She bent over her garden and dug her small, oval nails into the soil, squeezing it between her fingers. Her eyes swam in water, and through the white noise of pain in her ears, she heard the car door slam, the roar of an engine and the grind of tires along dry cement. When the sound of his car disappeared, she felt a tremendous sense of loss. They couldn’t continue on like this, she thought, sniffing loudly. When he came home they’d have a long talk, maybe go out to dinner. Wiping her eyes with her elbow, she methodically tugged out scores of the tiny invasive clovers, ripping them out one by one, quick and neat.
* * *
By six o’clock that evening Tom was long out of her thoughts. Her day was busy and she didn’t have time to dwell. In truth, Tom was gone so much of the time lately that she’d learned to cope without him. She was chief cook and bottle washer around here. The children depended on her. She knew she was the axis upon which their worlds spun. On this first day of summer, Finney had won the football game for his team with a score in the last quarter and Bronte had come home with a triumphant smile and bags of clothes she’d bought on sale at Nordstrom’s with her birthday money. Eve wiped her hands at the sink, feeling especially pleased with herself because, despite all the chauffeuring, she’d found time to shop at the farmer’s market and bake an angel food cake to serve with the fresh berries. She’d surprise the children and serve it with a cheery, “Happy first day of summer!”
“Children, dinner!” she called up the stairs. After hearing their mumbled replies from behind closed bedroom doors, she hurried out the door to her garden to pluck a few flowers for the table. So early in the season, it was slim pickings. Many of the flowers were just gaining ground. She stood with her chin in her palm, considering the selection.
“Mom! Telephone!” Finney’s voice cracked on the final syllable.
She smiled, then checked her watch. “Is it a solicitation?” She couldn’t abide those pesty calls at the dinner hour. She snipped off one rose, then two more, careful of the slant. After a moment, she heard Finney again.
“Mom! She says it’s important.”
Irritation tightened her lips. These telephone solicitors were getting so cagey. “Well, who is it?”
“She says she’s from San...San...something hospital.”
Eve felt a chill and a cloud passed overhead. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. As though she were a remote stranger looking through a lens, she turned her head and saw her world, sharpening the focus. She saw her lovely redbrick Prairie-style house with its imposing porte cochere lined in front by broad-leafed rhododendron, the shadow of her fourteen-year-old daughter in the windows on her way to the dining room for dinner with a telephone to her ear, her lanky twelve-year-old son leaning against the frame of the open front door awaiting her instructions with the impatience of youth. This was her perfect world and instinctively she knew she’d better take a good last look.
Her breath exhaled in a prayer. “You’re just being ridiculous,” she told herself. She had such a flair for the dramatic. Tom was on grand rounds at San Diego Hospital. It was a message from him. What was the matter with her lately?
“Tell them I’m coming!” she called to Finney. She gathered the roses, then ran up the front steps, surprised at how wobbly her knees felt. She ignored Finney’s darkened gaze and went straight to the phone lying on the kitchen counter.
“Hello,” she managed to get out through dry lips. “This is Mrs. Porter.”
“Hello, Mrs. Porter,” came the soft, even tones of the faceless woman. “This is Dr. Raphaelson at San Diego Medical Center.”
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Are you married to a Dr. Thomas Porter? From Riverton, Illinois?”
“Yes...”
There was a brief pause. Eve felt the heaviness of the delay as an anvil on her own chest. Her breath stilled.
“Mrs. Porter, I’m very sorry to inform you that your husband had a heart attack this afternoon.”
She clutched the telephone. “What? How? Where?”
“He was at the hospital when the attack occurred, but it was too severe. I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter. We did everything we could.”
None of this made any sense to her. Tom was at the San Diego Hospital for grand rounds. He would be gone for two days and then he’d come home. They had things to talk about, to settle between them. What was this woman talking about?
“No, that’s not possible.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Porter. Your husband died at two-thirty this afternoon, western time.”
The woman’s words were knocking on her brain but she wouldn’t let them in. “I’m sorry.” Knock. “Very sorry.” Knock. If she opened up to the meaning, she knew she’d hear the toll, He’s dead, dead, dead. She felt frozen. The phone dropped out from her splayed hands along with the three rose stems. Looking down, she saw pricks of blood trickling down her palm but she couldn’t feel a thing.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. In her ears was a relentless roar of waves. With halting breaths she slowly looked around the room, her eyes wide with shock. In front of her were the frightened faces of Finney and Bronte, who were instinctively moving closer to her. She held out her hand to ward them off, not wanting to be touched. She shook her head as her heart thumped loudly and her mouth worked soundlessly. Those cursed, painful words were forcing their way into her brain, their meaning scorching, cracking the ice and shattering her defenses. Tom was dead.
The searing words created a furnace in her chest, fueled by her pain, burning away her denial, creating a pressure in her chest until she couldn’t hold it back any longer. She knew she was going to erupt. She slapped her palms against her mouth but the pain burst through, bellowing forth as a primeval scream at the top of her lungs.
Then she wrapped her arms around her children, pressed them close and felt them cling tight to her; Bronte’s head beside hers, Finney’s against her chest.
Two
The time is here for me to leave this life.
I have fought the good fight.
I have finished the race.
I have kept the faith.
—II Timothy, 4:6-8
The verse Eve chose for Tom’s funeral Holy Card.
Saint Luke’s Catholic Church, like the village of Riverton, was small but important. The gothic architecture, with its dark wood and beams, the blazing beauty of the stained glass and the intricate grillwork, was an impressive display of both artisan talent and the devotion of wealthy patrons. Riverton’s Catholics fell to their knees in Saint Luke’s in consistently steady numbers each Sunday. Yet, even by Riverton’s standards, the turnout for Tom Porter’s funeral service was impressive. Well-dressed people, their summer tans glowing, overflowed the narrow aisles and spilled outside the arched wooden doors.
Doris Bridges took her place at the front of the church. She held her hands firmly on the pew ahead of her, and with her chin held at a jaunty angle, she viewed the procession of people much in the manner of a general surveying the troops. She was broad-boned and wide-hipped, and her full chest heaved with a deep, personal satisfaction. It was a good thing she’d stepped in at the last minute to take charge of the funeral arrangements, she thought to herself. She hated to think what a fiasco it could have been without her. A travesty. Poor Eve, she was utterly despondent. Usually her friend was so organized and creative, but Tom’s death had shocked her into a comatose state. And her in-laws... Useless. They were positively ancient! Certainly not up to the task of a large funeral. Doris mentally patted herself on the back for doing what any good friend would have done.
And she’d done well, she thought, looking over the altar with a proprietary air. Dozens of tall, white lilies adorned the snowy linen-draped altar. Beside it, near the communion rail, stood a table on which she’d placed a large, recent photograph of Tom and a single, spectacular
assortment of white flowers. Eve adored flowers. Doris had personally selected the unusual blooms, knowing Eve would notice her touch. She couldn’t trust a florist not to fill in the arrangement with carnations.
Doris sat a pew behind the grieving family, far enough to allow them privacy, but close enough that others would know she was a close, personal friend. She tilted her head and casually searched the crowd for familiar faces. Of course, she knew many of the people, either through social contacts, school or business. Her gaze was arrested by a tall redhead sobbing uncontrollably in the side vestibule. Doris didn’t recognize her. Then again, how could anyone get a look at her under that enormous floppy black hat? Well, for pity’s sake, Doris thought with indignation, such a showy spectacle. You’d think she was the widow. Some women had no self-control. It was her duty as a ranking member of the community to set the tone, she supposed. When she made eye contact with the woman, she offered a careful, brief smile of acknowledgment with the message to rein it in. But the woman was oblivious and sobbed on.
She turned to look again at Tom’s widow, who, in contrast, stood still and silent. She appeared little more than a faint shadow behind her black lace mantilla. Doris’s heart seized with love for her friend. Here was a woman who deserved to sob. Eve was so utterly alone! Tom had been the pillar of her life. He had such vivacity and drive. He was well-known, liked and respected by everyone. Eve, however, was a private sort of person, very warm and friendly, but reserved. Tom and the children made up her world. And though she volunteered her time, she wasn’t social. Doris recalled how once, over coffee, Eve had confided that the most important women in her life were the Book Club. Doris, who was extremely social, had understood and quietly agreed with her.
Where were the girls? she wondered, craning her neck to scan the crowd.
She spotted Gabriella across the aisle seated with her husband, Fernando, and their four children. They nearly filled the whole pew. The apples certainly didn’t fall far from the tree in that bunch, she thought as she surveyed the long line of gleaming black hair on the bowed heads. They were a handsome family, devoted to each other. Gabby was loved by everyone who knew her, not only because her dazzling, wide smile and dancing, dark eyes cheered everyone simply by looking at her, but because her intrinsic goodness was obvious in her generous, caring gestures. It was typical of Gabby that in the past several days she had fretted over lackluster Eve and her poor, fatherless bebés and had brought truckloads of home-cooked meals to Eve’s house. It was no wonder Gabby’s shoulders drooped today.
Behind Gabriella sat Midge Kirsch, alone as usual. She wasn’t an attractive woman physically, but even at a distance anyone could see the strength in the straightness of her lean shoulders, the steadiness of her dark-eyed gaze and the dramatic clash of a long, flowing black skirt and a military-blue shawl. Of course, you had to be tall to carry off such vintage clothing, Doris thought with a sniff. But she had to admit Midge delivered her own signature style to everything she did.
Annie Blake walked up the aisle, then paused just outside her own pew. Doris felt a flush of envy and sucked in her gut as she caught sight of Annie’s willowy figure draped in an impeccably cut, dove-gray suit of a quality worthy of a successful lawyer. Everything about Annie smacked of sleek control. Her gray, sexy-high patent pumps shone, her itsy-bitsy black leather purse screamed order, and not one of her fine, perfectly blended gold hairs dared to slip from the chignon at the nape of her long neck. No matter how much money she spent, Doris knew she’d never look like that. Deep in her heart, Doris was convinced it was a cult secret that thin, attractive, successful women kept to themselves just to drive plump, dumpy women like herself crazy.
Annie’s catlike gaze flicked expertly over those who sat nearby and Doris knew no detail escaped that radar sweep. When her gaze fell on Doris and their eyes met, Annie smiled in polite recognition, then with the quick decision typical of Annie, gracefully slipped in beside Midge.
Doris’s hand smoothed the creases from her navy linen skirt that was straining at the buttons. It was several years old, not at all as stylish as Annie’s, but a good suit was designed to last. Hadn’t her mother worn Chanel suits that were decades old? Quality was always in style, her mother always told her. Still, the waistband pinched mercilessly and Doris promised herself as she sucked in her stomach that tomorrow she’d begin that protein diet she’d been reading about. And exercise, too. God only knew how many tomorrows we all have, she thought, looking again at the gleaming wood-and-brass casket that rested before the altar.
Who could have imagined Tom Porter would die so suddenly? She’d always thought he was full of life, so handsome with his quick smile and flashing dark eyes. More than once she’d envied Eve for the happiness and passion that was obvious in their marriage. So unlike her own. Doris brought her fingertips to her lips. It was always a shock when a vibrant man died, but when that person was as young as Tom Porter, everyone took the loss personally. Of course, everyone felt real sorrow and pity for the wife and children left without a husband and father. But an early death hit home because each survivor of a certain age felt the dark shadow pass over, reminding them that death was not reserved only for the old. That each day could be their last.
Feeling a sudden twinge of worry for her own husband, Doris turned her head and searched the entrance for the umpteenth time for sign of him. Her heart beat with hope when she saw Annie’s husband, John, enter the church. His long, Swedish features and the perpetual tan that contrasted with his white-blond hair were easy to spot; he towered over those who clustered near the entrance. His piercing blue eyes scanned the crowd. Doris knew the moment he located Annie because his face broke into a smile at the very sight of her. He moved with the grace of an athlete toward the front of the church to meet his wife, unaware that the heads of women, young and old, turned as he passed. Doris’s heart skipped a beat, wondering what it would be like to be so adored by a man....
Again she anxiously watched the door, expecting R.J. to follow John in. John worked for her husband and it seemed natural that they would arrive from the meeting together. After a few minutes, she checked her watch.
Her worry instantly altered to pique. He was inexcusably late! To think he’d had the audacity to imply that he might not be able to make the Porter funeral at all. Doris recalled how last night she’d put her foot down. Imagine, not showing up for a neighbor’s—a friend’s, a dear friend’s—funeral service just because of a business meeting. It was beyond rude, it was unconscionable. Everyone would notice. She couldn’t help the tsk that escaped from her lips. How could he do this to her? This sort of thing was happening far too often lately, and was growing harder to make excuses for. And his hours... Impossible. She really had to talk to him again about his late nights. He wasn’t a young man anymore. At fifty-four, he drank too much and did nothing but push, push, push with his construction company. That was the right formula for a heart attack. If he wasn’t careful, she’d be the grieving widow. All alone, like Eve.
She shuddered at the thought and glanced warily at the casket, then over at Eve. Poor, poor Eve. The black suit dwarfed her delicate frame and the long, lace mantilla accentuated her face’s wintry whiteness. From beneath the veil, Eve’s watery blue eyes stared at the casket with stricken disbelief. She looked so fragile, paper-thin like the shell of a cicada left behind on the trunk of a tree. A sudden gust of air could blow her away. She was flanked on either side by her two children.
With a sudden rush of emotion, Doris reached out to clutch the hands of her own daughter, Sarah, and her son, Bobby, standing at her sides. Teenagers, they tilted their heads to look at her quizzically, then with embarrassment. She saw bits of herself in their faces, and a lot of R.J., living, breathing proofs of their union. She squeezed their hands tightly. Family was everything, she thought. Poor Eve, to have lost Tom. The thought of losing R.J., of being alone, filled Doris with fear.
* * *
Annie couldn’t wait to be alone. She stood at the base of the church’s outside stairs tapping her foot, waiting for John to bring the car around. A final few stragglers chatted in small clusters in the open vestibule, but everyone else had left, either for the open house at Eve’s, or home.
Annie felt consumed with an unusual despondency, a strange sense of floundering in rocky waters. Tom’s death came as such a shock. Just a few weeks ago he was laughing as they chased him out of the living room for a Book Club meeting. She’d come home late from the office to hear the news on the phone from Gabriella. It hit so hard that she’d drank too much wine and clung to John all night long. She was an existentialist and didn’t believe in an afterlife, so why his death shook her so deeply she didn’t know. It’s not like they were even close. Eve was her friend, not Tom, though she liked Tom well enough. The Book Club treated the husbands politely and twice a year they partied together. Nice fellows, but in truth, they barely knew them. The husbands were just sort of there, like window dressing. Still, Tom’s death shook her, shook them all.
Someone she knew hailed her as he passed by and mumbled something about what a terrible shock this all was. She responded in kind and sighed in relief when she saw his back.
God, she hated these things. The somber faces, everyone spewing out pat phrases, and Doris lording over them like a high priestess. And who was that redhead carrying on in the vestibule? She wanted to walk right up to her and slap her! Get a life, lady. He wasn’t your husband, for crying out loud.
Eve hadn’t cried; that’s what troubled her. It pained her to see the stricken look on Eve’s face as they wheeled the casket away. Her instincts told her Eve’s feelings ran deeper than grief. Was it fear? Or perhaps guilt? Over what, Annie couldn’t imagine. Eve and Tom had had one of those perfect marriages that gave the rest of them hope. People could always point to the Porters as living, breathing proof that good marriages still survived. Still, as a lawyer she’d handled many divorces, and over the years she’d learned that behind closed doors there were three sides to every story: his, hers and the truth.
The Book Club Page 2