The Ninth Step (26 page)

“No. You’re my sister and I love you and when you’re in such dire straits--”

“I’m not in dire straits.”

“--I don’t like to handle it by myself.”

“It takes a village.”

Livie’s gaze wheeled to her mother. “It takes a village?”

“I’m making a little joke, chickie. But when you have so many who want to help, why not take advantage? Four heads, five if we count Tim, are better than one, don’t you agree?”

Livie didn’t answer; she looked again at Charlie. “I was going to tell you myself, this morning,” she said. It was important to her that he know this, that she had intended to tell him, but she was angry at him, too, at the whole lot of them, for going behind her back.

They didn’t understand about Cotton and nothing Livie could say would allay their concern that he posed a danger to her. She wasn’t certain herself that he didn’t, but in a manner different from what they assumed. Not that she was any less anxious.
I did something on the day of our wedding,
he had said,
something really bad
. . . .  

And his expression when he’d said it . . . he’d looked as if he’d come up from hell. Or like someone drowning, going down for the third time, or the tenth, or the last. He wanted a rope, a way out. Her forgiveness, but in all of it, she sensed his doubt that he deserved it. Because whatever it was that he’d done, it was huge and terrible. She thought it involved someone else. The person who was after him? But he’d denied that, said it was a mistake. He’d mentioned drinking; he’d told Scott he was sixty-three days sober. She didn’t want to imagine what it meant. Alcoholism. Twelve-step. Something like that. Whatever the story was, she had the feeling that hearing it would leave her wishing Cotton had only jilted her.

How could she know if she could stand up to it? She’d almost not stood up under Cotton’s touch.

“Livie, are you listening?”

She glanced at her mom, then at Charlie who was apologizing for his interference. “We’re just concerned for you, is all. We want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m a grown woman,” Livie began.

“Who’s going to be a mom, hmmm?” Gus’s eyes were sparkling, questioning, hoping.

Kat was biting her lips.

“Yes, all right.” Livie laughed shakily. She touched her fingers to her mouth. She’d decided, hadn’t she? Truly had there been a doubt? “I guess I am. I’m having a baby.”

Her mother came and cupped Livie’s cheek. “You’re sure it’s what you want? Don’t let us push you. I mean it.”

“You aren’t. Every time I try and think of arranging the alternative, my brain closes down.”

“What about Joe?”

“I don’t know, but whether he’s in the picture or out doesn’t matter. I can do this,” Livie said and as soon as she’d uttered the words, she felt an infusion of such joy, it nearly lifted her from her shoes.

“Of course, you can,” her mom said, folding her into an embrace.

Kat came and Charlie stood up and everyone was talking at once. Kat had tons of baby clothes, everything Livie could ever dream of needing to outfit a nursery. (Duh, Livie thought.) After the baby was born, her mother would come and stay and tend to the house and the gardens and chickens for as long as Livie needed her. (At that Livie almost laughed. When had her mother ever fed a chicken?) Charlie would paint, make shelves, put together the crib. Whatever man things needed doing, he would do. Livie threw her arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re a godsend.”

His face was red, his grin foolish, when she released him.

“Will you change diapers, too?” Livie couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Is the pope Catholic?” he asked her, not missing a beat.

“Voila,” Kat cried dramatically, “I believe we have a village.”

#

The next morning, Thursday, she brought her coffee onto the porch and she smelled the gardenias before she saw them. They were floating in a shallow bowl that had been left on the table beside the door. Livie set her coffee down, picked up the bouquet and brought it close, reveling in the scent. She examined the bowl. It was small, glazed pottery with a ruffled edge.

She set it back on the table and went into the house.

In the language of flowers gardenias said: You’re lovely. Or they were intended to announce a secret love.

How did Joe intend them? Why had he allowed her to believe someone else had left what she now knew had been his gifts to her?

When he answered his phone, she thanked him for the gardenias and then a pause fell.

He didn’t fill it.

She could hear him breathing. She said, “That day when you came to my house and helped me with the groceries, why didn’t you say you were the one who left the irises?”

“I thought I’d made a big enough fool of myself.”

“But if you were coming here anyway, why not bring them? Why all the secrecy? Why not knock on the door and hand me the eggs or leave a note?” She could hear the annoyance in her voice and she regretted it, but she regretted even more how disappointed she was that these gifts to her had not been from Cotton.

She tucked her hand beneath her elbow, against her ribs, felt the sharp tap of her heart. “Why would you let me think these things came from someone else?”

“Because it seemed to mean a lot to you to think that.”

“But it wasn’t the truth.”

“No,” he said, “but it made you happy so--”

“You have to tell me the truth, Joe, even when it doesn’t make me happy.”

“Okay,” he said. “The truth is the gifts were my half-assed attempts to show you I can be a gentleman, even, you know, a little romantic, that I’m not an animal. The truth is that I don’t think any less of you because of what happened after we left Bo Jangles. The truth is, Livie, that I would very much like to spend time with you, to get to know you.”

He went silent, Livie sensed him waiting, but she didn’t know what to say.

“Gardenias are meant to say you’re lovely,” he told her after a moment. “I looked it up and you are, Livie. I want you to know that and that’s the truth.”

She walked a path beside the kitchen island, pushing the tip of her index finger along the grain of the wood. “I’m going to have the baby.”

Now there was not even the sound of his breath. Or hers.

“Joe? Did you hear me?”

“Yes.” The word came out broken, as if on a hiccup of air.

Was he laughing?

“You’re okay with it?”

“Okay?” He still sounded funny.

“--because I’m fully prepared to assume all the--”

“Livie. Livie, hush. It’s fine. I’m good. I want to have a part in, in--” he hesitated, made a noise as if in frustration. “I don’t know how far to go with you. I don’t want you to be turned off, to scare you off.”

“I’m not turned off. I’m--”

“What?”

Confused
. The word shimmered. An image of Cotton formed in her mind’s eye, the sense of his presence hovered. It’s all so complicated, she wanted to say. “I don’t know,” she said instead.

He said, “Well, neither do I, but it’s okay. We--you don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

“No,” she said.

“We’ll see how it goes then?” He sounded tentative and that was all right with her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For?”

“Not crowding me.”

“We’ll see each other again? Soon? I meant what I said earlier.”

“Yes. And, Joe?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Thank you for saying how you feel, for--for being so reassuring. I’m grateful you don’t think I’m--that I--”

“I know your heart, Livie. The moment Charlie introduced us at Bo Jangles, I knew.”

Chapter 20

They went with Livie’s suggestion, planned a no-frills  graveside service for Delia through Hampton and Vaughn.

The night before, on Friday, Max, brought dinner to them, roast chicken, rice, a broccoli casserole and a key lime pie. Sharon said she’d been wondering when the neighbors would bring food, that after her mother died they’d had enough to feed an army for a month. “We couldn’t find room for it all.”

“I doubt we’ll have that problem,” Scott said.

Cotton said he figured Max was it. “He’s probably the only friend Mom had except for Livie.”

#

“I bet Max is how Delia got the bottle,” Scott said later. “Did you get a whiff of him? Smelled like a brewery.”

“Yeah, probably,” said Cotton.

They were sitting on the front steps. Beth and Megan were kneeling in the grass doing some kind of complicated dance routine with their hands that involved chanting and a lot of giggling. Sharon was in the house, stretched out on Old Goldie reading something, a romance novel judging by the cover.

Giving Cotton and Scott some space, Cotton thought. She’d been different, thawed out, friendlier. Cotton figured it was because he was sober. But he felt her watching him, too, sniffing him out, like any second, she expected to catch a whiff of booze.

Scott found Cotton’s gaze. “So what about Livie?” he asked. “I feel like we walked in on something yesterday.”

“I was about to tell her the truth about why I took off before.”

“Maybe it’s good we interrupted.”

Cotton looked a question.

“What if she calls the cops?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll get arrested.”

Scott found a stick and tossed it. “I’d stay on after the funeral, if I could, but I can’t leave the business.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you came.”

“When you tell Latimer, he’ll press charges, don’t you think?”

“I would if I was him.”

“So when will you--?”

“After Nikki’s party. On Sunday, I guess, I’ll drive back up there and see him.”

“You could fly home with us tomorrow. I bet there are still seats. I’ll come back later, clean out the house, put it on the market. Nix can handle the sale.”

Cotton twisted to look at Scott.

Who was looking at the girls. “What good does it do anybody if you go to jail? Even Latimer. What good’s it do him for you to be locked up? It won’t bring back his wife.”

“But that’s what you’ve always said, that I have to take responsibility.”

“You and me, we’re all we’ve got left of our family in the world.”

A car went by and Cotton glanced toward the street.

“I can give you a job,” Scott said. “You can sleep on the sofa until you find a place. You’ve got support in Seattle, man, me and Sharon and the girls. Anita’s there, your twelve step group. What do you have here?
Who
do you have?”

Megan came to lean on Scott’s knee. She put an arm around his neck.

“You’re stinky, little girl.” Scott drew her onto his lap.

The sound of cicadas sawed the air and fell off abruptly. A breeze faltered through the tops of the trees making the light wink like sequins.

Beth wandered over and sat on the step below Cotton, hunching her narrow shoulders over her knees, tugging the skirt of her sundress down, twisting it around her ankles. Her feet were bare and dusty and the coat of pink polish on her tiny toenails was chipped.

Somehow the sight of her, such a small girl perched in such close proximity to him that she might have belonged to him, made Cotton’s heart ache; he closed his eyes.

# 

He didn’t think Livie was coming, but then just as the pastor took up his post and began speaking, she was there, flanked on either side by her mother and her sister. Her bodyguards, Cotton thought, nodding at them, attempting to smile. They glowered. Livie looked . . . he didn’t know. Worn out, he thought, but somehow resolute. She was here in spite of what Cotton was sure were her family’s stringent objections. His head buzzed.

It wasn’t yet noon, but the sun was merciless. Sweat beaded his brow, wet his underarms. Why had he thought a funeral was necessary? No one wanted to be here. He didn’t. Delia herself would rather be buried in Louisiana with her folks. But that option wasn’t available so he’d brought her here. As if it could make a difference to her wherever she was now. He could just as well have taken her ashes and scattered them in her own backyard and it would be a better resting place than this. He ran his finger around his shirt collar. His tie felt welded to his neck. He didn’t even know if he believed in eternity, an afterlife. He was having enough trouble just getting through this one.

 “Who’s that?” Scott elbowed him.

Cotton followed the direction of his gaze and his gut knotted. “It’s Wes and Nikki. What in hell are they doing here?”

“As in Latimer? Geezus, can it get worse?”

“Keep it down,” Cotton warned, meeting Wes’s glance, returning Nikki’s smile.

Max and Sonny made room for them.

Cotton didn’t hear much after that. Scott snorted when the pastor described Delia as a good woman and a good mother to her sons. And when he reassured the mourners, from the depths of his totally fabricated script, that Delia would most certainly occupy her rightful place in heaven as the result of her life-long faith and her worship of God, Scott muttered: “Yeah, the god of Gilbey.”

 He bent his mouth to Cotton’s ear. “Where did he get this stuff?”

The pastor offered a final prayer and it was over.

Wes and Nikki waited until the pastor finished talking privately to Cotton and Scott before they approached.

Cotton shook Wes’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Nikki answered. “I saw the notice in the newspaper. I told Daddy we had to come.” She eyed him gravely. “It’s hard when you lose your mom, but it gets better, I promise.”

She took Cotton’s hand in her own smaller one and his throat closed. The urge to shake free of her and run burned through his brain. He held himself still; he made introductions. The Latimers and Scott and Sharon and their girls made small talk. Nikki described her studio, saying it was fabulous, that Cotton was a genius.

He shoved his hands in his pockets thinking, No. Thinking, Shit.
Shit shit shit
.

What was it going to do to her? He’d get sent up, do a set amount of time and be free. But what about Nikki? What was hearing the truth going to do to Nikki? When would her time be up? She trusted him, cared about him. They had a relationship now. It was more than he could stomach. She was just a kid, a little kid. . . .