Queen of Broken Hearts (50 page)

I checked a message I'd ignored earlier. Haley's voice was upbeat, with no way of knowing how her message sent chills down my spine. “I didn't know Daddy was back! You must've told him that I had a surprise for him, because he came by the apartment earlier this morning. By the time I got to the door, though, he'd gone. First time he's ever been to see us, and he didn't even wait for me; can you believe it? I'll check back later to see when we can come over to tell him our news, okay, Mom?”

It was then that I realized I hadn't mentioned Haley and her news to Mack, I'd been so distraught. Oh, God—if only I'd told him! Now I
had
to find him, to tell him to come back, and that I'd do anything to help him. I would tell him that together, we'd beat this. He had a reason now, and he could do it, I knew he could. He'd been right this morning: This time it would be different. He'd been given another chance to make things right.

I had to find Mack, but I didn't know the woods. With a sense of urgency, I tore through his desk looking for Son's cell number, throwing papers everywhere. If only Son and I hadn't had this animosity between us, I'd have had his number and wouldn't have to waste valuable time looking for it. But I'd never written it down, being too stubborn to admit there might come a time when I'd need either Son or his private number. Unable to find it, I almost collapsed to the chair in frustration until it hit me—of course! Rye could find him. Rye probably had Son's number, but if he didn't, he knew the woods. He wasn't a hunter, but unlike me, he knew the lay of the land.

I hadn't even realized I was praying silently until Rye answered and I let out a cry of relief. “Mack left early this morning to go hunting, Rye,” I said breathlessly, “and he's not back. I was wondering if you might find him.”

Unlike Son, who'd never acknowledged Mack's alcoholism, Rye knew everything. The first thing he said was, “Was he sober?”

I hesitated, and in that moment I knew that I would never tell Rye or anyone else. We'd find Mack, and he'd come home to Haley's wonderful news, and the two of us would make things work. I'd help him, and he'd get well, and no one would ever need to know about the terrible scene this morning. There was no reason for Rye or anyone to know that Mack had begged me to help him and I'd sent him away instead.

“Oh, no, he was fine,” I heard myself telling Rye. “It's just that Haley's coming over to share some good news with her dad, and he promised to be here for her visit. He must've lost track of time.”

With a chuckle, Rye said, “Oh, you mean she hasn't told Mack she's pregnant yet? He's probably the only person in Fairhope who doesn't know.” He added that Mack hadn't gone hunting with Son, because he'd seen Son in town just a little while ago. But he had Son's phone number and would call him. The two of them would go looking for Mack, and they'd make sure he got home before Haley got there.

After I hung up the phone, I paced from one room to another, unable to stay still. The afternoon dragged on, and the sun set, but no word from Mack, Son, or Rye. I let two cups of tea go cold before forcing myself to stay in the kitchen long enough to prepare a fresh pot, and then my hands were shaking so badly, I sloshed the scalding tea on the front of my sweatshirt. It was after I'd gone upstairs to change out of the wet shirt that I looked out the window and saw Son's red pickup stopping in front of the house. Running and stumbling down the stairs, I flung open the door to see Son and Rye getting out of the truck as a patrol car, blue light flashing, pulled into the space behind them.

Son made it around the truck, but on seeing me in the doorway, he staggered and collapsed against the hood, his arms closing over his head. Rye's face was ashen, terrible, frozen in shock, and he moved toward me on unsteady legs. But I held up my hands to stop him, as though stopping him meant I wouldn't have to hear what he had come to tell me. I covered my ears with my hands as though shutting out the sound of my sobs would keep me from hearing them in my dreams, night after lonely night to come.

As I knew they would, the preparations for the first retreat at Wayfarer's Landing begin to take up my every spare moment. It's on us before I realize it. It seems like one day it was the first of March, and I was at the Landing with Zach and Abbie. The next, we're nearing the end of the month, and the spring equinox is only a few days away. The White Rings are in a flurry of activity; Dory and Etta are putting in extra hours, and it's full steam ahead. To say that I'm working to keep my excitement under control is an understatement. I feel like tap-dancing down the main boulevard of Fairhope.

In spite of my schedule and the excitement of the first retreat, there's one thing I must find time to do. I keep putting it off, making excuses to myself. I pick up the phone half a dozen times, but before I can dial the number, I hang up, bemused, wondering why I faltered. Who would have ever thought that making a phone call would be such a hard thing to do? It should be simple; all I have to do is take the receiver in hand, punch in a number, then say, “I'm calling to see what's going on with you. Could we talk?” I'm determined to make the call this very evening when I get home from the group meeting, regardless. Once I make up my mind, I'm surprised at how lighthearted I feel, my dread dissipating like a heavy cloud blown away by a wispy spring breeze.

This group meeting is the last one before the retreat, and most of the early-evening group, as well as my Saturday attendees, will be at the retreat. A few of them who have signed up aren't ready, however, and those I ask to speak with in private. In the past I dreaded doing so, taking them aside and suggesting they wait for the next scheduled retreat. My request is almost always met with resistance, in the form of either pleas, tears, or arguments, and I can understand their disappointment. Most of them have worked so hard at getting over the trauma of their breakup, and to be told they aren't ready for the next step can be a blow. But for the first time since I've been doing the retreats, my dreaded task is made easier. Because of Wayfarer's Landing, now they don't have to wait so long for the next one to come around.

Since it's the last meeting of the group, we wrap up earlier than usual. Before they leave, the women stand in the doorway and moan and groan before darting out one at a time. A storm is raging outside, and a torrent of rain comes down like a gauzy silver-white scrim against the dramatic backdrop of lightning flashes. After everyone leaves, I stand in the doorway, trying to decide if I should make a run for it or wait it out. I brought my car this morning after hearing the stormy weather report, even though I felt like a fool driving the few blocks. It doesn't take me but a minute to decide, and I raise my umbrella, even though it offers precious little shelter from such a downpour. What's an obstacle course when I need the comfort of my home so desperately? It's a purely physical thing, this yearning for hearth and home, I realize with a jolt of understanding as I splash my way to the car. Nothing else is quite as satisfying as a welcoming place after a long day of work. For me, it fills a need as elemental as hunger or thirst.

But when I park in front of my house, I don't go inside. Instead, I sit in the car and watch the wipers make half-moons on the windshield. The movement is mesmerizing, as is the muted swoosh of the raindrops being swept away, only to fill the half-circle again before the wiper can make its way back. It fascinates me the way my house disappears through a gray wash of rain, then reappears in the cleared space the wipers make. Through the blur, I picture the house as it was when I first saw it, run-down and neglected and empty. The gardens were an overgrown mess choked with weeds, and the windows of the house were dark and cold, years of grime blocking out the warmth of the sun. All it needed was someone to see it for what it could be, to see how it could be turned into a source of beauty and comfort. With the enthusiasm and optimism of youth, Mack and I had thrown ourselves into transforming it. Now it's such a proud old house, and I fill with love to see it standing tall and unassailable against the pounding rain and gusting wind. How many storms has it weathered, both inside and out?

I wonder—not for the first time—what happened, why everything we brought to the house was not enough. Many make it on much less than we had when we started out. Materially we were fortunate, but we also had an abundance of the other things that are the most important in starting a life together. We had a deep love for each other, and that never changed. In spite of his weakness, his fatal flaw, Mack was loyal and hardworking and loving and generous. Then why wasn't all that enough to save him? Why did he and I fail so miserably at the one thing that mattered most to us? It has tormented me since his death; it kept me awake all night last week; yet I'm no closer to understanding it now than I've ever been. All of us who loved Mack have our theory. Although Haley has never voiced it, she's hinted at hers, with no idea how deeply it stung me. Coming into our lives the way she did, she formed immediate and initial impressions that stayed with her. Her father was good-looking and funny and sweet-natured but weak-willed and inert, dependent on me. I was the strong, independent, take-charge one, according to Haley, and he never felt that I needed him. She can't know how wrong her assessment was. Maybe I wasn't able to show Mack, but my need for him was strong. In some ways, I was like the house. Mack had seen beneath the awkward, serious, unformed girl I'd been, just as he'd seen the potential of the house. What he saw in me was a young woman with big dreams and a determination to make them happen. Inexperienced and unseasoned, I needed someone like Mack to believe in me before I could believe in myself.

It hits me that I came to love Mack because he'd not only seen the person I could be; he made me see her, too. At that time in my life, I needed an advocate to help me realize I had as much right to dream as anyone else, and I found that champion in Mack. No wonder I loved him so passionately. If my need of him was what attracted him to me in the first place, it's not surprising that he felt empty and abandoned when he no longer felt needed. But are love and need really one, as the poet said? Or is that notion not only starry-eyed and romantic but dangerous as well?

A sob tears at my throat, and I put a hand over my mouth. Mack's faith in me was the turning point in my life, yet I turned my back on him when he needed me most. No wonder I never allowed myself to go back to that day he died; my guilt would paralyze me if I dwelled on it. I've been able to go on with my life, and it appears I'm even on the verge of loving a man again, but one thing I know for sure: I'll never be able to forgive myself for what I did.

I'm startled out of my reverie by a sharp rap on the window of the car, and I hastily brush away my tears. As soon as I roll down the window a couple of inches, the rain-heavy wind rushes in with a howl of glee. In a hooded windbreaker, Lex stands outside my car, hunched against the downpour, as wet as if he had just climbed out of the sea. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouts over the sound of the pounding rain.

“
Me?
What about you, standing in the rain like a fool?”

“I was coming to see you.”

“That's pretty funny, because I was planning on calling you as soon as I got inside.” We blink at each other quizzically until I cry out, “Well, for heaven's sake, don't just stand there. Let's get out of this storm.”

Once we step inside the house, I make a dash to the downstairs bathroom to grab an armful of towels, leaving a trail of rainwater behind me. “Don't move until I get back,” I call over my shoulder, and Lex waits obediently on the slate floor of the entranceway, trying to shake off the water like a wet dog as he stamps his soggy-booted feet. Even though he's removed his dripping windbreaker and hung it on a peg behind the door, I come out of the bathroom to find him standing in a puddle. Laughing, I throw him a towel, and he catches it in midair. “In like a lion, out like a lamb,” I say.

“Who, me?” His teeth are a flash of white against the weathered darkness of his skin, and he grins before burying his face in the towel.

I take one of the towels draped over my arm and pat my face with it. “Hmm. Not totally inappropriate for you. Except for the lamb part.”

“Come here,” he says, motioning. Taking the towel from me, he dries my hair, one hand gripping the back of my neck. As he makes an awkward attempt to finger-comb my hair into place, I watch him, searching his scowling face. “Stop looking at me like that, goddammit,” he snaps, avoiding my eyes.

“Like what?” I say with a smile.

Dropping the wet towel on the floor, he halfheartedly mops at the puddle with a booted foot. “Like you accused me of last time I was here,” he mutters finally.

When I laugh lightly, Lex says, “Why were you going to call me?”

“Ah … why were you coming to see me?” I counter.

“I asked first.”

“Yeah, but in the South a gentleman always concedes to a lady, Yankee man.”

“I was coming to tell you something.” His green eyes, opaque and unreadable, still are reluctant to meet mine.

“Then tell it, brother.”

“I told Elinor to get the hell out of my life,” he blurts out, and I gasp, raising a hand to my mouth.

“You
didn't
! When?”

“Right before I came over here. I told her I was sick of playing her stupid mind games, and I'd finally come to the conclusion that our getting back together wasn't the best thing for either of us.”