by Karen White
I stared ahead through the windshield, barely registering the watery marsh to our left in the last throes of twilight. “Tish told me about your ancestor—how his ghost haunts the beach searching for his unfaithful wife. Did Adrienne ever see him?”
His lips tightened for a moment. “Look, this night is about you and me. I don’t want to talk about Adrienne, okay? That’s all in the past. Let’s focus on us right now and our future.”
I undid my seat belt and sidled close enough that I could rest my head in the nook of his neck. Kissing him there, I said with more assurance than I felt, “You’re right. I won’t think about her anymore. It’s all about us from now on.”
I closed my eyes, breathing in his scent as if it were oxygen, and thought of the papers I’d taken from Adrienne’s frame. I remained silent, unable to break a promise so recently made.
We passed through a residential neighborhood, albeit one with narrow streets and sandy shoulders. Several houses had bikes and Red Rider wagons filled with sand toys parked at the end of driveways, as if a day at the beach had proved too exhausting to find the energy to move everything closer to the house.
Driving into a cul-de-sac, Matthew slid his car behind a Jeep with its top and sides open. Although we weren’t on the beach, I sensed it was near the way a deer knows the hunter’s tread. Feeling my unease, Matthew put his arm around my shoulders and led me forward to a large house of sand-colored stucco and a tiled roof. Arches hovered over the windows like eyebrows, the massive front double doors wrapped in glass and wrought iron. “It’s lovely,” I said, because it was, but I refrained from saying how out of place it seemed amid the sand and cabbage palms.
Matthew pushed open the door without knocking, reminding me that he’d grown up with this family, Tish having stepsons near Matthew’s age. Somebody put a glass of wine in my hand as clusters of people moved toward us in greeting, hugging Matthew and shaking hands with me as I tried to remember names that were thrown at me like confetti.
I found myself marshaled from the marble foyer into a large and airy kitchen at the back of the house. It had obviously been recently remodeled, with a tumbled marble backsplash, granite countertops, and cabinets that looked like furniture. The fixtures and cabinet pulls were all wrought iron, in keeping with the Tuscan theme, and beautiful hand-painted tiles were embedded in the wall behind the sink, highlighted by under-cabinet lights.
“I thought my kitchen was beautiful—but this is magnificent,” I said to Tish.
“Thank you. I’d like to take all the credit for it, but I had lots of help.” She stopped, an odd look passing across her face. I looked again at the painted tiles, and the light fixture hanging in the breakfast nook, the familiarity of it all rubbing me like a bug bite.
“Did Adrienne help you with the design?”
Reluctantly, Tish nodded. “Yes. She knew her way around a kitchen, and I welcomed her input. She painted the tiles, too.”
I nodded, the beauty of the space somehow diminished.
A slim blonde with her hair in a short pixie cut stood by the farmhouse sink, sipping from a water glass with a large slice of lemon bobbing at the top. She appeared to be in her late twenties and wore a closely fitting black knit dress.
“There’s somebody I want you to meet.” Tish pulled me by the arm and brought me over to the young woman. “Ava, this is my daughter, Beth Hermes. Beth teaches high school history at Frederica Academy and is a member of the historical society, too. You missed her at the last meeting because she and her husband, Ken, were celebrating their anniversary and impending parenthood on Amelia Island.”
Tish put her arm around her daughter, and I felt a stab of envy as Beth smiled her mother’s smile.
“Mom’s told me so much about you. I’m so jealous about how you and Matthew met. I mean, you go to a boring medical conference and meet for the first time and then get married so quickly! I don’t think I’d have the guts to do that. I married my college sweetheart.” She rubbed her hand over her still flat stomach. “So far, so good.”
I eyed her belly, desperate to change the subject. I didn’t want to talk about my meeting Matthew. I could never explain in mere words what it had been like to meet somebody for the first time yet feel as if he’d been a part of my life forever. Saying it out loud made it rash and irresponsible, two things my mother had never allowed me to be. “How far along are you?”
“Five weeks. I hardly feel pregnant. I wish I would start showing to make it legit!”
I laughed. “I’m a nurse-midwife, so I hear that a lot. Trust me, you’ll be showing before you know it. Then your husband will start to complain when you start borrowing his sweaters since yours won’t fit anymore.”
“She’s seeing Dr. Shaw at Brunswick Family Medicine. Isn’t that where you had your interview?” Tish asked while taking the glass from Beth and refilling it to the top with water.
“Yes, it is. They called me today with a job offer and I think I’m going to accept. So I guess I’ll be seeing more of you,” I said to Beth.
“And me, too,” Tish interjected. “Since Beth is my only daughter, Ken is allowing me to be a co–birth partner. We’re hoping for an all-natural birth, but we’ve got a plan B, too, just in case.”
“As long as mother and baby are healthy,” Beth and I said in unison, making us both laugh.
Beth looked down at my hand. “Your ring is beautiful. Matthew has such good taste.” Her smile faded slightly as she caught sight of the red mark at the base of my thumb. “What happened? Looks like that was one nasty cut.”
I rubbed it self-consciously. “I know—but don’t worry. It wasn’t caused during a childbirth. I’m a lot gentler than that.” We both laughed. “I should probably make up some heroic story, like how I saved a small child from a bear attack, but it’s actually a birthmark. I’ve had it all my life.” I tucked my hand behind my back, suddenly self-conscious.
“Congratulations on the job offer, Ava,” Tish said. “I think you did the right thing.”
Our eyes met and I remembered my promise to Matthew. “Yeah, me, too,” was all I said.
Tish frowned, her gaze redirected behind me. I turned and looked through the hallway to the front door and spotted John McMahon standing just inside the foyer, wearing a confident grin.
“What’s he doing here?” Beth asked her mother under her breath, a similar frown on her own face.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to find out,” Tish said, excusing herself as Beth followed.
I was about to tag along to greet my new friend when Matthew approached with another glass of wine. I was shy in crowds and was the first to admit that wine smoothed over any social awkwardness. “You looked ready for another,” he said.
“I was just thinking the same thing.” I brought the glass to my lips and sniffed deeply its bright and fruity bouquet, if only to eradicate the pervasive smell of salt that wafted in through the open French doors. Voices spilled from the outside patio, and I longed to step outside into the night air but knew I couldn’t. Not with the swish and fall of water against sand unseen in the distance. But the pregnant moon sat swollen in her fullness, illuminating the night sky and putting the stars to shame, and I felt a longing to share the beauty of it with Matthew, to be sheltered in the maternal light with him.
Tish’s husband, Tom, approached. He was tall and slender, with silver hair and an easygoing attitude that made me think that he and Tish were well suited for each other. He held up two cigars to Matthew. “Just got these from my friend in St. Barts. Can’t let a night of celebration pass without a smoke, can we?”
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said to Matthew.
“I used to smoke a pipe—a stupid idea I got in grad school because I thought it suited my profession. But now I smoke just an occasional stogie with Tom. He’s a bit of an aficionado and is trying to convert me.”
I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. I could somehow picture Matthew with a pipe—I’d seen a tweed jacket
with suede elbow patches in his closet, after all—but I couldn’t quite see him with a cigar. “Y’all go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
Matthew kissed me quickly. “I’ll miss you.”
I laughed while Tom rolled his eyes before leading Matthew across the room to a door. When he opened it, I spotted a wood-paneled library with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books. Then the door closed and I was left in a room full of people I didn’t know.
Sipping my wine, I began to explore the beautiful rooms of the Italian-inspired house. It wasn’t what I would have thought of as a beach house, with its terra-cotta tiles and mustard palette, but the arched doorways and painted masonry and tiles were soothing to the eye. It was also a family home, with beautiful, yet sturdy and well-lived-in furniture and rooms. Tish and Tom had five children between them, including stepchildren and the pregnant Beth, and it was clear from the banquet-size rough-hewn dining room table and benches that all had been designed for large family gatherings.
I leaned against the doorway and saw my own quiet childhood with my silent parents and inquisitive Mimi, telling her about my day in greater and greater exaggeration to somehow capture my parents’ interest. My brothers and their wives came for special occasions, but the house always seemed cramped, as if it were reluctant to make room.
A charcoal sketch of an old fortress planted in the middle of a marsh hung on the wall over a long buffet server. I stepped closer, knowing before I could make out the initials of the artist who had drawn it. AMF.
I looked more closely at the sketch, at the intricate depiction of the tabby walls of the fort and the delicate detail of an egret in the foreground, its eye warily regarding the artist. I’d seen photographs of the fort, so I knew what it looked like now. But this was a picture of the fort before time and the elements had rendered it obsolete and desolate, a time capsule catapulting me back to the past for a brief moment.
I raised my glass to my lips, realizing I’d already finished my wine. Just two glasses had created a pleasant cottony barrier around my head where sounds and colors were happily muted.
“Do you like it?”
Nearly dropping my glass, I turned in surprise. “John! So happy to see a familiar face!” I recalled Tish’s expression when she’d spotted him at the door. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Me neither. I wasn’t exactly on the guest list, but I’ve known the Ryans for years—their son Rick and I were best friends in high school. Didn’t think they’d mind me popping in for the big congratulatory soiree for you and Matthew.”
I wondered whether it was the alcohol that added the sharp edge to John’s words. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve met a few people, but I’m not too great with crowds.”
John studied me, his unusual eyes understanding. “Do you like it?” he asked, turning his attention to the drawing.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I do. The artist was extraordinarily talented.” My eyes met his. “It was done by Matthew’s first wife.”
He took a sip from a can of beer. “I know.” It took him a moment to swallow, as if something were blocking the way.
“Did you know her?” I blurted out. I shook my head. “Never mind. I was just thinking that since you knew Matthew, you would have known…her.” I couldn’t bring her name to my lips.
He looked at me oddly. “You didn’t tell Matthew about running into me at the pier, did you?”
I stared down at my empty glass, desperately wanting more wine. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t told Matthew about meeting John. I hoped it had to do with my desire to conquer my fear by myself, to wait until I was ready to show him how I’d taught myself to walk boldly near the water. To even let the surf lap at my feet. I shivered, knowing I’d merely taken the first step.
“I must have forgotten,” I said, wishing he’d answer my question about knowing Adrienne, but too embarrassed to ask again.
“Ava.”
Matthew approached, clutching the stems of two full wineglasses so tightly I thought they might snap. I smiled only because I couldn’t think of what else I should do.
“Is that for me?” I asked, putting my empty one down and taking one of the glasses before allowing myself a healthy gulp. “John and I were just talking about the drawing. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
The air between them thickened, making me think of the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm.
“Hello, Matthew,” John said, his voice tight.
“John,” Matthew replied with a short nod of his head. “I assume you’ve met my wife.”
“Actually, we met the other day on the pier. She was going for a bike ride and I was out for a run. I’m surprised she didn’t mention it to you.”
A pulse had begun in Matthew’s jaw, yet his expression didn’t change. “No, she didn’t.” He twirled the wine in his glass but didn’t drink from it. “How are your parents?”
John raised an eyebrow, but his eyes hardened. “Still grieving. The death of a daughter is hard to take.”
Pinpricks of clarity began to poke holes in my wine-induced haze as I watched the two men talk without saying what they wanted to. The death of a daughter…
“Your sister…” I began, not sure how to end.
John lifted his beer can at the drawing in a sort of toast. “Adrienne McMahon Frazier. She got all the talent in the family, I’m afraid.”
AMF. Adrienne McMahon Frazier. Of course. I remembered the frosty glint in John’s eyes when I told him who I was. I faced Matthew and saw him regarding me silently, the words he’d spoken to me on the dock loud inside my head. Because they think I killed her.
“Oh,” I muttered, unable to think of anything else to say. I raised my glass to my lips, but somehow missed, spilling some of the red liquid on the front of my dress.
Matthew gently pried the glass from my hand and put it on the server. “Maybe you’ve had enough.”
John slammed down his beer can next to my glass. “It’s so rewarding watching how much you care for your wife, Matthew. I remember how you used to be that way with Adrienne.” John faced me, his eyes wide and sober. “Be careful, Ava. He’s not who you think he is.”
He turned away from us and made his way toward the front door as people stepped back and avoided looking at him or at us.
“You should have told me,” Matthew said quietly.
I stared up at him, almost not comprehending. I shook my head, the room spinning. “No. You should have told me.” I wasn’t even sure what I meant, only that there were things I didn’t know about him, and it shamed me to understand this about myself, to know that I had willingly walked into my marriage with an almost-stranger because I loved him, ignoring all the other reasons that I still refused to acknowledge.
I walked toward the great room, toward the sound of voices. The wash of air blew through the open doors, propelling me outside. The world had begun to tilt, just enough to take away my fear and my mother’s voice. I felt Matthew behind me, solid and real and, I kept reminding myself, not a means of escape. “I want to see the dunes at night.”
I was down the steps before I could stop myself, following a sandy path illuminated by tiki torches, as a memory—or maybe it had been a dream—of dunes bathed in silvery moonlight slipped through my mind as sand slid beneath my bare feet.
“Ava. Stop.”
It had ceased to be a dream. The sand, grown cool in the night air, harbored no warmth, and the sound of footsteps behind me made my throat dry. “No,” I gasped out, no longer aware of who was behind me, or what might be in front of me. All I knew was that I needed to run, to escape whatever was pursuing me.
“Ava,” I heard again, but the name and the voice no longer seemed to register in my foggy brain. I ran, my breaths like those of a panting dog, until wooden planks and a set of stairs opened up onto the wide expanse of shadowed sand and silver pale water. I looked out toward the empty ocean as if I expected to see something there, a surprising disappointment stabbing my h
eart when I saw how empty it was.
Strong hands grasped my arms. “Ava. You don’t know what you’re doing. Please stop.”
I struggled, as afraid of what lay behind me as I was of what lay before me. But the hands managed to turn me around, and I recognized Matthew’s beautiful face illuminated by the soft light.
“Matthew,” I said, relief making my knees weak. I collapsed into him, and he lifted me in his arms before sitting down on a wooden step.
“What’s wrong? Tell me so I can make it right.” He kissed my forehead.
I opened my mouth to tell him, then stopped. “I can’t,” I finally said. “Just tell me you love me,” I murmured into his chest.
“I love you, Ava. You know I do.”
I nodded, but felt no relief as I remembered the hand-painted tiles in the kitchen, as if they were footprints of his dead wife walking though our home and marriage. “Please take me home.”
He brought me to my feet and steadied me. “Let me put you in the car while I go tell Tish that we’re leaving because you’re not feeling well.” I nodded and allowed him to move me forward until we’d made it to his car. He clasped the seat belt around me before regarding me steadily. “Will you be all right for just a minute?”
I nodded, the world spinning in dizzying whirls. I watched him walk away, afraid to close my eyes and feel the panic of pursuit again. I began to hum, recognizing the tune from the old music box, realizing, too, that I was trying to block out the words that wouldn’t quiet inside my head. Because they think I killed her.
I began to sing the half-remembered words even louder while I waited for Matthew to come and take me home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gloria
ANTIOCH, GEORGIA
MAY 2011
The sliding closet door in Ava’s old bedroom caught on something as I tried to push it open. For years I’d dusted the mementos of a girl’s childhood—the trophies, bouquets of dead flowers, dolls with vacuous eyes, and batons from her four years as a majorette. They were the milestones of my daughter’s growing-up years, milestones for events I hadn’t seen. Milestones of a life I’d been privileged to share but too afraid to be a part of.