Queen of Broken Hearts (22 page)

“Haven't eaten anything all day, have you?” Lex is halfway through his, and I look at the remaining half longingly. Rolling his eyes, he breaks off a huge piece and hands it to me. I devour it, too hungry to be ladylike. “Slow down,” Lex scolds. “I made a blueberry pie, too. A true taste-of-Maine supper.”

“You did not!”

Laughing, he pushes back his chair and goes to the counter, where he opens a bakery box. “Naw, I bought the pie. The blueberries you guys have down here aren't worth a damn. They're big as baseballs.”

“What does that mean? The bigger the better, right?”

“Pure Southern propaganda. You'll see after you've had Maine blueberries. Tiny little turds, but man, are they sweet. We'll have to wait till next August now, but I'll order some wild ones from Bar Harbor and make you a
real
pie.”

“Better be careful,” I say with a smile. “You'll spoil me. I could get used to this.” As soon as the words are out, I reach for my wineglass, wishing I could take them back. I've worked so hard to maintain a platonic relationship, then to make a crack like that! I dare to glance sideways at Lex, relieved that he didn't notice, so intent was he on putting two slices of pie in the microwave and punching in the time. While the pie is heating, he spoons decaf into my coffeemaker nonchalantly.

“Shall we have our little discussion here at the table while you eat your pie, or do you want to go into the den and put up your feet?” I ask when he pours our coffee.

Eyebrows raised, he glances at me as he pulls out his chair and sits down. “What discussion?” he asks, trying to appear innocent.

“You know what discussion. The one I invited you over to have.”

“I knew there was a catch,” he says with a shake of his head. “Always strings attached to your invitations.”

“Lex! You promised. I called and asked if you wanted to talk about your evening with Elinor at Mateer's the other night. And you said no, not over the phone. So I said come to dinner, then.”

“You misunderstood me. You thought my saying ‘not over the phone' implied I would talk face-to-face instead.”

“Well, of course I did, idiot. Anyone would.”

“Doesn't count, because I had to cook my own dinner,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. “Since I had to cook, I don't have to talk.”

“Oh, no, you don't. It doesn't work that way, mister. Tell it.”

But Lex shakes his dark head again, then says casually, “There's nothing to tell. Just Elinor's usual crap. One day she's all lovey-dovey, and the next time I see her, she's remote and cold again. Been that way our entire relationship.” He stops to glare at me defiantly. “And I'm not going to talk about it, you hear?”

“But you
need
to,” I cry, leaning toward him. “Elinor's trying to get you back, isn't she?” When he shrugs, refusing to look at me as he eats his slice of pie, I smile wearily. “Must be something in the air. First Son and Dory, now you and Elinor.”

“Elinor didn't say anything about us getting back together,” he says gruffly. “She just wants us to be on friendlier terms, doesn't want me acting like a jerk and upsetting Alexia. You know. I've told you all that.”

“And how do you feel about it?”

Lex lays down his fork to glare at me. “Do you people have that phrase engraved on the front lobe of your brain? You must say it in your sleep.”

I return his glare, but he switches gears on me. “You want to hear all about Elinor,” he says, “yet you never say anything about your so-called friend, pretty boy.”

“I assume you mean Rye.”

“I mean that cousin of yours who has the hots for you.”

“Jesus, Lex! You know how to play dirty, don't you? I've told you, he's not
my
cousin, he's Mack's. You don't really think Southerners are like that, do you?” I ignore his look and say suspiciously, “And what's this about? You've known from day one that he and I are close and see a lot of each other. Why ask me about him now?”

Ignoring my question, Lex frowns at me. “How old is that guy, anyway? Too old for you, that's for sure.”

“He most certainly is not. That's ridiculous.”

“How old is he, Clare?”

“Ah … he's sixty-two,” I admit, “but you'd never know it. He's in great shape.”

“Must be all that dancing you guys do,” he grumbles.

“You've never offered to take me dancing! And I've said many times that it's something I really enjoy, the best stress reliever in my life. But I can hardly go dancing by myself, so Rye and I have been doing it for years.” Flushing, I hastily add, “Dancing, that is.”

Lex looks shocked. “For
years?
What about your old man? He actually allowed you to go out with other guys? Alabama men are wimpier than I thought.”

I sigh mightily and shake my head. “I'm not believing we're having this conversation. After our wedding dance at the reception, Mack never danced another step. He hated it as bad as you seem to. So he was delighted that I had Rye to dance with.” I don't dare tell Lex about Mack's teasing; I've got sense enough to know that he'd be even worse. Instead, I repeat, “You still haven't told me why you're asking about Rye.”

“When I first got here, he called, and I answered your phone. I talked to him.”

With a sigh, I put my face in my hands. “Not again! Poor Rye.”

“He was checking to see if you had a retreat this weekend, or if you wanted to go to some dance with him Saturday night.”

“I'm afraid to ask what you told him.”

“All I told him was that you were taking a little nap while I prepared dinner.”

“A nap! Ha. Rye knows me better than that.”

Eyes gleaming wickedly, Lex grins, enjoying this. “I said I could go upstairs and wake you if he'd hold on, but I'd rather not. I implied we'd worn ourselves out since you got in from work.”

“Lex, that's
awful.
Surely you didn't say that. You're teasing, aren't you? Please tell me you're teasing.”

“Call and ask him. I'll bring you the phone.”

“I'm afraid to. I don't believe you, but you're such a crazy fool, I never know when you're kidding. Tell me the truth—you didn't really do that to Rye, did you?”

He looks at me a long moment before shaking his head ruefully. “Of course I'm having you on. You don't think I'd talk to a poor elderly cousin of yours like that, do you? Jeez! What kind of person do you think I am?”

I met Lex Yarbrough the first of the summer, the magical night of his first Jubilee. In our area, Jubilees are more than a strange phenomenon of nature; they are a celebration of life on Mobile Bay. When you're new to this region, you hear so many stories and legends associated with Jubilee that it becomes a must-have experience. My first summer in Fairhope, right after Mack and I married, I thrilled just to hear the word. Mack and Son had talked about Jubilees as though the Almighty sent them as a special sign of His favor to those smart enough to live on the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay. I questioned this by asking if Buddha felt the same way about the folks at the only other place in the world Jubilees occurred, somewhere in Japan. Naturally Dory thought the Jubilees were mystical experiences full of symbolic interpretations, but she teased Son and Mack as well, asking why, if the people here were in such good favor with the Almighty, the fish didn't wash up on the shore already cleaned. Although a lot of hard work and missed sleep is involved with Jubilees, nothing has ever dampened my enthusiasm for them. I'd worked myself into such a state of anticipation that my first one was almost a holy experience. Even today, all these years later, I can't resist the Jubilee cry that goes up and down the shore whenever one occurs.

I have my own personal bell ringer, Zoe Catherine. The first night of June brought with it a full moon, and Zoe Catherine called me right after midnight, startling me out of a deep sleep. It took me a minute to realize she was saying that Jubilee Joe had appeared to Cooter, and that she and Cooter were getting dressed to leave. If I wanted to take part, I should meet them at the beach about half a mile north of the marina.

“Now lemme speak to Rye,” she demanded. Unlike Haley and Austin, Zoe doesn't tease me about Rye, but she refuses to believe that we aren't lovers. A lusty woman who has had more than her share of men, Zoe finds my avowed abstinence incomprehensible. That night I told her that as far as I knew, Rye was at home in his own bed, and she cackled before hanging up abruptly.

Rye, too, loved Jubilees, but only as an excuse to socialize. A lot of people hauled beer or snacks to the shore, but not the ever elegant Rye Ballenger. He was a popular addition to the festivities because while everyone else was gigging fish, Rye was making runs back and forth to his antique-filled waterfront house, making sure his friends didn't run out of his special mixture of Southern Comfort, crushed mint leaves, and sugar. The longer the Jubilee went on, the more smashed Rye and his high-society friends got.

I almost didn't go that night. There again, the mysterious workings of fate, if you believe in that kind of thing. Although I tried to make myself get up, I kept dozing off. It was one of the few weekends I didn't have a retreat, and I'd planned to take some much needed time off. The phone rang again, and this time it was Rye, as excited as a boy after Zoe's call. “You cannot miss a Jubilee, Clare!” he declared, horrified. The old guard and aristocrats of the town took offense at anyone not genuflecting at the mere mention of Jubilee; anything less was a sacrilege. “It might be the only one we have this summer,” he added for good measure. “I'm mixing juleps as we speak.” I told him I'd think about it, hung up the phone, then dozed off again. When he called back fifteen minutes later, I said all right, all right, I was on my way.

Even though the Jubilee cry hadn't gone out yet, a fairly large crowd was gathered on the shore when I left my car at the marina and walked to the place Zoe had said she'd be. Because I couldn't bear to gig fish, I carried only a net and sack with me. I'd left a cooler in the car, not wanting to tote it, and my flashlight was on a cord hanging from my wrist. Although only a light breeze blew over the bay, it was chilly, and I was glad I'd worn a hooded pullover with my jeans. Mack always waded barefoot in the waters of the bay when we had Jubilees, as most people did, but I'd learned long ago to wear sneakers. Even though I liked nothing better than going barefoot in warm salty water, Jubilees always brought tons of seaweed, and I hated the way it felt whipping around my feet and legs. I wasn't real fond of the jellyfish and stingrays that came ashore, either.

I didn't see Zoe Catherine and Cooter Poulette among those gathered on the shore, but Rye was easy to spot, with his fair hair gleaming silver in the full moon. Because he was so well known and beloved in town, Rye was usually in the center of things, and tonight he stood in front of a small fire as its flames danced in the breeze. On a Jubilee night, all up and down the shore would be little bonfires with clusters of folks huddled around them, warming themselves from the cold wind.

When Rye spotted me, he waved with enthusiasm, and I greeted those gathered around him holding their paper cups of his juleps, the friends and neighbors I'd shared similar nights with over the years. One of the main things I loved about these occasions was the carnival atmosphere, the hushed expectancy and camaraderie. We were all neighbors then, and people who didn't even know one another shared stories of past Jubilees as well as their coolers, sandwiches, and drinks.

“Clare, darling,” Rye cried, eyes bright as he tossed me his car keys, “be an angel and run to my car and fetch the other container of juleps, would you?”

I stood frozen for a moment, and Rye looked at me oddly until I shook it off, grinned heartily, and replied, “You bet!” before turning to go. He had no way of knowing that for a heart-stopping moment, in the cold light of the moon, he looked enough like Mack to stop me in my tracks. It was a trick of the moonlight; as soon as he turned, the spell was broken, but it shook me to the core. Lugging the half-gallon jug of juleps, ice clanking with every step I took, I decided that if I had any sense, I'd avoid Rye when I returned. Because another unsettling incident had occurred between us recently, I was already uneasy in his presence, disturbed about some confusing feelings I'd been experiencing with him.

After delivering the juleps, I hurried off to look for Zoe Catherine and Cooter before Rye could stop me, since he was trying to insist I stay with him and his friends. Like Rye, Zoe and Cooter were easy to spot, but for different reasons. If you got within a hundred yards and weren't deaf as a post, you could hear them. As two of the old-timers, Cooter and Zoe Catherine always tried to outdo each other telling Jubilee stories. Plus, both had hearing problems, which caused them to yell louder and louder. Zoe was seventy, but Cooter had a couple of years on her, and therefore more stories, which infuriated her. Not only that, Cooter had been raised in Daphne, a town a few miles up the bay that was nicknamed “Jubilee Town.” Cooter thought that gave him some leverage over Zoe as chief storyteller, but he had to talk fast to outdo her. I spotted them in front of one of the many piers dotting the shoreline, and sure enough, they were in the center of a group and talking nonstop, each ignoring the interruptions of the other.