Leaving Paradise (18 page)

thirty-six

Maggie

Mrs. Reynolds is going to be the death of me. She’s determined to make me get behind the wheel of her black monstrosity sitting in the garage.

“It’s a classic,” Mrs. Reynolds says, her chin held high as the garage door opens and reveals the Cadillac.

“I’m . . . I’m really not ready to drive yet,” I say. “But you can drive it and I’ll ride on the passenger side.”

Mrs. Reynolds opens the passenger door and slides into the seat. “Honey, my eyes can hardly see two feet in front of me. Come on, now. Time’s a-wastin’.”

She hangs her hand out the window, the keys dangling from her fingers. She shakes them, the keys on the ring clinking against each other.

I’m huffing and puffing as I slip the keys from her hand, hoping she’ll get the hint. She doesn’t. I open the driver’s

side door and slide into the front seat. Wow. The white leather is soft, and the back of the seat is as big as an old Lay-Z-Boy recliner. I look out the front window. The hood is wide and has that shiny Cadillac symbol.

I turn to Mrs. Reynolds, who has her small purse neatly clutched in her lap, ready to go. Making the old lady proud of me would be so great. But . . . I’m not ready. I think.

“I can’t do this,” I explain, hoping she’ll understand.

She’s having none of it. Just by the stern look on her face, I know. “Margaret, put the key in the ignition.”

I do it.

“Now turn the key and start the car.”

I turn the key.

“What are you afraid of, dear?”

“Hitting someone. Getting into an accident.” I gulp.

“This part of you has to change, you know. Being afraid to take chances is scarier than actually doing things that challenge you.”

“I haven’t driven since the accident.”

“It’s about time you did, then.”

I shake my head.

“Back up slowly so you don’t hit the fence.” Mrs. Reynolds faces forward and buckles her seat belt.

I buckle mine, too. I have no clue why the lady can make me do things I don’t want to do. It’s like she has this power over me.

I take a deep breath, press my foot on the brake, and put the car into reverse. Slowly releasing the brake, I turn back and make sure I’m all clear to back out of the driveway.

“Watch out for the mailbox,” Mrs. Reynolds advises.

We’re safe at the bottom of the driveway and I back out into the street. I’m trying to convince myself not to have a panic attack, but I don’t think I’m being too successful. Part of me is excited to drive again and get that fear out of my life, but the other, stronger part of me, wants to put the car in park and limp home. I hear Caleb’s voice inside my head, pushing me to do it.

Mrs. Reynolds pats me on the knee. “Well done, Margaret.”

With that vote of confidence, I put the car into drive and slowly head down the street.

My feet aren’t used to the pedals and I’m stopping too hard and accelerating too fast. “Sorry,” I say after we come to a stop sign and Mrs. Reynolds jerks forward.

She clears her throat. “No problem. Let’s take it a little easy on the accelerator and brake, shall we?”

“Uh, sure.” But when it’s my turn to cross the intersection, I take my foot off the brake and gently put pressure on the accelerator. I pump it a bit because I don’t want to jerk Mrs. Reynolds forward again.

But now I’m making it worse. Oops. “You’d probably be a better driver, even with your vision problems,” I say seriously.

“I might have to agree with you, dear. Next time we try this, remind me to take some Dramamine.”

I give her a sideways glance. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Just look at the road, not at me,” she orders. “My looking sick has nothing to do with your driving.”

She directs me to a place called Monique’s. It has cute dresses in the window. By the time we get there my nerves have gone from overdrive to idle. I follow Mrs. Reynolds into the store. Dresses in all colors and patterns are positioned on racks throughout the store.

Mrs. Reynolds runs her fingers over a short, light blue silk dress. “Do you know how to spot quality material?”

I take my hand and run the soft cloth through my fingers. “I’ve never really paid attention to fabrics.”

“Every fabric has its own personality, just like my daffodils. For some, the softness and weight matters. For others, it’s the way the fabric moves . . . and you can’t discount color vibrancy.”

“How do you know so much?”

“Honey, when you’re as old as I am, you know more than you want to know.”

A woman who works at the store comes up to us, wearing a plum pant suit and blonde hair that’s neatly combed and curled at the ends. “Can I help you ladies?”

“We’re looking for a dress,” Mrs. Reynolds says, then points to me. “For this young lady.”

“For me?” I say, following behind as the lady leads us through the store.

Mrs. Reynolds stops and turns to me. “You need a little something to spice up your wardrobe, Margaret. All you wear are solids and, to be completely honest, your clothes are a bit too big and casual.”

I look down at my black cotton pants and grey t-shirt. “They’re comfortable.”

“And totally appropriate for lounging around the house. But, we’re having dinner tonight and I want you to dress up. Consider it an early Christmas gift.”

The saleswoman leads us to a rack of short cocktail dresses. “These just came in from Europe. It’s a new silk/washable blend.”

Mrs. Reynolds slides the silky, teal-colored dress between her fingers. “Too stiff. She’s used to cotton, so I’d like a softer fabric.”

“I don’t wear short dresses,” I tell them.

The lady leads us to another corner of the store. “How about a cotton/wool blend?”

Mrs. Reynolds shakes her head. “Too hot.”

“Rayon?”

“Too clingy.”

I’d expect the lady to get frustrated, but she just puts her hand to her chin in thought. “I may have something that you’d like in the back. Wait here.” She goes to the back of the store and comes out a minute later with a yellow dress hanging off her arm. Holding it out to Mrs. Reynolds, she says, “It’s from Sweden. A new supplier sent it to us for evaluation.”

Mrs. Reynolds eyes the dress, then rubs the edge of the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “Love the fabric, but the color is atrocious. She’d look like a sour lemon in this.”

“It came in a light plum color, too. I’ll go get it.”

“It’s a beautiful shade,” I say when she brings out the plum-colored dress. I try it on in the dressing room. It has spaghetti straps and a scooped neckline. The middle is cinched at the waist before waves of the material flow down and stop just above my ankle. When I walk in front of the mirror you can hardly tell I have a limp.

The sales woman smiles when I model it for them. “I think we have a winner here.”

Mrs. Reynolds smacks her lips together. “It’s perfect. We’ll take it.”

“You have a very generous grandmother,” the saleswoman says to me.

I look over at Mrs. Reynolds, who is across the store looking at another dress. “I know. I couldn’t have picked a better one myself.”

When I go back to the dressing room to take the dress off, Mrs. Reynolds stops me. “Keep it on, Margaret. We’ll be going to dinner from here and you won’t have time to change.”

“Which dress are you trying on?”

“Old ladies don’t need new dresses. Now stop the chatter and let’s move on.”

I put my hands on my cinched, plum-covered hips. “I’m not leaving this store until you buy a new dress, too.”

Mrs. Reynolds’ mouth opens in shock.

“Don’t look so startled,
Grandma
,” I say, copying her famous saying to me. “It doesn’t suit your face.”

Her mouth snaps shut. Then she throws her head back and howls with unabashed laughter.

A half hour later we’re back in the Cadillac. I might also add that Mrs. Reynolds is wearing a new silk and rayon, powder-blue dress with a matching jacket.

“I want you to deduct money out of my paycheck for the dress. I insist,” I say.

Mrs. Reynolds just smiles without responding.

“I’m serious, Mrs. Reynolds.”

“I know you are, dear, and I appreciate it. But I’m still buying it with my own funds.”

I shake my head in frustration. “Where to now?”

“A pie run.”

“Huh?”

“Just head for Auntie Mae’s Diner and you’ll see.”

I steer the car around and drive to the diner.

Mrs. Reynolds ducks down. “Go to the back, where the dumpster is,” she whispers. “And don’t let anyone see you.”

The woman is serious. I slide down in the seat and creep the car toward the back of the restaurant as if we’re here to rob the place. I stop near the dumpsters. “What are we doing here?” I whisper, then wonder why I’m whispering. Her son owns the restaurant.

“Keep the car running, just get out and knock on the back door three times. Then you pause for two seconds and then knock another three times.” Mrs. Reynolds sinks lower into her seat. “When someone answers, say,
The red hen has flown the coop
.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You will if you follow my directions. Now go!”

This is comical. I almost pee in my dress as I creep up to the back door and knock. Knock, knock, knock. Pause. Knock, knock, knock.

Juan, one of the bus boys, opens the door a crack.

I burst out laughing as I say, “The red bird has flown the coop.”

“Don’t you mean
hen
?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I mean
The red hen has flown the coop
.”

I think Juan is laughing as he says, “Wait here,” and closes the door. When the door opens, Irina hands me two boxes.

“What’s inside?” I say.

“Don’t ask me, Moggie. A surprise for you and Mrs. Reynolds.”

When she closes the door, I bring the boxes to the car and slide into the driver’s seat. “We got the goods.”

“Great, now head back to my house.”

Mrs. Reynolds is smirking as I drive up to her house. When I pull up to the garage, I finally figure out what this is all about.

The gazebo is finished, and Caleb has hung white lights all around it. White candles are lit inside, making the whole gazebo light up. Caleb is standing beside it, wearing khaki pants and a white dress shirt and tie.

When he winks at me and flashes his smile, I feel another piece of armor chipping away.

thirty-seven

Caleb

I hurry to the car and open the door for Mrs. Reynolds. I hold out my hand and help her out of the car. “You look hot,” I tell her.

She pats me on the cheek and says, “If I was only sixty years younger, sonny boy.”

“Did you do what I said?” I say close to her ear.

She snorts. “I had Margaret saying that ridiculous sentence we came up with.”

Mrs. Reynolds and I are partners in crime tonight. The gazebo is finished. My job here is done. I had the old lady make Maggie drive around town until six o’clock. I’ve been putting this night together in my head for a week already. A perfect night.

When I turn and catch sight of Maggie, I’m doomed. And speechless.

Mrs. Reynolds says, “Don’t look so startled, Caleb. It doesn’t suit your face.”

Maggie walks up to me, the dress showing off curves I only recently dreamed she had.

“The gazebo looks great,” she says.

I don’t look away from her. Hell, I can’t take my eyes off of her. These two unlikely women are my saving grace.

Maggie blushes, then glides away to join Mrs. Reynolds in the gazebo.

I’ve set a table inside the gazebo, complete with a three-course meal, compliments of my saved-up lawn mowing allowance and Little Italy Restaurant. I added a little spot heater to keep the gazebo warm, and have a portable radio with music playing softly in the background.

After pulling out a chair for Maggie, I hold my hand out to Mrs. Reynolds. “Would you care to dance, milady?”

She laughs, but I take her hand and pull her into a spin and into my arms. She shrieks. “Caleb, please. I’m an old lady. Where’s my cane?”

“I thought old ladies like younger men,” I tease, and dance slowly until the song is over.

I lead her to her chair and pull it out. “You better watch out for him, Margaret. He’s dangerous.”

I wince as I bend down to sit.

“What’s wrong?” Maggie asks.

“Nothing,” I say after everyone has been served. I take a spoonful of the minestrone and look up. Maggie’s not buying it. Neither is Mrs. Reynolds. “Okay, okay. I competed in a wrestling invitational today. No big deal.”

“I didn’t know you joined the team.”

“It was a one-time thing. I think.”

Mrs. Reynolds finishes her soup and waves the spoon at me. “You might have a broken rib.”

“I’m sure it’s just bruised,” I say, trying to reassure her as much as myself. Right before I pinned Vic in the second round, he knocked me to the ground and took a five-pointer.

I won the match, but the coach still gave me hell for playing dirty the first round.

“I can’t wait until the daffodils bloom,” Maggie says, her eyes sparkling with the candles shining on them. My hands are clammy from nervousness, I have no clue why. “You’re going to have to take a picture for me and send it to Spain.”

I still can’t believe she’s leaving. Just when I fell for her.

“Speaking of Spain . . .” Mrs. Reynolds hands her an envelope. “Enjoy your journey, but always remember where you came from.”

Maggie raises a glass with water filled in it. “Who can forget Paradise?”

We clink our glasses together.

After we eat, I open the boxes from Irina, the chef from Auntie Mae’s. As I set samples of pies in front of Maggie and Mrs. Armstrong, you’d swear they were related by the elated expressions on their faces.

We all take a fork and dig in.

“This has been the most magnificent day of my life since Albert died, may he rest in peace. Thank you both. But these weary bones need a rest.”

“Are you okay?” Maggie asks, concern lacing her voice. We both get up to help her.

“No, you two sit down and enjoy. I just need to rest a bit.”

Regardless to what the old lady is claiming, Maggie helps her upstairs while I clear the dishes. “She okay?” I ask when Maggie comes back outside.

“I think so. She went to the doctor yesterday. He wants to run some tests on her, but she’s too stubborn to go.”

I watch Maggie. God, anyone who’s with her is infected by her humility and honesty. “Care to dance?”

“I can’t,” she says. “Not with my leg . . .”

I take her hand in mine and lead her back into the gazebo. “Dance with me, Maggie,” I urge as I put one arm around her back and pull her close.

We sway to the music. Slowly she relaxes into my arms. “I never imagined it would be like this,” she says into my chest.

When her leg starts to hurt, I clear a place on the floor and we lie side by side next to each other.

“What did you ever see in Kendra?” she asks.

Hell, I don’t know. “She was popular and pretty. Someone who all the guys wished they could date. She used to look at me as if I was the only guy who could ever make her happy.”

She sits up. “Okay, now you sound like a jerk.”

“I was one.”

She lies next to me, my arm as her pillow.

We watch the candles burn down one by one. When there’s only one candle left, I kiss her soft lips and trace her curves with my hands until she’s breathless and weak.

“Let me see your scars,” I say when we’re both panting and coming up for air from making out. I take the hem of her dress in my fist and slowly slide the material up.

She stills my hand with her own and smoothes the material back down. “No.”

“Trust me.”

“I . . . I can’t,” she murmurs. “Not with my scars.”

Her words hit me like a cell door slamming closed. Because even if she thinks she forgave me, even if she made promises of forgiveness, even if she kisses me like I’m her hero, I finally realize she can’t get over her anger inside. And never will fully trust me.

I lie back, totally frustrated, and lay my arm over my eyes. “This isn’t going to work, is it?”

Maggie sits up. “I’m trying,” she says, her voice full of regret.

I want to tell Maggie I wasn’t responsible for hurting her leg, but I can’t. What if Leah was right? I can’t let my sister go to jail when I’ve already paid for her mistake. I’m committed to living with that blame forever.

The night of the accident, I was supposed to drive Leah home. But I was too drunk and enraged from Maggie’s accusations. Staying with Kendra and making sure she didn’t go home with any other guy was more important than anything else. My fucking ego. I had no idea Leah took my keys until she came back to the party ranting like a lunatic about an accident.

The rest, as they say, is history.