Yesterday

by Fern Michaels

  “It’s not Sela’s fault,” Brie interrupted. “It’s mine. I’m a crazy person these days. I really did forget about the funeral part. Because I can’t imagine . . . can’t bear the thought that Pearl might someday . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Don’t say it,” Callie said through clenched teeth. “Pearl is not going to die for a very long time. Do you hear me? Not for a very long time.”

  “We’ll take care of her, Callie. You go ahead and do whatever you have to do.” Brie hugged her friend and whispered in her ear, “If you’re about to do what I think, you have my blessing. Do it. Life is just too damn short to make mistakes early on. We’ll see you at the house.”

  “Are you two whispering about me?” Sela asked suspiciously.

  “Come off it, Sela, you aren’t worth whispering about. Move that skinny ass of yours or I’ll shoot your foot off. Here comes Pearl. Everyone smile. You know how she is about us wearing what she calls our happy faces.” Brie looked at them.

  “Ready, Pearl?”

  “Yes’m, I truly am ready to go home.”

  “Well, guess what, so are we,” Brie chortled as she led Pearl down the garden path and out to the garage area where Sela had parked the car. She waved offhandedly to Callie, who waved back.

  “Kallum, will you do me a favor?” Callie called to Wyn’s friend, who was smoking a cigar by the back porch.

  “Of course. What happened?” he asked, eyeing her grass-stained dress.

  “I slipped and fell. I can’t go back inside looking like this. Can you fetch Wyn and explain? We still have to drop off his client’s keys and then I can . . . We still have time,” she said, looking at her watch.

  “Callie, are you okay? Your face is flushed.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d hurry, Kallum,” Callie said brightly.

  “Fine. Here, hold my cigar until I get back.”

  “These things are so putrid-smelling,” Callie said, holding the cigar out in front of her like it was a snake.

  “Your soon-to-be husband gave it to me. He’s been passing them out for the past hour or so. The house reeks. That’s why I came out here to smoke mine.”

  “Miss Nela is allowing cigars to be smoked in the house? Good Lord!”

  “Miss Nela is snookered, Callie.”

  “No!”

  “So is your intended.”

  “Don’t tell me that,” Callie snapped.

  “Fine—pretend I didn’t say it. Do you still want me to fetch him for you?”

  “Yes. I knew I was going to have to drive. Why did he do that?”

  “Because he’s happy in love and he’s celebrating. You don’t look to me like you’re happy in love, Callie.”

  “Are you some kind of expert, Kallum?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’ve been around the block.”

  “You don’t like me, do you, Kallum?”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say, Callie. Of course I like you. It’s very easy to like you. Wyn loves you very much. I can’t help but wonder if you love him as much as he loves you.”

  Callie threw his words back at him. “That’s a terrible thing to say. However, I respect your forthrightness. Fetch Wyn, please.”

  He doesn’t look drunk, Callie thought as Wyn approached her in the back driveway. He was smoking a cigar and looked like he could have posed for an ad in Country Gentleman. When she said so, Wyn laughed in delight.

  “Give me the keys, Wyn, I’ll drive,” she said quietly.

  “We’re not married yet, darling. Until you say ‘I do,’ you can’t give me orders.”

  “I didn’t mean it to sound as though I was giving you an order. You know how I feel about drinking and driving. Kallum said you were snookered. I really don’t mind driving.”

  “I’m a better driver,” Wyn boasted.

  “I can manage. Please, Wyn, don’t make a scene.”

  “I have no intention of making a scene. I’m driving. I’m not drunk, Callie. I won’t be a hazard on the road. I’m surprised you have so little faith in me, and Kallum had no damn business telling you I was snookered. Jesus, he’s my best friend, my business partner. I’m fit to drive, honey.”

  “Kallum doesn’t like me. Why didn’t you ever tell me that, Wyn?”

  “You know I don’t care what people think. Did he tell you he doesn’t like you?”

  “Of course not, but I’m not stupid. He thinks I’m not good enough for you.”

  “Darling, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you more than life. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I want us to have the perfect life. I’ll work day and night to make you happy. I mean that, Callie.”

  “Then let me drive.”

  “Anything but that. You’re questioning my ability. I know I’m capable of driving. Get in the car, Callie, or we really will be late. Make sure you fasten your seat belt.”

  She didn’t want to get in the car, knew she shouldn’t get in and buckle up. He was drunk. If he was sober, he would have noticed her stained dress and shoes.

  “The seat belt isn’t working again,” Callie said.

  “It worked on the way here. You’re probably not doing it right. Try it again.”

  “The catch isn’t catching. And for your information, Wyn, it wasn’t working on the way here. I told you about it then.”

  Wyn frowned. “That’s right, you did. Here, let me try it.”

  Callie leaned back against the plush velour of the seats, hating the scent of Wyn’s breath as he struggled with the seat belt.

  “Try it now,” he suggested.

  “Well, it’s in the buckle, but I don’t know if it will hold.”

  “You sound like you’re anticipating an accident,” Wyn grumbled.

  “I’m doing no such thing. I’ll keep my hand on it. You have to remember to get it fixed.”

  “First thing I’m going to do when we get back from our honeymoon.”

  “Wyn, after you drop off the keys can we stop somewhere, or will you drive me home so I can change my dress?”

  “Absolutely,” Wyn said, puffing on the cigar. Callie rolled down the window. “But if we go all the way back there, we’ll be late for the rehearsal again. We’re probably going to be the only couple ever to get married without a rehearsal. As far as I know, we are the only couple who had a party before the rehearsal. It must be like show business . . . everything ass-backwards and it works out fine in the end.”

  “Wyn, you’re tailgating, and the light is starting to change. Slow down.”

  “Whatever you say, darling,” Wyn said, cruising through the amber light on Carolina Avenue.

  “That wasn’t funny, Wyn.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be funny. That’s the longest light in town, and I damn well hate sitting there while everyone makes up their mind which way they want to go. I didn’t do anything dangerous.”

  “Slow down, Wyn, I said slow down! If you don’t slow down, I’m going to open this door and jump out and take my chances. I mean it, Wyn. Slow down!”

  The panic in Callie’s voice made Wyn ease up on the gas pedal, but it was too late. A bright blue Bronco was halfway into the curve as the Cadillac misjudged the depth of the crescent. The impact was sudden, spinning the Cadillac completely around until it was facing the Carroll Court gravel road. Just as her seat belt snapped open, Callie saw the Bronco roll over, glimpsed the face of a baby in the infant seat and the monster live oak tree directly in front of the Cadillac.

  And then there was nothing but total blackness.

  Wyn saw the same things Callie did and then he saw Callie sucked through the opened door. She was a rag doll, her arms and legs flapping every which way before she hit the ground to the left of the huge oak. He scrambled from the car, felt blood dripping into his eyes from the gash on his forehead. The cigar was caught between his shirt and tie, scorching his flesh. Wyn tossed it away; he saw that his hand was bleeding, too.

  “Callie! Callie,” he shouted
over and over as he crawled toward her. He wanted to pick her up, wanted to hold her to him, but he was afraid to touch her. He struggled to find a pulse, but his hand was shaking too badly. People were coming out of their houses, their voices shrill with panic. Above the babble of voices, he heard himself shout to anyone who was listening to call an ambulance.

  Again and again he called Callie’s name, begging her to open her eyes. “Please, Callie, open your eyes. I won’t let you die. Goddamn it, I won’t let you die. I’m here, I’ll make sure everything is done. I’m sorry. Please, Callie. Please God, I’ll stop racing the dogs if You let her live. I’ll kiss Bode Jessup’s feet, I’ll do anything, just don’t let her die.” He wanted to shake the lifeless form on the ground, wanted to yank at Callie’s hair to make her move. “Where’s the fucking ambulance?” he shouted hoarsely, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “They’re on their way,” a woman told him. A big burly man was squirting foam over the back end of the car.

  “They’re dead. My God, they’re dead!” another woman’s voice cried.

  Callie couldn’t be dead, but he knew she was.

  “The woman and the baby in the Bronco. They’re dead,” the same voice said. Wyn thought she sounded like she was in shock.

  “Oh my God,” he sobbed. He covered his face with his hands. How had this happened? The woman with the baby must have run the stop sign.

  “Here come the police,” the man with the foam said. “The ambulance is behind them.”

  Wyn felt himself being lifted away from Callie’s body. He tried to struggle, but gave up and let himself be propped up against a chain-link fence. He did his best to focus on the men working over Callie. He watched as she was lifted onto a stretcher. He knew she was dead. She was too still, too ashen to be alive. He had to think. Someone was talking to him. Maybe they were going to tell him Callie was dead. He didn’t want to hear the words, didn’t want to stare into the person’s face while he was telling him his reason for living was gone. Like ashes in the wind. This couldn’t be happening. He was asleep and was going to wake up any minute. He pinched his arm, saw the blood on his hand, and knew he wasn’t sleeping.

  Wyn tried to move away from the chain-link fence when he heard voices. A man and a woman were talking, the woman’s voice hateful-sounding. “He’s drunk, I can smell him from here. A woman and her baby are dead. I told you, Elton, never to drink and drive. This is right in our front yard. Now, will you listen to me? Just think about that lovely young lady lying in our front yard. She’s dead, too, Elton. If you ever take another drink when you’re driving I will kill you myself. That man is a murderer. Look at that fancy big car, look at the clothes he’s wearing. Elton. I don’t want to live here anymore. Every time I come outside I’m going to see these dead bodies. If that man hadn’t hit the oak, we’d be dead, too. That car would have crashed right into our living room where we were sitting. Listen to me, Elton!”

  “Sir, sir, would you mind stepping over here,” a young police officer said, notebook in hand.

  Wyn placed one foot in front of the other. He thought he was moving. He was away from the chain-link fence and the hateful voices. Murderer. Three times over. Callie was dead. The woman said so. He hadn’t been able to find a pulse. All because of him. Murderer. Callie was dead. He would have to tell Pearl. God didn’t want him to kiss Bode Jessup’s feet, he thought crazily.

  Wyn was aware suddenly that it was dark. Lightning bugs were moving in front of him. Voices were coming from every direction. Lights flashed all around him. Then he saw the damage the Cadillac had done to the historic oak tree that he knew had to be at least three hundred years old. He’d ruined everything—lives, the tree, the faceless existences behind the chain-link fence. Elton would probably never take another drink.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, officer?”

  “The paramedics want to look at you.”

  “I’m okay; I can walk. Nothing hurts except my heart. They need to take care of the others. I can get checked over later.” It wasn’t his voice speaking. It was the voice of a murderer. A drunken murderer. “She can’t be dead, we were supposed to get married tomorrow,” he rambled on. “We were on our way to the wedding rehearsal. It was meant to be earlier in the day, but there was some kind of mix-up so we changed it to this evening. I had this stop I had to make in Walterboro and . . . and . . .”

  The shrill sound of the ambulance siren roared through the quiet evening air. Wyn shuddered. “I guess I need a ride to the hospital. How can I get there, officer?”

  “I’ll drive you, but first I have to fill out a report. I need to know what happened.”

  What happened? Elton’s wife had spelled it out earlier. DWI: driving while intoxicated. She said he was a murderer, three times over. He felt light-headed. What happened? DWI. His life was over.

  “Sir? Who was driving this vehicle?”

  He didn’t stop to think, didn’t stop to weigh the consequences. Callie was dead. He was alive. Life would go on, no matter what he did or said. “Callie. She was driving because I had had too much to drink at the Judge’s party. She insisted. Callie wasn’t wearing her seat belt. I don’t know how it happened—I was dozing. I heard her scream and . . . and that’s all I know.”

  His eyes followed those of the young officer when Elton said to his wife, “Jesus, look at that infant car seat. It looks like an accordion.” Wyn turned, staggered over to the fence and threw up. And all you can do is throw up a lie.

  “I want to go to the . . . wherever they took Callie. I want to go now.”

  “In a minute, Mr. Archer. I know this is difficult, but it has to be done. Is there anyone you want me to call?”

  Hell, yes there is. Everyone in the goddamn world. Pearl, Sela, Brie, Kallum, the Judge. Even Bode.

  Wyn’s stomach lurched again. Bode would kill him with his bare hands, if Pearl didn’t beat him to it. Bode would stalk him like a wild animal and then . . . and then he’d close in and torture him until he died. Fuck you, Bode Jessup. I was going to kiss your feet. As for Pearl . . . God, what would she do? Put a hex on him, a curse, or else she’d choke the life out of him with those big black hands of hers. Either that or she’d stomp him to death with her big callused feet.

  What the hell did it matter? Callie was gone. Wyn’s shoulders slumped. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Sir, is there anyone you want us to call?” the officer repeated patiently.

  “No. I have to do it. What about the . . .” He pointed to the blue Bronco.

  “Mr. Seagreave has been notified. He’s on his way with one of our officers. I expect he’s in shock like you are. I need to know your insurance company so we can call them. Your car is totaled. Not that that’s important right now.”

  Insurance company. Drunk driving. Death. Three deaths. They’d take away his insurance, his license. He couldn’t exist without a driver’s license. Callie’s insurance, then his would kick in. Maybe. It was his car—or was it? He’d told Kallum to put the luxury auto in Callie’s name over a month ago. The Cadillac was registered in Callie Parker’s name. Callie had refused to drive it, though. She said she’d be jinxed if she drove it before she was Mrs. Archer. He’d humored her and put it in her name anyway. He’d paid the premium in her name, too. She’d only driven the car once, said she couldn’t get the hang of such a big vehicle. Her car, her insurance. “The papers are in the glove compartment.” It made sense. Callie’s car. She was driving. You son of a bitch. They’d cancel her policy within thirty days. What the hell did that matter? You couldn’t drive if you were dead. He hadn’t taken out the max on insurance because he’d known in his gut Callie wouldn’t drive the Caddy. She wanted a Honda to, as she put it, scoot around in—or had she said something else? It didn’t matter.

  Wyn watched the activity around him. He reached out for one of the lightning bugs and when it settled on his index finger he felt like he imagined the first moonwalker felt. A dog barked from down the road and then a
nother and still another. A chorus of sounds split the air. He felt dizzy, light-headed.

  “I need a lawyer,” he murmured. Who? The Judge? Kallum? No one would mess with the Judge. Kallum was good, but not as good as the Judge. Maybe he didn’t need a good lawyer at all. Maybe he didn’t need any kind of lawyer. Insurance companies handled everything. Callie’s insurance company. You son of a bitch. Callie’s dead, and all you’re worried about is your own skin. Where’s your remorse, your grief? Dead with Callie. Life has to go on. I’m so sorry, Callie.

  The cacophony of sound rushed into his ears again. All the neighbors were out now, huddled together, their children and pets racing up and down the dirt road. He didn’t think he’d ever heard so much noise at one time in his life. The fireflies were swarming about him. He wanted to catch them all and didn’t know why. Was the oak going to die? Suddenly it was important for him to know if the ancient oak would survive the accident. He wanted to ask someone, but he didn’t.

  Wyn felt himself being led away, helped into the police cruiser. He was told to buckle up. He did. He stared straight ahead as the officer turned the car around and headed down Route 17. They were probably going to ask him to identify Callie’s body. Procedure. Everything was going to be procedure now.

  His mouth was dry. Too dry. Could he identify Callie? He’d told them who she was. Maybe this was a formality of some kind. Mr. Seagreave might want to punch out his lights. He had it coming. He could live with a broken nose and a few cracked ribs. Mr. Seagreave was entitled to do whatever he had to do.

  “All I want to do is die.” He didn’t realize he had said the words aloud until the officer reached over to pat his arm in sympathy.

  Hours went by, and Wyn had no idea what he did during that time, other than to sit on a hard wooden bench and drink coffee that came back up as soon as it went down. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t volunteer any additional information, for the simple reason that no one came near him.

  It was twenty minutes past midnight on his wedding day, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He raised bloodshot eyes to stare into the kindly face of a resident doctor.