When I am done I make my way back to the main part of the house and tiptoe up the stairs to the family bedrooms. I pass an oak-paneled study, another guest suite and a sitting room on the way. At the top of the stairs I find the twins’ rooms; two large bedrooms that are joined by a common play area. The rooms are splashed with yellow and pale lavender. I feel a stab of envy as I think about how wonderful it would be to have two curly-headed daughters like Chloe and Leah. I walk past these rooms and up a few steps to the master suite. Blair is lying on the king-size bed; its massive four posters seem to guard her like knights.
I stand there for a few minutes. Her back is to me.
“I am awake,” she says. “You can come in.”
I walk in and she turns her head toward me.
“Maybe you could just sit here with me. You don’t have to say anything, Tess.”
“Sure.” I slip into a soft armchair by a window that I think no one has sat in very much. We stay this way, in silence, for quite awhile.
I have dozed off when I hear footsteps on tile and voices. I snap my eyes open. Blair is sitting up on the bed and running a hand through her hair.
“They’re here,” she says to me without emotion.
I follow her downstairs. In the entry, surrounded by brown leather suitcases, are Veronica and Jack Devere. He looks pretty much the same as he did at Blair’s wedding five years ago, a little less hair, a few more inches around his middle. Veronica, not surprisingly, looks younger. She is wearing a taupe-colored rayon suit and a silk scarf around her neck that resembles the tawny hide of a cheetah. Gold glitters on her fingers, wrists, neck and ears. She holds out her arms to Blair and waits for her daughter to come to her.
“There, there,” she says, enclosing Blair in her arms. Jack takes few steps closer to his daughter and rubs Blair’s back. Neither one says anything else. They have absolutely no idea how to comfort their daughter.
I step away toward the sunroom to let the weird display of sympathy run its course. I stand in the doorway between one room and the next, leaning on the frame of the door. I can’t help but think—I am ashamed to admit it—that Veronica is hoping the embrace won’t rumple her suit. I try to tell myself it is not as bad as that, but I am remembering all those afternoons and evenings Blair was left home alone when her dad was flying sorties and Veronica was out shopping, sightseeing, dining and doing who know what else an hour away in Memphis. I am remembering all the times we went into Veronica’s closet and tried on all her clothes while she was out. We didn’t even have to be sneaky. We knew she wouldn’t be home for hours.
I am remembering the pity I used to feel for Blair when we were young. I am remembering that Veronica had a dozen different purses and none of them ever interested me.
Veronica pulls away from Blair and flicks a stray hair from her daughter’s forehead.
“We’ll get through this, you’ll see,” Veronica says. “Won’t we, Jack?
Jack Devere finds his voice and chimes in.
“It’ll be okay, babe,” he says to Blair, still stroking her back.
Veronica suddenly notices me standing at the far end of the room.
“Oh, Tess. How good of you to come!” she says and Jack turns and smiles halfheartedly at me.
“Hello, Veronica, Jack,” I say as politely as I can.
“Now let’s get settled in so we can see where you need help,” Veronica says as she turns back to Blair and Jack. “Grab those hangers off the back of that smaller suitcase, Jack, and I’ll hang those up so they don’t get wrinkled.”
I watch as Veronica takes Blair’s hand and they begin to ascend the staircase. Jack follows holding two matching, navy blue sailor dresses, size three.
Later in the afternoon, Brad’s parents, brother and sister arrive with the twins. I offer to watch the girls so that the family can plan Brad’s funeral. Annette hands the twins over to me with what appears to be a mixture of relief and pain: The task of watching her nieces probably distracted her from the nasty business of mentally dealing with her brother’s death. The girls are wearing matching pink outfits and chattering to Blair about what Aunt Annette’s cats did last night, but it’s obvious Blair is numb and only half-listening. She looks like she has far more on her mind than Brad’s death. Perhaps she is wondering how in the world she will be able to tell her daughters that their Daddy is dead. It doesn’t appear yet that anyone has told them.
“Chloe is the shorter one,” Annette says to me, after we have been re-introduced. I have not seen her since Blair’s wedding five years ago.
I leave the grieving family members to their grim task and ask the girls to show me their room, which they happily do, sprinting up the stairs as if it is just another ordinary day in April. I follow them.
In their room, Chloe and Leah bring out every toy imaginable and provide a running commentary on each item in their unperfected, three-year-old English. I have a bit of difficulty distinguishing one from the other and am glad of Annette’s tip. After an hour or more of the toy inventory, they announce they are hungry and I take them downstairs to the kitchen. The housekeeper, who is named Vera, fixes us a snack and I suggest we take it outside.
When they are done with their cookies and apple slices, they run to a massive wooden play gym and begin to climb it. I walk over to a patio table nearby to watch them, taking my cell phone out of my pocket. It is 4:30 PM. Dad should be done with his last class and is most likely back at the clinic where he works part time as a general practitioner. I contemplate making the call I owe him, wondering what I should expect. Simon is quite sure my father will not mention they had an argument. He is also quite sure this fact is significant. I am sure of nothing. I decide before I press the button that the purpose of the call is to tell my Dad that, regrettably, Simon and I won’t be able to make it to Shelley’s surprise party at the end of the month. I will have just spent time away from work for Brad’s funeral and Simon will have just returned to work after his long absence.
I punch in my dad’s cell phone number and he picks it up on the third ring. I can tell from the background noise that he’s in his car.
“Hey, Dad, it’s me,” I say.
“Tess!” he says. “So sorry to hear about Blair’s husband. That’s very sad news.”
“Yeah. It is. He was only thirty-two, Dad. The doctors here are saying it was a hereditary thing and not age-related.”
“Yes, unfortunately this can happen to a man as young as Brad if cardiac disease runs in the family. Guess his dad and his siblings will take note. Too bad it’s too late for Brad, though.”
“Yes. Um, Dad, I don’t know how long I am going to stay here, but it might be a week or so. And Simon’s going back to work, so I am afraid the timing is a little bad for Shelley’s party. I don’t think either one of us will be able to get the time off to come.”
“Not even a couple days, huh?” he says, but I don’t get the impression he is really expecting us to try. Nor is he especially disappointed.
“I don’t think so, but it sounds like a lot of fun and I hope you can pull it off,” I say. “You will have to tell Zane to call me and tell me all about it.”
“Well, I guess it can’t be helped,” Dad replies.
“Sorry, Dad. But we’ll try and get out there this summer sometime.”
Try is a very useful word. It promises very little.
“Sure, I understand.”
There is a slight pause in our conversation and I decide to make use of it.
“So, is everything going okay?” I ask.
“Yep, well, things are busy of course. Zane’s playing C-squad baseball this year, so we’ve been going to a lot of games. And I think I already told you Shelley has a new nursing job with a hospice provider. Excellent pay and she can pick her own hours.”
Okay, strike one.
“And how about you?” I say. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. Finals are coming up next month. There’ll be lots of essays to
read.”
“Sounds like fun,” I say. Strike two.
I wait for him to ask how I am. How Simon is.
“Yeah, well, I should probably let you go,” he says, ending our conversation himself. Strike three.
Simon was right.
“Okay, Dad. Tell Zane I am really sorry about not being able to make it to the party. I will make it up to him.”
“Will do. And please pass on my sympathy to Blair and her family, would you?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Take care, Tess. Call me when you get home, okay?”
“Okay. Goodbye.”
I click the phone off. So that’s that.
Chloe and Leah are beginning to squabble over who gets to be in a swing and who has to push it. I place the phone on the patio table and make my way to them. I tell them they can both be in a swing and I will push them both.
The rest of the day is a mixture of trying to meet Blair’s needs, helping with the girls, staying out of Veronica’s way and being impatient to talk with Simon. By nine-thirty I have the girls in bed, Blair has been given a sleeping pill, and Veronica and Jack have closed themselves off in their own suite.
I’m glad to get to my room where nothing has to be done for anyone. I just have to wait until after ten to call Simon. I get ready for bed. I pull a novel I read six years ago off one of the shelves in the room and read until a few minutes after ten. Then I can wait no longer. I call Simon.
“So how’s it going?” he says.
“It’s going,” I say. “Blair has a lot of family here and Brad has left everything to her in his will, so she will never have to worry about money. But it’s hard, Simon. I don’t know what to say. And she seems so detached. I don’t know what to do.”
“Give her a few days,” Simon replies. “She’s probably in shock. Or denial. Brian Guthrie told me he went through both.”
I am kind of surprised to hear him mention Brian Guthrie’s name again.
“So, are you guys, like, friends now?” I say and he can tell I am not quite serious.
“No,” Simon says. “But I am not his enemy.”
I decide to change the subject. “So how was work today?”
“It went really well. Everyone was glad to have me back. And they were patient with me while I re-familiarized myself with what we do all day long.”
“Direct air traffic?” I laugh, like it would be impossible for Simon to forget how to do that in two weeks.
“Getting planes full of people safely onto the ground,” he replies.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s all right, Tess.”
“I talked to my dad today.”
“And?”
“He didn’t mention your argument.”
For a moment neither one of us says anything. I wish I could see Simon’s face as he realizes he was right. Is he satisfied? Disappointed? Relieved? Sad?
“So, are you going to tell me what that means?” I ask. “I did what you said.”
“Not over the phone,” he replies and I have at least one answer. His voice is full of sadness.
“You told me you would tell me,” I feel like I am being treated like a child. Or like he is acting like a child.
“I will tell you, Tess. I promise. But I am not going to do it over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not. You’ll be home in a week or so. One more week can’t matter.”
“Simon—” I begin but he cuts me off.
“You’re going to have to trust me on this. Right now you need to concentrate on being a good friend to Blair.”
“You think I won’t be able to handle whatever it is you have to tell me?” I try to keep the irritation I am feeling out of my voice.
“I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“How can it be that bad, Simon, when I already know I’m wounded?”
“Because you think you know where the wound came from, Tess. But you don’t.”
I’m getting angry and I do not want to be angry with Simon. He is assuming too much. He has only known me for four years, and lived with me for just two. He doesn’t know everything. And he can’t possibly know something about me that I don’t know.
“Fine. We’ll talk about it when I get home, then.”
“Tess.”
“What?”
“We’ll get through this.”
Funny, that’s the same thing Veronica said to Blair earlier today. But it sounds different somehow falling off of Simon’s lips. Perhaps that’s because, deep down, I trust Simon. And despite the annoyance I have for him at the moment, I know that he is motivated by his surprising love for me. So when he says it, I can almost believe it.
Nine
I have been to a handful of funerals in my life but I must say Brad Devere’s was the most masterfully arranged. It was held at the spectacular Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis near downtown—a beautiful piece of architecture. There were flowers everywhere and the music that poured forth from the pipes of the great Kilgen organ was magnificent. In the end though, the tears that flowed from the heavy-hearted congregation were just like those that flow from the poorest of parishes in any city you please. Funerals may differ but death is the same everywhere you go.
I sat a few rows behind Brad’s family where I could see the back of Blair’s head. Chloe and Leah sat on either side of her in the matching sailor dresses. Brad’s brother, Dane, gave a eulogy, as did Peter Agnew. I didn’t know Brad very well, but my impression of him at his wedding five years ago as well as the few times I saw him and Blair in Chicago led me to believe he had been a man who always went after what he wanted. Driven, intelligent and charismatic, he likely would’ve made his own millions if his parents had not already been wealthy. This was more or less the same picture painted of him at his funeral: Brad was a determined man who lived life fully and was taken far too soon.
The interment followed, which was probably the hardest part of the day for Blair. This time I was standing where I could see a portion of Blair’s face, but her eyes were concealed behind a pair of sunglasses. It was difficult to see how the interment was affecting her. She stood motionless by her mother.
I couldn’t help but notice how stunning they both look in black.
Now we are back at Blair’s house. A caterer has brought an elegant spread of food and most of the family and Brad’s closest friends are huddled in intimate groups, sitting on rented folding chairs with white porcelain plates on their laps. I’m not hungry but I take a plate anyway and look for a quiet place to eat where I won’t have to mingle with people I don’t know. I see a gazebo on the far side of the backyard lawn with a bench inside and I head for it.
I am nearly finished with my plate when I see Blair walking toward me, alone. The girls are scampering off in another direction behind her and Annette is following them. I can see that there is purpose in Blair’s steps. She is walking toward me to speak with me. Perhaps she is going to ask me how long I can stay.
“You ate something. Good,” she says, like I am the one who needs to be watched for signs of refusing to eat.
“Did you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I will later. I promise.”
She sits down by me and I can see that she is drained of energy. She turns to me and sighs.
“That’s a pretty color on you,” she says suddenly, speaking of my purple bolero jacket. In four days I did not find a free moment to go dress shopping. I guess it doesn’t matter.
“Antonia dresses me these days,” I say.
She manages a weak smile, remembering, I think, all those times she told me what to wear, and more importantly, what not to wear.
“So tell me, what does Linee Belle mean?” she asks.
“It means ‘beautiful lines,’” I smile back at her. “Antonia says fashion and style are all about lines. Make your lines beautiful and you will be beautiful. That’s her motto.”
“Make your lines beautiful,” Blair echoes, looking
away toward her daughters who are far away on the other side of the yard.
We are both silent. I let her choose what to say next and when.
“Tess,” she says a few minutes later, but she is not looking at me.
“Yes?”
“He was cheating on me.”
I’m at a complete loss for words. This can’t be true.
“Blair! Are you sure?”
“He was going to divorce me. I found the papers in his study the morning you came. He was getting everything ready. He had already contacted a lawyer. I found everything. I even found out what… what her name is.”
Blair looks down at her lap and I see the first tears of the day slip down her cheeks.
I close the distance between us and put a protective arm around her. This is too much. Too much for one person. Why does it always seem like it’s too much?
“Blair, I am so, so sorry.” I start to tear up as well.
“No one knows,” she manages to say through her tears. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
“I won’t say a word,” I assure her. “Are you sure he didn’t file anything already?”
“I don’t think he did,” she says, shaking her head. “Everything was all in one place. I think he was just getting everything ready to… ready to tell me.”
She covers her face with her hand. Blair’s body shakes with grief and with what must be a horrible sense of rejection, which no one will probably ever know about so no one will be able to help her through it.
We are lost in our own thoughts and tears for several long moments. I remember how dazed Blair looked when I came into the sunroom four days ago and found her sitting at the piano. I remember how Peter Agnew had said Blair had been hysterical the day Brad died, but appeared numb the morning after, when he came into the kitchen and he found her already sitting there. She had just come across the sad evidence of Brad’s unfaithfulness. And no one knew it. I wonder why she kept it a secret from me these last four days when she had been so candid about everything else.
The Remedy for Regret Page 8