“When was she there?” asked Charlotte.
“July. Tourists were everywhere. At first, I thought she was lost. She stayed an hour, wanted to know where my mother had been a waitress. I told her it wasn’t far. She said her piece then slipped off her sandals and walked up the beach. We never spoke again.”
Alex had to know. “What was her piece?”
“Alex,” snapped Charlotte. “That’s private.”
“She wants answers, we get answers, too. That’s how this works.”
Freesia bristled. On her body, the movement was regal—nostrils flared, breath rushing to fill her chest and elevate her posture.
“Tell me, what answers have you given me since I’ve been here? Oh, wait. Root. Beer. Float. Mighty big of you to toss out scraps.”
Alex faltered.
“What do you want to know? That he ate his eggs with ketchup? That he tolerated Mama’s country music, but his soul was as close to delta blues as he could get? That he was the top regional salesman of electric steel at Mendenhal for two decades because he could sell a glass of water to a drowning man?” Her litany was slow, then gained momentum as the fissure through her rib cage cracked wider with every truth. “That he was gentle and kind and spiritual, but he tripped up on the faithful part? That up until eleven days ago, he was the best man I’d ever known and now the thought of him makes me sick to my stomach?”
“That’s enough,” said Charlotte. “The three of us can piece this together, but the big picture won’t come if we’re not open with each other.”
“Who says we have to find the big picture?” asked Alex. “Our parents were cowards, Charlotte. Leaving us to sort this out. They should have told us the truth, not strung us along with letters and tassels like some crazy scavenger hunt of past sins.”
“Have you opened your letter?” asked Charlotte.
Breath rushed into Alex’s lungs. She felt as though she was disappearing. Two against one. The letter was the last word from Elias March. She didn’t want those words to be I’m sorry or I’m proud of you or any other vacant thing he could say. Most of all, she didn’t want them to be final. So long as the envelope stayed sealed, she was Alexandra March, her father’s daughter, and she still had a chance to get this life right.
“I have work to do.”
Alex left them to their disappointed faces. She dismissed herself and thundered down the stairs. When she had packed her work, ignoring the not-so-quiet whispers from the gathered women, she swiped her father’s truck keys off the hook by the door and fled, headlights aimed for Boston but only going as far as Bethel Lane.
She tried Michael on his cell. The call went to voicemail. He had changed his message, in this one, his voice sounded content.
Night rushed the open window, but it wasn’t enough air. Not by half. In her mind, Jonah rode shotgun, witness to her flight.
I see you, Alex. I know you. You’re running. It’s what you do.
She shifted the transmission to park and curled up on the truck’s seat, engine idling, the vibration soothing to her nerves. It kept her planted, solid in Devon, when she wanted to keep going. And when the gas tank sputtered and threatened its last offering, Alex unfolded herself and drove home.
* * *
By the time Alex’s Band-Aid had stemmed Aima’s bleeding into the healthy start of a first-quarter cash flow, the face of morning brought restfulness instead of caffeine-ridden all-nighters, and everything was right between the pages of her journal—a stasis between accomplishments and fires to come, one week had passed.
Her mood had lifted enough to send Charlotte home early from the shop.
Knowing her nieces and nephew were with Nash’s parents for the night, Alex said, “I’ll lock up. Go, slip into something sexy for Nash.”
To which Charlotte replied, “Too bad it can’t be a new set of truck tires. Only thing to get him excited since his favorite beer came out with a pre-Prohibition recipe.”
She said she was kidding, but Alex wasn’t convinced.
“Is everything…” Alex started before she knew how to begin. “I mean, you would tell me if things were…off, right?”
The hypocrisy in her question hung heavy.
Charlotte stared as if she’d been caught binging on a moon pie ahead of supper at her in-laws. She busied herself with straightening counter items that were already tidy and smoothing a nearby lace trumpet skirt, all while tossing out a Mama-ism: “Nothing a good game of grab-ass won’t solve.”
Alex had always hated it when Mama said that, but this time the saying struck a grating note when it conjured the mental image of Daddy chasing a mistress around her beachfront home. The inkling that Charlotte and Nash had gone the way of her and Michael scratched at Alex’s protective instinct.
“Or a tall glass of appreciation, with a side of clean drawers that he washed himself.”
Charlotte slowed in the gathering of her purse but showed no other indication she had heard Alex. “Goodnight, then.”
Alex watched her go. Clearly, the boundary between sibling privilege and mind-your-own-business was too mucky for Charlotte’s zinger comebacks.
That left Alex alone with Jonah.
All day, she had been acutely aware of Jonah’s lingering presence upstairs. It was why she chose to work downstairs, even though she told herself it was the paint fumes. Dry walling, texturing, and painting the second floor had transformed the space from attic to asset. Major asset. Jonah was gifted with the details of construction, never content to cut corners, as thorough with mundane tasks as he had been about everything in his life: musician, boat maker, volunteer rescue diver, cab driver, tree surgeon, father, devoted husband. The jack-of-all-trades saw every single one of his projects through to their natural conclusion. All but one.
One meandering fingertip skimming skin not covered by a sundress came to mind.
Alex licked her lips.
Truth was, the heat of his attention burned. Every part of her, temples to toes. As covert as the gazes came and went, as good as they felt going down on a hard swallow, Alex was still waiting for the rain to clear with Michael. Legally, he was still her husband; he was still the one who told her an enhanced separation was the way it had to be. That still left room for Alex, if only she held on for a little longer. Until his incumbency held, until he tired of fitness instructors with spray tans and remembered those early days where they had existed on a diet of noodles and each other and she had believed in him. She wanted him—needed him—on the page ten list in her journal, no longer the same as her parents’ relationship but better, as she had envisioned it all those years back, perfection within reach. And she needed to go home soon, not just for Bear, but for the life they had started when Bear was a puppy. The longer Alex was in Devon, the more she was convinced she was meant to learn the lessons of marriage and take them back to fix hers. Even the tassel had a message—appreciate what’s right in front of you. And nothing, not even the promise of feeling something—anything—rapture or pain—could entice her to return to the eighteen-year-old girl she had once been.
She locked up and turned off most of the lights. Liquidating the surplus of long-sleeved gowns was her next priority. Southern Baptists may want to cloak the goods, but nine times out of ten, a Mississippi wedding in a ten-pound dress required the kind of air conditioning that could only come from straps. The overdue call from her boss came as she was compiling a list.
“Hi, Robert. Thought I’d hear from you a few days ago.”
“Alex. How are things at home?”
Something was off in his tone. Apart from the slim probability he cared about the state of affairs in Nowhere, Mississippi, it was as hollow a question as how are you? or what’s the weather? Her boss wasn’t a man to waste breath. Or wait days to return calls.
“Is something wrong?”
“I had a sit-down with Aima’s CEO, Alex. They went another direction.”
The room was dark except for the small chandelier above her, b
ut orbs of blue, hot light slipped past her and stretched to the walls, the white dresses that rimmed the room. Alex felt as though she was floating. “But the update….”
“They feel like your idea, when implemented, took their distribution in a direction that wasn’t in line with their vision.”
She might have taken steps; she couldn’t say because the orbs moved and shuffled, none of them aligned to a place that made sense. Nothing made sense. “That’s a company line, Robert. You know that.”
“Regardless, they’ve given their account to another company.”
Alex moved, chose darkness. She was at the bawling chair, but it would not take her, would not have its mythic effect on her because nothing did anymore.
“There was something else,” said Robert. “Their board felt your absence was indicative of what they could expect moving forward.”
“My team did the fastest turnaround we’ve ever done. It was flawless.”
“Perception is reality, Alex. Some companies require a bit more hand-holding.”
“In person.”
“Yes.”
Instead of tears, failure flash-burned an instant wave of gooseflesh across her shoulders and down her back. The shop’s air turned polar.
“I explained the circumstances,” said Robert, “but given the extra time, they were less than confident you had made them a priority.”
She pressed at the pain behind her eye until the pressure equaled and the orbs stalled. Jonah came down the stairs, assertively passive with his lazy progress, the way his legs taunted his frame, forced the rest of him to sway and follow like he was taking steps into a pool of confidence and the waters were moving around her lips, quite possibly high enough to drown her. In her ear, Robert kept talking. She wanted him to shut up.
“Frankly, I don’t disagree.” A pause, a ragged breath that carved an edge in the ice between her lips and her heart. “I went another direction with vice-president, Alex. You’re the best problem solver I’ve ever seen, but I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind to take on more responsibility, to represent this company.”
Alex struggled to shake the words, the cold, the reality Robert spoke of, while Jonah paused, frowned, clearly suspected something. He set his tool box on a low step. Her breath quickened, came shorter.
“What are you saying?” Four words that filled her mouth, damned near died on her tongue.
What Robert said: “Do what you have to do there. We’ll talk.”
What Alex heard: Your career will never see the light of day.
“Have a safe trip home,” he added.
At home, her mind did not trip ahead to Boston, but stayed, galvanized at her ankles like shackles, as though the life she’d planned up north was already slipping away. Her thoughts latched onto her apartment, white furniture and city views, Bear, Michael, like a life preserver circling a drain.
“Take care of yourself, Alex.”
“Yes, sir.” Though older, he had always been Robert. Sir was distance. She hoped he felt the sting of it.
The call ended. Her knees pressed against the bawling chair’s cushion, steadied her. And Jonah was there, whispering her name, whispering something, but he might as well have been upstairs, painting brush strokes over his words, concealing them. Then she was in the chair, velvet cushioning the back of her arms, her legs. The circles of light crept away like impending dawn.
“I have to get a flight home; I have to…”
Jonah slid the phone from her grasp. He crouched down, as he had with Ibby, like molasses on walnut-anadama bread, his voice a slow-motion pour to match.
“Breathe. Tell me what’s wrong.”
His hand remained on her denim-clad knee, a penetrating heat that rivaled the shop’s furnace. She ached to slide low, for him to cover her other places, her answer to blocking out the world.
“Something happened at work.”
“They haven’t taken enough of you yet?” He gave two taps of his palm against her leg. “You’ve barely eaten. Look, Ibby’s staying with a friend tonight. Nothing is so bad that a little barbeque can’t fix.”
Alex was pretty sure tangy brisket wouldn’t cover a career crisis.
He fetched her coat and bag from a hook in the office. In his mind, dinner was clearly a foregone conclusion.
“Then if you still need to go, I’ll drive you to Jackson tonight.”
That sounded good, nice, perfect. The aim, to leave, return to Boston. She was reluctant to trust herself with Jonah, for she knew from those she had allowed close to her after Michael, her body was a fickle betrayer.
12
Alex
Sitting with Jonah over two pulled pork plates, the twang of country music bouncing through the old barn décor, Boston seemed a hundred million miles away.
When the first swallow of alcohol hit her stomach, her senses opened, and she took in a full breath, maybe the first one that day. She wouldn’t drink until things twisted, probably not even until the glass’s end. She had yet to formulate a plan and commit it to her journal pages.
Jonah made it a point to ask questions. Alex made it a point to not answer.
“You be easy on a country boy if he apologizes?”
Had her career not just imploded, she might have smiled. “Sure.”
Jonah shrugged. “Figured you’d be pretty cutthroat now. Boardrooms and all.”
Heels and business suits projected power, a bitch-fest. In truth, her days were eighty percent computer work, fifteen percent coffee spillage and five percent backpedaling to client’s whims.
“I think Isabel gave you the wrong idea about me.”
“She’s been talking about you, nonstop. Swiping through pictures, asking questions.”
“What do you tell her?”
“Said we were friends.”
Alex nodded slowly. Nothing to betray how his rewrite of history landed in the pit of her stomach. “We were. Are. Not a lie.”
“Not exactly the truth, either.”
Jonah Dufort did not operate on half-truths. His glaze-over of their entangled limbs for his daughter’s benefit must have gone down like a lead stone.
“I’m sorry for what I said the other night. Outside,” Jonah said. “Seeing you brings up a whole lot I never got right in my head. I made my peace with what happened to Katherine, but I had answers then.”
His face was a study in determination: steady eye contact, slow blinks, strong jaw. That he should keep pushing for truths today piqued her.
“You have answers now.”
Her father, college, life. Around the fire pit, she’d told him all she intended to about the day she left. He acted as if he suspected the real reason she bailed. Impossible. Alex was alone in that truth.
Her constant, reluctant companion.
His gaze slipped, askance. He stretched out the moment before he took another bite. “So tell me about Boston.”
“Winters are cold. People are great.”
“What keeps you here when you should be back there?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’ll try to keep up.”
Her drink was low, at the glass’s end. The heaviness of the meal kept her from twisting sideways. She tapped the rim at the server.
“A deal went sideways, is all. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“And what about your husband?”
“Not so easily fixed.”
Alex realized the moment she answered that he had been speaking about Boston, not her marriage. Her second glass came. She chased the Old Fashioned with a bite of her sandwich while Jonah sat back, measuring her, content to sit there until closing time and plunder her defenses.
“Never had kids?”
A piece of bread lodged in her esophagus, triggering a spasm of coughs and the necessity to be ambitious with her alcohol again. He pushed his water glass toward her. She took a swig to bide her time, come up with an answer that wasn’t Never again after I lost ours.
“A
lways too busy with careers, I guess.”
“And now?”
He pushed aside his meal. Zero distractions left. His focus had always been singular when he set his mind to something. Right now, that something was her. The music slipped beneath her skin. The room was hot. She curled under his stare.
“Things haven’t been good for a long time. It would take a lot to get us there.”
“That why you never mention him?”
“Michael is smart and driven. His powers of persuasion make him the most potent kind of politician, but he doesn’t take that lightly. He tries to bring respect back to the career. People trust him. He’s a throwback to Kennedy—righting social injustice, making people believe in something again.”
“Good for a vote. Too bad I’m not a constituent,” said Jonah. “So if he checks every box in your journal, why doesn’t he make you happy?”
That Jonah knew there were boxes brought a flush to her cheeks.
“Who says I’m not happy?”
“Come on, Alex. I’m not some guy off the street. You were the best conversationalist because you knew a little bit about everything. Now it’s stiff answers and bad sleep and…” He glanced down at the fresh glass the waitress left. “Lost expressions.”
She felt his judgment, as surely as if he had dropped a gavel to the Formica instead of a fork, and pulled a long tug of whiskey past her tongue.
“You’ll forgive me if I haven’t had much to smile about lately. I just found out my daddy screwed another woman.”
The curse felt satisfying on the way out. Not so much in Jonah’s nodded apology to people staring from adjacent booths.
“You’re a lousy drunk, Alex.”
“I guess that’s one way Daddy didn’t disappoint.” She raised her glass in a mock toast and drained the rest of the whiskey. “What do you want, Jonah?”
“I want the real Alex. No more bullshit.”
“And if you ask something I don’t want to answer?”
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