The Sound of Glass (32 page)

“Did you see it, Merritt? Did you see it?” Owen spoke in his church voice, hushed and reverent.

“Yes, I did,” I said, my voice almost a whisper. There was something magical and fairy tale–like about that place of black mud and marshes, of insect symphonies and long-legged birds with elegant necks, where dolphins leaped from the water right in front of you. It made me feel as if everything in my life, all the gains and all the losses, had always been leading me there.

Owen continued to stare out at the water, as if by doing so he could make the dolphin reappear. “We used to have a bench swing in our backyard that Mama called her happy place. She says that wherever we live, we should always find a happy place—kind of like ‘base’ in a game of tag, where you can go and all of your problems and worries can’t touch you.” He opened his eyes wider, mirroring the ceiling of blue sky that was big enough to fall into. “I think this dock would be mine.”

Gibbes placed a hand on his shoulder. “And you’re welcome to come here anytime, Rocky.” He looked at his watch. “We should get going. I checked the tide schedule to make sure we don’t get shortchanged on our time. You can always tell the tourists, because they put in on the side of the sandbar that gets covered up first when the tide comes in, and I want to make sure that we’re not right there with them.”

Gibbes and Owen helped Maris and me into the boat before settling in themselves. I kept my hands pressed between my knees, trying very hard to keep my mouth closed and not shout in alarm every time Owen or Maris put their hands in the water. I watched the water carefully from under the brim of my visor, keeping an eye out for any alligators that might have the idea of eating children’s fingers for breakfast, and felt the soft slap of my silk chiffon scarf against my shoulders as we moved out into the river.

“You okay?” Gibbes shouted over the sound of the motor.

I gave him a thumbs-up, feeling the sun and the spray of water on my skin. I took off the visor and tilted my face, imagining myself rising from the dark depths beneath and guided upward by the light of the sun.

Despite the early hour, the sandbar was crowded as we neared—although not nearly as crowded as it would be in another half hour, Gibbes assured me. It looked like an abstract painting while we were still far away, with splotches of bright nylon colors dotted against the sandy background, and white bouncing shapes tethered closely to the strip of sand, bobbing and dancing to the rhythm of various songs playing at the same time. It should have been garish and loud and overwhelming, but I felt my stomach leap with excitement.

Cal had come there as a boy and a young man growing up. Maybe somehow I’d find in the waves and the sand the boy he’d been, the boy I’d seen glimpses of. The boy I’d loved and the parts of him that had loved me back. If I were to make any sense of my seven-year marriage, I needed to find him.

Because our boat was small, Gibbes was able to maneuver it to the front row of watercraft—including a couple of yachts, a few larger motorboats, and some stump-knockers like ours that looked even older—and dropped anchor in the direction of the incoming tide. He did it with a precision of movement, a sleek show of muscle that made the roof of my mouth like flypaper to my tongue.

He took off his life jacket and tossed it in the boat, then kicked off
his topsiders while the children shed their own jackets and shoes. Then Gibbes hopped out of the boat, standing in water that wasn’t even up to his knees. He lifted Maris out and then Owen—keeping the wrapped ankle dry was already a lost cause—and watched them until they were completely up on the sand before turning to me. I looked down at the water, wondering how high it would be on my legs.

“Are you going to take off your life jacket?” he asked softly.

I looked at all the people on the sandbar, noticing that not a single one of them wore a jacket. I looked uncertainly at Gibbes.

“I’ll hold your hand the whole time and not let go. But I won’t carry you.”

His words would have provoked anger in me only a few weeks before. But I saw them now not as a challenge, but a direction on a path. A path I’d been wandering ever since the night my mother died.

I quickly undid the buckles of my life jacket, then looked over the edge of the boat. While I was wondering what the most graceful way would be to get into the water, Gibbes placed his hands on either side of my waist and lifted me over. Instead of plopping me in the water as he’d done with Owen and Maris, he held me for a moment, then slowly slid me into the water until my toes touched the soft, wet sand.

“How does it feel?”

His voice was close to my ear, his breath warm on my neck. My tongue was finding it hard to dislodge itself from the roof of my mouth. “Fine,” I finally managed, feeling only his hands on my waist and my chest pressed against his.

“Good.” He pulled away and took my hand, just as he’d promised, and led me to the sand. When I was safely standing next to Owen and Maris, Gibbes regarded me closely. “If I’m going to unload the boat, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.”

Embarrassed, I immediately dropped his hand and then organized a relay line to unload the boat as quickly as possible, still feeling the pressure of my hand in his.

We set up our chairs on the creek side of the sandbar so the children could take turns bogging in the mud and then swimming in the river to wash it off. Gibbes had unwrapped Owen’s ankle and laid the bandage out to dry with a promise that it would go back on the second Owen returned to the boat. Although both children were strong swimmers, Gibbes went out with them each time, while I stayed on the sand, watching.

The last time they’d come back from swimming, the children sat in the sand and began making a large castle with a deep moat. Gibbes sat down under the umbrella in the chair next to mine and reached over into a cooler and grabbed a beer, then handed one to me.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go swimming? You could hold my hand again.” He grinned like he was joking, but I knew he wasn’t.

I shook my head. “I waded in the water. I think that’s enough for one day.”

He took a swig from his can. “You said your mother made you take swimming lessons. You probably still remember how.”

I pressed the cold can to my cheek, trying to cool a burning sensation that had nothing to do with the sun. “I know. But knowing how doesn’t make me want to dive right in. I just don’t like the water.”

I felt his gaze on me and turned to meet his eyes. “You said that Cal once tried to help you get through your fear. What did he do?”

Putting the can to my mouth, I drank three gulps, the cold alcohol trickling down my throat and into my bloodstream. I took three more, wanting the alcohol to get to my head quicker so I wouldn’t have to remember.

“You don’t want to know,” I said, my body feeling heavy as I shrank further into my chair.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

With a defiant flick of my wrist, I downed the rest of the beer, waiting until I could feel the beginning of a buzz as it traveled through my bloodstream and hit my brain.

I squinted my eyes out toward the river, where the bridge connected downtown Beaufort with Lady’s Island, and people crossed it by the hundreds every day without even thinking about how high they were, or what would happen if their car slipped off the side.

My tongue felt heavy and slurred my words. “He filled a bathtub full of ice-cold water, and then held my face under until I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. And then he let me up just long enough for me to grab a single breath before he did it again.”

“Bastard.” Gibbes dropped his beer in the sand and leaned forward on his knees. When he looked at me, the sun turned his eyes to gold so that they didn’t look like Cal’s anymore. “If I had known, I would have stopped him. I would have done something so that he never laid a hand on you.” He paused. “Even if it meant killing him with my own bare hands.”

“I didn’t need you to kill him.” I blinked, my eyelids languid in the heat, my brain waves slowed by the alcohol and the rhythm of the waves caused by a passing boat. “Because I did.” The empty beer can slid from my hand and hit his with a tinny clink.

He reached up and cupped my cheek, his thumb rubbing away a tear I hadn’t wanted to shed. I’d long ago stopped shedding tears over Cal. But maybe this time I was shedding it for me.

“The night he died, he apologized for hurting me again, and said how he hated himself for not being able to stop. And he told me he loved me.”

I dug my feet under the sand, feeling the coolness there, wondering how it would feel to bury my whole body beneath it, how each grain was so small, yet how heavy it would be to be buried alive in it. “I told him that to save us both he should walk into that fire and never come out.” I shrugged. “And he did.”

He slid his hand behind the base of my skull and brought me toward him, then gently pressed his lips to mine. His face was serious when he pulled back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that you lived through that, and that there was nobody to help you. And I’m
sorry that you feel guilt over his death.” He sat back, still looking at me. “You are so much stronger and braver than you think you are. I just wish you could see you as I see you.”

“Dr. Heyward?” Maris’s voice piped up behind him. “Can we stay to watch the sunset? I always do when I’m here with my family.”

Gibbes stood. “Not tonight. We have a refrigerator to go buy. But the sandbar isn’t going away anytime soon, so we’ll come back, okay?”

He took my hand and pulled me up from my chair. “I won’t let go, okay? When you’re ready to swim, just let me know.”

I nodded numbly, then pulled away and began to pack up our things and help Gibbes bring them to the boat.

The sun was still high in the sky as we pulled away, and I watched as the water widened then narrowed into the creeks and marshes of Cal’s boyhood, searching for him behind every live oak and cluster of sea oats. I wanted to see him, to remember that boy. And then maybe I could forget the man he’d become.

I turned my face toward the sun again and smiled up at the expanse of sky.
You are so much stronger and braver than you think you are.
I wasn’t sure I believed it, but at least I was beginning to feel the world twitching outside my self-made boundaries, burning with possibilities.

LORALEE

L
oralee gripped the banister tightly, following the sound of the sewing machine in the dining room. It was midafternoon on Sunday, and Owen was back at the sandbar with Maris and her family. The house seemed sad without the noise children usually made, and she was glad for the staccato drill of the sewing machine to fill the silence.

She took two steps, then paused to rest. She’d managed to put on her favorite sundress that fell in an A-line and didn’t cinch it in at the waist like she was used to doing. She comforted herself with the knowledge that A-lines never went out of style and were flattering for everybody. She’d already written that in her
Journal of Truths
.

She’d left her high heels in her closet, and wore Merritt’s slippers instead. It had taken her a full half hour to convince herself that she couldn’t walk in her favorite shoes without losing her balance.
She’d been surprised after she’d made the decision how little she cared. It seemed as if her body had already begun shedding its skin, unburdening her of things she wouldn’t need.

Loralee paused under the archway that led to the dining room. The walls glowed as light spilled into the room through the freshly cleaned tall windows from where Merritt had taken off the heavy silk draperies and dusty sheer coverings. She’d been removing all the drapes in the house, and had begun rearranging furniture and making lists of things that needed to be done, reminding Loralee of a mother bird preparing its nest.

“What are you making?” she asked as she approached Merritt, her head bent over a long strip of pale blue fabric.

Merritt lifted her foot from the pedal and looked up. “I’m restyling the curtains for the front parlor. This raw silk is old, but still in really good condition, and it’s too beautiful to get rid of. I guess the New Englander in me convinced me that I had the skills to redo them.”

Loralee leaned over to get a better look. “I kind of liked the heavy
Gone with the Wind
velvet look with the thick fringe, but it’s not my house.” She smiled at Merritt to show that she was joking—although not entirely.

“I’ve never seen the movie, but I’ve heard about it. If you’d like, I could make you a dress with what’s left over. Otherwise I’m just going to make some simple long panels with some kind of edging I haven’t decided on yet. Although I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be fringe. But I’m definitely getting rid of the big balloon swags that were at the top.”

“You’ve never seen
Gone with the Wind
? That’s like saying you’ve never been to a baseball game. Or eaten apple pie.”

“I have never seen the movie. Or read the book. And don’t look at me like I’m the only one.”

“Um-hmm,” Loralee said, making it clear that she was sure Merritt was the only person on the planet who’d never seen the best movie ever made. “As soon as you get your new TV and DVD
player, I’m going to buy you a DVD so we can watch it together. I’d really hate for you to miss out.”

The sound of digging brought Loralee’s attention to the window. Gibbes was outside, his shirt discarded on the top of the bench, his drenched undershirt clinging nicely to his chest. He’d paused long enough from his work to lift the bottom edge of his undershirt to wipe his face, allowing her to see an impressive set of abs.

She looked down at her stepdaughter. “That man is
fine
.”

Merritt’s cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, which meant she’d probably been thinking the same thing. Although it was at least a step in the right direction, Loralee hoped she’d stick around long enough to hear Merritt say it out loud.

“What’s he doing?” Loralee asked.

“He’s trying to make sure you don’t do any heavy lifting outside. We were both rather alarmed that you’d moved the bench by yourself and then tried to level the dirt.” She glanced out the window again. “We found a disintegrating luggage tag in the little hole you dug, so Gibbes wanted to see if there was anything else under there before he filled it all in and leveled it.”

“He looks thirsty. Maybe you should bring him some sweet tea,” Loralee suggested.

“I would if we had any. The refrigerator I wanted is back-ordered, so all we have is the small refrigerator Gibbes is loaning us from his office. I guess I could settle for another model so I’d have something sooner, but the one I selected had every single feature we wanted—including the ice dispenser in the door for Owen—so I’m willing to wait. Anyway, the one we’re using isn’t big enough for a pitcher of anything.”

Loralee kept her sigh of exasperation to herself. “Then how about a tall glass of tap water?” She looked pointedly at Merritt.

After a quick glance toward the window, Merritt flipped off the sewing machine, then pushed back her chair. “All right. I guess that would be the right thing to do.”

Loralee followed Merritt into the kitchen, unable to resist rolling her eyes. She waited while Merritt took a glass from the cabinet, then held it under the cold tap while Loralee admired the cute yellow skirt and pale blue blouse that had been in the Belk bag. Merritt even wore Loralee’s sandals since, luckily, Loralee had on the slippers. The old loafers had mysteriously vanished, “accidentally” taken out with the trash.

“I like the outfit you’re wearing,” Loralee said, leaning heavily on the kitchen table and averting her eyes from the bowl of fruit in the center. Today even the thought of food was making her ill.

Merritt turned around so suddenly she sloshed some of the water from the glass. “Thank you. And thanks for picking it out for me. Although . . .” She paused, chewing on her lower lip.

“Although what?”

“I don’t like wearing things that show my scar.”

Loralee considered her words for a long moment, realizing how easy it would be to say the wrong thing. “We earn our scars, Merritt, and I think it’s only right that we show them off, because it proves where we’ve been. They’re something to be proud of.” When Merritt didn’t walk away or immediately change the subject, Loralee was encouraged enough to continue. “Besides, you’ve got a gorgeous pair of legs, and I think it’s a downright sin to hide them.”

Merritt’s lips twitched. “But don’t you think the skirt’s a little too tight in the bottom, and the top maybe a little snug around my chest?”

Loralee crossed her arms and gave Merritt the look she’d always reserved for those inebriated passengers who wanted to order another drink. “Sugar, your clothes should always be tight enough to show that you’re a woman, but loose enough to show that you’re a lady.” She made a mental note to add that one to her journal. “I’d say you can check both those boxes with that outfit.”

Merritt didn’t look completely convinced and began plucking and tugging on the fabric of the top and skirt while she headed out the back door, Loralee following close behind.

She watched as Merritt handed the glass to Gibbes, avoiding looking into his eyes, while Gibbes never took his gaze from Merritt’s face. There was something different between them today, like electrified air during a summer storm. If it were less humid, Loralee was pretty sure Merritt’s hair would be floating around her head like somebody had just rubbed a balloon up and down on it.

Gibbes drank all the water in big, long gulps while both Loralee and Merritt took the opportunity to admire the clinging T-shirt up close.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the glass back to Merritt.

Their fingers must have touched, or else Merritt had been bitten by a red ant, because she jerked away, dropping the glass. It hit a pile of dirt and didn’t shatter, but Merritt stared at it for a moment as if expecting it to. Then they both bent to pick it up and bumped heads, until finally Loralee stepped forward to get it and end their misery.

“I’m glad you came out,” Gibbes said. “I found something inside the hole and I’ve been trying to dig around it to make the opening wider so I can pull it up.”

Merritt stepped closer and looked down. “It looks like the side of a suitcase.” She stepped back and this time met Gibbes’s eyes.

“Yeah. I thought so, too.”

Loralee moved over to the bench and gratefully lowered herself onto it. “Maybe it’s from that plane that exploded and rained wreckage all over Beaufort. Maybe it’s somehow connected to that plane model Edith made that’s up in the attic. They’re both so bizarre that they’ve got to be related. It’s like that time Owen’s guinea pig disappeared and the neighbor’s dog stopped barking at Owen when he rode his bike in the driveway. I knew it had to be because the dog felt guilty about what he’d done to Owen’s pet.”

Both Merritt and Gibbes looked at her for a moment before Gibbes cleared his throat. “Anyway, it looks like it’s leather and has probably been down there for a while. If the whole thing doesn’t
disintegrate when I pick it up, I’m not sure there will be anything inside that’s still recognizable or not covered in mildew.”

“Can I help?” Merritt asked.

Gibbes gave her an appraising look that Loralee felt sitting all the way over on the bench. “Sure. Just be careful you don’t ruin your outfit. I’d hate not to see it again.”

Merritt began tugging on the bottom of the skirt. “You don’t think it’s too short?”

He grinned. “Trust me, if I thought it was too short, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Merritt struggled to respond, then just turned her back on Gibbes and marched toward Loralee. Reaching for the glass that Loralee held, she said, “I’m going to go put this in the sink.”

Gibbes was still grinning as he watched Merritt walk away.

“Why do you do that?” Loralee asked softly.

Gibbes didn’t seem startled by her question. “Because I don’t believe anybody has made her feel beautiful or desirable in a very long time.”

“Is that the only reason?” she asked, the scent of the moist dirt stinging her nostrils.

The light sparked in his eyes again. “The more I scratch the surface to see what’s beneath that crusty exterior, the more I see the person I think she was before she met Cal. And there’s a lot there to like.”

Loralee beamed. “Y’all had a good time at the sandbar yesterday, I’m guessing.”

“We did. Especially the kids. But I learned a lot about Merritt, too.”

Loralee sat up straighter, even though it made her stomach hurt. “Like what?”

“Well, she doesn’t resent your marrying her father anymore—which I think we both agree is about time. And I learned that my brother wasn’t a very nice man.”

“I’m sorry,” Loralee said. “It’s not easy to find out that people aren’t who we thought they were, or who we wanted them to be.” She shifted on the bench, wondering whether there was a better position that wouldn’t hurt so much. “After Mama died, I tracked down my daddy, thinking he must’ve had a good reason to leave us when I was a baby, and that maybe he’d been trying to find me all those years.

“I found him in a bar in Birmingham, hustling people at the pool table, just living from drink to drink. He spit at me, then told me to go to hell.” Loralee pressed her hands against her abdomen, willing the nausea to go away. “That’s when I realized that his leaving me and Mama had nothing to do with us at all. He was just born with inner demons that were always stronger than he was. Even my mama’s love and a baby daughter weren’t enough ammunition to help him fight. I felt better when I left the bar, like I’d just been released from prison, and I finally found my own strength to forgive him.”

Gibbes’s eyes were full of shadows, like the creek beds at dusk. “You’re saying that I should forgive Cal for being a brute and terrorizing his wife?”

“I’m not telling you anything. But it seems to me that you and Merritt have been brought together because of Cal, and maybe in that you can find your own peace.”

Merritt came through the back door then, and Loralee was relieved, because she knew that Gibbes’s next question would have probably been to ask her whether she’d told Merritt how sick she really was. It was still too early, the cement between the blocks of their new relationship still too wet to withstand any pressure. Her pain level had risen to a seven, but it still wasn’t an eight, and to Loralee that meant she still had time.

Gibbes jumped into the shallow hole. “You ready?” he asked Merritt.

“Sure.” She knelt in the dirt and put her hands on her thighs. “Ready when you are.”

Loralee moved to stand behind Merritt and watched as Gibbes carefully guided the shovel around the suitcase, loosening the dirt to make it easier for him to lift it out. Then, using the shovel like a spatula, he carefully stuck it under one of the shorter ends and gently lifted it. With the shovel handle lying on the ground and the suitcase propped up, Gibbes reached down and grabbed it around the two exposed sides. With an impressive display of biceps, he lifted it to the lip of the hole while Merritt grabbed it and slid it until it was flat against the ground.

“It didn’t fall apart, which is a good thing, although it feels pretty soggy.” Gibbes stepped out of the hole and brushed his hands together.

The leather of the suitcase might have once been a light brown, but moisture and years of being buried had darkened it to a deep mahogany. There was a large dent in the bottom corner, as if it had fallen from a great height and hit something on its way down. Loralee spotted something beneath a dusting of soil by the handle and brushed the dirt away with her finger. It was a gold-embossed monogram: HPH.

Merritt made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. “Those are my grandfather’s initials,” she whispered, the words garbled as if spoken through dirt.

Gibbes touched her hand. “We’re doing this together, all right?”

Merritt gave him a grateful glance and nodded before the three of them returned their attention to the battered suitcase.

The latch by the monogram was already opened, leaving the two on each side. “If these are too corroded to open, I’ll get a saw,” Gibbes said as he reached around to the undamaged side. After a brief pause, he twisted the latch. It stuck at first and then, with a grinding pop, stood in the open position.

Merritt held down the unlatched side as Gibbes moved to the other end of the suitcase. The latch on the damaged side was harder,
and Gibbes was about to resort to a saw when they heard the pop for the second time.