Tea and Primroses

by Tess Thompson

  I screamed.

  Patrick came out of his shop, rushing across the yard in the snow. When he got to me, he gathered me close and walked me back into the house. “It was probably killed by a cougar or coyote, sweetheart. I’ll get it cleaned up. Welcome to Vermont.”

  I stayed in the house the rest of the day. I didn’t want to know what Patrick did with the carcass. I never asked. And he never told me.

  ***

  Six months had passed since I’d met Patrick. They were the happiest of my life. The days merged into one another in one blissful moment to the next. I worked at the paper. I grew increasingly fonder of John and Doris. In the early mornings and later afternoons, I toiled over my manuscript at the desk in Patrick’s office, while he tinkered in the background, cooking meals, chopping firewood, shoveling snow, and working on something in the small shop twenty or so feet from the cabin. In the evenings we ate dinner together and talked of nothing and everything and then fell into bed, making love until exhausted. We were drunk in love and my old life in Legley Bay felt far away and dreamlike. It seemed this was my real life, here with Patrick.

  Patrick made notes on the first draft of my second book and I was busy on rewrites between assignments at the paper. He spent most days in his shop, making a collection of clocks. In late March, he surprised me at dinner by announcing he had to go to New York in the morning. “When I come back, I’ll be officially divorced. I just have to sign papers.”

  He was gone for three days. I was in the office, writing, when I heard his steps on the porch. Excited to see him, I leapt from the desk and sprinted down the stairs. But I stopped at the bottom of the stairs when I saw him. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Or shaved. There was stubble on his face, his hair was disheveled, his eyes blood-shot and red-rimmed. He hadn’t taken his jacket off and kept it fastened all the way up to his chin. I went to him, holding out my hands. “Baby, are you sick?”

  He didn’t answer, simply pulled me into his arms. “God, I missed you.” I smelled stale alcohol and cigarette smoke on him. Was he smoking? He held me tightly, his face in my hair. “Constance.” A sound erupted from deep in his chest, something between a sob and a wail.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and spoke softly. “Patrick, what is it? Did something happen?”

  Lifting his head, he removed my arms from around his neck and lifted me slightly off the ground and set me aside, like setting a package he no longer needed on a counter. Then he strode to the kitchen, opening the liquor cabinet and pulling down the bottle of whiskey. He grabbed a tumbler I had drying in the rack and filled it almost to the top. With his back to me, leaning on the counter with one hand as if his legs might not hold him, he emptied half the glass into his mouth. “I love you. I need you to know that.”

  I stared at his broad back, my heart pounding. “You’re scaring me.”

  He turned toward me, wiping at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Constance. I really am.”

  “Did you stop at the bar on the way home?”

  He raked his hand through his hair. “Whiskey’s the only way I can get through this.”

  “Through what?”

  “I can’t be with you any longer.” His voice cracked. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his leather jacket.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There are things out of my control. Things that won’t be good for you. And I can’t do it to you.”

  “Do what?”

  “Wreck your life. Jeopardize your life.”

  I moved toward him with my hands in the air, like one might approach someone with a loaded gun. “You’re not making any sense. Just come upstairs. Sleep it off.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Oregon. You’re so naïve, so young, so damn innocent. You have no idea what these people are like.”

  “What people?”

  “My in-laws.” He threw the glass against the wall. It shattered. Whiskey splashed and ran down the wall. “You have to get your stuff and get out. Call John to come get you.”

  “What happened in New York?”

  “It became clear to me that I can’t have you. That’s what happened.”

  “Patrick, please, stop. I love you. It doesn’t matter what they try to do to us. We can make our own way.” I started to cry.

  “God, please don’t cry. I’ve been thinking about this, about you, for three days straight. I want you to have a good life and you won’t if you’re with me.” He was crying now too. I moved toward him, but he put his hands in front of him like a shield. “Don’t, Constance. Please don’t touch me.”

  “Tell me what this is about. You can’t just send me away with no explanation.”

  His voice was loud, emphasizing every word. “You’re not safe with me. They will find a way to destroy you, wreck everything for you. Or worse, hurt you. I cannot bear it. You need to go back to Oregon. Disappear. When the book comes out, do not let the press know where you live. Make sure Janie knows this is part of the deal. Do you understand?”

  I stared at him.

  “Please, sweetheart, say you understand. It’s the only way you can be safe.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll never stop loving you. Ever. But this is the only way.” With that, he hobbled to the front door like he was in physical pain and left.

  Sick with grief and shock, I went into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. For a long time, I sat on the floor and wept. Finally, knowing it was inevitable, I went upstairs and packed my few possessions. I called John.

  ***

  “Take me to Doris,” I said to John when I got into his truck.

  “He’s trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t want to be protected. I want him.”

  “Give it time. Eventually things with his ex-wife will get sorted out and he can come for you.”

  But my heart was too broken to feel hope. I knew it was over. “I have to go home.”

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, John reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Patrick dropped this by for you.”

  With shaking hands, I opened it. Inside there was a letter and a wad of cash.

  Oregon,

  I know you won’t want this, but I have to leave it for you anyway. It’s one thousand dollars, just to keep you fed and clothed until your book deal is complete. Or just to put in the bank in case you need it. Either way, please use it.

  Yours,

  Patrick

  I wept silently.

  John matched my silence. He had daughters and a wife. He knew when a woman couldn’t speak and when to join her there.

  The diner was closed but Doris was still there, setting up for the lunch shift. When she saw us at the front door, she let us in. Her eyes went from surprised to sharp in an instant. “What happened?”

  “Patrick.” I couldn’t say, could only sob.

  “Son of a bitch.” She took my hand and led me over to the counter. I sank onto my usual stool, only vaguely aware that Doris and John spoke softly to one another by the front door.

  The diner was empty except for the ghosts. They were in the back booth, with pages of a manuscript scattered across the surface of the table.

  Doris sat beside me. “Do you know what happened?”

  I shook my head. “He went to New York to sign his divorce papers. When he came home he told me it was over with me. He said I’m not safe. It’s his horrible wife and her father.”

  “Dammit.”

  “He wants me to go home. To Oregon. To disappear.”

  She was silent for a long moment, her brows wrinkled, considering. “Oh, baby girl, I’m so sorry.”

  The tenderness in her voice made all the grief roar to life in a bigger way than the moment before. My empty stomach lurched again. “I was so happy.”

  “Come here.” Doris pulled my head into her chest. I wept until the front of her uniform was wet. Finally, she took a napkin and wiped under my
eyes. She held my face in her hands. “You’re beautiful and smart. Your whole future is before you. You’ll be all right.”

  But I knew that wasn’t true.

  ***

  I wrote a brief letter to my parents, unable to fathom calling them on the phone to tell them of my failures.

  Dear Mother and Daddy,

  I’m coming home. I arrive by train in Portland at 5:00 p.m. on April 10th. Please, if you could, meet me there.

  Love, Constance

  Doris closed down the diner several days later to take me to the train station. She knew I might not be able to do it otherwise. I was sick on the way and she had to stop the car so I could vomit into a bush on the side of the road. When I climbed back in, I apologized to her. “I guess broken hearts make you throw up, huh?”

  She didn’t say anything, just looked at me with a worried expression.

  We waited for the train together, neither of us saying much. When they called to board, Doris took a paper bag out of her purse and put it in mine. “Some sandwiches for the journey.” I stood, trying not to cry. Doris put her arms around me. “You have money?”

  I nodded. “Patrick made sure of that.”

  “Well, that’s good.” The way she said it sounded like the worst set of swear words.

  “I’ll miss you, Doris.” It took a superhuman effort not to cry; I felt my face screw up in the effort.

  “This isn’t goodbye forever, Oregon, just so long for now. Write to me when you get there.”

  “I will.” We hugged tightly for another moment before I stepped away from her, trying to stay brave.

  My last view of Vermont was Doris standing on the platform, waving goodbye.

  When I could no longer see her, I went to my sleeping compartment and curled into a ball, the constant ache and nausea my only companion.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT WAS DARK OUTSIDE when Sutton set aside the manuscript. She wandered out to the deck. The air was chilly but she hardly noticed. Mommy, I’m so sorry, she thought. Grabbing a flashlight from the waterproof chest near the French doors, she headed across the yard and down the stairs to the beach. It was low tide. Shining the light onto the sand, she stood several feet from where the waves reached.

  She heard Declan call out to her. And then he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, pressing his face into her shoulder. “Sutton, I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for everything I said.”

  “I’m sorry too.” She was shaking and moved to face him. Their eyes locked. They leaned closer and then kissed, long and hard. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Sutton.” He groaned when she pressed her chest against him, not a sliver of air between them. “Let’s go inside.”

  She moved her hands from his neck to inside his jacket and felt him shudder as she glided her cool hands under his shirt to lightly touch his skin. “I haven’t been able to forget you either, no matter how hard I’ve tried. So don’t think you’re the only one.”

  He drew back slightly and cold space slipped between them. “We need to go back to the house.” His voice was gruff and ragged. “Jesus, I sound like a woman, but we need to talk more before we get carried away.”

  She sighed and took her hands from inside his shirt. “You’re right.” Her voice felt as if it were rattling around in an empty chest.

  “Let’s go inside where it’s warm. You need to sleep. We can talk in the morning when we’re both thinking more clearly.” He put his arm around her shoulders and she tucked her head into his chest like she always had. Just an arm around my shoulder, she thought, and it was possible to breathe again.

  When they entered the kitchen, she halted at the door, stalling. “I don’t know if I can sleep.”

  “I’m going to hunt down a sleeping pill for you. Louise’s new husband left them for us.”

  “I never take pills.”

  He guided her upstairs with his hand on the small of her back. “I know, but in this case, it’s a good idea. You need to sleep. And I need to get on the right schedule. Jet lag’s killing me.”

  “Doctors are such pill pushers,” she said, but the fight wasn’t in her. All she wanted was to fall asleep in Declan’s arms. “Can I sleep in your room?”

  “What do you mean?” He glanced at her, his expression startled. “With me?”

  “I’m afraid to sleep alone.” They were at the door of Declan’s room. “I promise to behave myself.”

  “Fine.”

  She scurried to her room, changing into cotton pajamas and brushing her teeth as quickly as she could. Declan was still dressed when she returned to his room. His suitcase was open, near the bureau, containing neatly folded clothes and a pair of tennis shoes in the mesh side pocket. This was the primary guest room, used little over the years by anyone but Sutton during overnight stays. It was located directly across the hall from the master bedroom and faced the mountains instead of the sea. When Constance had turned Sutton’s childhood bedroom into the hopeful space for yet-unborn grandchildren, Constance had decorated this room for Sutton to use as a guest room anytime she wanted.

  The room was mostly white with tan accent colors and had a European feel. A distressed white desk sat in a corner near a long, skinny window with old-fashioned panes that opened in, revealing a view of the mountains. French doors opened out to a small deck, just large enough for two chairs, and were framed by the same filmy white curtains of the other window.

  The king-sized bed, covered by a simple, pure white comforter and pillows, was still made. He closed the bedroom door and turned on the tall lamp next to the right side of bed.

  She sat on the bed, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Get in,” he said, gruffly.

  Leaving her in bed, he went to the bureau and opened an envelope. “I’ll take one too, okay?” He went into the bathroom and came out with a glass of water, handing it and the pill to her.

  She swallowed the pill and slipped her feet into the cool sheets, curling into a ball, watching him undress. Her eyes followed his movements as he pulled a T-shirt over his head and took off his pants, throwing them onto the back of the bench tucked beneath the desk. His boxer shorts were white with pale-blue stripes. His torso was muscular and sculpted. Her fingertips and hands and mouth had known every detail and contour of his body once. Would it be the same if he let her touch him? He went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. She heard running water and the sounds of him brushing his teeth and then the toilet flushing. When he came out, he stood at the end of the bed looking at her. “We do need to talk, Sutton.”

  “I know.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, tomorrow.” She fluffed the pillow under her cheek. “I’m wide awake. I don’t think these pills work.”

  “I gave it to you less than five minutes ago. Just wait.” He pushed back the covers on the other side of the bed and climbed in, switching off the lamp. She turned on her side to look at him but it was dark and she could only make out the outline of his face. But the heat was there between them, just like always.

  “Declan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know if this was such a good idea.”

  “Why’s that?” His voice sounded twitchy.

  “Because.” She pressed against him, finding a spot on his neck with her mouth. He shifted and then kissed her; it was gentle and searching. It felt like the first time he’d kissed her when they were young.

  “Not like this. Not tonight,” he whispered. “Just go to sleep.”

  “Okay,” she murmured, suddenly sleepy. And then it was black.

  ***

  It was near noon when Sutton woke the next day, the bed covers tangled about her. Declan’s side of the bed was empty, with just the indentation of his head on the pillow as proof he’d been there. Yawning, she trudged to the other guest room and started a bath, pouring a scoop of her mother’s primrose bath salts into the tub. The bathroom filled with steam
and the sweet smell of the salts. When the water was near the top, she slipped into the tub.

  Her mother had kept Patrick’s memory alive through the years, she thought. The necklace around her neck. The clock on her desk. The scent of primroses in her bath. Constance had never stopped loving Patrick, just as Sutton had never stopped loving Declan. She sank farther into the tub until her face was below the surface of the water. She remained this way until she needed a breath. When she came up for air, she could not tell if it was tears or perspiration at the corners of her eyes.

  An hour later, dressed in a soft cotton dress, she found Declan in her mother’s office, painting on an easel near the window. The room smelled of fresh oil paint and turpentine; these were his smells, his life, his work.

  “Can I see?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you want to talk about last night?”

  “I do, but let’s read some more first.” He pointed at the manuscript on the desk with his paintbrush. “I caught up to where you left off. You read out loud while I paint.”

  HOMEWARD BOUND

  It was a pity that what I normally would have enjoyed so much—seeing America though the windows of the train—was wasted with tears that seemed never ending. For the most part, I stayed in my sleeper car, curled in the fetal position, unable to read or write or think. I knew that once I got home, to my mother’s house, my tears would have to be hidden, so I let myself cry without ceasing. On the second day of the journey, I awoke thirsty from a restless sleep. I went down to the meal car and ordered a cup of tea.

  Sitting across from me was a woman with a baby boy on her lap. I didn’t know much about babies in those days but I guessed he was somewhere between twelve and eighteen months old. He had soft, pudgy cheeks and a head of thick, brown hair. Eating the heart of a peanut butter sandwich, much of which was smeared across his face, he tossed the crusts on the table as if they were offensive. The woman was about my age, tall and broad-shouldered with an angular face: long and skinny nose, broad mouth, high cheekbones. She was all muscles and angles. Her long brown hair was in a ponytail, which she occasionally tugged as she stared out the window with a dazed look, the outside light casting shadows under her eyes.