Little Gale Gumbo (32 page)

Jack smiled, grateful for her effort, but they both knew there was no emergency, no good excuse for Dahlia's absence. He rose and wished Josie good night.

“What should I tell Dahlia?” she asked, her voice desperate as Jack made his way down the front steps.

He shrugged. “Tell her I was here. Tell her I was here the whole time.”

Josie nodded dully as she watched him walk down the sidewalk and climb into his car.

On her way inside she stopped, smelling the smoke rise over the dunes, sharp and thick, and she burst into tears.

Twenty-three

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wayne had gone upstairs for the night, leaving Josie and Dahlia to linger in the kitchen, stalling over dirty dishes that could easily have waited until morning, but neither sister wanted to surrender the night, hoping there was still a chance Matthew might arrive. Josie had spent the last few hours coming up with reasons for his delay, while Dahlia had offered up agreeable nods, denying her sister the truth of their friend's absence. When the knock finally sounded at nine, they moved to the front door together, their languid movements suddenly urgent with purpose. Josie proved the swifter in the race, claiming the doorknob for her own.

Matthew stood on the porch, his Windbreaker shiny with rain.

“I hope I'm not too late for dessert.”

He held up Dahlia's forgotten bottle of bourbon. She reached out to take it, their eyes meeting.

“You were supposed to finish it,” she said.

He pushed back his hood. “I tried passing around shots to the hospital staff, but they weren't interested. More the white-wine types, I guess.”

Josie drew him inside, taking his coat. “We wanted to call,” she said softly as they walked into the kitchen. “But we didn't want to disturb you.”

“Where's Wayne?”

“Upstairs.”

Matthew looked between the sisters. “It's late,” he said, as if the hour had only just then occurred to him. “I should have called first.”

Josie reached up and kissed his damp cheek. “I'll get us some glasses.”

 

Matthew made a fire in the living room while Dahlia picked out music and Josie reheated bowls of bread pudding. Ready, they gathered barefoot around the coffee table to the familiar strains of Louis Armstrong. Matthew poured them generous shots, one round, then another. The logs burned, crackling and spitting.

When their bowls were nearly empty, Josie gasped. “All this drinking and we haven't made a toast yet.”

Matthew cleared his throat, lifting his glass. “To the three of us. Like old times.”

“Like old times,” Dahlia echoed.

They clinked their glasses in the center of the table and threw back their shots. Matthew poured again, sloppy now, and he splashed a pillow covered in a familiar scarlet silk.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Is that . . . ?”

“Momma's kimono robe,” Josie said. “Do you remember it?”

“Of course I do. Jesus, do I ever.”

“When it tore too badly to repair, she saved a few squares to make into gris-gris bags, then turned the rest into pillows,” Josie said proudly.

Dahlia chuckled into her glass. “Now Momma can't say she never drank.”

The sisters fell against each other, laughing.

Watching them, lost in their amusement, Matthew felt the lightness of the alcohol, the welcome warmth and ease of it. The bourbon was loosening his thoughts, like thread unspooled.

“I miss this.” He reached for them. “I miss us.”

The sisters gave him their hands and the chain was complete.

“I performed a cleansing ritual for Ben today,” Josie said. “It wasn't as perfect as one of Momma's, but I think it will help rid the house of whatever negative energy Daddy might have left behind. I really do.”

Matthew squeezed Josie's hand, her thin fingers warm. “Thanks, JoJo. That would mean a lot to Pop.”

Josie rose to her feet, steadying herself on the side of the couch. “Bathroom break,” she said. “And one of y'all'd better get to making some coffee while I'm gone or no one's going home.”

Matthew grinned. “Yes, ma'am.”

As Josie disappeared down the hall, Dahlia slid around the coffee table and scooted in beside him.

“Sorry I missed dinner,” Matthew said.

“You should be. I made it.”

“Oh, then in that case . . .”

She gave him a playful push. He pushed back. They smiled at each other, their expressions cautious at first, then yielding quickly.

“I'm sorry for what I said, Dee. I was just so damn angry. . . .”

“Don't.” Dahlia reached out, pressing her fingers against his lips. When he had quieted, she lifted her hand and smoothed back a chunk of his hair. “It's forgotten.”

Matthew looked into her eyes. “It's about the only thing that is.”

Dahlia let her fingers drift down to his ear, his jaw, the hint of beard there so much coarser than when she'd touched him as a lover. She noticed the wrinkles where his ear met his cheek, the slight pleating of skin, that subtle but undeniable cue of middle age.

“I'm sorry too,” she said. “I was mad at Jack today and I took it out on you.”

It wasn't the first time, Matthew thought. Then again, it wasn't the first time he and Dahlia had found themselves together in the wake of some crisis of the heart either. What a difference a few hours made. He'd left the hospital thinking of Holly's phone call, the spark of promise still fresh and bright in his mind, yet here with Dahlia, it seemed that everything else dimmed. The bourbon and the fire, the warmth and the jazz—he was reminded of how much he'd wanted her, how deeply, how long. Safely lost in their old world, Holly seemed another lifetime, another life. It was always so easy on the island, knowing their places, their wounds, how little it took to mend them.

Matthew's eyes blinked open, languid and heavy. “God, I've missed this.”

“Me too,” Dahlia said, knowing even as she said it that she didn't mean it like he did. But there wasn't any point in making the distinction. They were too drunk now. It was the guilt talking, and she knew it. The unbearable ache in her chest, knowing what she'd done, what she'd kept from him, and would have to now, knowing Matthew might never forgive her. He reached for her face and Dahlia let him catch her cheek, let him ease her closer. When he slipped his tongue between her parted lips, Dahlia regretted it immediately, but then Josie appeared, saving Dahlia from having to push him away.

Her sister stood before them, her face crumpling.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Josie lowered her eyes so they couldn't see the pained flush that had spread across her skin. She gestured to the stairs. “You know, I didn't realize it had gotten so late. I think I'm just going to leave y'all alone and get to bed.”

“Don't go,” pleaded Matthew, catching her wrist, trying to tug her back down to the floor even as she grew as rigid as a fence post. “Come on, JoJo. Stay. Just a little while longer. We haven't had coffee yet.”

Josie looked to Dahlia, but Dahlia couldn't meet her sister's wounded eyes.

“I can't, Matty. I'm sorry.” Josie leaned down and kissed him on the mouth. “Tomorrow, okay?”

He nodded, wondering how it was that bourbon from Josie's lips tasted more like vanilla lip gloss as he watched her climb the stairs, her head hanging, the opposite of okay.

 

“Late night, huh?”

Wayne's voice startled Josie when she crept into the bedroom. “You can turn on the light if you want,” he said.

“That's okay.” Josie undressed quickly, slipping her nightgown over her head. Wayne lifted the sheet for her and she climbed in beside him.

Dahlia's bursting laugh sailed up the stairs, filling their quiet room.

“Sounds like old times down there, doesn't it?” Wayne whispered.

Josie rolled against her pillow, wishing he hadn't said so.

He reached for her, his hands still smelling of cut grass.

“Sometimes it's better to let things go, Jo,” he said. “Better for everybody.”

Josie felt the tears seep through her closed eyes, the shameful envy that she'd worked so hard to abandon, filling her up again as if it had never left.

She steered Wayne's hands down from her hip. “We should get some sleep, baby.”

But as she lay there, her heart raced at every laugh, every cheery, teasing sound that came from downstairs, and even though she wished desperately that Matthew and Dahlia might just leave and end her suspense, when she finally heard the clap of the door and the growl of the truck's engine, the silence that followed was so much worse. She'd almost forgotten just how much worse.

Twenty-four

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wayne's proposal came on a crisp June day, when the lilacs had finally bloomed across the island, fat sprays of lavender and white. He'd been nervous at the café all week, spilling orders and forgetting change, but only Ben and Camille had known why. If Josie suspected, she didn't let on. Wayne didn't imagine she would say no. For as long as they'd been together, Josie had made it clear how badly she wanted children, how she couldn't wait to start a family.

For the most part, it had been a quiet start to summer at the Haskell house. Newly graduated from college, Matthew had decided to spend the summer on Martha's Vineyard, living with five roommates in a rustic stable apartment and painting Victorian cottages in Oak Bluffs; an irony that hadn't been lost on Ben, who had been pleading with his son to paint their peeling Queen Anne for years. Dahlia spent little time at the café, having started her landscaping business in earnest, securing contracts with several wealthy summer people and buying a pickup truck that she painted hot pink. Matthew had invited her down several times for a visit, though she had yet to commit to a date.

“I can't imagine Matty has time to entertain,” Josie said, counting the register drawer shortly before closing. “Ben says he's working seven days a week out there.”

Dahlia made herself an iced coffee with the last of the pot. “He'd make time for me.”

Josie didn't argue. They both knew it was true.

“Want to catch a movie later?” Dahlia asked.

“Can't,” Josie said. “Wayne's taking me to Florentine's for dinner.”

“Ooh. So fancy.”

“I think he wants us to move in together.”

“In where? His mom's garage?”

“Very funny.” Josie pushed the drawer closed. “For your information, we've been looking at rentals. Claire Watson is renting out her carriage house. It's more than we can afford, but she said she'd cut us a deal.”

“You mean she'd cut
Wayne
a deal. If it was just you looking, she'd charge double.”

“That's not true. Lord, Dahl, we've been here almost seven years now. You can stop thinking everyone is still looking to chase us out of town.”

“Well, if they aren't, it's only because you-know-who hasn't been out of jail long enough lately to visit.”

“Shh, don't say that.” Josie groaned, walking to the door and flipping the sign in the window. “Now I'll have to dust the stupid steps again.”