Only Ever Her

by Whalen, Marybeth Mayhew

  Lying there watching her sleep, he decides that he is going to ask her to marry him as soon as possible. Perhaps even while they are on their trip to Charleston. They could find a little jewelry store somewhere, pop in, and pick out a ring. It will be spur-of-the-moment, romantic. He will propose right there in that park by the water, the one with the beautiful fountain. He will make a speech about the future and how he can’t see himself spending it with anyone else but her.

  But of course that is not true.

  Because when he thinks about standing beside a body of water with a woman, he thinks of Annie and how they used to drive to Falls Park, their own park by the water, pretending that they were getting out of Ludlow when they actually weren’t going far enough to qualify. They would take a picnic and eat on a blanket, then lie on their backs by the river, full and warm, and talk for hours. He told Annie everything; he’s never talked to anyone the way he talked to her. And she told him things, too, things she never told anyone else. He saw the real Annie, the flawed one, the struggling one. With him, she didn’t have to be perfect or pleasing. She didn’t have to act grateful for Faye’s care or pretend she and Clary were close just to make everyone think she was appropriately thankful. With him, she could say anything. And she did. She wished aloud for her mother, imagined what her life would’ve been like if she’d lived. With him, she stopped giving the right answers and gave the honest ones.

  Together, they dreamed of escaping Ludlow forever, moving somewhere new where no one knew them, where they could be anything—or anyone—at all. On Tuesday night they’d gone for one last walk—that’s how she’d put it—and he’d thrown caution to the wind. He’d pled with her to leave with him, to finally be brave enough to try being the people they’d dreamed of being, to take a leap of faith with him into another life, to leave it all behind.

  She’d stopped walking and looked at him like he was speaking another language. In that horrible silent moment, he’d wanted to take back everything he’d just said. But it was out there now: his daring, irretrievable request.

  He’d waited as she blinked at him, searching for the right words. Knowing Annie, she’d been searching for the kindest ones, the way to let him down easy. “I can’t do that,” she’d said finally. “Kenny. You know that.”

  Her words had been gentle, softly spoken. But they weren’t gentle or soft. In four words, she had felled him. He’d risked it all by asking, and she’d stood by and watched him topple. Even now, it made him both angry and sad at the same time, rage and heartbreak all tied up together in a tangled knot.

  Sometimes he wonders if the Annie he knows is just one more facet of her, a side she showed him and no one else but only a side, not the total picture. Sometimes he feels like Annie has always been whoever she thought people needed her to be, morphing into a different iteration of herself depending on who she was standing in front of, sloughing off one identity for the next with a callous ease that, looking back, should’ve frightened him. As much as he’d wanted to believe he knew the real Annie, he isn’t sure there is one. In the end, she’d made him feel like everyone else.

  In a flash, he was that boy again—the outsider, the newcomer. He was small and fearful back then, an easy target. People in Ludlow didn’t trust people who hadn’t been there all their lives. They looked at him as trouble simply because he’d been born in a different zip code and was being raised by a single mom. So the parents looked the other way as their kids tormented him. And they blamed him first whenever anything went wrong. As a child, Annie had been the one to rescue him from bullies. Now she was the bully. He could forgive everyone else because that was all he’d come to expect from them. But Annie? Annie had been a different story. Annie’s betrayal had stung in a way that no other had.

  His phone rings again, and his mother’s face appears on the screen again, a photo his girlfriend snapped of him and his mother having lunch after church one day. In the photo, his mother is grinning ear to ear, but Kenny is barely smiling.

  With the phone in his hand, he slips out of bed and heads into the kitchen. By the time he gets there, the phone has stopped ringing, so he fills the kettle with water and puts it on the burner for tea. He doesn’t drink coffee like most people do. He prefers tea. His girlfriend does, too, or she does now. At first, she used to complain that he didn’t have any coffee, but eventually she came around to his way of thinking. Now they sit at the kitchen table in the mornings and sip tea, like people in England do.

  He and Annie used to talk about living in England. Back then, he’d believed with his whole heart that they would someday. He’d been certain she would come around to his way of thinking about the two of them just like his girlfriend had come around to tea instead of coffee. Annie would come to understand that they were meant to be. They would live in London, have children who called her “Mummy” and played in the garden instead of the yard.

  He calls his mother back and listens as she launches into the latest town gossip while he waits for the water to boil. Did he hear that Annie Taft is missing? Didn’t he know her from school? Everyone thinks she’s up and run off with someone else.

  It is all he can do to finish the conversation without saying something to give himself away, to make his mom suspicious. As far as she knows, Annie is an old classmate and nothing more. Her run of morning gossip should be nothing more than idle chitchat and not life-altering news. Annie is missing. People are worried. Rumors are flying. It won’t take long, he knows, for people to figure out that he is at the heart of Annie’s disappearance. It won’t take long for the talk to turn to him. Fingers will point at him, and Annie won’t be there to intervene this time.

  He thinks of his daring request on his last walk with Annie, how people might not understand their friendship if they found out about it, especially now that she’s gone missing. He should come forward, he thinks. He should offer his help, tell what he knows. But that could turn out badly for him. And Annie was going to leave him anyway. Isn’t that what the past few weeks have been about? One long, inevitable goodbye? What will making himself a target change about that? He was always going to lose her one way or another. Annie’s disappearance is sad, but it was always going to be sad. As he listens to his mother drone on and on, he decides to keep quiet, to speak only if spoken to.

  His mother outlines her personal theories about Annie’s disappearance, as well as the theories of some of her cronies, as he remembers what happened after Annie turned him down. A residual fear creeps back into his throat, making it hard to swallow. He listens until the kettle begins to whistle, until the shrill sound drowns out his mother’s words and, in the next room, wakes his sleeping girlfriend from her dreams.

  Clary

  It was Faye who decided that the two of them would go to the country club in person to explain that there would be no bridesmaids’ luncheon. Clary knows that Faye is hoping they will make allowances for this last-minute cancelation, cluck their tongues and say, Well, of course you won’t be charged a penny at a time like this. Clary doesn’t think this will be the case, but she goes along with Faye because it is easier than trying to talk sense into her. Faye isn’t in the mood to listen to sense.

  She walks in just behind Faye, spying as she does two employees dismantling the table configurations for the bridesmaids’ luncheon as if they already know that it is not to be. Faye and Clary pause to watch as the two women tug on either end of a long table, breaking it in two. On the table closest to the door there are, as promised, the two boxes of decorations intended for this occasion. Faye had made her deliver them to Hunt Run Country Club last week on her way to drive Miss Minnie. She’d driven there with her teeth gritted, internally cussing both Faye and Annie. Either one of them should’ve been running the errand, but they were too busy. Get Clary! She’ll do it!

  Clary can see, peeking out of the top of the boxes, the mason jars that were supposed to be filled with wildflowers, in keeping with the farmer’s market theme that Annie came up with. They were
all supposed to wear floral sundresses, and the food was going to be locally sourced and fresh. Annie’s eyes had shone as she talked about it.

  Clary thought it was all a little silly, but she could see what Annie was going for. It would’ve been lovely, of course. And all the other bridesmaids would think it was adorable. Because it was. Just like everything Annie did. If cuteness were a trait that could be inherited, Annie got their family’s allotment.

  Clary recalls accompanying Annie and Faye to the appointment with the wedding photographer.

  “What tone do you want for your photos?” the photographer, earnest and intent, had asked.

  Tone? Faye had mouthed at Clary, and made a face.

  Making sure Annie and the photographer weren’t looking, Clary had rolled her eyes in response and Faye had smiled. In that moment, they’d been mother and daughter, of a pair, as it should be. Annie wasn’t part of them; she was different.

  Which was why she wasn’t confused at all by the photographer’s question. “Oh, I know some people go for romantic or moody or whatever. But I’m none of those things.” She’d thought about it for a second and shrugged. “I’m cute,” she’d said, and wrinkled her button nose as if to prove it. “I’ve heard it all my life. So I say let’s go with that.”

  “Yes,” Clary had said, sounding serious when really she was getting a dig in. “Let’s definitely play up your cute factor.”

  The next time no one was looking, Annie had flipped her the bird, then gave a grin that lit up her face and was—it had to be said—adorable. They’d both cracked up laughing because what else could you do except love each other anyway, somehow?

  Clary feels tears prick her eyes, scans the room as if she expects Annie to magically appear, to wink at her and say, Gotcha! You didn’t think I was actually missing, did you?

  I wish this was nothing more than an elaborate—and sadistic—practical joke, Clary thinks. I’d want to kill her for it, but I’d be so happy to see her I wouldn’t actually kill her.

  She goes to one of the boxes, reaches to pick it up and haul it away, but stops when she spies the bridesmaids’ gifts inside, stemless champagne flutes etched with each girl’s initial. And labels Annie had printed for the bottles of champagne she was supposed to be bringing today that say, I’LL ONLY BE A HAPPY BRIDE IF I HAVE MY GIRLS BY MY SIDE.

  She supposes it would’ve been Faye and her in a corner this morning, slapping the damn labels on the bottles, another thankless task in a stream of thankless tasks in the name of “Annie’s wedding.” She thinks of Tracy and Faye and herself. Not to mention the other girls in the wedding party, high school and college and work friends of Annie’s. They are all ready to be by Annie’s side just like those labels say. But Annie isn’t there. Clary wants to pull her hair out, to scream loudly, anything to relieve the pressure building steadily inside her with each minute that passes without Annie.

  Faye puts her hand on Clary’s back, and the touch softens her some, helps her remember why they are there. Faye marches forward, asks to speak to someone in charge, and one of the girls takes one look at Faye and scurries out the rear door of the room, off to fetch her supervisor. This conversation is above her pay grade. When Clary tries to look the other girl in the eye, she drops her gaze to the floor, and Clary knows everyone has already heard that Annie is missing and there will be no bridesmaids’ luncheon as planned.

  After a quick conversation with the supervisor, Faye turns to Clary. “We should just take these things home and store them,” she says. She is holding her eyes wide open as she says it, the way she does when she is forcing herself to be optimistic. Clary has seen those same eyes before, when the chocolate in their hidden Easter eggs had melted on an unseasonably hot Easter Sunday, striping their pastel dresses with unsightly brown stains. She’s seen them when she left for Charlotte after graduation—but not to attend college. She’s seen them when Pastor Melton rang the doorbell, holding a fistful of plastic forks and wondering if Annie knew anything about them. Clary knows that when her mother is wearing that expression, she’d be better off to go along with whatever she says. So she turns to the boxes with a barely repressed sigh.

  “What are we going to do with this stuff?” she asks aloud, not expecting an answer.

  Put it away for your wedding, she imagines Annie saying with a wink.

  And then Clary would say, As if I would ever do something this tacky. I mean, really, Annie, mason jars as centerpieces? You’re so basic.

  Then Annie would cock her head, study Clary’s hair, and ask something stupid like, Do you even know what color your hair actually is anymore?

  Then Faye would shake her head, give a weary laugh, and say, You girls. And in their bickering, all would be right with the world, because this is how they are. This is who they are. Annie is supposed to be there, being a pain in Clary’s ass. Without her, Clary doesn’t know who she is. She has been Annie Taft’s cousin, played that all-important role, for the better part of her life. And she is still playing it, harder than ever, but this time without Annie.

  She reaches to pick up the box of mason jars instead of the box with those champagne labels. Beside her, Faye bristles, and she can feel it as if she is in Faye’s skin and is bristling herself. She looks across the room, in the direction of the doorway where Faye is looking. A young woman who looks vaguely familiar has entered the room but stops short upon seeing them. The young woman is carrying a camera and, when she sees them, she pulls it into her chest, like a mother might pull a child about to be harmed.

  Faye strides across the room, and Clary, curious, follows her. She has realized who the young woman is. Laurel Haines. Her boss’s wayward daughter, returned home. Though Glynnis had mentioned her being back more than once, this is the first time Clary has seen her. She knew Laurel in high school, of course—everyone did; she was Laurel Haines, after all—but she was definitely not friends with her. She and Laurel were not the same kind of people then, and Clary guesses they probably aren’t now, either.

  “You might as well put that away,” Faye snaps at Laurel, and Clary knows this is not Faye’s first time to see the girl since she returned. Clary knows that she is working for the Ludlow Ledger—a favor Tad Collins paid Glynnis on account of their families being friends for so long. This delighted Clary to no end to hear. She remembers Laurel’s graduation speech about her dream of traveling the world as an investigative reporter. Guess that didn’t work out so well. Clary thinks that, okay, maybe they do have that in common—life not ending up the way they thought it would in high school. She almost feels sorry for Laurel, walking directly into Faye’s line of sight on a day like today. “This is no place for you today,” Faye adds.

  “With all due respect,” Laurel responds, “Annie’s wedding was news in this town. Now, with her disappearing, it’s even bigger news.” She swallows and grips the camera tighter, as if Faye might snatch it from her hand. “It’s my job to report the story.” Her voice wavers, and she looks over at the country club employees, who are openly watching the exchange.

  “I think you should leave,” Faye says. “Be respectful of what we have to do here.”

  “I’m just doing my job,” she repeats, and her voice sounds the tiniest bit whiny.

  “Like I give a rat’s ass about your job,” Faye says, and sniffs like she smells something bad. “All I care about right now is finding my niece. But first I have to—” Faye’s voice breaks, and Clary puts her hand on her mother’s shoulder to bolster her. Don’t fall apart now, here, Mama, she thinks.

  Faye looks at Clary, gathers the strength Clary is offering, and looks at the reporter. “First I have to collect the decorations for a bridesmaids’ luncheon that isn’t going to happen. You want something to report, report that.”

  Faye turns and walks back toward the boxes, leaving Clary to stare down the reporter long enough for her to lose her nerve and bolt from the room still gripping that camera. Clary stands and waits to feel good for winning, for besting Laurel H
aines, a feat she would’ve relished in high school. But all she feels is bad, and all she wants to do is set things right, if only she knew how.

  Laurel

  Laurel pauses outside the small ballroom that was to have been the site of Annie’s bridal luncheon. She debates going back in, standing her ground. She shouldn’t have let Faye run her out like that. It’s like Damon said, how is she ever going to be the kind of investigative reporter she wants to be if a small-town hairdresser can scare her off? But she doubts Damon has ever been stared down by Faye Wilkins.

  She hears the ugly voice inside her head—the one that sounds like a really mean version of her mother: This is why you couldn’t cut it in Minneapolis. This is why you’ll never cut it anywhere. You might as well let your mother find you a husband, join this country club, and learn to play tennis. She looks back over her shoulder, watches through the small pane of glass as Faye and Clary heft boxes of champagne flutes and mason jars and exit the rear door. She would’ve liked to get a photo of that. A picture is worth a thousand words, after all.

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me you’re just following the story of the missing bride,” she hears a familiar voice say behind her left shoulder, “but it looks like you’re just using that as an excuse to be nosy.” He’s got a lazy, confident drawl, the kind of voice that women respond to. And he knows it.

  She turns to face Damon. “What are you doing here?” she asks, sounding caught. Which, she supposes, she is.

  He grins, points down at his tacky shoes with the cleats growing out of the bottoms. “I play here with my dad every Thursday. Seven thirty a.m. tee time.” He holds out his arms as if he owns the place, which he might. “Been doing it for half my life.”

  Damon moves closer to her, past what would be considered a professional distance. He grins again, and she smells liquor on his breath, suddenly aware that golfing is not the only thing he and his dad have been doing this morning. She glances from side to side to see if anyone else sees them. She can’t let anyone in this club see her and Damon looking even the least bit cozy, or Glynnis will hear and get the wrong idea.