The Sweet By and By (6 page)

She drew the bedcovers over the pillow and padded to the bathroom. Her bones creaked in harmony with the dry, splintered floorboards.

In the bright, bare light, her complexion appeared more sallow than she remembered. And her breasts sagged under her nightgown. Turning sideways, she tried to hike them up, but they didn't stay where she shoved them. Forty short years ago, she'd been a tight-bodied flower child without one thought of ever being fifty-nine.

In her day, they believed the world wouldn't survive 1984 and 1999. Beryl drank from life's cup by the moment and never danced with regret. Then she met Harlan, fell in love against her better judgment, got married—a move that surprised even herself—and populated the globe with two kids. Then she'd married Mike and produced one more.

Pots clattered from the kitchen beneath her feet, followed by a crash.
Willow.

Her child with Mike, and most likely to burn the house down one day.

“Beryl, I'm making pancakes,” Willow called up, her voice seeping through the old walls and floor.

Beryl forgot the thinness of the old house until Willow came home from school or from one of her road trips across country with friends. Willow still got her to laugh with her bit about hearing the ants' dinner table chatter.

Raided a great picnic this afternoon, Marge. Carried off a whole watermelon.

Did you hear about Frank? Bug-sprayed.

No. Poor Frank.

Fugetaboutit, he went quickly.

“Did you hear me? I said I'm making some 'cakes.”

“I'm getting in the shower. I'll just have coffee.”

“I'll save you some.” Willow always heard but never listened.

After showering, Beryl snapped on a pair of jeans that rode low around her waist, but not like the hip-huggers she wore in the '70s. The sweater she tugged on swished loose about her waist.

She regarded her reflection before twisting her long gray hair into a braid.

Today might be a good day to wander into Des Moines for a bit of clothes shopping. Or head out to the old place on Highway 117. She'd heard the house was being condemned.

Down the back stairs to the kitchen, Beryl found Willow gyrating her hips to a bass beat while flipping pancakes onto a plate.

“I'm going for a drive.” Beryl lifted her keys from the hook by the kitchen door. “What's the weather like?”

“Sunny but cold. Where are you going?” Willow shot her a quick glance. “I got your 'cakes here.”

“I told you only coffee.” Coffee. Beryl took the travel mug from the cupboard. “So where are you going?”

“Nowhere and everywhere.”

“Fine, don't tell me.”

“Now you know how I feel.” Beryl sugared the coffee and snapped on the mug cap.

“And how I felt
my
whole life. Aiden and Jade too.” Willow sliced the air with her batter-tipped spatula.

“So you're speaking for them now?” Beryl refused to hear another installment of Willow's you-were-never-around speech.

“Did you decide about the wedding yet?” Willow shoved the pancake plate into the oven, then leaned against the counter.

“Are you going to eat all of those yourself?” Beryl moved toward the door.

“Lincoln is coming over with some of his friends.”

Beryl frowned. “Don't trash the place. Clean up when they leave.”

“You're getting good at evading. Are you going to the wedding or not?”

“I don't think Rolf will let me off. It's a busy time for Midwest, and I've been on vacation a few weeks already this year.” Darn doctor appointments eating up all her time. “I really need to get back to work.” Beryl set her mug on the table, then fished around the back of the pantry for her Virginia Slims.

“That's your excuse. Come on, Beryl. You can do better than that.”

“Who's walking her down the aisle?” If Willow said Harlan .
.
. Impossible. Beryl couldn't imagine that Jade and her dad had repaired their relationship. But what did she know? Certainly not that her daughter was in love and getting married.

“Aiden's walking her down the aisle.” Willow started flipping the pancakes bubbling on the griddle.

Beryl tapped a cigarette out of the pack. Big brother giving her away. It made sense. Jamming the cigarette between her lips, she dug around in her purse for a pack of matches.

“Junk drawer,” Willow said without looking.

Beryl pulled out the narrow drawer, found the matches by the emery board, and struck a flame. “I'll bring home supper.”

Willow came around the table. Dark blonde flyaways curled about her face, and her narrow features were pink from the kitchen heat. The girl had the aura of a kite caught in a current.

“Last semester I took a government class. Snore bore, right? But then one day they showed us old news clips of the sixties, the great counterculture, and I realized something.”

“What would that be?”

“For a generation who claimed to be all about peace, you sure started a lot of wars. Not with guns and bullets, but with words and ideology. With your parents, your kids. Your generation didn't bring anything together. You tore everything apart.”

“What's your point?” Beryl inhaled, filling her lungs with smoke, and opened the back door to exhale. Once in a while, Willow came up with an original observation. Wrong, but original.

“Make peace with Jade, Beryl.”

Five

Servers in black tie and tails passed under the crystal light of the chandelier, carrying silver trays of champagne to the Bensons' two dozen guests. In the main hall, a pianist played Chopin.

Jade sipped her chilled champagne, wondering where Max had disappeared to and wanting to be home, curled on the couch with her cold toes tucked under his knees, reading a book and playing Name That Tune with Roscoe's cacophony of snorts.

Definitely the opening bars of “Smoke on the Water.”

What? You're crazy. That's the bass riff to “Brick House.”

“This music makes me feel as if I should be doing a relevé or a plié.” The egg-shaped Nettie Hargrove bumped up next to her. “Jade, sweetie, what's this music?”

Jade swigged her bubbly. Imagining the round-hipped Nettie at the ballet bar with her toes and knees pointed out was too much.

“It's Chopin, Nettie.” June broke through a circle of guests, coming toward them.

“Chopin, Toepan, who cares? It's making me relive my worst childhood memory. Mrs. Weiner tapping her cane on the floor, insisting, ‘Nettie, put down that hot dog and plié. I said
plee-ay
.'”

“You did not go to ballet with a hot dog.” June punctuated her skepticism with a flick of her hand.

Jade laughed. “That would've been fun to see.”

“Oh, honey child, believe me.” Nettie offered Jade a half smile while working to maintain her facade. “Please, June-bug, do us all a favor. Tell that man to play some jazz or a sanguine version of the Beatles. Or Elvis. Better yet, how about ‘Great Balls of Fire'? If he flips his hair like Jerry Lee and plays with his feet, I'll tip him a hundred dollars.”

“Mind yourself, Nettie.” June backed toward the marble and glass hall.

“But I'll see what I can do.”

“All right, tell me about
you
.” The hot-dog-eating ballerina hooked her arm around Jade's with a force that caused her champagne to slosh around the cut-crystal flute. “The woman who stole my Max's heart. You know, he was going to be my male companion, all perfectly on the up and up, of course. Travel Europe with me. Then you came along and stole his heart.” She sighed dramatically. “So goes my last hope of ever being seen with a gorgeous man.”

“I can lend him to you now if you want.” Jade set her champagne flute on a passing server's tray. “For a few minutes.”

“What's the use?” Nettie exhaled with exaggeration. “He'll merely pine for you. I'm left to do the bidding of
that
man over there.” Nettie pointed to the lean figure with a thick handlebar mustache.

“He's quite handsome,” Jade said.

“Don't lie, girl. It's not Christian. With that mustache, Carmen appears confused about the era in which he lives.”

If Nettie's humor cost a hundred dollars an ounce, Jade would find a way to purchase a gallon.

“Maybe I could hire him to model in my vintage shop,” Jade teased. “Charge up the atmosphere a bit.”

“Tell me the day and time, sugar. I'll make sure he's there.”

“All right, Nettie.” June Benson powered her way toward them. “Abel will play some Beatles just for you. But he's not too happy about it.”

Nettie cocked her head to one side as “I Want to Hold Your Hand” rose from the hall with a distinct Chopin accent. “No, no, still makes me feel as if I should plié.”

“You're impossible.” June snatched a fresh flute of champagne from the passing server. “You plié, Nettie. I'll see about dessert.”

“Look there, I'm being summoned.” Nettie gestured toward her husband. “Off I go like a well-groomed, highly trained pet.”

“I don't believe it for a moment.” Jade grinned.

“Shh.” Nettie pressed her finger to her lips as she wove her way through the guests, displaying a bit of her ballet grace. When she pecked her man's cheek with a kiss, he wrapped his slender arm around her shoulders.

Jade searched the room again for Max. Was he going to be gone all night?

“Is this your first Benson soiree?” A feminine voice floated over her shoulder.

Jade turned to see a sleek-haired brunette with sharp eyes. “My second. I attended the Christmas party last year.”

“Ah, the coveted Benson Christmas bash. Sorry to have missed it. I was skiing in Aspen.”

“And you didn't take me with you?” Jade raised her eyebrows, grinning. She liked this woman, whoever she was, with her clipped, fresh manner.

“You're funny.” The woman offered her hand. “Rice McClure.”

Jade hesitated as she took her hand.
Max's ex.
“Jade Fitzgerald.”

“So, you're the one.” Rice's broad smile fit her bold features. “Congratulations. Max is an amazing man.”

“Yes, he is.” Jade tapped the base of her glass, glancing around. Where
was
the man she'd snagged, by the way? “So, Rice, what do you do?”

“I'm a patent attorney at Benson Law. Just moved back from New York to head up the new patent department.”

“Really?” Jade narrowed her gaze. “Well, then, congratulations to you too.”

“Ah, this is news to you, isn't it? Max hasn't said much about me, has he?”

“No, he hasn't.”

“Understandable. It was painful at the end. It's why I went to New York. I needed a fresh start, you know, a way to break away. For a long time, I thought we'd make it, but he was so in de—Listen to me, going on about
your
fiancé.

I'm so sorry.” Her voice drifted and she stared into her champagne glass as if looking for answers. “So, tell me, where did you get your wedding dress?”

“On Market Street, BoutiqueCouture.” Typically all vintage, Jade decided her wedding dress must be “something new.”

“I've heard fabulous things about them. How has your—”

“Rice, there you are.” June broke through a circle of women all wearing black gowns. “I've been looking all over for you. I promised to show you my Paris purchases. Excuse us, Jade.”

“Now? Well, okay.” Rice reached around Jade and set down her flute. “Off to Paris. Say, Jade, maybe we can have lunch sometime?”

“I'm at the Blue Umbrella every day.”

“I'm sure Max has your number.” Rice started off, then paused, looking back at Jade. “The gown you're wearing. Is it vintage?”

“An Irene Lentz.” Jade brushed the light velvet of her skirt. “She was—”

“A costume designer in Hollywood's golden age.” Rice backed away, smiling, her heels leaving the rug and clicking against the hardwood. “Yeah, I know.”

Jade watched June and Rice round the corner of the hall leading to the stairs. Max was in . . . what? Denial? Demand? De— What?

“Can I get you anything?” A server paused in front of Jade.

“Please, a Diet Coke would be lovely.” She set her champagne flute on the tray next to Rice's, then wandered across the room to the wall of windows overlooking the valley.

Max had a right to his past secrets. Same as she. They'd agreed. It was a new day when they'd met each other. The past stayed where it belonged—behind them. Skeleton doors were locked. Chained. But Rice brought Max's past to life, flesh and bones, with a stunning smile.

“Here you go.” The server handed Jade a glass with fizzing soda. “Lovely dinner, isn't it?”

“Yes on all counts.” Jade held up her Diet Coke. “Thank you for this.”

Sitting on the leather bench, Jade peered down to the pool deck, the wood and stone construction designed to be one with the mountainside.

White stars salted the black sky, but below the window, between the blues of the pool luminaries, five small hot orange glows burned in the blackness. Cigars.

Jade identified Max by his wounded-back silhouette, his posture angled a bit forward and to the right, his foot jutted out.

An explosion of laughter reverberated against the windowpane. Jade thought to go down and join them, but a crystal chime pinged from the front of the great room.

Rebel Benson hopped up on the stone hearth.

“Gather 'round, folks, gather 'round.” He tapped his Duke Law class of 1970 ring against his flute. The Chopin music faded. The guests gathered and quieted. “Now that we've stuffed ourselves on June's famous beef Wellington and are awaiting dessert, we shall get the fun started.”

He sounded like a circus ringmaster.
Ladies and gentlemen, in the center ring, we present to you the most magnificent, stupendous . . .