Tea and Primroses (23 page)

“And you were insecure and frightened.”

“Exactly. How is that a good combination for building a life together?”

“You tell me, Sutton. You seem to have all the answers.”

“I asked you for time and you couldn’t give it.”

“Wait a minute, now, haven’t you done the same thing to Roger? Didn’t you ask him for a little time to think?” He made quotes in the air. “Well, hell, I know what that means. You don’t love him enough to marry him, just like me. Does it ever get tiresome? Breaking men’s hearts because you’re too afraid to really commit to something? Are you ever going to commit to anything, Sutton, other than being afraid of your own shadow?”

“Screw you. You left because you didn’t get exactly what you wanted when you wanted it. Just admit it and then go back to Italy and continue to fuck your way across Europe.” She pointed at the door. “Get out.”

“With pleasure.” With that, he turned on his heel and left the room. She heard the front door slam several minutes later.

She paced for a moment or two, crying silently. Then, she did the only thing she could think to do. She picked up the manuscript to read more of her mother’s story.

W
INTER

On a Saturday morning just before New Year’s, I was working at the desk in the office upstairs when there was a knock on the front door. Patrick was downstairs, making breakfast. I heard him move across the wood floor to the door. I got up from the desk and then, instinctively, decided it was best for me to remain upstairs. Patrick’s voice carried up the stairs.

“Maurice,” said Patrick. “What’re you doing here?”

The voice that answered was loud and deep with a strong New York accent. “Came by to see how you’re doing.”

“Come on in.” Patrick’s voice sounded pinched. I heard the front door close. I snuck out to the landing above the living room, careful not to make a sound. They stood by the front door. The voice matched the man. Maurice Templeton was as tall as Patrick but barrel-chested, making him appear larger and more powerful, intensified by his dark blue suit and red tie. Who wore a suit on a Saturday? He was a man who filled a room, of that there was no doubt.

“You have some coffee for your father-in-law?” His face was reddish and seemed bloated, like someone who ate too many fried, salty foods. He had a wide forehead with thinning white hair slicked back.

“I don’t. I’m a tea drinker.”

“Since when?” Silently, I went back to the office and sat at the desk, listening, my heart rate quickened.

“Since always.”

“I didn’t remember that.” I heard heavy footsteps cross the room and the floorboard near the couch that always creaked. “So, this hiatus you’ve enjoyed needs to come to an end. Sigourney wants you to come home. Hell, so do I. You’re missed at Kingston.”

“I’m not coming back.”

“This foolishness needs to stop.”

“I’ve filed for divorce. Get her help, Maurice. But I can’t do it any longer.”

“She’s desperate, Patrick. If you care for her at all, you’ll come home and look after her. You owe her that much. I don’t know what she might do. To herself, or someone else.”

“I gave up too much of my life already.”

“You ever hear of for better or worse?”

Patrick was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry she’s having a hard time, truly, I am. But you helped make her the way she is, not me. I’m taking care of myself, for the first time since I married her.”

“You’ll never work in publishing again. Is that what you want?”

Patrick’s voice was loud now. “Take your threats and your editor job and stick it up your ass. Now get out of my house.”

Maurice appeared calm, given the even, low tone of his voice. “You’re a foolish man, Patrick. I knew it the moment I met you. Enjoy this shit-hole life you’re so dedicated to. I’ll make sure your name is mud in my town.”

“There’s the door, Maurice.”

I heard footsteps, the door open and close, and then the sound of the deadbolt.

Stepping out to the landing, I looked down. Patrick was leaning against the door, his chest rising and falling.

He looked up at me. “Well, I guess I just sealed my fate.”

“Is it really what you want?”

“Freedom, Oregon, to make your own choices—it’s the only thing that matters. No career is worth it.” He walked across the room and headed up the stairs, two at a time. At the top, he grabbed me in his arms and swung me in a circle. “God, it’s good to be free. You’ll marry me, won’t you, Constance Mansfield, when all this is said and done?”

“Yes,” I whispered against his chest. “Yes.”

“I’ll figure out what’s next for me, I promise. And we can build a life together.”

The lump in my throat kept me from speaking. I moved closer to him, until my body felt merged into his. He stroked my hair until he took my hand and led me into the bedroom.

***

Dark January kept us inside for much of the time. We didn’t care. I worked and Patrick spent time in his shop, coming in after a day’s work smelling of wood shavings. One evening, after dinner, we were on the couch in front of the fire, sipping wine. “What do you think about this clock thing?” he asked, his voice unusually meek. My feet were on his lap and he stroked my arches with his fingers.

“As a business?” I said it without reflection, in case he meant something else, but already my mind was turning with possibilities.

“Yeah.” He turned his gaze to the fire. “Does it sound stupid?”

I swung my feet off his lap and scooted toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him several times in rapid succession on his cheek. “I think it’s perfect.”

“Do you really think so?” His face was vulnerable, more so than I’d ever seen it.

“I really do.”

He pulled me onto his lap, touching my hair and looking into my eyes. “Something about you makes me feel like I could do anything.”

“That’s how you make me feel too.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “My poor dad’s probably turning over in his grave. All the sacrifice to send me to college and how proud he was that I was a book editor in New York, and now I’m back in his house making things with my hands, just like he did.”

I touched the side of his face. “He’s proud of you. A man figures out how to start over when everything goes awry. That’s what you’ve done. He’d be proud that you’re not letting the bastards win.”

***

Several days later, I went out to the porch with my tea, enjoying the break from snow that had brought clear blue sky. I had misplaced my hat somewhere but it almost felt warm with the sun on my hair and face. I wore my necklace every day and in the light it was like a heater around my neck. I kept fingering it, wishing I had a mirror to see how it sparkled in the light. I wandered down the steps and sat; Patrick had shoveled them after the snowfall. There was something on the snow, on the edge of the clearing, just outside the trail. At first I thought it was merely a shadow but then I could see it was an object of some kind. I got up from the steps and walked over to it, my boots sinking into the soft snow. As I approached, my eyes couldn’t register what it was until finally I was upon it. I was seeing blood—bright red on the snow and splattered, like it had been tossed from a bucket. Beyond, just down the trail, was a dead deer, its black eyes staring lifelessly toward the sky.

I screamed.

Patrick came out of his shop, rushing across the yard in the snow. When he got to me, he gathered me close and walked me back into the house. “It was probably killed by a cougar or coyote, sweetheart. I’ll get it cleaned up. Welcome to Vermont.”

I stayed in the house the rest of the day. I didn’t want to know what Patrick did with the carcass. I never asked. And he never told me.

***

Six months had passed since I’d met Patrick. They were the happiest of my life. The days merged into one another in one blissful moment to the next. I worked at the paper. I grew increasingly fonder of John and Doris. In the early mornings and later afternoons, I toiled over my manuscript at the desk in Patrick’s office, while he tinkered in the background, cooking meals, chopping firewood, shoveling snow, and working on something in the small shop twenty or so feet from the cabin. In the evenings we ate dinner together and talked of nothing and everything and then fell into bed, making love until exhausted. We were drunk in love and my old life in Legley Bay felt far away and dreamlike. It seemed this was my real life, here with Patrick.

Patrick made notes on the first draft of my second book and I was busy on rewrites between assignments at the paper. He spent most days in his shop, making a collection of clocks. In late March, he surprised me at dinner by announcing he had to go to New York in the morning. “When I come back, I’ll be officially divorced. I just have to sign papers.”

He was gone for three days. I was in the office, writing, when I heard his steps on the porch. Excited to see him, I leapt from the desk and sprinted down the stairs. But I stopped at the bottom of the stairs when I saw him. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Or shaved. There was stubble on his face, his hair was disheveled, his eyes blood-shot and red-rimmed. He hadn’t taken his jacket off and kept it fastened all the way up to his chin. I went to him, holding out my hands. “Baby, are you sick?”

He didn’t answer, simply pulled me into his arms. “God, I missed you.” I smelled stale alcohol and cigarette smoke on him. Was he smoking? He held me tightly, his face in my hair. “Constance.” A sound erupted from deep in his chest, something between a sob and a wail.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and spoke softly. “Patrick, what is it? Did something happen?”

Lifting his head, he removed my arms from around his neck and lifted me slightly off the ground and set me aside, like setting a package he no longer needed on a counter. Then he strode to the kitchen, opening the liquor cabinet and pulling down the bottle of whiskey. He grabbed a tumbler I had drying in the rack and filled it almost to the top. With his back to me, leaning on the counter with one hand as if his legs might not hold him, he emptied half the glass into his mouth. “I love you. I need you to know that.”

I stared at his broad back, my heart pounding. “You’re scaring me.”

He turned toward me, wiping at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Constance. I really am.”

“Did you stop at the bar on the way home?”

He raked his hand through his hair. “Whiskey’s the only way I can get through this.”

“Through what?”

“I can’t be with you any longer.” His voice cracked. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“What are you talking about?”

“There are things out of my control. Things that won’t be good for you. And I can’t do it to you.”

“Do what?”

“Wreck your life. Jeopardize your life.”

I moved toward him with my hands in the air, like one might approach someone with a loaded gun. “You’re not making any sense. Just come upstairs. Sleep it off.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Oregon. You’re so naïve, so young, so damn innocent. You have no idea what these people are like.”

“What people?”

“My in-laws.” He threw the glass against the wall. It shattered. Whiskey splashed and ran down the wall. “You have to get your stuff and get out. Call John to come get you.”

“What happened in New York?”

“It became clear to me that I can’t have you. That’s what happened.”

“Patrick, please, stop. I love you. It doesn’t matter what they try to do to us. We can make our own way.” I started to cry.

“God, please don’t cry. I’ve been thinking about this, about you, for three days straight. I want you to have a good life and you won’t if you’re with me.” He was crying now too. I moved toward him, but he put his hands in front of him like a shield. “Don’t, Constance. Please don’t touch me.”

“Tell me what this is about. You can’t just send me away with no explanation.”

His voice was loud, emphasizing every word. “You’re not safe with me. They will find a way to destroy you, wreck everything for you. Or worse, hurt you. I cannot bear it. You need to go back to Oregon. Disappear. When the book comes out, do not let the press know where you live. Make sure Janie knows this is part of the deal. Do you understand?”

I stared at him.

“Please, sweetheart, say you understand. It’s the only way you can be safe.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll never stop loving you. Ever. But this is the only way.” With that, he hobbled to the front door like he was in physical pain and left.

Sick with grief and shock, I went into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. For a long time, I sat on the floor and wept. Finally, knowing it was inevitable, I went upstairs and packed my few possessions. I called John.

***

“Take me to Doris,” I said to John when I got into his truck.

“He’s trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want to be protected. I want him.”

“Give it time. Eventually things with his ex-wife will get sorted out and he can come for you.”

But my heart was too broken to feel hope. I knew it was over. “I have to go home.”

Keeping one hand on the wheel, John reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Patrick dropped this by for you.”

With shaking hands, I opened it. Inside there was a letter and a wad of cash.

Oregon,

I know you won’t want this, but I have to leave it for you anyway. It’s one thousand dollars, just to keep you fed and clothed until your book deal is complete. Or just to put in the bank in case you need it. Either way, please use it.

Yours,

Patrick

I wept silently.

John matched my silence. He had daughters and a wife. He knew when a woman couldn’t speak and when to join her there.

The diner was closed but Doris was still there, setting up for the lunch shift. When she saw us at the front door, she let us in. Her eyes went from surprised to sharp in an instant. “What happened?”