Pictures of Emily

by Weir, Theresa

  She wanted more from him. She wanted love.

  Panic grew. She pushed at his chest. “Sonny—” His mouth was on her arched throat, doing wonderful things. Things she had to stop. “Sonny—”

  “Mmm?”

  “Sonny—I— Please—stop.”

  Her words finally sunk in. With his arms still encircling her waist, he pulled away enough to look down at her. His lips were a little red, his eyes dark with desire. A frown creased his usually smooth brow.

  “Emily, I know we haven’t discussed this, but I’d never force you into something you didn’t want.”

  His voice, his wonderful deep voice, seemed even deeper than usual. It reverberated against her chest. Her heart.

  “Some guys expect payment for things. But I want you to know I’m not like that. You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “I bought the lighthouse because I wanted to give it to you. It’s as simple as that. I married you to save your reputation. What I’m saying is, I didn’t do it to get in your bed, okay? If you want separate bedrooms, I’ll respect that decision.”

  Was he waiting for her to answer yes or no? Emily could feel her face burning. This was embarrassing, confusing, humiliating.

  “Thanks for being so understanding,” she said a little grudgingly. He could have taken it a bit harder. After all, he was supposed to be swept away by passion, not standing there telling her he could take her or leave her; it made no difference.

  And why not? After all the beautiful women he’d known she could only disappoint him. No, she wouldn’t disappoint him. To be disappointed, you have to expect something. He obviously expected nothing.

  That night, Emily lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. It was a long time before she heard Sonny make his way to the bedroom across the hall. It was a lot longer time before Emily fell asleep.

  The next morning, she slipped into a pair of pinwale corduroys and a bulky fisherman’s sweater. As she dressed, she was aware of the silence in the house and was sure Sonny had left.

  She checked his room. His bed was made. It looked so fresh she wondered if it had been slept in at all.

  She finally found him outside, on the leeward side of the cottage, planting a garden.

  He’d spaded up a ten-by-twelve foot section of earth. It was perfectly straight, the edges lying parallel to the house. He’d already worked the dirt smooth, and was on his knees, planting onions in the furrow he’d made with a hoe.

  It was quite obvious that he’d never planted a garden before. He was planting the onions upside down.

  It was hard for her to grasp the fact that a chore so much a part of her life could be entirely new to someone else.

  He seemed so earnest that she hardly had the heart to tell him he was doing it wrong.

  She made a nervous sound with her throat. “So… you’re planting a garden.”

  He glanced up, then back at his work. “Yup.”

  She pressed a finger to her lips, wondering what to do. Men didn’t like being told they were doing something wrong. It wounded their pride.

  But the onions wouldn’t grow that way.

  Finally she gave up and said, “You’re planting them upside down.”

  “What?”

  “The onions. You’re planting them upside down.” The air was crisp, but the sun was warm, holding a promise of a beautiful day. The sweet scent of freshly turned earth drifted to her on the morning breeze.

  Sonny leaned back on his heels, then looked up from the garden to her. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  She stepped around the spaded ground to kneel beside him in the grass. She picked up an onion from the furrow. “This pointed end,” she showed him, “is the top. The flat end is the bottom.” She tucked it in the ground the way it should be.

  “What do you know.”

  No anger. Just a kind of childlike amazement. She’d loved him that day in his cabin, when he’d asked her to marry him and she’d turned down his proposal. But it wasn’t until now that she began to realize the full magnitude of that love.

  And it scared her.

  They hadn’t spoken of the future, but she knew with sudden certainty that if he left she would never be the same.

  The garden didn’t mean he planned to stay, she warned herself. Onions didn’t take long to grow. In just a couple of weeks a person could use the long green shoots in salads.

  After the onions, they planted leaf lettuce and spinach—both short-season crops. But then Sonny pulled a package of snap beans from the pocket of his hip-length denim jacket. Snap beans, on the other hand, took about six weeks.

  She helped him plant them, helped to make it their garden, their hands intermingling as they covered seeds and smoothed dirt. When they were done, he presented her with another packet, this one zinnia seeds.

  Grasping the tiny packet in both hands, she looked up at him. “Flowers?”

  He shrugged. “I saw them and thought they might be nice.”

  A man who planted flowers valued beauty for its own sake. His last package contained cantaloupe seeds.

  “But Sonny,” she said, “cantaloupe takes about four months to mature.”

  The eyes that looked up at her were clear. “I’m in no hurry.”

  * * *

  Their life together settled into an easy routine. Instead of returning to the mainland, Sonny decided to take some time off to work on their new home. In the mornings, when the dew was still on the ground and fog still clung to the low spots, Sonny would walk Emily to her shop. Then he would return to the lighthouse and spend the day repairing and painting.

  On her first day back at work, Sonny surprised her by showing up at noon with a sack lunch, which they shared in the tiny shop among bolts of fabrics and the smell of glue. He took an interest in her work, making a few helpful suggestions. In the evening, he sometimes came to help her bring in the kite.

  And so the pattern of their days seemed to be set. Barely a week had passed and the townspeople were already adjusting to Sonny’s presence in their small community. They were simple people, much more impressed by the work Sonny was doing on the lighthouse than by how many covers his face had looked out from.

  If any tourist happened to catch sight of him, they thought the man in the faded jeans and sweatshirt was simply someone who looked like Sonny Maxwell. And Sonny had been right about the press losing interest in a married man. So far, no one had bothered him, possibly because the nation’s attention was now focused on a smutty political scandal.

  One evening when the sky had turned orange and the air was still warm from the sun’s rays, Emily came home to find Babbie and Sonny painting the ornate railing that surrounded the porch. Neither one had heard Emily approach, so engrossed were they in their work.

  Emily was loath to break up their camaraderie so she stood with her hand poised on the gate. Babbie chattered incessantly, obviously feeling quite proud and adult at being allowed to help. Occasionally Sonny would toss out a comment, his voice so low and deep that Emily couldn’t hear what he said.

  Then, without thinking, Babbie ran up the porch steps, her paintbrush dripping white on the gray enamel. When she realized what she’d done, she stood there, her face a study in horror and anguish, staring at the white globs. Then her little mouth began to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Easy now—” Sonny grabbed a rag and quickly wiped up the spills. “All fixed,” he announced. Then he dried Babbie’s tears and helped her to blow her nose.

  And Emily’s love for Sonny grew.

  The following Saturday they had an unexpected visitor. Emily answered a loud knock to find Doreen standing at the door. Fear jumped in Emily’s chest. To her, Doreen symbolized Sonny’s work and Sonny’s real life; the place he belonged.

  Why else would she be here, if not to coax him back, to coax him away from her?

  “I can’t stay long,” Doreen announced, stepping in the door. “Ferry leaves in two hours. I just had to see how you kids were
doing. And I brought Sonny’s mail.” She let her briefcase slip from her fingers to the floor with a heavy thud.

  With hardly a pause, she crossed the room and stopped directly in front of the black-and-white photo of the lighthouse that used to hang in Sonny’s cabin.

  “What a wonderful photo,” Doreen said, awe in her voice. “I don’t believe I recognize the work.” She peered at the corner, searching for a signature.

  “It’s Sonny’s. He took it,” Emily said.

  Doreen swung around, surprise in her face. “Sonny?” She looked back at the photo. “Yes… I can see Sonny there. The boy’s been holding out on me. I’d have arranged a showing for him.”

  She seemed a little hurt. Emily felt the need to explain. “He’s just so private.”

  “Secretive, that’s what he is,” Doreen said.

  “Yes.”

  The sadness she couldn’t seem to keep from her voice caught Doreen’s attention.

  “One thing you have to realize is that emotionally Sonny is a child,” Doreen said. “It’s going to take time to undo the damage his mother caused.”

  “His mother?” Sonny had never mentioned any family to her.

  “He’ll probably never say anything to you about it, but you’re his wife. You have a right to know. Sonny didn’t have the silver spoon childhood everybody thinks he had. Not that I’m an authority on his past, I’m not. No one is. All I know is that he was raised in a boardinghouse for child actors. The place was eventually closed down because of cruelty and unsanitary living conditions. But not until Sonny had spent ten years of his life there. People have always thought of him as the kid who was spoiled rotten, as the kid who had everything. The truth is, he had nothing. He was a commodity, nothing more.”

  Everything fell into place. The dark colors Emily sometimes felt around him, the aloofness. She hurt for him. Ached for him.

  Some of what she was feeling must have shown on her face, because Doreen said, “For God’s sake, don’t pity him. He hates that.” She looked at her watch. “Speaking of Sonny… ?”

  “He’s working on the lighthouse.”

  “Working, as in manual labor? This,” Doreen said, hitching her camera strap more securely on her shoulder, “I’ve got to see.”

  As they approached the lighthouse, they could see Sonny in the distance, hammering on the wooden walkway that led to the lighthouse. He was wearing a dirt-smudged white T-shirt, faded jeans and tennis shoes. A breeze ruffled his sun-kissed hair.

  Love, aching and sweet, filled Emily. She hoped in her heart to somehow make up for the desolate years of his life.

  “I’ve got to get a picture of this,” Doreen said, stopping to dig out her camera. “Nobody will ever believe it.”

  Emily didn’t need to be reminded of the fact that Sonny didn’t belong here. She thought about it every day.

  She hugged her arms to her and watched her husband while the camera shutter clicked beside her. She would knit him a sweater, she thought. Blue gray, to match his eyes. It would be a secret, a surprise.

  Doreen stuck the camera back in her bag, then waved her arm and hooted at Sonny.

  He looked up. As soon as he saw them, he put down the hammer and came toward them.

  “God, you look so domestic,” Doreen said. “It’s disgusting.”

  He smiled. “I never expected to see you here. The way you griped when we were doing the shoot.”

  “I can tolerate fresh air in small doses. Anyway, I brought your mail. People are hounding me, wanting to know when you’re coming back. Carrie Ivy from Elite Magazine wants you to do this thing in Ireland. What should I tell her?”

  “Tell her, no thanks. Tell her I’m taking a long vacation.”

  “The American public has a short attention span. If you’re out of the public eye for too long, somebody else will come along and take your place.”

  Sonny took her heavy camera case and slung it over one shoulder. “How ’bout some lunch?”

  While Sonny was in the bathroom washing up, Doreen helped Emily put some sandwiches together.

  It was nice, sitting in the warm sunny kitchen, talking over coffee and sandwiches. Doreen didn’t mention the magazine article again, apparently knowing that Sonny had meant what he said.

  An hour later, Doreen glanced at her watch. “I better be on my way. It’s been fun.”

  “Before you go, come and have a look at our garden,” Sonny said.

  Every day he checked their garden, just like Babbie. It had been planted two weeks ago, and everything was pushing through the dirt already.

  After Doreen admired the garden, they strolled around the yard, Sonny pointing out various improvements he’d made. At one point, when he was out of earshot, Doreen took Emily by the arm and pulled her close. “He’s changed,” she whispered.

  “Changed?” That fear again. And Emily wondered if it would always be like this, if there would ever be any settledness to her love for Sonny.

  “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call it contentment, but it’s close to that. I’ve never seen Sonny content. It looks good on him.”

  They walked Doreen to her rental car, then stood and waved until its taillights disappeared over the dandelion-covered hill that led to the village.

  Emily turned to find Sonny studying the freshly painted house with quiet satisfaction. Doreen was right. He did seem content.

  “You like it here, don’t you?” she asked.

  All along, she’d been dreading the time when he became tired of living on St. Genevieve. All along she’d been thinking there was nothing here he would want, that this was transient.

  But on St. Genevieve, there was peace. On St. Genevieve, a person could plant a garden, and repair a lighthouse. On St. Genevieve, there was someone who loved him.

  His gaze drifted past the lighthouse, past the blue, blue ocean to finally settle on her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I like it here.”

  It wasn’t much. But from Sonny, it was a lot.

  Good things took time. Like Sonny and his garden, Emily could wait.

  Chapter 8

  Sonny stood on the beach, hands in the front pockets of the gray dress pants he’d worn to church. The sun was warm on his face, the salt wind cool as it whipped the hair back from his brow.

  He tried not to think too deeply about the turn his life had taken. Not that he was superstitious. He just didn’t want to take any chances.

  He knew it was crazy, but he was afraid if he consciously thought about how happy he was, some higher order would pick up on his thoughts and take it all away.

  And there was one thing he was sure of. He wasn’t ready for it to end. Maybe his concern had to do with the fact that he’d done nothing to deserve this. He’d done nothing to deserve Emily.

  Shrieks of laughter drew his gaze down the long stretch of beach. Emily and her sisters were making their way toward him, looking for treasures as they went, playing tag with the waves and laughing whenever the water swirled about their bare ankles.

  They’d invited him to walk the beach with them, but he’d declined, knowing he had to keep some distance, had to hold back. He couldn’t allow himself to become completely caught up in their lives.

  Watching them now, the scene before him brought back something he’d completely forgotten.

  He’d been about seven or eight, shooting an ad for kids’ clothes. The film crew had run into some technical problems. To keep Sonny out of the way, he’d been stuck in a dressing room where he was told to wait until someone came for him.

  The dressing room was hardly more than a closet, with peeling paint and bare pipes and no heat. But on one wall was a huge print of an oil painting—the kind of cheap print that was sold in dime stores, warped frame and all.

  Maybe it had been hung to cover a hole, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. It was the faded picture that fascinated him.

  It was a turn-of-the-century painting of a woman and two children. They were strolling on the beach, the woman
wearing a long flowing dress, holding a ruffled parasol over one shoulder. The children were dressed in the striped bathing suits people wore back then.

  Looking at the picture made him feel good, and it made him feel bad. It made him feel lonely, made him ache for something he couldn’t define, something obscure and unattainable.

  The film crew apparently forgot about him, because Sonny ended up sitting in the room for hours, staring at the picture, wishing he could step inside the frame and become a part of it.

  Now, watching Emily and her sisters, he felt the same ache he’d felt that day looking at the painting; that same yearning.

  But he knew he could no more be a part of their lives than he could have stepped into that painting all those years ago. He’d been a kid then. Now he was old enough to know that there were barriers that couldn’t be transcended. One was physical; the other emotional.

  He wanted what he had here with Emily to be real. He wanted it to be forever. But it couldn’t be. Because he wasn’t who she thought he was, he wasn’t who anybody thought he was.

  Sonny was afraid of the day Emily would look deep into his soul with those magic eyes of hers, and see him, really see him.

  A pretty package with nothing inside.

  And she would see that he wasn’t completely real, because to be real, you had to be a part of life. But that’s the way he liked it, he reminded himself. That’s the way he wanted it.

  So he watched, as he’d always watched, on the outside looking in.

  He watched as Babbie extended her hand to Tilly, showing her something. Sonny used to think kids were kids. But now, looking at the girls, he was struck by how different they were from one another. Tilly…she was something—a regular tomboy. As soon as she’d gotten home from church, she’d tom off her dress and replaced it with jeans, T-shirt, and high-top sneakers. Claire, on the other hand was still wearing her church clothes. Whenever she thought no one was looking, she’d spin in a circle, watching her dress swirl about her.

  And then there was Babbie— The child was disarmingly open and trusting, completely guileless. Like Emily.

  Emily.

  He must have said her name in his mind a thousand times. Sweet, sweet Emily. She took his breath away. She filled him with a longing. And she made him feel things he hadn’t felt since childhood, things he’d never thought to feel again, things that weren’t safe to feel.