“You like that author, then?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Very much. Thanks for the recommendation. I’ve now read almost everything he’s published and am firmly among the man’s devoted fan club.”
“He has a fan club?” That was news to Owen, and he frowned.
Sarah chuckled. “Oh, perhaps not formally. But several of my fellow students at Berea were half in love with him. I can see why, now. He has a way of writing that pulls you in, makes you almost believe you’re there.” She closed the book, marking the page with her finger, and leaned toward Owen conspiratorially. “They had all kinds of romantic theories about him. I swear they were convinced he was some fantastical hero who was locked away from the world, writing to quell his misery after losing the love of his life.”
Owen was flustered, and it was all he could do to speak normally. “Is that what you think?”
She wrinkled her nose, staring at the trees across the clearing. “I don’t know. I think he’s probably a woman, writing as a man so she gets paid better. I’m not sure a man could carry off the romanticism in these stories.”
“You don’t… but what about male poets? John Donne, Robert Frost, Keats, Byron? They were all romantic,” Owen sputtered.
“True, but look at the lives they led. With very few exceptions, some of the most romantic writers we know led lives full of dissipation, debauchery, and vices. None of them hid who they were, either. That’s another reason I think this H.O. McLemore is a woman. A man couldn’t keep quiet if he was as successful as she is.”
Owen didn’t know what to say. Without revealing to Sarah that he was, in fact, H.O. McLemore, there wasn’t much of a defense he could lodge. Still, he felt he had to try. “William Shakespeare.” Laughter bubbled out of her, and Owen felt his smile widen into a grin. “You’re laughing at the Bard. I’m crushed.” He grabbed at his chest.
“No,” she said between chuckles. “I’m laughing at you; I adore the Bard. You know, you aren’t someone I’d pictured as being a romantic.” Sarah swiped at her cheeks. They were wet again, but with tears of happiness.
“What if I told you that I know H.O. McLemore personally, and I can assure you with one-hundred-percent certainty that he is, in fact, a man?” Owen stretched his arm out along the rock, his hand not quite touching her shoulder.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “That’s awfully convenient for your argument. And unless I miss my guess, next to impossible to prove.”
She had him there. He considered offering her a signed illustration, but she’d seen his handwriting. Until and unless he knew her better, he couldn’t take the chance that she might recognize it. He could ask his publisher to write her a letter verifying that he was a man, but Owen figured that would be a waste of time, as she wouldn’t believe it was real.
“I guess you’ll have to trust me on this,” he finally said.
“Uh huh. Sure I will.” She glanced at the sky, then at her watch. “I really do have to go. I’ve been here two hours already.”
Owen stood when she did, watching as she folded her blanket she’d been sitting on. “I meant what I said. I don’t mind you coming here.”
Sarah hugged the blanket to her chest and shuffled her feet, her gaze on the pool. “I appreciate that. I really needed to come here today. Thank you.”
“You don’t owe me any thanks, Sarah.” He held open her bag, and she put the blanket inside it.
She met his gaze as she took the bag from him. “Yes, I do. I’ll see you at the library?”
He swallowed. “Sure. Are you okay to walk home by yourself?”
Her smile was sad. “I’m used to it. I’ll be fine. Bye for now.”
He watched her go, his curiosity running wild. Something was definitely wrong, but he couldn’t press her into telling him what. With a frustrated sigh, he turned back to the book he had no interest in reading. A shadow passed over the ground, and Owen looked up to see that a cloud had moved to cover the sun. He gave up on his plans for relaxing next to the pond and started packing his belongings. With Sarah gone, he felt a little lost. He figured he might as well be lost at home.
Chapter Nineteen
THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE THE smell and feel of a baby, Sarah thought, holding her nephew Tuesday evening. She’d stopped by the hospital after work to visit Kathy and little Randall, and as she sat in the rocking chair in Kathy’s room, she was surprised to feel a twinge of envy.
“You look natural holding him,” Kathy remarked from the bed. “You should find a man and have some of your own.”
Sarah smiled down at the baby. “Finding a man isn’t the problem. Finding the man is.”
Kathy huffed. “Find one you can stand to look at in the mornings, one who doesn’t beat you. Beyond that, they’re all the same.”
“Kathy, that’s not a terribly nice thing to say,” Sarah chided. The baby started fussing, and she stood to hand him to her sister before he could commence a full-blown squall. She turned her back as Kathy lowered her hospital gown to give the baby her breast.
“It may not be nice, but it’s the truth. Lord, that hurts.”
Sarah chanced a glance over her shoulder, relieved to see that her sister had covered her exposed skin with a blanket. “I thought breastfeeding was supposed to be natural.”
“It is. It just hurts at first. After a couple of weeks, the nipples toughen up, and you don’t mind it so much.”
Sarah straightened the flower arrangement someone had brought. “Randall must be proud. To have a son, I mean.”
“Oh, he’s over the moon. To hear him tell it, he did it all.” Her voice softened, and she looked under the blanket to check on the baby. “Did Mama tell you about this crazy idea Aunt Nancy put in her head?”
“About going to Georgia in a few weeks? Yes, she told me.” Sarah moved to stand next to the windows and looked out over the parking lot. “But I don’t think it’s a crazy idea. I think it might be what she needs.”
“Pfft. She needs to stop feeling sorry for herself. Nancy coddles her; so do you. Mama has obligations here to attend to. She doesn’t need to go haring off to Georgia. Who’s going to help me with my babies? Not Randall, not you.”
Astonished by her sister’s callousness, Sarah stared at Kathy. “When did you become so cold? Kathy, it’s barely been five months since she lost Daddy. He was the love of her life, her soul mate. You don’t just get over that.”
Kathy laughed and switched the baby to the other breast. She looked at Sarah with a mixture of pity and condescension. “You’re still young. You have your ideals and all that romantic nonsense they put in your head at that fancy school. The rest of us have reality. The sooner you learn that, the easier it’s going to be for you in the long run. Mama, too.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Sarah gathered up her sweater and purse. “With all due respect, Kathy, I think being pregnant and having that baby have addled your mind. I might not have all the worldly experience you do, but I know what Mama and Daddy had. It was a damned sight better than what you’re describing. And I think Mama’s had as much reality as she can take right now.” She swallowed, trying to curb her temper before she said something she’d regret. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s getting late. I need to head home, and you need your rest. Maybe your head will be clearer after you’ve gotten some sleep.”
She stalked out of the room. Any other time, the stunned look on Kathy’s face would have made Sarah laugh. It was, perhaps, the first time Sarah had stood up to her. But Sarah just wanted to get home and make sure that Kathy hadn’t said anything similar to their mother. Sarah understood how fragile Eliza was, even if Kathy didn’t.
Chapter Twenty
BY THE TIME SARAH ARRIVED home, her temper was boiling. That Kathy had said what she did to Sarah wasn’t what made her mad. That she’d potentially spouted her negativity
and poison to their mother? Sarah didn’t know when she’d been so angry.
She sat in the car for a few minutes after she parked, trying to level out her breathing. She counted to a hundred, but that didn’t work, so she tried counting backward. When she thought she was calm enough not to scare her mother, she got out and went inside.
Eliza was in the kitchen, filling a pot up with water. “Hey, sweetie. I’m getting a late start on dinner. Did you see the baby?”
“I did. I’m going to change clothes.” In her bedroom, Sarah groaned with relief as she kicked off her shoes and pantyhose. She grabbed an old shirt out of the closet and pair of denim shorts that she’d be ashamed to wear outside the house because they were so short. After stripping out of her work clothes, she donned a soft cotton camisole. It was too hot to wear her bra another moment. She pulled on the shorts, and the shirt over the camisole, leaving it unbuttoned, then released her hair from the twist she wore for work. The dark, heavy mass fell around her shoulders and down her back, stopping halfway. Even though the trend for women having short hair was becoming popular, Sarah had decided not to cut hers. When the weather grew warmer, however, the temptation was strong to pick up a pair of shears and hack away.
She twisted a rubber band around the locks, drawing them up to a point high on her head. The jaunty ponytail made her smile, despite the fact that she was still seething over Kathy’s remarks. Physical comfort achieved, she headed back down to help her mother with supper.
“I thought we’d have spaghetti, if that’s okay with you,” Eliza said as Sarah hugged her. “And I used some of that strawberry-rhubarb jam we put up last summer to make a tart. I hope you’re hungry. You can get started on the salad, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m angry, actually,” Sarah said, getting the ingredients down for the vinaigrette for the greens. “Kathy said some things that rubbed me the wrong way.”
Eliza chuckled. “I can’t envision that happening. The two of you get along so well.” She laid a hand on Sarah’s shoulder as she passed behind her on the way to the sink. “What did she say?”
Sarah gave the vinaigrette an extra whip with the whisk. “She made some very unflattering comments about men in general, advised me to find one whom I could stand to look at and who didn’t beat me, and said…that hardly matters. I don’t think she’s fond of the idea of you going to Georgia.” She said the last part in a rush, not wanting to say it at all, but needing to know if her mother was okay.
“Well, then. I hardly know where to start; all that advice is so valuable. What exactly did she say about Georgia? Knowing your sister, it wasn’t flattering.”
“It wasn’t. I don’t want to tell you.”
“I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
Sarah set the whisk down with more force than she’d intended, and the metal tines vibrated, spraying vinaigrette back up on her arms and face. “Shit.”
“Sarah!”
“Sorry. She said that you were selfish for going. The way she talked, I figured she’d said something to you already.” Taking the towel her mother handed her, she wiped off the mess and braced her hands on the edge of the counter.
Eliza sighed, but didn’t seem overly distraught. “She hasn’t, but I’m not all that surprised to learn that’s how she feels.”
“Mama, are you sure we’re related to her? Sure she wasn’t switched at birth, isn’t a changeling or something?”
“Sometimes I do wonder,” Eliza confessed as she drained the pasta. “Do you think she’s right, that I’m being selfish?”
“No.” Sarah didn’t even have to consider her answer. “Absolutely not. Look, I was hurt when you first told me. I won’t lie. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I want you to be happy, and I know Jack does, too. If you can’t be happy here, then you need to go where you can. It’s pretty simple, really.”
Her mother visibly relaxed. “Thank you. As for your sister, I learned a long time ago to not let her bitterness get to me. And make no mistake, Sarah, she is bitter.”
“I don’t understand why. She has what she always wanted - Randall, two beautiful children. I wouldn’t want Randall, but she set her cap for him in high school. She even got pregnant so they’d have to get married. And as much as I can’t stand him, he seemed happy enough to marry her. What in the world does she have to be bitter over?”
Eliza stirred the sauce for the pasta. “I’m going to tell you something about Randall. Don’t talk to your sister about this. Understand me? She’d never forgive me if she knew I’d told you.” She tapped the spoon on the rim of the pan and set it aside.
“Okay. You have my word.” Sarah stopped putting the salad together and gave her mother all her attention.
“When you were in Berea, Kathy left Randall for a few months. He stopped working and started drinking more. She came home one day from visiting his mother and found him in bed with another woman.”
Sarah was stunned. As much as she didn’t understand her sister, she hated that Kathy had gone through that. “How did she keep from killing him? How did you keep Daddy from killing him, for that matter?”
“Ira didn’t think he was worth killing, to be honest. As for your sister, Moira was with her. Kathy managed to get Moira out of there before she saw anything. She came here, and they stayed four months. We almost had her convinced to divorce him, but he started coming around, sweet-talking her. He got a job and stopped drinking so much. Kathy started going to town with him on dates and ended up pregnant again. I think he got her pregnant on purpose, just to keep her. He sees her as a possession, not as a helpmate. She lost the baby, but by then, she was back with Randall, and she wouldn’t hear anyone speak of her leaving him.”
“Who was the woman?”
“A hooker from down in Combs.” Sarah’s mouth fell open, and Eliza shot her an innocent look. “What? She was. In any event, your father came down pretty hard on Kathy. You know how he was. He always felt that we should take responsibility for our actions, no matter if the result was good or bad.”
“And he didn’t think Randall and Kathy had?”
“No. He was willing to do whatever it took to help her, but when she went back to Randall? He washed his hands of the whole thing. That’s one of the reasons she tried so hard when he was sick, I’ve always thought. She wanted to prove to him that she wasn’t weak.” Eliza’s mouth compressed in a tight line, and Sarah figured she was remembering Ira’s illness.
“So that’s why she’s bitter. I guess I can understand it.” Sarah studied her feet, not really wanting to ask the question circling through her mind, but needing to know. “Mama, did Daddy ever… is what Kathy said right? All men are the same?”
“That’s a loaded question, Sarah Jane,” Eliza said as she dished out a plate of spaghetti. “The first part is easy—no. Your father never so much as looked at another woman with anything more than friendly admiration, as far as I’m aware. As to the rest of the men in the world…” She sighed. “I’m afraid your sister’s assessment might be closer to the truth than not. There are good men out there; please don’t get me wrong. But there are a lot more who are only as good as they need to be to get by.”
Her mother’s admission unsettled Sarah. “So how do you know the good men from the bad?”
Eliza laughed. “Oh, sweetie. You have to get to know someone, take time to watch them with other people, with animals. You have to trust your instincts. And you have to get very, very lucky sometimes. I wish I could tell you there was some obvious yardstick, but there isn’t.”
The food on the table, they sat down and said a quick prayer of thanks. Sarah was quiet as she thought about what her mother had said. Halfway through the meal, a quiet knock sounded at the front door.
“You expecting anyone?” Eliza asked. Sarah shook her head, and her mother frowned. “Well,
let’s see who it is.” She went to the door while Sarah buttoned her shirt. From the kitchen, Sarah didn’t have a clear view of the front door, but she could hear.
“Can I help you?” her mother asked.
To Sarah’s surprise, a low, male voice answered. “I hope so, ma’am. I was hoping to speak to Sarah for a minute, if she’s handy.”
Hardly able to believe her ears, Sarah came out of the kitchen and stood staring at the man who stood in the door. “Owen?”
Eliza’s eyebrows shot up as she looked at Sarah, then back at Owen. “Owen Campbell? Hank and Lucy’s boy?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.”
“Well, come on in.” Eliza opened the screen door. “And it has been a while. Probably at your mother’s services. I never would have known you.”
Looking nervous, Owen stepped inside holding a small book in his hand. “I don’t want to disturb you. I wanted to drop this off.” He handed the book to Sarah. “It’s pertinent to that discussion we had the other day.”
Flustered by his presence, Sarah looked down at the book. When she saw the title and author, she laughed. “Tennessee Williams? Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? Really?”
Owen scowled in mock outrage. “You can’t tell me Tennessee Williams isn’t romantic.”
“Oh, I think I can. What’s romantic about a group of people drifting around one another, using the misfortunes and personal crises of others to twist the truth, afraid to reach out for what they really want? It’s sad, is what it is.”
He shook his head. “The emotion, Sarah. The pent-up turmoil and longing. Yes, the story is sad, but it’s romantic.”
“I think you’re the one with romantic delusions,” Sarah teased.
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