The Wedding Tree (28 page)

hope

K
irsten poured foam onto my cappuccino the following Wednesday morning during a lull in her business. “I'm so thrilled you've agreed to do the mural here! And so is everyone else on the block. The drugstore, the hardware store, and the insurance agency have agreed to each pay you an extra two thousand dollars to include them in it.”

“Wow. You might have missed your calling, Kirsten,” I said. “You should be in art sales!”

“It was easy. I showed them the photo of the mural you did at Matt's house and told them it would be a permanent billboard.”

I'd finished the girls' room on Monday. Matt and I had moved their furniture back that evening, and the girls had been so excited they'd insisted on sleeping in their princess gowns. Life at Matt's house pretty much had been a nonstop princess-a-thon ever since.

I'd brought a photo of the room to Kirsten yesterday, and she'd immediately taken it to the neighboring businesses.

I perched on a barstool at the coffee counter and gave Kirsten a teasing grin. “Maybe you should take my job in Chicago and I should stay here.”

Kirsten put her hand on her hip. “Maybe you should forget about Chicago and stay here, period. I know a hunky neighbor of yours who would no doubt agree.”

My heart somersaulted at the thought of Matt. For the last few nights, we'd been meeting in the swing in my grandmother's backyard after the girls went to bed, talking and, well, making out a little.

Just a little, though—because Mrs. Ivy could see us from her upstairs window, and we'd caught her watching on more than one occasion. As delicious as Matt's kisses were, knowing that they'd be reported to the entire neighborhood put a damper on my ardor.

So did the thought that a once-in-a-lifetime job awaited me and I was just a short-timer in Wedding Tree. “I can't just forget about Chicago,” I said, taking the cappuccino she handed me.

“Well, you can at least enjoy Matt while you're here.”

“That's true.” I took a sip. “We're going out to dinner this Saturday.”

“Ooh, another date!”

“It's not a date-date.”

“In what way is it not?” Kirsten arched an eyebrow as she picked up a bar rag.

“Well, it's not like anything is going to happen.”

“That's only because neither of you has a place to get down and dirty.”

“Wow. I love your romantic phrasing.” But she was right. Matt's house was off-limits because of his daughters, and Gran's house was out of the question.

She smiled as she wiped down the counter. “With a husband who's been gone for five months, believe me, down and dirty sounds a lot more romantic than wine and roses.”

“What's he like?”

“Sam? Oh, he's wonderful. Totally worth the wait.”

“How did you two meet?”

“At college. But we didn't start really dating until he finished a tour of duty with the marines. He said he didn't want to be pining for me while he was in Afghanistan.” She put the rag over the sink and smiled. “But he said he pined anyway.”

“Aw!” I took another sip. “So now the pining's mutual.”

Kirsten nodded. “We e-mail all the time and we Skype when he's in port, but there's nothing like that physical one-on-one. He keeps promising that each trip is his last, but the money's really good, and . . .” She sighed. “The truth is, I'm not sure he'd ever really be happy settled down.” I caught a glimpse of intense sadness in her eyes. Before I could think of anything to say, she turned to the sink. “Hey—do you like romance novels?”

Apparently she didn't want to talk about Sam anymore. “Yeah, I love them.”

“Well, I belong to a book club, and we're reading Kristan Higgins.”

“Oh, I'm crazy about her stuff!”

“Want to join us? We're meeting at my house next Tuesday.”

“I'd love to. Who comes?”

“Most of the ladies you met at the tree planting and a few others—including Jillian.”

“I felt so bad for her at the fete,” I said. “Have you seen her since?”

“Yeah. And she asked me if something was going on between you and Matt.”

I kind of held my breath. “What did you tell her?”

“That you two really liked each other and were hitting it off.” She leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “She'd heard that Matt kissed you good night.”

“Oh, good grief.”

“She tried to act like it didn't matter, but I could tell it bothered her. She said she'd thought Matt had invited you to the fete just to be neighborly.” Kirsten poured herself glass of water. “It's kind of sad, how selective a person's vision can be.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied ruefully. “My husband and my best friend were having an affair right under my nose, and I was the last to know.”

“I think there must be some self-protective mechanism that kicks in.”

“I think you have to have a lot emotionally invested to activate it.”

“Well, I think Jillian is pretty emotionally invested in Matt. She said that it's good he's showing interest in someone new, because it means he's getting over Christine and is ready to move on.” Kirsten gave a wicked grin. “Then she said it's too bad that you're only in a town for a few more weeks, but she didn't look like she thought it was bad at all.”

adelaide

Y
ou said you moved to Mississippi a few months before the baby was due,” Hope prompted.

I opened my eyes. Apparently I'd dozed off, or maybe my thoughts had just meandered. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

My granddaughter and I were in my bedroom. It was the next day—or maybe the day after, or the day after that. Time had become liquid, moving and spreading all around. I was sitting in my rocker, and Hope was holding three loose housedresses with sunflowers on them.

No. It was one housedress, the one I'd asked her to pull out of my closet.

She brought it over and laid it in my lap. The fabric was light, but touching it, I could almost feel the heaviness of the padding I'd worn under it that summer.

Unbidden thoughts.
The phrase floated through my head. Maybe that wasn't the word,
unbidden
—but then again, maybe it was. Unbidden, as in unexpected and unwanted and uncalled-for, leaving you all undone. One moment you're doing something perfectly ordinary, and the next, you're overrun by memories and feelings that leave you reeling and gasping.

I had a lot of those in the months that followed that Easter
dinner where Charlie announced my so-called pregnancy. I closed my eyes and fell back into my story.

1948

We moved to a rental house in Jackson, a squalid little two-bedroom thing. Charlie had deliberately picked a place too small for either of our families to stay overnight.

The days ground on. Charlie was busy starting up the new store, and caring for the kids kept me hopping. He stopped drinking when we moved, and things eased between us. He finally told me a little about the other woman—about as much as I'd told him about Joe. She was someone he'd met at a roadside bar. He'd been lonely and she'd been a good listener. She'd just been dumped by someone she loved, and well, that was when he'd been eaten up with jealousy over Joe, and they'd gravitated toward each other because hurt attracts hurt. He said they hadn't meant anything to each other in any way that really mattered.

As time went on, I actually began to look forward to the baby, to having a new life to care for. Maybe Charlie and I could build a new life together, as well—his, mine, and ours. Maybe, in some weird way, this really would even the score.

The first week in September, both sets of our parents drove up and picked up the children. They would care for them in Wedding Tree until the baby was born, freeing me to rest during the last weeks of my “pregnancy.”

At first I was lost without them, but then . . . well, Charlie and I fell into a new pattern when it was just the two of us. We'd play card games at night and take walks. He made me laugh with stories and impressions about the people working in the new store, and he'd ask my opinion about situations and dilemmas, and we even began to make love again.

Up until then, I'd refused to sleep with him. I'd told him if I had
to pretend to be pregnant, he had to pretend so, too, and if I were having a difficult pregnancy, the doctor would forbid relations. But in those last couple of weeks, we were almost like honeymooners. Maybe it was the freedom of not having to wear the padding in the house when it was just the two of us; maybe it was the shared secret that bonded us. For whatever reason, I felt happier in my marriage than I ever had. I felt optimistic for the future.

On September 24—I'll never forget the date; it haunts me every year—I knew something was wrong. I'd been restless all day, like a cat about to birth her kittens, then Charlie didn't come home for dinner. That, in and of itself, was unusual. He'd become solicitous and caring. He'd started bringing me flowers and dancing with me to the radio and treating me like a woman he was trying to woo.

Charlie swore he wasn't seeing the other woman, but I knew he stayed in touch somehow to see how the pregnancy was progressing. I wasn't jealous of her, which might be a little odd, but I knew he didn't love her. I felt sorry for her, actually. To have a baby, then give it up . . . My womb ached just thinking about it. I'd been faced with the choice and I hadn't been able to bring myself to do it. I worried that this woman wouldn't be able to, either, but Charlie said she absolutely didn't want a baby, that she would have aborted it if he hadn't talked her out of it.

I'd pestered him about her, wanting to know more about her, but there was a stubborn streak in Charlie—a part that wouldn't give in. I have to admit, I admired that part of him. I just wished he'd used that stubbornness in a better way.

That night, the night of September 24, it got to be nine, then ten o'clock. A thunderstorm rolled in, and the rain poured down in torrents. I grew anxious. Was the baby coming? I inventoried all the baby's things I had on hand—a bassinet, blankets, baby formula, a layette, bottles, diapers . . . I touched each item, longing to put it to use.

Was Charlie at that woman's house, waiting to bring the baby home to me? Back then, men didn't take part in delivery, but maybe he was
hanging around if the baby was on the way. If that were the case, though, why didn't he call and tell me? I picked up the phone three times and asked the party line operator if it was working. I would have picked it up again, but I was too embarrassed. Instead, I paced the floor until it was a wonder I didn't wear a path in the linoleum.

As the night stretched on, another scenario formed in my mind—a scenario more likely than a baby on the way and no call from Charlie. Chances were, Charlie was just back to being his old drunken self. He was probably at a bar, leaving me stuck alone in the storm, unable to leave the house without wearing the oppressive padding because we'd led all the neighbors and townsfolk to think I was in the family way.

The more I thought about it, the more indignant I became. Why, I had half a mind to call my folks to come get me.

And say what?
Mother, Father, I was lying to you about being pregnant
? I sank onto the old floral sofa with a hard sigh, feeling the springs dig into my backside. The width and breadth of the lies I'd told made confession impossible. For a girl who couldn't lie well, I'd sure come up with some doozies. It was like being halfway across a swamp, surrounded on all sides by alligators. There was no way out but through.

I finally dozed off on that beaten-up sofa, then jerked awake to see Charlie limping through the door, looking like he'd been through a battle. I glanced at the clock in the kitchen; it was a few minutes before five in the morning.

Backlit by the porch light, his hair and clothes glistened with rain. A puddle formed on the floor around him. Good Lord, he was soaked to the bone. His face was pale, and his mouth was set in a tight line.

He reeked of cheap bourbon. My heart clutched in my chest.

“It's over,” he said, closing the door. A hint of light through the window kept the room from being totally black.

“What do you mean?”

“The baby. It's all done.”

I pushed up on my elbows, my legs still stretched out on the sofa, my heart pounding with excitement. “It's born?”

“Yeah.”

Anticipation flooded me, but stopped short of joy. Charlie didn't look like a man celebrating the birth of a child. And that whiskey smell—it always came with trouble. “Where is it?”

He wavered, like a man with a ship rolling under his feet. “Dead.”

I couldn't breathe. “What?”

“Something wrong with your hearing?”

Oh, dear God. His voice was cold, dangerous, knifelike. Whoever had called it “Demon Rum” was right. When Charlie was drinking, he was like a man possessed.

I swung my feet off the sofa and turned on the lamp on the side table. That's when I saw he had blood on his shirt—lots of it. I put my hand to my throat. My pulse fluttered under my palm like hummingbird wings. “Was it stillborn?”

“Might as well have been.”

“What does that mean?”

“Same as I said.” He sank into a vinyl chair in the breakfast alcove, next to the living room.

A sick, sour taste filled my throat. My eyes fixed on his shirt, my mind spinning, my stomach tight with fear. Something was terribly, horribly wrong. “Did you help deliver it?”

“No.”

“Then why are you all bloody?”

“Don't ask questions.”

My stomach roiled. I thought I might throw up. “B-but I have to know what happened. Everyone will want to know what happened—our parents and grandparents and the children . . . everyone.”

He sank his head in his hands.

Fear gripped me so hard I shook. “Was it a boy or a girl?”

“Boy.”

“So . . . where . . . where is he?”

“No more questions!” he bellowed.

I stared at him, trying to make sense of the situation.
Oh, Charlie—what have you done?

“Don' you worry about it. Just get your stuff together. We're going back.”

“Now?”

“Later today.”

“But . . .”

“No buts.” His voice had that old, ugly, mean tone. “You should be happy about this, Addie.”

Happy?

“You're off the hook. You don't have to raise a bastard.”

“But, Charlie . . . after all this, I wanted . . .” Hysteria was building in my chest. My gaze went to the empty bassinet in the corner of the room. “What did you do, Charlie?”

“Nothin' that concerns you.”

“But it does! Of course it does! Our family . . . everyone . . . I was . . .” My gaze went to the hated padding at the end of sofa.
Expecting.
That's what I'd become in the course of wearing it.
Expecting a baby.
Wanting, longing for a baby. And over the last two weeks, when I'd finally felt happy in my marriage, I'd been wanting, longing for a new beginning with Charlie, as well.

He misread my anguish. “I'll do all the explaining. We'll say the baby was born dead last week. You've been sedated, too upset to talk about it. The doctor advised waiting until you were over the worst of it before we told family, because you'd had a nervous breakdown. You'll take it easy at home for a couple of days, and in a couple of weeks, you'll carry on as if nothing happened.”

“But what . . .”

“No more questions!” he thundered. “That's it.”

But of course, the “no questions” rule didn't apply to family. Charlie called home later that morning and talked to his mother, who then put my mother on the phone. When we arrived home that evening, both sets of parents were waiting for us at our house, their faces gray and grim and worried.

Charlie carried me out of the car and into the bedroom, tucked me in, and sat on the edge of the bed, a physical barrier between my mother and me. “What happened?” Mother's eyes were so shadowed and sad that mine welled with tears just looking at her. “When did you know there was a problem?”

“She hadn't felt the baby move for several days,” Charlie said. “We went to the doctor, and he said there was no heartbeat.”

He hovered beside me, his eyes a dark warning glower.

“Why didn't you call and tell me?” Mother asked.

“I—I wanted to, but . . .” I stammered.

“She couldn't,” Charlie cut in. “The doctor kept her knocked out.”

God, how I wish that part was true.

“You should have called,” said Charlie's mother from the doorway.

His Adam's apple bobbed. “I decided to wait until she was better. The news was bad enough without worrying you all the more about Addie.”

“He's always been so sensitive about my feelings,” Charlie's mother said in a low voice. She put her hand on his back. “You said on the phone it was a boy.”

Charlie nodded.

Mother's hand trembled as it covered her mouth. “What did you name it?”

“We didn't.”

“Well, you have to,” Mother insisted. “We need to plan the funeral.”

“The doctor handled it,” Charlie said. “He said it was for the best, that it would help Addie get over it if she didn't have a place to go and mourn. He said the child was dead before it was born, so it was never actually alive.”

“Oh, Addie!” My mother threw up her hands. “Oh, heavens. Didn't you want your child to have a Christian burial?”

My mouth felt lined with cotton. I tried to swallow.

“She didn't have a say in the matter,” Charlie cut in. “I made the decision while she was still knocked out. Addie never saw the baby.” He put his arm around me. “The doctor said we need to put all this behind us and get on with our lives. I would appreciate it if you'd spread the word, because it might make her have another nervous breakdown if she has to talk about it to everyone in town.”

“Yes, yes. Of course,” Charlie's mother murmured.

“That goes for family, too.” Charlie's tone was uncharacteristically authoritative. “The doctor said she shouldn't have to deal with a lot of questions. I'll tell you everything you need to know, so please don't pester her about it.”