by Karen White
I was too stunned to speak, my tongue heavy in my mouth. The boy stepped forward and offered me his hand to shake. “Actually, I’m going by Rocky now. Rocky Connors.”
I stared down at his hand, soft and pale with bony knuckles just like our father’s, then took it. His grip was surprisingly strong, his skin warm. He blinked up at me through the thick lenses of his glasses with uncertainty, but his handshake wasn’t tentative. I imagined my father teaching him how to shake hands like a man. It was the kind of thing he’d once taught me.
Mr. Williams cleared his throat, waiting to be introduced, and I turned to him, trying to find a way to explain that I had no family regardless of the two people standing on the front porch.
The boy slid his hand from my grasp and turned to the lawyer. “I’m Rocky Connors, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Mr. Williams. It’s nice to meet you, too, Rocky.” He turned to Loralee with a hopeful expression, as if she might want to explain who they were and why they were there.
But she’d stepped past us and was looking up at the row of sea-glass wind chimes, her expression like a child’s on Christmas Day. “Mermaid’s tears,” she said, clasping her hands together over her Barbie-like chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful in my whole life.”
Mr. Williams smiled at her as if he’d never seen anything as beautiful as she was, and I wanted to shout at him, to warn him that charming older gentlemen was something she was really good at.
“My mother used to call them that, too,” he said, smiling a smile that wasn’t grandfatherly at all. “You must have been raised by the ocean.”
“Yes, sir, I was. In Gulf Shores, Alabama, not too far from the gulf.” She stuck out an elegant, well-manicured hand with a broken index fingernail. “I’m Loralee Connors. Merritt’s stepmother.”
Mr. Williams took her hand, but looked at me with raised eyebrows, his expression letting me know that I had some explaining to do.
A stiff breeze blew at us and the house and the wind chimes, making the glass stones sing. The long day and the stress of the last few months were finally too much for me, and my knees just buckled.
Loralee was closest and caught my elbow, and she and Mr. Williams led me to a wicker chair with an indented seat. I nodded my thanks, but, in my embarrassment, couldn’t look at either of them. Instead, I kept my gaze focused on the scarred floorboards of the porch, listening to the wind as it picked up speed and shook the chimes, showering us all with the sound of glass.
chapter 3
LORALEE
Blood isn’t always thicker than water. As Loralee watched Merritt hesitate before finally shaking Owen’s hand, that was the first thing she thought, and she moved a bracelet to her other arm to remind herself to add it to her Journal of Truths later. But then Loralee saw that Merritt’s eyes were the same color as Robert’s and their son’s, except just a shade darker. It was like all the hurts in Merritt’s life had settled there. Loralee thought they probably created shadows in front of everything Merritt saw in life, and felt herself soften toward her stepdaughter. But Loralee knew she could never let on that she’d seen Merritt’s weakness, that she knew Merritt felt the hurts more than most people and thought she’d figured out how to hide them from those who knew where to look.
Loralee knelt down by the wicker chair so she could see Merritt’s face. “If you tell me where the kitchen is, I’ll go fetch you some water.”
Merritt looked at her with an expression Loralee had seen on a fox her mama’s bluetick hound, Roscoe, had cornered outside their chicken coop. It was hunger, and hopelessness, but tucked way back was the tiny glimmer that there was still a chance to escape.
“Why are you here?” Merritt asked, her Northern accent at once jarring and familiar to Loralee.
“I figured it was time you met your brother. Your daddy would want that.” Loralee hoped that she was better at hiding her real feelings than Merritt was.
Merritt struggled to get out of her chair and Loralee knew better than to offer help. It would be like trying to help a rattler by moving a rock off its tail. It would bite you just because it was hurt and didn’t know the cause of it.
She fell back into the seat and glared at Loralee. “What makes you think that I give a”—she glanced at Owen before continuing—“hoot what my father wanted? He didn’t care what I wanted, so I guess that makes us even.”
Loralee wanted to tell her something she’d already written in her Journal of Truths—that life wasn’t about keeping score—but she didn’t think Merritt would appreciate it just then. Loralee knew she should take Owen by the hand and go find a hotel, to give Merritt time to get used to the idea of their being there. But she was running out of time, and a category five hurricane wind couldn’t have blown her from her spot on the porch.
She felt Owen’s worried eyes on her, and Loralee knew she had to make this work. “Your daddy said that you and Owen are like two peas in a pod. Always has his nose in a book and loves to swim. He’s on the summer rec swim team. He hasn’t won a ribbon yet, but he signs up every summer so he can try. Your daddy said you did the same thing.”
Merritt looked at Owen, and they regarded each other with matching eyes. Loralee felt a glimmer of hope, as if she’d somehow found a rip in Merritt’s duct-taped heart that allowed a little light to shine in. “He loves to draw and paint, too, and he’s so creative. You should see what he can do with a bunch of LEGO bricks.”
Brother and sister continued to stare at each other without Merritt saying anything, and Loralee began to fish through her brain for something else she could try to convince her stepdaughter to allow them to stay. She was about to mention how they both ate their Oreos cream-first (according to Robert) when Owen reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Handing it to Merritt, he said, “I drew this for you. It’s not very good, because I was only six. But that’s when I found out I had a sister.”
Loralee watched as Merritt’s mouth softened, which made her believe that Merritt would take the piece of paper. Because if she didn’t, Loralee didn’t know if she could be held accountable for what she might do.
Owen took a step forward and slid the paper from his fingers to hers. She opened it slowly, then spent several moments staring at it without saying anything. Mr. Williams shifted his feet as Loralee and Owen held their breath, waiting for Merritt to say something.
“It’s very good,” she said, her words sounding like they’d been tumbled with cotton. “Even for a six-year-old,” she added, and her lips tilted upward in what probably passed for a smile in some parts of the country.
The three of them let go of their breath as Merritt’s gaze settled back on Owen’s face and her features softened as if she’d put on a mask. Loralee wondered whether Merritt did it on purpose, or if she was so used to hiding her feelings from other people that the mask appeared without her knowing. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Owen. And I’m glad you’ve come for a visit. I’m sure there are hotels in town. . . .”
“We have the same eyes,” he said, studying her the way he watched the ants in his ant farm. Like he had to study her to figure out how she worked. Loralee decided that he probably had that right.
Merritt’s eyes darkened, and Loralee thought of the cornered fox again. Merritt blinked rapidly as she stared back at Owen as if she were going to cry. But Loralee knew she wouldn’t. Merritt had probably practiced how not to cry in front of other people for years. Loralee had figured that one out when Robert told her how Merritt had gone to her mama’s funeral with dry eyes, and then spent the wake bringing people punch and straightening the pillows on the couch. Loralee thought of something else to add to her journal: Some people hide their grief by pretending it’s not there.
Loralee shifted her feet, wishing it were just her shoes that were making it hard to stand, and needing another breeze. Mr. Williams touched her elbow. “You all right there, Mrs. Connors?”
&
nbsp; She gave him her flight-attendant smile, the one she’d used to greet passengers. “I’m fine, thank you. It’s just a hot one today, isn’t it?” She punctuated her words with a heavy fanning of her hand. She was about to ask again whether Merritt wanted her to get some water when Owen spoke.
He was looking up at the line of sea glass strung across the entire porch like an ocean had just thrown up all over the front of the house. “I like the wind chimes. Daddy made one for our backyard in our old house, but I think we forgot to bring it. Can I have a room where I can hear them from my bed? I’d like to hear the sound in the morning when I wake up. Sort of like I’m still in my bedroom and Daddy’s downstairs.”
Merritt must have heard his voice break a little, too, because she leaned forward, almost as if she wanted to reach out and touch him. But she didn’t. Her lips tilted upward again, and Loralee wondered whether her smiling muscles would hurt the next day from being used too much.
“He made one for me, too, when I was a little girl. It would keep me awake, so he put it in the front yard, where I could hear it when I went to the school bus in the morning. He traveled a lot and I used to say it was his way of saying good morning even when he wasn’t there.”
Loralee put her hand on Owen’s shoulder and squeezed, trying to show Merritt that they were a package deal. “I promise we won’t be any trouble. And I’ll be happy to put clean sheets on beds, or I could sleep on a couch—whatever is easiest for you.” Her mama would be rolling over in her grave at her lack of manners for inviting themselves to move in with this stranger, even if she was Owen’s blood relative.
Mr. Williams cleared his throat. “I really don’t think the house is ready to be moved into right now, and there is plenty of room at my home—”
“You can stay here,” Merritt interrupted, dropping Owen’s picture in the seat of the chair next to her before standing. Directing her words to Loralee, she added, “I suppose you can stay for a couple of days. I just need to find some clean sheets for the beds and a few cleaning supplies.”
Loralee felt Mr. Williams looking at her with expectation, but she knew her offer of help wouldn’t be welcomed. Taking care of the details was probably how Merritt took back control, and Loralee wondered whether every girl who lost her mother did the same thing when life got muddier than a puddle. At least it had been that way for her.
She was about to mention that they might be staying longer than a few days, perhaps leaving out the details that she’d sold their house in Georgia along with all the furniture and had no place else to stay, when Mr. Williams pulled out his phone. “Let me call my wife and see if she can round up some supplies, or maybe even call her cleaning lady to see if she can come by. . . .” He stopped, his flip phone held in midair, and watched as a recent-model black Explorer pulled up at the curb.
The lawyer replaced his phone in his pocket and began quickly walking down the path toward the visitor with a worried look creasing his forehead.
Just as he reached the truck, the driver stepped out and stood facing the house, watching Mr. Williams approach. “Hello, Sidney,” the man said, and Loralee understood for the first time what her mama had meant when she’d described a man as a tall drink of cool water.
He was young, early thirties, with light brown hair and tanned skin, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was lean, but not thin, with broad shoulders and legs that filled out his khaki pants just right.
“I’m not sure now is a good time,” Mr. Williams said to the visitor. “Why don’t I set up a meeting at my office, and I’ll let you know . . .”
But the younger man had shifted his focus from Mr. Williams back to the house, where Loralee stood with Owen and Merritt, and had begun walking up the path toward them. When he got closer, Loralee could see that his eyes were golden brown, like the color of Robert’s favorite brandy. She could also see that he wore a smiley-face pin on his breast pocket, a wardrobe choice that seemed out of place with the expression on his face.
He made a beeline toward Loralee, but was distracted by a small, strangled sound from Merritt. Her face had gone even paler than it had been, and she was holding both of her hands to her face. She looked like a person who was seeing a ghost.
“Cal?” The one word seemed to suck the rest of her color from her face and the man stopped, his expression turning to one of worry as Merritt dropped back into the porch chair like a bag of rocks.
Loralee pushed on Owen’s back. “Go find a clean glass and bring Merritt some cool water, sweetie. And hurry.”
Mr. Williams rushed to Merritt’s side and laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “No, Merritt, this is Gibbes. Cal’s brother.”
Her breath was coming in shallow gasps, and it looked like she might faint. Loralee wondered whether Merritt would ever forgive her for witnessing weakness. She figured that to Merritt, nearly fainting in front of three strangers would be right up there with being caught locked outside naked as the day she was born.
Without saying anything, Gibbes took Merritt’s wrist in one hand, then glanced at his watch on his other arm like he was checking her pulse. That was when Loralee noticed his Mickey Mouse watch and the wrapped tops of three lollipops sticking out of his shirt pocket. Out of habit, left over from her days as an airline attendant, her eyes drifted to the empty ring finger on his left hand. She found herself wishing that she’d known he was coming over, because she would have tried to talk Merritt into a little bit of mascara and maybe a swipe of lipstick. First impressions were the most important. She’d put that one in her journal right after she’d met Robert.
Merritt snatched her hand out of his grasp, and Loralee was relieved to see two spots of red appear on her cheeks. “I’m fine,” Merritt said, but she didn’t try to get out of the chair, probably because she wasn’t sure she could be steady on her feet and didn’t want Gibbes to see. Thankfully, that meant Merritt had at least a bit of vanity, or at least enough for Loralee to work with.
Owen came through the doorway holding a tall aqua aluminum tumbler, an identical match to the ones Loralee’s grandma had once owned, purchased with Green Stamps and used only for company and special occasions. The sides had already begun to sweat when he handed it to his sister.
Merritt took her time drinking, her eyes darting around, and she was looking like a giraffe at a watering hole filled with alligators Loralee had once seen on TV. She and Owen watched a lot of National Geographic so she’d know things she hadn’t learned growing up in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
Mr. Williams’s phone rang and he stepped off the porch to answer it, leaving Loralee to fill the silence. That was another thing she was good at, besides serving peanuts in small packets and pouring drinks. “I’m Loralee Connors, and this is my son, Owen.”
Owen stepped forward and put out his hand just like his father had taught him and shot his mother an annoyed glance. “I’m going by Rocky now. It’s nice to meet you, sir. Mama and I have just moved to Beaufort to live with my sister, Merritt.”
Merritt choked on a sip of water, coughing as she held a delicate hand to her mouth.
Gibbes sent her a worried look, then took Owen’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Rocky. I’m Dr. Heyward.” They shook hands. “You’ve got a nice grip for a ten-year-old. You play baseball?” His voice was slow and Southern, and Loralee felt reassured somehow, as if she were still in familiar territory.
“No, sir. I was in Little League for a while, but I got tired of handing out water bottles, so I thought I’d try to find a sport I was good at.”
“And did you?”
“No, sir. But I’m still looking.” Owen tilted his head like he did when he was hurt or confused. “How did you know I was ten?”
The man smiled, his teeth white and even. “I’m a pediatrician. It goes with the territory.”
With a hard glance at Loralee and a swipe at a small wet spot on her blouse, Merritt placed the tumbler on a wicker table that held a pot with a dead stem and dried-up dirt inside it, then took
a deep breath before standing quickly.
Holding out her hand to Gibbes, she said, “I’m Merritt. Cal’s wife. He never told me he had a brother.”
He stared at her hand for a long moment before taking it, his large hand dwarfing hers. The spots of color reappeared on her cheeks and she quickly slid her hand away.
His words were clipped. “I guess that makes us even, then, because Cal never told me he had a wife.”
Merritt tilted her head, just like Owen had. “Did he ever call or write to you?”
Gibbes gave her an odd look. “He wrote a short note to me about once a year, letting me know he was still alive, but not much more than that. He stopped about nine years ago—I’m guessing around the time the two of you got married. Because he never mentioned you.” He indicated the lawyer still speaking on his phone. “And Mr. Williams has informed me that you now own our grandmother’s house.”
Merritt stared at him openly. “Yes, it appears I do.”
He looked up at the wind chimes that were busy shimmying in the wind. “How nice for you.” Their eyes met, leaving Loralee to wonder who would look away first.
They both did as Mr. Williams came up the porch steps. “That was Kathy. She’s sending her cleaning lady over now, and I’m to bring you all over to our house for supper. You’re invited, too, Gibbes.”
Gibbes slowly looked over at Merritt before shaking his head. “Please give my thanks to Mrs. Williams, but I have other plans.”
The look on his face made Loralee think his plans were something pressing, like organizing his sock drawer or cleaning out his tackle box.
Addressing Mr. Williams, he said, “I’ll call tomorrow to set up an appointment to go through the house. Assuming the new owner agrees.”
Merritt crossed her arms over her chest. “The new owner can give you an answer if you’d care to ask her directly.”
His jaw pulsed and Loralee wasn’t sure whether he was trying not to smile or was clenching his teeth.