Echoes of Family

by Barbara Claypole White

  His phone announced a WhatsApp message, the app Jade had insisted they download after he’d announced his intention to stay in England because it allowed them to text for free.

  Gabriel knows where you are, she’d typed.

  Yeah, I screwed up. Used my friend’s landline to call la maison de Dieu instead of my cell. It must have come up as a London number.

  His life might be over, but at least he could still talk French. Although that took him back to another spectacular mistake in the shape of a French singer who had failed to mention she was married. It would have been so much nicer to discover the truth from her instead of the paparazzi. If you needed a passport to travel to this strange country called love, his stamps would read the same two words over and over: denied entry.

  Now what? Jade texted.

  Who knew? He didn’t. Marianne sent a message last night. Says she’s sorry and needs more time. I answered and she ignored me. How much fucking time does she need, Jade?

  IDK, I got the identical text.

  With a pulsing red heart at the end?

  Mine was pink. Didn’t pulse.

  Think he put her up to it?

  How should I know? Gabriel’s pissed at me. Which is fine, because I’m pissed at him. He accused me of not being honest.

  Interesting turn of events. Jade had laughed off far worse insults. Please tell me you haven’t got the hots for this guy.

  Fuck off.

  Yup. He was on the mark. Well, well. Gabriel had become the cuckoo in his nest. Now he knew he was losing it: he was thinking about birds as well as flowers.

  Has Gabriel come on to you? He texted.

  NO!!!

  Good because if he’s messing with you, I will fucking kill him. Slowly.

  Love you too. Can we forget Gabriel and get real. What’s your plan, boss?

  Wave a white flag?

  After all you’ve been through? Are you a man or mouse?

  Squeak.

  Come on, you’re tougher than this.

  I guess. I have one last idea. Working on it.

  You’re not going to do anything stupid, right?

  A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  You going to hire someone to steal his U2 CDs?

  Fantastic idea. But no. I’m going to send her flowers. Every day. Enough flowers for her to open her own flower store.

  Have you forgotten that the Beeches is costing you $1,700 a day? We’re hemorrhaging money right now. Plus I just opened her credit card statement. Bread and water for you guys.

  Jade, the leading authority on Marianne, was talking as if his marriage had a future. Bread and water wasn’t so bad. Not if it meant he could get his wife back. Marianne was worth a life of poverty; she was worth a heart attack, although he really should get the blood pressure under control; she was worth the excruciating blend of pain and joy, because she was his muse—his goddess—and he was not giving her up without a fight.

  He stood and shook a bedraggled flower head off his boot. He would go back to the house, strum his new Gibson Les Paul, purchased on English eBay, and brainstorm. (Not Absalom, but an adequate substitute, this guitar was named Beelzebub.)

  Jade had a point, though. It might take more than flowers. He needed action, big action, a huge statement that screamed, For you, I would die.

  THIRTY

  MARIANNE

  Marianne rolled her neck one way, then the other. Imagine that—the crunching between her ears suggested screws really were loose inside her brain. She chewed the end of Gabriel’s pen and then returned to the press release she’d been writing on the pad swiped from his desk. Gabriel wouldn’t care. He’d never been possessive about anything except her. Was he still? Hard to tell. She was racking up more and more Gabriel debt with less and less thought about how to repay him.

  Bleh. What she’d written was utter crap. Marianne ripped off the piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to the floor. She hadn’t come close to capturing the uninhibited, fierce presence of EmJ the performer.

  In ten days those kids had figured out how to create a cohesive, powerful sound, looking to each other, not Marianne, for validation. And Tom was a better lyricist than most guys twice his age, which he should be since he was off to study English at Oxford. But central to their magic was EmJ. Singing was a transformative experience for her, and the boys fed off her energy the moment she stepped onto the stage with her yeah-well-fuck-you attitude. She gave a group of preppy, privileged kids authenticity.

  Marianne had seen many teen bands perform, many rising and failed rock stars stand up in front of an audience—mainly on YouTube or at the Cat’s Cradle these days, since she couldn’t do huge crowds—but EmJ was a genuine artist. Darius would be mega impressed.

  Yesterday she’d spoken to him for the first time since her rectory breakdown—as opposed to her churchyard breakdown or her UNC campus breakdown. Their conversation was clipped: “I love you, I love you too; I miss you, yeah me too; I need you, I need more time.” But it gave her the courage to call Jade with a full apology. As it turned out, Jade didn’t expect or want an apology, and they’d picked up as if nothing had happened.

  Jade. She needed Jade right now! The band was lacking a signature style, and Jade was the person to consult. Marianne pulled out her phone and started typing.

  Hey girlie. Miss you. She hit “Send.”

  Hey yourself.

  Gabriel walked in, wearing shoes for once, and dressed head to toe in black, except for the strip of white dog collar. Today was Monday, so he had either a funeral or a hospital visit. And he was going to boil. It had to be pushing eighty and humid as hell. He zapped his coffee in the microwave. He did that a lot: warmed up half-drunk cups of cold coffee.

  “You’re looking very pensive,” Gabriel said.

  “Thinking about a spectacular present for Jade—as a thank-you for pulling double shifts at Nightjar and balancing the Girls In Motion books.”

  Gabriel did that little thing he did with his lips when he was uncomfortable.

  Another text came through. Yo. Still there honey?

  Sorry. Gabriel walked in.

  K. There was a pause. Tell him hi. Call me later. Xox

  “Jade says hi.” Marianne looked up.

  The muscles in his cheek tightened, as if he’d clenched his jaw. The microwave dinged and he turned his back on her. “How about joining me for cream teas at the Chantry later?”

  “Cream teas?”

  “The village fete.” He retrieved his coffee and slammed the microwave door shut. “Did you forget? Today is August bank holiday, and our annual cream teas have quite the reputation. Excellent write-up last year in the Beds Times.”

  “I haven’t had a cream tea in thirty years.” She twirled his pen. “But I can’t cope with large, noisy groups of people. EmJ’s the same. Unless she’s performing, she naturally isolates.”

  “There’ll be enough clotted cream to clog your arteries. Plus Mrs. Tandy’s homemade coffee-and-walnut cake, which has been known to cause a mob scene.” He gave his boyish smile. “Did I mention that the tables have been set up in the Chantry’s award-winning garden? The herbaceous border should be lovely.”

  “You sure this isn’t about me flashing my wedding ring to Bill Collins?” She held up her left hand and wiggled her fourth finger with the obscenely big engagement ring. So over-the-top. So Darius. She imagined his hands on her, his breath on her, a whispered I need you.

  “The creative process not going smoothly?” Gabriel’s voice cut across her daydream.

  “Not exactly. I’m trying to write a press release for the gig.”

  “Marianne, they’re a bunch of teenagers out to have fun. Don’t put too much pressure on them. Or yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re going to have to trust me when I tell you the meds are working. Seriously. I know the signs—a subtle easing of the heaviness and then the colors return. Muted, but muted is good. And look, they’ve got me on such a strong dose
of lithium, I keep dropping the pen.” She tried to hold her right hand level as it trembled.

  “Where’s EmJ?” Gabriel said.

  “Having a lie-in. She didn’t sleep well last night. Think she was too wound up after band practice.”

  “And the reason that kept her out until midnight?”

  “She was hanging with the band. I told her she had to be back by then and she was.”

  “Is she taking drugs?”

  “I sincerely hope so. Without them she’s as psycho as me.”

  “Very funny.” He sipped his coffee. “You know how I feel about gossip, but I should warn you that I’ve heard a rumor about Matt, the drummer.”

  “Such as?”

  “That his best friend deals Ecstasy.”

  Marianne swallowed. Ecstasy—also Molly or MDMA—was EmJ’s drug of choice. “You told me they were stand-up kids.”

  “They are. Tom especially.”

  “And you didn’t think to warn me one of them might have a drug connection?”

  “I am warning you. Given how much time EmJ is spending with the band, I took it upon myself to do a little digging. I’ve known the others since they were little, but Matt’s not a parishioner. And this is about his friend, not him. Still, I thought you should know.”

  Marianne sighed. “Thank you. I’ll tighten the reins.” Maybe while walking through the village to the Chantry for cream teas. “So, what’s going on between you and Jade?”

  There it was again, that tightening of his jaw. He finished his coffee and then put the cup in the sink. “We had a minor disagreement. Since then she’s refused to talk to me.”

  “Jade’s a sucker for an apology. Were you a jerk?”

  “Quite possibly. I tried to make amends with several groveling texts, which she ignored.”

  How un-Jade-like. A lawn mower started up next door, followed by a weed whacker. The sounds of summer.

  “I hope I wasn’t the cause of the argument.”

  “Darius was.”

  “Aha, now I get it. This happened after you discovered he was in London and you coerced me, under threat of memorizing the entire New Testament, to text them both.”

  “Yes.” He tugged on his shoulder.

  “Need a shoulder rub?”

  “No.”

  That was a resounding rejection. “If it’s any consolation, I was as surprised as you were to learn that Darius had been in London this whole time. Every call he placed until that night came from his cell. They kept both of us in the dark. But if I know Jade, which I do, she was protecting Darius the same way you’ve protected me.”

  Gabriel scowled at her and then fished through the contents of his fruit bowl and pulled out a chocolate bar. He snapped off a square of milk chocolate. “Since we’re giving each other advice, how about letting Darius come for a visit?”

  “Last time I saw my husband I threatened to kill him.”

  “So that explains what happened to Great-Aunt Millie’s lamp.”

  “Sorry about that. I am going to replace it, honest.”

  “With something more tasteful, I trust.”

  She smiled. “Darius is an intensely emotional being, which I’m sure you’ve guessed by now. And I can’t make the progress I need to make if I’m worrying constantly about his feelings.”

  “Fair enough.” Gabriel walked to the door.

  Marianne stared down at the pine table, covered in scrapes and pen marks. Maybe it was time to tackle the big fat elephant hogging the space between her and Gabriel. “Being adored”—she spoke without turning—“it’s not always a blessing. On days like this one, with no hope of a breeze or rain, it’s suffocating.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

  The mower next door stopped; traffic rumbling on the A428 filled the silence.

  “Darius loves ferociously,” she said quickly. “His passion is intoxicating, and I need to dial back on extremes right now.”

  “EmJ is also a person of extremes.”

  “But that’s a version I get.”

  “You’re lucky,” he said. “To be so loved.”

  She looked up at him. “Darius takes Xanax because the stress of being my husband gave him panic attacks. I know what I do to people.” She picked up his pen and doodled on the pad. “And I smell alcohol on your breath most evenings. More than when I arrived.”

  “True. I have fallen into a new gin pattern,” he said. “But I also knew the old you, and I remember her well.”

  “She’s long gone, and the mental health professionals can’t glue her back together.”

  “Fascinating as this conversation is, Humpty Dumpty”—he glanced at the kitchen clock—“I have to go do vicar things.”

  “See and be seen?”

  “And supervise the teddy bear parachute jump from the church tower. Last year some poor stuffed rabbit got caught in a yew tree. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “So this is a very PC event. All cuddlies allowed, whatever race, gender, or animal affiliation?”

  “Indeed. Now, about our cream tea. Shall we meet at the Chantry at four? First one there nabs a table?”

  “It’s a date.”

  “Can you rephrase that, please?”

  “Sure. Tea for three. You’re on.”

  “Righty-ho, off into the wilds of Newton Rushford.” Gabriel made a motivational fist. “You two behave while I’m gone. I’ll leave the front door open to get a through draft.”

  But it would make no difference. There wasn’t a hint of air in the rectory. If only she was inside her home, listening to the air-conditioning click on. And what about her poor, neglected garden? How was it surviving the August heat and, presumably, drought? No doubt Jade was taking care of that, too.

  Marianne picked up her phone. Please don’t fight with Gabriel. He wants to kiss and make up.

  A minor exaggeration, but left to Gabriel there would be no reconciliation. He took defeat far too easily. Jade didn’t answer. Marianne put the press release aside. If she’d missed a whole undercurrent between Gabriel and Jade, she could have missed worse with EmJ. She needed to be more vigilant, pay more attention to EmJ the suicide survivor, not EmJ the performer. And she needed to start asking the right questions, because whatever she’d told Gabriel, she knew something was up. At band practice she’d overheard Tom and Charlotte talking about a date.

  What if everyone was right, and she wasn’t well enough to take on someone more damaged than she was? She’d never been able to stop, look both ways, and then cross the street. That had to change on the walk down to the cream teas, because EmJ was not someone she could screw over. That first day in the Beeches dining room, she’d wrongly assumed that EmJ was another Jade. But EmJ’s attitude wasn’t about self-protection, it was about lack of affect. Which was the real reason she was sharing a bedroom with EmJ—to keep her alive.

  THIRTY-ONE

  MARIANNE

  A heat haze shimmered over the surface of the A428, and EmJ set a pace that said, Existing takes too much effort. In this sticky humidity and on this road, Marianne couldn’t agree more.

  Nothing moved across the watercolor sky except for a hot-air balloon, drifting lazily. The mugginess, tame by Carolina standards, came without the chance of reprieve, although the distant grayness suggested clouds were building. EmJ had left the cardigan behind, but without it her bare arms looked like toothpicks, and the sleeveless tank she wore over the bandeau top hung off her shoulders.

  The entire village appeared to be on the move. So many people, too many people, greeted them with a cheery “Afternoon.” Marianne tried to smile in response; EmJ kept her head lowered. As they passed the bus stop, a bunch of teen girls gave a muffled critique of EmJ’s hair and clothes. The gist was obvious: EmJ was a townie from the wrong side of the tracks. She huddled closer to Marianne, and they linked arms.

  “I was thinking,” EmJ said, “’bout you and me getting a flat in Bedford. I mean, Gabriel’s nice and all, but I’m living in a rectory.”
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br />   Every muscle tightened. “We should talk about that.”

  “You are staying, right, I mean in England?”

  “Honey, I—”

  EmJ pushed her away. “You’re going back to America, aren’t you? Abandoning me like a stray kitten you’ve lost interest in.”

  Marianne reached out and pulled EmJ back from the edge of the sidewalk as a huge truck belted through the village, defying the speed limit. The backdraft whooshed over them. “I haven’t figured out anything about the future,” Marianne said. “But I’m not leaving you behind. Promise.” Seemed she was making promises once more.

  They started walking again, although EmJ lagged behind. No, it had not been the best plan to tug someone else into her world when she didn’t know where home was anymore. Or if she had one. But that wasn’t going to stop her from trying to save a girl everyone else had thrown away.

  Marianne slowed down, waiting for EmJ to catch up. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together. But our journey’s going to be bumpy for a while, because I’m convalescing, too.”

  “You make it sound like we’ve got some nasty disease.”

  “We have,” Marianne said softly. “One that needs managing. And honey, you can’t add alcohol and recreational drugs to the mix. That’s like playing Russian roulette.”