Little Gale Gumbo (38 page)

“Holl . . .” He stood, building strength as he paced the long boards of the porch floor. “I know we said we'd wait until I got back to talk, but if there's something you want to say, I don't want to wait. I've been doing a lot of thinking here. You were right about everything. About me not wanting to let go of the island and my life here, but I'm ready to do that now, and I think tha—”

“Matt.” Holly's weary voice found a burst of force, startling him. She drew in a shaky breath. “Oh, God, I didn't want to have to do this over the phone.”

The next pause felt endless. Matthew fixed his gaze on the porch railing, feeling his heart race.

“I'm pregnant.”

He reached for the railing.

“Matt? Are you still there?”

He gripped the rounded edge, his knuckles whitening.

“Matt, please. Say something.”

He stared out at the harbor, thinking how cold the water looked. “Congratulations.”

Then he clapped the phone shut.

 

The attendant on duty at the Merry Manor smiled as Jack approached the reception desk carrying a small brown bag in his hand.

“Hi, Bonnie. Is she in her room?”

“I think she's scrapbooking, Jack. The craft room. Down the hall to your left.”

“Thanks.” He walked to the end of the building, finding the small room where several old women were crowded around a card table, singing along to Tony Bennett.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

Irene Thurlow looked up, her round face flooding with delight. “Jack!” The rest of the table greeted him while his mother wheeled herself away from the table. “Ooh!” she squealed, seeing the bag. “You're wonderful!”

He held open the door and pushed her through.

“Thank God you came when you did, Jack. If I had to listen to another story about Joyce's son-in-law the brilliant doctor, I was going to put my head through a three-hole punch.”

Jack chuckled, steering them around a maid's cart. “I thought scrapbooking was on Thursdays.”

“It was,” Irene said, waving to an old man coming out of his room. “But we changed it to Mondays when Althea started PT again.”

“Ah. Of course.”

At the cafeteria, they settled into a sunlit corner with navy sectionals and an arching ficus. Irene dug a praline out of the bag, moaned as she bit into it. “Still as good as ever,” she said. “I'll never forget when you brought me home that first bag, Jack. I'd never had anything so wonderful in all my life.”

“I remember.”

Irene sighed. “It's just so awful what happened. I feel terrible for Matthew, and for Ben, too, of course. And those girls, Jack. After everything they've been through. You know how much I always liked Dahlia. So did you, if memory serves.”

Jack smiled, seeing the searching look in his mother's eyes.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “Very much.”

“I'm sure you've been seeing her during all of this.”

“Some.”

“Strange she never married, isn't it?”

“Not everyone gets married, Mom.” Jack glanced at the clock on the wall. “I should get going.”

“Oh, stay,” Irene pleaded. “I thought we could have some coffee cake. Look, Bernard's putting out some fresh now.”

“I can't,” Jack said, rising. “I'll come by tomorrow, okay?”

“Jack?”

“What?”

Irene smiled up at him. “Everyone deserves a second chance, you know.”

Jack leaned down and kissed her cheek. He knew.

 

Josie couldn't remember the last time she'd come to the cove. Certainly not like this, crying like a heartsick schoolgirl. She rested at the top of the dunes and took stock of the scene. It used to be that the cove was deserted most of the day, that it was effortless to slip into anonymity beneath the slick rocks. Now families and couples crowded the short strip of pebbled sand, their delighted children crouching over the tidal pools to pluck out crabs and periwinkles. Another reminder of how much time had gone by.

She took off her sandals and carried them down to the water, slipping between a pair of girls who trolled the sand, bent at the waist. Josie sat close to the water, uncaring of the nearing surf, and stared out at the horizon.

“Do you want that one?” a little voice asked.

It took Josie a moment to understand that the question was directed at her. She turned to face the taller of the two girls, her long curls pushed away from her eyes by a pair of swimming goggles, making a high wall of tangled blond hair that flopped like a rooster comb.

“That piece,” the girl said, pointing to Josie's hip, where a chunk of green sea glass was visible. “Do you want that one?”

Josie plucked the smoothed shard free, wiped it clean, and held it out. “Finders keepers,” she said. “It's a nice one. Green was always my favorite.”

“Blue's the best,” the girl said firmly, dropping the new treasure into her swinging pail. “I have two pieces at home. But I got those on another beach. This beach doesn't have very much. Look.” The girl held out her plastic bucket. Josie peered in, seeing only a few pieces skidding around the bottom.

“There used to be lots of sea glass here,” Josie said.

“Really? Where did it all go?”

“People found it. My sister and I found quite a bit, actually.”

“I have a sister too.” The girl pointed up the beach to a toddler wobbling around in an orange two-piece. “She eats sand.”

Josie smiled, her eyes filling with tears. “You're very lucky. Sisters are special.”

“That's what my mom says.”

“Your momma's right.”

“Molly!”

Josie saw the girl's mother waving from the top of the beach. The girl swung around, shrugged. “I gotta go. Mom says we can't stay all day today.”

Josie watched the girl race back up the sand, her friend following, their excited cries folding over one another, buckets sailing behind them, and the ache returned within her, deeper and heavier and more coiling than ever.

She looked back at the rocks, a memory returning to her. The five of them on a blustery spring day. Momma insisting on a group picture. They'd debated for several minutes where to pose, settling finally on a stretch of rocks flat enough that Matthew could set up the timer on the camera, but not so flat that the portrait hadn't turned out tilted. Still Momma had adored it, hanging it above the café's stove in a Woolworth frame and moving it only to clean the grease off its edges every few months.

Josie wiped her eyes, the waves of longing and remorse sweeping over her. She'd been so sure, so adamant she'd given up her feelings for Matthew, when all she'd really done was fold them away and store them like blankets, keeping secrets like currency, as if she might use them to buy back the past.

She rose and started up the beach, headed back for the car, her steps slow at first, then hastening as sudden panic charged through her.

Oh, God, she thought. Silly fool. What had she done?

Twenty-eight

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dahlia knew it didn't take more than one test. If there were two lines, there were two lines. There was no such thing as a false positive. And still she had peed on a total of eleven plastic sticks and now sat on the rounded edge of her tub and stared at the pile of them in her sink, wondering what the hell she was going to do.

 

Josie was struggling to carry a tray of gumbo bowls around four full tables when Dahlia burst into the café an hour later and blocked her passage. “I need to talk to you.”

“Can't it wait?” asked Josie, wide-eyed. “Momma's at the store and Wayne and Ben had to run out a delivery and I'm up to my ears!”

Without another word, Dahlia took the tray from Josie and set the three overflowing bowls down in front of the closest customer. Martin Glover sat back, withered hands up. “I didn't order these!”

“They're on the house,” said Dahlia over her shoulder as she dragged her sister past the counter and into the kitchen.

“What in the world is the matter with you?” Josie demanded, pulling free of Dahlia's grip when the door had swung closed. “Those were going to the Templetons!”

“I'm pregnant,” Dahlia announced flatly.

Josie looked as if she'd been punched. “What?”

“Yup.” Dahlia walked to the shelf above the stove and began riffling through the lineup until she found a bottle of cooking sherry and yanked off the top. When she put it to her mouth, Josie rushed across the room and grabbed it from her hand.

“You can't drink that!”

“I'm not keeping it,” Dahlia said.

“You can't know that yet.” Josie corked the bottle and returned it to the shelf. “You just found out.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can't. You have to at least talk to the fa—” Josie stopped herself, seeing Dahlia's eyes drop. Josie paled. “Oh, no.”

Dahlia sighed. “Oh, yes.”

Josie reached behind her to make sure a stool was there and she fell onto it. She couldn't bring herself to look at Dahlia.

“When?”

“The night before he left for Florida. He wanted to and I didn't want to hurt him. I know it sounds awful, Joze, but I felt like I owed it to him.”

“Owed it to him?” Josie's rage was immediate and scalding, piercing right through the shock. “
Owed
it to him?” she said again, her voice straining. “God, you have no shame!”

“Joze, don't start,” Dahlia said. “It's done. I have bigger problems right now.”

Josie looked away, her heart racing with anger and despair. “You have to tell him. ”

“No.” Dahlia shook her head repeatedly. “I can't.” She moved to Josie, her eyes pleading, panicked. “He can't know, Joze. And you can't tell him. You can't tell anyone. Promise me!”

Josie studied her sister, feeling numb. This couldn't be happening. It was simply too cruel. Josie, who'd always wanted a child and still couldn't get pregnant after years of trying. And Dahlia, who'd never cared to have kids, now carried Matthew's baby after one night.
Matthew's baby . . .

Josie struggled to her feet, dizzy. “I can't deal with this right now. I have to get back out there. I'm sorry. I can't just—”

“Jeezum, Jo!” Wayne burst into the kitchen, shrugging out of his jacket. “The customers are going nuts—what are you doing back here?”

Dahlia retreated to the sink. Josie turned to her husband and forced an easy smile. “Hi, baby.” She took his coat, even as he glared suspiciously at Dahlia. “How are the Keatings?”

“They're fine,” he said slowly, still watching Dahlia. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” Josie said, trying to keep her voice light, even as stubborn tears crept up her throat. “Dahl just had a fashion crisis, that's all. You know, a date tonight. She wanted to borrow a skirt. No big thing. I'll be right out, okay?”

Wayne looked at Dahlia, unconvinced. Camille came in with two bags of groceries. “I swear it could snow any minute!” Wayne took the bags from her and she plucked off her gloves. “I hope you finally got a chance to wrap those rosebushes in the front, Dahlia Rose,” she said, moving to the pantry door for her apron. “Those poor things were shivering like newborn babies when I left the house this morning.”

“I was on my way over right now, Momma,” Dahlia said, glad her mother hadn't glimpsed her guilty face. Dahlia hugged Josie on her way out. “Come by later?” she whispered against her sister's cheek.

Josie nodded, still smiling at her husband. She knew Wayne didn't believe a word of her story. Their faces must have been ghastly when he'd first stepped in, she thought, like two caught burglars. Never mind the fact that Josie's dress size was four sizes smaller than Dahlia's. Or that their taste in clothes was night and day.

But still Wayne waited until Dahlia had left the café and he and Josie were filling orders behind the counter before he leaned over and whispered, “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

“Later, baby,” Josie assured him, snapping the top on a tub of étouffée with shaking hands. “Later.”

 

A soft snow had been falling for almost an hour when Josie came to Dahlia's house that night, flakes so light that they blew across the stone path like feathers. Josie rubbed her arms as she walked through the downstairs looking for her sister. The choking smell of burned food was thick in the house.