Lies and Other Acts of Love

by Kristy Woodson Harvey

  “They aren’t fighting now,” I cried. “But what about later? What if the war heats up? Oh, I can’t bear the thoughts of knowing that you’re in danger.”

  He had kissed me passionately and said, “I promise that I will come home to you. And when I do, we’ll get married. And I’ll spend the rest of my life taking care of you and making it up to you.”

  I was supportive. My parents were not. Since Dan wasn’t going to New Bern, it seemed silly for me to. So, instead, I went back home. I was twenty-three already, and most of my friends were married, having babies, starting their lives. And I was so jealous I could scarcely breathe.

  That first night back home I realized I had made a huge mistake. I should have gone to New Bern with my other single girlfriends.

  I was sitting on the living room sofa, crying my eyes out because my Dan was gone. The love of my life was on the other side of the world. War had brought us together and war had torn us apart again. It didn’t seem fair.

  “Look,” my daddy said. “I know you’re brokenhearted, Lynn, but we think it might be time to move on.”

  “Move on?” I spat through my tears. “I will not move on. Dan is the love of my life.”

  “Of course he is, darling,” my mother soothed. “But, in the meantime, the nicest boy wants to take you out.”

  I glared at her. “Momma, have you not been listening? I’m in love, for pity’s sake. I am marrying Dan the moment he gets home. I’m waiting for him. I’m not dating a bunch of people I’m not interested in. I did that in college because you made me. I’m done now. In my mind, I’m married to Dan already.”

  She shook her head. “Darling, I don’t know how they do it where you’ve been, but, ’round here, I think you know there’s no such thing as going steady until there’s a ring on that pretty finger. Nobody’s gonna pay for that cow when they can get the milk for free.”

  “First of all, no one is getting my milk, Momma. So let’s just get that straight.” I fluffed my hair. “Second of all, there will be a ring on my finger before you know it.”

  “Well,” Daddy interjected, “I was telling Ernest’s daddy all about you being summa cum laude and all that time you spent in New York, and I promised him a date when you got back home after graduation.”

  “Ernest . . .” I thought with my finger against my lip. “Ernest Wake.” I shook my head. “Daddy, no. No way.”

  Ernest had been nicknamed Booger in middle school because, far past the age when children become self-aware, he still picked his nose during class. He had curly red hair, freckles, glasses and bad teeth.

  “He’s quite the catch, young lady,” Momma said.

  “No, Momma,” I said, stomping my foot softly. “He’s rich. Not a catch.”

  “Well,” my daddy tried to soothe, “I promised him a date, so you’ll need to go out with him.”

  “This isn’t some impoverished country, Daddy! You can’t just marry me off to some rich man, trade me for a couple of cows.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Daddy sniffed through his laughter. “They’d have to give me some chickens too.”

  “Besides,” Momma said, perhaps feeling slightly more empathetic than Daddy, “no one said a thing about marriage.”

  And they hadn’t. Not yet.

  Annabelle

  A Special Place

  Whatever you’re doing, whether it’s the job of your dreams or washing the dishes, make sure you’re the very best at it. Because being your best and working the hardest always leads to better things, Lovey says. It’s advice I’ve always tried to follow. And starting my new job at Saint Paul’s was no different.

  There was going to be a lot of on-the-job training because, before I worked for Father Rob, I didn’t know much about what a priest did. I mean, obviously, they give a sermon on Sundays and are in charge of morning prayer and visit a lot of sick people in the hospital. But, beyond that, I had no idea what the day-in, day-out life of a priest was like. And I still don’t. Because I can tell you, unequivocally, without even having anything to compare it to, that most priests don’t do the kinds of things that Saint Paul’s Priest Charming did.

  My second week of work I walked in moderately more prepared, having realized that every day was going to start with a new surprise. Only, that morning, when I got to work, Junie was there but Father Rob was nowhere to be found. “Oh, good,” she said when I walked through the door. “We’ve beat him here, so maybe we can actually get some work done.”

  I laughed. “Why is it that men always seem to be the distraction and it’s the women that get it all done?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’ve been around eighty years, and I’ve seldom seen that not to be the case.” Junie paused, opened a file drawer, her aged hand shaking the tiniest bit, and said, “Do you think you could teach me how to use the e-mail?”

  Before I could even begin to panic about trying to teach an eighty-year-old who still procured lickable stamps because she thought the self-stick kinds were a fad, the phone rang. “Good morning, Saint Paul’s,” I said unsuspectingly.

  “Annabelle, this is Lucy Simmons.”

  I rolled my eyes at Junie. This was going to be good. I could tell already. “Good morning, Mrs. Simmons. How may I help you?”

  “Um, well, yes, I suppose it is a good morning. But . . . well, did you know that Brian Peterson is a chef?”

  I couldn’t imagine how this was relevant to my life. “Well, I suppose I did know that.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Well, then, wouldn’t you say that it seems a little unfair that he won the chili cook-off, while I, an untrained chef, placed second? I mean, I would venture to say that my chili is the best chili anyway, but to lose to a professional chef seems to violate the rules.”

  “Well, Mrs. Simmons, I’m not sure that there were any official rules, per se. We raised eleven thousand dollars for the job skills training program, which I think was really the point of the contest.”

  She paused. “Well, sure. But I just don’t think that seems right. Maybe I could talk it over with Father Rob and see what he thinks, but I would suggest that maybe for next year you have some official rules in writing.”

  I looked around for Father Rob, assuming that this was a joke. He was testing me, seeing how I would handle the parishioners’ more ridiculous requests. “Well, I’m sorry, he’s not in right now, but I’d be happy to take down your number and have him call you later.”

  Priest Charming roared into the office, his collar over a T-shirt and shorts, but before he could say a word, I put my finger to my lips, widened my eyes and shook my head. This was a message I could see getting lost. Instead of putting down her number, I wrote “Mrs. Simmons” and circled it, showing it to him. He mimed a noose around his neck.

  As she said, “Could you just repeat that number back to me so I can make sure you got it right?” I replied, “Thanks so much for your feedback. Have a blessed day!” I hung up.

  “A blessed day?”

  “Yup. When things get really irritating around here, I tell people to have a blessed day instead of blessing them out.”

  Junie laughed. She never laughed. The irritating phone call had been totally worth it.

  I turned to Rob. “You might want to get down some official rules for next year’s chili cook-off.”

  Rob smiled, shook his head and handed me a pair of gardening gloves. Junie and I shot each other a knowing grimace. I pretended to be annoyed so that she and I would have that bond, but, truth be told, I looked forward to a fun surprise at the beginning of the workday.

  “So,” I said, as I climbed into the passenger seat. “Are gardening gloves my only clue?”

  Father Rob smiled. “Mrs. Taylor is one of our most faithful parishioners, and she sprained her ankle last week.”

  I could feel my brow wrinkling. “I’m not c
ertified in any way to be a caretaker.”

  He laughed. “She’s fine, but she has an award-winning garden, and I woke up this morning feeling like we should go prune her roses.”

  “That’s fine with me, but I won’t be held responsible for any damages. I don’t know the opposite of green, but that’s what color my thumb is.”

  Father Rob laughed again, but I stayed serious. “This is not a joke. I can kill any plant, anywhere.”

  My phone beeped, and, looking down at the screen, I felt myself grimace. The new message on my Facebook wall read, Happy nineteen months to the most beautiful girl in the entire world. You are the love of my life and I can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight!

  “Oh, no,” I said out loud. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  “What?”

  “Ben just wrote this hideous, lovey message on my Facebook wall.”

  I fully expected to have to explain why that was a problem, but, instead, Rob said, “Oh, no. Why would he do that?”

  I shook my head. “I hate that so much.”

  “Oh, I know.” Rob made a gagging sound. “It’s like ‘Hey. I know we’re sitting across the room from each other, but I wanted to tell you I love you.’ So insincere.”

  “Exactly!”

  My phone beeped with a text from Cameron. Are you and Ben getting divorced? I hear writing on each other’s Facebook walls is the first sign. And it makes me vomit.

  I laughed and turned to Rob. “My best friend is also appalled by the Facebook shout-out.”

  “Why don’t you just take it down? Can’t you do that?”

  I sighed, thinking of sweet, sweet Ben and how he would do just about anything to make me smile. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  I realized that it was probably bad form to be talking to my boss about something so personal and trivial, so I said, “Poor Mrs. Taylor. Probably going to have a yard full of formerly award-winning roses totally dead by tomorrow.”

  Fifteen minutes later I found out that the yard wasn’t the only thing I wanted to kill. “Not like that,” Mrs. Taylor was griping, for probably the tenth time. “I’m over here in this chair, foot all akimbo, and you can’t even manage to prune my shrubbery properly.”

  It wasn’t the gracious, warm thank-you I had expected. How Father Rob smiled through it all I don’t have the slightest idea, but he whistled and took it all in stride while I couldn’t have felt less happy. We were kneeling over in the dirt, our backs to Mrs. Taylor, sweating, replanting a couple of bushes.

  Perhaps it was because our gardening skills weren’t enough to complain about, but Mrs. Taylor, presumably to my rear end, said, “So why is it that none of you young people around here ever volunteer?”

  “Well,” I stuttered, “I just moved here, so I’m not totally sure, but I think everyone is just so busy with work and kids.”

  What would you call this? I felt like asking her. I swallowed the lump in my throat and clipped those bushes a little harder as I remembered my own childless state. On the bright side, it made me think of Ben. Fun, gorgeous Ben. We had planned a special date that night, just the two of us, and, though I was still a little concerned about Cameron’s mostly joking text message, I couldn’t be more ready for a night out.

  It was the first time in my life that I had had even an ounce of trouble making new friends. I had acquaintances and was invited to the girls’ events, but I hadn’t felt that special spark with anyone yet, that sixth sense that this person was going to be a lifelong friend.

  “Well, I need someone to chair the Spring Fling,” she continued on. “Laura Anne has just stepped up and done everything this year, so I couldn’t possibly ask her again. Do you know of anyone?”

  I turned awkwardly to look at her. Mrs. Taylor peered at me, and, Father Rob, wiping a stream of dirt across his sweaty forehead, said, “I can’t think of a better person for the job than Annabelle. She’s an ace with the organization and handles anything that’s thrown at her like a total pro.”

  I turned back toward the bushes and shot him an evil look. “I know you’re my boss and a pastor,” I hissed at him, “but that doesn’t mean that the devil can’t still find a special place for you.”

  He laughed and said louder, “In fact, I think it would be great for Annabelle. It will give her an opportunity to meet all kinds of new people.”

  “Well, then it’s settled,” Mrs. Taylor said, shifting so that the sides of her flabby body spilled over the frame of the chair. “I’ll call you about our first meeting.”

  When I told Ben about it over a candlelit dinner at La Cava that night, thankful for the first time in months not to be pregnant, as a rich cabernet numbed the stress of the day, all he could say was, “Please, let’s not become one of those couples.”

  He didn’t have to elaborate. We had spent many a moonlit night lying under the stars on the top of the RV, talking about how our lives were going to be different. We weren’t going to be one of those boring, by-the-book couples who settled into suburbia and joined the PTA and had sex once a month. But, as I took another sip of wine, I felt a sinking feeling that, here we were, living in Salisbury, steadily employed and already volunteering for things we didn’t care a thing about. We needed to shake it up—and fast.

  I didn’t mention the Facebook thing to Ben, not wanting to hurt his feelings. And it shouldn’t have been a big deal. But I couldn’t count the number of times Cameron and I had rolled our eyes and said that having to share your “love” with your Facebook friends was so fake. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a sign that something was amiss.

  Our waiter, tall, thin and prematurely gray, approached the table, and, in a tone that said he and Ben went way back said, “Our special tonight is penne a la vodka with shrimp. I highly recommend it.” He turned to Ben and said, “Laura Anne had it earlier this evening and said it was fabulous.”

  “O-kay . . .” Ben said the word like it was two. “I guess I’ll have that.”

  “Make it two,” I said, smiling generously. When the waiter was out of earshot, I said, “Who the hell is Laura Anne? Mrs. Taylor was talking about her earlier today.”

  Ben swigged his wine and said, “Weird. She’s a girl I went to high school with. Classic overachiever. Kind of annoying.”

  I nodded. “Oh. Well, things don’t change. Mrs. Taylor said Laura Anne is the only one who ever helps her with the volunteer stuff.”

  “Anyway,” Ben said, “tell me more about this event. Are we going to have our pictures on the front page of the Salisbury Post as the town’s most philanthropic new couple?”

  I sighed. “Can’t we go on the road again?”

  Ben shrugged. “Dad’s partner should be back from his ‘sabbatical’ in six months. And then I’m all about it.”

  “Sabbatical?” I whispered.

  “Court-ordered sabbatical,” he whispered back.

  Ben’s mom picked us up in the Subaru station wagon she had had since he was in elementary school, and I felt like I was a kid again as we giggled and held hands in the backseat. Even when you live alone, sometimes it’s nice to have a couple of hours to really talk and reconnect.

  That night we lay in bed and whispered about nothing and everything all at once until the sun came up. “I’m so glad I found you,” I told Ben. “Being with you has made me free.”

  He stroked my face, kissed my mouth and said, “You are the only woman in the world to me, TL. Nothing is better than knowing I get to be with you for the rest of my life.”

  It was exactly what we needed. And, as I drifted off for a couple of hours before I headed into work, I felt so content that, no matter where the future led, my forever was lying beside me.

  When I woke up that morning, I had an e-mail from the other man who wanted to be my forever.

  Good morning, lovely. Just wanted to inform you that I’m booking a Pa
ris trip for two weeks from now. You know no one does Paris quite like I do. Give me a chance to wow you. We can rebuild what we had. I love you.

  Just like Cameron had said only a few hours earlier, I thought I might throw up.

  Lovey

  Little Lies

  It was a woman’s responsibility to replace herself and her husband times two, according to my momma. And that was even more important for me, since momma only had Lib and me to carry on the family. I listened, but there were an awful lot of times when my five girls were growing up that I thought I must have been insane. Who, I would ask myself, would sign up for all of this time after time after time? But now that the tantrums are over, the fights about late nights out and car dating and boys and outfits and shoes, and Dan walking through the house counting how many lights had been left on, I’m so happy that I have my five girls—and that they have each other.

  That afternoon, sitting at my squeaky-clean new assisted living apartment, there they all were, crowded around their daddy, doing their best tricks to get his attention even though he didn’t know if he was in North Carolina or Timbuktu.

  “I think he knows what’s going on and just can’t express himself,” Sally said.

  The thought made me shiver. I hated when she said it. I couldn’t think of much worse than being trapped inside your body like that, aware of what was going on but unable to interact, thoughts cruising through your mind like always but unable to get off at the port of your mouth.

  “Sally,” Lauren, who was my feistiest child, scolded, “Momma hates when you say that.”

  Louise shrugged her shoulders, a perfect fourth child. She waved her hand. “He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. And he’s just perfectly content to sit in that chair and watch his black and whites.”

  I nodded, not sure if I agreed. But I had to convince myself that was true to chase away the nightmares of being trapped inside myself, screaming and screaming with no one able to hear me or help. “He’s such a good patient,” I said. “And that’s something to be thankful for.”