Masquerade (6 page)

“I thought you’d have a hangover this morning.” She stooped beside him and stabbed at the dirt with a spade.

He grabbed her hand. “Good morning to you, too, Tater Tot. Nice conversation with Mother, hey?” His tanned muscles glistened in the morning sun, his sleeveless tee shirt damp with sweat.

              Such a manly man.

              “They’re coming for a visit. In two weeks.” She slumped to the ground and crossed her legs.

              “Oh, yeah? Good. Another opportunity to pick on your mom.” He stood and reached for the shovel. When he pushed on the rim with his work boot, the tool sank into the rich earth.

              Celeste    picked  at   a  blade  of  grass.  “She  says,

‘Hello.’”

              “Hello back.” He tossed a shovelful of dirt to the side.

              “How can you be so nonchalant about Mother? She’s so . . . so,” she blew out air, “controlling. It infuriates me.”

              “Ah, she’s not so bad.” He pierced the earth once more.

              Her hands fell to her lap. “You didn’t grow up with her. And your parents are dead. You don’t have to deal with them anymore.”

              He looked at her, eyebrows puckering, mouth curling into a pout. “Ouch, that hurt.” He quickly recovered and resumed digging. Still, she was sorry she let loose about his parents who’d died in a plane crash when he was in high school. “I’m about finished with this project. How ‘bout we pick out the paint for the bedrooms today?” He drew a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “Hand me that last mum.”

              She lifted the pot sitting beside her and placed it in his outstretched hand. “I need to work on lesson plans.”

              “You can do that tomorrow.” With his foot, he scraped the last bit of dirt around the mum. He propped on the shovel and surveyed his work. “Not bad.”

              Celeste pushed off the lawn and stood beside him. “Now that really adds to the front of the house. Lovely.”

              Joe caught her eye. “Well, look at this little number.” He motioned between them. “Ma and Pa Kettle.”

              “You are so lame.” She elbowed him in the rib.

              “Ouch!” He chuckled and clutched his side.

              “You are such a baby.”

              “Speaking of baby, how ‘bout we paint the spare bedroom blue?” He propped the shovel against the house, turned on the spigot, and reached for the hose.

              “Joe,” she sighed, “we’ve been trying for the last four years. If we were going to get pregnant, don’t you think we would have by now?”

              He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it takes longer for some folks.”               

              He stood spraying the mums, seemingly happy in his denial. How could she burst his bubble?

              She bit her lip and studied the ground. “There’s a reason mother doesn’t like you.”

              “Well, yeah, I stole her baby.”             

Her gaze jumped to him.

He shut off the spigot and grabbed the shovel.

“And she stole ours,” she said under her breath, heart thumping against her ribcage.

              He moved toward the gravel driveway and Celeste followed. After he stored the shovel in the garage, he strolled toward the back door, Celeste on his heels.

              At the stoop, she moved beside him and laid a hand on his arm. Dark hairs clung to his sweaty skin. “Sit with me for a second.” Her gaze traveled to his handsome face, then settled on his eyes. “Please.”

              He tugged on his jeans and lowered to the cement stoop. “Okay, what have I done this time?” He flashed a lopsided grin.

             
More than you know
.

              She sat beside him and took his hand.

He scuffed the gravel with his boot, then faced her. “Nobody’s sick, are they?”

              Silence. She fought back tears. 

              He gently pulled her face toward his. “Tater Tot . . . honey, what’s wrong?

              His beagle eyes melted her heart. A tear spilled onto her cheek.

              He traced his finger around her face. “Such beautiful high cheekbones.” He kissed one, then the other. “Such alabaster skin.”

              She hiccupped a laugh as a sob caught in her throat. “Alabaster? Where’d you come up with that word?”

              Mischief sparked from his eyes. “Just rolled off my tongue and into the air.” He made circles with his hand.

              Taking a deep breath, she ran her moist hands down her thighs. “Let’s not paint the spare room blue, okay? I thought maybe, uh, peach. Actually, peach for both bedrooms.” She scratched the tip of her nose, cocked her head. “Or maybe,” she pursed her lips, “pale green for the spare bedroom. Didn’t the previous owner leave a can of green Sherwin-Williams he used on the living room walls?”

              He rubbed his eyebrow. “Sure . . . sure, green, peach, whatever. But surely you’re not crying over paint colors. As long as it’s not pink, any color will do, for either a boy or a girl.”

              She squeezed her hands and chewed on her bottom lip. “Joe, we can’t have children. The doctor says so.”   Looking  straight  ahead,  she  gulped  back  the  bile

gathering in her throat.

              His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the ground. “So, that’s it.”

              “I’ve been trying to tell you for the past year.”

              His head shot up. “The past year? You’ve known that long and didn’t say anything?”

              “I’ve been trying to tell you, I . . .”

              He scrambled to his feet and lunged for the doorknob. “There’s always a second opinion.” He pushed his way into the utility room and slammed the door behind him.

              Should she run after him? Tell him the rest? How could she, given his reaction to this piece of news?

              Her stomach reminded her they hadn’t eaten breakfast, so she crept back into the house. The water pipes groaned in the bathroom. Then the shower sputtered to life. She labored about the kitchen, feet dragging as if weighted with a ball and chain.

What to eat? Something simple. She opened a cupboard and retrieved a box of Cap’n Crunch, collected bowls and spoons from another drawer, and fished for the milk carton in the fridge.

By the time Joe stepped into the kitchen wearing jeans and a polo shirt, Celeste sat at the table slurping the last bit of milk from her bowl.

“Nice of you to wait.” He dropped into a chair and reached for the cereal box.

“Sorry. Hungry, that’s all.”

“Yeah, me and you both, kid.” After pouring a stream  of milk over his cereal, he slammed the carton on

the table.

  “Joe, I know you’re angry.” She touched his arm.

Gulping down a bite, he clenched his teeth. “I’m not angry.”

She wouldn’t argue the point. Playing with the fringe on the placemat, she pressed her lips together.

An uncomfortable silence passed between them.

His spoon clinked against the bowl; he rose and strode to the fridge.

“Beer. What kind of breakfast is that?” She sighed and grabbed the bowls off the table, setting them in the sink. Turning, she gripped the edge of the counter and faced him. “Please, Joe, there’s got to be another way to deal with this.”

He popped the cap on the beer bottle. SShhhppptt. “I’m goin’ for paint. You comin’?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Hon, we have to talk about this.”

He took a swig, then wiped his upper lip. “What’s to talk about? You’ll get a second opinion, and we’ll take it from there.” He shrugged and grabbed his keys off the counter.

A quick swipe over the table with the dishrag and she followed him to the Plymouth. This wouldn’t be the happy home shopping trip she’d envisioned.

Joe backed out of the garage, picking up speed at the end of the driveway as he skidded onto Maple Avenue. Celeste reached for the dashboard to steady herself. She nibbled a fingernail, then crossed her arms and tucked her hands beneath them.

When Joe finished the beer, he tossed the bottle on the floorboard. It rolled this way and that before Celeste retrieved it. Clutching it between her hands, she stared at the label.

“I’m not a drunk, if that’s what you think.” He maneuvered the steering wheel with his wrist.

“I never said that. Just want you to be careful, that’s all.” She tucked the bottle inside her satchel.

He pulled into the Sherwin-Williams parking lot and cut the engine. Dropping his hands into his lap, he lowered his head.

Gazing ahead, Celeste stared at a little girl skipping beside her mother on the way to the store entrance. “I love you, Joe.” Tears stung her eyes. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I couldn’t tell you—”she swallowed, her throat thick—“what the doctor said, because I knew how much you wanted a child.” Frowning, she picked at a hangnail. “I was wrong.” She faced him. “Please, tell me things are okay between us.”

“Of course they’re okay.” He opened the door, ushering in a welcome breeze, then stepped outside and shook his legs.

She joined him on the other side of the car.

“And things will be even better after you get a second opinion.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Rounding the corner into the living room, Sonya nearly tripped over a stuffed elephant. She kicked the thing out of the way, only to discover another plush toy behind it. In fact, an entire trail of animals led from the middle of the floor into the foyer. Mia’s and Hannah’s mock circus parade. She’d told the girls to clean up before nap time, but did they listen?

She plopped onto the sofa, shoving a pile of books to one end. Particles danced in the afternoon sun streaming through the bay window. Lily sang at the top of her lungs as she swayed in the patch of light, her corkscrew curls bouncing, her face drinking in the warmth. A heap of laundry fresh off the line lay strewn over the hardwood floor, the wicker basket overturned. Sonya’s gaze traveled to Lily’s feet—mismatched socks, one white, one green.

Lily’s swaying turned into spinning, her voice growing louder. An invisible band squeezed Sonya’s head, and she fought against a dizzy sensation. She resisted the urge to release the scream bubbling up inside her. Heat flooded her chest and spread through her limbs. Her breathing  quickened,  and  her  heart  began  to  race. She

shook herself, rubbed her eyes.

“Lily, come here.” Sonya patted the spot beside her.

In her own world, Lily strained for something beyond the light it seemed.

“Lily!” Sonya clapped her hands, and the child’s head jerked in her direction.

The spell broken, Lily tottered over to the couch, her eyes searching Sonya’s face.

Sonya gathered the child to her side and reached for
Go, Dog. Go!
One of Lily’s favorite stories. As Sonya read, Lily clapped her hand on her knee several times, pointed to the pink poodle wearing the blue hat. She eagerly tapped the page where three red dogs fumbled their way through the maze of bushes. Rocking against Sonya, she began to sing, “Dogs going out, dogs going out, dogs going out,” every phrase growing louder and more passionate until Sonya thought her head might spin off her shoulders. She rubbed the flesh between her eyebrows—felt it wiggle beneath her fingertips—and laid a hand on Lily’s leg to calm her. “Why do you sing so loud?”

Lily paused and looked up at Sonya. “So God can hear me.”

She hugged the child. “He can hear you even when you’re quiet. He listens to your heart.”

As if this were a new thought, Lily grew still, flung her head back and scrutinized the ceiling, mouth agape.

The screen door squeaked open, banged shut. Matthew   and   Anthony   raced  through  the  foyer,  skid

around the newel post, and charged up the stairs, leaving muddy footprints in their wake. “Boys, you march right back down here!” Even though she yelled, she knew they couldn’t hear her. Or didn’t want to hear her.

Sonya pressed a hand to her chest. She snapped the book shut, fanned herself with it. Suddenly, she couldn’t think. All she wanted to do was curl up on the couch and sleep. She fought back tears, but managed a feeble smile when Lily gave her an open-mouth kiss and struggled off the sofa.

Come on, Sonya. Hold it together.
The caseworker planned a routine home visit soon.
Stay strong.

###

The squish of the roller kept time with the music. Joe bellowed out the lyrics to
“
Dance Away
”
with Bryan Ferry. Two walls painted, two to go. He stepped back and admired his work. “Peach, good choice,” he muttered. “Time for a beer break. But just one.” He had to pace himself to get through the paint job, and he still had the spare room to do. No heavy drinking. He’d save that reward for Sunday night.