Secrets of Southern Girls

by Haley Harrigan

  “Everything okay, sweetie?”

  At which point Julie burst into confused, selfish tears. But when Nell started toward her, Julie took a step back. She so desperately needed to talk to someone, but could she trust Nell with Reba’s secret? Could she trust anyone at all?

  “I’m sorry,” Julie said, wiping at her tears. “It’s Reba. Have you…have you noticed anything going on with her?”

  Nell sighed. “Noticed something’s going on, that’s for sure.” She sat down slowly on the stool behind the counter. “What do you know?”

  Julie’s eyes darted around the shop and finally settled on a crack in the old hardwood floors. She is a traitor. She is everything she has always despised in a friend. “There’s a boy…”

  “Uh-huh…”

  She looked up at Nell. “You already know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?” Nell asked.

  “About the boy?”

  Nell nodded.

  “How did you know? Have you talked to her? Why didn’t you stop it? Do her parents know?”

  “Jules, honey, slow down.” Nell sighed again. “I see a lot. I’ve seen him around here, with her. Figured it was a romance. But some things aren’t my business to tell.” She looked at Julie, hard. “Not your business to tell either, you know.”

  “Nell, this is bad! This is like, like Penny and James all over again, except worse, because it’s…because it’s Reba. How could she do it? It isn’t her.”

  “Come over here and sit down.” Nell patted the empty stool beside her. “Listen,” she continued when Julie took a seat. “You’re better than this. Don’t you dare turn into one of these ignorant, racist fools. You love who you love. I’m willing to bet that our Reba didn’t plan to be running around with the son of her daddy’s new boss—”

  “What?”

  “Oh hell,” she said. “You didn’t know that part?”

  “No. How did you?”

  “Like I said, I see a lot. I hear a lot. I know a lot about this town.”

  Julie was silent.

  “Reba doesn’t have to live up to your expectations of her. She’s not doing any of this to hurt you, you know.”

  Jules was still, thinking. “She’s pregnant,” she finally blurted out.

  For the first time, she managed to surprise Nell. “Honey, please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Not.”

  Nell shook her head. “Our girl’s got some trouble coming her way. Her daddy’s likely to kill that boy.”

  Toby interrupted them then, a bewildered expression on his face as he came in to pick up the day’s deliveries.

  76

  REBA’S DIARY, 1997

  I could feel him in the darkness of my bedroom last night, even though I couldn’t see him. I didn’t know what noise he’d made to wake me, but I knew he was there.

  “Toby?” I whispered. My hazy mind imagined him sliding into bed next to me, curling his arm around my waist like it isn’t all about sex between us.

  Like he loves me, maybe.

  “Rebecca,” he said. He was sitting in the chair by the window; I could see his silhouette once my eyes adjusted. “I hear you’ve got a new secret.”

  I sat upright in the bed, glad he couldn’t see my eyes widen. Or the look of shame I knew I was wearing. “Did someone send out a memo?” I whispered, all traces of the hope I’d been too groggy to keep from my voice suddenly gone. I didn’t think Jules would tell anyone, didn’t think she would betray me like that, even in anger.

  “What can I say? I hear things.”

  I crossed my arms, feeling silly in my tank top and flannel pajama bottoms. I was struck again by how different I am from the woman Toby was with in the parking lot of Southern Saddle. Thinking of that night made me tremble, the hurt and anger I’d tried to bury blooming inside me all over again.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “It’s not mine,” he said. “Is it?”

  “Go home, Toby.”

  Then he was sitting beside me on the bed, his hands clenched on my shoulders. “Tell me the truth, damn it. Is it mine?” His voice sounded ragged, and I couldn’t tell what he wanted to hear. Not the real truth; I had too much pride for that. I thought of which answer would hurt him the most. Didn’t I want to hurt him, the way he’d tortured me?

  I looked into his eyes. He once told me that he owned me, told me that I belonged to him.

  “Yes,” I said quietly, and then his hands were pushing my hair from my face, and he was kissing me and holding me so tightly that I felt like I would shatter into a million jagged shards like some ugly, breakable thing. “I mean…no,” I gasped, pulling away from his kisses. He stared at me. “I mean…I don’t… Toby, I don’t know.” I’ll never get used to lying. It was especially hard to lie to him. The whole thing felt wrong, and he was looking at me like he wanted to kill me, his green eyes boring into mine. I knew that any minute he would see through this terrible charade, and then what? If anyone would see the truth on my face, it would be him.

  But his expression softened, and he touched my cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I get it. I’m not him, Reba. But you can trust me. You’re not alone.”

  Even though Toby had left the window cracked in my bedroom and the crisp air was slipping into the room like wisps of smoke, I felt too warm. I felt like laughing, but I was in too deep. Toby, suddenly caring about me, about our potential child? What would he do, support the baby with drug money?

  I had to remind myself that there was no child, that it was as false as Toby telling me that I could trust him. But the novelty of his arms around me in an embrace that was something other than sexual lulled me into the strangest sense of safety, and I was soon sinking into sleep while his fingers combed through the thick waves of my hair.

  When I woke up, it was morning and I was alone, and I wondered if I’d dreamed the whole thing.

  77

  Oh, Reba, Julie thinks as she walks back to The Inn. She wishes she could talk to her now, wishes she could yell at her, could put some of this blame on her. Would Julie have been a different wife, a different mother, a completely different person, if not for all of this guilt? Unbidden, the memories of those first precious months with Evan spring to her mind—the only time since Lawrence Mill that she felt truly weightless, like maybe things would be okay. Like maybe she could become someone new, someone without secrets. Someone less damaged.

  • • •

  First, it was only the days when she and Evan had class together (Tuesdays, Thursdays) that they ended up stretched, blissfully, lazily, in Evan’s bed once class ended, the sunlight blazing through bare, curtainless windows. Then there were other days, missed classes, nights together.

  Evan would play Zero 7 and Miles Davis and other strange, sensual music that Julie had never heard before, and they would lie tangled together, one of her legs stretched across both of his, her head on his stomach, looking up at him. They would talk about music and acting and the things they wanted, and the things they dreamed about.

  Evan was auditioning for real plays, nothing very glamorous yet, off-off Broadway productions and low-budget projects. She couldn’t believe he was so confident.

  They’d known each other less than six months, maybe less than five. The sun was floating in through the windows when she opened her eyes and found him watching her. His eyes were bright and sleepy, his hair a mess.

  “Good morning,” he whispered, leaning over to her, brushing her long hair with his fingers. He smiled that seductive almost-smile, and she traced his lips with her thumb.

  “What should we do today?” she asked, sleepy and happy. His sheets were woven around them, and their legs and thighs were pressed together and she could feel him against her and it was all so wonderful.

  He kissed her. “I have an idea. But
you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  She looked at him, her eyebrows raised, curious.

  “Sometimes it feels like as long as I have you, nothing else matters all that much,” he said. “Do you feel that way?”

  “Definitely,” she said, rubbing her eyes. She smiled lazily and kissed him. He was always a philosopher in the mornings.

  “If I ask you a question, do you promise not to say no?”

  She always thought that if she pulled herself tightly enough against him, the line between the two of them would blur and she would see all of his secrets and he would see hers. They would never have to speak the words, because they would know each other so intimately. She would never have to tell him about Reba. “Mmm,” she mumbled then, pressing her lips against his ear.

  “Julie,” Evan murmured. He was looking at her and she felt winded, even before she knew what was coming. “Julie, let’s get married.”

  • • •

  There was a dress. Not several, not a whole gaggle of dresses, not the way she’d always thought, dreadfully, of weddings. No dresses for bridesmaids or mothers or guests. Just the one, chosen by Evan at a boutique on the way to the courthouse. It was almost summertime, and the dress was light and creamy as milk—the only time, Evan joked, that he remembered Julie wearing white. It was long but casual, swooshing around her legs as she walked. It felt tropical, as though they were going to walk along the beach, not to be married.

  She laughed at Evan because of course you couldn’t just go to the courthouse and get married. There were licenses and paperwork and things; there must have been. But no. They were there, at the courthouse, and Evan had somehow convinced the clerk to waive the twenty-four-hour wait period, and Julie wore a flower in her hair, and they were saying the words. And then they kissed, too passionately for the courthouse, and she was a wife. She smiled in a way that didn’t make her face ache—a genuine smile, a smile that slid onto her face almost without her realizing it. Amazing, how easy things can be sometimes.

  The memories are snippets from a film, from a life that is no longer hers. She remembers the feelings: the happiness, that newness. She remembers thinking that she understood, finally, the meaning of the word bliss. And she believed, stupidly, that Evan could make her forget all of the things that had come before.

  • • •

  She was wrong, of course. She could see now that she’d attached herself to Evan, hoping for some kind of anchor, something to keep her from drifting away in her own private sadness. It’s hard for her to regret it, though, when she thinks of Beck. Even if not for their daughter, she’d never wish it away. But if it hadn’t been for Reba’s death, would their marriage have happened at all?

  78

  REBA’S DIARY, 1998

  Jules told. There’s no other possibility. Toby wouldn’t have known if Jules hadn’t told.

  It was the first day back to school after the holidays, and I waited at the end of my driveway for her. At first, Jules looked cautiously happy, like she thought we were about to have a reunion or something. I could see her expression change as she got closer to me, and maybe she could see how angry I was. I hoped she could.

  “Reba,” she said brightly, with a hesitant smile.

  “You told.”

  “I didn’t!” She reached out to touch my arm, but I jerked it away.

  “You’re lying. You had no right.” My blond hair was piled up, a messy ponytail on top of my head, a skinny blue headband holding back tendrils. I hadn’t bothered with makeup, not even lip gloss, and I knew there were circles under my eyes. I was tired, sleepless, and Jules looked at me with a concerned expression on her face.

  She couldn’t help a retort, though. “Speaking of lies. You should have told me…well, everything. I thought we were friends.”

  “Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I wanted to tell you. I tried.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “About August? Of course I did. I tried to tell you when I first met him, back in the summer. But you didn’t want to hear it. Don’t you remember?”

  “No, I don’t,” Jules said. But she was lying. I could tell. “That isn’t the point, Reba. This is serious. Forget all of that stuff. Let me help you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” I snapped. “I need you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “I will… I am! I didn’t tell, Reba!”

  “You aren’t who I thought you were,” I told her, before walking away.

  “Yeah, well, you certainly aren’t either!” Jules shouted after me.

  How simple, and how satisfying it would be to tell Jules the truth about everything. To watch her jaw drop as I describe those nights with August and the things I’ve done with Toby, and how much I like it all. That I am more like her than either of us ever imagined. How there is no baby, that it is one big lie fabricated to hurt those men who made me fall for them. That I am ruthless. That I am calculating.

  So why didn’t I tell her when I had the chance?

  I guess even after everything, I still care what Jules thinks of me. And to know that I would deceive everyone, intentionally, with no purpose other than revenge? To know that I was with Toby, even while I was seeing August, and that I want Toby, still? It would be enough, I know, to destroy the friendship that has already become so fragile.

  Because I can’t stand the thought of the way that she would look at me.

  Still, I can’t keep up this awful charade. Sooner or later, it’s going to be obvious that I’m not pregnant. I’ve got to come clean, wash all of this dirt and sin, all of these ugly lies, from my hands. Too late to be pure again, but maybe there is some hope for me still.

  79

  Julie takes her time getting back to the hotel. She wanders down the streets of Opal, replaying her visit with Toby, letting it all sink in. The sunlight is warm and bright, but she can see dark clouds gathering lazily on the horizon. By the time she arrives at The Inn, she feels ragged, drained.

  But she didn’t push Reba from the bridge. She did not kill her best friend.

  Julie doesn’t know what to expect of August. Surely, he has read the diary by now. She can’t imagine his pain, now that he knows the truth of it all. It’s funny, in a way that isn’t, that their lives have been molded by this one girl—this one girl who was everything to them—and not one of them really knew her.

  And she betrayed them all.

  The girl at the counter is a teenager, and Maggie Harris is nowhere to be seen when Julie makes her way through the hotel lobby. She goes straight to August’s room. The journal and her note are gone, but when she knocks on the door, there is no answer. She traces her fingers along the metal door numbers, waiting, thinking that maybe he is trying to avoid her. But after five minutes of knocking, pausing, knocking again, there is still no answer. He could have gone anywhere, could have gone back to the airport and left her here. She feels panicked by the thought of it.

  She takes the elevator back down and is heading to Southern Saddle when she sees it through a side door—the hotel pool, twinkling in the sunlight. She can’t explain her sudden thirst. It doesn’t come from her mouth or her throat. It’s bigger. It’s her entire body that pulls her to the water. Maybe it’s the burst of unexpected sunshine when she knows that a storm is on its way. It must be eighty degrees, when only a few days ago she arrived in Opal wearing a coat. She’d forgotten about Southern weather, how it will be cold and cold and then, without any warning at all, summer will arrive. No springtime or autumn, no in-betweens. There are the signs, the signals of those seasons—flowers blooming, leaves falling. But cool is a rarity. Mostly, there is only hot and cold.

  The gate swings open easily, no padlocks, not even this early in the year. Despite the heat, the pool is deserted. It’s probably snowing in New York right now. She can’t ignore her strange yearning, as the pool sits shining and empty, the lounge
chairs unattended. Brighton has recently acquired a membership to some elite swim club in Manhattan and has promised to take her and Beck as guests, when summer finally rolls around in New York. But she can’t think of the last time she’s taken a swim.

  Of course, Julie has been in this pool before, as a teenager, with the young banker whose name she can’t remember, the one who was in town doing business with the lumberyard.

  Maybe it’s the tendency toward recklessness, the urge to rebel that rises up within her just from being back here. Because she doesn’t have a suit. Naturally, the idea of swimming, of any type of leisure, didn’t creep into her mind while she was packing for this trip. But she chose black underwear this morning, hipster briefs and a matching bra with scalloped edges and no fancy adornments. The kind of underwear to be worn beneath clingy clothing. The kind of underwear that could almost pass for a swimsuit.

  She can’t recall the last time she’s done something so ridiculous. In broad daylight too. She drops her purse on an empty lounger, tugs her jeans from her hips and lets them crumple at her feet before stepping out of them and pulling her shirt over her head. It catches on one earring, and she has to untangle herself before proceeding.

  And then she is in the water, moving cautiously, one foot at a time on the underwater steps. The icy water is a shock to her senses and she gasps, but she doesn’t stop her descent. In the shallow end, she falls to her knees and lets the water surround her, light and cool. She grasps the rough concrete edge of the pool, and she feels as though she is kneeling at an altar, though of course she has never done that. Evan is the lapsed Catholic. Southern Baptists don’t bow down in servitude. They reach their hands upward, as if they could drag God down from the sky. Not that she ever really was Southern Baptist. Religion, if she ever believed in such a thing, was in the things she touched, the way she felt, the people she loved. But no matter; that reverence abandoned her long ago.

  She thinks of Reba, of those summer days back at the Millworkers Association when they were barely teenagers, of painting each other’s fingernails pink or baby blue or violet, listening to the radio on Julie’s neon-yellow boom box. Country music because that’s all the antennae would pick up, but any music was good on a gorgeous day. Reba’s light hair turned green from all the chlorine. They couldn’t see the changes in store for them, but it was probably better that way.