Duet for Three Hands (38 page)

L
ydia

I
t had been
so long
since a man had touched her that Lydia assumed it would feel strange. But it hadn’t. The sensations were as she remembered and different, too. She was older, her body softer, perhaps more yielding than it had been in the years with William, more willing to accept pleasure. Nathaniel was rougher, more demanding than her husband had been, more consuming of her, less worried about hurting her, as if she were his equal, and she relished this. He pressed into her as if it were an act of redemption, of triumph, in a way that made her unable to think clearly, rattled her teeth, and made her cry out.

It also surprised her that she didn’t think of the morality of it, that they weren’t married or that he was not divorced. No, she was merely there in the moment, taking all the pleasure she could, knowing the sweet things of life were fleeting and uncertain. And, in that knowing that only comes from age, she opened to him with ease and without restraint, feeling bound to him in a way not dictated by conventions of society or a slip of paper, but through their fearless choosing of one another.

Afterward they lay together, at ease, the tension between them spent. She felt weary and yet wide awake, wanting to drink in his form just as it was in that moment.

“What will your mother think, with you still married?” she asked.

He shrugged, and she understood that he wasn’t sure. “I’ll tell her I’m divorcing Frances.” Then he rolled over to look at her. “Can I tell her that we’re going to marry?”

She felt her eyes get big. “Are you asking me?”

“Are you saying yes?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Then I’ll tell my mother I’m going to marry you the minute I’m able. Until then she’ll have to live with our untraditional arrangement.” He pulled her closer. “It’s quite impossible to describe how I feel about you.”

“And I you.”

They talked for a while longer. She told him details of her life in Atmore, of her children, of her friendship with Midwife Stone. “How small my life must seem to you,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not small. Nothing could be small with you in the center of it.”

When she told him how she’d taken to wearing William’s boots and clothes for the outside work after his death, she expected Nathaniel to laugh, but instead his eyes had softened as he pushed a stray piece of hair from her face. “I know it’s been harder than you let on, and I’m sorry for it.”

“Isn’t that true for most of us?” she asked. “We just make do with what we have without complaint, always hopeful tomorrow will be better.”

“Most, not all.” His face darkened, and she knew he was thinking of Frances. “I have to tell Frances’s mother what happened.”

She nodded, smoothing her fingers along his cheekbone. “Sleep first. Call her when you wake up.”

He agreed and closed his eyes. She watched him drift toward sleep until his face was slack, and he breathed in and out with even repetition. He was both new and yet familiar—her family she had not known existed. After a few minutes she began to drift off to sleep, thinking about Birdie and Emma. Her daughters must be attended to as well. Emma would be beside herself over the news. But Lydia took her own advice and slept first.

W
hitmore

W
hit was dreaming
. He was on the lake, rowing. His mother called out to him from the back door of the lake house, waving her arms over her head. “Come inside,” she said. He increased his pace toward her, and his strokes were smooth and easy, but then the water turned thicker, the texture of blood, and the boat was stuck. A hand reached up to pull him under the dark water. He tried to scream, but no sound came.

He woke to Jeselle, stroking his face. “Whit, it’s just a dream.” His eyes fixed to her. “Jes, we need to go to the lake house, see our mothers. Say goodbye properly.”

N
athaniel

N
athaniel didn’t wake
until early evening. Lydia was still asleep, curled up like a cat, her hands clasped at her stomach. He took in her long, lean limbs, the callouses on the sides of her big toes, made, he was sure, from the man’s work she had been forced to take on after her husband’s death. He watched her for some moments, thinking about the events of the day, wishing only to stay and gaze upon the flush of her cheek.

Instead, he rose from the bed and bathed and dressed in clean clothes, quiet so as not to wake her. Though unsure how to explain the events of the last several days to either woman, he must call Clare and then his own mother. He walked to the motel’s office, his mind reeling. After giving the attendant a dollar for use of the phone, he called Clare first. She answered on the first ring. Waiting, he thought.

He began to tell her everything, first with trepidation, until the truths unfolded from him in a steady succession, sorrow and relief combining, knowing that his words whittled away at the soul of this good woman. He understood she did not deserve the grief that would ultimately possess her after hearing of everything Frances had done. But he knew, too, that it was important for the facts to be told, that it mattered more than anything that at last they all understood the truth.

Finally, he told her about the horrible night when the gardener died and he’d lost his career because of Frances’s voracious appetite for attention. Clare cried then, in sobs that were nearly unbearable to hear. He pushed onward, wanting it to be over. “I’m filing for divorce, Clare.”

“I’m glad for you, dear boy. You deserve a chance at happiness,” she said, sounding defeated, dull. And then almost without pause she went on, “I’ve known, or suspected, that Frances went up there that night of her own volition. I never outright asked her because I didn’t want to know the answer. I couldn’t stand the thought that her carelessness, her disregard for others, would’ve caused you to lose your career. I’m so terribly sorry, Nate. Nothing I do can ever make up for it or change the fact that she’s my daughter. I raised her. There’s no one to blame but me.”

“Clare, you also raised Whit.” He paused, hating her grief, hating Frances.

“Do you remember the doctor we took her to, years ago? Do you recall how angry he made me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I knew it was true, what he said, but I couldn’t accept it, couldn’t look at it.”

“Clare, it’s all done now. There’s nothing to be done except for us to move on.”

“Yes, I suppose. Nate…” She paused. He heard her take in a shaky breath. “Since the first day you came into my family I’ve loved you like my own.”

“That’s your way.”

She chuckled in a mournful way. “What good has come from it?”

“Oh, Clare, Whit has come of it. All his goodness, his generous spirit, it all comes from you and the way you’ve been all his life.” Then he told her his plans for Maine, and then of France for Jeselle and Whit.

“Nate, could Cassie and I take the train to Maine?”

“Not all the way to where my mother lives. You’d need a car.”

He heard her sniffling. “I don’t know how to drive. Neither does Cassie.”

“Clare, what do you mean?”

“Cassie and I should go with you. To Maine. To look after our children.”

“What about Frank?”

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t care?” Without a pause she continued, “We could take one of our cars. But you or Jeselle or Whit would have to drive us.”

“We could come for you.” He hesitated before speaking—knowing once he said Lydia’s name that Clare would know it all. “The kids and Lydia.”

“Lydia?”

“My friend.”

Silence, and then Clare in a wobbly voice said, “I see.”

“It was her idea about sending the kids to France. She has progressive ideas. She’s northern.” As if that explained everything.

“She helped Whit and Jes?”

“Yes, with everything. It was all her.” Crackling on the other end of the phone was the melody to his beating heart as he struggled to find the right words. “I didn’t look for it. I’ve been loyal all these long years. I want you to know that. But I love her.”

“I can’t think what to say.”

“Say it’s all right, Clare.” Suddenly he knew he wanted her to release him, that he needed absolution from her in a way that didn’t make sense, given everything. But it was there nonetheless.

“You must go, Nate, if it’s toward happiness, which is what I want for you above all else.” She sniffed; he heard her crying. “I’ll miss you terribly.”

He felt his own tears coming, breathed into them, his voice shaky now. “Thank you, Clare.” Then, “We’ll come get you. Tomorrow.”

W
hitmore

W
hitmore’s ribs
ached by the time they approached the lake house. He’d been in the front seat while Nathaniel drove, trying not to cry out when they hit bumps and potholes as they wound through the pines. He knew professing pain hurt Jes, so he kept it to himself.

When they turned the corner and saw the familiar sight of the lake house, he glanced at the backseat where Jeselle sat, huddled in the corner, her face tight, brown eyes darting back and forth like they did when she was nervous.

Nate stopped the car in front of the house and looked over at Whit. “Ready?”

Whitmore didn’t need to glance in the mirror to know how horrific his face still looked. Because of the broken nose, his face was black and blue, especially the skin under his eyes and over his cheekbones. His eyes were bloodshot, and he couldn’t walk without wincing. “I’m afraid Mother might faint at the sight of me.”

When they slid out of the car, Lydia hung back, looking unusually uncertain. Nate went to her and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and slipped into the front passenger side of the car. Whit took Jeselle’s hand. “Stay close.”

They walked to the door, hands clasped. Jeselle reached up and used the knocker as if they were strangers. Nate hung back, near the gate. “You two go on,” he called out. “We’ll be here. Waiting.”

Clare yanked open the front door, with puffy eyes and uncombed hair, dressed in a plaid cotton housedress. Her eyes darted between their faces and then to their intertwined hands. Something went across her face—he could not discern if it was pride or rebellion or sadness. Then she held out her arms, wide enough for both of them. They both leaned into her, and she wrapped an arm around each of them. She smelled as she always did, of talcum powder and French perfume.

“Mother, I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, darlin’. I’m so happy you came home.”

His mother withdrew from the hug and peered at Jeselle’s stomach. She put her hand softly on its roundness. “My goodness,” was all she said. She looked at Whit and touched his cheek gingerly with the tips of her cool white fingers. “Whitmore, your face. Does it hurt much?”

“A little, but I’m alive.”

“Thank God.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the corners of her eyes.

“Mrs. Bellmont, where’s Mama?” Jeselle asked.

“In the kitchen.” Clare backed up and motioned for them to come inside. “She’s fixed something for y’all to eat. Where’s Nate?”

“Outside.”

“You two go on in. I need to talk to him.”