Queen of Broken Hearts

by Cassandra King

  After changing into a loose T-shirt and cropped pants, I pick up the binoculars and start toward the back porch. On the kitchen counter, I see the photograph I’d put by the door so I wouldn’t forget to take it to Zoe Catherine, and I pick it up and carry it outside to show Lex. The first time he came to my house, he picked up photos of my family members and studied them, asking who was who. When he came across an old picture of my brother and me together, arm in arm, he asked if the man in the photograph was my former husband. I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when I said in a choked-up voice, “No. I still can’t bear to have pictures of Mack around.” To cover my embarrassment, I moved quickly to show him the most recent pictures of Haley’s children, Abbie in a pink tutu at her dance recital, baby Zach taking his first steps.

  Outside, Lex is standing for a closer look at the hummingbird, and he takes the binoculars out of my hand. “You and Zoe Catherine are going to become big buddies,” I say as he adjusts the viewer, squinting. “The Bird Lady and the Man of Maine.”

  During his recovery from the heart attack, Lex took up not only gardening but also bird-watching. Restless and unable to go back to work, he reluctantly followed my suggestion to use my backyard gardens as part of his healing process, rather than spending his days holed up in his small quarters above the marina. It was there that he began to notice the many varieties of birds drawn to my feeders and birdbaths, and started jotting down observations about their habits. One night last week, he stopped by after attending a meeting of the Audubon Society. The program was about shorebirds, he told me, eyes bright with excitement. A guy from the Weeks Bay Reserve showed slides.

  “Did you know that the male oystercatcher bows his head to the female oystercatcher as part of the mating ritual? Lots of birds do mating dances to attract females,” he said, then added, “maybe I ought to try it.” Lex couldn’t believe how much I knew about birds until I explained it was due to Zoe Catherine. For years she has rescued injured birds that aren’t able to return to their habitat and kept them in the shelter she founded at the Landing.

  “All species of cranes do mating dances,” I told him. “Some of them pick up a feather or twig while dancing and throw it in the air to impress a prospective mate.”

  “Hey, they’ve got a covered-dish supper next week,” Lex said. “Want to go? The Audubon Society is furnishing the main dish—roasted ivory-billed woodpecker in cream sauce—and we’re bringing the rest.”

  I couldn’t make it because I was too far behind with my paperwork, I replied, realizing too late that I’d hit a sore subject with Lex. I’d gotten behind by helping him during his recovery, and it had caused somewhat of a strain between us. Like most men, he’d been a difficult patient, cranky and embarrassed and ungraciously insisting that he didn’t need or want my help.

  Lowering the binoculars now, Lex asks, “Time to go?”

  I look down at my watch. “Yep. Can’t wait for you to be out there at sunset. It’s a sight you’ll never forget.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of sunsets,” he says as he puts the caps back on the lenses.

  “Not like this, you haven’t,” I reply with a knowing smile. “I can promise you that. Oh, wait—let me show you this picture first. Remember the time you came to the house and I said I’d packed up all the photos of my former husband? Well, looks like I was wrong. Last night I moved a stack of books and found one.”

  I hold up the photograph as Lex pats both pockets of his jeans until he locates his reading glasses. He frowns in concentration, studying the picture, then peers at me over the top of the rims. “Hmm. When was this taken?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure of the exact date, but it’s Christmas several years ago. And I’m pretty sure we’re at the yacht club. One of Fairhope’s many holiday parties, is all I can tell. You’ll see—you’ll be invited to a dozen this year, now that you’re eligible. Lots of single women need dinner partners.”

  In the snapshot, Zoe Catherine and I, our heads thrown back in laughter, hold flutes of champagne in our hands, and we’re dressed in seasonal finery, bejeweled and sparkling. I wonder what happened to that beaded green jacket, the one I wore to every Christmas party for years. Must have finally worn it out. I remember those unusual earrings of Zoe’s: folk art, long dangling Santas of hand-carved wood, very Zoe. Bright-eyed, she looks festive with her shoulders draped in a claret-colored shawl, her startling white hair pinned up and glowing in the light of the holiday candles. Zoe Catherine hardly ever attends Fairhope parties; it’s her presence that makes me recall the occasion. Hosted by Dory, the party had doubled as a fund-raiser for Zoe’s bird sanctuary.

  Haley stands next to us, but it’s not an especially good picture of her. Her eyes are half closed, the camera having caught her at the wrong moment, as cameras have a way of doing. In spite of that, she still looks like the princess in a fairy tale, with her pale blond hair falling over her shoulders, pinned back from her face with sprigs of holly. It’s obviously before the kids were born but after she and Austin married, even though he’s not with us. As young as Haley looks now, at age thirty, she looks shockingly young in the photo, almost like a child. I wonder why Austin isn’t in the picture, then realize he’s most likely the one taking it. Every family get-together, Austin has a new camera, it seems. He’s one of those men enamored with gadgets, always tinkering with the latest one.

  Lex glances at me curiously as he points to the photo. “That’s got to be Mack.” I nod as my throat tightens. In the picture, Mack, too, is smiling, a glass of champagne in hand, slouching slightly. He’s standing next to us, the women of his life, but also apart, a couple of steps away. Always apart. Funny, when I found the photo, I didn’t notice how it captured so many things about Mack. For one thing, it’s beautiful, as he was. Not many pictures ever caught that dreamy, faraway look of his, a look that set him apart from any man I’ve ever known, before or since. It’s a fairly dark photo, taken at night in a room lit by candles, and each of us is illuminated by the yellow flash of the camera in a strange sort of way. It makes us look ghostly, unreal, frozen in the moment. It’s as though I’m looking at people who lived years ago, people I don’t know, long dead. It’s a ridiculous and fanciful notion; except for Mack, we are all here, the same as we were when the picture was taken. God, Mack looks so young!

  “Jeez, Mack looks younger than I expected,” Lex says, echoing my thoughts. “How old was he?”

  “In the photo? Or when he died?” Without waiting for an answer, I blurt out, “He died a few days before his forty-sixth birthday.” With trembling hands, I take the photo from Lex. “Funny, Mack once said he hoped he’d die young. He said he wasn’t sure he could face old age.”

  “No kidding.” I can tell that shocks Lex, a fairly unshockable man. He’s a few years older than Mack would have been, having had his fifty-fifth birthday this year. He’s told me often that he likes being in his fifties, that he hated the insecurities of youth and the uncertainties of middle-aged angst.

  Feeling Lex’s curious eyes on me, I say “What?” somewhat testily.

  “Couldn’t face old age? Sounds kind of wimpy, you ask me.”

  I don’t know why I feel a need to defend Mack, but I say that of course it’s more complicated than it sounds. Mack was a complex man, I tell him, with a host of issues.

  “Issues.” Lex snorts. “God, I hate that word. It’s so self-indulgent.” Putting his glasses back on, he reaches for the photo again, lifting it high for another look. “I’ve heard folks say that Mack Ballenger was a good-looking fellow, but I can’t judge other men. Tell me the truth, now—don’t worry about hurting my feelings—he couldn’t hold a candle to yours truly, could he?”

  “Not even in the same league,” I say dryly.

  “Naw, it’s obvious what you women would like about him.” He squints, pulling the photo closer. “In addition to those Robert Redford looks, he has that other thing women go for.”

  “I cannot wait to hear this.”

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nbsp; “He has sort of … you know … a faggy look about him.”

  I can’t help myself. I laugh in spite of the lump that’s forming in my throat. “No one ever said that about Mack.”

  Lex frowns and scratches his head. “Okay, not faggy, exactly. More—Aw, hell, what’s the word?”

  “Sensitive? You’re trying to say ‘sensitive,’ aren’t you, a word that’s not even in your vocabulary?”

  “Yeah, that’s it! Sensitive. Mack looks like the kind of guy women go for because he’d always be telling them how pretty they are and stuff. Right?”

  “Actually, you’re onto something. Mack could be quite a charmer.”

  “Someone just the other day told me that Mack was a star pitcher at Bama and had started a pro career when he threw his shoulder out.”

  “He had trouble with that shoulder until the day he …” I stop to clear my throat. “Right up until he died. The funny thing is, baseball wasn’t his passion, really. Most men would’ve been devastated by an injury that ended a promising sports career. But as long as it didn’t keep Mack from fishing or hunting, it didn’t seem to bother him that much.”

  I catch myself, realizing what I just said, and I look at Lex helplessly. I’ve told him all about it, so he knows what I’m thinking. It was almost five years ago, the day Mack drove his truck to a remote cove near the bay and got out with his rifle in hand to go hunting in the nearby swamp, as he did so many times during our marriage. Something went terribly wrong that day, though none of us will ever know exactly what it was. Although an expert hunter, Mack tripped over a tangle of vines and the gun went off, killing him instantly. Or so the coroner assured me later, when I almost went crazy imagining him lying there as his life ebbed away those long hours before Son and Rye found him.

  “Well!” I say briskly. “Enough happy memories for one day.”

  Lex raises an eyebrow when I put the photograph in the pocket of my pants. “You taking that with you?”

  “I’d planned on giving it to Zoe Catherine.” At his obvious surprise, I have a moment of uncertainty. In trying to put my life back together after Mack’s accident, I’d boxed up every memento and locked all of them away, but not before asking the other family members what they wanted. At the time, no one could bear to look at any of them, especially not Haley, our only child, and both she and Zoe were satisfied to leave them in my attic. But for some reason, when I found the photo last night, I’d decided to take it to Zoe Catherine when we went to the Landing today. I look at Lex. “You don’t think I should, do you?”

  At first he shrugs dismissively, then he rubs his chin. “I don’t know her well enough to say. But it seems like …” He stops himself, shrugging again, and his green eyes darken. “Even if she wasn’t on good terms with him, I’d think a picture of happier times would upset her.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I need to think about it.” I’m quiet for a long minute, then say, “Let’s get going, okay?”

  When we go through the house on the way out to Lex’s Jeep, I stop by the foyer table to pick up my purse and the carrot cake, then open a drawer and drop the photograph in. What was I thinking, I wonder as I step out on the porch, where sweet-smelling jasmine hangs like clusters of grapes from the latticework of the arched entryway. A carefree, smiling picture of Mack, taken long before the day that changed all of our lives forever, disturbs me so much I can hardly stand to look at it. Why would his mother want those painful memories revived just as she’s beginning to heal from her terrible grief?

  As I’d told Rye when I ran into him downtown, Lex’s Jeep is perfect for getting to Zoe Catherine’s place, which is located on the banks of a meandering, marshy creek several miles south of Fairhope, near Weeks Bay. We bump along the washed-out road so roughly that I grab the door handle and hang on. Lex glances my way to ask, “Didn’t forget my notebook, did I?” I release my death grip on the door and pick up the clipboard and attached pencil, holding it aloft for him to see. “Good,” he says, maneuvering the steering wheel to avoid the worst of the potholes. “Write this down. Number one, get the damned road paved. You’ll lose half your customers before they can get out here. Though I warn you, paving it’s liable to cost you a pretty penny.”

  “Not really. I’ve talked to the county about doing it with crushed oyster shells. I’m using native material as much as possible.” The briny smell of Weeks Bay blows in the open window, and I inhale it, closing my eyes in sheer pleasure.

  “Oyster shells. Hey, that’s good.” Lex grins his approval. He has the same appreciation of the wild beauty of this coastal area as I do. “Does Swamp Woman know I’m coming with you?” Although he knows Zoe Catherine’s name among the locals is the Bird Lady, he won’t call her that because he says it’s an insult to birds the world over.

  “She’s been anxiously awaiting your recovery so I could bring you out,” I assure him. “She couldn’t be more pleased that you’ll be helping me.”

  Although I, too, am pleased by Lex’s input into the process of turning the property Zoe is giving me into a retreat center, I’m a little nervous about throwing two strong personalities like Zoe Catherine and Lex together. Both of them are so strong-willed and opinionated that they’re bound to clash. Zoe has always said exactly what was on her mind, regardless of the consequences. The first time she met Lex, a week or so before his heart attack, I invited the two of them to dinner, since she’d pestered me to death about meeting this man I’d become such close friends with. Before dinner, however, Lex’s beeper went off and he had to leave. The dockmaster at the marina had called with a bit of an emergency, something about a leaking fuel line on one of the boats. As Zoe Catherine watched Lex walk out the gate, I knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth, and she didn’t let me down.

  “So that’s your Yankee boyfriend, Clare,” she said, leaning so far out of her patio chair that she almost toppled over. “Good-looking fellow, isn’t he? And I can tell he’s good in the sack, too. Guess you have to be on top, though. You’re so little, he’d squash you flat as a pancake otherwise. Myself, I’d rather be on top anyhow.”

  Before I could open my mouth, aghast, she continued nonchalantly, wagging a finger my way. “Glad to hear him say he was a linebacker in his college days at the naval academy. Stick with the defense, I always say. Best lover I ever had was a lineman at FSU. Been way over fifty years ago, but I won’t ever forget his blitz. And honey, could he cover a zone.”

  “I’ve told you, Zoe Catherine, that Lex and I aren’t lovers. We’re just good friends,” I protested. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  She hooted at that. “Oh, bull. No such thing as being friends with a man. They’re only good for one thing, and it ain’t being your girlfriend.” She straightened up in her chair and eyed me suspiciously. “Don’t tell me he’s queer.”

  “You’re too smart for us. Truth is, he only hangs around because he wants to redecorate my house.”

  She shook her head, her dark eyes thoughtful. “Naw, he couldn’t be a fairy. Nobody from Maine is queer.”

  I stared at her in astonishment. “That is one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever heard from you, which is saying a lot.”

  “It’s true! There are no fairies in Maine. You can look at them and tell. All the men up there look like moose. Or mooses, meese, whatever you call ’em.”

  “You’ve never been to Maine, Zoe Catherine Gail-lard!”

  She tossed her head and snorted. “Shows what you know, Miss Priss. Papa Mack and me, we went to Niagara Falls for our honeymoon. Then we drove up and down the East Coast and visited Kennebunk, Boston, Cape Cod—all sorts of Yankee places. So don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  Recalling that conversation now, I catch myself sneaking speculative looks at Lex as he drives, observing not for the first time the unexpected grace of his large body, the span of his wide shoulders. He’s fit and well muscled for a man of his age, and he takes pride in not working out
in a gym but staying in shape with hard work, the way he’s always done it, he brags, having come from a long line of lobster fishermen. Though rough and callused, his hands on the steering wheel appear not only competent but also gentle, and I suspect he’d be a thoughtful lover. Blushing, I look down at the notebook I’m clutching, aggravated at myself for allowing my mind to wander in such a direction when I’ve been so determined not to think of Lex that way. Damn Zoe Catherine—it’s her fault.

  “You’ve gotten awfully quiet,” he says, startling me out of my musing. I turn to him guiltily, hoping my expression won’t reveal my salacious thoughts. He pulls the Jeep under a low-hanging live oak next to the creek and turns off the ignition.

  “Well, well,” he says as he looks around in wonder. “So this is the famous Landing.”

  Chapter Three

  Although the Landing is now a bird sanctuary and nature preserve, at one time it was a popular fishing camp, built by Albert Gaillard, Zoe Catherine’s father, a man even more eccentric than his daughter. Zoe earned her nickname because of her passion for and work with birds; Albert was famed throughout the Gulf Coast for his skills as a fisherman. The Gaillard family came to this area in 1817 as French exiles, no longer welcome in their country after the fall of Napoleon, whom they’d supported. Our government gave the exiles land grants, and though many failed to prosper and eventually returned to France, the Gaillards stayed. Blacksmiths in their native country, they expanded the smithy to manufacture much needed tools, making a fortune in the process. A few generations later, Albert Gaillard preferred fishing to managing the family business, and he allowed the business to fold, losing the family fortune. According to Zoe Catherine, her father had gotten himself trapped in a miserable marriage with the daughter of another French family from Mobile, and he was branded a ne’er-do-well and failure by all the relatives except her. In a pattern ironically repeated years later by his daughter and only heir, Albert gave up wealth, privilege, and prestige to spend the better part of his life at the fish camp. He named the place the Landing because of the way a bend in Folly Creek, a tributary of Weeks Bay, formed a secluded inlet and a natural boat landing, where he’d built a dock and boathouse for his many fishing vessels.