Tea and Primroses (28 page)

M
ILLER
AND
S
UTTON

Eight weeks later, Miller and I stood on the steps of the courthouse waiting for Tim and Louise. Miller had his arm around my shoulders to steady me, but I couldn’t stop shaking. “Nothing to it, Con,” he said. “Just say yes and then you’ll be my wife.”

Just say yes.

“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” I asked him. “Your mother will never forgive us for not having a real wedding.”

“It’s what you want, Connie, so it’s what I want.”

I rested my head on his shoulder. “Thank you.” At that moment we saw Tim and Louise walking toward us. Tim, wearing a suit and walking slightly ahead of his pregnant wife, raised his hand in greeting. Louise’s baby was coming any day and her former graceful stride had been replaced by a waddle. Her large stomach pushed against a pink maternity dress that made me think of a large cake one might serve at a baby shower. I met her halfway down the stairs. “I’m not well,” I whispered into her ear.

She looked at me with concern; her belly pressed into my side. “What’s the matter?”

“Upset stomach,” I said. “I need to use the restroom.”

“I’ll take you,” she said as we headed back up the stairs.

The men were standing on the top stair. Tim handed Miller a flask. Miller shook his head. Tim took a swig and put it back in his suit pocket.

“We’ll meet you outside of the judge’s quarters,” said Louise to Tim. She quickly escorted me inside and shuffled me into the bathroom. I went into the stall and stood over the toilet, taking in deep breaths to control the nausea but it was of no use. Dropping to my knees, I vomited into the toilet.

Louise stood outside of the stall. “Did you eat something bad?”

“No.”

“The flu, then? Or just nerves?”

I flushed and stood, leaning my forehead against the cool metal door. When I came out of the stall, Louise was standing with her hands interlocked over her belly. “Better?” she asked.

“A little.”

She took me to the sink and put her arm around me while I washed my mouth out with water. “Are sure you want to do this? Marry Miller, that is.” She handed me a piece of gum.

“I have to.” I stuck the gum in my mouth.

“What do you mean, you have to?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Her eyes flew open wide. “Oh, God, Connie. Really? How did this happen?”

I adjusted my dress, looking in the mirror. “I was careless, obviously.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I looked down to the floor, unsure how to answer. The truth was, I was ashamed to tell her. Louise had always done everything the right way. And me? Well, I was always messing up, headstrong and driven, without thought to the consequences. After a moment, I lifted my eyes to hers. “It’s just that you’re such a better person than I am.”

She fiddled with an unruly section of my hair, trying to get it to lie flat. “Do you love Miller?”

I found lipstick in my purse and ran it over my lips. “I like him a lot. He’s a decent man and he’ll be a great father. He’s stood by me. Doesn’t seem there’s anything he won’t do for me. He’ll never leave me.”
Like Patrick did
, I wanted to add. I stepped toward the door. “And what choice do I have? I can’t keep writing and raise a child on my own, especially with my mother being gone now.”

She nodded knowingly. We were women of a certain generation that understood we could not raise a child alone unless we absolutely had to. It was just not done, especially in Legley Bay.

“Well, love isn’t all that grand anyway,” said Louise. “And I’m certainly not perfect.”

I looked at her sharply. “Is something the matter between you and Tim?”

She shrugged, her eyes filling with tears. “He was cheating on me with some checkout girl at the supermarket.”

“While you’re pregnant?”

“Yes.” She sniffed and pulled a tissue from the small yellow purse hanging on her arm. “He promised me it’s over and he’ll never do it again.”

“Ah, crap.” We looked in one another’s eyes and all the years of friendship were there, like an unopened package in which you already knew the contents. “I loved someone in Vermont. Patrick Waters. But he broke it off.”

“Is this why you came home?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry.” She wiped under her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her purse. It was made of fine white lace; she’d made it herself and one for me too.

“I’ll never love anyone that much again. And, Miller—he’s a good man.”

“He is.” She sighed, her lips trembling. “He’s a better man than Tim will ever be.”

“Life just isn’t what we think it’s going to be, is it?” I put my hand on her belly.

“I guess not. It’s worse instead of better, for the most part. Oh, Connie, I’m awful glad you’re home. I’ve missed you so much. I thought I’d die when I found out about this girl and Tim and you were so far away with no phone or anything. It was like a miracle when you wrote that you were coming home. I know it’s selfish of me to say so.”

“Selfish is good sometimes. Especially for you.”

“You can always tell me the truth, no matter what.”

“And you too,” I whispered.

We hugged, smiling through our tears. When we came apart, she dabbed under my eyes. “Hell of a wedding day,” she said.

“Louise, you just said a bad word.”

“I’ve said one before.” The corners of her pretty eyes crinkled.

“I don’t think so.”

“You weren’t there the night I found out about Tim and that girl. There were some bad words out of my mouth, trust me on that.”

“You could leave him, you know.”

“And do what? Pregnant? Alone? And I love him. It’s always just been him.” Her eyes were glassy again. She waved her hand in front of her face. “Oh, shoot, I’ve got to stop this or my makeup will be completely ruined.”

I thought of Patrick.
It’s always just been him.
“There’s always Aggie. She’ll take you in, feed you bean soup.”

We both laughed. “There’s always Aggie. But God, can you imagine how humiliating it would be to have to tell her what Tim did and ask her to take us in?”

“She would, though, without a question.”

“This is true. But I have to try and make my marriage work. For the baby’s sake.” She put her handkerchief back in her purse and pulled out a little bag that I knew held her makeup. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up. We need to get you married before Tim has any more to drink.” She dabbed makeup here and there on my face and then did the same to her own.

When she deemed us ready, Louise took my hand and we walked together to the judge’s quarters. And I married Miller, for better or worse.

The next day Louise had her baby. She named him Peter. She was the first of the two of us to fall head over heels in love with her baby. I was next.

Miller bought us a small house on the same street as Louise and Tim. Baby Peter, who came out of the womb looking for a ball to toss or catch and something to jump over or climb or fight, was a terrible baby, crying and fussing long into the night. But Louise was tough and made to be a mother. I never heard one complaint, even though she received little help from Tim. Six months later, Sutton came. I fell instantly and irrevocably in love with my daughter. And unlike our little Peter, she was a docile baby and a good sleeper.

And how she changed me! Loving Patrick had taught me that I was more than just my work. Loving him had made me alive. Loving Sutton was the same way. I was still ambitious and driven but it was with a new purpose. She was now why I wrote. She became my motivation and my reason. Ironically, as I lessened in my obsession with work, I became more and more successful. My first novel had a second printing of twice the original run and then another several months later. Patrick was right. I had a bestseller. Because of the extra income, Roma was able to give up cleaning for other families and worked for me full time, taking care of both our babies and my house. I wrote. Louise and Roma walked to the park with our babies. They exchanged recipes. I sent off the second manuscript to Janie. It did better than my first. We had dinner parties. Sutton’s first Christmas came. I wrote another book. Sutton’s second Christmas came. The third book went straight up the
New York Times
Bestseller list. We had more money than we ever thought possible.

Throughout it all, Miller was supportive and proud, despite the fact that his family clearly hated me. They had little to do with Sutton or me and Miller’s relationship with them was conducted mostly at their shop. Regardless, he remained devoted to both of us in every way. I often heard him bragging about me after church services and at parties. He threw me a surprise birthday party after the third book hit the bestseller list and bought me a new dress, red with white polka dots. I still have it, nestled in the very back of my closet to remind me of the sweetness of both the gesture and the man. Louise and Tim and Aggie came and toasted my success. I looked across the room at my husband, holding Sutton, and I felt nothing but gratitude and respect. He was here, I told myself. And that’s what mattered.

There were many sweet moments between us, especially during times with Sutton. I remained numb when he touched me but he didn’t seem to notice. I escaped into my work like I had done all my life, living full lives through my characters. And when I was done for the day, I looked into my daughter’s eyes and was stirred awake.

Sometimes, alone in the night when I couldn’t sleep, I would look at the list in the
New York Times
and see my name near the top and wonder:
did you see this, Patrick? Do you know?

My publisher arranged interviews and press coverage but I insisted that everything had to be conducted over the phone. I did not allow anyone to print where I lived. I made up a story that I was afraid of flying; no one questioned it. Writers were known for their eccentricities. I became famous, well, as famous as writers can be, which, thankfully, is nothing compared to other artists. We can hide in our offices and between our words. Readers still come. And they did. I started receiving fan letters daily, begging for the next book. My dream had arrived.

Through it all, I could not help but wonder,
Patrick, do you know?
Because, still, none of it mattered compared to how much I loved him. Nothing but Sutton compared to that.

Sutton grew. She was sweet and willowy and beautiful. I took hundreds of photos. Miller worked at the shop and came home to us at 5:15, every night without fail. I used part of my third book money to buy a little house for Roma and let her live there for minimal rent. I grew close with Clara. Together, we convinced my father to retire from the docks. He was fifty years old by then but kept busy doing side jobs as a handyman. “Doesn’t matter what it is, Sweets, but you have to do something. Otherwise you get old,” he said.

Life looked good, I imagine, from the outside.

But on the inside, a part of me remained broken and in that brokenness I learned to survive by pushing the pain deep inside, by not acknowledging there was a hole that was Patrick.

But my subconscious knew.

At night, every night, I dreamt of him.

And then, one day shortly after Sutton’s third birthday, Miller didn’t come home for dinner. Worried, I called the store but his father said he’d left on time.

I fed Sutton the dinner Roma had left. I paced the kitchen. Something was wrong. I knew it.

The doorbell rang at 6:15. It was Tim Ball, his handsome face green.

And I knew before he said the words. Miller was gone. “No,” I said. “No, don’t say it.”

“I’m sorry, Connie. There was an accident. He went off the cliff.”

“Where?”

“Just north of the state park.” He looked down, unable to meet my eyes. I knew what this meant. Miller’s car had crashed a hundred feet or more off the side of the cliff, smashing against the rocks.

“Did he suffer?”

“No, Connie. The doc says he was most likely killed at first impact.”

“Are you lying to me?”

Tim’s face crumpled; he leaned against the doorway. “No. It’s the truth.” His voice caught. “I’m sorry.”

I fell to my knees. “Send Louise to me. Please.”

“She’s on her way.”

For the third time in my life, I learned this: we are only a moment away from being on our knees.

***

I was in the bedroom at Miller’s parents’ home after the service, wiping smeared mascara from under my eyes, when his mother entered. She closed the door behind her. I watched her in the mirror.

“Don’t think I don’t know the truth,” she said.

“The truth?” I didn’t shift my gaze. She was the type of woman who used the force of her personality to frighten her sons and daughters-in-law. Judgmental, always an opinion on everything we were doing wrong with our children, the cooking, our homes. At first I’d behaved properly, deferring to her judgment, complimenting her, thanking her for her advice on raising Sutton, how to better iron Miller’s shirts, and a hundred other things.

“I thank the good Lord Miller never knew.”

I turned then, bunching the fabric of my skirt with my hand that was suddenly wet with perspiration. “Mrs. Byrd, I mean you no disrespect, but there were no secrets between Miller and me. He knew everything and accepted me as I was. I didn’t deserve him, there’s no question about it.” I wrapped my arms around my middle as my voice broke. “He knew the truth.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes bulging and the purple vein at her temple pulsing. “But why? Why would he marry you? He could’ve had anyone.” Although she still stared at me, the fight had gone out of her voice.

“I loved him,” I said. “If that matters to you at all.”

The fight came back to her then. She jerked toward me; I thought she might strike me. “That, young lady, is a lie. I thank the good Lord he’s the only one who didn’t know that.” Holding onto the bedpost, as if for support, she pointed a plump, pink finger at me. “You’re no longer welcome in my home. No one wants you here.”

“But what about Sutton?”

She shook her head, sighing, retreating back toward the door. “She’s a sweet girl. It’s unfortunate you’re her mother.”