“You aren’t wearing that tonight, are you?” Willa points at my jeans and white T-shirt. “There will be lots of … people there.”
There’s this, too—her newfound honesty. She blurts out whatever she thinks whenever she thinks it. I open my eyes wide and lift my forehead: our silent sign language of amusement. I know that by “people there,” she means Max. She knows how I feel about him; we’ve talked about it since the divorce. I’ve admitted that I always felt a deep connection with him, that I always fought off the desire, and that I wish things were different now. But they aren’t different, and I want him to be the happiest he’s ever been. He deserves great, wide, beautiful happiness.
Willa acknowledges my sign and we work for a couple hours, the garage doors wide open, breezes ruffling our piles and making Gwen scramble for the envelopes she hasn’t yet packed. One by one, Willa, Francie, and Gwen leave. I stay and work silently without music or distraction. I file through our Ten Good Ideas cards, and with each one I remember working with Max as we found the right image, the correlating font, our hands touching, our talk overlapping and tangential even as we found our way back to the center of our conversation. His stories—myths he knew and ones he made up on the spot. His blue-rimmed eyes when he listened to me. His shoulder, the way I rested on it, leaned into the solidness of him.
The memories don’t stop. They come one after the other and I can’t do anything but watch them pass by. I want to let go, but the desire just won’t let go of me.
* * *
Francie and Willa are on the makeshift stage, blushing at the standing ovation. Their song—how could they have ever believed that I’d hate a song titled “Stories We Tell”? It’s a melody about lies and heartbreak, a song with the lyrics “The beginning inside the end”—a turn of phrase for the way I’d described the last day I lived in the Morrison home.
I’m standing, clapping also, and looking for Max. He isn’t here—believe me, I’ve checked a hundred times, scanning the room for him. I sit again and take a long swallow of Malbec. The next pair of songwriters walks on the stage while Francie and Willa pack up their guitars. Gwen sits up in the front row and turns to wave at me. I wave in return and then blow her a kiss.
“Stories we tell,” a voice behind me says, Max’s voice.
Before I turn to see him, look in his eyes, I take in a long breath. I stand to face him, holding my wineglass. I don’t know whether to hug him or shake his hand, whether to stand there or leave gracefully. “Wasn’t that a great song?”
“Yes,” he says. “It was really beautiful. Who knew getting hit in the head could lead to such great lyrics?” He has a sly grin that falls quickly. “That wasn’t funny, was it? I was trying and failed.”
“It was sort of funny,” I say. “A good try.”
But we don’t laugh, and he takes my wineglass out of my hand and places it on the table so he can hug me. He holds me longer than a hug. The room is so quiet between song sets, the clattering of glasses, the soft murmur of conversation, and then the screech of the microphone being readjusted. I hear it all, but my eyes are closed as I rest against his chest.
Max releases me and I take half a step back. “How are you?” I ask. “How’s teaching and…” I trail off, not asking all the things I need to know about him: How’s your heart? Do you miss me? Are you happy?
“I’m good, really good. The job is great, and so are the students.”
The emcee for the night announces a fifteen-minute break, and Max nods at my small café table. “Can I sit with you?”
“Of course…”
We sit so close that I have to twist my head to face him. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, but toward the stage. “Have I ever told you the myth about the skeleton woman?”
“No.”
“Want to hear it?” He takes a sip from my wineglass and then hands it to me.
I want to hear a lot of things, but I tell him that, yes, now, I’d love to hear his story. I always love to hear his stories.
“There was a fisherman and he went out into the sea. He was wishing for the best catch of his life, when there was a large pull on his line—something big; maybe everything he wanted.” He pauses and his hands stretch along the two chair backs on either side. “But when he pulls up the catch, it’s a skeleton he’s caught by the ribs.” Max leans forward and contorts his face in faux horror. “Agghhh!” He lunges forward.
I startle and then burst into laughter, a sweet release that is too loud, and I clap my hand over my mouth. “Gross,” I say. “Greek myth?”
“No, this is Inuit.…”
I settle back, smiling. “Why was she at the bottom of the ocean anyway? I presume it was a ‘she.’”
“Yes indeed. Well, her father—as is the way of these things—her father disapproved of something she’d done and cast her into the sea.”
“Okay…” I feel that roll, that motion sickness of a father’s casting out, and then I look directly into Max’s eyes and I’m centered, buoyant in the current of the tale.
“Now the fisherman runs and runs, but he’s already caught her and she bumps along behind him on the fishing line. He finally jumps into his tent, exhaling, breathing deeply, and trying to ignore the skeleton he’s brought home. But as he sleeps, as he tries to escape the tangled bones in his tent, she becomes real.”
“How?” I ask, quiet and curious, over the sound of someone tuning their guitar.
“His tear. She steals his tear while he’s sleeping and quenches her thirst to become real. And she also steals his heart—she takes it right out of his chest. When he wakes, they’re tangled together for good. For love.”
“Ah!” I exhale. “Finally one of your tales has a happy ending.”
“There’s more to it. But I’m giving you the parts that matter.”
“That matter?”
“To us.”
He takes my hands in his, each one folded into a palm. “Even if I’ve never read it anywhere, I bet that skeleton woman had brown eyes that turned green while she stole his heart.”
“Us?” I ask quietly.
“It’s always been you, Eve. I love you. I can’t run far enough or ignore you long enough, because when I wake up every day, you’re always right there, waiting for me.”
“I’m right here.”
The music begins again at the front of the room and Max leans forward to kiss me. I don’t close my eyes. I want to see and know it all, everything there is to know about him, about love.
“This,” he says. “This is a happy story.”
TEN GOOD IDEAS CARD LINE
1. Be Kind—live oak
2. Tell Good Stories—stacked books
3. Always Say Good-bye—profiles facing each other
4. Search for the True—world in the sky
5. Help Others—hands holding
6. Create—crayon box
7. Be Patient—river over boulders
8. Find Adventure—forest and river with two figures peeking around trees
9. Forgive—scraggled heart
10. Love—wings
Acknowledgments
Inspiration doesn’t always lead to a story, but when it does, it’s great fun to write. This novel was initially inspired by my curiosity and admiration for letterpress—a handmade product in a manufactured world. This book would be a different novel altogether without the people in my life that either supported me or contributed to the words. We don’t get to choose when life gets tangled and even comes undone, but we do get to choose how we move forward. And I couldn’t have finished this book or moved forward without the love, kindness, and deliciously surprising support of the following people:
To my editor, Brenda Copeland, for her patience, keen eye, wit, and desperate love for story and editing. You push me when I need it and make me laugh when I think I can’t. To the publishing team at St. Martin’s Press: Sally Richardson and Jennifer Enderlin, I am grateful beyond measure for your support. You are treasures. To Laura
Chasen, Nick Small, Marie Estrada, Kerry McMahon, Jean-Marie Hudson, Paul Hochman, and all the sales staff and support staff that make St. Martin’s Press the excellent place that it is.
To Carol Fitzgerald of Bookreporter.com, What would I do without your energy, imagination, and keen eye?
To my agent, Kimberly Whalen, who from the very beginning believed and still does.
To my friends: Kerry Madden (and her astounding daughter, Norah), who showed up just when needed and asked all the right questions that made the story more complete. To Lanier Isom, your heart is wide and beautiful and I can’t remember what it was like without you. To Cleo O’Neal and Kate Phillips, I don’t have room to list what you’ve done or who you’ve been for me these past months and how profoundly grateful I am for you both. For the friends who have been there for me in ways I would have never understood until I needed it: Cate and Mark Sommer; Kenneith and Glenn Donald; Brooke and Tyler Wahl; Alison Gorrie; Karen Spears Zacharias; Dorothea Benton Frank, Mary Alice Monroe, Summer Anderson (Oh! Those flowers!!), and Beth Fidler, a sister as much as a friend! To Tara Mahoney, I love you as if you were my own. To Kathy Trocheck, we met all those years ago and still we are here and still you lift me up, make me laugh, and bring me along for the fun. To Diane Chamberlain, for her early words of praise, I am humbled and grateful. To Jamie Allen and Tom Bell, for showing up as if in a dream and taking me away for the day just when I needed it most. I am so lucky to have you in my life. To Susan Rebecca White and Joshilyn Jackson, you are both like some magical apparition turned real—I adore you; your work both inspires me and carries me away.
To Sandee O. Bartkowski, for everything and all things creative, you influence my work. You know you’ve saved me more times than we’ll ever be able to count and I love you more each time. Also, both you and Sara Weinberger infected me with the love for letterpress when you opened a store, 3226, as “Purveyors of Imaginative and Beautiful Things.”
And to Scott Fisk, at Samford University, who offered his time and expertise when I showed up at his office with a list of questions about the art and craft of letterpress, thank you!
To the readers who make this all possible: I wish I could thank every one of you in person, so consider this my personal hug. You come to events; you buy the books; you write to me and you make me want to write a better book every single time. Thank you.
To the bookstores, bloggers, book clubs, reviewers, and Web sites that have supported my work, I am incredibly grateful. What would I do without you? Not much.
Always to my family, all of you: my sisters, Jeannie and Barbi, and their families and kids, life would be so bland and lonesome without you. You fill up my heart to its very edges. You showed up when I didn’t ask, surrounded me, and held me up. To Anna, Kirk, Kirk and Sofia, I love you. To Serena Henry, this year has been soaked with your love and support, and I don’t know what I would have done without you; it’s as if I’ve known you forever, my whole life. To my parents, George and Bonnie Callahan, who could ask for anything more than you? To Gwen and Chuck Henry, who have treated me as their daughter and loved me the same.
To Pat, Meagan Steele, Patrick Thomas, and George Rusk—You are my heart. It’s all for you.
ALSO BY PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY
And Then I Found You
Coming Up for Air
The Perfect Love Song: A Holiday Story
Driftwood Summer
The Art of Keeping Secrets
Between the Tides
When Light Breaks
Where the River Runs
Losing the Moon
About the Author
Patti Callahan Henry is a full-time writer, wife, and mother, and the New York Times bestselling author of eight novels, including Between the Tides, Driftwood Summer, and The Perfect Love Song: A Holiday Story. She lives with her husband and three children in Mountain Brook, Alabama, where she is working on her next novel.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE STORIES WE TELL. Copyright © 2014 by Patti Callahan Henry. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Sara Wood
Cover photograph © Matthieu Spohn/Plainpicture
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Henry, Patti Callahan.
The stories we tell: a novel / Patti Callahan Henry.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-04031-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-3554-2 (e-book)
1. Family life—Fiction. 2. Marriage—Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.E578S76 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014008539
e-ISBN 9781466835542
First Edition: June 2014
The Stories We Tell Page 25