“It. Wasn’t. A. Date.” The words marched out of me. “It was dinner. That’s it. Two friends having a meal. Not something to justify calling you about. Unless she wanted you to tell me something she can’t. Or won’t.”
“You know your mother. Some people look for opportunities. Some people look for problems. Your mother has a PhD in the second one. You might as well sit before I start if you’re not already. She’s worried and mortified that people will think you’re having Evan’s baby; she doesn’t think dating or dinner with a man is appropriate while you’re pregnant. And if people know it’s Wyatt’s baby, and they see you with Evan, that’s a disgrace.”
I slammed the bedroom door. “The real disgrace is she’s not telling me this herself,” I said, irritation and frustration twisting in my chest. “How long is she going to punish me for being pregnant? How long?” I put the phone on speaker so I could tug on my jeans. “It’s not enough for her that God’s punished me? Now she’s His backup? Is she worried her church friends will think I’ll be stripping on Bourbon Street next?” I picked up the phone.
“I’d tell you to calm down, but I’d be fit to be tied, too. But here it is. She didn’t ask me to call you, but she knows good and well that I’m always honest with you. Plus, I don’t keep secrets. You can dress her up and down now that I’ve told you this, or you can let it simmer for a few days. What’s left is what’s worth talking about.”
I promised her I’d calm down before driving, text her when I made it to the office, and call her if I talked to my mother. I finished dressing and checked my makeup in the bathroom mirror before I left my room. My checks were flushed from the fire my mother’s words had lit in me. I breathed into the rage that consumed me and released it, repeating until my body relaxed.
Laura was in the family room with my mother, moving her through her morning exercises. I stopped long enough to tell them hello and that I was late, then I closed the front door behind me. Leaving, I hoped, the negativity that was sucking the life out of me.
Processing it all while I drove home that afternoon, I realized that everything my mother said was about her. About what people would say. To her or behind her back. About what people who didn’t say anything would think of her. About having to hold her head high in her country club and church when she thought her daughter had ruined her.
That afternoon and night, I did what Granny suggested. I left everything my mother said to simmer. I ate dinner. Smiled and nodded efficiently through my parents’ conversation and excused myself as soon as my fork hit the table after my last bite. “I’ll help clean up later, but I’m exhausted and headachy, so I’m going to rest for a while.”
I was tired, but I couldn’t be in the room with my mother, seeing her through the lens my grandmother had provided that morning.
And I doubted Laura intended for me to use my worry beads for harm.
CHAPTER 39
My mother was improving daily. At least physically. She no longer needed her walker, and using the cane didn’t seem as painful for her. She and my dad went out to dinner a few times, and having a social life made her far less grumpy. I still hadn’t said anything to her about her conversation with my grandmother. The last thing I wanted was to be accused of causing her a setback because she was so emotionally distraught.
My father left the office early so he could be with Mom for her doctor’s appointment. He must’ve noticed my wide-eyed panic when I realized he would be gone during lunch.
“I know. I know. Don’t worry, I’ve already arranged a lunch delivery for you.” Dad patted me on top of my head like he used to do when I was in second or third grade. He’d walk in after work, I’d be bouncing around the den, stopping only long enough to announce that I’d finished my homework. Then a pat on the head for me. A kiss for Mom. Which I never counted as fair because she didn’t even do homework.
With a half hour to go before noon, the noises in my stomach grew louder and the candy dish more tempting. I was about to text my dad to ask him where he’d ordered from when Evan came in carrying bags from P.F. Chang’s.
“So thoughtful of you to bring me lunch, but my dad said he set up a delivery to be sure I ate while he was gone.”
“I know.” He nodded and placed the bags on the counter.
“If you already knew, then why did you go to the trouble?” I realized I should text my father and tell him to forget whatever he’d planned because the aromas lurking in those bags smelled delicious.
He took out the containers and lined them up on my desk. “I was about to explain when you interrupted me. Your dad—”
“You’re the one he called. Of course. How else would you already know that he’d set this up?” Synapses in my brain finally loaded and fired, and I wanted to, if not die of embarrassment, at least be severely injured.
“You’re almost right. I needed to get in touch with him about a delay on a putter he ordered, so I called him this morning. I asked if he wanted to meet for lunch, and that’s when he told me he and your mother had the appointment, but you couldn’t leave and—”
“And that’s when you arranged yourself,” I said.
“Once again, you successfully connected all the dots.”
“Ewwww. Hot-and-sour soup. Not a fan.”
“I didn’t get it for you. That one is mine.” He separated the containers, and that’s when I saw he’d written my name on some of the boxes. “It’s been a long time, so if I didn’t remember correctly, I apologize in advance. Egg drop soup, brown rice, spring roll not an eggroll, and Orange Peel Shrimp.” The only thing he’d forgotten was the stir-fried eggplant, but I wasn’t going to be so ungrateful as to mention that.
Evan handed me another bag. “Almost forgot this. I put a freezer pack in there, so I hope it didn’t melt.”
I hesitated. “Is something going to jump out at me?”
“If it does, then I’m going back to the store for a refund,” he said. “It’s not the Hope Diamond, so don’t get too excited.”
The last time I saw that expression on someone’s face was when Lily handed her parents the Play-Doh pies she’d made for them.
I opened the bag and inside I found a pint of vanilla ice cream and a small jar of dill pickles.
“Silly, right?” A suggestion of a grin and his drumming fingers on the countertop seemed to be waiting for my answer.
I smiled and felt like my heart smiled along with me. “No, and even if it was, it’s a silliness that makes me happy.”
“Great to know your sense of humor’s still intact,” he said and smiled. He started placing his containers back in the bag.
“Where are you going?”
“Sorry I can’t stay with you. I rescheduled an appointment with someone who couldn’t make his later this afternoon. How about lunch on Sunday? If you don’t already have plans.”
I opened the calendar on my phone. “Nothing. Nothing. And nothing. Lucky you. I’m available.”
“Terrific. I’ll pick you up for our ‘it’s not a date’ about eleven o’clock. Oh, one more thing . . . I forgot your stir-fried eggplant. I owe you one.” He picked up his bag, threw in a few candies from the jar, and left.
I had a voicemail from the private investigator. He wanted me to know he’d been checking telephone records and found out Wyatt had made calls to the hospital in Oakville the day before and the morning of the wedding. He said he’d be back in touch with me soon.
He was obviously planning to visit someone. Who could he have even known there? Already I wasn’t sure how much more I wanted to know.
Dad sent me a text that he and Mom were stopping to eat after the appointment. Even at my age, I felt the giddy relief of a teenager whose parents just left for a weeklong cruise. Except the wildest thing I wanted to do didn’t involve a party with ten of my closest friends, who invited ten of their closest friends, who couldn’t remember the next day where they were or how they got there. All I wanted to do was wallow in the silence, skip the Chinese left
overs for dinner, and eat a huge slab of apple pie covered with whipped cream.
After my dessert for dinner, I soaked under a foamy blanket of bubbles in my parents’ garden tub. I was getting accustomed to my rounded tummy, envisioning my little nugget of a baby growing stronger every day. I still hadn’t decided if I wanted to know whether I was having a boy or girl. Struggling to accept that my son or daughter might already have a stepbrother was enough.
I slipped on my nightgown, then went to the kitchen to make a cup of hot tea. My mother had left the mail in its usual spot, in a basket on the counter. Every piece of mail except for the junk went into that basket. I rarely gave it any attention because I had already forwarded my mail to Houston, and since I paid everything online, most of what I found in my post office box went straight into the recycle bin.
My parents were still strong believers in paper trails because, as my mother had informed me when I questioned the system, “What if the entire Internet crashes? It could be targeted by terrorists.” I told her if that happened, paying bills would probably not be our first concern.
I passed the basket, surprised to see a lone long white envelope propped up against it. “There is no way you jumped out of that,” I said. I picked it up. It wasn’t with the rest of the mail because it was addressed to me.
No return address. A New Orleans postmark. My name and address had been computer-generated on a label. It was either one of those goofy chain letters that might’ve fallen into the corner of the mailroom and was just discovered, or it was a generic invitation to attend an exclusive introduction to new beach property for sale.
I almost threw it away, but I could see lined yellow paper inside. Legal pad kind of paper.
Evan.
“Dude, what are you up to?” I shook the envelope to make sure a pound of glitter wouldn’t decorate the floor when I opened it. It was too thin for him to have put anything else in there.
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, thinking about what goofy idea had inspired him to mail this. I carried the tea to my room, sat cross-legged on my bed, leaned against the headboard, and opened the envelope. My cell phone was on the pillow next to me, so I could immediately respond to whatever he had plotted.
I unfolded the paper.
I couldn’t breathe.
The room began to look like an Impressionist painting. Objects and colors melted into one another like Popsicles left in the sun.
My hand trembled, shaking the page so violently that, if I closed my eyes, it sounded like wind whipping through trees.
I clenched my jaw to stop my chattering teeth. If only I could have clenched my shivering body.
I didn’t have to see the signature. I recognized the tightly formed letters, the hodgepodge of cursive and print.
It was Wyatt’s handwriting.
CHAPTER 40
Dear Olivia,
I’m not always the best romantic or good at expressing it, but I want you to know that I love you more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone.
That night I first saw you sitting next to Mia, who was very pregnant with Lily, I asked a friend to serve the two of you. I wanted her to look for a wedding band or engagement ring on your left hand. I know, it probably sounds like something a kid would do. But I didn’t want to get my hopes up if you were already with someone else. Even then, I had no idea if I had a chance to get to know you. The one thing I held on to was that you were friends with Mia and Bryce, and I was friends with his brother. Not many degrees of separation!
I still can’t believe how lucky I am to be with you.
You are a gift to me. I’ll treasure you for the rest of our lives together.
I read the letter over and over and over again. As if Wyatt’s soul were embedded in each word and somehow I could give life to them all, and he would materialize.
My thoughts were like marbles spilled on tile, scattered in every direction, some of them rolling as if chased, others clanging into one another and going nowhere.
If Wyatt didn’t write this letter, then who did? How demented would that person have to be to forge his handwriting? Who would know how we met and then be able to find me at my parents’ house?
I recognized the quirks in Wyatt’s writing—how he changed the letters f and s, the letter a that sometimes looked like an o, his maddening tendency to ignore margins.
But when? Why was it mailed months after he died? Had he given this to someone meaning to get it back?
Or had he given it to someone he trusted for safekeeping? Someone like Jacob’s mother?
I thought Wyatt dying on our wedding day was punishment enough. But I was wrong. There was much more: not knowing where he was going that day, the baby gifts, finding out I was pregnant, and now this.
I guess God didn’t believe in time off for good behavior. Or He was sending me a strong message that perhaps my good behavior wasn’t so good.
Who was I going to talk to about this? Certainly not my parents. I heard them come in from dinner, but I left my bedroom door closed. If they saw me tonight, it would be impossible for me to pretend there wasn’t something wrong. And in no way did I want to tell them what that something was.
I didn’t have the energy to explain this to anyone. And maybe it was weird because obviously somebody else knew it existed. That Wyatt meant that letter for me.
I also had to face the reality of my not wanting to know who had this letter first. Knowing that could be more painful than the letter itself.
That night before I went to bed, I thought of a wedding I’d attended years ago. The bride announced that single women should sleep with a piece of the wedding cake under their pillows. She told us that the man we would dream about would be our future husband.
I didn’t take a slice home because I figured I’d wake up with icing and cake crumbs pasted to my hair. Maybe I should have given it a chance, because sleeping with Wyatt’s letter under my pillow, I woke up disoriented. My dreams of him and our lives together were so real, I expected to find him in the bed beside me.
The next day I called Laura from the office to ask if any mail had arrived for me. I asked her to please not ask my mother but just to check the basket. I told her if anything did come for me, I’d appreciate it if she could just place it on my nightstand. I promised her I’d explain, but she said that wasn’t necessary.
“Some things I don’t need to understand. You’re not asking me to do anything illegal or immoral, and you never asked me to do anything crazy. If you want me to do this, I’m certain you have a good reason,” she said.
I’d put the letter in my purse, but I regretted having it with me. I couldn’t bring myself to open it again. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it or opening my purse every hour on the chance that I’d read it again. Not that I needed to. I’d read it so many times the night before, I’d memorized it.
“I’ll treasure you for the rest of our lives together.” That didn’t work out well for either one of us, did it, Wyatt? And if I was such a treasure, why didn’t you tell me the truth about that morning? I guess the real irony is that even after dying, you left me a treasure. Our baby.
After a few days of Laura texting me that I didn’t have mail, I told her she didn’t need to continue looking. But she said she’d check every once in a while anyway.
Not that I wanted more. I’d started to believe that perhaps God was repealing my sentence. Good things were happening: spending time with Evan, hearing the baby’s heartbeat, and feeling it move. Maybe God had let me out to play in the prison yard, and now time was up?
I remembered what Jim said about contacting him with new information, which this letter definitely was. He’d be able to figure this out faster than I ever could. The solution was the problem, because if and when he did, I had to be ready to hear the truth. I wasn’t.
It was Friday, and we were sitting on the deck snacking on cheese, crackers, and spinach dip left over from yet another drop-off from the ladies’ church group.
“The week Mom was in the hospital, we had so many meals delivered my father thought he’d have to buy an extra freezer. It’s slowed since then, but there must still be a weekly sign-up sheet because someone will bring over a meal one day, then a dessert another day. If being able to cook is a membership requirement, I’m never getting past the doors.” I scooped spinach dip onto my plate. “Besides, that was Wyatt’s thing. I thought it doesn’t get much better than marrying a man who’s as good in the kitchen as he is in the bedroom.”
“I’m afraid if Gary does open a restaurant, that might be the end of his cooking at home. Of course, he’d never be home. And if I’m working for him, neither will I. The problem will be we’re around too much food. When we’d work catering jobs, we’d sometimes come home with boxes of leftovers. But you can’t always live off of stuffed mushrooms and rumaki.”
“I didn’t know you two worked for caterers. Colin Chapman, the brother-in-law of my friend Mia, owns a company in New Orleans. Wyatt worked for him sometimes. Did you and Gary ever work for him?”
Without taking much time to think, Laura answered, “Um, you know, it’s been a few years since we did that kind of work, so I don’t remember exactly.” She picked up our empty iced tea glasses. “I’m going to dash inside and refill these.”
For a woman who could rattle off the names and dosages of all my mother’s meds, Laura not remembering a caterer’s name was surprising.
When she came back outside, she set the glasses down, and said, “Tell me what’s going on with Evan.”
I recounted the conversation my grandmother and I’d had, and I ended with, “I haven’t said anything to her yet. In fact, Evan’s picking me up Sunday morning for breakfast, and I haven’t mentioned it to either one of my parents. My dad might hope being with Evan pays off in a few free golf lessons.”
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