The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  “Well, girlfriend, you need to speed up the housecleaning and forget the hunky neighbor, because I’m calling with great news,” Kaitlin said. “Art Consulting Inc. is looking for a new associate, and they want to talk to you.”

  “What? Where did you hear this?” Art Consulting Inc. was a major player in the exclusive world of art advisors who helped large corporations, wealthy clients, and museums acquire investment art. Associates dealt with extremely wealthy, well-connected clients—the kind of clients my ex-husband had tried—unsuccessfully—to pander to.

  “From the director of the Chicago office. She called me to get your number.”

  “How on earth did she get my name?”

  “From Mrs. Harris Van Dever. Apparently you made a wonderful impression on her when she visited your and Kurt’s gallery.”

  Technically, it had been “our” gallery, but since Kurt had disdained my input, I never felt any real ownership.

  “By advising her not to buy the Rantlon piece?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  That move had driven Kurt insane. One of the doyennes of Chicago society and a major benefactor to several museums, Mrs. Van Dever had come to an opening at our gallery. She’d been debating between purchasing a piece by another up-and-coming artist at another gallery and the Rantlon at ours. When she’d specifically asked me which piece I thought would appreciate the most, I’d given her my honest opinion. Kurt had been so angry I’d feared he’d become physically violent.

  “AC’s director is Ms. McAbbee, and she’ll be calling you soon,” Kaitlin said. “Hope, this is a dream job. Great salary, benefits, bonuses, travel—everything anyone would want. And you know how rare that is in the art world.”

  I did. It was like finding a Van Gogh at a garage sale.

  “I immediately called my contacts,” Kaitlin continued, “and they specifically want you, because Mrs. Van Dever is such a huge client.”

  I found it hard to wrap my mind around the concept. “Any idea when this job would start?”

  “I think that’ll be negotiable, but, girl—you’d be crazy not to hop on this as fast as you can. I can think of a hundred people who would sell their mothers for this opportunity. It’s amaze-balls.”

  “If it’s true.”

  “Oh, it’s true, all right. Call me back after you hear from them.”

  I hung up and stared at the wall.

  It was next to impossible to find a job in the art world—especially a high-salaried job, a job with benefits and travel and security. By all rights, I should be thrilled.

  So why didn’t my heart dance and sing? This was what I’d been looking for ever since my divorce—better than anything I could reasonably expect to find.

  It was good to be wanted. But was I wanted by someone I wanted to be wanted by?

  For reasons that made no sense, Matt’s face floated in my mind’s eye.

  Whoa, I told myself. That’s a whole other kind of wanting.

  My cell phone rang. It was a Chicago area code. This was it. I stood up and smiled at the wall—I’d been told by a college job placement counselor that if you stand up to take a call, your voice will have more energy, and if you smile, the pleasantness of your expression will shine through—and answered my future.

  25

  adelaide

  After my nap, I found Hope packing up a drawer of saucers in the dining room, her bottom lip caught in her teeth, her eyes dark.

  I rested on my walker and studied her. “You look like something is weighing on you. Have I scandalized you with my tales?”

  “Oh, no, Gran.” She straightened and gave me a big smile, but her eyes still looked troubled. “Actually, I just got some good news. I just got off the phone with the biggest art consulting firm in Chicago. One of their major clients remembered me because I advised her not to buy a piece of art from Kurt, and she recommended me to be an associate.”

  “How wonderful, dear!”

  Hope nodded and smiled, but the smile still didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s a terrific opportunity. I’ll get a great salary and full benefits, and travel to art shows all over the world.”

  What I would have given for such an opportunity as a single, young woman! “Oh, how fabulous! Do you need to go back right now for an interview?”

  “No. They said the job was mine if I wanted it. I said yes, of course. I’ll start in June.” There was that funny smile again. It was hard to tell because I still see two of everything, but it sure didn’t seem to come from the inside. She seemed more anxious than joyful.

  “But?”

  “But, what?”

  “Well, I have to say, you don’t seem all that thrilled to have just landed the job of a lifetime.”

  “I am! Of course I am. It’s wonderful. It’s just so . . . unexpected. I think I need time to process it.”

  “Maybe you should take a walk or go down to the coffee shop.” I’d been glad to hear that Hope was forming a friendship with Kirsten.

  “Maybe later. Right now, I’d rather get back to your closet.”

  She wanted to postpone thinking about it. It was a sentiment I could relate to all too well. I thought about warning her about the dangers of avoiding things. On the other hand, her news was recent, and sometimes a little time helps us see things more clearly.

  “I can’t wait to hear more of your story,” she said.

  And I needed to get on with it. I nodded and let her help me back to my bedroom, where I settled in my rocker. “Pull out that dark blue dress on the left.”

  “This one?” She lifted a navy wool, a dress I’d originally bought for my great-grandfather’s funeral when I was seventeen.

  I nodded. “That’s the dress I was wearing when Charlie and I returned to Wedding Tree after our honeymoon.”

  “How long was your honeymoon?”

  “Five days.” I closed my eyes and shifted into storytelling mode.

  1943

  They were five of the longest days of my life. I’d been grieving Joe, fighting near-constant nausea, and dealing with Charlie’s almost pathological lovesickness.

  I felt—and God help me for this, because I loved Charlie on so many levels—like a hostage. Oh, I knew I wasn’t; I’d entered into the marriage completely of my own volition—but still. He had the right to paw me, to kiss me, to touch me, to look at me anywhere and anytime, and I didn’t have the right to tell him no. I’d signed up for this. It struck me that marrying Charlie was a lot like joining the service; I would do my duty, even if it killed me.

  And there were times I felt like it might. Oh, he was very gentle and sweet and considerate, but he was overeager and inept and desperately anxious to please, and his anxiety . . . well, it kind of repelled me, which made me feel ungrateful and monstrous. Charlie was doing me and the baby a favor, I reminded myself. The constant lump in my throat that threatened to gag me was morning sickness and grief, but it was hard not to think it was revulsion at Charlie.

  On the fifth day, we went back to New Orleans. We stopped by Lucille’s house, gathered up my belongings, then swung by the newspaper so I could turn in my resignation. I had wanted to stay and work until Charlie found us a place to live in Wedding Tree, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  “No.” His voice had been adamant. “We’ll go back and live with my parents.”

  He insisted on accompanying me to the paper to turn in my resignation. It was our first fight, and it was a doozy.

  “This job is the only thing in my life that was all mine,” I told him. “The only thing that I made happen all on my own, the only thing that really, truly belonged to me, just me, and I want to leave it on those terms.”

  He thought I was ashamed of him, of his gimpy leg. I told him not to be ridiculous. He wanted to know if there were other men at the paper that I’d been involved with. I glared at him.

&
nbsp; “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “Frankly, I’m not so sure,” he’d snapped. “I never would have thought that you were the kind of girl to find herself in this position.”

  That stung, but the truth was, I’d never thought so, either. And here I was.

  “If it’s so damned important to you, come on,” I’d told him. “But understand this, Charlie: I will never get over resenting you for it.”

  To his credit, he acquiesced. I went in and met with Thomas while he paced the sidewalk outside. I hugged people good-bye. I cried. I gathered up my things. I went in the darkroom for the last time.

  Thomas took me aside. “Is he treating you well?”

  “Yes, of course. Why would you ask?”

  “Well, it’s none of my business, but you don’t look like a bride should look.” He looked down and busied himself flecking crumbs off that day’s sweater vest.

  I realized then that I needed to step up my game or I wouldn’t be able to pull this off once we got back home. It was important for my baby’s future that everyone think I was happy so they wouldn’t suspect Charlie wasn’t the father. “I’m fine. I’ve just got a little bug, that’s all.”

  He patted my arm. “We wish you the best, Adelaide. You did a splendid job. Never expected a woman to take such good photos. You’re just as good—actually, you’re better—than most of the men working here.”

  • • •

  Hope laughed, pulling me back to the moment. “He actually said that?”

  I grinned. “It must sound silly to you, but back then, it was the highest compliment I could get. I walked out of there feeling ten feet tall.”

  Until I saw Charlie, waiting on a bench on the outside sidewalk.

  “Go on with your story,” Hope urged.

  1943

  It was evening when our bus pulled into Wedding Tree. Both sets of parents were waiting at the station, and they threw rice as we disembarked.

  My mother’s face was positively aglow. “I swear, Adelaide, I don’t know whether to hug you or spank you! Don’t you know I’ve been looking forward to your wedding since you and Charlie were both in diapers?”

  “And, Charlie, my only child!” his mother cried.

  “We didn’t feel like making a big fuss,” Charlie said. “We just wanted to be together.”

  I smiled throughout, but it was tough. We went to my parents’ home, where my mother had prepared a small wedding cake, and half the town showed up to wish us well.

  My father took me aside as the evening wore on.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I have to say, this comes as a quite a surprise—especially considering the things you said last time you were home.”

  I swallowed hard. Part of me wanted to tell him the truth, but a bigger part knew it would just break his heart. Besides, apparently Joe hadn’t gotten around to writing him a letter. Marge had flat out told me that Joe might have lost the matrimonial urge once he got a little time and distance. According to her, it was more common than not for a woman to think a relationship was more serious than it was, and for men to get cold feet.

  In any event, I needed everyone to think the baby was Charlie’s. “That . . . didn’t work out. And I realized I’ve always loved Charlie.”

  “I see.”

  I didn’t think he did, but neither of us wanted to get into it. Better to just let it fade away.

  The party ended at midnight, and we went home with Charlie’s parents. We all had to share a bathroom. Charlie’s bedroom was directly across the hall from his parents.

  As we settled into his childhood bed, he reached for me.

  I pulled away. “I can’t, Charlie,” I whispered. “Not with them so close.”

  “But you’re my wife. It’s okay.”

  “No. Not here.”

  That was all the incentive he needed to find us a house. He located one the very next day. It was small, but it had everything we needed. His mother offered to buy us furniture.

  Shopping with her was a nightmare. I wanted sleek and modern, and she was into reproduction Victorian. Charlie worked for his father, so his parents, in effect, held our purse strings. This was my first experience butting heads with Virginia.

  She finally just sighed. “Well, pick out what you like, then, dear. I’m sure Charlie will get used to it.”

  To compromise, I let her pick out the bedroom furniture. It was a horror show in there, anyway; why not have furniture to match? I selected the living room furniture and the kitchen table. The rest of the house was furnished with hand-me-downs or heirlooms, depending on how you wanted to look at it.

  We moved in three days later. I made a pot roast, and Charlie bought a bottle of wine. When we sat down at our new table, he raised his glass. “To wonderful beginnings with my new bride.”

  I was too nauseous to eat. But the wine seemed to give him courage, and the single glass I drank eased my queasiness.

  “I love you so much, Addie,” he said later as we climbed into our new bed. “Do you think you could find it in your heart to love me just a little?”

  “I’ve always loved you,” I said. “You know that.”

  “I mean like a wife loves a husband.”

  I couldn’t find it in my heart to lie. “I want to be a good wife to you, Charlie. Sometimes it just takes a little while for a man and woman to get in sync.”

  “Apparently you didn’t have that problem with Joe.”

  I pulled away. “You promised me you wouldn’t bring that up.”

  “I’m sorry. I just . . .” He’d untied the bow on my nightgown. “Oh, Addie, I just love you so.”

  He tried to please me, but I just wasn’t feeling it. As the weeks went on, I grew to dread the nightly encounters.

  Virginia gave me a gift-wrapped book and told me to open it when I was alone. It was called A Woman’s Guide to Marriage. It talked about how I should serve my husband and try to please him “in every possible way.” I was mortified.

  “What on earth did you say to your mother?” I demanded when Charlie got home that evening.

  “Nothing.”

  “You must have. Why else would she give me this book?” I’d waved it in front of him.

  He’d lifted his shoulders. “She probably just thought it would be helpful.”

  I didn’t think he’d blatantly complained about me, but I suspected she’d asked some nosy questions, and Charlie, being the only child and doting son he was, had probably answered honestly.

  Most of the time, I didn’t mind being married to Charlie, I really didn’t. I just didn’t like the physical part—and he showered me with physical affection, both in public and in private. He was always reaching for my hand, touching my waist, putting his arm around me in church. I felt . . . well, smothered is the only word for it.

  He wanted so desperately for me to love him back. And I wanted to, at least intellectually. But part of me—an irrational, emotional part, I guess—resented him for not being Joe. And I felt terrible about it. He couldn’t help who he was.

  And Charlie genuinely loved me, I knew he did. Any woman should be glad to be loved like that. But the more desperate he seemed for my affection, the more I withdrew and curled into myself.

  We told our families I was pregnant five weeks after the wedding. I’m sure they’d already figured it out. I’d thrown up every morning while staying at Charlie’s parents’ house, and even though I’d tried to be discreet, it only had one bathroom. It helped, I suppose, that I didn’t show early. I’d actually lost weight, but my body was shifting. My waist thickened, and I had to safety-pin my skirts.

  Charlie told his biggest-mouthed pal that we’d “gotten close” the night of his return from the army hospital. He wanted people to think we’d made love then, obviously. And I cou
ldn’t really blame him—heaven only knew people would be counting the months before the baby’s birth—but still, it embarrassed me.

  The baby came February 12. If I had conceived on our honeymoon, it would have been born in March, but Rebecca was small—just barely seven pounds—so it was less of a stretch to say she came early.

  I went into labor in the night. I’d felt achy all day, and in the middle of the night, I awoke with sharp cramps. My water broke when I got up to go to the bathroom.

  Charlie drove me to the parish hospital. I was afraid I was going to have the baby right there in his car, but I needn’t have worried. Rebecca wasn’t born until nearly seven in the morning.

  My memory of the hospital is fuzzy. I remember being wheeled down the hall and hearing a woman screaming and cussing her husband. I was very upset that she was carrying on so. They used an anesthetic back then called twilight sleep. I remember—vaguely—being strapped down, and then the next thing I knew, I was in a room with another new mother, and a white-uniformed nurse was bringing me a pink-blanketed bundle.

  Charlie seemed delighted. He handed out cigars and smiled broadly, but he was more concerned about me than the baby. Maybe I should have found that touching—“I swear, I’ve never seen a man dote so much on his wife!” a nurse remarked—but it worried me. I wanted him to bond with the baby, and he was reluctant to hold her.

  At first I worried it was because she didn’t look like him. She had light hair, and Charlie’s was dark. But I think he was afraid of hurting her—and it’s no wonder; she was so small, so fragile.

  He came around when his mother held her. His parents—and my parents, too, of course—were over the moon, just swooning with delight to have a grandbaby.

  I stayed in the hospital for a week. When I went home, my mother and Charlie’s mother and friends took turns coming over, bringing meals and helping out.