Palmetto Moon (24 page)

“Claire?” His tone has obviously frightened her, but he wants her to know he is serious. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“Reggie, you can’t be serious.”

“But I am.”

“This is your home. It’s not exactly the kind of place to raise children; it’s more of a museum.” She looks like she’s choking on the idea, but it’s quite possibly the best idea Reggie has ever had.

“But it shouldn’t be a museum, Claire. It has been like that for the last hundred years; I want it to be full of joy and laughter for the next hundred years. Tell me you’ll seriously consider my offer.”

She has tears in her eyes. “It’s too much,” she says like she can’t see how wonderful she is. Her posture, her expression, says she believes she’s not worthy of such a place, but in truth Sheridan place isn’t worthy of her.

“Marry me, Claire.”

Even two weeks after Lila’s death, the pall still covers the crossroads like a thick blanket of dew. Claire’s boys seem more reverent than usual. With Miss Mamie back and grieving, too, she is meaner than ever. Most days when Claire goes to work, Vada keeps the boys quiet and busy at the boardinghouse, but after word of Lila’s death, Vada keeps them at Sheridan house. To be honest, Daniel and Reggie do most of the keeping, and Vada stays close to Claire, keeping her hands busy, not saying much.

There are just a few boxes left to sort through. After that, there will be no reason for Vada to stay. But Claire knows the last thing her friend needs is to go back to the boardinghouse and bear the brunt of Miss Mamie’s venom. She opens the windows of the bedroom they’ve used as a storage closet for the last of Reggie’s things. A breeze stirs the curtains, carrying the scent of the afternoon shower. The sky is dark, promising steady rains throughout the day, which couldn’t be gloomier if it tried.

Vada pushes aside a box marked
PRIVATE! DO NOT OPEN
, slits the top of another one, and starts sifting through the contents.

“Can I tell you something? Something wonderful?” Claire says in a single breath.

Vada nods and smiles wanly, like she’s doubtful any news could be considered good news.

“I know Reggie and I have just known each other a few weeks, but he’s so wonderful—I don’t know how to say this—we’re getting married.”

“Oh, Claire.” Vada throws her arms around her. “It’s an answer to a prayer. When’s the wedding?”

“It will just be a little ceremony at Judge Swenson’s office, but my boys will soon have the home they deserve. Reggie and I get along. He’s funny and thoughtful and he loves my boys.”

“Do you love him?” Vada asks hesitantly.

“I adore him, and he is so good with the children.” Her eyes tear up at Vada’s inference. Claire knows she’ll get the same unspoken question from the rest of the crossroads residents. Of course, she barely knows Reggie Sheridan, but what they and Vada really want to know is, will marrying him fill the gaping hole she’s had inside of her since Bobby died? “I’m happy, Vada, really I am. Please, be happy for me.”

I know I should have been more enthusiastic over Claire’s news. She leaves with tears in her eyes and closes the door behind her. What’s wrong with me? Isn’t this what I begged God for? Before I realize it, I’ve completely ignored the warning and have sliced open the last box. My fingertips travel across the spines of twenty-six identically bound books. Encyclopedias? Hardly a reason for privacy. I slide the first volume out of the box and finger gold-embossed letters on the leather quarter-bound book. Lesley Faraday 1921. Journals.

The penmanship is artful and perfect. The first pages of Lesley’s journal read like a love letter. They are beautiful but private. I snap the book shut. Reggie never said why he left Europe, what happened to Lesley, or why he left her. I pull out random books that are in chronological order, and the expensive binding engraved with the corresponding year is unchanged. The last volume is dated 1946, yet Lesley’s name remained unchanged. Did Reggie promise to marry her, too? Twenty-five years of waiting would be enough to make even the most determined fiancée give up.

I pull the last volume out of the box and flip through the blank pages. There is one entry, a single line.

“January 1, 1947. Funny. I always thought we’d be together forever.”

I turn the page. A dozen photographs are jammed against the spine of the book like an afterthought. I sift through them, unable to believe what I’m seeing. Is this the future Claire is so happy to embrace? She can’t possibly know.

Footsteps thunder up the stairs. Jonathan squeals. “Faster.” I snap the book shut and shove it back into the box as the boys burst through the door led by Reggie. Their Air Force squadron buzzes around the room, encircling me, their arms spread wide, dipping from one side to the other. Jonathan is hanging on for dear life to Reggie’s back as he leads his men on their mission.

“Captain! Krauts at three o’clock,” Daniel screams over the noise of make-believe engines.

“I’ve got them!” Peter is breathless and red-faced, with arms extended. He balls his fists up and makes good use of his machine gun.

“No you don’t.” Daniel stops short and pushes his brother. “I’ve got them.”

“We all do,” Reggie shouts, and they pepper the room with pretend bullets until they fall into a pile, laughing. Happy.

“It’s good to see you, Vada.” Reggie stands and lifts Jonathan high in the air, then plops the little guy onto his hip. He gives Vada a peck on the cheek, but she wipes it away. “Thank you for helping out with the house. Although I hope now that I’m settled that won’t keep you away. I—” He stops short when he sees the open box.

“Come on, Reggie, you said we’d play until dinner, and it’s almost time to eat,” Peter says, and he and Daniel drag at Reggie’s arms.

“Just a minute, boys.” He turns to me, looking like a child who’s been found out. “Vada.”

I grab my umbrella and run out of the room and down the stairs.

“Wait!” he calls after me.

But I can’t stop, can’t bear the fact that Claire’s happiness is as tenuous as my own. I fling open the front door.

“Vada, let me explain.”

The wind sucks the umbrella wrong side out. I throw it aside and sprint down the long driveway that ends at the crossroads. It rains harder. I gulp in air, choking on the downpour. The tears won’t stop. For Frank. For Darby. For Claire’s soon-to-be-broken heart. Grief knocks me to my knees, and for the first time since Desmond kissed me good-bye, I am homesick. I want Charleston. I want Rosa Lee’s arms around me. I want my
murrah.

Suddenly, I’m weightless. Strong arms scoop me up, carrying me, almost running. Lightning cracks close enough to make the drenched hairs on my arms stand up. Frank runs faster, until we are on his doorstep. He throws the screen door open, lays me on a settee, and backs toward the doorway, beautiful, chest heaving. I reach for him.

He wipes the rain off of his face with his drenched shirtsleeve and shakes his head slowly.

“I can’t stay here with you, not like this.” Frank is so winded, he can barely talk. “What happened, Vada?”

I shake my head and reach for him again. “Please.”

The rain stops like someone shut off the faucet.

“Please,” she whispers again.

“No, Vada. I can feel those nosy crossroads bastards with their faces against their windows, waiting for me to ruin your good name. Maybe Joe Pike was right about me. Maybe I am damned for what happened with Lila, but I’d rather die than make you suffer for what I want.”

“Please.”

“You don’t know how much I want you, how much I want to stay.”

She’s a beautiful mess, but the girl who said yes to him just a few weeks ago hurts so badly, she’s no more ready for happily ever after than Frank is. “Not here. Not like this.”

He opens the screen door and plops down on the glider on the front porch. The faucet turns on again; the rain comes down harder than before, making the crossroads a blur.
I hate this goddamn place.
He sits in plain view, watching the downpour until he nods off.

With the exception of the boardinghouse, the crossroads is dark when Vada kisses him awake, softly on the cheek. “What happened to you, Vada?” Frank takes her hand in his. “Are you okay?”

She shakes her head, tells him she can’t talk about it right now. She insists on seeing herself off and thanks him for taking care of her.

“Let me walk you home.”

“Stay. You’ve done enough rescuing for one day.” She tries to smile. “Really, I’m okay, Frank.”

Her sadness terrifies him. He wants to hear her laugh, to squeal with excitement and pin him down with kisses, the way she did in the diner just a few days ago, over a simple postcard. But more than anything, he wants her to be happy. He watches until she disappears into the pitch-black night and the boardinghouse goes dark.

His puny house is empty without her, and for a moment, the idea that his house could be like this the rest of his life paralyzes him. He sits down at the small desk, the one his mother wrote her plays and stories at, and takes a postcard out of the drawer. He tries to remember the fancy handwriting, practices mimicking it on a scrap of paper. Satisfied that he can do it, that he should do it, he writes just enough to close the gap on the past and the present and addresses the postcard to Vada. It’s a lie. He’s not proud of that, but he’s willing to risk the consequences to help her move on. To help her be happy.

On and off throughout the morning, Frank eyes the truckers from his cubbyhole. He knows all of them in passing, a couple of them by name. He listens to Tiny chat them up for tips, asking where they’re going, what they’re hauling, punctuating each question with
shug
or
honey
. Big Jim hasn’t been in the diner for a week, and Frank can tell Tiny’s more worried than smarting over his absence. Long hauls with even longer hours have gotten a lot of truckers Frank’s known over the years killed.

He’s nearly burned a fair amount of food this morning, trying to listen to their conversations, and so far not a single driver has been headed north of Georgia.

Tiny puts three more orders on the wheel and hurries back to freshen up the back table’s coffees. A stranger in a fancy zoot suit comes in and heads straight for the counter. The man’s about Tiny’s age, and Frank can tell she thinks he’s good-looking, from the way she licks the end of her pencil a couple of times as she takes his order.

“Where you headed, handsome?” Tiny pours his coffee without even looking at the cup and flashes her best smile.

“Chicago.” He nods, tight-lipped, and picks up the
Charleston Post
he brought into the diner, to let Tiny know he doesn’t want to talk.

But he doesn’t know Tiny. “Chicago? Now that’s a fer piece,” she drawls.

She takes his order and then cracks him like a newly hatched egg. Within fifteen minutes, she has him talking a little, laughing at her playful innuendos.

“Tiny, the back table’s ready for their bills,” Frank snaps. She waves him off and heads back with a pot of coffee in each hand to hold court with the truckers who adore her. The ones who don’t are too afraid of the petite, round fireball’s sassy mouth to do anything but yuck it up with the rest of the men.

The guy at the counter catches Frank’s eye and nods toward Tiny. “She always like that?”

“Oh, she’s toned down a lot over the years.” Frank serves the man himself.

He digs right in and nods. “Good crab cake.”

“So I’m told.” Frank refills the guy’s coffee. “I heard you say you’re headed to Chicago.”

He stops chewing, his manner cold. “Yeah.”

Frank nods. “Up Highway 78?”

He takes a swig of coffee. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. Just curious.” The man is still taken aback by Frank’s friendly questions, and, to be honest, it doesn’t matter to Frank. “What do you do for a living?”

There’s a long beat of silence, enough to give Frank pause. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all. “Sell insurance.” The man shoves another forkful of food into his mouth.

Frank nods and fingers the postcard that’s been in his apron pocket all morning. He starts to top off the salesman’s cup, but the man shakes his head. He’s made quick work of his breakfast and seems to be in more of a hurry than the truckers who come to the diner for Tiny. The man tosses a dollar and two bits onto the counter, drains his coffee cup, and turns to leave.

“Hey, buddy,” Frank calls after him, holding the postcard up. “When you pass through Memphis, will you mail this for me?”

“Why? You have a post office.”

Frank hands him the card; the man reads it and shrugs. “Vada Hadley, huh? And I take it you’re not Miss Kittie Wentworth.”

“Long story.” Frank wipes his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. “It’s for my girl, Vada.”

“She lives here?”

“At the boardinghouse.”

“So why the postcard? Why can’t you just say what you have to say to this Hadley dame and save yourself the two-cent stamp?”

“I’ve been down that road.” Frank will most likely never see this guy again, so there’s no point in telling him about the trip to Memphis, the fight that set him and Vada back. About Lila. “It’s better this way. So will you do it?”

“Sure.” The man puts the card in the pocket of his expensive-looking suit. “
Buddy.
”

He nods good-bye at Frank as one of the truckers calls out a tired old riddle to Tiny.

“What’s the difference between a Peterbilt truck and a porcupine?” She gives the insurance guy a good-bye wink and sashays back to the kitchen. “That’s easy. The prick’s on the inside of the truck.”