Tea and Primroses

by Tess Thompson

  “I never thought of it that way. I guess I just thought of her as somewhat over-protective but loving.”

  “It was because so many people around her died, Dec. She was afraid for us.”

  “Do you think she had reason to be? I mean, other than just the usual fears mothers have for their children?”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Until now, that is.”

  “Right.”

  “I have something I want to show you.” Declan disappeared upstairs for a few minutes and came down with a plain white envelope he handed to Sutton. “This is the letter your mother wrote me. I thought you might like to read it.” He hesitated, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Patrick Waters is going to be here in two hours. After you read this letter, we really need to finish the manuscript.”

  She agreed before opening the letter.

  Dearest Declan,

  I know the death of your mother has defined much of your life. The unanswered questions haunt you, as they do me. I’m worth a lot of money but I would trade it all to know what really happened to Roma and to have some kind of justice for her. But I accepted it, along with so many other losses over the years, and have tried hard to not become bitter and suspicious but I’ve not been entirely successful.

  If you’re reading this I’ve passed on and I’m with Roma in the afterlife. I really hope she’s learned how to relax wherever we are. If so, we’re kicking back with a glass of wine, watching the waves come in. So much of life is like Heaven, I suspect, only without the ache of loss or the angst of worry. The moments with your mother, watching the waves roll in, sipping wine, and watching you and Sutton play on the beach were some of the highlights of my life.

  I’ve left you a lot of money; I understand you’ll resist and go on a bit about not accepting charity and that it should all go to Sutton and a bunch of other manly, stubborn, prideful things I’ve heard from you all your life. I admire and respect you for your independence, however, I considered you as much my child as Sutton. Your mother saved my life once, on a train barreling across the country, when my heart was broken. From the moment she arrived in my life she made everything bearable. I was grateful for every meal she cooked, how she ran my house and took care of both of you and Sutton so I could write. She was a woman of great strength and character. You take after her.

  When you were ten years old I found you in the kitchen under the table, sketching. The drawing was of your mother’s hands—callused, hardened, and red from years of water and soap and scouring and stirring. It was remarkable for a small boy, unbelievable actually. I knew then you had a special gift.

  “Did you do this?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s no good.”

  “Draw another and another until you get better.”

  “Is that what you did when you first started writing books?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do too.”

  The look on your face was of sheer determination. I knew then that your gifts would not be wasted. Hard work matters more than talent.

  That said, I hope I’ve been a source of encouragement to you and not pushed you too hard. No one has loved your work more than I, except your mother and Sutton.

  The money is so you can paint and not have to worry about making a living. I understand the portraits you’ve painted in Europe have kept you reasonably fed but I can read between the lines of your emails and know that it has not been easy. I was young once and poor and dedicated to an art that usually makes no money. All the success I’ve had, I did it for you and for Sutton—no material things have ever mattered to me. Please take the fruit of my life’s work in the manner it’s offered.

  Thank you for getting me out of Oregon and overseas. The adventures I had were because of your wanderlust spirit. They, also, were some of the highlights of my life.

  But, please, try to let go of your mother’s death. Let the way she lived define who you are, not how she died. You’ve run long enough from demons that want to take you into the darkness. Your mother worked hard all her life to give you everything she never had. She did it all for you. Let this be your guide.

  I’ve left you and Sutton the house. My deepest wish is that it brings you back to one another.

  I love you, dearest boy. Be well. Be happy.

  Constance

  Sutton folded the letter and stuck it back in the envelope.

  “It wasn’t just you I’ve been running from,” said Declan. “The unanswered questions about my mother’s death are louder here.” He looked away from her. “I have fantasies about finding him and killing him. It’s not healthy, I know, but I can’t stop. I’ve let the darkness take over. But Constance is right, I have to let go and choose to be happy. Will you help me?”

  “I would do anything to make you happy.”

  He grabbed both her hands and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Nothing in the world makes me as happy as you do.”

  Declan's mouth was on hers then, kissing her hard. He moved his hands under her legs and wrapped them around his waist, then gently pushed her back onto the couch before covering her body with his and kissing her again. It was just as she remembered, this mouth, this kiss, this taste of him. All the years melted away. It was only Declan. There was no other. There never had been. There never would be.

  His mouth traveled to her neck, biting gently as his hands moved from her hips to her legs and then under her dress, inching slowly up the soft flesh of her inner thighs until his fingers found the lace of her panties. She was breathless and wet and arched against him as he tugged them off. She sat up and pulled her dress over her head and slid out of her bra.

  He went still, falling to his knees at the side of the couch and gazing at her with an expression she could only think of as awe. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  She watched, hungry to take in every inch of him, aching for his hands and mouth back on her skin, as he tugged off his jeans and boxers and slid his shirt over his head. When he was once again with her on the couch, she wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed her hands along the hard muscles of his back and arms. He kissed her again, biting her bottom lip with his teeth before moving to nibble on her ear, his hands in her hair. He moved his mouth to her neck and her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue until she moaned, “Please, don’t stop.”

  “I love you,” he said, his voice husky. “But you’re sure you’re ready for this? Now, like this?”

  “It was a long six years, Declan,” she whispered. “Please don’t make me wait any longer.”

  He groaned and lifted himself over her and thrust deep inside her, in a slow, even rhythm. She closed her eyes and wrapped her legs tighter around him as the pleasure built until she was no longer in possession of clear thought. The climax started, a dull ache at first, and then an explosion that caused her to cry out and arch her back as the pleasure came in shudders, each one more intense than the one before. When the release subsided she opened her eyes and watched Declan’s face as he lost control, moaning her name when he exploded inside her.

  Afterward, he collapsed on top of her for a brief moment and then lifted his head, grinning and breathing heavily. Laying his head on her breasts, she felt his eyelashes flutter against her skin. “You feel the same, after all this time, like no one else.”

  “I guess my body didn’t forget how to have sex.” She laughed. “You know you always made me so crazy.”

  “I guess some things never change.” They both shifted until they were face to face. Stroking her hair, he kissed the top of her head. “Patrick’s going to be here soon. We need to finish reading the manuscript.”

  Slipping from his arms, she reached for her dress and slipped it over her head. Her panties were on the coffee table, inside out. She grabbed them and put them on. “How’s my hair?”

  He grimaced as he buttoned his shirt. “It looks like you just had sex.”

  “Oh my God.”

  She
smiled and nestled her face against the collar of his shirt as she slipped her arms around his waist. “We should read the rest of the story in her office. It seems right somehow.”

  He nodded and followed her into the office. “You read this time?”

  “Yes.” She began.

  THE RETURN

  And then one day, another man arrived at my doorstep. Not my wayward boy but my lost love.

  Patrick arrived here to my home on an afternoon like so many others. It was raining and I was chasing words at my desk, a cup of green tea growing cold next to the keyboard when the buzzer sounded, indicating someone was at the gate. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Constance, it’s Patrick.”

  I almost dropped the phone. “Patrick?” My heart was a thousand birds’ wings fluttering in the sea breeze.

  “Can I come in?”

  I didn’t answer, simply pushed the button to let him through and went to stand at the closed door. In what felt like hours later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door, my hand damp on the knob. Then I stood there, staring at him for a long moment. Perhaps I whispered his name; I don’t remember. He was changed, of course. There were lines on his face and his hair was gray at the temples. But his long, slender body was remarkably the same, as were his eyes. They were the same deep green, with the same level of intelligence and intensity I saw so frequently in my dreams. There was something different about him though, something beyond his physical aging. It was the face of someone resigned to a permanent sadness. I recognized it, having the same in my own face.

  I barely remember what I said. I was out of my body. “How did you find my house?”

  “It’s a small town. I asked around.”

  “Why?”

  He did the thing where he pulled at his ear, his green eyes peering at me. “I wanted to see you.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, glancing around the yard. “Weather’s just like you described. Everything in shades of gray.”

  I shook my head, still in amazement. “It’s not for everyone.”

  His eyes were soft now, taking me in, perhaps adjusting to my new, old face. “You’re beautiful. No sunshine’s apparently good for your skin.”

  I flushed at the compliment. And it was there, the old spark, as if thirty years hadn’t passed. “Well, sure, I guess. That and sitting everyday in my office working.”

  “The books are good. Every one of them.”

  “You taught me well.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. It was all you. You know that.”

  “Not true.”

  He moved toward me, reaching out with one hand. I thought he was going to touch me but his hand stopped just inches from my collarbone. “You’re wearing the necklace I gave you.”

  “I never take it off, except to sleep.”

  “Do you remember us, Oregon?”

  “God yes. Everything.”

  “I thought it might just be me who couldn’t forget, couldn’t let go.” His lips trembled; he was trying to control his emotions. He was the same, I thought. People don’t change.

  I placed my fingers on the necklace. “It’s not just you.”

  “Can I come in? It’s teatime.” He held up his watch. “See?”

  I looked up at the sky for a moment. Should I let him in? What good could come of it? But the truth was I couldn’t say no to him. I’d never been able to.

  So he came inside, following me into the kitchen. Flustered and nervous, I set the kettle on and reached inside the cabinet for the tea bags. “Do you have a preference?” I asked, meaning in his choice of tea.

  He said no, that anything was fine. His eyes never left me, following me around the kitchen as I prepared our tea. The kettle whistled. I turned off the stove. All of this done with the invisible current between us akin to electricity or lightning or white hot heat.

  By this time the initial shock began to lesson and I started to shake. When I reached into the cupboard for teacups, my grip slipped and a cup dropped to the floor, breaking into many shattered pieces. He rushed to my side, putting his hand on my arm as we locked eyes. “Let me clean this up.” His voice was tender and soothing. His voice broke my heart.

  “Oh, Patrick, what’re you doing here?” And the tears came, not the sobbing variety but the hot kind that leak from your eyes like an over-filled bucket. “After all this time?”

  He pulled me into his arms, tilting my face upward. “I came to make amends.”

  “Amends?”

  “Yes. And to explain a few things.”

  “Why now? After all this time?”

  “I’m dying, Oregon.”

  I felt my legs go weak. “What?”

  “Cancer.” He moved his hand to his chest. “It’s spread to my lungs. Doc says probably a year.” He said this all without flinching, the sure sign of resignation, acceptance. But I didn’t want to accept it. Voices screamed inside my head: No, no, no.

  “But you don’t look sick.”

  He took my hand and led me over to the table. “I know. And I don’t feel sick, either.”

  “What about chemo?”

  “I did it, four years ago and it almost killed me, and the cancer came back, anyway. Doc says chemo might slow the cancer but I’ll feel like shit for the last months of my life from the poison they pump inside me.” He left me at the table and went to the pantry, as if he’d lived here all his life, and grabbed the broom and dustpan, then swept up the glass. After the floor was clean, he filled two teacups with the hot water from the kettle. “I want to go out on my own terms.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “I found out last week. I closed my old life and came here. To you.” He held his hands up in the air in a gesture of weakness. “Not to say you want me here or anything but I have this list, you see, of things I need to do before I die. Coming here was the first thing on my list. I wanted to tell you the truth of what happened, why I ended things.”

  “Why you ended things,” I repeated, but without the question. My mouth was so dry it came out no louder than a whisper. I clasped my hands in my lap in an attempt to stop the trembling.

  He sat at the table, looking down at his cup of tea. “I’m going to tell you the truth. Bear with me while I try to get through it. Okay?”

  I nodded, never taking my eyes from him.

  “When I went to New York in March to finalize the divorce, I went to our apartment to gather a few things—just a few photographs and books of sentimental value. As you know, I didn’t care about any of our possessions—I’d already signed them over to her. I didn’t expect her to be there. Her father said she’d been staying with them. But she arrived after I was there twenty minutes or so. I believed then, given that you were almost run down by a car, that she was having me followed. She had a knife and cornered me in the kitchen, raging at me. When I tried to push her aside, she cut me with it.” He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and moved it aside. There was a long, thin scar running from one collarbone to the other. “Like she’d done before with her nails, but this time with a knife. She admitted she knew about us and that unless I broke it off with you immediately she would hunt us both down and kill us. She said, ‘I know people, Patrick, who do this for money. I won’t hesitate and there’ll be no way they can trace it back to me.’ My mind was racing at this point, thinking through whether or not I could protect us by going to the police. But the Templetons were powerful people. I knew Maurice had ties to organized crime but I had no proof. And I was powerless against them.” He paused, moving his cup up a few inches closer to him. “She told me her father also knew about us and about your book. She said if I didn’t end it with you they would pull your deal and make sure you never got another.”

  “My book deal?”

  “Yes. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “But what about later? After my books were so successful that I didn’t need them any longer? Why didn’t you come for me?”

  “Her fat
her told me he would destroy you in the press by telling everyone you’d had an affair with his son-in-law, which would kill your good girl image and alienate your core audience. He said he would dig up every ounce of dirt on you and make some up if there wasn’t any. You have to remember, Sigourney and I were the toast of New York when we married. Everyone knew us and had bought into our fairytale story. There wasn’t a week we weren’t in that goddamn society section. Sigourney made sure of that. I knew he would do it but I told him I didn’t care and that you wouldn’t either, that I had enough contacts in the press of my own to expose his scheme. I was bluffing, really. I was certain he would do it and that it might ruin your career. I stayed up all night, pacing, wondering if there was any way to fight against him. Your career was the one thing I couldn’t have you sacrifice. You wanted to write more than anything and I couldn’t bear to kill your dream. I loved you too much for that. And I knew you’d resent me for it in the long run but still I thought I could figure a way out of this. But the nail in the coffin happened the next day. I was pushed into an alley coming out of my hotel by some thugs, sent by Maurice. They told me in no uncertain terms that they would kill us both if I ever made contact with you again. End it and do not tell her why, they told me. Or some bad people will come for you. Everyone in the family knew it, including Sigourney. Including me. These were serious people. There was no protection for us. And Maurice wanted me punished for giving up Sigourney and my career. It was the last, final measure to make sure I suffered.” He paused. “When I went back to the hotel, that awful hat your mother made you was on the bed, covered with blood. It was a message, obviously. About you.”

  Reeling, I could do nothing but stare at him. Finally, tears streaming from my eyes, I reached for his hand across the table. “Are we still in danger?”