Confucius Jane (30 page)

I miss you,
she wrote on the empty page. It felt good to write down the truth. And where was the harm? Sutton would never see it. This scrap of paper, bound into the notebook she kept on or beside her always, was safer than a confessional box.

Sleep left me when you did.

It takes all my strength, every moment, not to go to you.

Every train station gapes as I pass, tempting me.

Every overheard conversation between lovers reminds me of us.

Suddenly inspired, Jane flipped back through her notebook, picking out appropriate lines. Fatigue forgotten, her eyes roamed each page for the gems she had yet to mine.

“When I'm with you, I feel safe. So relaxed.”

“Your body is 150% amazing.”

“Remember what you told me? You said with me, you don't want anyone else.”

“Everyone will always find their soul mates.”

For a moment, Jane leaned her head back against the wall. Soul mates. Was there a more overused phrase? And yet, when she thought about how she felt in Sutton's presence, it seemed to fit. Which was the whole point, wasn't it? They fit together—two halves of a whole, bound by irresistible chemistry. Perfect complements. Yin and yang. Could Sutton see that? Or was she too blinded by the bright lights of her own future?

Staring back down at the page, she raised her pen and held it just above the paper. Words rushed through her brain like butterfly wings, fragile and transitory. Under normal circumstances, she would never think of capturing them. But this wasn't normal. This was once in a lifetime.

They speak for me, these anonymous voices.

I wish they could speak to you on my behalf.

In whispers, they could show you what we are together.

Imprisoned on two islands, we drift apart.

The sun rises a heartbeat sooner for you than for me.

Do you see the world more clearly for it?

You say what we share is casual, but it's not.

You think you have to carry your pain alone, but you don't.

Trust in the harmony of our shared laughter.

Trust in the secrets we dared to confess.

Trust in the heat that burned between us in the dark.

Trust yourself. Trust me.

Slowly, Jane lowered her pen. The butterfly wings had quieted, and she felt strangely empty inside—hollowed out, like a jack-o'-lantern. Her hand ached from the frenetic scribbling, and as she scanned over the words, her eyes began to burn.

She hadn't written any original poetry in well over a year, and she had no doubt that every line she'd just committed to paper was awful. But that didn't matter. No one would ever see it. This had been an exorcism of emotion. Catharsis. Nothing more.

Suddenly drained, Jane reached over to turn off the light. Burrowing back under the blankets, she tried to ignore the persistent ache beneath her skin. Withdrawal. One week of Sutton sleeping in her arms and she was an addict.

Turning her face toward the east, Jane closed her eyes and hoped her dreams would be kinder than reality.

 

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

T
HE FIRST TENDRILS OF
gold were shimmering on the edge of the horizon as Sutton stepped out onto the deck, coffee mug cupped in both hands. The chill seeped through her bulky sweater immediately, but she welcomed the fresh, salt-scented breeze against her face. She took a tentative sip of her coffee, sighing in pleasure as it slid down her throat and into her empty stomach, warming her from the inside out. Fatigue hovered behind her eyes, ready to swoop down and plunge her into exhaustion. Even so, she had awoken before the dawn, just like always.

For a moment, she allowed herself to wish that Jane were here—to imagine the scratchy sound of the screen door opening and the slow beat of footsteps crossing the deck. She felt Jane's arms slide around her waist, and when she breathed in, she could almost taste the comforting scent of her. Jane's embraces always made her feel so cherished. Sutton took another sip of coffee, imagining the heat of Jane's body cradling her against the railing. She dipped one hand into her pocket, fingertips brushing her phone. She hadn't heard Jane's voice in days. The last words they had exchanged were too-short texts wishing each other a good night. Sutton always spent forever composing those messages, and they never turned out the way she wanted them to. Writing down what she was feeling had proven impossible. She could think the words in her head, even whisper them aloud, but as soon as she tried to type them, her courage failed.
I miss you. I wish you were here. I can't sleep well without you.
All of it was true—every syllable. But writing them down just seemed so … permanent. She and Jane didn't have a future. What good would it do to complicate their present? Shivering in a sudden gust of wind, she gripped her mug more tightly. Sometimes, her logic felt like cowardice.

A fat drop of rain landed on her cheek. As it slid down to her chin, another plunked into her coffee. Glancing up as she hurried back indoors, Sutton noticed for the first time the dark clouds gathered overhead. Hopefully, the storm would quickly move out to sea. She wanted to be sure her mother got some fresh air today. Left to her own devices, Priscilla would never leave the house, and that wasn't healthy at all.

As the rain began to fall in sheets, drumming heavily against the roof and the windowpanes, Sutton double-checked the bus schedule. Maria would arrive in a few hours, having decided to join them after Reginald had checked into a hotel to try to escape the press. Sutton felt her temples begin to throb as she flashed back to their brief, stilted conversation yesterday. He had called to inform them of the move and to check on Priscilla, who had already been asleep. When Sutton had tried to talk to him about the allegations, he had put her off immediately with platitudes about how it was all a misunderstanding and that his “people were handling the situation.” He had followed up those vague statements with an admonishment not to say a word to the press, and then cited another incoming call before hanging up quickly.

After downing two aspirin to nip her headache in the bud, Sutton poured another cup of coffee and opened her laptop. She alternated between checking her e-mail and watching the rain, assiduously avoiding all news sources. After skimming a few articles yesterday, she had seen enough. Everything the press put out was speculative, and most of the media seemed determined to heap aspersions on her father's character despite any new information. The only consolation was that her mother hadn't relapsed. She had complained of more than the usual fatigue, and her hand tremors had been more pronounced than usual. But she had lived with those symptoms for well over a year now, and their presence didn't indicate the formation of a new lesion in her brain. Hopefully, by leaving the city and avoiding the news, she would avoid a flare-up.

“Sutton?” Priscilla walked slowly into the kitchen, slippers scuffing against the hardwood floor.

“Good morning, Mom.” Sutton rose from the table and embraced her gently. “Can I make you some breakfast? Toast and tea, maybe?”

“Yes, please.”

Sutton made sure to keep the conversation light as she prepared the food. They discussed an article Priscilla had read recently in a fashion magazine
,
and worked together on a grocery list. Sutton wished she dared do the shopping herself, but she didn't want to risk being recognized by any members of the press who might be hanging about. Maria would be the perfect person to do a little reconnaissance.

Priscilla welcomed Maria with a smile and an embrace that Sutton might have envied once. Now, she was simply glad to see her mother's face brighten, especially during such a stressful time. Thankfully, Maria said not a word about Reginald or the reporters, though she did whisper to Sutton that she had seen what looked like a news van parked down the street.

By the time Maria had settled in, noon was approaching. “Let me do that shopping now,” she said. “And then I'll fix us some soup and sandwiches.”

“That sounds lovely,” said Priscilla, who was acting as though civilization itself had returned along with their housekeeper.

“Mom, let's go walk a little in the garden while Maria runs errands.” Sutton gestured toward the bay windows. “The sun has come out and everything will smell so fresh.”

“It isn't too cold?”

“No, Mrs. St. James, it's turned into a beautiful day,” Maria said as she shrugged back into her coat. “You would look even lovelier with some color in your cheeks.”

Again, that beatific smile. Sutton hadn't made her mother smile like that in years—not since she had come out. Squelching the familiar disappointment, she grabbed their jackets from the front closet. “Just for a little while, okay? This is the perfect chance to inspect the garden to see whether you want to make any changes.”

When Priscilla nodded, Sutton helped her into the coat and laid her shoes beside her feet. “I'll be right back. I'm just going to walk Maria to the door.” As soon as they turned into the foyer, Sutton lowered her voice. “While you're out, would you mind looking for more signs of the media? I'd like to have a sense of just how closely they're watching us.”

“Of course.” Maria looked worried. “How long do you think this will last?”

“I wish I knew,” Sutton said as she opened the front door. A black car idled at the base of the short flight of stone stairs, waiting to carry Maria into town. The gravel drive culminated fifty yards away in a tall, wrought iron gate that was the only break in the wall encircling the estate. Today, Sutton was glad of the barricade between herself and the rest of the world.

She returned to the kitchen to find her mother staring out the windows, her expression melancholy. But when Sutton knelt at her feet and rested one hand on her knee, Priscilla shook her head and plastered on a smile.

“Ready to go, Mom?”

“Of course.”

Sutton preceded her down the deck stairs, vigilant in case a tremor caused her mother to stumble and lose her footing. At the sight of Priscilla clutching the railing as she descended, Sutton felt a rush of sympathy. Her mother's life was defined by fear. She was so afraid that her body would betray her at any moment; that her social circle would treat her like a leper; that society at large would judge her for her gay daughter. Now, Sutton imagined, the fear ran even deeper—that her marriage would fail, and that she would live out the rest of her life alone. She wanted to reassure her mother that even if she did end up getting a divorce, she would never be alone. But offering that reassurance meant opening a conversation in which her mother refused to participate. At this point, wasn't it kinder to let her keep her head in the sand, insofar as she was able?

Taking a deep breath of the crisp, rain-scented air, Sutton tried to put her own fears out of mind and focus on the immediate present. “The earth smells like it's waking up,” she said, linking her arm with Priscilla's.

The garden formed a ring around the periphery of their yard. They walked along the brick path that separated it from the lawn, past the skeletal rosebushes and the bare patches of earth where bulbs prepared their shoots for an upward assault on the loosening soil.

“I was thinking,” Priscilla began as she paused to examine the naked branches of a hedge, “of mauve and gold as the colors for this year's Memorial Day party. Belinda was in Paris over New Year's and she said that combination was all the rage.”

Sutton froze in disbelief. How could her mother be thinking about the annual St. James family party, when her father was facing not only public humiliation but also the loss of his medical license? If the accusations were true, would she even want to present a united front to the high society vultures?

“What is it?” Priscilla asked, looking over her shoulder.

Sutton wanted to fall to her knees and beg her mother to open her eyes. Instead, she forced her voice to remain evenly modulated. “Maybe it would be best to cancel the party this year.”

Priscilla waved one hand dismissively. It trembled slightly in midair. “Oh, surely this misunderstanding will be resolved long before then.”

“Mom…” Sutton closed her eyes briefly in an aimless prayer for patience and strength. This was as much of a conversation-starter as she was likely to get. “I think we have to face the possibility that it's not a misunderstanding. That it's true.”

Priscilla stiffened and began to move away. “It's the liberal media lashing out against your father in retaliation for his conservative political views. They've always hated him, and they finally found someone who would be willing to accuse him. Who knows how much they paid that misguided wretch of a woman to say those terrible things?”

Before Sutton could even take the breath needed to reply, a loud rustling sound drew her attention up to the top of the nearby wall. Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream as she caught sight of a man wearing a dark blue windbreaker, balancing between the tree and the parapet with the clear intent to jump down into the yard.

“Mom!” Stepping in front of her, Sutton protectively spread out her arms as the man's feet hit the ground. Priscilla shrieked and clung to her, trembling. Had she been alone, Sutton would have run for the house, but as it was, the phone was her only recourse. She yanked it out of her pocket, holding it between them like a weapon.

“Who are you?” she demanded, focusing on her anger instead of her fear.

“Calm down,” said the man, holding up one hand. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“We're not going to answer any questions.” Sutton jammed her thumb against the touch screen. “You're trespassing, and I'm calling security.”