, I thought a lot about the secrets we all keep. Louise, who seemed to have the perfect family, had hidden something she deemed too shameful to tell even her best friend. None of us were exempt, I suppose, from this secret keeping. I wondered, though, might it be better to tell the truth to those we trust? Could it set us free?

***

A year went by. And then came a loss that cut so deeply I wasn’t sure I could recover.

It was a Saturday and my father, Clara, and Reggie had just returned from their world travels, and they spent time with the children outside on the deck. It was a sunny day and crisp. My father and Reggie blew bubbles while Sutton and Declan chased them, laughing and shrieking when they caught one. Afterward we all had barbeque chicken and some of Roma’s delicious potato salad on the deck. I’d ordered outside heaters and we all marveled at how comfortable they made us. We chatted and laughed at the stories of my father’s travels. Declan, always the adventurer, wanted to know every detail of all the places they’d been and my father promised to bring their slides at the next visit. Sutton climbed onto my father’s lap during dessert and fell asleep on his chest, her pretty face peaceful in his arms. Reggie reached over and squeezed my hand. “Best time of my life, Princess. Seeing all that without a machine gun in my hand almost made me forget ‘Nam. Thank you.”

“I’m glad, Reggie.”

“Always knew you were special ‘cause of that noggin of yours but really it’s your heart does all the heavy lifting.”

I dismissed the compliment with a wave of my hand. “You need a place to stay, now you’re home?” I asked. Reggie had let go of his tiny apartment when they left on their trip.

“I do need a place to stay for a few days but, well, truth is, I ain’t staying for long. I met a lady friend. She’s from Greece. We’re gonna get married and live in her little village. I just came home to take care of a few things and say goodbye to you.”

“Reggie, really?”

“Ain’t it something? She don’t care about my one eye. Says it makes her look better since I can’t see that well.”

“Reggie, I’m happy for you but I’ll miss you terribly.”

“You should consider looking for a new man, Princess. No reason you can’t remarry.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “I like my life the way it is.”

He didn’t push further but he reached into his pocket and pulled out the rabbit’s foot. “Brought this back for you. Took us all around the world with no troubles.”

I smiled and took the old foot, slipping it in the pocket of my sweater. “Thanks, Reggie.”

Around three o’clock the next morning, I woke to the phone ringing. It was Tim Ball at the gate; could I let him in?

My mind was numb as I slipped into my bathrobe and headed downstairs. Tim was already at the door when I opened it.

“What’s happened?” It came out as nothing more than a croak.

“There was a fire at your father’s house. I’m sorry, Con, but neither your father nor Clara survived. Burned to the ground. They didn’t have a chance. These old houses, faulty wiring, no doubt,” he added. But I barely heard him from my place on my knees.

“Get Louise,” I said.

“She’s already on her way.”

Reggie. Thank God Reggie had stayed with me. I turned to see him coming down the stairs, his face contorted in pain. He’d heard. I wept in his arms until Louise arrived.

***

Perhaps a month or so after my father and Clara died, I spotted an article in the
New York Times
. It was about Maurice Templeton and the latest publishing house he’d bought and merged with Kingston. The profile mentioned his daughters, with the smallest note about Sigourney. She was mentally ill, in and out of an institution in recent years. There was an old photo of her and Patrick coming out of the church after their wedding. I threw the newspaper in the fire.

I kept along, growing older in my beach house, marking time by the words between Chapter One and The End, the joy and worries that came with raising Sutton and Declan, the good and comfortable company of Roma, and my enduring friendship with Louise.

I’d like to say I thought of Patrick less and less with each passing year but it is simply not true. I continued to dream of him frequently. One day there was an article in the
Oregonian
about Patrick Waters of Waters Clocks. He’d made a small fortune designing clocks, collectibles, and custom pieces for the rich. That night, I wound mine and something akin to forgiveness came to me. Although the pain was still there, I was happy for him.

One day, sometime into the year of 2000, I saw in the
New York Times
, my conduit to the world I hovered on the edges of, that Maurice Templeton had died. Good riddance, I uttered, shutting the paper and tossing it into the fireplace.

More years came and went. The children grew up and finished high school. We sent Declan to college and then Sutton. Declan eased through undergraduate school and then went on to get his master’s in art history at the University of Washington. But Sutton struggled. For three years she tried to get through undergraduate school but she kept changing majors and dropping classes while barely passing others. I felt helpless and unsure of what to do for her, especially as I watched her grow increasingly more insecure and unsure of herself. One day when she was twenty-two, we walked on the beach arm in arm, and she, in tears, confessed that she’d barely passed most of her classes that semester and that she wouldn’t be graduating for at least another two years. I thought back to all those years ago to something Patrick had said.
The most important thing is to know what you want.
I said to her, then, “What do you want to do Sutton? What would you do if you knew you could not fail?”