The Last Embrace (33 page)

My breath catches a bit at the unexpected shift back toward us. Such conversations are too dangerous—and at the same time moot. “You must. You're getting married.”

“I didn't mean for it to happen like this. I'm sorry if that sounds disloyal to Grace, but it's true. She was so kind.” Kind. I would never want to be described that way by a man who purported to love me. I feel a moment's sympathy for the woman who has everything she'd ever wanted. “Anyway, I wouldn't have wanted to come back to you like this.” He points toward his legs. His limp is minor and almost healed, but to Charlie the imperfection makes him somehow less of a man. “I'd always wonder if you were here out of love or pity.”

“You should know the answer to that.” I am suddenly angry at Charlie for making decisions for all of us, just like Claire said he always had.

But I was the one who walked away, I remember then. And our dream had died before he was ever injured, so long ago we had not even realized. “Even if we could turn back the clock we'd still be standing here or somewhere pretty close.”

“How can you say that? We had everything when we were together,” he says. He gestures upward. “It just isn't the same.”

“There's a reason that feelings like that come only once, Charlie.”

“I still think we would be together.”

I shake my head. “There was a time when I believed that. I thought we were some sort of star-crossed lovers and that all that kept us apart was circumstance.”

“When did you stop feeling that way?”

“Today, when I saw all of us together and how we changed. I'm not that same scared kid who put you on a pedestal. You need that, Charlie, you always have. Grace gives you that adoration. I can see it in her eyes. God bless her, she'll probably be able to do it for the rest of her life.” Part of me would always want him, and wonder what would have happened if I had made a life with Charlie. But that door is now closed.

“I've never been able to tell Grace the whole story about us. The whole thing feels too close, y'know?” I nod. “What holds this family together is all of the stuff we've been through. That's hard for outsiders to take.”

He tilts his head toward Liam, who is working intently in the yard. “So you two are together?”

“Yes.” The word comes out with more certainty than I had planned. I hadn't thought about it consciously until just now. After all, it has only been two days. But there is no hesitating or couching it, like I had done with Teddy in London. “Liam and I are together.” I savor the words, owning them.

“And you're staying?”

The harder question. “I haven't thought about it.”

“Don't hurt him, Addie. He's been through so much. I don't know if he could take it if you left again.” The weight of others' happiness is suddenly heavy on my shoulders once more.

He stares out at the window in the direction of the ocean and I can tell he is thinking about the fighting overseas and not being a part of it.

“It's tough, isn't it? Not being there, I mean.” He looks up in surprise. “I remember being in London and so desperately wanting to help. I felt powerless.”

“Yeah.” He smiles faintly. On this one level, at least, we can still connect.

“It's almost over,” I say. Paris has been liberated in the week since I left, a sure sign that this couldn't go on forever. “And we will win.”

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “our own war is coming to an end, too.” He kisses me on the cheek and the longing in me that will never completely disappear rises, then ebbs again as he stands and joins Grace upstairs.

Desire pulls at me as I watch him go. Not for Charlie, though. It is Liam I want. I start toward the porch, wanting to cajole him upstairs. Going to him with Charlie and Grace here feels somehow wrong, though. I turn away. As I climb the stairs to the loft, I remember the night before. Perhaps Liam will come to me again. But even after I undress and climb into bed, the hallway remains still. With Charlie and Grace here, it seems everything has changed.

It is late afternoon when I hear the crunching of tires over stones and the screech of brakes. I set down my paintbrush and follow Liam around the side of the house. The Connallys stand frozen, looking up at their house as though seeing it for the first time. Drinking in the sight of them, I am unable to speak. Mrs. Connally, in a gray pinstripe dress with white cuffs, is a different person, an elderly relative of herself. Her once-lively cap of red hair is now back in a firm knot, strands of gray beginning to creep in at her temple. The circles under her eyes which appeared the day of the accident had never gone away. Beneath his straw brimmed hat, Mr. Connally still gives off the appearance of a grizzly bear, one now worn with age. He lumbers slowly, advancing ahead of his wife.

“Addie.” Mrs. Connally's voice is the same, only softer. I lean forward and kiss her cool, dry cheek. She embraces me tightly as if clinging to a life raft, oblivious to the paint that threatens to seep from my clothes to her own. “We didn't know you were coming back.”

“Neither did I.”

“Mom... Dad.” Liam steps forward.

“Liam.” His parents speak flatly, almost in unison. Mr. Connally stares hard at his son, taking in the changes of the time since they had seen one another. Mrs. Connally looks away, unable to mask the anger and love that mix in her eyes.

From their car comes a sudden clattering and a yellow dog squeezes out of the backseat, tail wagging slowly. “Beau!” I cry as he ambles over. He is overweight, his snout more gray than gold. But his lick on my hand is unmistakable. Through it all, the old fella is still here.

“That's about as much excitement as he manages these days,” Mr. Connally offers. “Ten is pretty old for a dog.”

Liam kneels, ruffling Beau's fur. “He missed me most.” For a moment he is transformed to the insecure boy I met that first day, who cared so much about being taller than me. Then he straightens and gestures toward the car. “We should get your things.”

Mr. Connally lifts the small suitcase he has brought with him. “These are our things.” Liam slumps beside me. They could not be planning to stay more than a few days.

I turn to Mrs. Connally. “I remember another day of unpacking,” I say, calling upon the memory of our first summer in an attempt to ease the tension. But Mrs. Connally simply nods, the nostalgia a painful reminder of her loss.

“You've done a fine job of reopening the house,” Mr. Connally remarks as we go inside. He and Mrs. Connally walk a few feet apart from one another, not moving in unison as they once had. Separate, Charlie had told me that day in Washington, which now seemed so very long ago. Their relationship with Liam was not the only thing that needed to heal.

“Addie's helped me a lot these past few days.” The Connallys look at me with surprise, as though I am still a child and incapable of being any real use at all.

Automatically we all gravitate toward the kitchen. I put water in the kettle and begin to rummage through the cupboard.

Mrs. Connally looks around anxiously. “Charlie?” She has not seen him since he's come home from Europe. I look at Liam, worried that he will be hurt by his mother's preoccupation with her eldest.

But Liam pats her arm, seeming to understand. “He's already here. He and Grace went to the beach. He looks good.”

“And Jack?” Mrs. Connally asks.

Liam shakes his head. “He's got a big conference for work.” Among us lies the truth that Jack was simply too tired to weather another family confrontation. He has his own life, has managed to break free.

“Our Addie,” Mrs. Connally says as she plants an easy kiss on my cheek.

“How's your place in Miami?” I ask.

“Small, new. Close to the water, like here.” Mrs. Connally's face drops. “Only it's nothing like here. But we couldn't go back to the city. Everything has changed. The neighborhood isn't what it was.” Other families had moved in and would create their own stories on the streets where we had lived and worked.

The door clatters and Charlie and Grace walk in. I marvel at how Grace's classic beach wrap is unwrinkled and her hair pristine, not blown wildly from the ocean winds as mine would have been. “Oh!” Mrs. Connally sets down her tea so hard it splashes across the counter, then flings herself at her oldest son. “You're here.” She pulls away, staring at him.

“Mom and Dad, this is Grace,” Charlie says. I stand back, having never felt more like an outsider. I do not belong here.

“So nice to meet you.” The warmth in Mrs. Connally's voice is genuine at meeting her future daughter-in-law. Envy rises in me.

Liam, seeming to sense this, comes up and takes my hand. “Why don't you show Mom what we've done with the yard?”

“I'm going to dress,” Grace says softly to Charlie.

I lead Mrs. Connally out back. “See how Liam restored the garden.” I point, driven by a need to point out all he has done to make things right. Mrs. Connally's face crumbles, the garden a reminder of a time before. I see then how far I have come in my grief. But for her, Robbie's mother, it might never change. I reach down and squeeze her fingers in mine. “I think Robbie would have loved it, don't you?” Not talking about him would not make things any easier.

Beau meanders out back and lies down on the deck in his usual spot from years ago, as though he had been there yesterday. If only it could be that easy for the rest of us.

“You try and do everything to protect them.” Mrs. Connally's voice is flat and her eyes cloudy, as though elsewhere. “Swimming lessons at the Y from the time they were two. No riding in cars with friends.” She drops her head to her hands. “And still it was never enough.” A minute later, she looks up. “You knew, didn't you, about Charlie and the army? Back when he was keeping it from us?”

“I did,” I say, unable to deny it. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you.” I wait for the anger which will surely come.

But her face remains impassive. “You were doing what you thought was best. We all were.” I cannot tell if her forgiveness is genuine, or if she is simply too tired to fight anymore.

“Grace seems nice,” I offer.

“She does,” Mrs. Connally replies, her voice carefully neutral. “I just always thought that maybe you and Charlie would wind up together.” Me, too. So she had not guessed or known after all. I flash back to the Thanksgiving night it all had happened. The news of my relationship with Charlie had sat untouched like a forgotten present under the tree the day after Christmas. I consider telling her everything that happened, the reasons Charlie and I could not make it work. But none of it matters anymore. “Come.” We walk back inside.

When I return from dressing for dinner, Liam has set out cold roast-beef sandwiches. The talk has turned to politics. “And now with Stalin making moves,” Mr. Connally is saying. One war was not yet over, and another already beginning.

“All that planning for war, but no one has planned for peace.” As Charlie talks about politics, a light dances in his eyes that I have not seen since before it all happened. I know then that he will go to Washington.

Sitting around the kitchen table, warmth envelops me anew and my spirits soar. Home is bigger than Charlie and what had happened between us. My story may have started with him, but it didn't end there. In this most solemn of places, I am happy again in a way that I thought the war had ended for good.

My hand runs over something—the old groove in the edge of the table that Robbie had worn with his pocketknife—he'd gotten grounded for a week for making it. It is still there—but he isn't. Robbie and Jack are both missing. We are here, but not whole. Regret washes over me. My stomach turns. I had let myself depend on the Connallys once before, a trap I would not fall into again by getting too close. The room is suddenly warm and I step from the house, gulping for air.

Outside the sun has nearly set and Liam is working on the porch swing in the semidarkness. “Hey.” I move toward him. “You disappeared.” He had escaped, so quietly I had not seen him go. Concern pushes through me that he is feeling excluded again and might return to his old ways.

But when he looks up, his face is peaceful. “I just wanted to get this finished before tonight.” No, he is not alienated as he had once been. Rather, despite his happiness at having them all back, he just finds the quiet easier. He straightens and draws me close. I press up against him, growing warm and wishing that it was just the two of us alone at the house once more.

“It's great having everyone back, isn't it?” he asks.

“Yes.” It isn't easy all being together again to be sure, but it feels right in a way things haven't in years.

“Mom and Dad seem different somehow.” So he had noticed, too.

“It's hard—for everyone. A lot of people and memories in one place.”

“Is that why you've been keeping your distance?”

I look up at him, surprised. “My distance?”

“When you didn't come to me last night, I thought you didn't want this anymore.” He does not finish.

“I was waiting for you to come to me.” We laugh, realizing the irony of our misunderstanding.

“I thought Charlie coming back had stirred up feelings.”

“If anything, it is the opposite.” I wrap my arms around his waist, watching first his surprise. It is quickly followed by relief as he realizes I have chosen him. That I want to be here with him, not just wound up but actually picked, like kids choosing kids for a kickball game, seems to matter to him a great deal.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

“Happy, angry, sad, relieved,” he rattles off in a monotone. “I don't know what I was expecting.”

“Well, they're here and that's something.”

“Doesn't look like they're planning to stay very long, though.”

“Well, you'll just have to change their minds.”

“Do you think I can? Both of them, Mom especially, just seem so far beyond reach.”

I search for an optimistic response. Finding none, I squeeze his shoulder. “First things first. Let's get this damned paint job finished already.”

But he stands motionless, staring at me. “What is it?” I ask, sensing his uneasiness. He has dreamed for so long of having his family here. Is it now too much, bringing back all of the pain and memories?

“I love having them here,” he whispers. “But I can't stop thinking about being alone with you.” His voice is husky, sending heat searing through me. He reaches for me and we fumble in the darkness like teenagers afraid of getting caught. Hearing the voices of the others inside, I start to protest. But I am swept under by his touch. He pulls me around the side of the house and I stand paralyzed with disbelief as he lifts my skirt. He enters me against the side of the deck, moving silently in the darkness, and I bite into his forearm so I will not scream.