The Stories We Tell (29 page)

“I never did hear exactly what happened.” Brad lifts his wineglass, as if waiting for someone to tell a really good story. “Thank God you weren't hurt worse, my friend.”

I set my fork on the table and settle my gaze on Cooper. “I don't think anyone knows exactly what happened.”

Cooper flinches. “I do.” He looks around the table and smiles that charming smile. “It's a simple and stupid story. I wish I'd just left her alone and just let her embarrass herself. But hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Starla says.

“Dingle,” I say.

“Huh?” she looks at me.

I smile at her and wave my hand in the air. “Nothing.”

A few minutes later, I excuse myself to go to the ladies' room. In the tiny bathroom, I stare into the mirror, taking stock of my face, my feelings. I apply lipstick and a quick swipe of mascara. If only my feelings could be so easily glossed over. When I'm through, I make a beeline to the bar, where gorgeous women bartenders juggle orders, demands, and beers while wearing black-laced bustierres. I sidle through the crowd and holler, “Is Benson here?”

“Over there.” A girl with long auburn curls points to the far end of the bar.

I walk toward him. He's talking to a crowd of people and soothing what seemed to be an argument about who first had claim to a bar stool. “Hi, Benson.”

“Well, hello, Eve.” He hugs me. “How are you?”

“Good.”

“I saw Willa yesterday.” He smiles with such genuine regard. “She's doing so great. I can't wait until she comes back to sing.”

“Me, neither. I'll be in the front chair.”

He laughs. “Damn, if you'd only been here that night instead.” He isn't accusing; he's smiling with his eyes, with his voice.

“You were here, right?”

He nods.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I wish I knew. I was in the back, working with the sound system. I knew she was up next, but when I came out, she was gone. Her guitar was here, but she wasn't.”

“Do you remember her acting weird or drunk or anything at all off?”

“No. Not even a little.” He exhales. “I mean, I don't know what happened the half hour I was back working on the sound system, but not before.”

“Thanks.”

I feel it; I feel Cooper staring at me. I glance back to Benson. “Do you remember Cooper there?”

He shakes his head. “I don't usually notice the dinner crowd. I'm too busy taking care of the crazies at the bar.”

I hug him and return to the table. “It's nice to see Benson,” I say as Carla and Cooper stand to let me back into the booth.

The check has arrived at the table and the men are playing credit card roulette, where they fold the credit cards in a fan and made the waitress pick one with her eyes closed. Cooper loses, or wins—depending how you looked at it.

We gather our things and wait for the bill to be signed, but when the waitress returns, her eyes drawn together above her reading glasses, she hands the credit card to Cooper. “I'm sorry, sir. There seems to be a problem. It was declined.”

Cooper laughs as if she's playing a practical joke. “That's not possible,” he says.

“Well, maybe you can call. Sometimes a halt is put on it because they think there is a funny charge.…”

“Geeze.” Cooper smiles at her and then at us. “Gwen probably bought something at an iffy store.…” He reaches into his wallet and then looks at me. “Honey, this is all I brought.”

I reach into my purse with a smile, but my mouth is arid, parched, as I realize I haven't brought a wallet or cash; I always depend on Cooper to cover it all: the dinners, the bills, our life.

“Damn, Cooper.” Brad places his hand on the table. “I've got this.” He hands the card to the waitress. “But you owe me, Coop. For this dinner, I want a free half-page advertisement.”

Cooper laughs, but I know the sound is devoid of anything but unease. He places his card back into his wallet. “Consider it payback for last week, when you kicked my ass on the golf course.”

On the drive home, darkness presses onto and into the car. I reach to turn on the radio, but Cooper stops me. “I think it's best if we talk, Eve. I can't live with us like this.”

“Like this?” I repeat. My hands are folded in my lap, belying the fast beating heart and the anxiety grip on my throat.

“You doubting me.”

“I don't know what to do, Cooper. I don't.”

“You might not know what to
do,
but what do you
believe
? Whom do you believe?”

“I don't believe either of you.”

“What the hell?” He pulls the car over and parks on a side street, turns to face me.

I continue, strong. “I don't think your story is wholly true. I don't think Willa's memories are wholly true. I think there's something in the middle—a story in between.”

“And what is that?”

“The truth.”

“Eve, I'll tell you the truth. If you pursue this, if you go looking for something that's not there, we will lose everything. You'll lose everything.”

“What does that mean?”

“Think logically. Just try to do that for me. Okay?”

“What do you mean, Cooper?” My throat tightens and anger fills my chest with hot wind.

“Sometimes you live in la-la land, Eve. You don't even have a college degree. Do you think that the house and your studio and your company just happened? The house we live in, the studio, Willa's cottage—they're all here because of my family's work and reputation through the years. We live on the bedrock of all that came before us: family.”

“So,” I say, bitterness finding its way into my words, “you're telling me that everything we have is built on a reputation that you can't allow to be ruined. And if your image is ruined, so are we.”

“Something like that.”

“
That's
the logic you want me to see?”

“Yes. And I don't understand why you're being like this. What is wrong with you?”

“What is
wrong
with me?” I lean my head back on the seat rest, tears springing up quickly. “I keep asking myself that very question.”

“Well, you'd better figure it out before you ruin us. Our family. Your business. Everything.”

It sounds like a threat.

“Let it be, Eve. It's over.”

“Yes,” I say. “But to let it go, I have to ask you two questions. And I'll ask them only once and then I won't bring it up again.”

“I'll tell you the truth. What do you want to know?”

“Were you at the restaurant with that Mary Jo?”

“No. I already told you.”

“Did you hit a man, a homeless man?” It's a dreadful relief to finally ask this question.

“No. And I already told you that. We hit a cursed tree, Eve.”

“Okay, Cooper. You hit a tree. I believe you.” Because the alternative is too awful to bear.

“Can we go home now?”

“Yes. Home.” He takes my hand and leans over, kissing me deeply, satisfied. He's the only one.

 

twenty-two

It's Wednesday morning and already the streets are teeming with tourists in their sun hats. The carriages are lined up for tours; the street vendors are selling hats made from palm leaves and bar owners are passing out flyers for their two-for-one night. I'm on a fool's errand, but then again I have been a fool, so that's appropriate. I don't really know what I expect to accomplish by this confrontation. But I've got to do it. All the years, all the times that I've stepped away from the truth, from seeing what lies below, this time I can't.

I find Mary Jo's office easily. It's above my favorite store—the Paris Market—and this alone seems a personal insult. How could she sit there doing her work and keeping my secrets, stalking my family? It seems a great slap in the face.

I ring the street side doorbell for Mary Jo Hoffman/Accountant. No one answers. I back away, glance up to the windows and see the lights are on. A voice comes from behind me. “Ma'm, can you tell me where the Paula Deen restaurant is?”

I turn, to see an older man, large and sweating, wiping his red face with a stained handkerchief. His white hair is swept to the right in a comb-over to hide his bald pate. “No,” I say with a catch in the back of my throat. “I'm not from around here.” And in that moment, it doesn't seem like a lie.

It takes two more tries before a voice comes over the intercom. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I'd like to talk to you.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.” I bite my lip, nervous that this mission might reveal little more than my own insecurities and doubts.

“And your name?”

“Eve Morrison.”

A buzzer sounds and I open the heavy wooden door. The foyer is painted stark white. A black-and-white framed photo of the Savannah River hangs over a white demitable against the wall. An elevator is at my left and also a wooden stairway. A sign hangs on the stairwell wall—
MARY JO HOFFMAN
—and then a red arrow pointing upward.

No need to rush. I climb the stairs. My heart sinks into my stomach. I'm in free fall. Can I really go through with this? I reach the top of the stairs, so apparently I can. Mary Jo is there, facing me. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail and she wears large hoop earrings. Her neck is bare.

I try to speak first, to say something that will let her know I'm in charge, but she beats me to it.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you. I promise it won't take long.”

She motions for me to enter her office—a small pink room with a glorious view of Broughton Street. Two slipper chairs face each other on either side of a wrought-iron coffee table. She motions for me to sit, and I do.

“What can I help you with?” She places her hands in her lap, as if she's in church, waiting.

“I know you sent the cards.”

“Cards…? I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't insult me any further, Mary Jo. And don't pretend that there isn't something going on with my husband.”

“Your husband?”

“Stop,” I say. “Seriously. This is enough. I don't want to bring in lawyers and affidavits and all that destructive business. I just want you to tell me why you were with him on the night of the accident. I want you to tell me what happened.”

Her face blanches white. Even her lips lose their color, so now her pink lipstick looks gaudy; a child's drawing of a face.

I sit still, waiting.

She crumbles; the undoing begins on her forehead and moves down in waves, until her lips shake and she drops her head into her hands. “I sent the cards. I did.”

“Why?”

“It's hard to explain.”

“Try,” I say. It's not a suggestion.

“Because I'm an idiot and I believed that if I could make you look closely, you'd leave him and…”

“Is this about love?” I ask.

She doesn't look at me, but her words are clear. “Yes, it's about love.”

I thought I was prepared for this moment. I thought wrong.

Mary Jo sees the look on my face. “He doesn't love me. I love him. Or I thought I did.”

“Are you having an affair with my husband?”

“No,” she says. There's not a hint of hesitation in her voice. “I was with him that night, but it was only business. Accounting.”

“At dinner?”

“It was an appreciation dinner. Something to thank me for my hard work.”

“I don't even a little bit believe you.” I stand. “So I guess we'll have to move to the lawyers.”

She waves her hand for me to sit again, and I'm taller in my quiet surety. My legs shake and my hands are wet, but my mind is calm and focused on every detail, every motion and word.

“We were not having an affair.” Her hands are folded in her lap, knit together.

“Okay, then what
were
you having?”

Her face takes on the look of a woman who's been caught. “I fell in love with him. I didn't want to.” She bites her lower lip and turns away, continuing. “He's so charming and he treated me so kindly.… I thought he felt something, too. Always complimenting me. Always asking about my life and my family. He … got me to do things I knew I shouldn't. But then I realized that he'd never leave you or your family. I was ridiculous that night at the Bohemian, begging him to see how much better we'd be together than what he had.”

“Why the cards, then?”

“I wanted you to see the truth, so you would leave him. It was wrong.… I know that now.”

“What truth?”

“That he was moving money around. That he used your business money to finance his own company and never told you. Family money, too. I thought you'd … leave.” She stares at me for a long while. “I'm sorry.”

“So, let me get this straight, okay? You've been doing some accounting work for him and some of that accounting work has been tricky enough to cause concern. And you loved him, but he didn't love you? And so you wanted me to know that he was doing something borderline unethical to finance his failing company?”

She nods, and this time her face is calm, as if releasing truth soothes her. “He loves you. He loves his daughter and his family. He loves all of you so much.” She chokes on the last word. “That's true, too.” She unravels her hands to hold them up, pleading. “Don't tell him I told you all this. He'll hate me.” Then her head drops to her chest, deflated. “Forget it; he already hates me.”

I walk out alone, and when I stand on the street, I stare into the window of the Paris Market with its vintage antiques and the oyster-shell chandelier I've been coveting for months. A round white marble café table sits outside, and I plop down into one of the chairs at its side. Relief, a waterfall of relief, spreads through me, so warm and calm that I wonder if I've ever felt it before. This is what truth feels like. I smile with such gratitude that when an older gentleman passes me with his cane, he smiles in return, nods and tips his hat.