Queen of Broken Hearts (5 page)

“Yeah, but that was before I realized how much you lust after my body.” He closes his eyes and turns his face to the sun. “I saw you looking at me when the nurses put me in that skimpy hospital gown.” He opens one eye to leer at me. “Got a glimpse of something that changed the way you feel about me, didn't you?”

“Oh, please.” I laugh, scampering across the flagstones to the back porch. “You wish.”

“Hey, bring the binoculars when you come back, okay?”

I stop suddenly and raise my voice so he can hear me over the sound of the sprinklers. “Lex? Seriously now, you sure you feel up to going? You don't have to, you know.”

In spite of our bantering, it's hard to keep my voice light, but my anxiety is far from unwarranted. The weekend before last, when Lex didn't show up for our first scheduled meeting with George Johnson, I went to his office at the marina and found him slumped over and clutching his chest, pale and gasping for breath. He was furious at me for calling 911, but the emergency crew said if I'd waited a few more minutes, he might not have survived. Getting him to the hospital so quickly allowed them to insert a stent before a full-fledged heart attack did irreparable damage. Since then I haven't hesitated to remind him that I saved his sorry life.

“I'm dying to go. Naw, that was last time. Hurry up with those binoculars, would you?” He points a finger toward the herb garden. “One of those ruby-throated hummingbirds in the pineapple sage.”

I go into the house, shaking my head at Lex's relentless foolishness. He's such a crazy man that when we first met, I stayed confused, not sure how to take him. I later admitted to him that I had the absurd notion Yankee men were humorless, unlike the rowdy Southern boys I was raised with. His being a native of Maine only made it worse, because I pictured people from Maine as particularly austere and dour. Since relocating to Fairhope, Lex has become yet another of our many colorful characters, a distinction earned with his “Men of Maine” story. That story has become his trademark, so folks here refer to him as the Man of Maine. When he first moved to town, he told everyone about his great-great-grandfather, a survivor of one of the most famous battles of Gettysburg, where the legendary Men of Maine, a ragtag regiment of lumberjacks and fishermen, defeated the mighty 15th Alabama, a much more highly trained and skilled regiment. Although I recalled the battle from my American history class, I questioned Lex's great-great-whatever being in it until he showed me the documentation. He goes around declaring that the Men of Maine could still beat the wimps of Alabama, over 140 years later. The first time I went with Lex to a local waterfront bar for a beer, he threw open the door and shouted, “Rednecks of Alabama, the Men of Maine have arrived!” I was petrified, imagining a brawl, until the patrons raised their beers in a salute, laughing. The locals love getting Lex to tell the Gettysburg story, cheering when they hear how the 15th Alabama, though defeated in the end, fought the 20th Maine until the last gray-clothed soldier was down.

After changing into a loose T-shirt and cropped pants, I pick up the binoculars and start toward the back porch. On the kitchen counter, I see the photograph I'd put by the door so I wouldn't forget to take it to Zoe Catherine, and I pick it up and carry it outside to show Lex. The first time he came to my house, he picked up photos of my family members and studied them, asking who was who. When he came across an old picture of my brother and me together, arm in arm, he asked if the man in the photograph was my former husband. I'm not sure which of us was more surprised when I said in a choked-up voice, “No. I still can't bear to have pictures of Mack around.” To cover my embarrassment, I moved quickly to show him the most recent pictures of Haley's children, Abbie in a pink tutu at her dance recital, baby Zach taking his first steps.

Outside, Lex is standing for a closer look at the hummingbird, and he takes the binoculars out of my hand. “You and Zoe Catherine are going to become big buddies,” I say as he adjusts the viewer, squinting. “The Bird Lady and the Man of Maine.”

During his recovery from the heart attack, Lex took up not only gardening but also bird-watching. Restless and unable to go back to work, he reluctantly followed my suggestion to use my backyard gardens as part of his healing process, rather than spending his days holed up in his small quarters above the marina. It was there that he began to notice the many varieties of birds drawn to my feeders and birdbaths, and started jotting down observations about their habits. One night last week, he stopped by after attending a meeting of the Audubon Society. The program was about shorebirds, he told me, eyes bright with excitement. A guy from the Weeks Bay Reserve showed slides.

“Did you know that the male oystercatcher bows his head to the female oystercatcher as part of the mating ritual? Lots of birds do mating dances to attract females,” he said, then added, “maybe I ought to try it.” Lex couldn't believe how much I knew about birds until I explained it was due to Zoe Catherine. For years she has rescued injured birds that aren't able to return to their habitat and kept them in the shelter she founded at the Landing.

“All species of cranes do mating dances,” I told him. “Some of them pick up a feather or twig while dancing and throw it in the air to impress a prospective mate.”

“Hey, they've got a covered-dish supper next week,” Lex said. “Want to go? The Audubon Society is furnishing the main dish—roasted ivory-billed woodpecker in cream sauce—and we're bringing the rest.”

I couldn't make it because I was too far behind with my paperwork, I replied, realizing too late that I'd hit a sore subject with Lex. I'd gotten behind by helping him during his recovery, and it had caused somewhat of a strain between us. Like most men, he'd been a difficult patient, cranky and embarrassed and ungraciously insisting that he didn't need or want my help.

Lowering the binoculars now, Lex asks, “Time to go?”

I look down at my watch. “Yep. Can't wait for you to be out there at sunset. It's a sight you'll never forget.”

“I've seen plenty of sunsets,” he says as he puts the caps back on the lenses.

“Not like this, you haven't,” I reply with a knowing smile. “I can promise you that. Oh, wait—let me show you this picture first. Remember the time you came to the house and I said I'd packed up all the photos of my former husband? Well, looks like I was wrong. Last night I moved a stack of books and found one.”

I hold up the photograph as Lex pats both pockets of his jeans until he locates his reading glasses. He frowns in concentration, studying the picture, then peers at me over the top of the rims. “Hmm. When was this taken?”

I shrug. “I'm not sure of the exact date, but it's Christmas several years ago. And I'm pretty sure we're at the yacht club. One of Fairhope's many holiday parties, is all I can tell. You'll see—you'll be invited to a dozen this year, now that you're eligible. Lots of single women need dinner partners.”

In the snapshot, Zoe Catherine and I, our heads thrown back in laughter, hold flutes of champagne in our hands, and we're dressed in seasonal finery, bejeweled and sparkling. I wonder what happened to that beaded green jacket, the one I wore to every Christmas party for years. Must have finally worn it out. I remember those unusual earrings of Zoe's: folk art, long dangling Santas of hand-carved wood, very Zoe. Bright-eyed, she looks festive with her shoulders draped in a claret-colored shawl, her startling white hair pinned up and glowing in the light of the holiday candles. Zoe Catherine hardly ever attends Fairhope parties; it's her presence that makes me recall the occasion. Hosted by Dory, the party had doubled as a fund-raiser for Zoe's bird sanctuary.

Haley stands next to us, but it's not an especially good picture of her. Her eyes are half closed, the camera having caught her at the wrong moment, as cameras have a way of doing. In spite of that, she still looks like the princess in a fairy tale, with her pale blond hair falling over her shoulders, pinned back from her face with sprigs of holly. It's obviously before the kids were born but after she and Austin married, even though he's not with us. As young as Haley looks now, at age thirty, she looks shockingly young in the photo, almost like a child. I wonder why Austin isn't in the picture, then realize he's most likely the one taking it. Every family get-together, Austin has a new camera, it seems. He's one of those men enamored with gadgets, always tinkering with the latest one.

Lex glances at me curiously as he points to the photo. “That's got to be Mack.” I nod as my throat tightens. In the picture, Mack, too, is smiling, a glass of champagne in hand, slouching slightly. He's standing next to us, the women of his life, but also apart, a couple of steps away. Always apart. Funny, when I found the photo, I didn't notice how it captured so many things about Mack. For one thing, it's beautiful, as he was. Not many pictures ever caught that dreamy, faraway look of his, a look that set him apart from any man I've ever known, before or since. It's a fairly dark photo, taken at night in a room lit by candles, and each of us is illuminated by the yellow flash of the camera in a strange sort of way. It makes us look ghostly, unreal, frozen in the moment. It's as though I'm looking at people who lived years ago, people I don't know, long dead. It's a ridiculous and fanciful notion; except for Mack, we are all here, the same as we were when the picture was taken. God, Mack looks so young!

“Jeez, Mack looks younger than I expected,” Lex says, echoing my thoughts. “How old was he?”

“In the photo? Or when he died?” Without waiting for an answer, I blurt out, “He died a few days before his forty-sixth birthday.” With trembling hands, I take the photo from Lex. “Funny, Mack once said he hoped he'd die young. He said he wasn't sure he could face old age.”

“No kidding.” I can tell that shocks Lex, a fairly unshockable man. He's a few years older than Mack would have been, having had his fifty-fifth birthday this year. He's told me often that he likes being in his fifties, that he hated the insecurities of youth and the uncertainties of middle-aged angst.

Feeling Lex's curious eyes on me, I say “What?” somewhat testily.

“Couldn't face old age? Sounds kind of wimpy, you ask me.”

I don't know why I feel a need to defend Mack, but I say that of course it's more complicated than it sounds. Mack was a complex man, I tell him, with a host of issues.

“Issues.” Lex snorts. “God, I hate that word. It's so self-indulgent.” Putting his glasses back on, he reaches for the photo again, lifting it high for another look. “I've heard folks say that Mack Ballenger was a good-looking fellow, but I can't judge other men. Tell me the truth, now—don't worry about hurting my feelings—he couldn't hold a candle to yours truly, could he?”

“Not even in the same league,” I say dryly.

“Naw, it's obvious what you women would like about him.” He squints, pulling the photo closer. “In addition to those Robert Redford looks, he has that other thing women go for.”

“I cannot
wait
to hear this.”

“He has sort of … you know … a faggy look about him.”

I can't help myself. I laugh in spite of the lump that's forming in my throat. “No one ever said
that
about Mack.”

Lex frowns and scratches his head. “Okay, not faggy, exactly. More—Aw, hell, what's the word?”

“Sensitive? You're trying to say ‘sensitive,' aren't you, a word that's not even in your vocabulary?”

“Yeah, that's it! Sensitive. Mack looks like the kind of guy women go for because he'd always be telling them how pretty they are and stuff. Right?”

“Actually, you're onto something. Mack could be quite a charmer.”

“Someone just the other day told me that Mack was a star pitcher at Bama and had started a pro career when he threw his shoulder out.”

“He had trouble with that shoulder until the day he …” I stop to clear my throat. “Right up until he died. The funny thing is, baseball wasn't his passion, really. Most men would've been devastated by an injury that ended a promising sports career. But as long as it didn't keep Mack from fishing or hunting, it didn't seem to bother him that much.”

I catch myself, realizing what I just said, and I look at Lex helplessly. I've told him all about it, so he knows what I'm thinking. It was almost five years ago, the day Mack drove his truck to a remote cove near the bay and got out with his rifle in hand to go hunting in the nearby swamp, as he did so many times during our marriage. Something went terribly wrong that day, though none of us will ever know exactly what it was. Although an expert hunter, Mack tripped over a tangle of vines and the gun went off, killing him instantly. Or so the coroner assured me later, when I almost went crazy imagining him lying there as his life ebbed away those long hours before Son and Rye found him.

“Well!” I say briskly. “Enough happy memories for one day.”

Lex raises an eyebrow when I put the photograph in the pocket of my pants. “You taking that with you?”

“I'd planned on giving it to Zoe Catherine.” At his obvious surprise, I have a moment of uncertainty. In trying to put my life back together after Mack's accident, I'd boxed up every memento and locked all of them away, but not before asking the other family members what they wanted. At the time, no one could bear to look at any of them, especially not Haley, our only child, and both she and Zoe were satisfied to leave them in my attic. But for some reason, when I found the photo last night, I'd decided to take it to Zoe Catherine when we went to the Landing today. I look at Lex. “You don't think I should, do you?”