Tea and Primroses (4 page)

“Are you all right?” Sutton put a hand on his shoulder.

“Not all the way, no.” After a moment he straightened and looked at her directly. “I’m sorry. Your mother’s sudden death has been quite a shock.”

“For me too.”

“You sound like her. I told her once that her low, husky voice reminded me of vanilla pouring into a bowl of cream.”

“That sounds like an image she would have come up with for her books. Are you sure you’re not a writer, Mr. Waters?”

“No, that was your mother.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I’m searching your face but I cannot find her there. But you’re lovely. And you’re so tall.” He said this with his head cocked to one side, his intense eyes on her face.

“Yeah, we don’t look alike.” Sutton thought her mother looked like an old-fashioned movie star and, despite the inevitabilities of aging, she had retained her beauty, which was a combination of vulnerability, intelligence, and unconscious grace. She’d dressed simply, in sweaters and jeans, mostly, always for comfort while she was working.

Sutton was tall and slender, described by Constance as a young sapling tree, with deep green eyes and light brown hair she wore in loose waves except when she was at work. She tended toward the Bohemian in dress, with colors and prints and flowing materials. All her life people had told her she was beautiful—that she should be a model, had she thought about acting?—but none of it meant anything to her. She would rather have been imaginative like her mother or talented like Declan or smart like Gigi. Instead, she was pretty and shy. She hated when people looked at her too long. Instead she made nourishment for others with her hands.

Patrick’s gaze was on the sea, his voice soft. “Your mother was the prettiest woman I ever knew except for my own mother.”

“I used to watch her fix her hair when I was a child and think she looked like Grace Kelly.”

“I always thought Ingrid Bergman.”

“Sure. Yes.” She moved closer to him, leaning on the fence and looking out at the water as she spoke. “I’ve been listening to her last voicemail message to me over and over. I can’t seem to stop.”

“What did it say?” He turned to her.

“It said she had something important to talk to me about. I hadn’t seen her for over two months because of my trip.”

“Paris.”

“Yes.” But how did he know this?

Before she could ask, he rested his fingertips for a split second on her forearm.

“She loved you more than anything. More than all the success and the fan mail and awards.”

“I know, Mr. Waters. She wasn’t one to hold back her love. And there were no secrets between us.”

Mr. Waters was paler than the moment before. Was she imagining his hand shook as he raised it to his forehead and brushed his hair away from his eyes? “My father loved me in this way as well.”

“Mr. Waters, come inside. I’ll get you a drink. My mother asked for a party and I seem to be doing nothing but crying.”

“She didn’t really care for parties, though.” He said this in a way that made her think he was talking out loud rather than to her. “Why did she ask for this? Do you know?”

“Actually, she hated parties. She hardly socialized, except with Louise. Sometimes I thought she lived whole lifetimes in her books as opposed to the one she was in. But she wanted the people in town to have a chance for a nice party here at the house. She felt badly she never threw one when she was alive. At least that’s what she said in her instructions about what she wanted. She wrote me a letter.” She paused, running her finger along the rough surface of the fence. “My mother was always getting invited to this and that in Hollywood after the films became so big but she never went, always saying stuff like, ‘I can’t possibly take that much time away from work to attend those silly things.’ It used to drive me crazy, thinking of all the movie stars we could meet.”

He smiled gently, as if he understood. “I can imagine that was hard for a little girl to understand.”

“It was. I just wanted to wear a fancy dress once in a while.”

He chuckled. “Your mother had no use for that.”

“I would’ve probably been too shy to actually go anyway. I’ve always been more comfortable in small places, small towns, small jobs. I’m not bold like my mother.”

“No one writes thirty novels without a little bravado. But living simply doesn’t mean you’re not brave.” He paused. “I’m referring to you, not your mother.”

“I’m afraid about everything. It took so much courage for me to go to Paris. You can’t imagine how terrified I was.”

“But you did it.”

She smiled. “Yes, mostly because my mother made me.”

“Still, I’m surprised about the party.”

“I know. It surprised me too. I thought my mother was the most predictable person in the world, but maybe I was wrong.”

She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or not, but it seemed in that moment that Mr. Waters looked at her sharply.

“Perhaps we can never really discern where our parents begin as man and woman and end as father and mother.”

Sutton nodded, turning her gaze toward the house, a Cape Cod style inside and out, built with big windows facing the ocean and decorated in whites and light blues and greens, everything simple and elegant, like her mother. “Yes, I suppose it’s true that our parents always know more about us than we do about them. Come along, Mr. Waters, let’s go get that drink. If my mother wanted a party, a party she will have.” She slipped her arm into his as they headed across the lawn to the house.

More people had arrived, mingling in the front room, where Gigi greeted guests. She’d come in last night, flying all the way from Florida where she walked another beach now, one of white sand and blue water and sun that seemed to never fade, instead of the Oregon coastline where they’d grown up walking arm in arm, dreaming of the days when Gigi would make her escape from the little gray town of Legley Bay. Gigi was plump in those days and wore glasses over her deep brown eyes; her face was covered with acne and she wore her thick, brown hair long and layered around her face. But that was a long time ago. Now Gigi was slender and well dressed, sophisticated and successful with contacts instead of glasses and skin clear of blemishes, her hair long and glossy. Sutton teased her that she looked like a shampoo commercial. Yes, Gigi had made her escape, just like the rest of their group of friends. Sutton was the only one who had never thought of home as a place to escape from. She thought of it as a place she was lucky enough to live.

Gigi was currently escorting the latest guests over to the pasta bar. Sutton caught her eye and mouthed, “Thank you.” She could always count on Gigi to take care of things. This was the type of girl Gigi had been—intellectual, a leader, with a partial scholarship to college (the rest paid by Constance) to study business and chemistry, and fiercely independent, with concrete opinions and an attitude of scorn at any hint of conformity. Now she was an executive at some pharmaceutical company in Florida, which according to her was like hell on earth. The job or Florida, Sutton had asked her over email last week? Both, she’d replied.

Sutton turned to Mr. Waters. “Can you excuse me for a moment? I have a headache and need to grab an aspirin from the kitchen. Will you order me a white wine from the bar?”

“My pleasure,” he said.

The kitchen, normally pristine and almost startlingly white except for a few splashes of yellow, bustled with activity. Servers filled trays from sheets of food spread over the kitchen island, counters, and table. Sutton nodded to the head caterer, who was taking a pan from the oven, and went into the walk-in pantry. Her mother always kept a bottle of pain reliever on the top shelf, near the box of bandages. The pantry was large and nearly empty. It was once full of everything good: flour, sugar, spices, loaves of bread, jars of tangy beans. But since Roma’s death, her mother kept little food in the house, living on frozen dinners and whatever Sutton made on the two nights a week she came for dinner.

Sutton unfolded the utilitarian two-rung step stool; her mother was so short she hadn’t been able to reach the top shelf.
I’ll sit for only a moment
, she thought. She just needed a few minutes to collect herself, to gain enough courage to go back out and continue to greet guests.

She was about to get up when she heard Louise talking with her mother, Aggie. “There were whiskers in the sink, like someone had shaved. I’m telling you, someone was here. A man someone,” said Louise.

“Impossible,” said Aggie. “We would’ve known. Constance told you everything.” Sutton didn’t need to see her to know how Aggie pursed her lips and shook her head. Despite her eighty-one years, Aggie was all spit and fire.

“But you hadn’t seen her for months. You don’t know for sure.” Louise paused. “I should’ve come home more often. Especially with Sutton in France. We were all she had.”

They moved away from the pantry because Sutton didn’t hear what Aggie said in reply. A man? At the house? Aggie was right. It was impossible. Her mother lived almost like a recluse. There were no men. Ever.

She went back out to the front room. Mr. Waters was near the bar, holding a glass of white wine in one hand and a whiskey in the other. Greeting him with a smile, she took the wine. Someone had turned on the big television in the front room, with a DVD of one of Constance’s rare interviews.

Sutton glanced at Mr. Waters. His eyes were fixed on the television. “Have you seen this one before?” she asked him.

“Yes. Many times. She’s lovely in it, isn’t she?”

“She hated every minute of it but we got a trip to New York. It was just before Christmas last year, and after filming we went out to lunch at a restaurant in Rockefeller Center and drank a bottle of wine and looked at the tree and the ice-skaters, then walked around town. I was beyond happy to be in New York in December, seeing the sights, with her relaxed and not working. She was fun to travel with because she was so interested in everything.”

He chuckled. “Wish I’d been there for that.”

“I don’t know if I can watch this,” she whispered.

“Me either.”

But neither of them moved. They stood together, sipping their drinks and watching.

The interviewer, Quinton Waits, reminded Sutton of a young Charlie Rose. Her mother was a fan and hadn’t been able to resist when he asked for an interview.

“In my research I found less than a half dozen interviews over the years, all of which were print and all in the last five years. Why so private?”

“Primarily to keep my daughter safe. I live in a small community where the citizens know who I am but are protective of my privacy. I’ve preferred to live in anonymity. It’s kept my work pure and my family safe.”

“You’re extremely prolific. This latest release is your thirtieth book. Would you describe yourself as driven?”

“Yes, certainly that. And my readers continue to ask for another. As long as they keep asking, I keep writing.”

“You write epic love stories but you’ve never remarried after the death of your husband over twenty-five years ago? Has this been by design?”

“I suppose you could call it design.” Constance laughed softly. “Some might call it never leaving my house.” She swept her hand over the table. The camera moved in for a closer shot. “I had my one big love, which is more than most get, and I will not be greedy enough to think it will come my way again.” Watching, Sutton knew her mother had been uneasy at this moment. She was quick to flush, with a way of tilting her head toward the ground when asked a personal question, instead of the unflinching gaze with which she looked at her beloved sea.

“But how do you write of romantic love without having any of your own?”

Constance spoke quietly, with a sad look in her eyes. “I remember what it was to love and to be loved by a man. It never leaves you, once you’ve felt it.” She added then, with a dart of her pale blue eyes to where Sutton had sat beyond the scope of the camera. “And I have my daughter. My father used to tell me when I was small that my birth was like winning the lottery. I feel the same about my daughter. There are so many kinds of love and I’ve been blessed with deep friendships and family relationships.”

“You’ve had a lot of loss in your life. Has there ever been a time when you’ve been unable to write?”

“Loss?”

“Your mother, father, husband, your close assistant.”

“You did your research well.” Constance smiled politely. Sutton knew she was buying time, trying to think of how to answer the question.

Quinton flashed a row of perfect, white teeth. “It’s my job.”

“Well, yes, I’ve had a lot of loss, but probably no more than the average person, and one goes on, especially if there are children who need you.”

“Has it informed your writing?”

“Surely. Grief has, unfortunately, defined much of my life and work.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sutton saw the front door open. She turned to see who was arriving so late.

Declan.

He entered, the expression on his face like someone coming into a surprise birthday party. He was thirty-two years old now and appeared much more sophisticated than when he’d left six years ago. His hair was still dark but he wore it slightly longer than he once had and his cheekbones were more prominent. But his sensitive eyes were the same—always looking, peering, capturing. And now there was a confidence and wisdom to him that seemed made of experiences and perhaps even sorrow. A shiver went through her.