by Ewens, Tracy
“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.
“I’m sure you are. I’m done. Please leave.”
Peter began to shake, physically shake.
“You can’t be done. Sam, we love each other, we need . . .”
“No. I don’t need, I can’t. It hurts too much. I’m not made like you. There is no plan, there never will be, because you can’t find a way to me without dealing with everything else. You dodge and avoid, that’s you, Peter. The only one who loses in that deal is me. You’re skimming the surface, you always have. You risk nothing.”
“Bullshit. I don’t live my life that way anymore. I came back for you. I’m trying, damn it. I know you think I’m self-centered, and you’re probably right, but I never pretended to be anything more than completely screwed up. Your father blows his brains out and your mother basically abandons you for a bottle of whatever she can get her hands on, yeah, it leaves a mark, and I know I’ve hurt you. I’ve hurt myself, but this is going to work, Sam. I can’t live without you anymore. I need you too much.”
Tears burned Sam’s eyes. There was no fixing this.
“You, you, you. What else do you need, Peter?”
“That’s not what I meant. Stop it. We love each other. Why are you doing this? There isn’t a choice here?”
“There is. You can leave. I choose to not let it in anymore. It’s a matter of survival, Peter, and if it means hurting you, I’m sorry, but I tried.”
Peter drew his hand over his mouth and watched Sam give up.
“What are you saying?”
“I’ll take your play to the premiere, do my part, and then you need to go back to New York where you belong. I need to get back to my life, and I can’t do that with you here.”
Peter wasn’t going to win. He could see it in her face. He stepped closer, careful not to hurt her, and said: “Look who’s running now, Sam. You are. Closing the door. You can’t let yourself love me because you’re afraid I’ll take too much, or I’ll hurt you. Those are the messy parts you’re always preaching about Sam. You’re not jumping off the board with me. You’re still at the bottom of the ladder because I don’t have a plan, and you forgot how to trust me.”
His breath was warm on her face, and Sam felt like she was going to pass out.
“I’ll leave, fine, but you’ll never escape this; you’ll never be able to fully get this out of your system, no matter how much you close down. I’ll always be here.”
He gently touched her heart, and Sam recoiled in pain that had nothing to do with the accident. The tears spilled down her cheeks.
He touched her face gently as she started to turn away.
“Samantha Cathner, I’ve loved you my whole life, and I know you love me. Losing you, watching you walk away this time, that doesn’t change anything. I’m letting go of what happened to my father, I’m moving through my childhood on my way to a plan, but maybe you’re the one reliving the past, maybe you’re the one that’s letting it paralyze you.”
Sam looked away.
“I can’t promise you something won’t happen to me or you won’t get hurt. I can’t tell you that you won’t be left behind, but . . .”
Peter took her face again.
“I can tell you that I love you more than I ever thought was possible, and I will never willingly leave you. I’ll probably disappoint you from time to time, but I’m here. I may not be standing on the stage yet like you want me to, but you’re not the only one who is scared. There’s no other path for us, Sam, is there?”
As her tears touched Peter’s hands, she pulled away, walked to the door and opened it. Peter hung his head and walked out without another word. He had given it everything he had and she was gone. Sam closed the door and collapsed to the floor. She no longer cared that her body ached from the accident. Her heart was broken again, but this time the optimism of youth was not there to soften the blow. This was a very adult heartbreak, and she had done it to herself.
Chapter Thirty-One
Two weeks passed. Sam’s physical bruises had healed, and she was no longer working on Peter’s production. She used the accident as an excuse, and Candice took over for the final three weeks of rehearsals. The play would premiere in a week.
After the senator’s fundraiser and a nasty fall down the stairs, Peter’s mother had asked him to put her into an alcohol treatment facility. She was out now. According to Grady, she looked ten years younger and actually seemed happy. Sam was glad that she was finding her way back, but she was surprised when Mrs. Everoad called and asked her to come over for tea. Sam still received the rehearsal schedule, so she made sure Peter would be in rehearsals when she agreed to meet her later in the day.
Sam had not been to the Everoad house since Peter had left for New York over four years ago. Even now, standing in front of the large wooden door with the brass pineapple knocker, she felt small, young all over again. Peter’s house was huge, even by Pasadena standards, but it was welcoming. There was always a wreath on the door and beautiful planters filled with flowers of the season.
Their house was yellow when Peter’s father was alive, but once Mr. Everoad was gone, Peter’s mother had redone the entire house from top to bottom and painted the outside white. Peter had never understood why his mother made all of the changes, none of them did. At the time it had been whispered she was a cold, heartless woman.
Now, as a woman herself, it occurred to Sam that maybe his mother couldn’t live in the same house. Age has a way of introducing experiences and all sorts of shades of grey. Nothing appeared black and white to Sam anymore, not even Peter’s mother. Why she’d invited her for tea, Sam wasn’t sure, but she felt privileged that she wanted to talk to her alone.
As Sam rang the bell, she realized that she had never even hugged Peter’s mother when his father died. To her knowledge, no one had. Sam’s mother had taken April’s hand. Her father had offered to help with the arrangements. But, had anyone hugged her? Wrapped their arms around her and allowed her to collapse? Sam did not remember that happening, and as Vivvie, their housekeeper, answered the door, Sam felt deep sadness for Peter’s mother. She had spent so much time feeling bad for Peter, and it had never occurred to her that his mother was in pain. Oh, she must have been so alone.
“Miss Cathner, I haven’t seen you in years.”
Vivvie, short for Vivian, hugged Sam and ran her hands down her hair, just as she had done when Sam was a child.
“Your hair has grown. Well, you’ve grown. Into such a beautiful woman.”
Her eyes were filled with the years she’d spent in this house and the things she had seen from the sidelines. Vivvie was now a little shorter than Sam, but Sam would always see her as taller. She had tiny little feet and long, slender fingers. It’s funny the things you notice as a child, Sam thought. As an adult, Sam noticed the grey in her hair and her incredible, almost golden, eyes. Sam had probably not spent much time looking into her eyes as a child, but she sure noticed them now.
“Vivvie, so good to see you. You look exactly the same.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you need to come around more often. My aging ego loves you.”
Sam laughed.
“I’m here to see . . .”
“Mrs. Everoad. Yes, I know dear. I set up tea on the patio. She’s putzing in her garden. Been a little obsessed of late, if you ask me, but . . .”
Her voice lowered to a whisper.
“She hasn’t touched a drop for almost a month now, so I say, ‘Garden away!’ Right?”
“Absolutely, that’s wonderful.”
“Ever since Mr. Peter brought her home from that treatment place. She spent two days in bed after that and woke up a different woman.”
“Really?”
Vivvie looked out toward the patio to make sure they were still alone.
“Well, not exactly a new person, she’s not been her old self, since before the mister died. She’s got something behind those eyes again. She’s, well, let’s say it warms my heart.”
Vivvie changed the subject before Sam could even comment, careful not to be disrespectful or say too much.
“It’s lovely out today, you’ll have tea on the patio. Still drinking black tea? Mr. Peter’s into the green tea now.”
At the mention of Peter’s name Sam’s pulse tripped. She smiled and recovered.
“I’m a traditionalist, Vivvie. Tea is black.”
She patted Sam on the shoulder with a laugh and gestured her out to the patio.
“You’ll see her out there, elbow-deep in dirt. Make yourself comfortable, and let me know if you need anything.”
Vivvie pulled the French doors toward her and left Sam on the patio. She turned and saw a big, bright green hat shading matching gloves digging in the planters along the stairs off the patio.
“Mrs. Everoad,” Sam called out, not wanting to startle her.
April Everoad looked up. One soiled garden glove raised to shade her eyes as she looked toward the patio. Even from a distance she looked different. Mrs. Everoad was the epitome of class and elegance; at least she had been before her husband passed away. Even on her off days, and there had been many over the years, she was stunning. Honey-blonde hair, always in a bob right below her ears, and green-blue hazel eyes. She was a “head turner” as Peter’s father would always brag when they were kids and the parents were going out for the evening. “I’ll have to fight them off,” he’d say with a thundering laugh, and he was right. April Everode was a beautiful woman, but as she approached in her hot pink gardening clogs and rolled chambray pants Sam had never seen her more lovely.
Sam met her at the top of the stairs. April reached out to pat her on the shoulder. Sam looked at her slightly older face, void of all makeup, and she grabbed her. Consumed with emotion, Sam did what she thought she should have done, what they all should have done, years ago. She hugged her. It was sudden and pretty tight. April began to laugh.
“My goodness, dear. It hasn’t been that long.”
She held Sam’s shoulders and gently pushed her back. Sam smiled.
“Samantha, now cut that out. What the Dickens has gotten in to you? Just because I’m sober, don’t start thinking we’re friends.”
After a minute where Sam was stunned by her candor, they both laughed.
“I’m sure my busybody housekeeper told you that I’ve stopped drinking.”
Sam nodded and let her continue.
“Well, it’s true. Peter checked me into a great place. I became incredibly tired of feeling sorry for myself, so . . .”
“Mrs. Everoad, you don’t . . .”
“No, dear. I do. I wanted to apologize for, well for everything that’s happened since, since my husband decided to leave us. It’s part of my steps, you see. I need to own my mistakes. I sort of like that idea, so I’ve been moving down my list. So, Samantha dear, I’ve made more than a few parties uncomfortable for you and Peter’s friends. I’m sure there were plenty of times I wasn’t nice to you. I can’t promise I’ll always be nice going forward, but at least you’ll know it’s me and not the booze.”
They both laughed.
“Really, you don’t need to apologize to me.”
April Everoad’s face grew serious.
“Oh, but I do. I’m sorry Samantha, I truly am. I’m afraid I haven’t been much use to anyone for the past few years, and I’m afraid my son . . .”
“Mom? Vivvie, where is she?”
Sam froze as the French doors rattled and Peter’s voice got louder. Then like a child playing a game, Sam ducked down.
“Mrs. Everoad, please, I’m so glad you are well, but I do not want to be here if Peter . . .”
Sam looked toward the doors and back at April.
“Sam, it’s only Peter . . .”
“No!”
She couldn’t be polite about this. Her heart was pounding; she could not be there. April must have seen it all over Sam’s face because she took her arm and walked her toward the doors as Peter came out to the patio. He froze at the sight of Sam. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, and she hadn’t called. He threw himself into work, told himself he was doing fine, and then he looked at her, and the air crackled. Peter tried to steady himself, be casual, anything other than pathetically heartbroken, but nothing worked. He wanted her more than his next breath.
“Peter, I didn’t expect you, thought you were at rehearsals. I’m showing Sam out. There’s tea if you want some. I’ll only be a minute.”
Peter said nothing as April rushed past with Sam. Sam’s eyes betrayed her and she glanced at him. She looked away quickly and headed straight for the front door.
“Poor thing, looked struck dumb,” April said with a little chuckle.
Sam tried to smile politely, but found nothing funny about the look on Peter’s face. April kissed her on her cheek and took her hands.
“I’m not sure what happened, the two of you seemed like things were finally working out. A touch stupid that you broke his heart right when he was getting his act together, but I know that boy can be a handful,” she said on a sigh.
Again, Sam was struck by the new and improved Mrs. Everoad. She liked the direct, cold water on the situation. Maybe she was right. Seeing Peter now, Sam felt pretty stupid, but what was done was done.
“I’ll let you go, dear. Thank you so much for coming by, and I’m sorry our visit was cut short.”
“That’s fine. I’m sorry, I can’t stay,” Sam replied, fighting back the lump in her throat.
This was so ridiculous, she thought, running from Peter. How sad things had become. Sam turned to leave, but April held her arm.
“I’m sorry too, Sam.”
With those words, April gave her one last squeeze and turned into the house. The apology was layered with years of regret. Sam felt nothing but pain as she walked out and closed the door.
April walked out to the patio, found her son sitting at the round teak table. She sat next to him and watched as he tried to pretend away all of his feelings for Sam.
“Mom, what the hell is . . . wow, you look great,” he said, finally making eye contact.
He laughed.
“Nice hat.”
“Don’t make fun of your mother. I was on a gardening roll before you showed up. I’ve fertilized the rose bushes and the lilies are trimmed. I’m thinking of putting in a succulent garden, what are your thoughts on succulents?”
She took her hat off, set it on the table, and fluffed her hair.
“I can’t say that I have any thoughts on succulents, Mom,” Peter said looking out over the grounds.
“Don’t you have gardeners for this?”
“I do, Mr. Smarty Pants, but I want to get my hands dirty. I want to, I want to do this myself,” she said, taking the tea Peter finished pouring.
“I’m having fun. I haven’t had fun in an eternity. You’re supposed to be at the theater. Why are you here?”
“I was in town for lunch and I ran into two of the little hens you used to hang out with, Sissy and Mrs. Fleming. They said you all played bridge yesterday and you looked, and I quote, ‘super fantabulous.’”
His mimicking and sarcasm were thick. There were reasons Peter was in the theater.
“Okay, so you came home to tell me . . .”
“Is it true? Were you honestly in the hen house with . . .”
“My friends? Are you asking me if I played bridge with my old friends? Yes, the answer is yes, and we had the most . . .”
“Mom, don’t you think it’s a little soon to be back in the swing of things? Don’t they drink mimosas when you play bridge? Why would you, Christ, Mom, you’ve only been home a week. You’re starting to feel better and you . . .”
“I’ll ask you not to use that tone of voice with me, young man. Please remember who you are talking to.”
April threw her small yellow napkin on the table. Peter was well aware that gesture meant his mother was pissed. He braced himself as his five-foot-two mother in pink garden clogs rose from the table.
“Mom, you can’t possibly blame me for worrying about this, you need to start fresh and get . . .”
“Is that what I need, Peter?”
She put her hands on her hips.
“Oh honey, you don’t even know what you need. You’re going to tell me what I need too? I will have you know that my friends no longer drink mimosas when we play bridge, at least not for now. They care about me, so we drink tea.”
Peter raked his hands through his hair.
“I only want you to be careful. It’s a long road and some of these people are the problem, Mom.”
April leaned toward her son and prepared for battle. When did my son become such an elitist, she thought.
“Some of these people? All of these people are my friends. They made me casseroles and checked in on us when your father, your wonderful, fabulous, could-do-no-wrong father upped and killed himself.”
Her face was red now.
“These people made sure your sister got to ballet when I was too drunk to take her. All of these people will be filling that theater this weekend to support your play.”
Peter sat back in the cushioned chair and shook his head.
“Mom, please, you know what I mean. Remember what the counselor said, it’s easy to fall into old habits, you’re a product of your . . .”
“Peter Alexander, for a smart boy, you are so, so oblivious. Was I really too drunk to see how self-righteous you’ve become? They teach you that in New York?”
She had never been this honest with him.
“All these people, Mr. Perfect, they love you. When are you going to stop this? It’s my fault that I’ve been drunk for the last . . . Christ, eight years!”
Her voice was raised and Peter started to play with his spoon.
“It’s not their fault. For God’s sake, now that I can see things through clearer eyes, Peter, stop running.”
At that, Peter looked up at her, and she took his hand. The jolt of warmth hit something inside of him, it felt like a craving he’d had for years. His mother’s affection, acknowledgement, anything, that’s what he needed when his father died, and she never delivered. Looking at her now, he felt certain that she simply hadn’t known how.