This past year the rumblings began, and the earth shifted. Dory and Son faced the empty nest when the youngest of their two boys, Shaw, left for college. Having always been something of a domestic goddess and earth mother, Dory had dedicated her life to her family and flower gardens. She was a certified master gardener, and gardening was the great passion of her life, even more so than Son was. (Or so I told myself.) The empty nest provided the perfect opportunity for her to start a business in landscape design, a lifelong dream. Son, however, had other ideas. Her passion might be gardening, but his was, and always has been, Dory, and he was finally getting her all to himself. He cut way back on his work hours and purchased a small yacht for the two of them to use for the many trips he planned. In what he considered the ultimate thoughtful gesture, he even hired a full-time gardener (whom Dory promptly fired). Without her consent, Dory’s days and nights were all mapped out, leaving her little time for her gardens, much less starting up a business. The resulting tension caused the first serious problems in their marriage, and last year was a stress-filled and miserable one. Son pouted and flung fits and carried on like a bigger jackass than usual.
At the first of the summer, when the inevitable blowup came, it was so ugly that Dory, much to my astonishment, kicked Son out. I found myself walking a delicate line between supporting her decision and hiding my joy that she’d seen the light at last. Until I was convinced she was really through with him, however, I kept a low profile. I knew Son would be looking for someone to blame—it couldn’t be his fault, after all—and I was a perfect target. In much the same way Elinor Eaton-Yarbrough had done, Son went around telling everyone that I’d talked Dory into leaving him, as he’d feared since she started her volunteer work with me. Hanging around all those divorced women whining about their exes would naturally cause Dory to look for his flaws, he said, hoping his listeners would assure him that she’d have to look long and hard. Dory surprised me even more by sticking to her decision, seemingly content without Son as she got serious about starting the business. Since she planned on working out of her home, she was consulting with Rye on the legalities of licenses and zoning laws. During that time I let her know I was there for her, but I stepped back so she could, at long last, have her own life.
I’ll always wonder if I made the right decision. This past summer was a viciously hot one, with thick, waxen days melting into sweltering, sleepless nights. Every afternoon in July, ominous black thunderclouds rumbled in over the bay and teased us with the promise of relief, only to retreat to the Gulf, leaving the air heavier than ever. It left everyone edgy, tense, and expectant, waiting for the inevitable storm to hit. It held off until the last day of July, then roared in with a fury, turning the bay into a cauldron and leaving mighty oaks cowering in its wake. But it broke the heat, and August promised better things. The next morning I called Dory early to ask if she wanted to join Lex and me for a celebratory sunset boat ride, complete with a bottle of champagne. On my return home from work, I played my messages with no premonition of what was to come: Dory, her voice tremulous yet joy-filled, saying that she’d be gone by the time I got her message. Something wondrous, even miraculous, had happened, she’d said breathlessly, and she and Son were driving to Pensacola to hop on a plane to Europe. They’d be away for a month, but she’d explain everything when she returned.
When Dory arrives at Casa Loco, backing into the door of the conference room laden with bags and baskets, my greeting is friendly, cheerful, and upbeat, as though nothing unusual has happened since I last saw her. I don’t want her to pick up on my bewilderment, curiosity, or disappointment about her reconciliation with Son—not until we have our talk, anyway. Putting an arm around her and pulling her close, I kiss her cheek and say with a hearty smile, “Hey, Dory! It’s great to see you. Welcome back.” With her arms full, she can’t do much more than return my greeting and kiss my cheek in return, at which point I pat her back so enthusiastically that she almost trips. Way to go, Clare, I think as I grab some of her baskets. You’ve paced the floor waiting for her anxiously, she finally gets here, and you knock her down before she can get into the room.
“It’s great to see you, too, honey,” is all she says. In contrast to the sappiness of my greeting, hers seems unusually reserved. But it’s hard to tell with Dory: One of the things I admire most about her is the air of tranquillity she’s always worn like a majestic cloak.
“The table’s in place, but everything else I left to you,” I say cheerily as I lead her to the narrow table I pushed against a wall to hold her refreshments. “Want me to put the basket here?”
“Ah … yeah. Sure. Anywhere is fine,” she replies absently. By her bemused expression, I can tell that she finds my enthusiasm a bit much. Even though I, too, cringe at my Pollyanna routine, I can’t seem to stop it.
“Do you need anything?” I ask as she places her tote bag and basket on the table, and she shakes her head solemnly.
“Think I brought everything with me, but if not, I know where to find it.” Dory glances around the room with what appears to be only the mildest of curiosities before turning back to me with a serene smile.
I force myself to ask the question and get it out of the way. “So, did you have a good trip to Europe?”
It’s a relief when she answers casually, with no details. “We spent most of the time in France, which is beyond fabulous. You and I must go one day. There’s so much I’m dying to show you.”
“Umm. I’d love that.” I stop myself from asking her about the gardens she saw, always the main focus of her trips. The questioning can wait until she finishes the refreshment table.
With a rueful grin, Dory says, “So, how’s the divorce coach this morning?”
Standing with my hands on my hips, I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “What a crock, huh?”
She regards me for a moment, then says in a gentle voice, “I knew you’d have no problem handling it. But it sure pissed me off. I’m trying to decide whether to write a response or not dignify such idiocy with a reply.”
It touches me that she’d want to defend me. “Everyone assures me the guy is a loon, so I’ve decided to leave it alone and let it blow over.”
“One thing for sure, you don’t have to worry about it hurting your business. The waiting lists for the retreats are a mile long, and the groups fill up as fast as you post them.” Dory stops herself, her eyes falling away from mine. “Which is really sad, when you think about it. So many people in so much pain.”
“The retreats fill a need, evidently,” I agree. Then, to lighten the mood, I turn again to the refreshment table. “Boy, something smells good! Don’t tell me you brought your orange-blossom sweet rolls.”
“Yep. Knowing they’re your favorites, how could I not?”
“Oh, no,” I groan. “I can’t resist them, and the last thing my fanny needs is a few more pounds. You’ve gone to way too much trouble, as usual.”
She shrugs it off. “Not at all. Just threw some stuff together at the last minute.”
“Yeah, right,” I say with a hoot. “It would’ve taken me a week to do all this.”
“I love doing it, hon; you know that.” To kick off a new group, Dory makes a big production of the refreshments, which never fail to dazzle the newcomers. At first I protested, saying it was unnecessary and maybe even distracting, but I shut up once I saw the magic it works on a group of tense, unhappy women. Arriving to such a welcome, they relax and chat among themselves before having to deal with the emotionally fraught business of group therapy. Afterward, I vowed that Dory was a genius and I’d never argue with her again.
“I was putting the handouts together when you got here,” I tell her, “so let me get back to them and leave the refreshment table to you, okay?”
Situated a few feet away from her, I busy myself with the handouts while Dory turns her attention to the refreshments. At one point, feeling my gaze on her, she stops and turns to smile at me. Her hands full of flowers, she remarks that she’s
lucky to have late-blooming roses in her garden. I would’ve stuck them in a glass jar, but Dory arranges the heavy-headed pink roses as if she planned on entering them in a garden show. While she sets up the table, I count the handouts to make sure there’s enough for the number of chairs I’ve set up in a circle. On each of the well-worn cushions, I place a stack that deals with the concerns of the meeting: finding the best legal advice; avoiding custody battles; ensuring financial stability; and fighting depression and loneliness.
Frowning in concentration, Dory unwraps her cinnamon-fragrant orange rolls and arranges them on a pottery plate. I wait for the touch that will make it uniquely hers, and sure enough, she brings out a cluster of yellow and purple pansies. As she edges the plate with the sweet-faced blossoms, she murmurs, “Guess I shouldn’t put them on the rolls in case someone eats theirs. They’re perfectly edible, though. I eat my flowers all the time.”
“You shouldn’t tell me that, girlfriend. I’m obligated to have you committed now. One of the perks of my profession.”
She bites off the head of one of the pansies, then widens her eyes in appreciation as she munches. “Umm,” she says with a mouthful of pansy. “This one’s unusually good. Brisk and woodsy, with undertones of … potting soil. Want a bite?”
“I’ll pass.”
She smiles. “Tastes just like chicken.”
“How would you know?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m now a recovering vegetarian.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve never liked chicken.”
“Oh, yeah,” she murmurs. “You’ve always had appalling taste, Clare.”
“Really? And what does that say about my choice of friends?” Suddenly it’s a struggle to keep my voice light, and I catch myself stacking folders next to my chair as though the fate of the world depends on my getting them in the right order.
With a grin, Dory makes an imaginary mark in the air—her way of saying “Score one for you,” which goes back to the early days of our friendship. She still laughs because the first time she did it, I thought she was swatting flies. “The basil in my garden was so pretty that I put it in the dip instead of parsley this time,” she says while anchoring a cluster the size of a baseball on a bowl of goat cheese. Catching my look of longing, she fixes me a cracker and holds it out, and I cross the room eagerly.
“Umm! That’s delicious.” I gobble up the cracker and a sweet roll, then reach for a napkin only to groan when I see it. “Oh, no! What have you done this time, girl?” Not only does Dory bring refreshments for the groups and retreats, she’s amused herself and the participants by bringing napkins with outrageous sayings printed on them. Everywhere she goes, she searches for them. The ones today say, If it comes with wheels or testicles, expect trouble.
“I love the way you spoil us,” I tell her as I lick the cinnamon sugar off my fingers. “If it weren’t for you, I’d bring plain old napkins, donuts, and Maxwell House or Lipton. None of your fancy teas. What do you have for us today?”
She unscrews a tin of herbal tea and holds it under my nose. Dory’s flower and herb gardens are famed far and wide, and she does unbelievable things with her harvest, creating teas and sachets and potpourri and unique arrangements.
“Lemon verbena and rose hip. From the batch I made at the end of May—” She stops herself in time, but I know what she almost said: before the night Son came home drunk and, in a jealous fit, threw out all of the things in the workshop I created for my projects. What he didn’t expect was to land among them once Dory saw what he’d done.
There’s an awkward silence, then she turns to fiddle with an old coffeemaker rigged up to brew her tea. I steal curious glances at her, amazed that she’s behaving so normally, as though she hadn’t left me a mysterious message that I’ve wondered about for a month. She’s cool and put together and lovelier than ever. As Rye so wistfully said, Dory’s looking great these days and has been since her separation from Son. During that time, her unique and understated beauty seemed to ripen and blossom like one of her roses. Today her translucent skin is so radiant it appears lit from within, and her fawn-brown hair, pulled into a long braid down her back, is silkier and more lustrous than ever. But for me, it’s always been about her eyes. Dory has the largest, most expressive eyes of anyone I’ve ever known, the color a gold-and-green mosaic; they’re so luminous they almost glow in the dark, like a cat’s. I’ve always been able to read Dory by searching her eyes.
“So, what’s the verdict?” she says, startling me.
“W-what?”
“Come on, Clare. What did you think, that I wouldn’t notice you staring at me ever since I got here?”
“I was not staring at you,” I say with a forced laugh. “Jesus, you’re such an egomaniac.”
“And you’re such a bad liar.”
“Not true. I’m an expert liar. Quite helpful in my profession.” The tea has brewed, and I take my mug from the rack and fill it with the pale liquid, fragrant with lemon and roses. “This smells heavenly.”
Dory watches me knowingly. She’s dressed with her usual flair, in snug jeans, wedged espadrilles, a loose, embroidered top that must have come from some exotic place on their trip, and dangling earrings of polished sea glass, looped in thin circles of silver. “I must look like shit,” she says, glancing down at herself suspiciously. “This top makes me look fat, doesn’t it? I put on a few pounds in France. French women may not get fat on all that butter and bread and cream sauce, but you can’t say the same about us.”
“Dory! That’s ridiculous. You look great, as usual.” Instead of sipping the tea, I gulp it down, burning my mouth. “If you gained an ounce, I can’t tell it.” Dory’s blessed with one of those willowy, fine-boned bodies that she claims is due to not just her yoga but also all the bending and stooping she does in her yard. She never diets.
She tilts her head suspiciously. “Liar.”
“I’m not lying, I swear! It’s just me. As you’re always reminding me, I’m the same uptight worrywart I’ve always been.” Both of us look away from the other, Dory fiddling with the perfectly set table again, me studying the pattern of the wide-planked floor. Finally I raise my head, swallow hard, and say, “Ah, Dory?”
This time she doesn’t look away when our eyes lock. “Yes, Clare?”
“I’d made up my mind to play it cool this morning until we had a chance to talk,” I confess.
Reaching up to rub the back of her neck, Dory smiles wryly. “Yeah. Me, too. We didn’t quite pull it off, did we?”
“You did a better job than me. I decided not to ask you about … what happened with you and Son, or your trip, or anything. I was waiting to take my cue from you. That’s why I’ve been watching you, not because you look bad or put on weight. I don’t want you thinking that.”
After a moment she asks, “You’ve finished setting up, haven’t you?” When I nod, she says, “The refreshments are ready, so let’s find a quiet corner and talk.”
“Want to go to my office?”
Dory’s expression changes to one of exasperated amusement. “No, Dr. Ballenger, I don’t need a therapy session. Well, I’m sure I do, but let’s go to the courtyard instead.”
“Perfect! It should be more pleasant now that the mornings are cooler. Get yourself a cup of tea and bring it with you, okay?”
It catches me off guard. She picks up her favorite pottery mug with her fine, long-boned fingers, and memories sweep over me: My eyes sting with tears. I turn my head away but not fast enough. “Oh, honey,” Dory says, sighing.
When she reaches out for me, I wave her off, unable to speak, and I move quickly toward the door that leads outside the building. With my back turned to her, I blink away the unexpected tears and take a deep breath, pulling myself together. I go through the door so quickly it slips out of my hand and almost slams in Dory’s face. “Whoa,” she says with a startled laugh. “I’m right behind you, fool, carrying a cup of hot tea.”
Calling the back a
rea a courtyard is a joke between us. When I opened my therapy practice in Casa Loco, an odd U-shaped cottage built at the turn of the century to house a doctor’s clinic, I could afford to rent only an office and a reception room. As my practice expanded, so did my space, and took over the whole house, turning the front into the reception area and space for Etta; one of the wings into a consultation room and my office; the other wing into rooms for group meetings. When I got in a position to buy the property, the owners wouldn’t sell but offered an extended lease to include what they called the “courtyard,” a grassy space between the two wings and walled off in the back from the alley. Dory saw my irritation at them calling the useless area a courtyard and charging extra for it, so she went into action. Treating the nondescript space like a blank canvas, she transformed it into what she calls our Zen garden, where any of us, staff or clients, can go for a few minutes of peace and serenity. After constructing several trellises in her workshop, she secured them around the plain stucco walls, almost to the roof. With utmost patience, she trained morning glory vines to climb them, and the ugly space was soon cocooned in blue flowers. Against the cement wall that blocks off the back alley, she added a concrete fountain surrounded by feathery ferns, its recirculating water a soothing melody to drown out the street noises. A white-pebbled pathway leads to the fountain, with benches on either side.
When she and I sit on one of the wooden benches, I reach out and touch her arm. “Dory? I started thinking about all we’ve been through over the years, and it got to me. That’s why I teared up.”
Her eyes fastened on the gurgling fountain, she nods, a small smile on her lips. “I figured that’s what it was. I’ve been thinking about the past a lot lately, too—I guess with all that’s happened this summer.”
“It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?”
She takes a sip of her tea and glances my way. Her eyes soft, she says, “You’re one cool customer. If I’d gotten a message from you like the one I left, then you’d disappeared for a month, I would’ve died of curiosity.”
Queen of Broken Hearts Page 8