The Stories We Tell (11 page)

“He was my best friend,” I say.

“Um, yeah. Sure thing, Eve.”

“I don't want to talk about this. It was a long, long time ago.”

“Have you remembered number nine yet?” she asks, wiggling nine fingers in the air.

“No, I was hoping you'd help.”

“Great idea, sis. Get the brain-injured girl to help you remember.” She laughs and leans toward me.

“Shush.”

“But, yes.” She nods and sips her tea. “Absolutely I want to keep helping with this.”

I take a lavender macaroon and pop it into my mouth. Willa picks up the other one, vanilla, and takes a tiny nibble from its corner, so hers lasts longer.

I stand. “I need to go. I have to check in on the studio. If you want to come over for dinner tonight, I'm making lasagna. Just walk over in a couple hours.”

“Thanks, but I'll probably just stay here. I want to get into my bed and sleep on a real pillow. I want to go all night without something beeping or someone poking me.”

“Call me if you need anything at all.
Anything.
When Marci came to clean, I had her put groceries in your fridge, so you have the basics.”

She takes another sip of her tea. “I will pay you back. Someday I will make up for this.”

 

nine

There is a story behind everything.
Those are the words Cooper uses at the beginning of his keynote speeches, or his fund-raising talks, or his retelling of how he started his e-magazine publishing company. That's also the tagline under the Fine Line, Ink's logo. I'd never thought much of the fact that he took that sentiment from my letterpress company. It's a compliment when your husband uses something of yours, when he admires your work enough to emulate it.

Tonight, when he begins his speech, I will be able to mouth the words:
There's a story behind everything.
He will then launch into his own story of how baseball changed his life, how he once believed he'd play college ball, until he threw out his shoulder. His talk will end on a high note, but for now, it's three in the afternoon and I'm checking on every last detail for the party.

It hasn't always been this way—with me trying to prove my worth to Cooper. But it's this way now and I can feel the push of the idea behind me: Show him and maybe he won't be so upset about everything else—my sister, our daughter, my time at the studio. A hundred people will be here soon. I left the caterer in the kitchen, placing canapés on silver trays. The string quartet arrived an hour ago and they are deciding where to set up. Along the driveway, strings of twinkle lights cast a starlight glow from the trees, the heavens closer to earth. Nice, it's all looking exactly as I planned.

The party has a theme—baseball—but the theme for me is all about getting through the evening.

I amble up the long driveway. One string of lights has come unhinged and hangs like a soft hammock of stars. “Brian,” I call out to the workman who hung the lights, but there's no answer. Against the tree, the ladder rests with its pegged feet digging into the earth. I'm on the top step, tucking the string back into the branches, when I hear Max's laughter, and I wonder if he is talking to Francie or Willa, and what is so funny. I lean my forehead against the tree. The bark is rough, a calloused hand on my skin, and I close my eyes. Then I hear my name.

“Eve,” Max says, and I look down, startled he is below me.

“Oh,” I say, and grip the ladder. “What are you doing?”

“What are
you
doing?” He squints against the evening sun.

“A string fell loose.” I climb down to face him. “And I couldn't find Brian.”

We're facing each other and he's holding the ladder, so when my feet touch the grass, we're so close.

“Why isn't anyone helping you?” he asks.

“I'm fine,” I say. “I got it.”

He smiles at me. “I'm
so
very sorry I can't be at this party tonight.”

I smile in return, but my face almost doesn't know how to do this; I seem to be out of practice. “I know you wish you could come, because you love to put on a tuxedo and eat small bites and have libations.”

“You are so right,” he says. “And I wish I could smile and shake hands and talk about the state of South Carolina politics while holding a tiny martini.”

“You'd have a blast with all the small talk—it's your very favorite.”

“Small talk
is
my favorite,” he says. “I much prefer it to big talk.” His laughter rises into the oak leaves and settles there with the evening sunlight. “Maybe I could just hang out in the kitchen and eat all the small bites before they can be served.”

“Get out of here.” I laugh and gently nudge his shoulder.

“I will.” He picks something from the edges of my hair. “Moss,” he states simply, and then hands me a wisp of it.

I take the tangle of spindly plant and then drop it onto the soft earth. We both look down to where it lands and then glance back up together. Our eyes meet and he smiles. “Have a libation for me.” And with that, he walks back across the field toward the barn.

*   *   *

The evening sun plays catch me if you can with the Spanish moss hanging from the oak trees. Slivers of light stab and then retreat through the screen on the porch, where Gwen and Cooper are sitting on lounge chairs, each absorbed in their own reading. I can't see the novel Gwen's reading, but I'm sure it has something to do with true love or vampires, probably both. Cooper flips through a stack of papers with charts and graphs. I'm propped on the arm of a living room chair, watching them. They can't see me but I can see them. And I can't resist eavesdropping.

Dad and daughter.

Cooper loves his daughter. He's devoted to her. But deep down, in the honest places, I've always considered Gwen to be mine. She grew inside me. She was nursed by me, rocked by me. I took her to every doctor and teacher and tutor. I shuttled her to dance class and horseback-riding lessons and camps. I sat up with her the nights she was sick. I've let her cry and made her laugh. Maybe I didn't give Cooper any space to do these things, but he's never tried and I've never blamed him. He wants to be close to her, and he tries with words of love, always telling her how much he loves her, how proud he is of her, at least until lately. I've watched and cringed with frustration at Gwen's attempts to get closer to her dad on those occasions when Cooper hasn't been able to sit still long enough, listen long enough to hear what she's
really
trying to say.

Now that he wants to be more involved, to dictate the discipline and rules, I find myself defensive and annoyed. He didn't stay up all night when she had a fever or sit through a slew of teacher conferences, so why does he want to slam his hand down on her life now? I think it must have something to do with her fading childhood, about her becoming a woman with her own opinions and needs. But who can know anyone's motivation?

They need to understand each other better and I need to step back and not interfere. I've placed myself between them in some meager attempt to stop Cooper from hurting Gwen and to stop Gwen from infuriating Cooper, and I've been about as effective as Willa was when she grabbed the steering wheel.

“What are you reading?” Cooper asks her.

“
The Fault in Our Stars.
”

“What's it about?” Cooper asks.

“Two best friends with cancer who fall in love. It's really sad and really great. Want to hear my favorite line?”

“Sure.”

“‘I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.'” She exhales the last part of the sentence, a sigh. “Isn't that perfect?” she asks her dad.

There is a lull, a silent pause, a breath, before he speaks.

“You coming to the party tonight?”

My fists grip and my jaw clenches. Can't he hear her? Can't he hear the need for response, for something, anything, that doesn't have to do with him? I hold back; I stand still, but my heart rate speeds up, as if I'm running for Gwen.

Then she answers, quietly, almost defeated. “Yes, of course I'll be at the party. I mean, like, it's totally here in our house, so how could I not?”

“Good. I want you there. It's a big night and I'm a little nervous.”

“You?” Gwen laughs and places her book on the coffee table.

“Yes, me.” He leans toward her. “I haven't really been in a crowd since the accident and…”

Gwen nods. “You're back at work, though.”

“Yes,” he says. “But this is different.”

She's thoughtful for a moment. “Right. It is. I get it.”

“I'm sorry I've been so tense with you, Pea. I've been … stressed with work and I worry that you might make a mistake you'll regret, one that will hurt you. If I've made a mistake in how I talk to you, it's because I'm clumsy. I don't know what to do to keep you safe. But I
will
keep you safe. It's my job.”

Gwen is silent but leaning forward, taking in these words.

“You understand, right?” Cooper asks.

“Not really, but I guess so.”

“Whatever you do or don't understand, you know I love you, right?”

“Um, yeah, I do. But I don't understand what happened with Aunt Willa.”

“Neither do I, Pea. Neither do I. Well, I guess it's time for us to get all dressed up for the night. Ready to face the crowd.”

“Are you glad you won this award?” Gwen reaches toward her dad with words, with kindness.

“Yes. It's a really big deal and it will help with fund-raising. I'm thrilled, actually. Just bad timing on the party.”

“Yep.” Gwen stands. “Doesn't really seem like a night for a party.”

I move quietly toward the kitchen, away from the porch, away from their intimate conversation and their raw needs. Sometimes it seems so simple. Cooper needs to be respected in the family, but his clumsiness is creating a rift. Gwen needs to be close to him, but in her teenaged confusion, she's creating a distance.

If there was one thing I could do—any one thing to mend our hearts and disparate needs—I would. Instead, I pull out silver trays from the kitchen cabinets and prepare for the caterers. What else is there to do?

*   *   *

I stand at the front door, ready to meet the guests. My dress is simple, cream linen with satin piping running along the seams' edges. It flares out at the bottom and I if twirled around, which of course I won't, it would swing in a circle like those cute girls in the commercial for the lipstick that will change your life. I've worn the dress before, but only once, and from what I can remember, it was for a school function, which means no one here will remember. The shoes, though, are new and pinching my toes in a death squeeze.

Men arrive in tuxedos, women in cocktail dresses made of sequins and chiffon. I hug the women and shake the men's hands. “Thanks so much for coming,” I say to Bill, to Carter, to Sally and Mark. Names come easily and they, too, greet me, Cooper's wife, with wide smiles and then a furrowed brow, all with the same question, phrased differently but always meaning this: “Are
you
okay?” For a half hour now, I've fielded this question, until everyone has arrived and we shut the front door.

The quartet plays something soft and elegant—music to fund-raise by. I scan the scene. Overhead lighting is off, so there is only the soft glow of lamplight and candles; trays on the dining room table are full of bite-size food; the bartender stands in his black suit behind the table covered in white cloth, where liquor bottles are lined up; bottles of white wine sink inside a silver ice bucket. Everything is in place.

Louise and Averitt wait on the far side of the den. I wonder what it must be like for Louise to stand in her house, one that is no longer hers anymore. Does she see the red plaid couch that once sat there? Does she abhor the painting of the sailboat that hangs where her portrait once did? Her lips are coiled into the pout of annoyance I have become accustomed to but still avoid. I approach my in-laws with a smile.

“I'm so glad you are here.” I hug them both and they hug me.

“You are beautiful tonight,” Averitt says, and nods with a single tilt of his head.

“Thanks, Averitt.”

Cooper is at our side now, hugging his mother, shaking hands with his father. “Hey, Dad. Glad you came.”

“We are so proud of you, son. Look at what you've done with the family name. It only gets better with you.”

Cooper beams at his Father's praise. He takes my hand and squeezes it. “It's been a great ride, knowing that I can do something good with the sport you taught me.”

“You know,” Louise says, and places her hand on her son's arm, “Dad was so upset when you didn't go into the family business. But you've proved us wrong. You've made a name for yourself. We are so proud.”

I wander into the living room, where I've cleared all the furniture out to create a gathering space to view the inspirational video that is designed to bring tears and get everyone to donate to Home Run. Cooper's plaque—the one he received as Philanthropist of the Year for this very cause—is prominently displayed on an easel over the fireplace.

Fritz Webb is the only man in the room wearing a suit and bow tie instead of a tuxedo. His hair is mussed, a word my mom once used when I didn't brush my hair. I've always liked him; he speaks efficiently, quick remarks with explanation points seeming to hide at the end of every sentence.

“Hi, Eve,” he hollers across the room, and moves toward me.

“Hey there, Fritz. I'm so glad you came tonight.”

“Me, too. Yep.”

“How have you been?” I ask, while in my peripheral vision I see Cooper heading toward us.

“Good. Except for that harebrained scheme we all fell into. That was bad.” He shakes his head and a flock of hair falls across his forehead; he swipes at it. “Bad.”