Tea and Primroses (32 page)

I was chatting with her about it all when I heard the kitchen door open and close and then footsteps moving across the front room. I said a hasty goodbye to Louise and poked my head outside my office door, fully expecting to see a radiant Sutton waving her ring around in the light. But instead it was Declan, alone. His face was the color of a storm and his eyes wild and pained.

“What happened?”

“She said no.”

He moved past me toward the stairs. “I’m going today, Constance.”

“Going?”

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking back at me. “I’m not one to ask you for money, I hope you know that by now. But I need you to change my ticket and I need some money to get started. Don’t bother with a return flight. Please.”

“Fine, but—”

He put up his hand, shaking his head. “Please.” With that, he left me standing there with my mouth open, as his strong, angry frame stomped up the stairs.

I did as he asked. I changed his flight so that he could leave the next morning. I went into town and took out five thousand dollars’ worth of traveler’s checks. “Can I take you to Portland in the morning?” I asked, hearing the desperation in my voice. I wanted to ask him more; I wanted him to stay; I wanted Roma. But I couldn’t have any of that. I had to watch him walk out the door.

“No,” he said to my question. “Peter’s going to drive me.”

Instead, I drove Sutton to Portland that afternoon. It started to dump angry rain from purple thunderclouds as we headed north out of my driveway. Sutton was quiet and looked small and sad. I could see by her puffy eyes and blotched skin that she’d been crying. I turned onto Highway 26, headed to Portland.

Suddenly, I remembered the drive home from the train station with my mother the day I returned from Vermont and all the weight between us, all the things unsaid, the secrets we both kept. I’d spent Sutton’s lifetime trying not to be my mother but here we were anyway, a heartbroken girl and a broken woman. “Do you want to talk?”

“No.” This was a whisper. She turned away from me, looking out the window.

I didn’t say anything further. The windshield wipers swished back and forth. The radio was on, barely discernible, so I turned it up a notch. It was a country station, one Roma liked. Was she the last one of us to drive this car? The pain came, again, like it did now, all the time. All the missing people replaced with this ache in my heart.

When we arrived at Sutton’s little apartment, I helped her carry her suitcases up to her room. She lived on the second floor of an old Victorian converted into apartments and the stairs were narrow and rickety. Sutton unlocked the door and we went in. The weather was warm and humid, hinting at further thunderstorms. I set the suitcase in the small bedroom; everything was tidy and organized but had the feeling of desertion. She’d been gone for three months. Rescuing me.

“I’m sorry I’ve been a burden, honey,” I said.

Her eyes filled and she fell toward me. I caught her, wrapping my arms around her waist. She was six inches taller than I but somehow she folded herself into my chest like she had when she was a little girl. “Mommy, why am I afraid of everything?”

“You’re not really, sweetheart. You’re like the lion in
Wizard of Oz
. You’re courageous when it matters.” I led her over to the bed and we sat together. “Did you say no to Declan because you feel afraid?”

“Yes. And because I need to get my life on the right track first. I’m not ready. But I love him so much.”

“When he gets back from Europe you can talk, sort through things. You’re both so young. It’ll be all right in the end.”

“No, Mom, he’s not coming back. He has wanderlust. Always has. You’ll see.”

I hated to leave her but I did, returning home that night to the house. There was a light on in Declan’s room but he didn’t come down. I went to my bedroom, sick with worry over both my kids. I went out to the deck and watched the waves, tumultuous and reckless.
Roma
, I thought.
What do I do?
But she didn’t answer. It was just the crashing of the waves that came back to me.

The next morning I hugged Declan goodbye and watched as Peter took him away. For six years I waited for him to return. But he refused, so I had to go to him. The next autumn I left Oregon for the first time in over twenty years. I went first to Greece to visit Reggie. He was well and at peace; it was as if no time had passed as we reminisced about the old times and my father and Clara. His wife, Mia, was delightful, although she spoke little English and was like a small, brown bird darting between us as we talked. After a week there, I traveled to England, the next year to France, then next Ireland, and Spain and so on—a new country every year, sometimes beginning the trip in Greece to see Reggie, depending on where Declan was living. I went all over the world meeting that wayward boy, my wanderlust boy, wishing above all else that he would come home.

Come home to me
, I said silently, a thousand times.
Come home to Sutton.

SUTTON STARED INTO HER LAP
as Constance’s words echoed about the room for a few minutes. Finally, Declan rose from the couch and went to the window, pulling the shades down to dim the bright sunlight of late afternoon.

“Dec, my mother raised us like she was afraid something might happen to us. She had this house built like a fortress. Do you know how many times she asked your mother to move you guys in here after my grandfather and Clara died? The way she never wanted us to learn to drive or go out without her. Do you remember how she used to wait up for us? Sometimes I saw her pacing back and forth in the front window when I walked the beach alone. And the basement? She made it so great down there so all of us kids would spend time there instead of out. And it made us the way we are. Me, fearful and contained. You, restless and filled with wanderlust.”

“I never thought of it that way. I guess I just thought of her as somewhat over-protective but loving.”

“It was because so many people around her died, Dec. She was afraid for us.”

“Do you think she had reason to be? I mean, other than just the usual fears mothers have for their children?”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Until now, that is.”

“Right.”

“I have something I want to show you.” Declan disappeared upstairs for a few minutes and came down with a plain white envelope he handed to Sutton. “This is the letter your mother wrote me. I thought you might like to read it.” He hesitated, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Patrick Waters is going to be here in two hours. After you read this letter, we really need to finish the manuscript.”

She agreed before opening the letter.

Dearest Declan,

I know the death of your mother has defined much of your life. The unanswered questions haunt you, as they do me. I’m worth a lot of money but I would trade it all to know what really happened to Roma and to have some kind of justice for her. But I accepted it, along with so many other losses over the years, and have tried hard to not become bitter and suspicious but I’ve not been entirely successful.

If you’re reading this I’ve passed on and I’m with Roma in the afterlife. I really hope she’s learned how to relax wherever we are. If so, we’re kicking back with a glass of wine, watching the waves come in. So much of life is like Heaven, I suspect, only without the ache of loss or the angst of worry. The moments with your mother, watching the waves roll in, sipping wine, and watching you and Sutton play on the beach were some of the highlights of my life.

I’ve left you a lot of money; I understand you’ll resist and go on a bit about not accepting charity and that it should all go to Sutton and a bunch of other manly, stubborn, prideful things I’ve heard from you all your life. I admire and respect you for your independence, however, I considered you as much my child as Sutton. Your mother saved my life once, on a train barreling across the country, when my heart was broken. From the moment she arrived in my life she made everything bearable. I was grateful for every meal she cooked, how she ran my house and took care of both of you and Sutton so I could write. She was a woman of great strength and character. You take after her.

When you were ten years old I found you in the kitchen under the table, sketching. The drawing was of your mother’s hands
—
callused, hardened, and red from years of water and soap and scouring and stirring. It was remarkable for a small boy, unbelievable actually. I knew then you had a special gift.

“Did you do this?” I asked.

“Yeah, but it’s no good.”

“Draw another and another until you get better.”

“Is that what you did when you first started writing books?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do too.”

The look on your face was of sheer determination. I knew then that your gifts would not be wasted. Hard work matters more than talent.

That said, I hope I’ve been a source of encouragement to you and not pushed you too hard. No one has loved your work more than I, except your mother and Sutton.

The money is so you can paint and not have to worry about making a living. I understand the portraits you’ve painted in Europe have kept you reasonably fed but I can read between the lines of your emails and know that it has not been easy. I was young once and poor and dedicated to an art that usually makes no money. All the success I’ve had, I did it for you and for Sutton
—
no material things have ever mattered to me. Please take the fruit of my life’s work in the manner it’s offered.

Thank you for getting me out of Oregon and overseas. The adventures I had were because of your wanderlust spirit. They, also, were some of the highlights of my life.

But, please, try to let go of your mother’s death. Let the way she lived define who you are, not how she died. You’ve run long enough from demons that want to take you into the darkness. Your mother worked hard all her life to give you everything she never had. She did it all for you. Let this be your guide.

I’ve left you and Sutton the house. My deepest wish is that it brings you back to one another.

I love you, dearest boy. Be well. Be happy.

Constance

Sutton folded the letter and stuck it back in the envelope.

“It wasn’t just you I’ve been running from,” said Declan. “The unanswered questions about my mother’s death are louder here.” He looked away from her. “I have fantasies about finding him and killing him. It’s not healthy, I know, but I can’t stop. I’ve let the darkness take over. But Constance is right, I have to let go and choose to be happy. Will you help me?”

“I would do anything to make you happy.”

He grabbed both her hands and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Nothing in the world makes me as happy as you do.”

Declan's mouth was on hers then, kissing her hard. He moved his hands under her legs and wrapped them around his waist, then gently pushed her back onto the couch before covering her body with his and kissing her again. It was just as she remembered, this mouth, this kiss, this taste of him. All the years melted away. It was only Declan. There was no other. There never had been. There never would be.

His mouth traveled to her neck, biting gently as his hands moved from her hips to her legs and then under her dress, inching slowly up the soft flesh of her inner thighs until his fingers found the lace of her panties. She was breathless and wet and arched against him as he tugged them off. She sat up and pulled her dress over her head and slid out of her bra.

He went still, falling to his knees at the side of the couch and gazing at her with an expression she could only think of as awe. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She watched, hungry to take in every inch of him, aching for his hands and mouth back on her skin, as he tugged off his jeans and boxers and slid his shirt over his head. When he was once again with her on the couch, she wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed her hands along the hard muscles of his back and arms. He kissed her again, biting her bottom lip with his teeth before moving to nibble on her ear, his hands in her hair. He moved his mouth to her neck and her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue until she moaned, “Please, don’t stop.”

“I love you,” he said, his voice husky. “But you’re sure you’re ready for this? Now, like this?”

“It was a long six years, Declan,” she whispered. “Please don’t make me wait any longer.”

He groaned and lifted himself over her and thrust deep inside her, in a slow, even rhythm. She closed her eyes and wrapped her legs tighter around him as the pleasure built until she was no longer in possession of clear thought. The climax started, a dull ache at first, and then an explosion that caused her to cry out and arch her back as the pleasure came in shudders, each one more intense than the one before. When the release subsided she opened her eyes and watched Declan’s face as he lost control, moaning her name when he exploded inside her.

Afterward, he collapsed on top of her for a brief moment and then lifted his head, grinning and breathing heavily. Laying his head on her breasts, she felt his eyelashes flutter against her skin. “You feel the same, after all this time, like no one else.”

“I guess my body didn’t forget how to have sex.” She laughed. “You know you always made me so crazy.”

“I guess some things never change.” They both shifted until they were face to face. Stroking her hair, he kissed the top of her head. “Patrick’s going to be here soon. We need to finish reading the manuscript.”