by Mary Campisi
Grant took in the mud-brown eyes, the sparse hair, the ruddy complexion, the stocky build and belly. But beneath the outward roughness, he saw an honest man, committed to his work, and, no doubt, Lorraine. “You don’t need to be more like me; trust me, I have my own issues. I’ll bet Lorraine realizes she was out of line and wishes she had another chance with you.”
Herb shook his head and scowled. “Do you know I’ve proposed to her three times? Every two years for the past eight years and each time she’s turned me down? That doesn’t sound like she wants a second chance; sounds like she’s just making a fool of me.”
Maybe the woman had pushed him too far this time. Nobody wants to believe they aren’t valued, that they’re only good enough as second choice or as a stand-in. “Do you love her?”
“Huh?”
“Not that difficult a question, Herb. Do you love her, yes or no?”
Herb’s face paled, switched to pink, then red. He nodded. “Wish I could say no, but damn it all, I do love that woman, even when she drives me crazy.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Grant leaned against the granite island, crossed his arms over his chest. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Hell if I know.” Herb rubbed his jaw, met Grant’s gaze. “You’re a man about town, and I’m sure you don’t have this problem, but maybe you can help a guy out.” He paused, said, “What would you do?”
If Herb knew what a mess Grant had made of his personal life for too many years, he wouldn’t ask him for anything, certainly not advice. But since he didn’t know, and since Grant felt Herb and Lorraine might actually be happy together, he offered a few sage words. “Go to her. Tell her you love her, but you’re not going to be kicked around and let her compare you to other men.” That sounded about right. “And there’s one more thing, maybe the most important.”
“What’s that?” Herb asked, hope shining across his face.
“Tell Lorraine you’re not going to propose again. If she wants to marry you, she’s going to be the one doing the asking.”
Chapter 14
Pop adjusted his straw hat, grabbed his weed bucket, and opened the makeshift wire door of the vegetable garden. Chicken wire and tin pans were a gardener’s friend when it came to keeping critters from nibbling and chomping on tender shoots and leaves. Lily Desantro had helped with the garden; she’d mounded the soil for the zucchini seeds, planted the beans three inches apart, set the cages for the tomatoes. He’d put her in charge of the parsley and oregano this year, said it was up to her if they lived or died. She’d taken those words to heart, picked a patch at the edge of the garden where she sprinkled the tiny seeds, and dang if she didn’t stop by every day to check on them. Next year, he’d put her in charge of her favorites, the cherry tomatoes. She said they were bite-sized and squirted in your mouth. Oh, but that girl had an opinion and a happy attitude on everything from people to potatoes. He and Lily had planted Swiss chard this year, escarole, and Brussels sprouts, and she hadn’t minded Pop’s persnickety demand that she handle the plants as though she were touching her baby niece’s delicate skin.
Back in the day, Pop could handle twice the size of the 12x15 raised bed he had now, but time and a rickety knee showed him he wasn’t fifty-seven anymore. Wasn’t even sixty-seven, even if half the town thought he was on the light end of sixty-five. Maybe he looked younger than he was, or maybe they just didn’t want to feel as old as they were. Comes a time when “the baby in the family” pushes forty or fifty and it makes you shake your head and wonder about that phrase. It was time to pass on his knowledge and a few secrets and who better than Lily Desantro to carry on the sacred tradition of gardening the Benito way? She knew about the small wire fencing he liked to use, and how to tie random tin pans so they dangled from the top of the fence. Lily even knew about the strips of white cloth made from old sheets that he tied on the fence so a body could see the area and not run into it.
This season he’d tell Lily the secret to growing the best basil in town, a secret he’d never shared with anyone but his Lucy. Pop zeroed in on the seven pots of basil sitting on the ledge of his back porch, their greenness sprouting from the soil, rich and fragrant, reaching for the sun. Prize-winning. He kept them close by, right in his line of vision should he need to take a peek outside and check their progress. The members of The Bleeding Hearts Society wanted to know his secret, but he wasn’t sharing. Not yet. Not with anyone but Lily. He smiled, thought about Miss Lily Desantro carrying on the legacy of the best basil in Magdalena. She’d like that, would do it proud. Yes, indeed she would.
Pop spent the rest of the morning fiddling in the garden, pinching the suckers off the tomato plants, yanking the weeds that snuck past his last inspection, loosening the soil around the Brussels sprouts. But he did not go near the parsley and oregano patch; that was Lily’s domain, and she’d better get here today because those herbs were looking mighty thirsty. Speaking of thirsty, his pipes were parched and he could use a glass or two of Mimi’s hibiscus tea. “Whew, but it’s getting too dang hot.” Pop grabbed the handkerchief he’d stuffed in his back pocket and wiped his forehead. The straw hat Christine Desantro gave him last summer helped keep the sun off his head, but it didn’t do much to keep him cool. “Whew.” Sweat dripped from his forehead to his temples. Maybe he’d go get that tea now and finish up when the sun went down. Tinkering in the garden with the sun beating on him probably wasn’t gonna win him an award for common sense, not today. He sucked in a breath, closed the gate to the garden, and headed toward the back porch. Five steps later, Pop went down, passed out cold on the ground, the weed bucket toppling from his hand, straw hat at his side, glasses cockeyed.
Lily was the one who found him. “Pop! Pop! Wake up!”
A shrill voice in a person’s ear will wake him up from just about anything. Pop opened his eyes, tried to focus, but he couldn’t make out much past six inches. That’s when he realized he’d lost his glasses. “Lily, where’s my glasses?”
She scrambled to the other side, lifted up the metal frames, said, “They’re broken.” And then, “Pop, what happened? Are you sick? Did you fall?” She leaned closer until he could make out her face. “And why is your weed bucket over there?” She pointed to the bucket and the scattered weeds several feet away. “And you lost your hat.” Her voice drifted off. “And broke your glasses.”
Pop sat up, brushed off his T-shirt, and wiped bits of grass from his face and mouth. “I’m fine, Lily girl. Too much sun and not enough food, that’s the root of a lot of problems.” He worked up a smile for her. Dang, but he felt woozy. “Do Pop a favor? Run in the house and go to the parlor. Open the drawer of the table by my chair and you’ll find an eyeglass case in there. Bring it to me, and set the broken ones on the kitchen table.”
She hesitated, said in a wobbly voice, “You’ll be okay?”
“Of course I’ll be okay.” He squinted, tried to bring her into focus. No use; Lily was about as clear as a muddy creek. “Now hurry along and grab that case so I can see again.” He snatched the straw hat and plopped it on his head.
“Be right back.” Lily ran toward the back porch, hurried up the steps and into the house, the screen door banging behind her.
Pop stared at the green and silver blur that was his vegetable garden and replayed the seconds leading up to his ending on the ground. Had the sun gotten to him and made him pass out? Or was it the puny breakfast of coffee and a pizzelle that did him in? He’d been so anxious to get outside and work in the soil, he’d skipped his usual toast with peanut butter and a banana. Too little fuel in the belly and not enough hydration could stall the brain’s engine. Hadn’t Lucy been on him all the time about eating right and not toiling in the hot sun? And had he ever listened to her? He let out a long sigh, dragged a hand over his face. Could he have the diabetes like Wanda Cummings? The thought of giving up his pizzelles made him toss that notion across the yard. Sun and not enough food, that’s what it was. “I’m fine, Lucy,” he w
hispered to his wife. “Don’t you go fussing on and on about me. You know I’m as thick-headed as they come. I promise I’ll eat a full breakfast from here on out, and I won’t go in the sun when it’s high noon. Count on that.”
Lily banged open the screen door, said in a high-pitched voice, “Found them, Pop!” She ran toward him waving a brown case in her right hand. When she reached him, she plopped on the ground and handed him the case. “There you go. Now you can see again.”
Pop pulled out the black-framed glasses and put them on. “Good as new.”
Lily giggled. “Your new old glasses.”
He grinned, nodded. “How about we go have ourselves a grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
“With a glass of milk?” She scrambled to her feet, held out her arm to help him up.
“Of course. How else do you eat a grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” He stood and brushed off his sweat pants. “I’m mighty hungry. I might have two sandwiches.”
“Uh-huh. Me, too.” And then, “Pop?”
She stared up at him, those blue eyes bright, too bright. “Yes?”
“You aren’t going to die, are you?”
Poor thing, she shouldn’t have to worry about death at her age, but losing a father so young had made her skittish. He couldn’t say he blamed her, and while he didn’t want to give the child an extra second of worry, he wouldn’t tell her a fairy tale either. “We’re all gonna die,” he said in his gentlest voice. “Nothing we can do to stop that. When the good Lord calls us, we have to go.”
She sniffed, swiped at her face. “But is the good Lord going to call you now?” Another sniff. “Because I don’t want you to go.”
Pop squeezed her hand, smiled. “I don’t want to go either, Lily, and I don’t think I will. Not yet, but you never know. That’s why we have to be kind to others, not say nasty things, and always try to help people, just in case.”
“Christine’s not gonna like hearing about this.” Lily clucked her tongue, looked away. “She’ll be sad and worried. Like me.”
“And that’s why you aren’t going to tell her.” Pop gave Lily his no-nonsense look. “I don’t want you worrying her. She’s pregnant and she’s got Anna to take care of and a husband.” Besides, he did not want Christine telling her husband, because he’d tell his mother, who would run to Harry Blacksworth. Ten pizzelles said Harry would show up at Pop’s door with a lecture and a scowl, neither of which Pop wanted or needed. The key to shutting down this potential wildfire of gossip was convincing Lily he was fine. And he was fine. Pop made a quick sign of the cross. Dang-straight he was.
***
Grant looked out for Leslie; she was his sister, the only sibling he had, and the fact that she’d needed his help more days than not these last few years only made his responsibility toward her greater. Leslie didn’t make it easy on him or on herself, especially when she continued to create the same problems, a continuous cycle with a familiar outcome. She trusted too soon, too much, suffocating the relationship before it had time to take its first breath. Men weren’t the issue; Leslie’s lack of self-worth was the issue. The stay in the psychiatric unit had helped somewhat, along with the medication and therapy sessions, but there was no quick fix, no one-time remedy. This mess with Brody Kinkaid was one more wrong choice in a string of wrong choices, but this one was different because it had ended up in a pregnancy.
What his sister failed to tell him or anyone else was the fact that she was no longer pregnant, hadn’t been since she miscarried eight days ago. Grant wouldn’t have known had he not offered to take her car in for service. Leslie had no concept of routine maintenance and the car needed a lot more than an oil change. Curious about service records, he’d opened the glove compartment to look for them. While he’d expected a jumble of napkins, make-up, pens, and papers, he had not expected one of the papers to be a discharge summary from the hospital where she worked.
Had Leslie told Bree Kinkaid about the miscarriage? He had no idea, but he intended to find out. When he reached Leslie’s condo, he found her kneeling on the cement floor in the garage, a bag of potting soil and four pots spread out on newspaper. “Hey,” she called, waving a pink-gloved hand at him. “How’s my car?”
“Oil change, alignment, tire rotation, new brakes, and front rotors,” he said, forcing a casualness into his voice. Leslie sensed when something was wrong and he didn’t want to give her an opportunity to create a new story or an escape route from what he was about to ask her. He knelt and kissed her cheek, straightened to stand in front of her. “You really do need to start taking better care of your things.” He eyed her. “They’ll last a lot longer if you do.”
She laughed. “Are you scolding me?”
He smiled. “Would it work?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Then I guess I’m not.”
“Did you ever wonder about Dad’s obsession with his violets?” She lifted a double pink violet from a small clay pot, brushed off the roots. “He loved the darn things, almost like they were members of his parish.” She scooped potting soil into a larger pot, placed the plant inside, and added more dirt. “Wonder what it was about them.”
“Maybe it was the challenge.” Grant studied the delicate flower and velvety leaves.
“Maybe.” She set the double pink violet aside, lifted the next one, a deep purple. “He could never throw them out, not unless they shriveled up and were too far gone. And do you remember how he used to stick a leaf in a pot and cover it with plastic wrap? Next thing you knew, there was a violet.”
Grant nodded, watched his sister replant the violet. She needed routine and rituals, and following one of their father’s could help her, make her feel closer to him. They missed him, talked about it often, and still tried to make sense of why it happened. “Dad would like Maggie,” Leslie said, glancing up at him, her eyes wet. “William, too. I think he would have loved to know he had a grandchild.”
He didn’t want to talk with Leslie about Maggie or William. Not yet. His sister had a way of manipulating people and information to her advantage and she might try to do just that once he confronted her about the miscarriage. “Speaking of children, how are you feeling?”
She busied herself with the third African violet, this one white with a pink-tinged edge, and said, “Fine. A little tired, but work’s been busy.”
“Hmm.” Could she not tell him the truth, even this one time? Grant stared at the top of her head, wished he could peek inside and see what she was thinking. It was one thing to lie and fabricate a tale, but what if she actually believed these stories? What if she thought she was still pregnant? What if she couldn’t stand the thought of losing this one last piece of Brody Kinkaid, and therefore refused to accept it? There was only one way to find out. Grant cleared his throat. “Leslie?”
“Huh?” She looked up, offered him a sweet smile. “What?”
“You miscarried eight days ago.”
A whimper escaped her lips, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. She dropped the pot with the white violet and it thudded to the cement, smashed the clay pot, and broke several leaves. “Oh, no.” Leslie scooped up the violet, began brushing off the dirt and separating the mangled leaves from the plant. “Poor thing,” she murmured. “Look at you. You’re ruined.”
“Leslie?” Grant knelt, took the violet from her and set it on the newspaper. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
She sniffed and tried to work up a smile, but it slipped, flattened. “Blood. So much of it.” Another sniff. “The doctor said it was too early to tell if it was a boy or a girl, but I think it was a boy.” Her voice grew stronger. “I wanted it to be a boy.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She should not have suffered this alone.
“I lost Brody, but at least I had his baby. And then I didn’t. It was almost like I’d never known him, never felt his touch, or heard his laugh. I couldn’t let that go, not yet. Bree isn’t anything like Brody said. She’s kind and sweet,
and I know she loved Brody. I feel a connection to her and I don’t want to let that go.” She shrugged, her mouth quivering when she said, “So, I haven’t told her yet. I know I have to…eventually.” Leslie sighed, frowned. “Four days ago, I let Tess Casherdon think I might let her adopt the baby. Why would I do that? Why would I give that poor woman hope?”
He had no idea, other than the possibility that Leslie had always wanted to be everybody’s savior, even the patients who couldn’t be saved. “I don’t know” was all he could say.
“I’m such a mess.” She picked up the damaged violet, fingered a leaf. “I’m broken, like this violet.”
Grant pushed past her words, offered her a chance to redeem herself. “You can make it right.” He kept his voice even, his gaze on his sister.
She glanced at him. “How? What could I possibly do to make things right?”
“Tell Bree the truth. All of it. Let her decide what to tell Tess.” Bree seemed like a kind-hearted woman who might want to spare her friend more pain. At least let Tess think Leslie was still pregnant when she talked with her about possible adoption. A desperate woman could only take so much loss.
“You think so?”
He nodded. His sister was so fragile and uncertain. A desperate woman who could only take so much loss. “Tell her. As soon as possible.”
“Okay.” She placed the violet in another pot, packed dirt around it, set it next to the other two, a sad imitation of what it had been. “This one’s me,” she said, pointing to the puny violet. “And this purple one’s you. See how strong and beautiful it is?” She fingered a leaf, traced the petals. “And this one—” she lifted the clay pot with the pink violet in it, smiled “—this is Maggie. Isn’t she stunning?”
***
People said truth sometimes gets tucked between lies and it’s hard to tell which is which, but Bree thought it could go the other way, too. Lies could get tucked in with the truth and make it almost impossible to tell them apart.