Queen of Broken Hearts (14 page)

Etta comes to stand in the doorway, mouth set in a firm line and eyes flashing with fury as she glares at Son. “Police on the way,” she announces. To me she whispers tersely, “Sorry he slipped past me. I thought he'd left.”

“You can call the police all you want to, Etta,” Son says, glancing her way, “and they can drag me away, but I'll be back.” He turns from Etta to me. “I'll come here, or I'll come to your house—Mack's house, I should say—until you hear me out.”

“Then you better get a restraining order when the police get here,” Etta says, standing with her arms folded across her chest as she blocks the doorway. If Son decides to make a run for it before the police arrive, he'll have to get past her. Towering several inches over my five-foot-three frame, Etta is a formidable African-American woman built as solid as a tree trunk. Today she wears one of her flowing batik shifts in a startling pattern of yellow, green, and black with a matching scarf wrapped like a turban around her head, which makes her appear even taller. Although Son keeps himself in good shape, Etta would be the last person I'd want to push out of my way, if I were him.

I have to make a snap decision before the police get here. I cut my eyes from Etta to Son to Helen Murray before taking a step forward to address Etta.

“Would you call the police back and tell them not to come, that I have the situation under control?” Etta opens her mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand. “And could you show Mr. Rodgers into my office? He'll wait there until this session is finished.” Without glancing Son's way, I add, “At that time I'll give him five minutes to explain himself.”

I've called Son's bluff, and he hesitates as he returns my stare. Finally he shrugs elaborately, and instead of waiting for Etta to escort him, he stomps out of the room and heads down the hall toward my office, yanking the door open.

I lean in close and say quietly to Etta, “Check on him. Make sure the door stays open, okay?”

“I'm not sure this is a good idea,” Etta mutters. I know she wants to say more but won't in front of a client. She hesitates before leaving but at last turns and follows Son to my office. She let him fool her once; he won't pull anything on her again, if I know Etta.

After I finish the session and Helen Murray leaves, more composed now in spite of the disturbance, I take a deep breath and walk down the hall to my office, wondering if Son stayed after all. The answer's obvious when I see Etta standing guard outside the door. I suppress a smile. She's not happy about my seeing Son, I can tell, but she leaves without protest. Taking a deep breath, I go into my office, where Son is pacing the floor.

As soon as I enter, he walks over without a word and slams the door shut. I experience a slight shiver of fear but brush it off. I am not afraid of him. He's dramatic and volatile and impulsive, but he's not dangerous. In spite of his display of anger, I know Son too well to think he'd harm me. He's never touched Dory or the kids; if anything, it's the other way around. A couple of times Dory's gotten so frustrated with him that she's lost her cool, rare for her. Once she clobbered him with a hard loaf of French bread, swinging it like a baseball bat. And we still laugh about the time she flung a book at him and almost knocked him out, because it was her book on Zen meditation that he'd made fun of once too often. On neither occasion did he fight back or go after her. Although Son and I have always clashed, we go too far back for me to fear him.

I fold my arms and say, “All right, Son. You have exactly five minutes to tell me what's going on with Dory.”

My calmness seems to infuriate him even more. “You think you're hot shit, don't you?” Again the sneer on his face, the blue blaze of his eyes. “You think you've got
all
the answers.”

“Yeah, I do. Now that we've established that, let me repeat myself: You've got five minutes to tell me why you're acting like a bigger fool than usual. You come bursting in like a maniac; you scare one of my clients; then you almost get arrested by the police or punched out by Etta. Whom I wouldn't mess with if I were you, by the way. You'll be lucky if she lets you leave here without knocking your block off. She takes pride in protecting me and my clients, and she's not happy that you slipped past her.”

Son waves his hand in the air as though brushing aside a buzzing fly. “Etta Young knows where her bread is buttered. I'm the one who got R.J. his job at the Ford dealership, in case you've forgotten. She won't push me too far.”

“What an important man you are,
Andrew.
” It's an old barb, and I experience a surge of satisfaction when he flushes. As a child, Andrew Jackson Rodgers, Jr., was nicknamed Son by his indulgent family. But I've always teased him, saying he couldn't have a better namesake than the ruthless Andrew Jackson, who's known in these parts for his heartless treatment and displacement of the area's Native American tribes.

As we glare at each other, it hits me that I've fallen back into an old pattern established by Son and me soon after I married Mack. I'm most likely the only female Son Rodgers hasn't been able to win over by soulful looks from those soft blue eyes, or to charm with his winsome boyishness. His family's position in this state, his wealth and privilege, his shocking good looks and smooth charm, all those things have always bought him everything he's ever wanted, won over everyone he's encountered, including Dory. That I'm not impressed has always bewildered him. A man used to being fawned over by women, Son is both puzzled and threatened when he encounters anyone who's indifferent to his charms. Our mutual animosity comes out in different ways, hidden in various guises, but it's always present. This time it's about Dory. Or maybe, I realize with a shock of understanding, it always has been. Either Dory or Mack, whom both of us loved, and neither wanted the other to have.

“I've got no argument with Etta,” Son snaps impatiently. “My beef is with you.”

“Then spit it out. Before you do, please know that normally I'd never reward such preposterous behavior. The only reason I'm hearing you out instead of having the police haul you off—”

He interrupts, pretending to wring his hands in fear. “Yeah, right, I'm shaking in my boots. In case you've forgotten, the sheriff is married to a cousin of mine. One of his deputies played baseball with Mack at Bama, and the other lives in one of my houses rent-free. My contribution to law and order in our lovely city.”

Ignoring his interruption, I continue, raising my voice. “The only reason I'm doing this is for Dory. I have no doubt you've got the whole police department in your pocket, Mr. Big Shot, but they'd have no choice except to haul you out of here, regardless of who you are. As much as I'd love to see you embarrassed—and God, how I'd love it!—you've put Dory through enough. More than enough. And you pulled one over on me, didn't you? You said that about her having another breakdown because it was a sure way to make me hear you out.”

“Of course, Clare. Whatever you say, Clare. You're always right, aren't you, Clare?” When I start toward the door to open it and push him out if I have to, he stops me. “Wait! I wasn't lying about Dory. She got all upset after seeing you Saturday, and that night she had another of those crying episodes. Okay, maybe it wasn't a breakdown, but it still scared me. Strange, isn't it, that everything was going great until she saw
you,
and now she's upset and confused again?”

“I'm sorry to hear about her having a bad time. But to say
I'm
the one who upset her is ludicrous, as you well know—”

“She was so happy on our trip, and doing so well! She comes back here
one
time, and she's all torn up again.” He waves his hands high, and I take a step backward. “You claim you want the best for her. Huh! That's a bunch of crap. Being with me is what's best for her. She was so miserable when we separated that she went to pieces.”

“No. She went to pieces because of all the trauma you'd put her through previous to that. Tell me the real reason you and Dory separated. I want to hear you say it.”

To my surprise, both guilt and sorrow cloud Son's expression, but he quickly recovers. “I admit that I behaved like an idiot last year. I thought it'd finally be just me and Dory, and I didn't handle it well when she had a different idea of how she'd spend her time.”

“That's putting it mildly. You were constantly in her face, demanding her attention and pouting when you didn't get it. You made last year a nightmare for her.”

“All right, I'll admit it. I acted the fool, and I drank too much. Is that what you want to hear? Do you feel better now?”

“Acted the fool and drank too much?” I echo in disbelief. “What's missing? What part of the story are you leaving out?”

He says in a petulant voice, “You know damn well what it is. You just want me to say it, don't you? It's what I did to her workshop, okay? It was wrong of me, but I can't undo it now. I did all I could to make it up to her. I apologized, I sent her notes and flowers and—”

“Ha. Ironic that you'd send flowers to make up for trashing the workshop where Dory works on her garden stuff, isn't it?”

Son hangs his head and shuffles his feet before saying softly, “I was a goddamn idiot to touch that place, as much as she loves it, and I still don't know what made me do it. Sure, I was drunk, but I've been drunk plenty of times and never done anything like that. I'll regret it till the day I die.”

I study him. This remorse is the closest thing to humility that I've seen in Son, and it takes me a minute to process it. “At least you're no longer blaming it on being drunk. Drinking was no excuse for your despicable behavior, nor did it explain your going into a jealous rage. But you haven't admitted that part of it, have you? Have you asked yourself why you trashed Dory's workshop rather than, say, the gardens she spends so much time on? Why not take a weed-eater or sling blade to the plants and flowers she loves so much?” When he flushes darkly, I move in for the kill. “Wasn't it also about your jealousy of Rye?”

He shakes his head and snorts. “My jealousy of
Rye?
If that's your theory, it's beyond stupid.”

“Oh, really? It was a sheer coincidence, then, that you tore up her workshop the very night that Dory met with Rye about starting her business?”

Son's gaze is unwavering and cocksure. “You think I'm jealous of Rye Ballenger? Bullshit. Ever since we were kids, he's panted after Dory like a dog in heat.”

“How like you to put it so crudely. I'm sure you prefer not to remember that Rye fell in love with Dory that summer you spent at Bama, making up all the courses you failed by partying so much your freshman year.” I don't add that I suspect Rye's still in love with Dory, though he pretends otherwise. I've always thought he'd be quick to admit it if Son were out of the picture.

“Maybe so, but he sure hauled ass when she made it clear she preferred me to a wimp like him, didn't he?” Son says with disdain. “I'm not jealous of him or any other man, so you can forget that. But I've admitted to Dory that I was jealous of her time. I didn't want her starting a business, and I did everything I could to stop her.”

That admission is so much more than I expected that I'm quick to agree. “You certainly did.”

Son stares at me, long and hard. “I've made some mistakes this past year. Okay, I made a
lot
of mistakes, then my tantrum disgusted Dory so much that she threw me out. Is that what you want me to say? But Dory is willing to forgive me. She loves me in spite of my faults and always has. The problem is, she loves you, too. She values your opinion way the hell too much and always has. I've never thought it was good, the way she keeps running to you about everything.”

“I don't care what you think. Dory's my best friend, and any time she asks for my advice, I'll give it to her. If you don't like it, too bad. As for her well-being, these prolonged crying jags aren't good for her or anyone. They're brought on by too much stress.”

Although Son's anger has dissipated, his hostility hasn't, and he stares at me balefully. “If it hadn't been for Father Gibbs, it would've been even worse.”

“You called Father Gibbs?” I ask in surprise.

Son shakes his head as he runs his fingers through his curly hair. “Of course not. Father Gibbs came home with me after church yesterday to talk with us about the renewal ceremony.” He glances at me sideways, but I won't give him the satisfaction of reacting. “When Dory told Father Gibbs that she wanted you to stand up with her, like you did at our wedding—”

“And like she did at mine and Mack's,” I murmur.

He goes on as though I haven't spoken. Son rarely mentions Mack; he's never dealt with the shock and grief of Mack's tragic accident. “Dory told Father Gibbs that she didn't think you'd do it, and he said he'd talk to you.”

“That won't be necessary,” I snap. “I don't need him sticking his nose into something that's between me and Dory.”

Yet again Son continues as though he hasn't heard me. “Father Gibbs asked if he could talk with Dory alone, so I went out to play golf. When I got home, he'd helped her feel better, and they had made plans for the renewal ceremony, which was his suggestion in the first place.”