A Promise to Remember (36 page)

A gurgling sound came from Melanie Johnston's throat, but
she didn't speak or look at Andie.

Andie grasped the handles on her bag, prepared to take flight.
"What I mean to say is, I am sorry that my mistakes cost you your
son. There's nothing fair about that. Why couldn't my mistakes
have cost me, and left both our boys alone?"

She stood, but wasn't quite finished. "I've wanted to say this to
you ever since the accident, but people kept saying I shouldn't.
I don't know why doing the right thing has been replaced by
doing the thing to protect yourself, but it has. Now I don't think
it much matters one way or the other."

Finally Melanie Johnston looked straight at her. She wiped
her right hand across her eyes and jumped to her feet. A piece
of paper fell from her lap and floated to the ground. She turned
and fled.

Andie watched her go but didn't try to stop her. I guess I New
that one, huh, God?

She started to walk away, but the flash of yellow drew her
attention. She picked up the piece of paper, read it, and then
put it in the bag with the canvas.

Melanie shoved past tourists, tripped over a broken piece of
sidewalk, and stumbled forward without thinking of where she
was going. She needed to run, escape, but felt like she wouldn't
ever be able to run far enough. Her vision blurred behind a
thick wetness that burned a path down her cheeks.

She forced herself forward until she got to Ledbetter Beach,
where she dropped into the sand. The cheers and laughter of
holiday weekend beach-goers came from all around her, but it
seemed a great distance away. Here, where she was, there was
nothing.

The look on Andie Phelps' face haunted her. All this time,
she'd never thought of her as a grieving mother-only as the
guilty party. But there was no mistaking the look on her face.
It was cut-to-the-bone, barely-able-to-move grief.

Melanie knew it intimately. She put her head on her knees
and cried.

So much loss. So much.

The moment replayed itself over and over in her mind. She
sawAndie across the street. Felt her approach. Heard the fear
in her voice. "I'm son}<"

The words changed absolutely nothing. Jeff was still gone.

Right?

The other woman's face was ghostly pale, her eyes wide with
fear. She couldn't have expected a warm reception, regardless
of what she said. Yet she had said it. Come all the way across
the street and said it.

Melanie looked at the ocean, choppy today, churning with
insistent, uneven breakers. It was just the way this entire day
had felt for her. "Oh, Jeff, it's all so messed up. Everything. I
don't understand anything anymore. I just know I miss you."

When she was certain enough time had passed that she could
retrace her steps and avoid Andie Phelps and any remaining
teenagers from the memorial, Melanie returned to her car. She drove with no clear destination in mind, even as she turned
onto South 101.

Suddenly she knew very clearly where she was going. She
just wasn't sure what she would do when she got there. Or even
if she'd be welcome.

As evening fell, Andie forced her attention to the canvas. She
needed to focus on her work. Forget about what happened
earlier that day.

She cranked up the volume on her old cassette player. The
African chants that she had recorded twenty years ago helped
put her in the right frame of mind and brought the scene before
her to life. She added more shading to the buckled wall of the
tin shack. Yes. That was better. Perhaps a touch more.

She dipped her brush back into the paint on her palette,
then slowly pressed it against the canvas. One smooth stroke
and she leaned back again. That was enough.

"I'd forgotten how talented you are."

Andie dropped her brush. "Blair. What are you doing here?
I thought ..."

"You thought what? That I had checked myself into the clinic
for a two-week stay, so you had seven more days to be home
without worry?" The accusation in his voice stung, but it was
tempered by something else. When Andie looked at him, she
thought perhaps she sensed an air of defeat. Still, there was no
point arguing with him. He spoke the truth.

"I'll just go get a few things."

"Andie, please. Stay."

Andie carried her brush over to the sink. She wanted no part
of the conflict that lay ahead if she didn't leave right now. She
wanted peace and quiet.

Yet she remembered her resolutions.

She washed her hands and tried to find a shred of courage.
There had to be a little left, somewhere deep inside her. "I'm
sorry for the way I stormed out on you last weekend. I know you
have a lot of things to work out, and my support would make
that easier for you, but I have things to work out, too."

He leaned against the wall and looked at her. "And I won't
make things easier for you, will I?" His voice was soft. Broken
almost.

She started to walk out but grasped the doorframe with her
hand and held on. Her body willed her forward, but the hand
would not let go. "You never do."

She glanced back over her shoulder to see that the dart had
landed squarely. Blair had doubled over, hands on his knees.
He lifted his face up toward her. "Has it been that bad? All
this time?"

"I don't want to do this right now No, it hasn't been all had,
but it's been bad enough. Maybe the fact that you've been running around with another woman should give you a clue that
you weren't so happy, either. Maybe deep inside you wanted to
give me a reason to leave you. Ever thought of that?"

Her hand finally relinquished its grasp on the doorframe. She
walked from the room, down the hall, and toward the stairs.
She heard Blair's footsteps behind her. He grabbed her arm
and spun her around to face him. "What do you mean `running
around with another woman'?"

"Having an affair, a paramour, whatever you want to call it."
Andie felt the anger flash through her gut again. "And don't
grab me that way again!"

Blair took a step back, stunned. "Andie, I have never cheated
on you.

"Come on, Blair. Let's at least move past the lies. You've been
staying out half the night, and when I called you the other day,
I heard her voice in the background."

Blair leaned his head forward and furrowed his brows. "You
heard Ruby, the sixty-five-year-old cocktail waitress-never
anyone else. I've never been with a woman. I've been alone.
Drinking. But alone."

"Then why do you come home smelling like perfumer"'

"Smoke, maybe. But perfume? You must have imagined ...
No, wait. Just once, right?"

"Maybe somehow the fact that it was only once makes it seem
less a problem to you, but that's not how I see it."

"You don't understand. I let Ruby use my jacket that first
night. It was cold, and she was taking out the trash. After a few
martinis, I fancied myself quite the gentleman by offering it to
her. Of course, when I sobered up the next day, I realized I'd
given her an Armani jacket to carry garbage to the Dumpster.

"I think your story is a little too convenient."

Blair released his grip. "I can see why you would. But I swear
it's the truth. I've yet to meet the woman who holds a candle
to you."

"I'll bet." She turned and started up the stairs.

"Please. Stay. I'll sleep in the guestroom. I'll give you space to
work things out, but I don't want to lose you without a fight."

"I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of grieving. I'm tired of being
told what I'm supposed to do by everyone else. I'm tired of trying
to be someone other than who I am, trying to make everyone
else happy."

"Go back to your painting. I'll go get Chinese and a movie.
We won't even have to talk-we'll just get used to being in the
room together again. Okay?"

Had he actually told her to get back to her painting? Could he
really be serious? He was desperate and would say anything to
get his way at this point, and she understood that, yet shouldn't
she be willing to at least try? "Chinese sounds good." She forced
a smile she did not feel.

Blair whirled around. "Great. I'll be back soon. Now, get hack
in there and work on your painting." He followed her to the door
of her studio. "You really are talented. You've always supported
my dreams; I'm sorry I didn't return the favor."

"You say that now, but what about next week? Next month?
It'll be my selfish hobby after things calm down."

He shook his head. "Uh-uh. When I saw the painting you
did for the Fair, I knew then I'd been wrong not to encourage
you more."

She turned to see his face, but he had already disappeared
into the garage. She shut the music off and stared at the painting. Only then did she get the best idea of all. She reached for
her brush and added exactly what the painting needed.

People.

Two people, rebuilding a shack that had collapsed-whether
from rust, disuse, or poor construction, she didn't know. The fact
was, they were working together to make something worthwhile
from the rubble that remained.

The boy who answered the door looked to be twelve, maybe
a little younger. His black T-shirt with a surfboard across the
front was two sizes too large for his skinny frame. Melanie attempted to smile, but her lips seemed stiff and heavy. "Is your
mother home?"

He didn't answer but turned his head. "Mom!" He continued
to hold the door close to his side, as if he expected Melanie to suddenly shove her way inside, and only he stood between her
and the total decimation of his home.

"Who is it?" the voice called from farther back in the
apartment.

"I don't know. Some lady" He turned his head only long
enough to answer his mother, then turned back to guard this
potential intruder.

Candace walked up behind him, wiping her hands on a
dishtowel. "Melanie. What a pleasant surprise. Please come in."

The boy backed away from the door, but seemed reluctant to
do so. He took a seat on the faded tweed sofa, folded his arms
across his chest, and watched.

Candace made up for his lack of hospitality. "Come into the
kitchen with me. I'm chopping some onions for my meat loaf,
and I need to get it in the oven."

"We're having meat loaf again? Yuck." The boy's words were
spoken quietly. They were intended to be heard, but not so loud
that a mother could prove it. Melanie knew the tone well. She
winked at the boy as she followed Candace to the kitchen. He
scowled in return.

Candace casually resumed her work in the kitchen. If the fact
that her co-worker, who lived seventy miles away, just happened
to drop in on a Saturday evening, hours before Easter, surprised
her, she didn't show it. "So, as you've just heard, we're having
yucky meat loaf tonight. There's plenty, if you'd like to stay."

"Thanks, but I've got to get back. But, well, I wanted to talk
to you."

"Sure. What about?"

"God. Forgiveness. I don't know. Lots of things."