The Wedding Tree (24 page)

adelaide

T
ime has a way of getting away from me. I can't always remember if the last meal was lunch or supper, or if it's seven at night or seven in the morning. Even worse, whole days blend together. Sometimes I can't recall if something happened yesterday or a few days ago. I might even be missing a whole week.

I woke up and heard Hope talking with an aide in the kitchen, then a few moments later, the soft pad of her bare feet sounded in the hall. The door to my room slowly opened. “Come on in, child,” I called. “I'm awake.”

“It's time for your medicine,” Hope said.

I sat up in bed and propped my back up with pillows. She handed me two pills and a glass of water. I downed them, then glanced at the clock as I set the glass beside it on the bedside table. Four o'clock. I'm assuming that's afternoon, because Hope was up and dressed. I looked down and saw that I was dressed, as well.

Time was flitting by so quickly. I'd better get about my business. “Want to go through my closet some more?”

Hope nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Where did we leave off?”

“Joe had visited,” she said. “Did you ever hear from him again?”

“Yes. Oh yes.” I smoothed the edge of the sheet. “He wrote to me afterward.”

“Did you write back?”

“I'm afraid so.” I drew a deep breath. “Look in the closet at the back on the right side. There's a red shirtwaist with a patent belt.”

Hope rummaged around, then held it up by the hanger. “Is this it?”

I nodded. “Bring it here.”

She crossed the room and placed it on the bed, then sank onto the mattress beside me. I fingered the hem. “I wasn't going to write him, but . . .” I closed my eyes, remembering.

1946

Charlie wasn't the same after Joe's visit. He took to drinking more, and when he drank, he'd accuse me of writing to Joe, of harboring feelings for him. Jealousy ate at him like rotgut. I was so tired as my pregnancy progressed—housework and cooking and childcare were so difficult in those days!—and then my grandmother took ill, and my mother was down in her back, and I had to care for both of them as well as Becky. Then the holidays came and went, with all the extra shopping, baking, and wrapping. Life was just so darned hard!

One day, after a particularly bitter bout with Charlie, I poured it all into a letter and before I stopped to think, I went downtown and dropped it in a mailbox by the drugstore. I immediately regretted it, but at the same time, a churning sense of hope fluttered in my chest.

I rationalized it by thinking,
Well, if Charlie thinks I'm writing Joe anyway, I might as well be doing it.

We developed quite a torrid long-distance correspondence. This went on for a couple of months, letters flying back and forth across the country.

Until Charlie found the letters. One evening I went to a women's auxiliary meeting at church—I was wearing that red shirtwaist, only without the belt, because of my pregnancy—and came home to find my hatboxes on the floor and Joe's letters scattered on the bed.

“What's all this?” Charlie demanded, wildly waving a page. His
face was the color of a bruised plum, his scowl so terrifying I could barely breathe.

I was still holding my purse, squeezing the handle so tightly it left marks on my palm. “It's—it's nothing.” I set my purse on the dresser and pulled off my gloves, trying to act normal—not because I thought it would calm him, but because I didn't know what else to do.

“‘
I burn for you
'? That's
nothing
? ‘
I lie in bed at night and replay the way you felt in my arms
.'” He flung the paper on the floor and took a step toward me. I backed up until the dresser bit into my back.

“Are you writing him back?”

“No . . . I . . .”

“Liar!”

I cringed at his bellow.

“He says so right here. ‘
I was so glad to get your last letter.
'” He jabbed a finger on the paper as he spoke, emphasizing each word, using an ugly falsetto as he read Joe's sentence. “What the hell do you take me for?”

“You're my husband, Charlie.”

“You damn sure don't seem to remember that!”

“Quiet. You're going to wake Becky.”

“You should be worried about more than waking her! You should be worried about losing her. And the new baby, too.”

To say my heart sank is like saying the
Titanic
took on a little water. “What?”

“If you think I'll ever allow you to take my children, you don't know me very well. Becky is legally
my
daughter. My parents are her grandparents, and there is no way in hell we're going to allow a floozy like you to change that. So if you have any ideas about leaving me, you need to know you'll be leaving the children, too. And if you try to carry on behind my back . . .” His face twisted into someone I didn't know—someone terrifying, someone capable of anything. His skin was red, blotched with purple, and I thought he might be having a stroke, right then and there. “I won't stand for it. I'll divorce you, and I'll keep the children.”

He meant it, too. Worse, he had the means to do it. His parents had money—at least, more money than mine. They'd do whatever it took to keep their only grandchildren in town.

After that horrible night, Charlie started watching me like a hawk, and drinking more and more. He began coming home for lunch, early, before the mail was delivered. He went to the mailbox himself. He didn't say why, but he didn't need to. He started drinking at lunch.

Another letter arrived from Joe, and Charlie nigh near went berserk. Thank God he passed out from drinking too much too fast too early in the day, or else I don't know what he would have done. I called his father and told him Charlie had a bug, and that he wouldn't be in that afternoon.

“Write him back,” he demanded the next morning. He'd stayed home from work, nursing his hangover.

“No. I don't want . . .”

His face took on that mottled purple-red color again. He grabbed a sheet of paper and plunked it on the kitchen table, along with a pen. “Sit down and write what I tell you.”

I slowly sank into a chair.

“Dear Joe,” he dictated.

My fingers shook so hard I could hardly hold the pen. It was almost as if my muscles rebelled. He stood over me and made me write that I didn't want Joe to ever contact me again—that I was a married woman, that I loved my husband, that I wanted to keep my family intact, that I'd finally come to my senses, and that I didn't know what had possessed me to ever take up with him in the first place. He forced me to write that I didn't love him or want him in my life, that I wanted him to leave me alone. Charlie stood over my shoulder, breathing hard, telling me what to write and making sure I did it.

I cried. I cried secretly for weeks. But as Eddie's due date drew near, I started focusing on that—and then, well, once I had him, caring for a baby and Becky and helping my mother care for
Grandmother took everything I had. Charlie stopped drinking after Eddie was born. He was kind and thoughtful and tender. He promised me he'd turned over a new leaf, that he intended to be the best father and husband in the world, and it was touching, watching the way he worked at it. I loved little Eddie. I loved Becky. And I loved Charlie, too. He'd been my best friend for most of my life.

Things settled back down, and for most of a year, Charlie and I eased back into what most people would call a happy marriage.

It wasn't the most physically fulfilling for me, but then, I suspect that was the case for most married women back then. I think that's why virginity was so highly prized. Men didn't want women to have anyone to compare them against.

Things would have stayed that way, too, except that Joe refused to believe my letter. He waited until Charlie went to a national lumber trade show—there was one I'd told him about that Charlie went to every year—and then he showed up on my porch.

I'd been folding clothes when I'd heard a knock on the door. I yanked it open without even taking the kerchief off my hair. My heart dropped to my toes, then bounced to the sky when I saw Joe standing there, his hat in his hand.

“He made you write that letter, didn't he?”

I didn't even have to nod. He read it in my eyes.

“Well, I've come for you,” he said. “I waited until he went to that convention.”

I pulled him into the house so the neighbors wouldn't see. He tried to gather me in his arms, but I turned away. I'd learned not to trust myself where he was concerned.

“Pack your things and the kids' things and come with me,” he urged. “We'll move to California.”

“He'll find us. He'll take the children.”

“Then we'll move to Europe.”

My head swam. I shook it. “My grandmother's not well, and I help my mother take care of her. They would be devastated. And Charlie's parents . . . they're getting older.” And Charlie—Charlie
would be shattered, broken beyond any hope of redemption. I shook my head again. “I can't sacrifice everyone else's happiness for my own.”

“What about me, Addie? What about us?”

My chest felt as if a wet bag of cement were sitting on it. “There is no us.”

“There's a little girl somewhere in this house who proves otherwise.” His eyes darted to the hallway, as if he could see her through the walls. “Where is she?”

“Napping. Keep your voice down—I don't want to wake her.”

He moved closer—close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, close enough that I could smell him, close enough that his magnetism seemed to be heedlessly pulling me in. “Addie—I love you. And I love our daughter.”

My heart—what a traitorous thing is the heart!—leapt with joy, even as it broke in two. “I have a son now, too. He's just five months old.”

He placed his hands on my arms. “I'll raise him as my own. You know I will.”

Shivers chased up and down my skin. I drew away and folded my arms around my abdomen. Tears thickened my voice. “Joe—please don't make this worse than it is! I'm married and have a family. Find someone else. Someone free and unencumbered.”

“I don't want anyone else.”

“You might think that now, but you will if you let me go. Put me out of your mind.”

“Like you have me?” He stepped toward me. “You never would have married Charlie if you hadn't been carrying my child.”

“I can't regret that, Joe. Don't you see? I can't regret having Eddie.”

“You don't regret some other man raising my child? I know I sure as hell do.”

The way things were now, one of them would be raising the other man's child, unless they killed each other and I raised them
alone. There was no fix for this situation, and thinking about it made my heart feel as if it were splitting in two. “Joe—please. Just go and leave us in peace.”

“Is that really what you want?”

Somewhere deep inside, I found the strength to say what needed to be said. “Yes. That's what's best for my family.”

“Can I at least see Rebecca?”

“No, because she'll tell Charlie.”

His sigh sounded like a soul exiting a body. He stared at his feet for a long moment, and his shoulders slumped. I wondered if this was how he'd looked when he was taken into captivity, when he had to surrender. At length he looked up. “If he ever mistreats you, Addie . . . if you ever need anything—anything at all—just let me know. You can always find me here.” He gave me a business card. “I'll keep that mailbox forever. You can always reach me through it.”

He grabbed me by the shoulders and bent his head to kiss me. Every fiber in my being ached for that kiss—the kiss I'd imagined so many times when I was lying with Charlie—but I knew that if I kissed him once, I couldn't trust myself not to kiss him again, and again, and again. One kiss, and I might be out the door and down the road, doing everything I knew was wrong.

I turned my head aside. “Please go, Joe. Please.”

He kissed my cheek and released me. I turned my back to him and folded my arms around myself. Tears flowed down my cheeks despite my tightly shut eyes.

I heard the screen door open, then close.

“Good-bye, Addie,” I heard him say in a low voice. “I'll always love you.”

matt

S
o tomorrow's the big night,” Jillian said.

She'd just dropped the girls off from ballet lessons, and they were thundering up the stairs behind me. I stood at the front door, trying to block Jillian from coming in. Hope was upstairs painting and I was eager to rejoin her. I'd gotten home from work early today, and Hope had been telling me the latest installment of her grandmother's tale.

“Tomorrow?” I echoed blankly, not sure what Jillian was referring to.

She nodded. “The fete.”

“Oh, yeah.” I'd bought tickets from Jillian three weeks ago—an entire table, because it was a good cause and Jillian was on the organizing committee. In the few days since I'd invited Hope, I'd been looking forward to my date with her like a teenager anticipating the prom.

“I'm afraid I'll have to meet you there,” Jillian was saying, “because I have to go early to help with the setup. But I'm catching a ride with Annie, so you and I won't be in separate cars at the end.”

“Wait.” I pulled my brows together. My thoughts had been wandering upstairs, and I figured I must have missed something. “So . . . you're saying you'll need a ride home afterward?”

Her head tilted at a weird angle and she looked at me funny. “Of course, since we're going together.”

I stared at her, confused.

Her forehead creased in consternation. “I invited you to be my date.”

A pit opened in my stomach area. “Oh, God. You thought . . .” I ran a hand across my jaw. The hurt in her eyes made it hard to look at her. “I, uh . . . I thought you just wanted me to come and support the cause.”

I could see she was trying to smile. The effort she put into tugging her mouth into that uneven, wobbly curve made me feel like the lowest kind of vermin. “Well, yes, of course. And it was generous of you to buy a whole table. But . . . I specifically invited you to be with me.”

“Oh.” I shifted my stance and wished I could somehow disappear. “Well, the thing is . . .” Oh, man—this was brutal. This moment belonged in the Painfully Awkward Hall of Fame. I raked both hands through my hair, shoved them in my pants pockets, and racked my mind for something not too awful to say. “The thing is, I misunderstood. You're family, so I wasn't thinking of you . . .”

.
. . that way.
I never had. Surely she could get the drift.

“There's a first time for everything,” she said in what I imagined was her cheerful, elementary-school-teacher voice.

“The thing is,” I continued, “I've, uh, invited Hope.”

She rocked back on the heels of her flats, as if she'd taken a blow. After a horrid moment of silence, she lifted her chin. “But I asked you. When someone invites you to something, you don't just invite someone else along.”

“I—I didn't realize. I'm sorry.” I swallowed, looked away, then glanced back. My ears were burning, which meant they probably looked like someone had boxed them. I wished someone had; I deserved to have my ears boxed. “I misunderstood. I didn't know it was a . . .”
Aw, hell. Better not use the d-word!
“. . . a specific invitation. I thought you were just asking for me to participate and
donate like you were asking everyone else.” I shifted uneasily. “It's not like we're seeing each other.”

“Maybe you're not ready to start dating again yet,” Jillian said carefully.

For the first time since Christine's death, I was sure I was, but I didn't want to rub salt in her wounds. I lifted my shoulders. “Look, I'm really sorry. You're welcome to join us at our table. And if you need a ride home, Hope and I can give you one.”

Tears gleamed in her eyes. She put up her hands, palms out. “No. No need. I'll just take my own car.”

She turned and headed to her car, walking stiffly. With a heavy heart, I closed the door.

I found both girls upstairs with Hope, excitedly telling her about their day. Hope took one look at my face, gave me a worried little frown, then turned to the girls. “Zoey, Sophie—do you have any artwork from school you can show me?”

“Yes!” they both exclaimed.

“I'd love to see it.”

They raced from the room. “What's up?” Hope asked as their feet pounded on the stairs.

“Jillian thought I was going to be her date tomorrow.”

“Oh no!”

“Yeah. I missed that part when she asked me to buy tickets.” I blew out a long breath. “She tried to play it cool, but she was pretty upset.”

“I can imagine.”

“What should I do? Should I call Peggy?”

Hope looked thoughtful. “No. If I were Jillian, you calling my mother would just make it worse. I think this is one of those cases where the best thing to do is nothing.”

“I feel really bad,” I confessed.

“It was an honest mistake. She has to know that.”

I nodded, but making the mistake honestly didn't make it any less hurtful.

“There's never an easy way to learn your feelings aren't reciprocated. It's best, though, to find out sooner rather than later—before you get over-invested.” Hope's smile was rueful and self-deprecating. “And I mean that in every sense of the word.”

I felt a flash of anger toward her ex. What a jerk, deliberately taking advantage of her.

The girls burst back into the room, waving artwork from preschool. Hope turned her attention to them as I watched from the doorway.

Hope was so open and easy and kind and . . .
lovely
. The thought kind of startled me, because it was a girly word, not one I would usually say out loud, but it fit her.

She caught my eye over Sophie's head. I remembered kissing her, and a whomp of attraction hit me right in the solar plexus. She gave me a soft smile that left me light-headed and happy and kind of buzzed.

Unless my radar was really off—and it could be; I was admittedly out of practice—the attraction I felt for her was a two-way street. I couldn't wait to get Hope alone tomorrow and see where it led.