“Oh boy,” Tami Lynn huffs. “That’s dangerous territory, Savannah. The divorcée sexcapade.” She flops her hands into her lap. “Giving it up to this guy, then that guy…only to end up empty and all alone. Or worse yet, with a case of the clap!”
“Simmer down, drama queen.” Savannah shakes her head, chuckling. “He told me he would call. I told him not to. We’re both adults. There’s no need to make a mountain out of a molehill. If it’s meant to be anything more than what it is, it will be.”
“You told him not to call? Savannah,” Tami Lynn scolds, dragging her name out, reflecting all three syllables. “Have I taught you nothing?”
“Savannah,” a voice, that of a male intern, sounds through her desk phone intercom. “You have a visitor. He says he’s your brother.”
“Be right there,” Savannah replies.
“Your brother?” Tami Lynn questions, the first she has heard of a male sibling in the Bondurant family.
Savannah stands up agitatedly, leaving their cubicle. “Jack,” she mutters, rolling her eyes, assured her ex-husband, Jack Brigant, has identified himself as such, another ploy to interrogate her.
“Good luck with that,” Tami Lynn calls after her.
Savannah charges into the lobby, scanning the waiting area for a nonexistent Jack. Looking to the male intern, he points to a man sitting in the recliner across from his desk. Breathing a sigh of relief at the stranger there, assuming he may be an associate inquiring about her column. Savannah chalks the ‘brother’ reference up to a fallible intern. Making her way to the man, she extends her hand.
“Savannah Bondurant,” she greets. “How can I help you?”
The man, seemingly within her same age range (early thirties) stands, offering up his hand as he takes in her presence, looking her over as if compiling notes. Clearing his throat, he introduces himself apprehensively, “Noah Bondurant.”
The familiarity of his features (dark hair, olive skin, substantial height, strapping build) probes Savannah to search her memory bank. “You must be a cousin,” she inquires, her voice malleable.
The man shakes his head, his eyes reluctantly watering up. “I’m your brother.” He smiles, hopeful, an attempt to halt the moisture clouding his vision.
Savannah, empathetic to his emotion, quickly offers him a seat on the recliner, sitting down beside him. Her eyes remain scanning his accustomed characteristics, trying to put her finger on his pedigree.
“There must be some kind of mistake. Misinformation,” Savannah offers, her voice soft and apologetic. “I’m the youngest of three…sisters. Daddy always wanted a boy, but it never worked out for him.” With the mention of Daddy, she tilts her head, the familiarity in the man’s features quickly surfacing. Her mind clicks like a camera through snapshots, photos of her father in his twenties and thirties.
“Jacqueline, Evangeline and Savannah,” the man rehearses their names, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his olive drab cargos.
His hands shakily sifting through the wallet’s contents, Savannah notices his picture on an active duty military identification card, Marine Corps. Even his hands mirror her late father’s.
The man pries a photo from a tucked-away area of his wallet―one of her, Jac and Vangie, in their early teens. “It’s a little tattered,” the man apologizes for the dog-ears at each corner of the photo. “It’s been through a few tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.” He smiles at Savannah, picking her out in the picture.
Feeling somewhere between nauseous and bamboozled, Savannah relies on her reporter instincts. “What’s your father’s name, Noah?” she asks, using his moniker for the first time, taking note of the same green eyes reflecting back at her, something only she and her father shared among her immediate family.
Noah nods, understanding her reservation. “The man who raised me, my grandfather, his name is Julius Ainsworth.” Noah looks down at his wallet, continuing, “My biological donator,” he speaks the word quietly so as not to disrespect Savannah’s feelings for her father, “was Bernard Patrick Bondurant. Guess they called him Bernie.”
Savannah’s ears ring, blocking out the chatter from the lobby, the information causing her sensory overload. Her stomach does somersaults as if she is braving a theme park roller coaster. Bernard Patrick, indubitably her father’s title, no mistaking his namesake Bernard Patrick “Tony” Holm, the first quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Her father’s family originally from the Steel City, migrated to Savannah in the late sixties.
Savannah grabs at her churning stomach, her other hand gripping Noah’s knee. “Please don’t leave.” She jumps up from the coach. “I’m so sorry,” her voice trails frantically from a distance as she seeks out the closest porcelain bowl.
Chapter Nine
A long tortuous week winds down as a dreary Sunday afternoon arrives. Savannah scurries at her abode so as not to be late for the family meeting at her mother’s house, aptly scheduled Monday evening following her visit from Noah. Work having sucked up the majority of her time this week, the new revelation has gnawed at her daily, hourly. Not exactly information one shares over the phone, Savannah has had to singularly bear this information. No good at keeping secrets, directness and honesty two of her mantras, Savannah is nervous, yet relieved, that she will finally get the opportunity to share with her mother and her sisters Noah’s reveal.
Running out the door of her home, she piles into her Jeep, noticing the yellow and black Terrible Towel resting atop her untouched gym bag. Her mind escaping to Brody, as it has done on several daily occasions, she finds herself disappointed that he heeded her advice and did not call after all. Her departure from the gym this past week, welcomed. What would she say to him, anyhow?
Just before turning the key over in her Jeep, she notices a red sports car pulling up in the drive behind her. Her otherwise confrontational ex has been relatively nonexistent this week. No phone calls, no visits at home or at her work, no barrage of harassing texts, nothing.
Letting out a huff, she opens up her door, getting out. “Jack, I don’t have time to argue,” she greets him. “You’re going to have to start calling before you come over.”
He throws his hands up at shoulder level, an uncanny retreat. “I’m not here to argue,” he says through a grin. “Won’t keep you long either. I have someone I want you to meet.”
Savannah looks at him, furrowing her eyebrows, wondering what he’s up to now.
“I met someone, Savannah. I want you to meet her. Well, she wants to meet you. I told her we’re still friends. She doesn’t understand that very well…being friends with an ex.” Jack talks, his tone near bragging. “So, I thought maybe you’d meet us for a drink some night this week. Give her a chance to meet you. Realize you’re not a threat.”
“Um…I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Jack.” Savannah’s initial instinct revolts. “Why don’t you just tell her we’re acquaintances. That’s the truth, really. We’re friendly, but I don’t know that I would exactly call us friends these days.”
“Come on, Savannah,” he urges. “You’re moving on. I’m moving on. There’s no reason we can’t be friends.”
His encouraging words slightly detached from his strained facial expression and body language, Savannah is distrustful. “I don’t know. Maybe,” she dismisses. “Really, I have to go. I’m meeting up with Mama, Jac and Vangie. It’s family stuff. It can’t wait.” She smiles at him genuinely, aware her dire circumstance should not nullify his favorable news. “I’m happy for you, Jack. Glad you’ve met someone and that you’re moving on.”
Savannah piles back into her Jeep, forcing a nonresponsive Jack to resign to his beefed-up red Challenger, backing it out of the drive so she can do the same.
Once out on the street, he stops, rolling his window down. Savannah breaks momentarily, the top already off her Jeep, her ears free to his voice. “I’ll call you later this week about that drink,” he confirms with a smile then peels out at breakneck speed.
A short drive acro
ss town finds Savannah greeting her mother, Jac and Vangie. After customary hugs and kisses, the women sit around Buffy’s kitchen table. An antique teapot sits on a pewter tray at the table’s center, four cups awaiting their fill, a plate of homemade pecan shortbread cookies accompany the spread. Buffy’s answer to a cool, fall day is hot tea and freshly-baked cookies with homegrown chopped pecans from her backyard.
“Smells delicious, Mama,” Savannah comments.
“I like for my girls to remember the scents of home,” Buffy affirms, diligently serving up cups of tea.
“Can we make this short?” Vangie inquires. “Payton has a team meeting in an hour. I’ve got to get back to Luka and Zoey.”
“I thought you were bringing the girls with you,” Jac rebukes.
“Savannah told me it’d be best not to.” Vangie indulgently sips at her tea, releasing a pleasurable sigh.
“Oh, adults only,” Jac says. “Spill it, baby sister.” She looks to Savannah.
Savannah sucks in a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know how to ease into it, so I guess I’ll just blurt it out.” Cocking her neck from side to side, she reluctantly begins. “This man came by my work the other day. Introduced himself as my brother…Noah Bondurant.” She looks to Buffy for a reaction.
Buffy primly dabs her mouth with the linen napkin from her lap, her eyes purposefully disengaged. Vangie and Jac eye each other, then Savannah, their glances finally settling on Buffy.
“Mama,” Savannah’s voice registers at a slight tremble, “is it true?”
“Ahem,” Buffy clears her throat at a feminine purr. “I guess it was foolish to think you girls would never find out.”
“You had a child before you married Daddy?” Vangie interrupts.
Buffy looks at her, slightly perturbed at her assumption. “No, Evangeline. Noah is your father’s.”
“Daddy had a son before he married you?” Vangie asks, the confusion stirring in her expression.
“How old is this Noah?” Jac looks to Savannah.
“Thirty-three.” Savannah waits for the calculations to begin.
“Thirty-three?” Jac quickly deduces an age that puts him smack-dab between Vangie and Savannah. “Daddy had an affair?” Jac’s eyes are wounded, the news tarnishing the image, the fond memory and reverence she holds for her father.
“Mama, say it’s not true,” Vangie pleads, unwilling to believe the man she idolized all those years would ever break the bond, the ties to his family. Buffy does not reply. “Mama. Say it’s not true,” Vangie repeats, her voice now at a whisper.
“Say something,” Jac pipes, staring at Buffy.
Buffy stands, busying herself with the teapot, returning it to the stove for rewarming. “I wish I could tell you that it’s not true,” Buffy finally speaks, her voice detached.
“Would you please come back to the table? To hell with the damned tea,” Jac’s voice rises.
“Jac,” Savannah scolds. “Give her a moment. Some time to digest.”
“What’s to digest? If it’s true and Daddy cheated on her, she’s had thirty-three years to digest it!” Jac’s voice on the rise, one more reason to hold her fussy, overly modest mother in contempt.
Her boisterous daughter’s disrespectful reply of something she knows nothing about causes Buffy’s usually unruffable feathers to rouse. She picks up the antique teapot, heaving it into the garbage can. “You propose a strong woman would have left her husband over one infidelity, tearing her otherwise beautiful family to shreds? Is that it, Jacqueline?” Buffy speaks, her tone controlled yet biting.
Jac, Vangie and Savannah sit abnormally speechless, having never witnessed their demure mother lose her temper.
“What has it accomplished? The truth,” Buffy continues. “Other than replacing a pleasant image of your daddy with a distasteful one. You girls were always so close to him. Adored him. And he adored you.” Her eyes begin to water with the reciprocal memories of her children and their doting father. “Will you forfeit all of those good times because of one unsatisfactory choice your daddy made?”
“Uh,” Jac finally releases the air from her lungs. “No. We’re not going to forget all the good times. But it would have been nice to be given the choice to know our brother,” she chokes out the word, still half disbelieving.
“Your daddy wanted to tell you. All of you,” Buffy admits. “I told him not to for fear that you would look at him the way you’re looking at me now.” She chokes back tears at the disappointed faces staring at her.
Jac gets up from the table, pacing, holding back the urge to shoot off at the mouth. You can’t cover everything up, Mama. For the love of God, would it kill you to loosen up! Be honest with yourself? Stop thinking about what everyone else thinks. The only reason you didn’t want to tell us the truth was because you would have had to tell everybody then. The freaking cat would’ve been out of the bag. What would the neighbors think about perfect Buffy Bondurant and her perfect little family!
“Well, spit it out,” Buffy challenges Jac.
“Don’t!” Savannah and Vangie intercept in unison, their eyes begging of Jac to refrain.
Jac huffs and puffs, sitting back down at the table, unwilling to be the cause of more turmoil. Fulfilling her big sister role, she mediates, “How did he know where to find you? Noah.” Jac looks to Savannah for answers.
“My column.” Savannah says.
“Why now?” Jac continues.
“He’s settling back in the States. After being abroad with the Marine Corps the past sixteen years. He served several tours in Iraq and Afghanistan,” Savannah reports proudly. “He got promoted to drill sergeant. At Camp Lejeune. About seven hours east. In North Carolina. He’s on leave for a few weeks and thought it would be a good time to look us up.”
“How did he know about us?” Vangie asks. “I mean, if he was a secret. I’m assuming we were a secret, too.”
Savannah looks to Buffy, knowing the next piece of the puzzle she delivers may sting a little bit. “Daddy wrote him every now and then. His mama kept the letters and gave them to him when she thought he was old enough to understand. Right before he went off to the Corps.”
Buffy leans against the stove now for support, another betrayal her late husband committed. From her understanding, Bernie had no contact with Noah or his mother.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Savannah consoles.
Buffy forces a smile. “It’s okay, honey. Go on.”
“He carries a picture of us.” A passing beam graces Savannah’s lips. “That one.” She points to the wall in the adjacent living room displaying the youthful, teenaged Bondurant sisters, their hair and fashion laughable as per nineties couture.
“How do we know this guy is who he says he is?” Jac questions, the thought of a brother comforting. However she is unwilling to be played for a fool.
“There’s no mistaking the similarities.” Savannah looks to Vangie. “He’s got yours and Daddy’s olive skin and dark hair.” Vangie subconsciously runs her fingers through her rich, espresso-colored locks. “Mine and Daddy’s green eyes.” She glances at Jac taking note of her wide, full mouth and angular jaw―a regular Kathy Ireland. “And yours and Daddy’s smile and jawline.”
With the confession, Buffy’s knees buckle as she lets loose a petite groan, tears dispensing over the apples of her cheeks. Jac rushes to her, helping her to a seat at the table.
“I’m so sorry, Mama.” Savannah’s eyes well up watching the turmoil the revelation brings to her mother.
Buffy takes hold of her hand across the table. “It’s alright, baby. It just hurts…all over again, that’s all.”
“I don’t know what to feel,” Vangie exhales. “I feel bad for Noah. Poor guy. I feel bad for you, Mama. And I’m…” she stumbles over her words momentarily, finally letting them out, “pissed off at Daddy. How could he do this?” She swallows tears of her own. “And worst of all, I think Payton may be having an affair, too.” Defeated, she lays her head down on the table, her a
rms and hands lobbed atop of it, ashamed and embarrassed by her own admission.
“Vangie,” Buffy consoles, “now, why would you think that? Payton is a good man. A good provider. He loves you and those girls to pieces.”
“Daddy was a good man,” she says, looking up at them, damp mascara clumped under watery eyes, her lips and forehead distorting with her cry as she processes such an equation. “If Daddy cheated, any man could.”
Jac heads for the front door, jostling her keys from her pocket. Vangie sprints in front of her, throwing herself against the large frame. “You can’t go accusing him, Jac. I don’t have any proof. Just a few emails, that’s all. And a weird feeling.”
“I’m not going to accuse him, but it can’t hurt to ask. Now move.” Jac waits patiently for Vangie to remove herself from in front of the door.
“You can’t go running to everybody’s rescue, Jac. We’re not in second grade anymore. Payton is not Jimmy Bruschi. You can’t go punch his lights out because he pulled my pigtails!” Vangie scolds, a smile unwillingly forming on her stressed lips with the comical elementary memory. “Besides, he has Luka and Zoey. You can’t make a scene in front of them.”
“Argh,” Jac huffs, retreating, knowing Vangie is right. “Well, Savannah…if you had any doubts about finalizing your divorce, surely you know you made the right decision now.” Jac shakes her head, fed up with the deception of marriage and relationships in general. “I’ll die an old maid before I’ll commit myself to some man who will ultimately disappoint.”
Savannah drives in her Jeep, the top off, a light rain falling. Nearly numb from the conversation at her mother’s house, the rain does not affect her. Wetting her hair, her clothes, the interior contents of the Jeep, she simply keeps on driving. Her mind flip-flops between pain and sympathy for her mother and Noah, and a bubbling anger and resentment at her beloved father. Tears pressing at the backs of her eyes, the treasured image of her father now tarnished, she looks over at the authentic Pittsburgh Steelers Terrible Towel, the keepsake given to her by the giant of a man from a live football game attended together.
Let It Go Page 9