The Wedding Tree (20 page)

“Everything?” I echoed blankly.

He nodded, his mouth pinched. “About the . . . the pilot. And the baby.”

Shame, fear, grief—it formed a cannonball in my gut. I buried my face in the pillow and sobbed.

He sat down beside me and put his hand on my back. The sympathy and forgiveness in that simple gesture unleashed all my emotional self-control. This was Charlie, my childhood friend, and I needed a friend in the worst way. I raised up, hugged him, and sobbed.

“Marry me, Addie,” he murmured.

I stared at him through tear-blurred eyes, at first not comprehending. “I—I can't. I thought Marge told you . . .”

“She did, and yes, you can. You need to. I'll give you and the baby a home.”

“But . . .”

“But, nothing. Everyone will think the baby is mine.”

“But . . .”

“That's all I ask, Addie. Let everyone think the baby is mine. I'll raise it as my own and we'll be a family. We'll put this behind us and everything will be all right.”

“But Charlie—that's not fair to you.”

“Addie, all I've ever wanted is you. This way I get you. And the baby gets a home.”

And I got to keep the baby, and raise it. I got to keep a piece of Joe alive.

“We need to do it as soon as possible,” he said. “Tomorrow. We'll tell our folks afterward that we eloped.”

It was too soon. How could I marry someone else when I was so deeply grieving Joe?

He sensed my hesitation and spoke before I could even voice it. “If we wait any longer, Addie, your pregnancy will start to show,
and people will whisper. We don't have time to let our mothers plan a wedding.”

He was right. If we were going to do this convincingly, we had to do it right away.

“It's a wonderful solution,” Marge said.

I looked up to see her standing at the end of my bed. I hadn't even realized she'd come into the room.

It was the only solution, as far as I could tell. The only solution that would let me keep my baby without subjecting it to a life of shame.

I took the tissue Marge handed me, wiped my eyes, and looked at Charlie. “You're so kind, Charlie. You're such a good man. You deserve someone who will love you better than I can.”

“I'll love you enough for both of us.”

Oh, God, I prayed he was right. I drew a ragged breath and said the words I'd been so sure I'd never say. “All right, then, Charlie. All right. If you're sure you want to, I'll marry you.”

adelaide

1943

T
he very next day, we went down to city hall, got a license, and said our vows before a justice of the peace, with his secretary and receptionist as witnesses.

I wore a white suit that Lucille loaned me. It was too large, but I borrowed Marge's white belt, and it gave it a stylish peplum effect. Marge and Lucille both wanted to come to the wedding, but I wouldn't allow it. Charlie's and my parents would be crushed that we were getting married without them present; to learn that we'd invited anyone else would just add insult to injury.

Charlie bought me a bouquet of orchids and baby's breath. I didn't think to get him a boutonniere, but Lucille cut a white rose from her garden, and I pinned it to his lapel.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” intoned the justice of the peace—a tall, lanky man in his mid-fifties, with thinning gray hair. Charlie kissed me. I fought back the feeling of being smothered by his mouth.

We took the train to Biloxi for our honeymoon, and called our parents from the hotel.

The reaction was an odd mixture of delight and outrage. “How
could you elope?” my mother cried. “Virginia and I have been planning your wedding since you two were born!”

“That's exactly why we did it,” I said.

“We didn't want a big fuss,” Charlie added. “We figured we'd save a lot of money this way.”

We checked into a beachside hotel and ate crab at a local restaurant. I didn't have much appetite. Morning sickness now seemed to hit at random times of the day.

I thought about pretending to be too sick to perform my marital duties, but Charlie seemed heartbreakingly eager. My mother's advice for handling things you'd rather not do ran quite unromantically through my mind: might as well get it over with.

I put on my nightgown in the bathroom—it was a gift from Marge, a sheer blue peignoir set with sparkles, an outfit better suited for an experienced seductress than a reluctant bride, but it was all I had. I could feel my face flaming as I walked into the bedroom wearing it. Charlie was waiting for me in bed.

He was nervous. His hands were clammy, and he had a sheen of perspiration on his upper lip that moistened my face when we kissed. The preliminaries were bumbling, and as for the actual consummation . . . well, it was over almost before it began. To make matters worse, I cried.

“Did I hurt you?” Charlie asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then what's wrong?”

You're not Joe
. I didn't say it, of course, but Charlie was no dummy. After all, I was pregnant by another man, a man I'd loved and planned to marry, a man whose death I was grieving.

Poor Charlie—he didn't know what to do. He looked like he was about to cry himself.

“It was a lot better with him, wasn't it?”

“Don't,” I told him.

“Don't what?”

“Don't ask me about Joe.”

“It's almost like he's here with us, since his baby is inside you.”

I sat up and swung my legs to the side of the bed. “I was crazy to think this would work. We'll get a divorce or annulment in the morning.”

“No. No McCauley has ever gotten a divorce. No one in your family has, either, and it's not going to start with us. Besides, what about the baby?”

The baby. My spine sagged. “Charlie, you knew the situation when you married me. If you can't accept it, we'd best end things now.”

“I accept it. At least, I'm trying to.” His voice broke. Tears streamed down his face. “Oh, Addie—I just love you so much. And it's killing me that you gave yourself to another man.”

“Look, Charlie . . . I can't—I
won't
—put up with you throwing it in my face. You said as far as the world was concerned, this is your baby.”

“Yes. Yes, it will be.”

“No. It
is.
”

“Okay. You're right. It
is.
It's our baby.”

“And I'm your wife,” I said, “and you're my husband.”

He drew me into a kiss so desperate it seemed as if I were his source of oxygen. He didn't bring up Joe again that night, but he was right there with us, every time we tried to make love.

I say “tried” because instead of getting better, Charlie just got worse. The second and third times, he couldn't even wait until he was inside me.

I held him in my arms and stroked his hair, as if he were the doll we used to play house with. “It's okay,” I told him. “It'll get better. We've got a lifetime to figure it out.”

That calmed him down. I felt him relax in my arms. I eased his head down on the pillow and lay beside him. As my new husband's breathing grew deep and rhythmic, I spent the rest of my wedding night silently crying into my pillow.

hope

I
have to say, ever since I'd seen the photo of Joe, I'd been pretty sure how Gran's saga would unfold. I knew unwed motherhood was a shocking scandal back in the day, but Gran had always struck me as more progressive—progressive enough that I was surprised she felt it was such a dark source of shame.

All the same, this new piece of information went a long way toward explaining the differences between Uncle Eddie and my mother. For one thing, there was their appearance; Mom had been fair-headed, while Uncle Eddie was dark-haired like my granddad. And then there was their temperament. Mom had been almost frighteningly single-minded, no-nonsense, and in charge, where as Eddie . . . well, Eddie was a caregiver, emotional and eager to please.

I patted Gran's hand. “This is a surprise, Gran, but it's totally understandable. I don't think any less of you, and I don't think Mom would have, either. And I'm sure Eddie will just feel bad for you, that you've felt so much shame about this all these years.”

“Oh, phooey. I'm not worried about Eddie knowing about this.”

“No?”

“No. Eddie'll be just fine learning I'm no saint. But he'll need your support for the rest of it.”

“There's more?”

“Oh, child—this is just the background story.” She blew out a sigh, and her face crumpled. Her eyes radiated a depth of despair that scared me. “I was part of something awful, and I need your help to make it right.”

I tried to hide my alarm. “Gran, I'm sure there's nothing . . .”

“You just wait, child. You just wait.” She rubbed her head.

“Are you in pain?”

“A little.” She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she frowned. “Can you get those fireflies out of here?”

“There aren't any fireflies in here, Gran.”

“Are you sure?” She flicked a hand over her head, as if to bat them away.

“I don't see anything, Gran.”

She flapped her hand again, then looked at me. My dismay must have shown on my face, because her brow softened. “You must think I'm losing it.”

“I think you had a hard blow to the head, and you're tired. Let me help you to bed.”

“Everything I've told you, dear—I plan to tell Eddie myself. But this next part—well, he'll be devastated about it. He needs to know the whole story, and I'm not sure what that is. I need your help to find out the truth.”

“I'll help you in whatever way I can.”

She gave me a soft smile. “I know you will, dear. Mother said I could count on you.” Her hand dropped from her head. “The first thing I need help with is getting to bed.”

I helped her to her feet, wondering—no,
hoping
—that her misdeed was like the fireflies, alive only in her imagination.

•   •   •

“Do you think she really has a horrible secret?” Kirsten sprinkled cocoa on top of my cappuccino the next afternoon and handed it to me across the counter. I'd wandered down to the Daily Grind and found the place nearly empty, so I'd perched on a barstool at
the counter. Without revealing exactly what Gran had told me, I told Kirsten that my grandmother had been sharing some stories about her past and had hinted she was about to reveal an ominous skeleton in her closet.

“I don't know. I believe what she's told me so far.”

“Well, I don't think you should worry.” Kirsten put the milk pitcher in the sink. “It's probably something that was considered shocking back then that we don't bat an eye at today.”

“That's what I'd think, too, except she's already told me a lot of shocking-back-then stuff.”

“Really?” Kirsten's eyes twinkled. “Good for her!”

I laughed.

“Seriously, I can't imagine that that sweet little old lady ever did anything all that wrong.” Kirsten rinsed the pitcher. “I mean, how bad can it be?”

“I don't know.” I took another sip, thinking about the stricken look on Gran's face. “Have you ever done anything you'd be afraid to die without confessing?”

Kirsten looked thoughtful for a moment, then gave a wry smile. “I'm not sure about confessing, but there are a few things I'll probably take to the grave.”

I laughed. “Oh, yeah? Such as?”

“Oh, I couldn't possibly say.” Grinning, she wiped down the cappuccino machine. “At least, not without a few mojitos in me.”

“You're on.”

Kirsten laughed. “Okay, but I'll only spill the juicy stuff if you talk, too. And one of the first things I want to know is, what's going on with you and Matt?”

Just the mention of his name made my heart rate kick up. “Nothing.” I looked down at my drink. “I've been working on the mural early in the evening with the girls. When he comes home, I duck out as soon as possible.”

“Why?”

Because I had no intention of going through another emotional
wringer just as I was beginning to get over my ex. I was only in Wedding Tree for another six weeks or so, so there was no point in getting anything started. Besides, there were the girls to consider. I'd grown close to them as I painted their room—I gave them little tasks to do, and they loved helping—and it was obvious how much they yearned for a mother. Zoey harbored the hope that Jillian and Matt would marry, but Sophie had begun lobbying for me.

Instead of explaining all that to Kirsten, though, I just lifted my shoulders. “I don't want to be in the way.”

“That man needs someone in his way.” The bell over the door jangled. “And speak of the devil . . .”

I turned around to see Matt striding through the coffee shop door. My heart jumped like a jackrabbit. It was the first time I'd seen him since that kiss without Sophie, Zoey, or Jillian present.

Seen him in person, that is. I'd seen him plenty in my imagination. I'd played and replayed the moment, expanding and embellishing it in my mind until it felt as though we'd done a lot more than lock lips. My face felt hot.

“Hey, Matt,” Kirsten said. “Want your usual?”

Matt nodded and greeted us both.

Kirsten bent and pulled a pitcher of iced coffee out of the under-counter refrigerator. “How are the girls?”

“Great. They're loving the way their room is coming along.” He turned his eyes on me in a way that made the heat spread down my chest. “Hope is doing a terrific job on the mural.”

“I've been trying to talk her into doing one here,” Kirsten said.

“Well, it's amazing how fast she works.”

I know he meant it as a compliment, but Kurt's sarcastic comments over the years still made the words sting. I forced a smile. “That's because I've got two helpers.”

“That kind of help can only slow you down. But I appreciate the way you're including the girls in the project. They're loving it.”

I felt tongue-tied and awkward. “Well, I'm enjoying them.
They're adorable.” I lifted my cup in a small salute to Kirsten. “See you later. I'd better get back to Gran.”

“Hold on a moment, and I'll give you a lift,” Matt said.

I had no choice unless I wanted to be rude. Ignoring Kirsten's knowing smirk, I stared at the wall as he paid for his drink, then walked beside him out of the shop.

The afternoon sun was nearly blinding. “How's the case going?” I asked.

“Slowly, but it's moving in our favor.”

“That's good news.”

“Yeah.” He gestured to a blue Camry at the curb. “Here's my car.”

He opened the passenger door, and I climbed in. The leather seat heated my thighs below my shorts. I busied myself with the seat belt as he climbed in and closed the door. He started the engine, then looked at me. “You've been avoiding me.”

“I don't know how you can say that, when I'm at your house every evening.”

“You scamper out like a scared squirrel the moment I come in.” He put the car into gear, then pulled out of the parking spot. “Is it because of that kiss?”

My face probably looked like I had a third-degree burn. “Maybe.”

“I'll take that as a yes.” He cast me a sidelong glance. “Care to explain?”

“Not really.”

He grinned. “Explain anyway.”

I contemplated just opening the door and jumping out, but since the girls' room was only half painted, that wouldn't serve as a long-term solution. “I guess I'm not sure where we are after that.”

He drove two more blocks, then turned into his driveway, braked, and killed the engine. “I'll tell you where I am.”

My mouth went dry. The air in the car suddenly seemed too thick to breathe.

“I'd like to kiss you again.”

I took a nervous sip of my cappuccino, trying to form a thought, much less a response.

“You've got some foam on your lip.”

I ran my tongue around my mouth. His eyes followed.

“You need some help.” He leaned over and softly kissed the top of my lip—a gentle, slightly parted-lip kiss that left me weak and hot and flustered. “Got it.” His voice was a husky rumble.

“Uh, thanks,” I mumbled like a moron. It was as if he'd sucked the brains out of my head as well as the cappuccino foam off my mouth. That simple little kiss had turned me to mush.

“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.”

I sat there, zombified, unable to form a thought, much less a word.

“I'll pick you up at seven.”

I started to nod, then I saw a curtain move in his bedroom. I looked up to see Jillian standing in the window, watching.

“No,” I said. “It—it's a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“It just is.” I scampered out of the car and fled to the safety of my grandmother's house before he could kiss me again.

•   •   •

Later that afternoon, my phone rang as I was sorting through the dishes in Gran's dining room buffet. I fished it out of the pocket of my jeans and answered it.

“How's it going down in Dixie?”

It was my friend Kaitlin from New York. She and I had both been art majors in college, and I'd been a bridesmaid in her wedding. We'd somewhat drifted apart after she married, moved to New York, and had a child—we mainly stayed in touch through social media—but she knew about my jobless dilemma, and she'd promised to keep her ear to the ground. She had a part-time job with a prestigious art foundation and was well connected in the art
world. I briefly filled her in on what was happening with Gran—and with Matt.

“Well, girlfriend, you need to speed up the housecleaning and forget the hunky neighbor, because I'm calling with great news,” Kaitlin said. “Art Consulting Inc. is looking for a new associate, and they want to talk to
you.
”

“What? Where did you hear this?” Art Consulting Inc. was a major player in the exclusive world of art advisors who helped large corporations, wealthy clients, and museums acquire investment art. Associates dealt with extremely wealthy, well-connected clients—the kind of clients my ex-husband had tried—unsuccessfully—to pander to.

“From the director of the Chicago office. She called me to get your number.”

“How on earth did she get my name?”

“From Mrs. Harris Van Dever. Apparently you made a wonderful impression on her when she visited your and Kurt's gallery.”

Technically, it had been “our” gallery, but since Kurt had disdained my input, I never felt any real ownership.

“By advising her not to buy the Rantlon piece?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

That move had driven Kurt insane. One of the doyennes of Chicago society and a major benefactor to several museums, Mrs. Van Dever had come to an opening at our gallery. She'd been debating between purchasing a piece by another up-and-coming artist at another gallery and the Rantlon at ours. When she'd specifically asked me which piece I thought would appreciate the most, I'd given her my honest opinion. Kurt had been so angry I'd feared he'd become physically violent.

“AC's director is Ms. McAbbee, and she'll be calling you soon,” Kaitlin said. “Hope, this is a dream job. Great salary, benefits, bonuses, travel—everything anyone would want. And you know how rare that is in the art world.”

I did. It was like finding a Van Gogh at a garage sale.

“I immediately called my contacts,” Kaitlin continued, “and they specifically want
you
, because Mrs. Van Dever is such a huge client.”

I found it hard to wrap my mind around the concept. “Any idea when this job would start?”

“I think that'll be negotiable, but, girl—you'd be crazy not to hop on this as fast as you can. I can think of a hundred people who would sell their mothers for this opportunity. It's amaze-balls.”

“If it's true.”

“Oh, it's true, all right. Call me back after you hear from them.”

I hung up and stared at the wall.

It was next to impossible to find a job in the art world—especially a high-salaried job, a job with benefits and travel and security. By all rights, I should be thrilled.