Love and Lament (52 page)

They pulled up to the Ocean Hotel, an L-shaped building of three gleaming white tiers; a turret rose from the corner, with three balconies where tourists stood under fancy arches taking in the view. In the greensward opposite the portico, a flag bearing the hotel’s name hung limp in the noon stillness.

They had a good dinner that night in the hotel restaurant—fried flounder with lemon butter, mashed potatoes, creamed sugar corn, and peach cobbler with ice cream. She let Leon order for her, telling him she wanted the same thing that he was getting. She thought she could never get used to a restaurant as fine as this one, nor did she want to, though it was all right for a vacation. The couple from Weaverville seemed to enjoy their company—they looked genuinely disappointed that Mary Bet and Leon would not be joining them in the ballroom later. Mary Bet had already told Leon she was tired and wanted to go to bed after dinner. She told him she had only danced a few times and wasn’t much good at it. “That’s fine, Mary,” he said, “I’m not much of a dancer. Maybe tomorrow we’ll just watch awhile.”

They climbed up the stairs of the turret to the first balcony and took a look at the dark ocean. Lights from the hotel cast a pale glow over the beach and the edge of the water where it frayed into foam. Music from the pavilion down the strand rose and fell in the night air, and Leon pointed past a pier to a light down the beach that he
said must be the movie screen. The stars were out, but not as many as back home, on account of the hotel lights. The air was cool and damp, and not as fragrant as it had been on their arrival. She shivered a little, and Leon put his hand on the small of her back, and though she could barely feel it through her heavy sweater, it made her shiver again.

“The tide’s out,” Leon said. “You can see the line where it comes in high.”

Mary Bet looked, but she was not sure what to look for—in the darkness it was just sand and more sand. But she was glad Leon knew about such things, and that he always had something to say. They went back to their room and she undressed in the bathroom. She thought that if she weren’t so nervous she would be amazed that each room in the hotel had its own private bathroom.

Under the covers he reached for her, and she lifted up her long nightgown to let him know it was okay. She was unafraid of him because they were both strangers here, adrift together in their strangeness. It was as it should be, and she was surprised to find that she was curious. She had not dwelt on it overmuch, even when Clara had given her unasked-for advice. She wondered if it was the first time for him, and she thought maybe she would ask him sometime.

She recalled the sweetness of her gardenia corsage, the clanging of the church bell as they stood there at the church door posing for the photographer and all their friends getting backed up, waiting to get out into the sun. The laughter and nervous excitement, the young girls looking up at her, thinking of themselves someday wearing their own wedding gowns, not knowing how afraid she was, how afraid all brides must be. Life was strange, rich, terrible, wonderful. Everything that had brought her to this point—it would never go away. Her memory was too good, and that was her blessing and her curse. She believed her future was written, and though she was afraid of it she still wanted to see what was going to happen.

He fumbled a bit, but she didn’t mind, because he was gentle and he murmured to her that he loved the smell of her hair and how soft her skin was. His breathing came hard as he went rigid inside her, and then the pulsing wet warmth in her core spread out through her limbs.
Of course it was like that. Of course it was a good thing, not a sinful thing to be afraid of
. Was she to be his now with no freedom to do as she pleased, had she not given up a perfectly good life for another go at the terrible burden of family love? “God, please help me,” she whispered. Already she could hear Leon’s heavy breathing, a sound that she must get used to. What if she couldn’t stand living with him, she thought, almost in a panic.

She fell asleep and dreamed she was big with child, a child that was not moving within her, but growing and growing. Somewhere far beyond the window of her room where she slept between her sisters, the Devil was looking for her. But he was so far far away and she so deeply tucked in the warmth of her sisters that he could not see her.

In the morning the sun tipped its golden light through the sheer curtains, and she opened her eyes and heard the soft breathing of her husband, asleep beside her and already familiar. The air was pungent with the smell of damp cedar and the fertile backwater of the sound. She tried to remember her dream, but she could only chase it into the shadows of her mind. The sunlight painted a pattern across the hills and valleys of the bedspread, a pattern as mutable and unpredictable as the beginning of her new life. She smiled. She knew that marriage was not the end of sorrow, only a patch of sun through the window.

Dear Lord
, she prayed,
help my father with his suffering, which must still be a burden to him
 … She stopped.
Lord, I will not ask you for any more favors, you have done so much already. You have brought Leon home safely, and that is enough. But only this: Please forgive me, and help guide me along the right path. And if it be your will to take me, please let me go unafraid. Amen
.

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to Paul Kozlowski, Judith Gurewich, Sulay Hernandez, Sarah Reidy, Yvonne E. Cárdenas, Terrie Akers, Marjorie DeWitt, and the rest of the Other Press staff. Their unfailing support and guidance, their consummate professionalism, and their friendship have enriched my life.

For her tireless reading and her know-how, thanks to my agent, Ellen Levine.

I thank my parents, brother, and sisters for sharing stories over the years that have worked their way into my fiction. And I am much obliged to my cousins Nancy Ann and Gaines Hunter, keepers of the old place, for wonderful stories and hospitality.

Among the many friends who continue to encourage me, I offer special thanks to Steve Keach, Ted Corcoran, Leonard Phillips, Katie Henderson Adams, and Joy and Burkhard Spiekerman.

For their careful and insightful reading, thanks to Alanna Ramirez, Mary Rice, and Margo Browning. And to Margo: thanks for the title and for decades of inspiration and love.

I drew background material from the following books: Wade Hadley, Doris Goerch Horton, and Nell Craig Strowd,
Chatham County 1771–1971
(1971); Rachel Osborn and Ruth Selden-Sturgill,
The Architectural Heritage of Chatham County, North Carolina
(1991); Fred J. Vatter,
Tales Beyond Fried Rabbit: Chatham’s Historical Heritage
(2009); and Arthur Lloyd Fletcher,
History of the 113th Field Artillery 30th Division
(1920).