Chasing Sunsets (16 page)

Jack didn’t offer him the full-time position like Steven thought he would. Instead he sat him down over a $1.99 breakfast at Krystal and told him about his brother who lived in Atlanta. “There’s a job he knows about,” Jack said after taking a long sip of coffee. “And he thinks you’d be perfect for it.”

“But he doesn’t even know me,” Steven said.

“He knows everything I’ve told him about you, and all that’s been nothing but good.”

Steven started to take a bite of his biscuit but instead put it back on the Styrofoam plate. “Thank you, Jack. I appreciate that.”

“You’ve earned it.” The older man shook his head. “In all honesty, I don’t want to see you go . . . but I can get another salesman. You’ll never find a job quite like this one.”

“What is it?”

“How would you like to manage one of the new malls in the greater Atlanta area?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“My brother said he can help you and Brigitte find a place to live. The people at his church will help you get settled in. The job starts in a month.”

“I don’t even know what a mall manager does. The only time I even go into one is to pick up Brigitte or when she makes me go clothes shopping.”

Jack pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt’s front pocket. “Well, let’s see what we have here for a job description.” He adjusted the reading glasses he perpetually wore near the tip of his nose and cleared his throat. “It says here: staff supervision, budgeting, office management, development of mall marketing programs, sales analysis, financial analysis, community relations, tenant relations, and leasing stores including the negotiation of contracts between the mall and the tenant.”

Steven shook his head. “But, Jack. I don’t have the experience for something like that.”

“You’ll be highly trained,” Jack said, replacing the paper.

“By whom?”

“My brother.”

“Your brother?”

“He owns the mall.”

Simon Cason helped Steven and Brigitte find and rent a townhouse in Marietta. It had a spiral staircase Brigitte absolutely loved. She said it made her feel like a movie star when she went up and down it. It only served to make Steven nervous. His first purchase for the new place was the best child gate his money could afford to keep Eliza from climbing up and tumbling down it.

It took them two weeks to get settled in. Brigitte applied for a cosmetic job at one of the new mall’s anchor stores and was hired immediately. Steven asked her to work only part-time; his salary would be enough, he said, and he wasn’t sure about putting Eliza in daycare. But Brigitte would hear nothing of it. She was bored, she said. Bored silly with home life.

Simon and his wife, Abbie, took them to church and introduced them to their array of friends. They also told Brigitte about the daycare program that would be perfect for Eliza. While Brigitte wasn’t fond of the “going to church” idea, she loved the idea of a church-affiliated daycare. She was also pretty thrilled to hear that Eliza could go directly from the daycare to the church’s accredited private school, which began with kindergarten.

By August they both worked full-time. Eliza came home from daycare each day and, during dinner, sang whatever new song she’d learned at “school” that day. In September she began kindergarten. Every morning Steven got her dressed and ready, then drove her to school before heading in to the office. He told her it was their special time of day.

“Why doesn’t Mommy drive me to school?” she asked from her car seat secured to the backseat of the silver Toyota Cressida he’d traded in his truck for.

“Mommy works at night,” he said. He forced a smile. “Remember?”

“Why doesn’t Mommy work in the daytime like you, Daddy?”

Eliza was nothing if not bright and inquisitive. “Because,” he said, “somebody has to work during the daytime—that is called first shift—and somebody has to work second shift. Mommy works second.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror. Eliza’s strawberry blonde hair was scooped to the top of her head in a ponytail secured by a dark green bow. She played with one of the oversized ladybug buttons on the dress he’d put her in earlier. Her cupid lips were pursed, and her blonde brows were knitted together.

Steven’s heart flipped.

“I don’t like it that Mommy works at night,” she said.

“Me either, baby girl,” he told her.

It was true. He didn’t like it that Brigitte worked second shift. It meant they rarely saw each other. It also meant that the bulk of caring for Eliza fell on his shoulders. Not that he minded, but with learning a new job, getting to know new people, trying to make his way in the world . . . it sometimes felt like too much.

Brigitte also managed to stay as unattached from their home during the day as possible. From what he could put together, she slept until nearly noon, vegged on the sofa in front of the television for an hour, then showered and got ready for work. Jason Morgan—a single man of about thirty-five who lived just a few doors down and worked the men’s department of the same store—picked her up at 2:30, which gave them an hour to get to work.

Steven got off work—in theory—at five. He had until six to get to the church and pick up Eliza. Every evening, as he drove back to the townhouse, she regaled him with what she’d learned that day in school. New words. New books. New numbers. Jesus walked on water.

“Can you walk on water, Daddy?” she asked him.

“No, sweet pea. Daddy cannot walk on water. Daddy used to drive a boat on water every day though.”

“At Grandpa and Grandma’s?”

“Yep. In Cedar Key.”

“I wish we lived with Grandpa and Grandma . . .” Her voice trailed.

“You don’t like living in Atlanta?”

“It’s fine, Daddy,” she said with a tender sigh. “I just like having water all around.” A glance in the rearview mirror showed him his daughter with her little fist pushed against her cheek, her elbow on the padded bar of her car seat.

She saw him looking at her, and she smiled. “Hey, Daddy,” she cooed.

“Hey backatcha,” he said.

One thing he could say for Brigitte—at least she waited until
after
the holidays to leave him and their daughter behind for what she declared would be a better life for herself.

“Jason is my soul mate,” she wrote in the six-page letter left on the dining room table. “He gets me in a way you never could,” it went on.

I’m leaving Eliza with you, Steven, because you are the one she is most connected to. I could never do that to my daughter. I could never rip her from her home and from her daddy. And you are a good daddy, Steven. You just aren’t fulfilling my needs. Jason not only understands them, he fulfills them in a way you never could. I’m not saying that to hurt you, but just so you can understand that there is nothing you can do to change how I feel.

I’m sorry to say I don’t think I ever loved you. I loved the idea of you. Now Jason has shown me what true love is. I tried to fight my feelings, but I know now that I have to have what he gives to me.

I’m sorry.

Brigitte and Jason were halfway to Nashville when he read the letter. They eventually settled in a small town just north of it. In the beginning she drove the three-hour difference about once a month on a Saturday. She took Eliza to places like the zoo, Chuck E. Cheese, and the mall. While it gave Steven a much-needed day to himself, those days were always followed by a night of his daughter crying hysterically for her mother.

Twelve months of once-a-month visits went by. Then, late one February afternoon when Steven had dropped his keys on the kitchen countertop and pushed play on the answering machine, he received the call he somehow knew would come.

“Hey, Steven.” Brigitte’s voice was whisper soft. “It’s me. Um . . . listen . . . I’ve left Jason and I’m moving to Dallas. Um . . . I met someone who . . . oh man, how do I say this?” Steven stopped the tape. Eliza stood at the kitchen door.

“Was that Mommy’s voice?” his Einstein asked.

“Yeah. She was just calling to say hello.”

“Who did she meet?”

Steven looked from his daughter to the answering machine and back to his daughter. “The Muffin Man. Now then . . . what do you say to you and me going out for some pizza tonight?”

Eliza jumped up and down. “Yes! Yes! Pizza! Pizza!”

“Then go upstairs—hold on to the handrail—put away your book bag and brush your teeth before we go, okay?”

Eliza was out of the room before he finished the command.

After supper and bedtime book reading and after Eliza’s breathing told him she was sound asleep, he listened to the rest of the message.

“How do I say this? His name is Clarke. Clarke Biscoff. He’s from Texas and . . . well, I don’t have to tell you, do I? He’s got money, which Jason never would,
and
he gets me. It’s like the first time I met him I thought I had known him my whole life. Anyway, I’ve left Jason, and right now I’m on my way to Dallas with Clarke.” She giggled. “Actually, right now I’m in the bedroom of a fancy suite in Atlanta’s Ritz-Carlton. Clarke just went out for a minute and I thought this would be the best time to call. So . . . anyway . . . kiss my angel for me. Tell her she’s my stars in the sky. Tell her I love her to the moon and back. And tell her I’ll call her soon.” She took a breath. “Oh, and Steven . . . I’ll send some money to you soon for child support, okay? I mean, I’m going to be rich. I can afford it now, right? My father and mother are going to be thrilled at
this
news . . .”

But the calls rarely came. And the money never showed. Not that he needed it. He and Eliza got along just fine on what his salary provided.

Eventually they only heard from Brigitte twice a year, on Eliza’s birthday and at Christmas. And every couple of years the calls or the gifts came from somewhere else, where she lived with somebody else who had more money than the last someone else.

And it was always someone who “got” her.

I woke Saturday morning feeling like a new woman. I felt loved, even though the “L word” hadn’t been said. But we’d kissed good night like young lovers and we’d set a date for the following night, tonight.

I premade a pot of coffee the night before, had it scheduled to come on at 8:00. When I heard the last gurgle and its rich scent reached the bedroom, I got out of bed long enough to let Max out, get a cup, and then return. I propped up with a book I’d snagged from Dad’s library on the way back from the kitchen. For the next two hours, I sipped coffee and read a musty, time-stained copy of Charles Mercer’s
There Comes a Time
. It outdated me by more than a decade, but I found it riveting.

Around 10:00 I let Max in, got dressed, made both of us breakfast, then sat cross-legged on the sofa and called Chase. He answered right away; the sound of his voice let me know something was up.

“What’s going on? And don’t say nothing because I can hear it in your voice.”

“Nothing, Mom.”

“Chase.” My words were met with silence. Finally I asked, “Where are you?”

“At work with Grandpa,” he said. “I’m standing in the middle of the azaleas.”

“And your father?”

More silence.

“Chase Joshua Tucker.”

“He’s at the beach.”

“The beach.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of this, Mom.”

“Why aren’t you at the beach with him?” Silence. I didn’t have to ask any other questions. I knew the answer. His second weekend with our sons and . . . “He’s with a woman?”

“I assume.”

“He never quits,” I said under my breath.

“Mom. Seriously. If you make something out of it I’ll be so mad at you and I’m not kidding.”

I sat stunned. My son would be mad with me? As always, I tried to put myself in his skin . . . in Cody’s skin too. They loved their father. They loved me. They hated when we fought. “All right, I won’t say anything. When will he be back?”

“He said tomorrow.”

“Sunday.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. You and Cody staying with Grandpa and Grandma?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s not the worst thing that could happen.”

“You know how it is. They’re cool. And Grandma said . . .”

“What did Grandma say?”

“Nothing.”

“No, Chase. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do it to yourself.”

“Just that even adults with nearly grown kids have a right to try to find love.” He sighed. “I think she just doesn’t want us to think bad of Dad.”

I shook my head. This conversation was getting more difficult. I wanted my son to think this through without my saying anything negative about his father. “But, do you think that’s what Dad is doing? Finding love?”

“With Dad it’s kinda hard to tell. I mean, how do you know if it’s love anyway?”

I blinked before answering. His question was genuine. “Well,” I began, settling back into the cushy softness of the sofa. “It starts with a nice, warm feeling when you’re with someone. It’s . . . it’s like when you are with that person, you feel you’ve known that person forever. Like there never was a time when you weren’t together. And when you aren’t together, you count the minutes until you’re with him again.”

Chase chuckled on the other end of the line. “I don’t think I’m going to want to be with a ‘him,’ Mom.”

“Cute.”

He didn’t answer right away. “Is that what you and Dad had?”

I felt the knot form in my throat. “Chase . . .”

“Did you?”

“Of course.” I closed my eyes and smiled. I had such memories . . . “We were just crazy mad in love with each other, Chase. And you and Cody came out of that love.”

“So . . . then . . . what happened?”

I tried to swallow as I blinked. “Wow.” Of all days for these questions to come. “I don’t know, Chase. You’d have to ask your father that question. I didn’t ask for the divorce.” I took a deep breath, determined not to sound condemning. “I honestly don’t know.”

“He’d get mad if I asked.”

I nodded. “He may. But you won’t know unless you ask.” I tried swallowing again. “And I think you have a right to know.”

“He’ll say it’s adult stuff and kids don’t need to be bothered with adult stuff.”

I pictured my son standing among multi-colored rows of azaleas, none reaching higher than his knees. I imagined him wearing a T-shirt with the nursery’s logo displayed across the front and a pair of long khaki shorts. I saw his dark hair streaked with gold by the sunlight, windswept by the summer breeze. “If you were five, I’d agree with him,” I said.

“But I’m not.” A moment of silence before he said, “Mom?”

“Yes, Chase.”

“Do you think you’ll ever fall in love again? I mean,
could
you?”

I felt my heart take flight. “Yes. I could.”

“I think I’d like that for you,” he answered. “But can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t think Dad would. I kinda think Dad wants to get on with his life but he doesn’t want the same for you.”

I called Heather. It sounded to me as though she’d been crying. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“What’s going on with you?”

Her voice rose. “Nothing. Seriously, nothing. Tell me about you.”

I shared with her about my date. I told her about being in the boat with Steven for the first time in years. I told her about going to Shell Mound, about the camera, and what just may have been my last first kiss. I refrained from telling her about how I’d cried and how Steven held me. I told her nothing about his admission of past sins.

When I was done, she said, “Well, isn’t that all so very lovely for you.”

The sarcasm hurt. “Heather, don’t. Please. I’m happy for the first time in a long time. Can’t you be happy with me?”

I heard it then. Ice clinking. I looked down at my watch. It was just a few minutes before noon. “Sure,” she said, followed by a long swallow. “Sure.”

“Heather,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I need to ask you something.”

“Advice for the lovelorn?”

I took a deep breath. I let my chest fall with an even exhale. “Heather, why are you drinking so early in the day?”

“Oh. My. Gosh. Ohmygosh. You think I’m drinking? You are so self-righteous, Kimberly. I cannot believe you’re asking me that.”

“I’m sorry, Heather. I’m sorry . . . it’s just . . . I can hear the ice in the—”

“And you
assume
I’m drinking?”

“Heather . . .”

“No, Kimberly. You’ve gone too far. Who do you think you are, calling me with all your love talk and then accusing me of drinking? Who do you think I am, for that matter?”

“I—”

“You think that just because you’ve suddenly found your great love, you can call me—who is losing hers—and just grill me like a raw steak?”

“What?”

“Obviously I cannot talk with you anymore,” she said.

The line went dead.

I stared at my cell phone with an open mouth. I started to call my father, then changed my mind. Instead, I called Anise’s floral shop, hoping she would answer.

She did.

“Oh, Kimberly,” she said, almost breathless.

“Is this a bad time?”

“A little. We have—and don’t laugh when I say this—three weddings and a funeral.”

“Do you mean four? Four weddings and a funeral?”

“Oh heavens, no. I don’t think I could survive if I had four.”

“I can call you back . . .”

“Is it something important? Hold on . . . Melodie, I need more white roses . . . White . . . No, sweetie, not pink. White.” She laughed lightly. “Those are pink, Melodie . . . well, sweetheart, turn on a light.” She exhaled a slow sigh. “Okay, Kim.”

“You asked if it was important. And it is . . . but you are clearly busy.”

“What’s it about?”

“I’m worried about Heather.”

“Your father is nearly beside himself. He thinks Andre is having an affair; I guess he told you that.”

“No. He won’t tell me anything.”

“But I think he’s way off base. I think . . . hold on. Melodie, if that’s all the baby’s breath you can find, then we’re in so much trouble. Please tell me otherwise . . . Oh, good. Fantastic, dear.”

“Anise, I’ll call you later. You’re busy and I hear Max’s nails on the floor near the door.”

“I’m sorry, Kim.”

“It’s okay. Let’s talk later.”

When I opened the door to let Max out, he shot down the stairs as though he hadn’t been outside all day. I stepped out on the landing and watched him dart next door. Apparently he hadn’t needed a patch of grass; he wanted to play with his new best friend.

Which reminded me . . . Patsy.

I headed down the steps and crossed the lawns between our houses. I knocked on Patsy’s door and ran my hands down my arms. In the short period of time I’d been outside, my skin had become clammy. I looked up at the sky; the sun was directly overhead and blazing hot.

The door cracked open. I peered between the frame and the door to see Patsy, clearly just out of bed.

“I’m not feeling so well this morning, honey.”

“You don’t look so well, either.” I put my hand on the doorknob. “May I come in?”

She stepped back. “Oh, I hate for you to see me looking like this.” She ran a gnarled yet delicate hand over the crown of her head. “I clearly do.”

She wore a pair of checked cotton poplin pajamas that made her look all of eighty-five pounds. Her white hair was braided down both sides of her head, which made her look like an elderly Laura Ingalls Wilder. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes swollen. She hacked as soon as I shut the door. My mothering instincts took over. “Oh, Patsy,” I said. “You need a doctor.”

Patsy turned and walked toward the back of the house. “Oh, pshaw. All I need is to rest, honey. It’s not like this is my first summer cold. Good Lord willing, it won’t be my last.”

I followed Patsy into her bedroom—a room I’d never seen before, a room unlike the others in the house. The others were an eclectic blend of beachfront décor meets English countryside estate. This room was only the latter. The walls had been painted brick red. Cotton floral drapes of white, rose, and green matched the four-poster bed’s comforter. The bed sat on the far side of the room. Overhead hung a large, matted black and white photograph of Patsy and her husband on their wedding day. Next to the bed, a matching nightstand was laden by an oversized lamp and a short stack of books.

My eyes took in the titles.
My Utmost for His Highest
, the current year’s
Daily Guideposts Devotional
, and a thick, white-leather Bible with a tattered cover and pages dislodged from the spine. I couldn’t help but think that God must find this the most beautiful book of all—his Word read so many times, it looked abused.

I had my own Bible, of course. Slim-lined. Pink. I read from it when I was studying the week’s Sunday school lesson, when I needed guidance, and during church services. I rarely picked it up just to read. Something told me Patsy did. Something told me that, for her, this was more than just “another book.” For a fleeting second the thought that I wanted to know more about her—that I wanted to emulate her even—swept over me.

The stooped-over woman inched her way toward the bed with its tousled bedcovers. I held them back, then straightened them over and around her after she’d gotten into the bed. Heat radiated from her tiny frame. “Oh, Patsy,” I said, pressing my palm against her wrinkled forehead. “You are burning up with a fever.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Have you taken anything?”

“During the night. I took some of that Nyquil I have in the bathroom over there.” She pointed toward the master bath. “Helps me to sleep.”

I looked toward the bathroom and then back to Patsy. Her eyes were closed, the lids nearly transparent. Lying on her back had caused some of the wrinkles on her face to fall away, and I could see the young beauty she had once been. I glanced up at the photograph again and wondered briefly what I would look like when the totality of my youth had given way to the final years of my life.

Right now, I thought, I was vainly seeking the sunrise—those earlier years spent in Cedar Key when summers were carefree and filled with flirtatious love—while this woman was gazing toward sunset. I patted her hand.