by Penny Reid
“Jeez. I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is. Plus, looking back over the lessons I’ve learned in my life, I now know there’s a universe between wanting and doing. They are not the same. Wanting something doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.”
“When you two met up, at the hotel, did he push you? Did Billy pressure you to do things?”
“No. Never. He didn’t push me. I told him I couldn’t do that. All those times we met at the hotel, we rarely kissed on the lips. Sometimes, I’d kiss his cheek, or—when he’d hold me—he’d kiss my neck. That’s all we did. It was—it was—I don’t know how to describe it. It was so—”
“Innocent?”
Wrinkling my nose, I still felt like I was relating someone else’s story. “No. I was going to say, charged.”
Sienna exhaled a short laugh, and then another laugh followed. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
She and I shared a small smile, which was strange. I’d never recounted the events—even to myself—without a heavy dose of shame. It was strange to think about my younger self without the layer of loathing attached to it. Maybe, if I’d been a little kinder to myself, things might’ve been different.
“So what happened? Why’d you stop seeing him?”
Ugh.
I gathered a deep inhale and then let it go. “Billy had been withdrawing more and more, each time we were together. He’d talk less and less. And then, he stopped coming. He wanted me to leave Ben.”
“And you wouldn’t.”
“I was . . . afraid. Mostly of my father, but also of hurting Ben. He was so sweet to me, mostly. And I thought I owed him so much. But then I made a plan. I decided I’d tell Ben the truth as soon as he got home. So, he got home, and I did.”
“You told him the truth?” She stopped rocking.
“Yes. Ben told me to choose, him or Billy. But, either way, he said he would forgive us both, pray for our souls, and told me I always had a safe home with him if I came back to him.”
“Blah,” she said. “I can’t decide if that was kind or incredibly patronizing.”
“I called Billy right away. I asked him to meet me at the hotel even though he swore he wouldn’t anymore, not until I left Ben.” A rush of emotion stung my nose and eyes. “He walked in and wouldn’t look at me. And I—” My voice broke.
“Claire,” Sienna reached for my fingers like she didn’t want me to go too far, her hand sliding down and holding mine.
“I told him I wanted to talk to him, about something important. And he asked me why, what was the point. I asked him if he loved me, and he said nothing. So I asked if he hated me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘If I do hate you, would you blame me?’” God, it still hurt, but not just because of Billy’s cold answer.
Bethany Winston, his momma, had been there. She’d followed him, concerned for her son, and after he’d left, she’d confronted me. I’d never told anyone but my therapist about it. Even now, I couldn’t seem to force my mouth to form the words. Her disappointment in me still felt like breathing in needles and shattered glass.
“Oh, honey.” Sienna squeezed my hand tighter.
“How could I choose Billy?” I appealed to Sienna quietly. “My mother hated my father and I think he hated her too. I grew up like that, around bitterness. There was no choosing between Billy’s hate and Ben’s love. Plus, I had my father to consider. Being with Ben had kept me out of his reach. If I left the McClures, I didn’t know if I’d still be safe. And then . . .” I paused, having oddly mixed feelings about everything now that I’d removed guilt from the narrative.
“What?” Sienna whisper-asked.
“So.” I twisted my lips, sending her a look. “The night before my ‘official’ marriage to Ben, Billy showed up at my window. Ben was at his parents’ house for the night, and I was alone.”
“What happened?”
“He tried to seduce me.”
“Well.” She reared back, her eyes wide but blinking, like she needed a moment to process this information. “How about that, from the pillar of absolute honor, Billy Winston. Did it work?”
“No.” I tilted my head back and forth, giving her a sideways glance, finally admitting, “Actually, almost. He made a few suggestive remarks, which flustered the tar outta me, and he kissed me, and we made out to the point that my brain stopped caring about right and wrong, and . . .”
“And?”
“And then he pulled away and demanded in no uncertain terms that I leave Ben and run away with him.” I frowned, fighting a sudden headache as I recalled his caveman mandates, how angry he’d been, and how ashamed I’d felt after realizing how close I’d come to breaking my promise to his mother. But when he’d kissed me, when he’d touched me, I couldn’t think.
That night had been our first huge fight. We’d had a few more over the years, more shouting matches, more angry words, but that had been our first where words had been knives and looks had been arrows and I’d needed every weapon at my disposal to push him away.
“And?” Sienna skootched to the edge of the rocking chair, bringing my attention back to her.
“And nothing. I walked out of the room.” I shrugged, suddenly tired, so tired. I didn’t want to tell any more stories tonight. I was done. “When I came back, he’d left, and the next time we spoke was after Ben died. The end.”
Chapter Seven
*Billy*
“It hurts to breathe. It hurts to live. I hate her, yet I do not think I can exist without her.”
Charlotte Featherstone, Addicted
“Thanks for taking the time today, Congressman. We appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.” I frowned at the clock on my laptop screen, double-checking the time on my phone. This time difference was a killer. I had six more hours of back-to-back calls in the States before I’d get a chance to check on Roscoe, and it was almost dinnertime in Italy. “I don’t have much longer, so is there anything else?”
“Just campaign prep. Karl? You want to fill the congressman in about campaign prep?”
“We can have a separate call,” Karl said. “We’ll schedule it later.”
“No, Karl. It’s now or never,” I said, clicking through my calendar for tomorrow and the day after, seeing more of the same. Wednesday was blocked off, though, the entire day. I didn’t remember doing that, but then there’d been a lot to remember and focus on.
Karl hemmed and hawed before finally saying, “It’s somewhat personal in nature.”
“Are you quitting?” I asked, opening the all-day appointment on Wednesday to see who’d added it. “If you’re not quitting, then there’s nothing you need to say that the team can’t hear.”
Becca Mason, my chief of staff, cut in, “The congressman knows there’s no such thing as a private life for a politician. Go on.”
“Fine,” Karl said on a sigh that sounded like he didn’t believe it was actually fine. “So, there’s a rumor going around that you and Judge Payton’s granddaughter are no longer engaged. Is this true?”
Answering immediately and with no emotion, I said, “It’s true. She’ll be sending out a statement in the next few weeks, but yes. We broke the engagement.”
“This is a problem,” he said.
It wasn’t a problem; nevertheless, I asked, “And what do you see as a potential solution?”
“Hell if I know.” He sounded despondent, like someone who enjoys being upset.
I’d have to reevaluate Karl’s position with us if I ultimately decided to run for the senate seat. I hadn’t made my mind up yet. He was new, sent from party headquarters, and everything was always a problem. My contact at the party had called Karl savvy. But on my team, people who see nothing but problems while offering no solutions are called fired.
“The thing is, Billy,” he said, using my first name as though he knew me, paused as though giving the matter great thought, and then starting again, “Older voters don’t trust candidates who aren’t mar
ried, just like they don’t trust candidates with beards, or candidates who smile too much, or candidates who smile too little. I know this might all sound silly, but—”
“It sounds irrelevant.”
He chuckled. “It’s not. I promise you, it’s not. We have so much polling data on voting trends and it’s perception over substance that sways the vote, time and time again. Your job is the substance, I get that. But my job is the perception, and perception gets people elected. I’ll do my best. But this kind of thing, a single man with no family, no fiancée, right before the race really starts to ramp up, it’s a problem.”
Glaring at the Wednesday appointment details, unable to figure out who added it to my calendar, I leaned back in my chair, scratching my beard. “Okay. Ms. Mason, anything else?”
“That’s all we have, Congressman.”
“Fine. ’Til next week. Bye.” I hung up just as Karl said something, some kind of protest.
I reread the title on the Wednesday all-day appointment, Block for Buonarroti Simoni tour—no calls.
“Buonarroti Simoni.” I tried sounding it out, checking to see if I’d recognize what it was by hearing it, and then it clicked. “Michelangelo?” I asked my screen, picking up my cell phone to type out a quick text to Becca.
Billy: Who blocked off Wednesday on my calendar? And what is Buonarroti Simoni?
She messaged back almost instantly.
Becca: Your brother asked us to block off a few days on your calendar for sightseeing while you’re over there. I thought you’d approved, should I change?
I stared at the text, debating. Sightseeing wasn’t something I’d planned on, but I wasn’t opposed to it. Session was out for the summer, the volume of state business was at a minimum, and I was getting most of my calls out of the way today and tomorrow. Usually I’d be at the mill right now, working full days, but Dolly Payton had come out of semiretirement to take over while I ‘recuperated.’ This had been decided without my blessing and, as she put it, for your own stubborn good. Therefore, mill business was in excellent hands. And I’ve always wanted to go to Rome . . .
However, something about the calendar entry, that no one had seen fit to consult me on, struck me as suspicious.
I sent Becca a new message.
Billy: Which of my brothers asked you to block off my schedule?
Becca: The email was from Duane Winston with a list of dates. I can forward it.
I relaxed at this news, relieved it hadn’t been Cletus. If Cletus had made the request, then I knew something was up. Furthermore, Duane wasn’t a great communicator, especially about stuff like this. He probably figured he was doing a nice thing, setting up tours and whatnot while I was here.
Still, he had time to set all this up while taking care of a newborn?
My phone buzzed again; a calendar reminder that I was already late for my next call lit up the screen. Putting away thoughts of Duane and tours and Rome, I dialed in, sitting back after I announced I was on the line and waited for the rest of the labor committee to join. Most of this call was spent on mute. Mostly, I was there to make sure the Modesto lobbyist didn’t try to sneak any line-item measures into our fair compensation bill.
About halfway through the hour-long conference call, Jethro came in with a tray of food, placing it on the bed next to the empty tray from lunch.
I lifted my chin in greeting, muting the line to say, “You didn’t have to do that. I’ll come down between calls.” My family was still sending up trays every time I missed a meal. Since I’d managed to walk down the stairs last week, I figured they would’ve stopped. No such luck.
He shrugged, picking up a pair of my pants I’d left on the bed, folding them as he looked around and whispered, “We know you’re busy, but you still need to eat.”
I waved to the phone. “I have them on mute, no need to whisper.”
Jethro placed my newly folded pants on the dresser, yawning and crossing to me. “You want me to wait?”
Examining my oldest brother, I bit back the impulse to say something dismissive or mean. In my experience, the only undertaking more difficult than forming new habits is breaking old ones.
Being around Jethro wasn’t easy, I still hadn’t grown accustom to the cease-fire between us. Looking at him, I saw a man who’d chosen loyalty to others over his own family. Why had Ben McClure ever been more important—his death more meaningful to Jethro, more of a reason to repent and change his ways—than us? Family first. Always. Always.
Not sometimes. Always.
“Nah, I can take it downstairs when I’m done,” I finally said, trying on a small smile that felt too tight. “You look tired. Go to bed.”
Nodding, he scanned the top of the desk where I was sitting. “Let me get this stuff out of the way.” Reaching over my laptop, he picked up my plate from lunch, my napkin, my fork, the vase—
“Wait. Leave that.” I covered his hand, guiding it and the vase back to the top of the desk, earning me a squinty look from my brother.
“I can bring up some fresh flowers if you want.” He pointed to the vase. “Those are all dead.”
I placed the little bud vase with the three wilted poppies next to my laptop. “Just—just leave it.”
He wrinkled his nose at the vase, at me, and then turned. “You are so weird sometimes,” I heard him mumble, taking the dirty dishes back to the lunch tray and picking up the whole load. “By the way,” he said on his way to the door, “that’s fettuccine alfredo in the bowl under the plate. Claire put a lid on it to keep it warm, said it won’t taste as good if you don’t eat it soon. Thought I’d pass that along.”
“Claire made it?” I stood and walked slowly over to the tray. My limp was almost gone if I walked slowly.
“Yeah. She also made the chicken and squash flowers last week, the salmon with capers, the flatbread, the melon and meat thing, the steak and parmesan that smelled so good, the meatloaf two days ago, the lamb yesterday, and all those cookies last Tuesday.”
My stomach rumbled at the mention of the cookies and I searched the tray for them. They’d been the first thing that tasted any good since . . . well, since before Roscoe got stabbed. It was like the cookies had unlocked my taste buds; everything had been fantastic after.
“There’s no cookies today?” I lifted the lid covering the bowl, steam and the mouthwatering smell of alfredo sauce done right rising out of it. I had to swallow.
“There should be. There’s no cookies on there?” Jethro set the lunch tray on the floor just outside the door and walked back over, checking out my dinner. “Like I said, there should be. She just made some again two nights ago. Or was it last night?” He scratched his neck, chuckling. “Claire keeps baking in the middle of the night. We wake up to all these desserts. It’s the best.”
“Middle of the night?” I frowned, inspecting him. “I know she’s the one making the breakfast tray too. When does she sleep?”
Jethro pressed his lips together like he either thought my question was amusing or he was fighting a grin. “She said she was having trouble with the jet lag. Maybe she hasn’t adjusted to the time change yet.”
“Huh,” was all I said, because Jethro’s assumption seemed unlikely. She’d been here for weeks.
My mind assembled a picture, taking note of the potentially relevant puzzle pieces within. Since our discussion last week, every time I entered a room, she left it. Having her so close and leaving whenever she saw me grated on my nerves. I couldn’t figure out why it continued to bother me so much, left me with a lingering sense of restlessness and irritation. I’d been the one to ask her to keep her distance, she was just doing what I wanted. And Scarlet avoiding me had been our modus operandi for years. One would think I’d be used to it by now.
Point was, the only time I’d gotten a good look at her was when she’d come to my room that second day. When she’d stopped blushing, her skin had been too pale, her eyes glassy. I’d wondered before if she still had nightmares. I wondered if she was h
aving them now. I wondered if she was baking so much to avoid sleep.
“She shouldn’t be baking in the middle of the night,” I muttered. “Someone should make sure she’s getting enough sleep.”
“Oh really?”
Jet’s question reminded me he was still present. I frowned, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Well, if she’s cooking for everyone, which she seems to be doing, then—”
“She ain’t cooking for everyone, Billy. I mean, she made that chicken dinner for everyone last week, and the cakes and pies and cookies are for everybody. But mostly—” my brother held my eyes, an uncharacteristically intense look in his “—she just cooks for you.”
After finishing my call with Roscoe, my intention had been to return the empty dinner tray and see if I could find some of those cookies. My intention had not been to lose my sense of direction just outside the kitchen door and listen with paralyzing anticipation as Scarlet sang.
But here I was.
Holding the tray and facing the open doorway, I stared at nothing. Her quiet rendition of The Beatles’ “Blackbird” carried to me and I was sixteen again, my heart in my throat, caught in the snare of her heavenly voice. She kept her volume low, likely so as not to wake anyone. That also meant I hadn’t heard her until I’d almost reached the kitchen.
She switched from “Blackbird” to “Let it Be,” humming the intro before reciting the words, and then humming the refrain too. My feet moved, carrying me closer to the threshold, and I peeked around the doorframe.
Her eyes were closed. She was dancing with abandon and joy, hopping around, her hands in the air, her hips and head rocking out like she was at a concert, not holding a one-woman show in a basement kitchen. A dirty apron covered what looked like a pink tank top and shorts. Thick, long hair gathered on top of her head in a careless bun, a smudge of something brown on her cheek. Maybe chocolate?
This. This was the Scarlet I loved beyond sense and reason. Her irrepressible spirit, funny and sweet, smart and so incredibly strong. An urgent wish invaded my head and heart, a longing with fangs and claws, teeth and talons: I want to dance with her.