Tea and Primroses

by Tess Thompson

  Throughout it all, Miller was supportive and proud, despite the fact that his family clearly hated me. They had little to do with Sutton or me and Miller’s relationship with them was conducted mostly at their shop. Regardless, he remained devoted to both of us in every way. I often heard him bragging about me after church services and at parties. He threw me a surprise birthday party after the third book hit the bestseller list and bought me a new dress, red with white polka dots. I still have it, nestled in the very back of my closet to remind me of the sweetness of both the gesture and the man. Louise and Tim and Aggie came and toasted my success. I looked across the room at my husband, holding Sutton, and I felt nothing but gratitude and respect. He was here, I told myself. And that’s what mattered.

  There were many sweet moments between us, especially during times with Sutton. I remained numb when he touched me but he didn’t seem to notice. I escaped into my work like I had done all my life, living full lives through my characters. And when I was done for the day, I looked into my daughter’s eyes and was stirred awake.

  Sometimes, alone in the night when I couldn’t sleep, I would look at the list in the New York Times and see my name near the top and wonder: did you see this, Patrick? Do you know?

  My publisher arranged interviews and press coverage but I insisted that everything had to be conducted over the phone. I did not allow anyone to print where I lived. I made up a story that I was afraid of flying; no one questioned it. Writers were known for their eccentricities. I became famous, well, as famous as writers can be, which, thankfully, is nothing compared to other artists. We can hide in our offices and between our words. Readers still come. And they did. I started receiving fan letters daily, begging for the next book. My dream had arrived.

  Through it all, I could not help but wonder, Patrick, do you know? Because, still, none of it mattered compared to how much I loved him. Nothing but Sutton compared to that.

  Sutton grew. She was sweet and willowy and beautiful. I took hundreds of photos. Miller worked at the shop and came home to us at 5:15, every night without fail. I used part of my third book money to buy a little house for Roma and let her live there for minimal rent. I grew close with Clara. Together, we convinced my father to retire from the docks. He was fifty years old by then but kept busy doing side jobs as a handyman. “Doesn’t matter what it is, Sweets, but you have to do something. Otherwise you get old,” he said.

  Life looked good, I imagine, from the outside.

  But on the inside, a part of me remained broken and in that brokenness I learned to survive by pushing the pain deep inside, by not acknowledging there was a hole that was Patrick.

  But my subconscious knew.

  At night, every night, I dreamt of him.

  And then, one day shortly after Sutton’s third birthday, Miller didn’t come home for dinner. Worried, I called the store but his father said he’d left on time.

  I fed Sutton the dinner Roma had left. I paced the kitchen. Something was wrong. I knew it.

  The doorbell rang at 6:15. It was Tim Ball, his handsome face green.

  And I knew before he said the words. Miller was gone. “No,” I said. “No, don’t say it.”

  “I’m sorry, Connie. There was an accident. He went off the cliff.”

  “Where?”

  “Just north of the state park.” He looked down, unable to meet my eyes. I knew what this meant. Miller’s car had crashed a hundred feet or more off the side of the cliff, smashing against the rocks.

  “Did he suffer?”

  “No, Connie. The doc says he was most likely killed at first impact.”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  Tim’s face crumpled; he leaned against the doorway. “No. It’s the truth.” His voice caught. “I’m sorry.”

  I fell to my knees. “Send Louise to me. Please.”

  “She’s on her way.”

  For the third time in my life, I learned this: we are only a moment away from being on our knees.

  ***

  I was in the bedroom at Miller’s parents’ home after the service, wiping smeared mascara from under my eyes, when his mother entered. She closed the door behind her. I watched her in the mirror.

  “Don’t think I don’t know the truth,” she said.

  “The truth?” I didn’t shift my gaze. She was the type of woman who used the force of her personality to frighten her sons and daughters-in-law. Judgmental, always an opinion on everything we were doing wrong with our children, the cooking, our homes. At first I’d behaved properly, deferring to her judgment, complimenting her, thanking her for her advice on raising Sutton, how to better iron Miller’s shirts, and a hundred other things.

  “I thank the good Lord Miller never knew.”

  I turned then, bunching the fabric of my skirt with my hand that was suddenly wet with perspiration. “Mrs. Byrd, I mean you no disrespect, but there were no secrets between Miller and me. He knew everything and accepted me as I was. I didn’t deserve him, there’s no question about it.” I wrapped my arms around my middle as my voice broke. “He knew the truth.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes bulging and the purple vein at her temple pulsing. “But why? Why would he marry you? He could’ve had anyone.” Although she still stared at me, the fight had gone out of her voice.

  “I loved him,” I said. “If that matters to you at all.”

  The fight came back to her then. She jerked toward me; I thought she might strike me. “That, young lady, is a lie. I thank the good Lord he’s the only one who didn’t know that.” Holding onto the bedpost, as if for support, she pointed a plump, pink finger at me. “You’re no longer welcome in my home. No one wants you here.”

  “But what about Sutton?”

  She shook her head, sighing, retreating back toward the door. “She’s a sweet girl. It’s unfortunate you’re her mother.”

  I decided in that moment that I would change Sutton’s last name to match mine. It was just the two of us in a lonely world.

  And Mrs. Byrd left, the door closing softly behind her. One of the bedroom windows was open a few inches and a breeze shifted the thin cotton curtains. Dust particles played in a shaft of light. I sat on the bed and wept, hot shame pouring from my eyes. I went to the dresser. There was a framed high school portrait of Miller. How naïve and wholesome he looked. That had never changed. A good father. A good husband. A good provider.

  She was right, of course. I never loved him. I wanted to, Miller, more than anything. I’m sorry. I whispered this last part to his photo.

  I never loved him. It was just Patrick. Always Patrick.

  I hated myself for that.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SUTTON PUT THE LAST PAGE OF THE CHAPTER facedown with the others. Declan stood at the window, looking out at the ocean.

  He turned to her. “Sometimes from the beach I’d look up and catch your mother standing in this exact same spot. I often wondered what made her so sad.”

  “Now we know.” She joined him at the window. A bank of clouds had moved in while they read, making the water appear gray and restless. “Do you think Patrick Waters is my father?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility.” He turned to her and brushed the side of her face with the back of his hand. “Your eyes.”

  “But why wouldn’t she have told me?”

  “Patrick made it clear that they were to have no contact.”

  “But he’s here. Obviously, something changed.”

  Declan went to the couch and picked up the remaining chapter. “I’m sure the explanation is in here.”

  “I wondered why my father’s family—Miller’s family—never wanted to see me. My mother always said they had a falling out after he died and they wanted nothing to do with us. It was one of the things I knew I couldn’t ask Mom about. You know how she used to clam up when you asked her certain things?”

  “Yeah, I know exactly. Anything to do with the past, really.”

  “If Patrick Waters
is my father, it would certainly explain the Byrds’ animosity toward her.” She sat on the couch, pulling her legs under her. “I don’t remember Miller at all but when I asked questions about him she would always tell me whatever I wanted to know. I assumed he was her one big love that she often referenced, but it wasn’t, was it?”

  “No. It was Patrick Waters. That much is clear. I’m sorry, Baby.”

  Baby? That’s what he used to call her. Did he realize he’d said it?

  He knelt by the couch and touched her knees lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m numb.” But that was a lie. His touch caused the all too familiar flash of desire.

  “It’s a lot to take in,” he said softly.

  Agitated suddenly, she rose to her feet. “Can I see what you’re painting now?”

  “I guess.”

  She went to the easel. It was a painting of her from the back, done from a sketch he’d done the summer before he left for Europe; she remembered posing for it in her bedroom, gazing at the sea. Her torso was bare and a purple sheath covered the curve of her hips and backside. Her long brown hair was pushed to one side, revealing her long, slender neck. The small sketch from six years ago, drawn in black charcoal, was on the desk. She picked it up. “Where did you find this?”

  “In the garage. Your mother kept all my old work out there. I went through some of it this morning.”

  “Declan.” She said his name softly as she gazed at the painting. “You’re so good now.”

  He was next to her now. “Thank you. Constance was always committed to becoming better at her craft, even after all the successes. I try and do the same.”

  “It shows.”

  His hand brushed hers. “I can paint another fifty years and never capture how beautiful you are.”

  “Pretty.” She gestured toward the painting. “It’s all anyone ever said about me.”

  He turned to her, taking in a deep breath and tilting her face upward. “Did you think I loved you just because you were beautiful?”

  She nodded, her eyes scratchy. “It was all I ever really had that was remotely special.”

  “Not true.” He put his arms around her waist, drawing her closer and looking into her eyes. “You were the heart of this house growing up. I’ve been all over the world and have met many extraordinary people. None of them are half the person you are.”

  “I couldn’t even get through college, Declan. You have a master’s.”

  “What difference does that make? Academics weren’t your thing. So what? No one cared about that but you.”

  She didn’t say anything, all the old feelings and memories rushing to the surface of her nerve-endings: all the times she sat in class and felt like nothing made sense, all the times Declan and Jack and Gigi made the honor roll in high school, all her mother’s accomplishments. “I tried out for the cheerleading squad my sophomore year. Did you know that?”

  He shook his head, looking perplexed. “No, I didn’t know you ever wanted to do that.”

  “Well, I did. And I was good at it. I made the team but then I was too ashamed to tell the rest of you that I wanted to do it, knowing you guys would probably make fun of me.”

  “Sutton, we would’ve been proud of you.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Let me tell you something, loud and clear. The way you feel about yourself, all the doubts you have, all this rubbish that you weren’t good enough—that’s all in your head because none of us see you that way. We never did. We never will.”

  The doorbell rang. Her heart sank. The only two people who knew the code to the gate were Gigi and Roger. She hoped it was Gigi. “I’m sorry,” she said to Declan, “but we should get that. It’s probably Gigi.”

  “Great timing, Gigi,” he said, smiling as he followed her to the front door.

  It was Roger.

  She felt Declan hesitate behind her. Then she felt the heat from his body, only inches from her.

  “Hi, Sutton.” Roger’s gaze shifted behind her. “Declan.”

  Declan moved forward, standing next to Sutton and holding his hand out to Roger. They shook. “Not a great time, man,” said Declan. “We’re in the middle of some family business.”

  “Yeah, well, Sutton and I have some unfinished business too.”

  “I think she might disagree.” Declan moved closer to the door and grabbed the knob as if to shut it.

  Men, thought Sutton, like dogs marking their territory.

  “Sutton, may I come in?” asked Roger, without any acknowledgement of Declan’s last statement. “I need to talk to you. I won’t stay long.”

  “Sure.” Sutton stepped back from the door, her gaze darting to Declan.

  Declan’s eyes were almost black. His grip on the doorknob made his knuckles white. “I’ll leave you two alone, then.” He went to the coat closet and grabbed a fleece. “I need to go into town anyway.” He looked back at Sutton. “I need supplies to finish the painting of you. Check it out, Roger, while you’re here. It’s in the office.”

  Sutton nearly smiled at this blatant aggression but the thought of Roger’s reaction to a painting of her half nude sobered her. “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” she said to Roger, avoiding Declan’s eyes.

  They moved toward the kitchen. The house shook when the front door slammed.

  “How’re you holding up?” Roger wore jeans and a Hawaiian shirt and those awful sandals. There were bags under his eyes. She cringed inwardly, knowing she was the cause.

  “I’m getting through a moment at a time.” If he only knew the half of it, she thought, moving around the kitchen island to the stove. “Do you want something to eat?”

  He shifted his feet. “No, I just came to check on you.”

  “Did you drive from Portland?”

  “Yeah. I probably should’ve called but I thought you might say not to come.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Have you come to any conclusions? About us, I mean?” He placed both hands on the edge of the counter. “I need an answer, Sutton, or I’m going to go crazy.”

  “I can’t marry you, Roger.”

  “Did I do something to drive you away?”

  She looked at him for a moment, then down at her bare feet. Her mother had never loved Miller Byrd and yet she’d married him anyway, for Sutton’s sake. But Sutton didn’t need to make that same choice. She didn’t love Roger. She liked him. She cared about him. But it wasn’t enough. In every crowded space I search for you. It was not like her mother and Patrick. It was not how she felt about Roger. And everyone, including Roger, deserved to have that from their partner, not a just a glimmer. “Roger, you didn’t do anything except be yourself and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you except that I don’t love you enough to pledge the rest of my life to you.” She hesitated, wanting to be kind but honest. “You deserve someone who looks for your eyes in every crowded room. And it’s not me. I wish it was.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he muttered. “It’s Declan, isn’t it? That you look for in every room?”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “You love him. You’ve never stopped. He’s the reason for everything you do. Or don’t do. It’s all clear to me now.”

  “I’m sorry, Roger.”

  “I was so damn patient all this time and it was really always about Declan.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll show myself out.” And as quickly as he’d come, he was gone.

  She jumped as the door slammed shut for the second time that day.

  ***

  Sitting alone at the kitchen table, Sutton drank a cup of tea, staring at her phone. Declan had been gone for two hours. She’d tried his phone but there was no answer. Around three, the doorbell rang. It was Gigi, wearing shorts and a tank top and high sandals, with round, black sunglasses on top of her silky hair. She looked like a picture in one of those fashion magazines. No more ugly duckling
status for Gigi.

  “I need to talk.” Gigi hugged her, tightly, before letting her go. “And I need a drink.”

  “Are you freaking out about the money?” She followed Gigi into the front room.

  “No. Well, I am, but not at the moment. It’s Jack.” Gigi was opening a bottle of white wine from the little refrigerator under the bar.

  “What’s wrong?” Sutton’s skin went to goose pimples. “Is he all right? Did he try and hurt himself again?” Had the money sent him into a depression of some sort? It could happen, she supposed. Such a shock and all.

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that. He’s perfectly fine as far as I know.” Gigi pulled the cork out of the bottle; it made a popping sound. She never could open a bottle of wine properly. “We went home together after you guys dropped the bomb on us about the money. Or, I mean, we went to your home. I was drunk and well, I kinda slept with him.”

  “Kinda?”

  “I mean, totally slept with him. Like crazy hot sex all night kind of slept with him.”

  “Oh my God. Jack?”

  “I know. Jack.” Gigi flushed deep red. “I’m a complete whore. He hasn’t called me since he left. I’m a wreck.”

  Sutton sat in the easy chair. The clouds had parted and sunlight was streaming through the window in slants, making shapes on the hardwood floor. Gigi handed her a glass of wine but Sutton didn’t feel like drinking it. She wanted a clear head when Declan came home, and they could finish the manuscript. She set it on the coffee table. Gigi, on the other hand, gulped hers.