The Last Mrs. Parrish

by Liv Constantine

  Polynesia, I thought. I turned to look at him. “You’ve been here before?”

  He kissed my cheek. “I have, my darling girl. But never with you.”

  I was somehow disappointed but didn’t quite know how to put it into words. I made a clumsy attempt. “I just assumed we would go someplace neither of us had ever been, so that, you know, we could experience everything together. For the first time.”

  Jackson pulled me down onto the bed and tousled my hair. “I’ve traveled a lot. Any place worth going to is a place I’ve been. Would you have preferred Davenport, Iowa? That’s a place I haven’t seen. You know, I did have a life before we met.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I just wanted this time to be new for both of us, something only the two of us shared.” I wanted to ask him if he’d been here alone or with another woman, but I was afraid to ruin the mood even more. “Bora Bora,” I said. “It’s a place I never thought I’d go to.”

  “I’ve booked an over-water bungalow. You’re going to love it, my sweet.” And he pulled me into his arms once again.

  We were back in our seats as the wheels went down, and we landed at the airport on the tiny islet of Motu Mute. The door opened, and we walked down the jet stairs to be greeted by smiling islanders who draped leis around our necks. I reached out to touch his.

  “I like your lei better. Blue’s my favorite color.”

  He took it from his neck and put it around mine. “Looks better on you anyway. By the way, in Bora Bora, they’re called heis.”

  The warm, fragrant air was intoxicating. I was already in love with the place. We were whisked by boat to our bungalow, which looked more like a lavish floating villa, with glass floors that offered a vision of the lagoon life below.

  Our luggage arrived, and I changed into a casual sundress, Jackson into navy pants and a white linen shirt. His tanned skin against the white shirt made him look even more handsome, if that was possible. We had just settled on our private deck when an outrigger canoe pulled up to our bungalow to serve us champagne and caviar. I looked at Jackson in surprise. “Did you order this?” I asked.

  He looked at me as if I were a naive little country girl. “This is part of the service, my dear. They’ll bring us anything we want. If we choose to stay in for dinner, they’ll bring it to us; in for lunch, we get lunch—whatever our whims dictate.” He spooned a dollop of caviar onto a round cracker and held it to my mouth. “Only the best for my girl. Get used to it.”

  To tell the truth, caviar and champagne were two of my least favorite things, but I supposed I needed to develop a taste for them.

  He took a long sip of champagne, and we sat there feeling the fresh air waft across our faces, mesmerized by the turquoise water before us. I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the sound of the water lapping against the pilings.

  “We have a dinner reservation at eight at La Villa Mahana,” he said.

  I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Oh?”

  “It’s a little gem with just a few tables. You’ll love it.”

  Once again I had that initial feeling of disappointment. Obviously he’d been to the restaurant before. “I suppose you can tell me precisely what to order and what the best things on the menu are,” I said, somewhat flippantly.

  He gave me a cold look. “If you’d rather not go, I’ll cancel the reservation. I’m sure there are throngs of couples on the waiting list who would love to dine there.”

  I felt like an ungrateful fool. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Of course we’ll go.”

  Jackson had already unpacked and carefully hung everything he’d bought for me. The clothing was lined up not only by type of outfit but also by color. Shoes sat on a top shelf over the rod and were separated into flat sandals and heels, every color, every type. He held up a long, white dress with slender straps and fitted bodice. There were more clothes than days we would be there: evening shoes, sandals, bathing suits, cover-ups, jewelry, casual daytime outfits, and floaty slip dresses for evening. “Here,” he said. “This will be perfect for tonight, my beautiful girl.”

  It felt so odd, someone choosing my clothes for me, but I had to admit the dress was lovely. It fit perfectly, and the turquoise drop earrings he’d picked were set off beautifully by the pure white material.

  We stayed in the second night and had dinner brought to us. We sat on our deck and savored the food as well as the setting sun that made pink and blue ribbons across the sky. It was magical.

  This was our pattern—alone in our bungalow one night, the next night at a restaurant like Bloody Mary’s or Mai Kai or St. James. They each had their own delightful ambience, and I especially loved the casual island feel of Bloody Mary’s, with its sand floor and delicious rum cake. Even the bathrooms had sand floors. When we had dinner out, we’d walk along the beach holding hands and make love after getting home. On the nights we ate in, our lovemaking began earlier and lasted longer. My skin was turning a warm brown, and it felt clean and taut, after days in the sun and water. I’d never been so aware of my body, the touch of someone’s hand on me, the thrill of coming together and feeling as one.

  Every moment had been planned by him, from swimming and snorkeling to private tours and romantic dinners. We made love on the sands of a private beach, in a boat on the lagoon, and, of course, in the private haven that was the bungalow. He had thought of everything, down to the smallest detail. And even though there were times I had a small, nagging feeling in my stomach, I never consciously understood how much his need for order and control would overpower my life.

  Forty-One

  I was packed and ready when he came home, excited at the prospect of four uninterrupted days at the Greenbrier with my new husband. We had been married a little over three months. My suitcase was sitting on the bed, and after kissing me hello, he went over to it and opened it.

  “What are you doing? Your suitcase is right there.” I pointed to the matching one by his dresser.

  He gave me an amused smile. “I’m aware.” He pulled out what I had packed, a frown appearing on his face as he looked through all my clothes.

  I stood there, wanting to tell him to take his hands off my things, but the words wouldn’t come. I watched, frozen, as he rifled through everything and looked at me.

  “You do realize this is not some hick bed-and-breakfast like your parents run?”

  I recoiled as though I’d been struck.

  He noticed my expression and laughed. “Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that this is the Greenbrier. They have a dress code. You need a few cocktail dresses.”

  My face was hot with embarrassment and anger. “I know what the Greenbrier is. I’ve actually been there before.” I hadn’t, but I had looked at it online.

  He raised his eyebrows and studied me for a long moment. “Really? When was that?”

  “That’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that you don’t have to go through my things as though I’m a child. What I’ve packed is fine.”

  He threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Have it your way. But don’t come crying to me when you realize you’re wildly underdressed compared to the other women.”

  I strode past him, zipped my case, and flung it to the floor. “See you downstairs.” I went to pick it up when he stopped me.

  “Daphne.”

  I turned around. “What?”

  “Leave it. We have help for that.” Then he shook his head and muttered something under his breath.

  I picked it up. I still hadn’t gotten used to all these people underfoot, waiting to do for me what I could easily do for myself. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcase.” I stormed into the study and poured myself a glass of whiskey. Throwing it back in one swig, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. It burned going down, but then I felt a calmness pervade me and thought, So this is how people become alcoholics. Walking to the window, I drank in the water view, and it settled what was left of my jangling nerves.r />
  I was learning that emotional intimidation could be just as unsettling as physical. Little things had begun to grate on his nerves, and despite my best efforts to please him, nothing was ever good enough. I’d chosen the wrong wineglass or left a damp towel on the wood table. Maybe it would be that I’d forgotten my hair dryer on the counter. What made it even more difficult to live with was the uncertainty. Which Jackson was I talking to now? The one with the easy laugh and charming smile that put everyone at ease? Or the one with the scowl and critical tone who let me know with just one look that I had done something else to disappoint him? He was a chameleon, his transitions so quick and seamless they left me breathless at times. And now he didn’t even think I had the ability to pack my own suitcase.

  A hand on my shoulder startled me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t turn around or answer him.

  He began to massage my shoulders, moving closer until his mouth was on my neck, and his lips sent quivers down my spine. I didn’t want to respond, but my body had other ideas.

  “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m not one of your minions.” I pulled away.

  “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry. This is all a little new for me.”

  “Me as well. Still . . .” I shook my head.

  He stroked my cheek. “You know that I adore you. I’m used to being in charge. Give me some time to adjust. Let’s not have this fight spoil our trip.” He kissed me again, and I felt myself respond. “I’m really more interested in what you’re not wearing this weekend.”

  So I let it go, and off we went.

  We were both in good moods by the time we arrived, and when we entered the sumptuous suite, with deep-red carpets and walls, thick gray draperies, and ornate mirrors and paintings, I felt like I’d stepped back in time. It was enormous and formal and a bit intimidating. There was a dining room table that could seat ten, a formal living room, and three bedrooms. Suddenly I wondered if I had packed the right clothes.

  “It’s beautiful, but why do we need such a large suite? It’s just us.”

  “Only the best for you. I wasn’t going to have us cramped in a little room. Is that what you did when you came here?”

  I tried to picture the rooms I’d seen on the website and waved my hand dismissively. “I stayed in a regular room.”

  “Really? And when was that again?”

  He was looking at me with an amused expression, but his eyes—his eyes were angry.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “You know, I had a best friend. We used to do everything together from the time we were kids. When we were in college, we were supposed to go on a camping trip with his family. He called me the night before and canceled—said he was sick. I found out on Monday that he’d been at a local bar with his girlfriend.” He was pacing now. “Do you know what I did?”

  “What?”

  “I seduced his girlfriend, had her break up with him for me, then I dumped them both.”

  My blood ran cold. “That’s horrible. What did the poor girl ever do to you?”

  He smiled. “I’m joking about the girl. But I did end the friendship.”

  I didn’t know what to believe. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I think you’re lying. And if there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s a liar. Don’t take me for a fool. You’ve never been here before. Admit it now, before it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?” I asked in a voice braver than I felt.

  “Too late for me to trust you.”

  I burst into tears, and he walked over and put his arms around me.

  “I didn’t want you to think I’d never been anywhere nice or been exposed to things you take for granted.”

  He lifted my chin and kissed my tears away. “My darling, you don’t ever have to pretend with me. I love being the one to show you new things. You don’t have to try and impress me. I love that everything is new to you.”

  “I’m sorry for lying.”

  “Promise me it will be the last time.”

  “I promise.”

  “All right, then. It’s all good. Let’s unpack, and then I’ll show you around.”

  As I hung my meager ensembles next to his custom suits and ties, I turned to him with a sinking feeling. “How would you like to do a little shopping after that tour?” I asked.

  “Already in the plans,” he answered.

  The next two days were wonderful. We went horseback riding, spent hours in the spa, and couldn’t get enough of each other in bed. It was our last day, and just as we were on our way to breakfast, my phone rang. It was my mother.

  “Mom?” I could hear in her voice that something was wrong.

  “Daphne. I have some bad news. Your fa—” The sound of her crying came over the line.

  “Mom! What is it? You’re scaring me.”

  “He died, Daphne. Your dad. He’s gone.”

  I started to cry. “No, no, no.”

  Jackson rushed over and took the phone from me, pulling me to him with the other arm. I couldn’t believe it. How could he be dead? I’d just talked to him last week. I remembered his cardiologist’s warning that his full recovery was far from complete. Jackson held me as I sobbed, and gently led me to the sofa while he packed us up.

  We flew straight to the inn and stayed there for the next week. As I watched my father’s casket being lowered into the ground, all I could think about was the day we’d done the same thing for Julie. Despite Jackson’s strong arm around my shoulder and my mother standing next to me, I felt utterly and completely alone.

  Forty-Two

  Jackson wanted kids right away. We’d only been married for six months when he talked me into putting away my diaphragm. I was twenty-seven, he reminded me; it could take a while. I got pregnant the first month. He was delighted, but it took me longer to warm up to the idea. Of course, we had already been tested to make sure he didn’t carry the CF gene. I had the recessive gene, and if he had it as well, we wouldn’t have been able to have a child without the risk of passing on the disease. Even after the doctor’s assurances that we had the all-clear, I still found it hard to get rid of my anxiety. There were plenty of other diseases or birth defects that might await our child, and if I’d learned anything growing up, it was that the worst can and often does happen. I shared my concerns with Jackson over dinner one night.

  “What if something’s wrong?”

  “We’ll know. They’ll do the testing, and if it isn’t healthy, we’ll terminate.”

  He spoke with such detachment that my blood ran cold. “You say it like it’s no big deal.”

  He shrugged. “It isn’t. That’s why they do the tests, right? So we have a plan. Nothing to worry about.”

  I wasn’t finished discussing it. “What if I don’t want to have an abortion? Or what if they say the baby’s fine and it isn’t, or they say it isn’t and it is?”

  “What are you talking about? They know what they’re doing,” he said, an impatient edge in his voice.

  “When my cousin’s wife, Erin, was pregnant, they told her that her baby was going to have major birth defects, but she didn’t end the pregnancy. That was Simone. She was perfect.”

  An exasperated sigh. “That was years ago. Things are more precise now.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Damn it, Daphne, what do you want me to say? Whatever I tell you, you come up with an illogical retort. Are you trying to be miserable?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then stop it. We’re going to have a baby. I certainly hope this nervous Nellie act goes away before the birth. I can’t abide those anxious mothers who worry about every little thing.” He took a swig from his tumbler of Hennessy.

  “I don’t believe in abortion,” I blurted out.

  “Do you believe in allowing children to suffer? Are you telling me that if you found out that our baby was going to have some horrible disease, you’d have it anyway?”


  “It’s not so black-and-white. Who are we to say who deserves life and who doesn’t? I don’t want to make decisions that only God can make.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “God? You believe in a God who would allow your sister to live a life of suffering and then die when she was still a child? I think we’ve seen where God’s position on these things takes us. I’ll make my own choices, thank you very much.”

  “It’s not the same thing at all, Jackson. I can’t explain why bad things happen. I’m just saying that I’m carrying a life inside me, and I don’t know if I could terminate, no matter what. I don’t think I’m capable of that.”

  He got very quiet, pursed his lips, then spoke deliberately. “Let me help you out then. I cannot raise a disabled child. I know that that is something that I am not capable of.”

  “The baby is probably fine, but how can you say you can’t raise a child with a disability or an illness? It’s your child. You don’t throw a life away because it’s not what you consider perfect. How can you not see that?”

  He looked at me a long time before answering. “What I see is that you have no idea what it’s like to grow up normally. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation yet. If—and that’s a big if—it turns out we have something to worry about, we’ll discuss it then.”

  “But—”

  He put a hand up to stop me. “The baby will be perfect. You need help, Daphne. It’s obvious that you’re incapable of letting go of the past. I want you to see a therapist.”

  “What? You’re not serious?”

  “I’ve never been more serious. I won’t have you raising our son with all your phobias and paranoia.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Everything is colored by your sister’s illness. You can’t separate that and what it did to you from your present life. You’ve got to move past it. Put it to bed, for God’s sake. Therapy will close the issue once and for all.”