Tea and Primroses Page 12

  While changing into a soft cotton nightgown, she caught a glimpse of her body in the mirror. She was thin naturally and she’d barely eaten since the news came five days ago. Her hipbones were jutting out and her breasts were smaller than ever. You need to eat more, Constance was always telling her. You’re too thin. This had always made Sutton chuckle, considering how little her mother ate.

  Needing a glass of water, she walked down the hall quietly. The door to Declan’s room was shut. She went to the kitchen. Declan was at the counter, sketching in a notebook with a tumbler of scotch next to him. She stood in the doorway, watching him. His back was to her so she could not see what he sketched on his pad. Perhaps sensing her, he went still and turned his head, meeting her eyes. Without shifting his gaze, he closed the cover of his pad. “You all right?” he asked, his eyes soft. “You didn’t move a muscle when I put you in bed.”

  “Hungover.” She moved toward him. “Woke up with the awful feeling.”

  “At first you wake, not remembering, and then it comes back.”

  “And the sick feeling rushes over you.”

  “I know.” He reached for his scotch. The ice clanked when he drank.

  “When did you start with the scotch?”

  “You mean today or in general?”

  “In general.”

  “When I lived in London. Couldn’t get warm there. The dampness chilled me to the bone.”

  She looked at him, searching his face. “Have you slept at all?”

  “No, Peter and I took a drive up the coast.”

  “Why?”

  “I made him go to the spot where my mother was killed, as if after all these years there would be some clue or something. Then we came back to Legley Bay. I wanted to stop at the Dew Drop Inn bar for old time’s sake but Peter hates it. Apparently he found his dad there with one of his girls one time.”

  “My mother called Tim Ball the ‘Tiger Woods of Legley Bay.’”

  Declan laughed. “I should tell Peter that one.”

  She crossed around the kitchen island and grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water at the sink, and drank it down before coming back around the island to sit next to him.

  “I picked up your mother’s ashes,” he said. “This afternoon when you and Gigi were out walking.”

  “Oh. God. Right.” She put her forehead on the cool tile of the island. Raising her head, she pointed at the scotch and pushed her glass toward him. “Give me a little, will you? Maybe if I stay drunk for a week I can get through this.”

  He poured her a generous amount without comment. She took a large swallow and then coughed. “This is terrible.”

  “Smaller sips might help.” He smirked at her.

  She followed his advice. This time it didn’t burn as much. “Will you read me some more of the manuscript?”

  “Now?”

  “Sure. Neither of us can sleep anyway.”

  She followed him into her mother’s office and they took their places on the couch. He patted his lap before he started to read. “Put your feet here.”

  She did so. His lap was warm. And familiar.

  THE MANUSCRIPT

  The next morning, just after dawn, I dreamt of Patrick. In the dream, I was at my desk and he came up behind me, putting his hands in my hair. He leaned down to kiss my neck. “Will you write about me?” he asked, his breath hot on my neck. I awakened, the place between my legs wet and warm. I rolled over to the empty side of the bed, imagining what it would be like to wake to his face, his long legs in my bed. I hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning, every nerve ending tingling, the smell of Patrick still in my nose, the thought of his eyes on my work, on my body, all mingling into a restless night, in and out of slumber.

  I threw back the covers, shivering in the cold air. It was Saturday—an entire day to work on the new manuscript instead of heading to the newspaper office. This was joy to me back then. Do not waste it thinking about a man, I told myself.

  The floor felt icy on my bare feet and I pranced on tiptoes to the bathroom. After turning on the shower, I waited, shivering, for the water to heat. Once it did, I got in and let it wash over me until my skin turned pink, lingering longer than I should.

  Warm from the shower, I dressed in my writer attire: a white undershirt (no bra, which I’ve unfortunately never really needed), the wool sweater my mother made me, and loose jeans. I blow-dried my hair, looking at myself in the circle I’d made on the foggy mirror. I wasn’t one to spend much time on my appearance; I never had the patience. But I was fortunate my hair was thick and naturally fell in waves with little effort. I wore minimal makeup—just a little mascara, blush, and lipstick—and today I hurried faster than usual so I could get started on my work.

  After I finished my minimal beauty ritual, I heated some water in the teakettle and put a piece of thick, day-old wheat bread in the toaster. Miller had sent the toaster as a gift from his hardware store and I was grateful for it on many cold mornings. Greeley’s baker, Clyde Downing, had dropped the loaf of bread by the newspaper office yesterday morning in thanks for the column I’d written about his son making the state’s all-star basketball team. “Guaranteed to stick with you until lunch,” Clyde promised, his eyes on my small breasts. Earlier in the week Mrs. Williams had brought over a chunk of freshly churned butter, a luxury I could never afford if it weren’t for her generosity. Wanting to make it last as long as possible, I used only a small amount on the toast.

  I stood at the window, drinking tea and eating. The night had brought a frost and the field sparkled in the sunlight. The field was empty; the cows were inside their own barn, probably giving milk. In the distance, the orange and red leaves of the autumn foliage were a bright contrast to the green of the pasture. I let the beauty live inside me for a moment as it does sometimes when the view is more beautiful than the human eye can absorb.

  After breakfast, I carelessly made the bed; there was no need for hospital corners like my mother insisted upon in her house. No one was here to tell me what to do and I liked it that way. I left the crumbs on the counter and my cup in the sink. There was time for tidying up after I took my morning walk and then wrote awhile. Maybe.

  I put on my boots and gloves, vowing to enjoy the morning sunshine instead of obsessing about the manuscript and whether or not Patrick had, one, read it, and, two, liked it. Yawning as I went down the stairs, my thoughts could not escape from Patrick. I let myself out of the barn doors and was turning to close them tight when something caught my eye. It was a small cardboard box, like the kind used in shipping packages, with my name on it. I opened it. Inside was a small space heater. A card was taped to the top of the heater’s package, addressed to: Oregon.

  The letter was handwritten on thick, white stationery.

  Oregon,

  I spent the night reading your manuscript. Unfortunately for my health, I was unable to put it down once I started. The story is solid and fast moving with lovable characters. These are all elements I look for in commercial work. I have a few notes, none of which are huge, except for one. The story does not begin in the right place. If you’re interested, I’m happy to go over my initial thoughts. Meet me at Doris’s diner at 10 a.m. tomorrow, if possible. It will be Sunday and perhaps you attend church? One of the many details I don’t know about you. I do not attend church, although I should, for many reasons. But I digress… I will be at the diner at 10 and hope to see you there.

  In the meantime, please accept the enclosed gift as a token of my belief in your talent.

  You’re a writer. Write.

  Patrick

  I sat on the cold, frozen ground, staring at the letter.

  You’re a writer. Write.

  No words were ever sweeter. I brought the letter to my mouth and breathed in, hoping for a hint of Patrick but it was only the pleasant smell of fresh paper. I looked across the field to where the scarlet- and orange-leaved trees marked the beginning of the forest. Just then, I felt everything shift. There
would be no going back. I knew it in my bones.

  ***

  The next morning, we met at the diner. It was busy with Sunday morning patrons but Patrick had called ahead and asked Doris to save us the booth in the back. We settled in, me facing the front, avoiding eye contact with the people standing to wait for a table. Patrick, seemingly oblivious to the hostile stares of his fellow Greeley residents, took the manuscript out of his soft leather briefcase and set it in the middle of the table. I looked at it, my fingers twitching on my lap.

  “I know you’re anxious to get started but I need to feed you first. Let’s order and then we’ll dive in.” He peered at the plastic menu and lowered his voice. “Jeez, Oregon, there’s something sticky on here.” He wiped at it with a napkin. Part of the paper napkin stuck to it and ripped apart in his hand.

  “Syrup.” I picked up my menu, although I already knew it by heart. I spoke in a whisper. “These menus have been around longer than I’ve been alive. That’s syrup from 1954.”

  He laughed. “You’re probably right.”

  Doris approached us, carrying two glasses of water, seeming very much like a proud mother right before her daughter leaves for prom, ready to adjust a corsage before whipping out her camera. “Look at you two.”

  “Hi, Doris.” I gave her a warning look, like don’t embarrass me, but as usual she paid absolutely no attention to anything I wanted. Doris, and no one else, drove the bus.

  “What do you want, Oregon?” Patrick’s eyes were soft, indulgent. “Something that’ll stick to your bones.”

  “Pancakes, please, Doris.”

  “The big stack for her,” he said. “And bacon and sausage on the side. She needs protein. And I’ll have the same.” He looked over at me and raised his eyebrows. “You want eggs too?”

  His voice dropped a decibel when he said eggs. For some reason I couldn’t fathom, I thought of sex. Yes, hot, steamy, dirty sex with Patrick on the very table that held my manuscript. I couldn’t help it—the image came to me like someone showed me a postcard. A warmth that started in my toes spread throughout my body. I picked up the paper napkin and dabbed at my upper lip. “Oregon, did you hear me?”

  “Wha, what? No, no, eggs.” Now I was stuttering? What was the matter with me?

  Doris left, her lips twitching as if she were highly amused. I made a mental note to throttle her later.

  “You all right, there, Oregon?” asked Patrick.

  “Yeah, just hot. It’s the tea.”

  His green eyes twinkled. “We haven’t had any tea yet.”

  I flushed, hotter even than the moment before. “I had some at home.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.”

  Doris saved me by bringing the tea just then. I busied pouring the hot water from the tiny white tea pitcher into a cup and dipping the teabag a few times.

  “Listen here, Oregon. I’ve a bone to pick with you.”

  “You do?”

  “When I left the package for you the other morning, the barn doors were wide open.”

  “They were?”

  “Yes. You need to check them before you go to bed at night.”

  “I thought I had. I’ll be more careful.”

  “Thank you.”

  Doris brought our food. After taking a few bites, Patrick slid the manuscript closer to me. “Let’s go over it bit by bit.”

  Then, while eating our breakfast, my tutelage began. Too slow here. Not enough detail here. I need more here. Are you sure this is what he would say in this moment? Go deeper here. The story must start here. This background about the characters can come later. I hung on his every word. When we left the diner, I was exhausted and felt overwhelmed with the number of notes.

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” he said as he tossed my bicycle into the back of his truck.

  “You’re so bossy.” I yawned as I said it.

  He opened the passenger side door. “Get in.”

  I stifled a shiver of desire as I inadvertently brushed against him climbing into the truck.

  He didn’t use his turn signal as we turned out of the diner’s parking lot. It was that kind of town. Several miles out of town he glanced over at me and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The little furrow between your brows when you’re worried about something is so cute.”

  “Cute?”

  “Funny, maybe.”

  “I’m glad I amuse you. I’m having a crisis of faith over here. What if I can’t do it?”

  “Come on now, you’ll be fine. Don’t tackle the notes for a few days, maybe even a week.” He turned into the Williams’s dirt road. “Ruminate on it a bit. I’ll come by the newspaper office tomorrow and bring you lunch. We can take a walk and talk through anything you want. Sometimes brainstorming with your editor is just what a writer needs.”

  I felt a lump forming in the back of my throat. “But why would you do this for me?”

  “Because I like you. And I believe in you.”

  I couldn’t think what to say, except thank you, which I did.

  “When it’s ready, I’ll get it to a colleague. Former colleague, I guess that is.” Something dark crossed his face but he seemed to immediately dismiss it, smiling at me. “This is going to be fun, Oregon. I promise.”

  When we arrived at my place, he stopped and turned off the engine. “Wait. I’ll get your door,” he said, hopping from the truck.

  He opened my door and gave me his hand. “Jeez, Oregon, you look even tinier in my big truck.”

  I grinned. “And standing next to you.” It was true. I came only to his shoulder. His thighs were practically the size of my hip span.

  He slammed the truck’s door and then reached into the bed of his truck, bringing up a small ice chest.

  “What’s that?”

  “Dinner.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I worry about you, Oregon. You have to take better care of yourself if you’re going to turn this manuscript into a bestseller.”

  He followed me upstairs. When we reached my room, I put the key in the door but before I could invite him in, he set the cooler on the floor. “I should go. You cook up something for your dinner and get to bed early, okay?”

  “What is it with you always telling me what to do?” I smiled, looking up into his eyes, my stomach awash in the butterflies that seemed to have taken up permanent residence.

  “Well, someone needs to. You’re a mess.” His voice was sweet, like in the diner when he asked me what I wanted for breakfast.

  Smiling, I picked up the ice chest. “It’s not nice to call someone a mess. But thank you just the same.”

  “You’re welcome.” He tapped my bag. “And I mean it about not working tonight. Just let it sit for a few days. It’ll all fall into place.” He turned to go, stopping at the top of the stairs. “I’ll come by your office around noon tomorrow.”

  “Fine.” I knew better than to argue, not that I wanted to. The thought of him leaving now caused the butterflies to quiet and a hollow, dull ache to take their place.

  After he left, I locked the door behind me, as promised, and put the ice chest on the counter. From my perch above the barn, I watched the brake lights of his truck flash as he made his way down the dirt road and out to the highway. When I could no longer see them, I moved away from the window and opened the contents of the ice chest. There were two pork chops, a package of spaghetti noodles and a jar of sauce, a head of lettuce, and a bottle of red wine. I put the food away in my small refrigerator and set the wine on the counter. I would save it for when he came next. Perhaps then I would have the courage to invite him inside.

  As promised, Patrick came by the office the next day and the one after, on both occasions bringing a sandwich and hot tea. We walked up the main street of town and looped around the city park, eating our sandwiches on a bench overlooking a small pond. The days were bright and the leaves brilliant against blue skies. We talked mostly of my work, battling through plot points t
hat were sticky and brainstorming together how to solve some of the problem areas.

  On Tuesday, as we walked back to the newspaper office, he said, “Tomorrow then?”

  My heart soared. “Tomorrow.”

  Wednesday he took me to Doris’s diner and we feasted on open-faced turkey sandwiches, warm and filling. The rest of the day flew by with my stomach full. That night I wrote a new first chapter.

  I fell into bed sometime after midnight, content and excited to tell Patrick of my progress. But Thursday he did not come. I told myself he hadn’t promised to meet me. I couldn’t expect him to take me to lunch every day. He probably had things to do. I wasn’t his only life. I wasn’t his wife. Or even his girlfriend. I told myself all this at least a hundred times. John noticed I was distracted; I could tell by the way he kept peeping around his office door with a sympathetic look. Around two, he left and came back shortly thereafter with a sandwich from Doris’s. I wasn’t hungry but picked at it for his sake.

  Friday lunch came and went with no word from him. I finished my column and asked John if it was all right if I left early. “I think it’s time to start working on chapter two.”

  “Make me proud.” He made a dismissive gesture toward the door. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon at home working furiously. The space heater was warm on my legs and my fingers were limber as I typed up a newly edited chapter two, almost ready to quit for the day and reward myself with a piece of toast and butter when I heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the dirt road. Glancing up, I saw Patrick’s blue truck bouncing in the potholes. My heart beat faster. I stood, pulling my sweater farther down my hips. I sprinted down the stairs two at a time and burst out into the yard, squinting into the bright sunlight. His truck lurched to a stop near me. The growl of the engine ceased and the only sound in the yard was that of melted ice dripping from the barn’s overhang into a puddle. I waited, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my cold hands and clasping them together. The door of the truck opened and he put his boot-clad feet to the ground and uncurled from the truck. Holding onto the outside of the truck door, he cocked his head to the side. He wore his leather jacket and jeans. The stubble on his face made him sexier than I thought possible.