Echoes of Family

by Barbara Claypole White

  “You’re a good husband.” Gabriel sighed. Was that with regret, longing, or jealousy?

  Darius sucked chocolate off his finger. “Thanks. You ever consider tying the knot?”

  “You’ve got a smear of chocolate on your cheek.”

  Darius wiped at his cheek.

  “No, other one.”

  “Gone?”

  “Indeed.” Gabriel got up and went to fill the kettle. Seemed this was not a conversation the vicar wanted to have face-to-face.

  “To answer your question,” Gabriel said behind him, “no, I’ve never asked anyone to marry me, but I’ve seen enough marriages implode to know that I’m not wired for that kind of intensity.” Gabriel flicked on the kettle.

  “And what have you learned from watching so many marriages fail?”

  “That the trick to surviving as a couple is not tearing each other apart when you’re fighting the same battle. When there’s a family crisis, you have to come together. Marianne’s parents were good at that, being a team.”

  “Her mom died before we met, but her dad’s a great guy. I get peculiar looks in the retirement home—with the hair, the earrings, the ink. He’s never blinked, though. Treats me and Jade like his own.”

  “He was always a generous, kindhearted man.” Gabriel walked to the fridge and pulled out the coffee jar.

  Darius focused on a gouge in the pine tabletop. He liked to see a guy’s eyes when they talked, but maybe Gabriel had been wise to turn his back. That throb of anger had faded into a steady pulse. A distant vibration. A curiosity. After all, Gabriel had known a different Marianne.

  “What was she like, as a kid?”

  “Exhausting and fiery. Her temper was quite vile. She wasn’t the prettiest girl on the playground, but she charmed everyone like an exotic bird. She was untamable, unpredictable, and mesmerizing.”

  “Yeah,” Darius said. “I figured.”

  “Fearless too. She would suggest we climb the tallest tree, and I would say ‘I can’t’ and do it anyway because she’d dare me until I had no resistance left. And she was loyal to a fault. We both went to public—I believe you would say private—schools in Bedford and came home together on the 128 bus with children from the state schools. One day a gang of boys picked on me because of my school blazer. Marianne got up, ordered the ringleader to stand, and then kicked him in the groin. They never bothered us again.”

  “That’s my girl. She once tossed some famous bass player out of the studio midsession because he called Jade a bitch. But that wasn’t enough, so Marianne banned him for life. The manager was seriously pissed, and I predicted the end of Nightjar. But news traveled, and our bookings of female artists doubled.”

  “When we were growing up, she never saw consequences, only actions.”

  Darius glanced up at the kitchen clock. As the minute hand moved slowly, his stomach started gurgling. “Backing off doesn’t come instinctively, but I’m trying. Got any more chocolate?”

  Gabriel leaned over to peer into the empty fruit bowl. “Nope. It appears you ate my entire stash.”

  “Sorry, man. I’ll replace it.” Darius threw himself back into his chair. “She’s doing too much again. Making bad decisions. How can I give her space if she won’t look after herself? I feel as if this is her new pattern, and it terrifies me.”

  “One, two, three . . .” Gabriel counted out scoops of ground coffee with a slow precision that seemed unnecessary. Was he uncomfortable talking about male feelings in general, or was it Darius’s feelings that set his teeth on edge?

  “What’s that old adage,” Gabriel said, as he poured boiling water onto the coffee, “about if you love someone, let her go, and if she doesn’t return, she wasn’t yours to begin with? Or something along those lines.”

  Was that a hitch in his voice, one that screamed I’m talking from personal experience?

  “But if it would ease your worry,” Gabriel said, “I’d be happy to go and look for her. I know her old haunts and have no objections to playing the villain.”

  “Would you? Thanks, man. That’d be—”

  The front door opened and closed. They exchanged glances, and Darius shot to his feet.

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Gabriel called out.

  Marianne appeared and handed Gabriel the mail; Darius rushed forward and kissed her cheek.

  “Just in time for breakfast,” Gabriel said. “How about a boiled egg with soldiers to dip in? Mrs. Tandy brought me some fresh farm eggs that are out of this world.”

  “I haven’t had a boiled egg in forever.” She and Gabriel exchanged smiles. Exclusive smiles that shut him out.

  Darius put his arm around his wife. “What are soldiers?”

  “Strips of hot buttered toast you dip into the yolk.”

  “Cool. Can I get some?”

  There was another knock at the door. “Come in!” Gabriel bellowed.

  A guy Darius vaguely recognized from the knife incident appeared. Was it the man who’d helped him into the backseat of the muddy Land Rover that stank of dog? Former military, if he had to guess. Something about the way the guy carried himself.

  “Apologies for the early intrusion, but I need to clarify a few things for Saturday’s wedding service.”

  “Morning, Ian. Can I offer you a boiled egg?”

  “Gracious, no. The missus already made me a fry-up.” Ian patted his flat stomach.

  Another knock, but this time Gabriel went out into the hall and answered the door. And then the phone. Ian shifted and commented on the weather.

  “Coffee?” Darius said, since someone had to act the host.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Ian sat down. “Milk and two sugars.” He glanced at Darius’s arm but didn’t say anything.

  Given all that had happened since the village fete, a knife wound seemed to have lost significance, and yet the churchwarden had stepped up to the plate for a stranger. Some form of gratitude was in order. “By the way, thanks for helping get me to the ER that day. Didn’t really enjoy bleeding out in front of the womenfolk.”

  Ian nodded slowly. “Of course.”

  Shit, the guy didn’t realize he was joking. In Darius’s experience, if you were going to bleed out, it should always be done in front of women. His sisters had patched him up more times than he could remember.

  “Coffee, babe?”

  Marianne nodded as Darius forced the plunger down into the french press and then poured three cups. They drank in silence, Marianne leaning against him. Her first day up, and as he’d suspected, she’d done too much.

  “Sorry for all the interruptions.” Gabriel appeared and frowned at the french press.

  “Sorry, man, we killed the pot. You really need to buy a machine. One that makes twelve cups minimum.”

  “Right,” Gabriel said. And put the kettle on again.

  “I’d like to float an idea by all of you,” Marianne said. “Gabriel got me thinking when he mentioned a fund-raiser, but what if we did a memorial for EmJ at the church?”

  “Uh-huh.” Gabriel dumped out the coffee grounds in the tin labeled “Compost.” He wasn’t the neatest guy, but he was fastidious about recycling.

  “We could celebrate her life and her music,” Marianne continued, “but turn it into a community event to raise awareness of mental illness. Get the word out to local nonprofits that help teens in crisis. Shadowbox could play. And I’d like to be involved.”

  Gabriel turned. “By singing?”

  “No, I’d like to give the address.”

  “Marianne,” Darius said. “Are you strong enough for that?”

  Ignoring him, she locked eyes with Gabriel. Darius watched their game of chicken. Marianne had no friends outside the Nightjar family, and Darius had always kept his inner world small. It meant you never had to second-guess whom to trust in a world of charlatans. Yet here was some guy he didn’t know who could communicate with his wife via secret sign language. And it bugged the shit out of him.

  “Can we do thi
s for EmJ, in your church? Please, Gabriel?”

  “You’re asking my permission to do something?”

  “Am I really that bad?” Marianne smiled.

  “Yes, and my answer is yes,” Gabriel said.

  “Reverend—” Ian fiddled with the collar of his tightly buttoned shirt. “Our calendar is full until after harvest festival.”

  “Short notice, but how about this Saturday? Sadly the wedding just canceled. Off the record, I believe the groom has some emotional issues to work through.”

  “Serendipity,” Marianne said, and stared at Gabriel. This time he was first to break eye contact.

  Darius shot up. “Think I’ll skip the eggs and go stock up on chocolate. Any requests? How about you, my goddess?”

  And before she could answer, he twisted his hand into her hair and pulled her into a kiss.

  FORTY-FIVE

  MARIANNE

  Marianne did something she rarely did: she wiggled into a dress. A Jackie O black shift that was too figure-hugging for church but made a screeching statement: I am powerful, I am in control, I am not the madwoman in the attic. If she was taking center stage, she was going to own it.

  Right, EmJ?

  Gabriel had taken them to the outlet mall the day before, but this time the shopping was restrained. Darius bought a Paul Smith suit and a black shirt, but balked at buying a tie; she bought the dress, simple black power heels, and a clutch bag; Gabriel bought a coffee. He said it was the only thing in the place he could afford. After they got back to the village, Darius disappeared and returned with supplies to restock Gabriel’s fridge, freezer, pantry, and fruit bowl. He’d enlisted Mrs. Tandy’s support.

  Her phone vibrated with a text.

  You’ve got this. Knock ’em dead. Jade added a heart and a smiley face.

  Knock ’em dead. Yeah, if she didn’t throw up breakfast first. The church could seat hundreds. A full house would be wonderful for EmJ, awful for herself. She hadn’t told EmJ the entire truth about why she quit performing: debilitating stage fright. What if she got up to the pulpit, saw a sea of faces, and had to run?

  She glanced toward the bathroom door and pictured the bed a few feet away. Five days ago she’d done a Lazarus, and Darius reprimanded her repeatedly for overexerting herself. No one would criticize if she retreated back under the covers and stayed there.

  Turning to check her rear view in the mirror, she caught a glimpse of the tattoo peeking out on her right shoulder blade: the single rose half strangled by barbed wire. A daily reminder of how her mom had tackled every bipolar barb without complaint. It had been a memorial, a eulogy, for her mom. Her mother had never curled up into a ball and said, “I can’t do this.” And neither would she.

  Marianne attempted to tame her mane of hair, which had broken free of its well-maintained layers and expensive color treatment. When had it last been this long? Probably not since she was a teen. She twisted her lucky earrings, the peridot studs Darius had given her for their first wedding anniversary—“because they match your eyes”—and tried not to imagine a guillotine with Mrs. Tandy sitting next to it sobbing into one of Gabriel’s white handkerchiefs.

  Her stomach was on a slalom course. Hurling was not an option and neither was quitting, because this was about EmJ and making amends to Gabriel.

  She opened the bathroom door, retrieved the scarlet clutch filled with tissues from her bed, and began to walk the longest plank in history. She refused to think about what waited at the end. Right now she merely had to make it downstairs to where Darius patrolled the hall like a nervous prom date. As she reached the last step, he gave a low whistle. Darius never wore aftershave, not with his allergies, but he smelled of coconut soap and summer rain. His hair was restrained in a ponytail, which accentuated his huge, dark eyes.

  “Ready to do this thing, my goddess?”

  “No. But when has that ever stopped me. You look”—her eyes roved over his body—“omigod, totally hot.”

  “Hot enough to get lucky tonight?”

  “I think that could be arranged,” she said.

  “Such a tease.” He frowned. “You’re not wearing your wrist cuffs. Want me to get them?”

  “No. I’m not hiding anything today.”

  “That’s my girl.” He waved her around the banisters but hung back to watch her buttocks. As always. Which did she value more: his predictability or the way he could surprise her with unexpected moments of passion? The memory of that territorial kiss in the kitchen, in full view of Ian and Gabriel, still made her shiver.

  “Come on, Mrs. Montgomery. We’ve got a date with God.” Darius slapped her bottom and snuck in a quick squeeze. “Damn, woman. Now I know you’ve got your groove back. Going to church commando?” He kissed her neck. “Only my wife.”

  “I thought you might appreciate a return to my old ways.”

  “You do realize if we weren’t running late and you hadn’t slathered on all that lipstick, I would take you right here. In the vicar’s hallway.”

  She smiled, and her stomach settled. “Love you too.”

  But as she grabbed her black cashmere shawl from the wooden chest in the hall, one of her many possessions littered throughout the rectory, the unease returned. Without meaning to, she’d taken over Gabriel’s home. Leaving him wouldn’t be quite as simple as walking out the front door.

  Clouds the color of mourning hung low but held on to their moisture. Marianne wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. September 13, and already the air carried a hint of fall.

  Traffic on the High Street was heavier than usual, which suggested the motorway was closed. Hopefully not because of an accident. She and Darius walked slowly, given the height of her heels. Coming back she would carry, not wear, them. Coming back. In an hour and a half, this would be over. She would think of it as a performance, although performing had always been about pretending to be someone else. That was her cure for stage fright. Today she was going to be one hundred percent Marianne Stokes. The real deal. Stripping her soul naked had been easier at sixteen and batshit insane.

  A steady stream of villagers filed ahead of them toward the church. A silent migration of people seeking what—healing, truth, comfort from Gabriel? Were they the same people who had headed to the cream teas on the August bank holiday?

  As they moved under the lych-gate and up the cobbled path to the church, Marianne’s thoughts returned to that cold day in July when she’d been running from herself and her husband. His hand was now pressed against the small of her back, gently propelling her forward. Everything she had put this man through, and still he loved her. If she believed in God, she would say a prayer of gratitude.

  They stepped down into the church and Ian handed them an order of service. “I hope you don’t mind sharing,” he said. “We vastly underestimated the size of today’s congregation. Standing room only, but Hugh has reserved seats for you in the front pew.”

  Marianne gulped.

  “Thanks, man,” Darius said, and pulled Ian into a quick hug. Ramrod straight, the churchwarden stared ahead, eyes wide.

  Oblivious, Darius slotted his arm through hers, and they began their procession. Was it her imagination, or did everyone stop talking to watch? Marianne’s mind flashed back to doing the same walk in a broderie anglaise confirmation dress and holding in giggles as Gabriel marched solemnly beside her. To her it had been a lark; to him it was destiny.

  Her heels clacked on the Victorian-tiled floor—her history professor mom had called those tiles sacrilegious—until they stepped onto the long strip of blue carpet that led up the Saxon nave. Artificial light the color of the gloaming filled the packed church, and Marianne held her mother in her thoughts and her head high. Staring at the altar, she ignored the heat of stares and the darts of whispers.

  When she stumbled—stupid heels—Darius caught her.

  “Careful, my beautiful wife,” he said in a loud stage whisper, then gave her a wink that nearly caused her to stumble for different reasons. And for t
hirty seconds she forgot that the front pew was still an ocean away.

  Finally they reached it, and Hugh stood to greet them. He shook Darius’s hands and kissed her cheek. In between the choir stalls, the band had set up the drums and the amps. Tom’s guitar and Jack’s bass waited on their stands. Only two mics when there should have been three. Marianne sat quickly and glanced up at the wooden angel ceiling. If she’d ever needed a drink, it was now.

  Within minutes the organist started playing and the congregation stood. She rose with everyone else, her stomach muscles clenched into one humongous punching bag. The choir seemed to glide up the nave far more effortlessly than she and Darius had done, and Gabriel brought up the rear, his white starched surplice rustling against his cassock. The layers of clerical garb added bulk and stature. His face unreadable, he bore no resemblance to the boy she’d loved or the man who wandered through the rectory in bare feet, slouch pants, and shrunken T-shirts. This Gabriel was an intimidating presence, a man who held people’s souls in his hand. This, she supposed, was the real Gabriel.

  And she didn’t know him at all.

  FORTY-SIX

  GABRIEL

  Gabriel stood in the vicar’s stall and waited for the choir to settle. His heart beat steadily, even though Marianne was watching him officiate for the first time.

  “Please be seated.” A voice flowed through the microphone and over the congregation like sea mist, but it wasn’t his voice. It was the voice of a performer. Marianne had taught him more than she realized.

  He had never seen the church so packed. There were plenty of strangers and young people who he assumed were friends of the band, but the congregation was also full of villagers paying tribute to a young woman who had become part of their community in death. Possibly some of those present felt as responsible as he did. Mrs. Peel sat hidden behind large sunglasses, halfway back. She had refused to see him when he called on her, but he would take it as a good sign that she was present today.