Because of Audrey

by Mary Sullivan

  Lordy, how was he supposed to make this right? He wasn’t a man who just blurted I love you to those around him.

  He’d behaved like a child. He could at least clean up. He scooted forward in the armchair and dropped on to his knees on the floor. Weaving his way through the furniture, he found the tray, then felt around for cutlery, dipping his fingers into the omelet by mistake. He tossed it on to the tray.

  He couldn’t make Audrey come home to this. He hadn’t heard the plate break, so he assumed he wouldn’t get a nasty surprise like a chip of broken china in his finger or palm.

  Working as best he could, he picked up what he could find, put it on the tray and carried it to the kitchen, yet again exasperated that a trip that should take thirty seconds took him five minutes.

  Once there, he managed to fill the sink with water and dish detergent—too much, judging by how high the suds were—and washed the plate and cutlery and tray, along with the cooled frying pan.

  He carried a damp sponge to the living room to clean the wall but had no idea how much jam he got and how much he left behind.

  He sighed, long and hard. He never used to be peevish or childish. He used to be a strong man, admired and respected. Where had his strength gone?

  He didn’t want a stranger in here teaching him how to cook and dress and brush his teeth. He didn’t want a stranger touching Irene’s things or changing things. Changing anything.

  He didn’t want a therapist. He didn’t want change.

  He couldn’t stop it.

  He ran his palm over the wall, but couldn’t tell what was clean and what wasn’t.

  He’d have to ask his neighbor, Essie, to help him when she brought in his lunch.

  * * *

  GRAY JOGGED ALONG the edge of the highway, ran as if his life depended on his sweating every drop of moisture out of his body, willing the sweat to leach his toxic grief and anger out of him.

  The questions that had bothered him yesterday persisted. Had Dad been unfaithful to Mom? Was he capable of cheating? Was Shelly Gray’s sister?

  The warm fuzzies that had filled him after giving the money and food to the family had dissipated once he’d returned to reality in Accord.

  He ran hard, his feet slapping the damp pavement like fish on water, and waited for the endorphins to kick in.

  He’d been a runner since college. It had proven to be a guaranteed stress reliever.

  Not today.

  Slap, slap, slap.

  He hadn’t slept last night. Hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning. Hadn’t been able to think coherently about the issues at work, or anything else.

  His head hurt. His stomach churned. Those red crescents in his palms, made by his fingernails when he clenched his fists, seemed to be permanent.

  He’d become what he’d always feared—a rational man who’d lost control of his life. And yet, wasn’t he busting his butt to find solutions? He could. He could make this all come out right one way or another.

  He ran and ran. Slap. Slap. Slap. Still, those elusive endorphins refused to show.

  Normally an athletic man, today he felt awkward and flat-footed. His lungs burned.

  He didn’t need a therapist to understand he was trying to outrun his demons, to outpace a decision that was making him ill. He needed money fast.

  He ran until his legs turned to jelly, until he thought it might be possible to walk into his parents’ home and look them in the eye, rather than avoiding them as he’d done since returning from Denver yesterday. But he could never be the same son he’d always been.

  He couldn’t look his father in the eye because he had doubts about him, and no longer had confidence that he really knew him. He couldn’t look his mother in the eye because he knew something that she didn’t. Something awful.

  He turned down his parents’ street, and his heart sank.

  Audrey’s pink Mini sat in the driveway.

  He hardened every soft emotion he’d developed yesterday during their drive home together, every ounce of compassion for her father, every speck of admiration for her fortitude, every sweaty particle of lust, until he could walk into his parents’ house without being affected by her.

  Because...to save his family, he had no choice but to destroy Audrey.

  * * *

  AUDREY HADN’T GONE to the greenhouses.

  Dad’s worsening state and his violence, this morning’s confrontation, rattled her. She’d needed uplifting companionship and blessedly normal interaction with another woman, anything that would take her mind off Dad.

  She had driven straight to the Turner house on its private cul-de-sac, absurdly happy to find that Gray wasn’t at home.

  He might have seemed more...human...on their drive home from Denver yesterday, but she still didn’t trust him.

  Harrison had answered the door.

  “Hi, Mr. Turner.”

  His expression had brightened and he’d smiled. “Hi, Audrey. We were just talking about you recently.”

  They had been? “Do you mind if I come in to visit Abigail?”

  “Of course not. She’s in the living room.”

  Audrey had found Abigail ensconced in a cozy armchair sipping tea from a china cup. An infinitesimal, brief rush of commingled guilt and regret in Abigail’s eyes had been replaced quickly by longing and pleasure.

  Audrey understood the guilt and wished she could throw her arms around Abigail to reassure her there were no hard feelings. All of those years ago, the woman had merely done what she’d had to do as a good, caring mother to protect her son.

  Audrey remembered as a child sitting quietly, the calm eye of the storm, while the adults swirled around her in a frenzy of caring, nurturing and fear. And intense panic. What to do about Gray? What to do for Gray?

  When Abigail struggled to rise, Audrey said, “Please sit. I just wondered whether I could visit for a few minutes before I open the store.”

  Abigail clapped her hands together once, and said, “I would love it more than anything. Harrison, can you get another cup? The tea is fresh.”

  Audrey sat on the sofa, and Abigail did get up to join her. When she settled close to Audrey, she sniffed. “Oh, your perfume is heavenly! Let me guess. Chanel. A classic.”

  Audrey waited, proud of Abigail for guessing correctly, but would she get the rest?

  “Not Number 5. Chanel Number 19. I always preferred it to Number 5. Such a rich scent. It has more body. More romance.”

  Audrey smiled. “It’s my favorite.”

  Abigail responded with a wide grin of her own. There wasn’t another person on earth with whom Audrey felt more in simpatico.

  Harrison returned with another cup and poured tea for Audrey, then settled into an armchair with the newspaper.

  “I have a new book,” Abigail crooned, as though she’d won a lottery. She pulled a hardcover from the coffee table, a photo collection of Jackie Kennedy’s wardrobe while she lived in the White House.

  “Ooooh,” Audrey said. “This looks wonderful.”

  “First tell me what you’ve created lately.” She fingered the fabric of Audrey’s skirt. “Did you make this? It’s beautiful on you.”

  Last night before hitting the sack, she had hemmed the red sundress with the big white polka dots she’d been working on yesterday morning when she’d ended up reading to Dad instead. It had a fitted halter bodice and a flared skirt with a half crinoline to give it body.

  “I heard you were wearing a Chanel suit the other day. Real? Or did you sew a replica?”

  “Vintage.” She pointed to the pink suit Jackie Kennedy wore in the book cover photo. “Very like this, but also different.”

  “That’s because Jackie’s suit wasn’t a Chanel.”

  “That’s what I heard. It wasn’t a kn
ockoff, though.”

  Abigail frowned. “The First Lady did not wear knockoffs. The fabric was sent to her by Coco, but the suit was designed and made by a New York dress salon, Chez Ninon. It was much, much cheaper than a custom-made Chanel and made by Americans.”

  “Pretty smart move for a president’s wife to make.”

  “I thought so.” Abigail stared at the photo of Jackie Kennedy in the suit that was later covered with JFK’s blood. “Such a shame. On November 22, 1963, I was thirty years old. I remember watching the assassination on television and crying for all that had been lost, and thinking, this is history in the making. I don’t care about conspiracy theories or who shot him for certain, but I do know that this woman—” she tapped her finger on Jackie Kennedy’s photo “—suffered because of his death. No matter that he was a philanderer.”

  Audrey reached for her hand and held it.

  Shaking herself out of the moment, Abigail said, “Let’s not talk of sadness. Wait until you see some of Jackie’s other clothes. Look at her magnificent wedding dress.”

  An hour later, Audrey and Abigail were still involved in the book and chattering about clothing, and Audrey’s mood had risen from the depression into which Dad’s health had plunged her. Thank God. She could open the store without a black funk hanging over her.

  She glanced at her watch. She would rush over to water her plants first and be only a few minutes late opening the shop.

  Feeling someone watching her, she glanced up. Gray had come home and stood in the living room doorway in gym clothes, with sweat sheening his face, staring at her and his mother, his expression guarded.

  She’d stayed too long. She hadn’t wanted to see him. Or so she’d thought. Her pitter-patter heartbeat put the lie to that.

  He frowned at Audrey. She wished, so badly, that he would smile like he used to do when he saw her, but he’d been only seven. They’d been so young the last time they’d been friends.

  A devastating discomfort rattled her. He didn’t want her here. That was obvious. Yesterday’s warmth was gone. She didn’t know what had happened between then and now.

  Too bad. Even so, she was glad she had decided to come. She’d been missing Abigail.

  She kissed Abigail’s cheek and said, “Thank you for allowing me to visit. You were exactly what I needed this morning.”

  “No, thank you. Anytime, Audrey. Come next week. I’ve ordered a book about Coco Chanel. You would love it. It should be in by then.”

  Audrey turned to leave, but Abigail wrapped her arms around her, clung to her and whispered, “I’m sorry. I would do things differently now.”

  She heard tears in Abigail’s voice. Oh, no. No, no. “It’s okay,” she rushed to reassure, her voice pitched low so Gray wouldn’t hear. “Really. Please, Abigail, it’s truly all right. In your shoes, I would have done the same thing.”

  She pulled back, and Abigail looked for the truth in Audrey’s eyes. What she read there was the forgiveness that Audrey had granted freely a long, long time ago. She released her hold on Audrey’s shoulders.

  Audrey brushed past Gray. He smelled of green forests and fresh sweat, but no cigarette smoke. Thank goodness. She felt the heat of his body like a brushstroke on the canvas of her skin.

  His glance, though, froze her blood.

  * * *

  GRAY WATCHED AUDREY leave the house and drive away, a voluptuous Audrey Hepburn, her expression innocent, pure, and yet deeply sensual. Knowing. He wasn’t sure that made sense, but it was the only way he could describe it to himself.

  The woman was color, life, vivacity.

  On a visceral level, she rattled him, made him wish for youth, innocence, oblivion. Relief from too many problems.

  He wasn’t a man who caved in to his needs. He was strong. Or had been. He needed that strength back.

  He couldn’t let the easy understanding of yesterday’s drive together get in the way of protecting his family’s security.

  “What did Audrey want?” he asked his mother. At Gray’s sharp tone, Dad put down his newspaper and stared.

  Startled, Abigail asked, “Want?”

  “Why was she here?”

  “To visit. Remember? I told you. She used to visit regularly until you came home. I’m glad she dropped by today. I’ve missed her.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A dress she designed and made.” His mother smiled proudly, as though she’d made the dress herself. “Didn’t it look wonderful on her?”

  “It looked old-fashioned.”

  “It was meant to.”

  “Anyway, I didn’t mean the dress. I meant, what is that perfume she wears?”

  “Chanel Number 19. Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “It’s okay.” It was heavenly.

  A look that he couldn’t interpret passed between his parents. Mom handed him the teapot. “Would you make a fresh pot before you leave for work, dear? This one’s ice-cold.”

  He left the room and filled the kettle, but tiptoed back down the hallway while he waited for it to come to a boil. His mother was up to something. He stood just out of sight beside the living room doorway.

  “We handled it all wrong and look what it led to, Harrison.”

  “It’s water under the bridge,” Dad said. “It happened a long time ago. It has nothing to do with now.”

  What happened a long time ago?

  “The repercussions carry on to this day. I’m going to fix it.”

  Fix what?

  “Abigail, don’t meddle.” Dad used his best I’m-the-boss voice.

  Mom ignored it, as usual. “I’m not meddling. I love that girl and I always have, ever since she was little, and I realized I would never have a daughter of my own. She used to feel like part of my family.”

  She did?

  “I want to feel that again. I want to have her over for dinner, exactly as any normal family would do with a friend.”

  What did she mean “normal?” They were normal. Weren’t they?

  “Please, Abigail, don’t do this.” The plea in Dad’s voice shocked Gray.

  “I won’t be dissuaded, Harrison. I listened to you all of those years ago instead of to my heart. We handled it badly.” If Dad sounded emotional, Mom was determined. “I’m fixing this situation if it kills us all.”

  “It just might,” Dad murmured.

  A long silence followed, and Gray realized he’d heard as much as he was going to. What had they meant? What were they talking about? He returned to the kitchen and made Mom’s fresh tea, pondering what he’d heard. He never would have thought his parents kept secrets from him. He’d been wrong.

  First, Dad’s infidelity had rocked him. Alleged infidelity. Now what? What was Mom talking about?

  Carrying the pot, he entered the living room.

  Mom glanced up and said, “I’m inviting Audrey to dinner on Friday night.”

  “Okay.” He kept his tone reasonable. “It’s your home, Mom. You can invite whoever you want. I’ll head into town for supper.”

  Mom picked up a magazine from the coffee table and snapped it open. “You will not. You will eat dinner here with your father and me and Audrey.”

  His soft, pliable mother had just issued an order. “Okay,” Gray replied meekly, but as he walked upstairs to shower and dress for work, he wondered what the heck was going on.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Gray strode into Turner Lumber, burying those troubling images and feelings of suffocation as best he could.

  Hilary met him with a frown. “We have a situation.” She looked nervous.

  He led her to his office and pulled the walls closed.

  “What is it?”

  “Yesterday, while you were gone to Denver?”

  He nodded.


  “One of the employees must have called your dad and told him that you’d gotten rid of the benefits he gave. While you were gone, he reinstated them.”

  “What? But how? Arnie was going to take care of it in the morning.”

  Hilary nodded. “He did. Your dad came in in the afternoon. When I wouldn’t place the call, he did. The benefits are back on the table.”

  Gray swore a blue streak. Harrison had gone behind his back, just like with the banked sick days.

  Déjà damn vu all over again.

  One of the first things Gray had done was to abolish the banking of sick days. Dad had already paid out thousands and thousands of dollars to longtime employees who’d taken five and six months off work before retirement. That money brought in nothing. No productivity. No profit. Just money whirling down an insatiable drain.

  When Harrison had found out what Gray had done, he’d reinstated the policy. And now he’d done the same with the benefits.

  Dear Christ. How was Gray supposed to save this place if Dad scuttled every decision he made?

  “Those benefits are going to bankrupt the company,” he said, anger barely contained. “Maybe five, ten years ago it would have been okay, but not now.”

  Oh, God, Dad was operating behind his back, undoing the very things that would save the company. Gray was going to have to do it. He was going to have to talk to John Spade.

  First, he flew home to persuade his father to rescind his decisions, but got more of the same sliding glances, the same half-truths, the same new age so-called wisdom.

  He left home with no more sense of satisfaction than when he’d arrived. He couldn’t let Dad continue to destroy Gray’s efforts to save the company. The world had changed. The economy had changed. Dad didn’t get it. He just didn’t get it.

  When Gray had threatened to cancel the benefits again, Dad had said, “You can try, but every time you do, I’ll reinstate them. This is my company, Gray. I will always have the final say.”

  That’s what scared Gray. They were going to lose the company, but nothing Gray could say would convince Dad of that.