Crazy Love (2 page)

He sighed at my continued silence. “How long has she been gone?”

“A couple of days. No big deal.” I lied.

“Bullshit.”

“We’re fine, Travis.”

“I know
you
are. I’m concerned about Becca.” I couldn’t blame him for that. She was only four, just starting pre-K, and she actually
was
his biological daughter. If I were totally honest with myself, I was pretty concerned about her too. “Do you have enough to eat?”

I said nothing. This man had been my own personal Satan for years. But it had been days since we’d had meat or peanut butter, and the kids needed food.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod, as if my lack of response told the story. He had lived with my mom for three years, so I guess it probably did. “I’m calling the police.”

“No, don’t!” I blurted. I didn’t want the kids to end up in foster care. My grandparents would probably feel obligated to take us in, and I sure as hell didn’t want to change schools. I couldn’t lose Nick. He was my everything, and I couldn’t imagine being an hour away from him. “We’re out of food.”

“That’s all you had to say, Mutt. If she isn’t back in 48 hours, you call me – you hear?” As quickly as he appeared, he was gone. I shut the door and flipped the deadbolt so hard that my thumb felt sprained for the rest of the night.

A hissing sound alerted me that water was boiling over on the stovetop. I dashed up the stairs and slid the water off the crackling electric burner and added the noodles. My lip quivered and I shook my head, forcefully digging my fingernails into my palms.

“No. I’m not gonna cry.” I rapidly blinked my stinging eyes. Travis could go straight to hell. If Mom wasn’t back the day after next when we got off the bus, I’d take the kids to my friend Robin’s house. She had the whole basement to herself. Her parents never came down there, so they’d never know we were squatting there.

Thirty minutes later, while the kids slurped the last of their noodles, I heard his truck pull up again. He revved that obnoxious engine of his twice and blared on the horn, holding it down just long enough to piss off the neighbors. I trudged down the stairs and cautiously watched through the curtain as he pulled away a second time. Releasing a long shaky exhale, I opened the door; and when I saw two bags of groceries sitting on the stoop, my legs gave out, and I fell to my knees.

That’s when I actually did break down. I choked out sobs in the entryway until my brother Dylan crept down to ask me what was wrong. I couldn’t answer him; I wouldn’t have known where to begin. I wasn’t crying because I was grateful for the food, though I obviously was. I wept because I despised myself for being grateful.

To a fucking monster.

But a monster that—for one night at least – was a much better parent than either of my own.

Damn, this place is hot as hell. It was only 80 degrees, but humidity hovered like an ex-lover trying to get a glimpse at the new lady in your life. Though it was officially the first day of autumn, the sweltering weather wore me down as I slogged along as if wearing ankle chains. On mornings such as this, a Savannahian could step outside into the sultry air and feel like he’d just taken a second shower. There was nothing for it; waiting for some sort of improvement before my daily stroll would have kept me at home, and I couldn’t imagine a more dreadful fate.

I wiped the sweat from my brow as I crossed Victory Drive, happily leaving Ardsley Park behind me. Weeks had slipped by since I’d returned home after dropping out of law school. I’d spent the last year north of the Mason Dixon line and needed to re-acclimatize to the sub tropic heat of my hometown. I chose to forgo driving my father’s Mercedes (since there’s no better way to adapt than immersion), proceeding on foot toward the river. Watching the water helped me to think, and having scrapped my plans to practice law, some inner reflection seemed in order.

Squatting in the carriage house of Mama’s mansion was distressingly Beaumont of me. Since I no longer took pride in the Beaumont legacy, self-loathing won out over my typical apathy. While I coasted through the last of my pre-inheritance purgatory, I felt it best to be back in Savannah. Unfortunately, serving my sentence in the family home had ignited my legendary negativity. My mother seemed to pick up on this when she rang to wake me earlier that morning.

“Samson.” That’s Mama. No ‘hello,’ no ‘good morning.’ “Come have Eggs Florentine with me.”

“Sam, Mama. I’ve asked you to call me Sam.”

“I don’t like it. I think it sounds vulgar.”

No, Mama. Naming me Samson was vulgar.

I chewed bitterly on her refusal to respect my wishes as I descended the stairs into the stifling heat. Crossing the courtyard to “the big house,” I reminded myself that Mama’s twisted logic never made much sense to us commoners. She
never
referred to my older brother, Trip, by his given name. In her defense, Reginald Jefferson Beaumont III was a mouthful, and few had ever lived up to a nickname like Trip had.

I made my way through the house, intentionally taking the long, scenic route to avoid my father’s study. Pausing in the foyer, I cocked an eyebrow at the conspicuous new wall furnishings. Gone were the two antique portraits that had hung there since my grandfather was a boy, and in their place were two darkly disturbing paintings I assumed were my brother’s handiwork. No doubt Mama gushed with motherly pride as she paraded her bridge club past them. I wondered if her friends harbored the same suspicions as I did.

Money troubles.

Eventually I entered the sunroom where she always took her morning meal. Struck blind by the easterly sunlight, I blinked rapidly to combat the assault on my eyes. When my vision returned, I spotted my mother enthroned at the head of the table. With her silver reading glasses perched near the tip of her nose, she haughtily skimmed The New York Times. My brother Trip and I had nicknamed her “Cosmo” when we were kids, but never dared to call her that to her face. My mother was pretention incarnate. Though she simply considered herself “worldly,” she talked down to anyone unconcerned with the outside world, smug in their Savannah insularity. Since this included the majority of Savannah, I failed to understand her popularity. Knowing the societal folks she rubbed elbows with, I think it had to be fear-based. This morning Mama appeared particularly cosmopolitan, her butterscotch hair styled to perfection.

“There you are, Dahlin’.” She barely lifted her gaze from the paper as I obediently pecked her leathery cheek. “Are you going to the gallery today?”

One of Mama’s pet projects is a gallery on River Street. She’d named it Imogene’s, after herself. Two nights before, she had announced that she’d arranged for me to work there while I decided what I want to be when I grow up. Or more likely while I continued to decide what I don’t want to be.

“Yes, Ma’am.” I planned to do nothing of the sort, and she probably suspected as much. And so we continued our age-old dance. She and I were bizarre tango partners, but we were well rehearsed. “I’ll hit the gym after.”

“You really need to go and visit your brother. He must think you’re avoiding him.” She sipped her chicory-laden coffee and fixed her steely eyes on mine. I’m not sure what she was looking for as she searched me for a reaction, but I’d be damned if I were going to flash any tells.

I
am
avoiding him. I want to see him about as much as I want to scratch my back with a cheese grater.

“Fine. I’ll go see him. Is he still living down the street from Vi?” Trip’s wife, Violet, had kicked him out about two years ago. I had to give her credit; she’d stayed with him a hell of a lot longer than I’d wagered she would. To Vi’s misfortune they had a child, so the divorce wasn’t exactly a clean break. Stalking her was one of Trip’s favorite pastimes. It was bizarre how committed he could be when he made up his mind to persevere. Too bad he couldn’t just make up his mind to stay sane and sober.

“No. That landlord had unreasonable expectations.” Mama drawled. “He’s living in the Victorian District. I’ll text you the address.”

As she picked up her cell phone, her peach painted lips twisted as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. Undoubtedly, the former landlord’s “expectations” included tenants who were neither drunk nor disorderly. These
were
terribly unrealistic expectations where Trip was concerned.

“Honestly, I don’t know why he doesn’t just live here.” She set down her phone, then folded her paper and tossed it aside.

“I imagine it’s not very bohemian to be thirty years old and live with your mother.” I offered, taking a bite of superb Eggs Florentine. Money problems or not, Cosmo found a way to retain both her chef and housekeeper. I looked up in time to see her roll her sapphire eyes at my reply.

“The house belongs to the two of
you
.” She set her cup down with flourish, as if to emphasize the point. Daddy had left the house to Trip and me when he’d killed himself four years earlier. We’d each inherited fifty percent of his business interests, and Daddy’s family money had been added to our existing trust funds. Naturally, Mama still had her own inheritance from her parents, but she was still bitter about the surprises in Daddy’s will.

“Mama…” I gave her a ‘can we not do this again’ look. She regally waved her hand in response.

“It’s too hot for you to walk downtown today. Take the Mercedes.”

“I like to walk.”

She shook her head as she refilled her coffee. “I cannot fathom why both of my sons insist on living like vagabonds. You are Beaumonts and Moores, for heaven’s sake.” I said nothing in response, but I doubt she expected one. Since Daddy’s death, both Trip and I had an unspoken agreement against falling in line and playing the blue blood role Mama expected. Neither of us could stand to live in the family estate since Daddy had taken his own life here. Even the carriage house was a little too close for comfort, and I was counting down the days till my twenty-fifth birthday, at which time I planned to ditch the family role handed to me.

Reluctantly, my mind wandered back to the memory of my father dead in his study. I’d been home from school for spring break and had just come back from the gym when I’d been unfortunate enough to discover the body. I’d heard something amusing on the radio that I knew he’d enjoy and wandered down the hall toward his study to tell him about it. I think I immediately knew something was wrong – the hall smelled like the fireworks that Trip and I used to light in the backyard. I heard the familiar blaring tone of a phone off the hook (he could never hang up the damned phone), and I poked my head in the door. Daddy was slumped back in his chair, eyes closed. His pistol was on the floor at his feet and a half-drunk bottle of Madeira sat in front of him. To this day I can’t enter that hall without smelling gunpowder, though the smell can’t possibly still permeate the house. This not-so-Norman Rockwell moment is most likely why I’m as fucked up as I am. The image of his brains splattered on white plantation shutters still causes me sleepless nights.

Under the heat of the relentless Georgian sun, I shivered at the memory. With determination, I soldiered on down Savannah’s perfectly manicured streets. Slamming an imaginary door on my childhood trauma, I shifted my focus to what to do with my day. I had zero intention of working at Imogene’s Gallery…ever. Cosmo’s hobby was a tax write-off and a place to showcase Trip’s work, nothing more. For the last week, I’d been looking at properties with my cougar realtor all over town, and frankly, I was burned out on the endeavor. Besides, my nip/tucked agent had invaded my personal space in a major way at the last showing, and I needed some breathing room from her escalating advances.

After sifting through my imaginary to-do list, I came to the conclusion I would have a stiff drink with lunch while brainstorming how to spin my degree in business (with a minor in political science) and the one year of law school I’d managed to complete into some semblance of a career. Though I didn’t really need a job, my social circle expected me to masquerade as a productive member of society.

At last, the river appeared on my horizon. I turned the corner and made a pass up River Street to select a lunch destination. Tourists bustled under the awnings of the historic buildings, snapping pictures with their phones and chattering about how “charming” Savannah was. Suppressing an eye roll, I waited for a streetcar to pass and then stepped off onto the cobblestones, quickly looking in either direction before crossing. I managed to stop just short of walking into a family’s snapshot with the statue of
The Waving Girl.
Clearly the weather in Savannah wasn’t the only thing I needed to re-acclimate myself to.

Wandering into one of the open air sheds at the River Street Market Place, I glanced casually from booth to booth, enjoying both the reprieve from the oppressive sun and the breeze from the whirling ceiling fans. I stopped to buy something cool to drink, and that’s when I spotted…
her
.

A stream of sunlight fell on her long golden hair as if Mother Nature had trained a spotlight on her. Radiant was how I’d describe her, but with a girl-next-door quality. Long, and lean, she was casually dressed in faded jeans and a light pink cotton shirt. She carried herself in a proud and assertive way that set her apart from all of the pliable Savannah girls I knew.