He gestured to Dr. Stroud. “It’s an honor to work with you and I look forward to serving the community.” So it wasn’t the smoothest ending, but he needed to step away.
There was a polite wave of applause like a bag of popcorn reaching the end of its cycle in the microwave. He moved to the side, whispering, “I’ll be right back.” Regan’s perfect mouth turned down in a pout, but she released her grip, and he scooted around the guests and headed for the porch. Stroud’s voice followed Jem as he passed through the French doors and into the living room.
“The bathroom is on the left.” A big man with a full beard pointed out a door as he passed. Jem nodded and went inside, closing the door behind him and locking it. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Why had he recited those lines? Was he trying to cause Lucy— or himself—pain?
Only one other person in the room would recognize Robert Browning’s poem “Love Among the Ruins.” Lucy would, because he had learned it from her, one summer evening ten years ago.
They’d been arguing about whether the poem was about war or love. Of course it was about war, with the line In one year they sent a million fighters forth North and South. Sure, there was the girl with eager eyes and yellow hair waiting in the turret for the poet’s return, but Jem insisted that was just a minor point.
Lucy had stepped forward, put her hands, so soft and warm, on either side of his face, and whispered the words of that poem as they stood on his run-down porch in the middle of a trailer park. The moths had fluttered around the naked lightbulb, bullfrogs had sung for a mate and she had seduced him with a dead man’s words. The yearning in her voice was like an oath. For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in with their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best.
And he’d believed her. Her hands on his cheeks, her words on her—and then his—lips, he had believed that the poem was more than a depressing reminder of the futility of war. He had believed for one perfect month that love could conquer all and that love would win out.
Jem turned to the sink, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. Turning the brass fixtures, he splashed water on his face and wiped it with the spotless hand towel. Finally, he looked up. His dress shirt and suit were still perfectly pressed, but he felt ragged. There was a weariness in his eyes. If only the evening could be fast-forwarded and he could find himself alone, somewhere quiet. He was bone tired and it had nothing to do with sleep.
He had known coming back to Tupelo would be hard. He didn’t need to make it any harder than it already was. No more poetry, no more dredging up old memories. He had work to do here, and as soon as his debt was paid, he would move. Maybe near his mama in Birmingham, maybe Boston, or even Los Angeles, where it would be always sunny and never humid.
Minutes later, he was back in the garden. It looked as if they’d already awarded Stroud his plaque or award, or whatever it had been. He hoped that meant the party was winding down and he’d be able to slip out soon without much notice. Lucy was gone from where she’d been at the edge of the garden. He glanced around the area, not wanting to seem obvious, hating himself for needing to know where she was, angry at not being able to stop looking.
Regan appeared at his side as if summoned. “You’re not havin’ a good time, are you? I can tell.” She smiled up at him, tossing her hair over one bare shoulder. “I can read emotions really well and you’re bored.”
He nodded without listening. Bored wasn’t the emotion he was feeling, but he didn’t want to explain.
“I know!” She grabbed his hand. “Next weekend I’ll throw a party and introduce you to all my friends. We totally know how to have a good time.”
He looked down at their hands, intertwined, and wondered how it had happened. “Regan, I’m not sure . . .”
“It’ll be fun. Come on, you can’t spend all your time in that clinic. My daddy is a doctor and I know the type of man you are. Work, work, work. My mom has to drag him out on vacations or he’d work himself to death. I won’t let you get all isolated and lonely.” Regan seemed to become more and more animated as she considered how to save Jem from himself. She waved to a friend and called out. “Donna, listen to this. We’re havin’ a party for Jem next weekend.”
In seconds he was surrounded by giggling girls, all shouting suggestions over each other. Jem had never felt less like a party, but there wasn’t any good reason to refuse. It wouldn’t hurt anyone. The evening couldn’t be any worse than this one.
She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! Alas! She must confess to herself that she was not wise yet.
—ANNE ELLIOT
Chapter Seven
Lucy was nearly to the stairs when she glanced up and froze. Jem was opening the patio doors, his gaze searching the groups of guests, probably looking for Regan. Lucy turned on her heel and walked as quickly as she could toward a row of crepe myrtle trees. If she could just blend in until he was distracted, then she might be able to slip back inside without having to come face-to-face.
Just the idea of meeting his eyes made her throat tighten. The remaining heat of the day, the crowd of bodies, the music, all pushed against her mind. Jem had only said a few words, but they were a message to her, reminding her of how she had treated him.
Regan appeared, grabbing on to Jem. He moved to the side, now only feet away from Lucy. He was still focused somewhere out in the garden and seemed to be barely listening to Regan’s chatter.
Lucy edged farther into the low-hanging boughs and swallowed hard, wishing she were somewhere, anywhere, but here. She’d been so young then, but it wasn’t an excuse. It was wrong to deliberately break someone’s heart. It was the sort of wrong that stamped the rest of your life with a curse. She had asked God for forgiveness, but that didn’t mean her life would be easy. A price had to be paid for that kind of action, and part of it must be standing here and watching Regan flirt with Jem. She couldn’t help overhearing every word, every giggle. Lucy shot a glance to the left and thought, if she were very quiet, she might be able to move away without his noticing.
Just then, Regan waved a hand and a crowd of girls rushed over, surrounding the couple and effectively boxing Lucy into the tiny space left under the myrtle. And now they were planning a party. Well, at least she wouldn’t be expected to go. She wrapped her arms around herself and resolved to wait until they had moved on, maybe to the dance floor or the bar.
Lucy glanced up, her gaze meeting Theresa’s. Her blue eyes flashed surprise at seeing Lucy under the myrtle tree, clearly not part of the group. “Why are you hiding back there in the bushes?” Theresa called out, craning her neck to see past the group of girls surrounding Jem.
Lucy tried to motion that she would be out in just a moment, hoping no one had heard, but it was too late. Jem turned to see who was behind him. Their eyes met, surprise and confusion crossing his face. For one awful moment, Lucy thought she might cry. She felt the burn of tears at the corners of her eyes and pretended to adjust her sleeve, fiddling with the folds of pale-pink silk. He probably thought she was hovering in his shadow, hoping for a moment to speak with him, to reminisce over that evening on the porch.
Theresa politely forced her way through the girls surrounding Jem in a mass of glittering jewelry and little black dresses to where Lucy stood. “Got trapped back here?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
There was a short silence and she felt Theresa’s gaze on her. “I’m not much for parties, myself.”
“I did enjoy the orgeat.” Lucy felt that she was being rude, obviously unhappy to be in the middle of the Strouds’ celebration.
Her comment was greeted by a warm chuckle. “That’s something, I suppose.”
Lucy couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her mouth. “Not just the orgeat, of course.”
“Of course.” Theresa patted Lucy’s hand. “You know, Jane Austen has a lot to sa
y about girls who hide in corners.”
“Really?” Nothing Austen could say would make Lucy’s heartache any less. She could see Jem clearly, more than a head taller than his admiring fans. He seemed bemused and flattered by the flirting directed his way.
“Perhaps not exactly, but something close. She said that there was nothing better than staying home, for comfort.” Theresa cut a glance at the ever-increasing group of pretty girls in front of them, all doing their best to get Jem’s attention. “For once, I don’t think Austen is right.”
Lucy tried not to laugh, but Theresa’s dry wit combined with the Creole drawl was too much. Lucy felt it rise up in her throat and couldn’t force it back. At the sound, Jem turned. His face wore an expression she couldn’t quite define. The girls directly in front of Lucy and Theresa peered over their shoulders, wearing matching expressions of annoyance. One dark-eyed girl hitched her ruby-red lips in a tiny Elvis sneer as she flicked her gaze up and down Lucy’s outfit, before turning her toned back on them.
“Enough hiding.” Theresa tugged Lucy through a small gap between the myrtle tree and a slender blonde in a black bandeau dress. The band was playing an Irish-sounding folk tune, and the guests had started to drift toward the dance platform, spurred on in equal measure by melody and alcoholic beverages. Theresa greeted several people as they moved through the living room and then came to a stop near the punch table. She measured out a portion of pink lemonade and passed it to Lucy. “Nothing like a group of sweet Southern girls to block you into a corner.”
Lucy felt the embarrassment fading with every second that passed, and it was quickly being replaced with shame. She was a professional woman who had let a group of her sister’s college friends make her feel inadequate. It shouldn’t have taken an act of bravery to interrupt their squee-fest over Jem.
“I just didn’t want to make a fuss,” she managed, and hated herself for the excuse.
“Women can be vicious. They’re probably real nice folks, but some of these girls never learned to take their manners out of their pockets and put them in their mouths.” Theresa sighed. “Sometimes it’s easier to not draw attention to yourself.”
“No, it wasn’t that. I have two sisters who never fail to tell me how terrible my hair looks, so a few dirty looks don’t bother me a bit.” Lucy didn’t know Theresa that well but she admired her already. She didn’t want Theresa to think she couldn’t walk through a wall of college kids, no matter how many diamonds they were wearing.
Theresa shot her a look, blue eyes assessing. “You’re avoiding Jem?”
“Not at all,” Lucy said too quickly. “No.”
“He’s a wonderful young man. You would think he’d have such a big head about being blessed with those looks and having a medical degree, to boot.” Theresa looked back across the room toward the garden. “I’ve seen him with his patients. He’s truly kind in a way that only comes from being raised up right.”
Raised up right. Lucy’s aunt had said he was trailer trash and would never amount to anything. Lucy could never have believed it, but had allowed herself to act as if it were true.
Paulette strutted toward them, breaking into Lucy’s train of thought. “You won’t believe what just happened.”
“Someone is wearing the same dress as you?”
Paulette rolled her eyes. “No, I went to the bar to ask for a mojito and that guy Johnny said he didn’t make mojitos. Then he offered to make me a mint julep, in one of those silver cups and everything.”
“Did you know they say the true cause of the Civil War was some Northerner adding nutmeg to a mint julep?” Lucy asked.
“Is that a joke?” Her sister glared. “I don’t care what goes in a mint julep because I’ve never had one and I never will. They’re totally uncool, and nobody drinks them except for old guys in seersucker suits and bow ties.” Paulette’s expression faded from anger to confusion as she glanced at Theresa and realized that she was speaking to the hostess, who was married to the only man at the party in a full seersucker suit and a bow tie.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Theresa said. “I actually like a mint julep on a hot day. Crushed ice, sprig of mint. Almost better than sweet tea, if you’ve got nowhere to be and don’t have to drive.”
Lucy cocked her head. “Paulette, didn’t you drive here tonight?”
Paulette shrugged. “One drink isn’t going to hurt anybody.”
“I thought I saw you holding something when I first came in . . .” Lucy broke off, searching her memory. Janessa didn’t drink, and Lucy would drive her daddy home, so she wouldn’t be counting his glasses. But Paulette wasn’t the kind of girl who believed cautionary tales. She learned by experience, which, so far, hadn’t been a total disaster, but it had the potential to ruin her life in a big way.
“I’ve only had two. Plus, it’s a long party and I ate something before I drove here. I deserve to have a good time once in a while, and if Daddy doesn’t care, why should you?”
For the first time, Lucy wondered whether Paulette followed their daddy’s example, or if she acted this way to get his attention. Lucy’s gaze dropped to the tiny, insanely expensive purse. Paulette was spending money as if it grew on a tree in their backyard, even though she knew their family was in mountains of debt. And still Daddy didn’t pay her any mind. Lucy felt a stab of pity for Paulette that had, for once, nothing to do with the fact her sister had zero common sense.
Paulette nodded toward the garden. “I’ve got to get back out there. Maybe I’ll meet the one tonight. I think Regan’s found herself a new guy. He sure looks better than the last boyfriend. He was a bouncer up at the Hoot ’n Holler Bar and had tattoos up both arms. She told me she thought he was so hot until he got his nipples pierced. She just couldn’t get over that.”
Lucy already knew the guy Regan had reeled in, and he was a far sight better than a pierced bouncer. “Please don’t drink anymore. I don’t want to have to take your keys.”
Paulette was already walking away and waved a hand in response. Her sparkly cupcake purse glittered at her hip as she swayed across the room toward the French doors, long hair swishing over her shoulders.
“Do you want me to tell Johnny to hold off on her drinks?” Theresa asked.
“Would you?” Relief flooded through Lucy. The evening was hard enough without having to monitor Paulette’s alcohol intake. “I’ll make sure she’s sober enough to drive at the end of the party, but I won’t be able to stop her if she heads over there for another round.”
“You’re a good girl, watching after your sister like that.” Theresa watched Paulette head out the door into the garden. “She’s real pretty, but she might have a bit of growin’ up to do.”
“I think being the youngest is part of it,” Lucy said, not wanting to be harsh. “And Daddy has always spoiled her.”
“A spoiled woman is a dangerous thing. God love her, somebody’s gotta.” Theresa shook her head. “Be right back,” she said, and was gone.
Lucy let out a long breath and tried not to worry. She scanned the area, searching for her daddy. Maybe there would be a miracle and he’d be ready to head home early. She remembered he was on the deck, and she wandered close to the doors to find him in the middle of a long golf story, both hands gripping an imaginary club that he swung forward in a long arc. He was surrounded by friends and longtime business partners. Lucy admired the way he could hold the attention of a group, bringing the story to a perfectly timed peak, then driving home the punch line. She’d inherited none of his social flare, which had never really bothered her before.
A burst of girlish laughter sounded from Jem’s group and she gritted her teeth. It was perfectly acceptable for Jem to have a good time. She just wished she didn’t have to stand around and watch.
The band switched to a slow Cole Porter number, and Regan led Jem toward the dance floor. He seemed so tall, just a memory of the boy she u
sed to know. He laid a hand on Regan’s hip, but she slipped both arms under his jacket, pressing herself against him and swaying to the music.
Lucy felt a pulse pound in her throat. When she was little, Janessa would turn on a nature show and force Lucy to watch with her. Lucy hated the episodes where some newborn animal, maybe a gazelle calf, was chased across the savanna by a female lion, finally succumbing under the power and ferocity of the lion’s savagery. In the end, when the baby had finally stopped moving its stick-thin legs and its tiny, black hooves were still, Lucy would let out a breath of relief. The suffering was over, the worst was past.
Watching Jem’s arms wrapped around Regan, Lucy felt as if she were stuck in a never-ending loop of that tragic scene on the African savanna. Something precious was dying, and she wished it would just be finished so she could stop praying for a different outcome. Once it was settled, she would focus on repairing what was left of her heart. Until then, Lucy was frozen in time, seeing the way Jem bent his blond head, wishing she were the girl being held in his arms, being whispered to in the middle of a garden party on a perfect Southern summer night.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, the kind of day that made a person glad to be alive, but Jem slouched in his kitchen and stared at the cell phone sitting silent on the tiled counter top. Every Sunday afternoon, he called his mama. Loralee was full of news, near and far, and always good for a joke or two. They were geographically nearer to each other now than when he’d been in Boston for so many years, but they’d always been close. The Sunday phone call was a tradition they’d started the week he’d left for college, and he usually looked forward to it. Now he wondered if she would call the National Guard if he didn’t check in.
The sun shone through the window into the tiny blue kitchen with a particular fierceness and Jem decided to sit outside on the old porch swing. The rental house was clean and tidy, nothing fancy, but that porch swing was a bit of luxury. He settled his back against the warm slats and set the phone beside him. She was probably out gardening, or maybe she and her friends were down at the community center, helping out with some dinner or fund-raiser. She might not even pick up, Jem told himself.
Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread Page 9