by Terri Lee
“Pretty much right out of the gate.”
“But you’ve stayed all this time.”
She shifted in her seat. “I’m not really comfortable laying all of Price’s sins on the table. The fact is we’ve both made a mess of things.”
“So where do you go from here?”
“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
“I’m sure about you.” Adam picked up her hand intertwined with his fingers and kissed each knuckle.
She shook her head. “Don’t be.”
“Why not? Are you planning on breaking my heart?”
Savannah studied his face as his lips caressed each finger, his eyes not moving from hers. She didn’t recognize herself, this casually flirtatious person falling into a pair of brown eyes with a dark fringe of lashes. Losing herself a little more each week. He was so young and beautiful, she could…
He makes me feel young and beautiful.
Was that it?
He was young and she wasn’t. But when she was with him, she felt not only young—but full of possibilities. Adam saw her own potential and that was the drug she now craved.
Like an addict, she went searching for a fix every Friday, believing she had everything under control and she could stop anytime she chose. She was invincible on Friday. By Monday the high was wearing off and by Thursday, she was writhing with frustration and came crawling back for more.
“I’m not planning anything,” she said. “That’s the problem. Even with good intentions, people can still get hurt.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let you,” he said.
“Get hurt?”
“Or do the hurting.”
“What a perfect answer. Since I can’t count on myself, I guess I’ll just have to trust you.”
“You’re in good hands.” With a wicked twinkle in his eye, he playfully bit down on one of her knuckles.
“Am I?” she said, laughing.
“I love to see you laugh,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful sound in the world.”
He moved in closer. After a quick glance around the room, he turned his attention back to her. Eye to eye, nowhere to hide.
“Let me make you laugh again.”
“You always make me laugh. And...”
“And?”
He was too close. She couldn’t think when he’d been this close to her, his eyes seeing past her defenses. She could feel the warm flush rush to her cheeks.
“Blush,” she blurted out.
“Blush?” He cocked his head to the side. “Now you’re talking.”
His hand slid under the table and a fingertip drew a circle around her bare knee. Slowly, it inched higher. Her breath came in short little bursts. His eyes never left hers. He was reeling her in while she struggled on the other end of the line. Pulling her out of her element, while pushing at the hem of her skirt. When he got to the middle of her thigh, he squeezed the cotton fabric in his fist and she moaned.
The sound of her voice shook her back to reality. She blinked, her eyes breaking away in a worried glance about the room to see if anyone had witnessed her near-undoing. No gazes were on the two explorers at the back table. Conversations continued to flow, along with the usual coffeehouse clatter. No one noticed she had crossed over another line.
“I think we’ve outgrown this coffee shop,” he said, removing his hand.
He placed the line she’d been both waiting for and dreading among the cups and saucers, then sat back, like it was an unexploded bomb.
Beneath the table, her thigh burned where his hand had been. She swallowed hard.
“I’m listening.”
“Why don’t you stop by my place and let me show you some of the paintings I’ve been working on? Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to talk freely without keeping one eye on the waitress?”
She took a deep breath. “Your place, then?”
With three words she acquiesced. Transformed from a bored well-to-do housewife looking to fill up an hour or two with an art class, to a woman with a lover.
She could have stalled and said, “Let me think about it.” But why? It was the only thing she’d been thinking about for weeks, running headlong down a grassy hill, basking in the glorious recklessness and the wind rushing over her face. Testing her footing against the incline. Not knowing if she’d fly or lose her footing and tumble.
Plans were made. She tucked his phone number and address in her purse, remembering when she’d done the same with an innocent flyer for an art class not so long ago. She had no idea then what the simple decision would lead to. She could have applied the brakes. Instead she hit the gas ignoring the sign warning: Bridge out ahead.
SAVANNAH WALKED up the back steps to the kitchen. She closed the screen door softly and paused, an uneasy quiet in front of her.
“Neenie?” She called out. Something was wrong. No beginnings of dinner on the stove. No aromas dancing about the room with the promise of good things to come. She moved through the kitchen and into the dining room. “Neenie?”
As she made her way into the living room, she could see the older woman sitting on the couch, glued to the TV. “Neenie, what’s going on?”
Neenie looked over at her young charge with tears streaming down her dark cheeks. Without a word, she pointed to the television.
Savannah moved closer, the panic in her chest beginning to burn. “What is it?”
“Oh, child, child. The world’s gone mad.”
Savannah’s hand flew to her mouth but the moan oozed out between her fingers. The president had been assassinated. John F. Kennedy was gone, shot dead in Dallas.
Neenie was still shaking her head in disbelief. “I was watching my story, when the news broke in.”
Savannah sank down on the couch next to Neenie. Clutching hands, the two women gaped in horror, watching the world unravel on a black and white screen and an earnest, choked-up Walter Cronkite trying in vain to put it back together again.
Schools closed early. When her children arrived home, Savannah rushed to meet them, gathering them close. Their initial joy of being let out of classes prematurely was short-lived. They told her how teachers had stumbled around the hallways in tears. Their bus driver white-faced and trembling at the wheel. The normally raucous ride home had been silent. Out of the windows, they saw grown men and women weep openly in the streets. They watched strangers clutch each other, repeating the tearful news or communing in stunned silence.
“Mom, what’s going to happen?” Angela asked.
“I don’t know, Baby. But we’ll be okay.”
Filled with instinctive maternal protection, she tucked her chicks under her wings as an ill wind blew across the country.
Dinner was forgotten. Savannah, Neenie, and the children crammed onto the couch, huddled in a tight circle in front of the television. Savannah sensed every other family in the country was doing the same. A nation of mourners connected through the airwaves.
Savannah’s brain couldn’t make sense of the images dancing before her. Over and over, she watched a handsome young prince and his charming bride riding their chariot down the city streets of Dallas. Waving, smiling. Then shots rang out and the world stood still.
The horror dredged up guilt in Savannah. It clung to her like blood clung to Jackie Kennedy’s pink Chanel suit. She got up and paced around the room in an attempt to shrug off the ugliness of her behavior. She’d been gallivanting around, plotting indiscretion, oblivious to the consequences. Her recklessness was tied up with the assassination. One finger on a trigger could unglue the world and change the course of history. The match she had struck this morning could burn down her house.
She was sickened by herself. Her hands trembled as she poured vodka over ice and stirred the concoction slowly. She returned to the couch and gathered Angela close. They were still there when Price came home.
Neenie went to the kitchen to prepare a cold supper. Price wedged next to Savannah
after flinging his coat on the chair. He ruffled PJ’s hair affectionately and leaned to kiss Angela’s head.
“Oh, Daddy.” Angela said, sniffling.
“I know, Baby Girl.”
Price glanced at Savannah and reached over to pat her leg. Once she would’ve been comforted by his strong hand, his touch assuring her everything was going to be all right. But tonight’s gesture was absent-minded and perfunctory. Nothing was all right.
“The whole damn world is coming undone,” Price mumbled. “We’ve got Negroes marching in the streets and now people think they can assassinate presidents.”
Savannah looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Indeed, her entire world was coming undone. And not only for the reasons Price mentioned.
THANKSGIVING DAY was marred by the endless coverage of the assassination and the televised funeral. Still, the entire family was expected at the Palmertons’ and a worthy meal would be served. Thanksgiving was serious business to Neenie Bailey.
She barked last-minute instructions to her kitchen troops, including Savannah and her mother, Beverly.
“The D-Day invasion took less planning than Neenie’s holiday dinners.” Beverly muttered, risking being overhead by their General.
Savannah was putting the finishing touches on a platter of deviled eggs, one of the few tasks Neenie trusted her with. Beverly chopped onions and stalks of celery, lending an air of expert style to the mundane task. Although Savannah had studied her mother for a lifetime, she’d never been able to mimic Beverly’s natural grace.
Beverly Wilkinson was the epitome of a Southern Belle. When she married Jack Kendall, later Judge Kendall, she became the perfect southern wife. Her parties were legendary: people still talked about a certain formal dinner when guests in black-tie, a Supreme Court justice among them, gathered around the barbecue in the back yard to make s’mores.
Savannah sighed. If people only knew about the dark secrets tucked behind the floral drapes in Beverly’s immaculate home.
“Are you all right, darling?” Beverly nudged Savannah with her elbow as she gathered up the pile of freshly chopped onions and celery into a large bowl. “You seem out of sorts.”
“Of course. Everything’s fine.”
Everything is always fine. Even when it isn’t.
What would her mother say if Savannah sat her down and told her the truth? She’d often dreamt of having the kind of relationship where Beverly would nudge her with her elbow, saying Are you all right, darling? You seem out of sorts. And Savannah would pull her aside and say, No Momma, I’m not all right. Let me tell you what’s going on.
They’d never had that kind of relationship and it certainly wasn’t going to start now. It never got easier, this mother-daughter dance. The roles solidified since birth kept them locked in a performance that rarely veered from the original script. An off-Broadway production where they read their tired lines to an empty theatre.
I’m fine, Momma. Everything’s fine.
“It’s just this whole last week. You know.” Savannah plucked a piece of celery from the bowl to nibble on.
“Yes, I know.” Beverly nodded. The assassination was the topic monopolizing all conversation for a week.
Today wasn’t a day to talk about Savannah’s life falling apart. Today was about family. And food. And impatience. Each time the oven door was opened, the aroma of roasting turkey and baking stuffing would escape the confines of the kitchen, luring the hungry kids like a siren’s song.
“When can we eat?” PJ draped himself over the large butcher block island and moaned like a refugee.
“When it’s done,” Neenie said.
“Well don’t you have a time?” PJ said.
“I might have a time, but Mr. Turkey has his own time. And he’s in charge. Now, get out of my kitchen before I put you to work.”
“Neenie?” The loud shout came from the other side of the kitchen door. Savannah and Beverly caught eyes and shook their heads. Kip Kendall had arrived.
The voice drew nearer, calling, “Where’s my woman?” Then Savannah’s brother burst through the swinging door and made a beeline for his childhood nanny. “Neenie, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Give me a kiss.”
Kip grabbed her in a bear hug, lifting her off the floor as she slapped at him with her ever-present dish towel.
“Washington hasn’t changed you one bit,” she said. Her tone was scolding but the delight in her grin was unmistakable. The whole world, Neenie included, adored Congressman Kipling Kendall.
Kip gave as good as he got. “You know you wouldn’t have it any other way, you ornery old cat.”
Cheryl Kendall straggled in behind her husband, carrying her famous coconut cake as if it were the Holy Grail. Her expression didn’t relax until she had scooted the plate to the back of the counter, safe and sound.
Savannah blew a kiss to her sister-in-law as she finished up with the deviled eggs and moved the platter to the refrigerator.
“Why, thank you, I will have one.” Kip grabbed two as Savannah passed.
Neenie picked up a wooden spoon. “I can still whoop your behind.”
Kip ducked and moved over to Beverly, planting a kiss on his mother’s perfect cheek. “Momma, tell her to give a guy a break, would you?”
“Can’t help you, son.” Beverly refused to interfere in this age-old battle.
“I see I’m outnumbered.” He grabbed a cold beer out of the fridge and tossed the bottle cap in the trash can as he eyed his sister. “I know someone who’ll be on my side. Come give me a hug, Sis. Tell me you missed me.”
Savannah sidled up to her big brother and hugged him hard, breathing him in. Clean. Soapy. Manly. His strong arms were full of childhood secrets and good-natured teasing. In the circle of his arms was Savannah’s unshakeable belief that her big brother could fix anything. Bike chains. A doll’s broken arm. Even hurt feelings when schoolyard teasing sent her home in tears. Kip fixed it all.
Too bad he was so far from home now. Maybe he could fix her.
She leaned back with her arms still encircling his waist and looked up into his handsome face.
“What’s this, old man?” She plucked at a few silver hairs mixed in with the gold.
“Merely a bit of stardust.”
Savannah groaned. “You’re a born politician. Full of baloney.”
“What?” Kip looked around the room with a wounded pout.
She leaned in again, hugging him harder, for no reason other than to feel him in her hands.
“What?” he said again, laughing.
“Nothing,” she said.
This, she thought. These tiny, seemingly inconsequential moments. She wanted to bottle them, label them LOVE, and line them up neatly on the pantry shelf where she could take them down and hold them up to the light whenever she pleased. But moments couldn’t be caught. Wisps of laughter, precious seconds when the heart strained against the chest wall, overflowing with emotion—they were gone in an instant. Magic little puffs of breath, never to return. And if you weren’t’ looking, you could miss them all.
Throughout the preparations Savannah and Price managed to either carry on polite conversation or avoid one another. By the time the family gathered around the dining room table, the strain of keeping up this facade of a happy marriage had worn Savannah out.
She slumped in her chair and gritted her teeth as Price gave a rambling speech, half blessing, half toast.
Just breathe, she told herself, keeping her eyes on the mashed potatoes. Try not to listen to the sound of his phony voice.
“And of course our utmost gratitude goes to Neenie, through whom all good food comes.”
The children’s table erupted in applause and Savannah lifted her glass to toast the exhausted chef. By Savannah’s own decree, Neenie always ate holiday dinners with the family. As Neenie lifted her glass in return, her soulful brown eyes held Savannah’s in a private tribute.
“But...” Naturally, Price wasn’t finished. “As always, I am mo
st grateful for my beautiful wife, who holds this family together. To Savannah.” Price leaned down and brushed her forehead with a kiss before whispering in her ear, “Smile darling.”
She was caught off guard, but managed to mumble, “Thank you.” Hoping to avoid any further scrutiny, she said. “Let’s eat.”
Damn him anyway.
Though everything smelled divine, she could only pick at her food. She was hungry, starving in fact, but not for what was on her plate. She looked around the room. She was a stranger in her own life, nosed pressed up against the glass from the inside, wanting what was out there.
Kip and Cheryl were laughing, shoulders pressed close as they shared a private joke. Still openly flirting with one another after twenty years of marriage. The solidarity in their laughter touched a hollow place inside Savannah. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Price had shared a laugh.
At the far end of the table sat her baby sister, Rebecca, and her husband, Ben. Though they were more reserved than Kip and Cheryl, Savannah caught the sweet looks passed between them as Rebecca buttered a roll and handed it to Ben.
Even her own parents displayed their affection physically. Her father, Judge Jackson Kendall, often patted his wife’s hand while he spoke. Beverly was a fragile creature and Jackson’s mission was to protect her, both from the world, and herself. Savannah considered herself lucky to have such a devoted couple as parents. To witness a love continually polished over time to a smooth stone.
Her father made it look so easy, and Savannah had taken it for granted that her own marriage would ease into the same gentle groove of mutual love and respect.
Jackson Kendall grew up dirt poor on a small farm at the outskirts of Savannah. Now, a retired Georgia State Supreme Court Justice, he honored his hard-scrabble life by remaining a man of the people throughout his entire career. Savannah always stood an inch taller when she told anyone who her daddy was.
Jackson had been encouraged by parents who pushed him beyond the property line of their dusty acres. With their blessing, he tossed his dreams in a sack over his shoulder and let them carry him far from home. And yet, he made sure his own children never strayed too far from the land and their rural roots.