Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  I noticed the spoon and a napkin on the sink edge, stirred, and sipped. The soup was delicious, even the hint of bitterness from the floating herbs. Sage, maybe, and tarragon, some parsley. Wonderful. I ate fast and slurped the last noodle out of the bottom. I was still hungry. I rinsed the mug at the sink and used it to drink a glass of water and then another.

  "Thought so."

  I lowered my mug, brows raised.

  "You didn’t stop to eat today did you, my girl?"

  "It was a busy day, Nana—"

  "And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you didn’t bother to drink any water either, did you?"

  "Well . . ." I stopped, surprised. It was true. I’d taken time to water the horses, but hadn’t bothered to drink any myself. All day.

  "You’re dehydrated. That’s why you look like hell."

  I turned to Nana. "Macon’s been telling tales, hasn’t he?"

  "Yep. He come to the house right after y’all talked. You drink some more water. A couple of those should make a start on rehydrating you."

  I drank six mugs-full just to show Nana I meant to take care of myself. All but the last two were vaguely chicken flavored. My stomach felt full beneath the robe, taut and rounded. And, strangely, I was suddenly sleepy. It had been a long time since I had been sleepy. I yawned.

  "Go on. Get in bed, my girl," Nana said. "Moses said you’d sleep if I fed you some chicken soup. I’d have thought whiskey would work better, but maybe she’s right this time."

  I yawned again and nodded, finding my bed in the semi-dark room. Without even pulling down the covers, I crawled in and closed my eyes. I never noticed when Nana left. The next thing I knew, it was daylight again.

  Feeling more like my old self, I rose, drank half a dozen glasses of water, dressed, ate a muffin and two fresh peaches, skin and all, and beat Jas to the barn. I didn’t want to work in the office today, and I certainly didn’t want to go to the development that was the source of all my problems. I wanted to bury myself here, in the uncomplicated joys of barn and horse.

  By early afternoon, Jas, Bish, Elwyn, and I had worked up powerful appetites. Jas had always worked like a fiend when surrounded by her horses and Bish took his cue from her, straining his muscles and working up a sweat. Elwyn was a surprise. He rolled up his sleeves and pitched right in, not even seeming to mind that he was working with workhorses instead of his more elegant Hackneys. He helped Jas put the horses through their paces, made good suggestions on which horses should be sold to make room for more, curried, fed, hosed down and chased just like the rest of us. He seemed determined to make this his new home.

  Elwyn was a diminutive man, blond-haired, small-boned, and quick. He moved like a bird, always searching out the next chore, discovering where tack and medicines and feed were located. Claiming the hard copies of the horse’s records to study until we could replace the computers. I admitted to myself as I watched him work that I hadn’t expected to like him, but I did, very much. And Jas thought the sun set on his shoulders, which was all that really mattered.

  Nana, Aunt Mosetta, Wicked, Topaz, Esther, Macon, and the crew from Macon’s office joined us for lunch, and Elwyn put away enough KFC to feed two men twice his size. The moment Macon and the legal types returned to work, and Wicked went back to whatever he was doing, Jas and Topaz sprang their latest plans on me.

  "Mom, Paz and Bish and I are going to the beach today. Well, tonight actually. That is, if you’ll trust us enough to let us go down and spend the night alone? Cause Mama Pearl can’t come until tomorrow, and you know you’ve been trying to get us to go, even making Bish work to get us there, which I think was really low, but then I’m not a mother. So can we?" Jas asked, both accusing and begging at once. Typical teen. I’d be glad when she outgrew this stage.

  I took a sip of Diet Coke and put down my chicken leg. I waited to answer, feeling a little proud of myself. The old Ashlee would have felt guilty at Jas’ little speech and hastened to make everything right, kow-towing to teenage emotional blackmail. The new Ash resisted manipulation.

  "Is this your way of asking me to do you a great big favor or your way of complaining?"

  Jas looked up at me, surprised. "Well, I mean . . ." She stopped, stunned. The silence in the kitchen was absolute. After a long moment, Topaz spoke. "Mamash, would you consider letting us go to the beach without a chaperone?" Trust Paz to cut right to the heart of the matter.

  "To be honest, you girls are old enough. But because Dixon hasn’t given away who his boss is, and because the bail hearing is set for Tuesday, and because he’ll be free soon, you need a chaperone. And although Bish carries a gun, he’s young. No substitute for Mama Pearl or me. So. This time, no."

  I thought I had done rather well with that explanation, sidestepping the over protective, apron strings accusation I could sense was coming next, and offering justification for my decision. I rewarded myself with a nice big bite of my drumstick. I wanted Jas away when Dixon was let out of jail, but I didn’t want her alone in an empty house with Bish. Topaz was no chaperone for that kind of situation, though I was wise enough not to say so.

  "So will you drive with us to the beach, help open the house, and stay with us for a couple of nights?" Jas asked sweetly.

  Checkmate. "You little stinker," I said with a breath of laughter. "You’ve been talking to Nana. She wants both of us gone when Dixon gets out of jail."

  "Told you so, Jasmine. Those two old women been stickin’ their noses in all kind of things, tryin’ to get things done their way," Topaz said, disgruntled.

  I smiled back, my mother’s cookie-eating smile. "However, since I want you gone too, I’d be delighted to chaperone you to the beach. When do we leave?" And so it was that I left my house to the care of Elwyn VanHuselin, a thin-bodied stranger with the familiar smell of horse about him, and a brogue that seemed to calm the horses and Jas better than anything I had ever seen. I had no doubt that Jas would never have gone to the beach if it hadn’t been for Elwyn’s presence at Davenport Downs. I owed the little man.

  My life was taking sudden turns, quick, jerky changes left and right, leaving me feeling like a soldier dodging bullets on a battlefield. Perhaps the analogy was apt. Until Dixon’s boss was in jail and Jack’s business problems were solved, I was on the defensive and in danger.

  I might have resisted Jasmine’s ploy and forced the girls to remain at home another day had Stinky Dixon not been getting out of jail. Sheriff Gaskin had informed Macon they could no longer deny bail to the malodorous man. And although Dixon had given the sheriff the name he wanted, the sheriff refused to share it with my lawyer or me. Even Nana couldn’t pry the information out of him. Not until they had investigated more and possibly charged the men involved. That’s what he said. The men involved.

  Macon had asked the sheriff for protection for Jas and me. C.C. had laughed as if Macon was making a joke in poor taste. "This is a poor county Macon. I don’t have enough deputies to patrol the outlying areas as it is. Sorry."

  It was almost a shame how pleased my family was to see me getting out of town. The trip to the beach was unexpected and hastily planned, but it was critical to Jasmine’s safety. To keep Elwyn safe, we dropped Big Dog off at the vet and sent Cherry and the pups home with Duke and Disa for a few days. I hoped that time spent with the puppies would insure the mutts a good home. Sneaky, but so what?

  I made a few calls, telling people I would be unavailable for a few days. Esther volunteered to check the personal line’s answering machine while I was gone, as well as handle the daily running of the business. She was capable, and unnecessary guilt about the last break-in had made Esther agreeable to almost anything. I could leave everything in her hands. Wicked was pleased. He would have two days to work on security for the house and office and clean out the phone system, which was still bugged, without putting us in danger while he worked.

  With the sun setting in the rearview mirror and the Volvo piled with linens and floats and collapsible beach chairs, I h
eaded for Myrtle Beach—well, Surfside. Ahead of me Jas and Topaz rode in Topaz’s Mazda, Bish drove his Corvette, and I was blissfully alone for the three hour trip to the beach. Not so, once there.

  We had no more than driven up in the driveway when two other vehicles pulled up behind us. Three boys, two white, one black, piled out of the first car. Two black boys and three black girls climbed out of the second. A third and fourth car turned down the drive. Adolescent radar at work, the teenagers descended on us like ravening beasts, helping us carry the groceries to the house, then helping us discover what we’d brought. If I hadn’t demanded the boys help finish the unloading, there wouldn’t have been a chip or cola left. The rest of the night was pure teenage torture. It was after two A.M. before I ran the last visitor off and fell exhausted into my vacation bed. Mama Pearl loved the responsibility of taking the girls to the beach each year. Pearl could have it; I wanted my home. But at least Jas was safe. Dixon was getting out of jail soon; I could handle anything for the forty-eight hours until Pearl got there. At least that’s what I told myself.

  Lying in the dark of the vacation home, streetlights filtering through the shade casting half unfamiliar patterns on the ceiling, I thought of Jack. Perhaps it was the scent of briny air, or the soughing of the wind through stunted trees. Perhaps it was lying in the bed, the bed we had shared through so many beach vacations. Perhaps it was the absence of the golf bag that used to rest beside the sliding door each time we were here, but now were likely in some pawn shop, some other man gripping the custom made clubs. Like Jack, they were gone forever.

  Perhaps it was all the changes in my life in the last few days. All the things I had found out about Jack’s problems. All the changes in my household and living arrangements. Or perhaps it was Reverend Perry’s prayer. Or this trip to the beach. Or Alan’s kiss . . . Or, perhaps, it was simply time. Time to remember. Time to forgive. Time to grieve. So much had happened in the last weeks, so much discovered, so many awful revelations. So much of my life exposed as lies, stripped away, memories tainted by truth. Somewhere in all the lost dreams and hopes, was Jack. The Jack I thought I had known. The Jack I knew I had loved.

  Tears pooled in the crevices of my face and trickled s lowly into my pillow. Warm, salty tears, not the hot, burning tears of anger, but real tears, real grief. It was a release, lying in the darkness on this half-familiar bed, my body tired, my mind confused, and I couldn’t have said why. I only knew my anger was suddenly gone. I was free from it, liberated, as if shackles had been loosed around my heart; it took only resting in this bed, miles from home.

  For weeks I had run from Jack, from his memory, from his loss, from his betrayal and the ugly truths of his hypocrisy and deception. I had become cold and hard and unfeeling, shutting away all the warmth I had felt when he was alive. Lying here, wide-awake in this bed, I knew I had been foolish. Discovering his infidelity with Robyn had only bruised my love for Jack, not destroyed it. I still had to deal with my loss. I still had to face the fact that he was gone, the fact that there could be no healing of my marriage. The fact that now, nothing would ever be resolved between Jack and me over Robyn. His death was irrevocable, unalterable fact. I missed him. His warmth curled against me in the night. His ready humor. His skill in dealing with the problems of our everyday lives. His certainty dealing with the bigger problems on the various developments.

  He hadn’t meant to die and leave me burdened with the situation at Davenport Hills. Perhaps he hadn’t meant for me to discover the photos in his desk. But now both problems were mine to deal with and grieve over. Not Macon’s or Esther’s. Not Reverend Perry’s. Not Jasmine’s. Mine. Mine alone. I wept quietly in the hours before dawn, curled into the crisp sheets, curled around Jack’s pillow and my pain and loss. Wept for the love I had lost—the pure love Reverend Perry had prayed about. And because of the long lonely hours, a healing finally began. I discovered a peaceful place in my soul, a place I had forgotten, a place I hadn’t visited in a long while. A place of prayer and serenity. Of stillness and calm. Near dawn, I slept.

  With dawn, the rat-race of teenage visits began again.

  After ten hours of teenagers and outdated rock and roll, soul, and hip-hop, Mama Pearl arrived. She was a day early, tooling up the drive in Jasmine’s little truck, the bed loaded with more supplies. Her early arrival left me free to drive home if I wished. I gave her my little pearl handled 9mm, just in case my troubles had followed me here. Pearl accused me of being paranoid, which was true, but she took the gun. I packed my bag and left immediately.

  Long, lonely hours of flat, sandy beach terrain, moss draped oaks, and tourist-y small towns, rolling sand-dune-hills, and then pine covered red mud hills flew by as I drove home. With each mile, I grew more certain of one thing. My lost life deserved my grief, as did my lost husband. My pain deserved the right to be experienced, felt, explored, and tasted. Jack may have been less than I thought him to be, but I had loved him and that love deserved mourning.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I sat on the swing, swaying slowly in the dark, listening to the silence of the house, the calls of night birds, and crickets chirping. No radio or TV audio filtered through the house. No laughter of teenaged girls. Only the repetitive call of a whippoorwill, the far-off calls of owls, one to the east, one to the north. A distant dog’s territorial barking. The occasional stamp of a horse in the barn, the sound transmitted on the still air. The soft groan of the swing supports. I hadn’t turned on the security lights, and the full moon made unaccustomed shadows in the yard and against the house. I didn’t listen to the answering machines. I simply sat in the silence of the porch, surrounded by the soft sounds of my world.

  Elwyn had gone out, after explaining that the phones were out of order. Wicked had been running checks on the system and, because no one expected me back, hadn’t finished.

  I should have been concerned about security, sitting in the dark, but no one knew I was here. No one knew I was alone. This gave me protection as much as the alarm system I had activated when Elwyn left. Eventually, I would go out to the car for the cell phone and the second gun locked in the glove box, the extra 9mm in its ill-fitting holster. In my one trip from the car, I had carried luggage, not my small portables. I was safe, sitting in the dark, strangely and peacefully safe.

  The moon hung low on the horizon, a silvered orb, glistening, dappled, and mysterious. So bright, it threw shadows, long and lean, the poplars striping the lawn like thin slits opening into the netherworld. Bats dipped and flitted, hunting. A luna moth, silver-green in the night, beat its wings disconsolately against the screen. Dying. It seemed that around me everything was dying or leaving me to face the night alone. My mouth twisted wryly. Such morbid thoughts. Not like me, not really, just the aftershock of leaving Jas at the beach, driving away from the seascape without her. Driving away and coming home to an empty, silent house. Morbid, but normal. Just like it was normal for night birds to call and crickets to sing and luna moths to die. The moths, so delicate and elusive, don’t even have a digestive system. They live long enough to mate and die, about twenty-four hours. It was normal for it to die so young. But not normal for Jack. A man was supposed to live at least to his early seventies. Especially one who didn’t smoke or drink to excess and who exercised regularly. Jack had been an anomaly. Dying young.

  Leaving me to uncover his secrets one by one, the deceptions of his business life, the deceptions of our marriage. Paying the price, as he had taught me so long ago.

  A truck turned into the long drive, the smooth purr of its engine pulling off the road announcing a visitor as clearly as a phone call would have. I sighed, knowing somehow exactly who it was. Alan. He had called before I left, wanting to talk, and I had put him off, as I had put off Bret McDermott and Monica who still wanted to take me to lunch. None of the three had been happy about waiting, proclaiming worry for me in my grief. I had promised to call each of them as soon as I returned from the beach. I hadn’t. I didn’t want to. This wa
sn’t the night to deal with unpleasantness. This wasn’t the night to cause disruption in my unexpected, tranquil peace. I needed this night alone, to come to terms with my sudden and startling emotional evolution. I had to deal with my feelings about Jack before I could deal with other’s feelings about me.

  Alan wanted something from me. Something I wasn’t ready to give. Perhaps it was easier for men to set aside their grief, to put away feelings and get on with their lives. Or perhaps Alan’s marriage had been as empty he claimed, dead long before the accident that plunged their car off the road into the creek bed. Maybe he was ready for a new relationship.

  But I wasn’t. Jack hadn’t been all I’d thought he was. In many ways, the man I loved had been a lie. But my love had been real, and, for all its weakness, so had his love for me. Love doesn’t die easily. And so I wasn’t ready for Alan. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. The Nissan truck pulled up behind the house, its lights off before it rounded the curve in the drive. The engine died into silence, parked between my Volvo and Jack’s Jeep.

  I thought about slipping into the house and pretending to be gone or asleep early, but both options were just lies and cowardice. I might as well get it over with now. No sense in putting off the inevitable, although I did suddenly understand the attraction of a Dear John letter.

  "Ash? Is that you?" Alan shaded his eyes and squinted into the darkened screened porch, finding the motion of the swing in the moonlight. "I called Nana. She said she talked to Jas, and that you were coming back tonight."

  I sighed. "I’ll get the door." Bringing the swing to a standstill I walked through the kitchen to the door in the dark. I deactivated the security system, inserted my keys into the deadbolt lock and opened the door.

  Standing with a boot on the bottom step, his hands in his pockets, Alan looked like a model for Levi jeans, his pale gold hair silvered by the moon, his face shadowed. I stepped back and he entered the dark kitchen. I hadn’t turned on the light. "Pour you some tea?" I asked.