Part 8 (1/2)

He imagined standing under the willow, showing Lauren how Badewood sat like a perfect jewel in the crown of Th.o.r.n.y Hollow. In his mind's eye, Lauren's face softened and her hair lightened until it was Caroline at his side. He rubbed his forehead, feeling a deep sense of unease settle in his gut.

If he were completely honest with himself, his emotions had been off kilter even before Marshall had opened his mouth. The last week of cla.s.ses, he'd thought the feelings would fade away, settle back into the way things had been before. He'd tried to pretend everything was fine, he was the same old Brooks and she was pesky little Caroline. Pretending hadn't helped a bit.

Maybe it was because he'd been spending so much time back home, but he couldn't seem to admire Badewood without thinking of Caroline. She was wrapped up in everything he loved about the place. When he saw the carriage house, he thought of the summer they'd spent hours playing with a batch of new kittens. When he looked at the rose gardens to the South, he thought of how she'd learned the names of all the roses one year. Even the portico gave him pause, since she'd called Badewood 'toothy' in comparison to the admittedly more graceful lines of her own home. Of course she was part of this place, but the now the memories came with a rougher edge, as if they were rubbing against a sore spot.

So, he'd pretended all was the same. Same old Brooks, same old Caroline. And then she'd thrown herself into his arms. He closed his eyes, unable to keep the memory from was.h.i.+ng over him again. She'd been saying something about not having friends and all he could think of was how wonderful she smelled, how soft her skin was, how he wanted to press a kiss against the curve of her neck. Even now, standing on the bank of the lazy little creek, his heart started to thud in his chest. His eyes snapped open. This was wrong. She didn't feel the same way, clearly, and it was smacked of a sick desperation to stand around reviewing every small detail of their time together. She wasn't interested, end of story.

He took another breath, letting it out slowly. Absalom ran toward him, mouth open, tongue lolling, the picture of happiness. He paused to shake, water droplets flying in all directions. Brooks stretched the muscles in his shoulders, hoping to ease some of the tension. A bright, early summer afternoon beckoned and it would do him a world of good if he could just place all those complicated feelings back into a tidy s.p.a.ce inside.

He called for Absalom and jumped the creek, striding toward Badewood. He had enough on his plate without feeding the infatuation. It would pa.s.s. He was under a lot of stress and his psyche had latched onto Caroline as a diversion. Nothing more. s.n.a.t.c.hing up a dead branch, he swung at the feathery seed heads of the tall gra.s.s, letting out his frustration with vicious accuracy.

Ten minutes later they wandered around the Northern side of the house. The scent of jasmine was heavy in the warm air, struggling through the thick ivy that covered half the brickwork. Absalom was a little drier, but definitely needed a bath after running around the soft Mississippi clay banks. He'd better change before attempting the task, knowing how the retriever loved to soak them both.

Badewood faced East, to catch the rising of the sun, but his preferred room was in the part of the house reserved for servants. His childhood bedroom had lit up like the sun every morning at daybreak. He'd never been a morning person and now that he was old enough to choose, he found the darkest room at the back of the house.

Manning once teased him about moving to the old servant's quarters, asking if he acted out of guilt. Being a wealthy Southern man didn't weigh on his conscience as much as being born into an educated family. So many folks never got the chance to go any further than high school and there were plenty in his cla.s.ses at Midlands who were the first in their family to go to college. He loved his town, its history, his home. But of all the wonderful things he'd been born into, not earning an ounce of it, his family's tradition of higher learning was the best of them all. Without the chance at an education, life was an uphill climb.

He opened the screen door and stepped onto the enclosed porch. Their cook, Ruth, had replaced the spring tablecloths with the summer patterns. A round dining table stood waiting for guests, the bright diamond pattern reminding him of the care his mother had taken in choosing the very nicest oilcloths. It had been one of the last household tasks she completed before the stomach trouble had turned out to be terminal cancer.

The porch ceiling fans hummed softly, stirring the warm air away from the light blue planks above his head. His mother had insisted on 'haint blue', driving to every paint supply store in Th.o.r.n.y Hollow until she found the exact shade. Sometimes he wondered how the house could still stand without her. It was his father's family home, but she had taken to it like it was her birthright, not his. From the kitchen cabinet k.n.o.bs to the flagstone path to the Robert E. Lee portrait in the front entrance, the care she invested in Badewood was everywhere he looked.

The long stone hallway from the back porch to the kitchen echoed with every one of his footsteps. Ruth would be working on dinner, even though his father had refused to eat a proper meal for weeks.

Sure enough, the clatter of cookware grew clearer as he neared the doorway. Fifty years ago, the kitchen was housed a few hundred feet behind the main house, in its own red brick building. His mother didn't think it was necessary to keep the servants running back and forth to the main house so she had the equipment moved to Badewood proper. His ancestors would be horrified to know the cook wandered the main floor like she owned the place, the carriage house filled with dusty horse tack that was slowly rotting to nothing, and their great-great-great grandson was living in a maid's bedroom. But times changed and Badewood changed with them.

He poked his head through the narrow entry to the kitchen and blinked. Ruth's face was s.h.i.+ning with sweat as she frowned into an enormous pot, ap.r.o.n spattered with sauce. She looked like she'd been working on a feast for hundreds of people, but as far as he knew, the dinner crowd was a lot smaller. His grandmother stood next to her, the same frustrated expression on her face. Her skin still glowed with a Caribbean tan and beaded bracelets jingled as she stirred the pot. The front half of her hair was braided in tiny rows and decorated with brightly colored beads, her scalp glowing pink between the braids. She was wearing a pink T s.h.i.+rt that read 'Jamaica Days' on the back and lime green Bermuda shorts with embroidered flamingos all over them. Striped ankle socks peeked out of her orthopedic shoes. The overall effect was dizzying.

”Grandma, what on earth are you all up to in here?”

”Brooks, honey! Come taste this! Ruthy and I are makin' susumba and saltfish.”

Ruth frowned over her shoulder. ”I'm not so sure what Blanche is making. I'm just following her directions. Looks like poison to me.”

She tutted. ”Now, then. We haven't even added all the ingredients. We've got the gully beans and the saltfish cooking and we just need to add the hot scotch bonnet powder and the-”

”Where did you find all of this stuff?” Brooks held up a jar of something that looked like small green olives floating in syrup.

”I ordered it. Isn't the internet amazing? You can buy anything and have it delivered right to your house!” Blanche beamed at him, as if she'd discovered internet shopping before anyone else on the planet. The back of her permed white hair was suffering from the humid kitchen heat and she looked a bit like she'd been electrocuted.

Ruth took a turn stirring the pot and sniffed, her dark face wrinkled in concentration. ”I've eaten a lot of strange food in my life. When my boy came back from Afghanistan, he brought me some Persian carrot and rose jam. He put it on toast with orange blossom syrup. I ate that up and it wasn't so bad. But this...” She leaned over the pot, her nose wrinkled at the smell of the steam rising from the food. ”This might be where I draw the line.”

”Now, Ruthy. I never pegged you for a timid woman. We're havin' an adventure here! Plus, I ate this in Kingston and it was delicious. I said to myself, I'm-a gonna get home and Ruthy will help me whip some up.” She shot a look at her and sniffed. ”If I'd have known you were so shy about tryin' a new recipe, I wouldn't have bothered to order all of these spices. I even got boiled bananas to go with it.”

Absalom took a cautious sniff and seemed to decide there wasn't anything edible. He trotted to his favorite spot under the old oak kitchen table and stretched underneath. Brooks perched on a stool and surveyed the boxes and jars of ingredients. It certainly smelled interesting but there was no way his father would eat any of this food. For forty years he'd expected pork chops on Tuesday and meatloaf on Friday, mashed potatoes and gravy on the side. ”Is there another dish for the less adventurous?”

”You, too?” Blanche planted her fists on her ample hips. ”Well, I'll be eatin' all this soup myself, I suppose.”

”Not for me, for your son-in-law. I hate to remind you that he hasn't been particularly open to new dishes around here.” He glanced at Ruthy and she nodded. She'd tried a spaghetti dish that she'd seen on the cooking channel and his father wouldn't take a single bite. It was Italian food and he'd declared it 'too foreign'.

To his surprise, Blanche sighed and sat herself down on the old kitchen step stool. ”I know. That man is just determined to waste away.”

”It's been over a year and he doesn't seem like he's getting any better.” He didn't want to have a discussion about sensitive family topics while standing around the kitchen, but Blanche had to see that his father wasn't anywhere close to reclaiming his normal routine. ”I know it's hard. It seems like just yesterday she was here.” He stared at his shoes for a moment. ”But curling up into a ball isn't the answer.”

”I miss her, too.” Blanche said it softly, drawing a finger under her eye. ”She was my baby girl and I miss her crazy laugh and those awful slippers she wore and the way she walked around the house brus.h.i.+ng her teeth.”

Brooks snorted. He'd forgotten about the awful slippers: cheetah print corduroy with rubber soles that squeaked on the pine floors. The sound drove everyone in the family nuts but she said they kept her feet warm, so they all lived with the squeaking and knew exactly where she was at all times.

”She was a character, your Jessie.” Ruthy shook her head sadly and gave the pot a few slow stirs. ”Took after her Mama.”

”I'm not sure if that's a nice thing to say or not.” Blanche considered for a moment. ”People say someone's a character when they're fun to be around. But they also tend to say that when they can't stand the person.”

Ruth snorted. ”I can stand you, no worry. But I never thought I'd see an old white lady with cornrows. You didn't even put on a hat and now you got a sunburn on your head.”

”Everybody was getting' them done! That singles cruise I took to Alaska was all whale watching and binoculars. I wore a raincoat for two weeks. Never again. Jamaicans really know how to have a good time.” She shook a finger at Ruth. ”Next time, you're coming with me!”

She shot Blanche a look. ”And how do you suggest I persuade my husband to let me go on a singles cruise?”

She frowned. ”True. That will take some consideration on our part.”

Brooks tried not to laugh out loud. When he was a teenager, his grandmother had been embarra.s.sing and weird. Now, he appreciated her commitment to wringing the joy from every moment. Especially now, when there was so little joy at Badewood. ”I wish Dad would find a hobby or maybe take on of those vacations. He needs to get out.”

”Find a hobby? He lost his wife of forty years. No hobby can replace her.” Blanche shrugged.

Brooks paused, not sure how to say what was so very obvious to anyone who had ever met his parents. ”They never seemed very... happy. And I just a.s.sumed that he would try to move on after a while.”

”Well, there's happy and then there's married.” Blanche stared up at the pressed tin ceiling, as if watching a movie. ”Your grandfather and I used to bicker like that. But as we got older we realized there wasn't time for nitpickin'. I'm glad we had a few peaceful years at the end. I remember him that way, not the fights we had in the beginning. We got married so young, we hardly knew each other.”

Maybe his parents would have figured that out, if his mother had lived long enough. But surely forty years was long enough to work out some compromises. Or, at least be able to hold a conversation that didn't end up in dredging up old hurts.

”My Leo and I have never shared a cross word. But then, we're best friends.” Ruth shook some pepper into the pot and took another sniff of the rolling steam.

”Never?”

”Nope.” Ruth turned and gave him a look. ”I know what you're thinking. It's as clear as the nose on your face. You think I'm saying that because it's polite, that no one wants to hear about a couple's troubles. Well, let me tell you that living through a rough marriage is a lot braver than staying married to your best friend. And Leo's my other half. We finish each other's sentences, he knows the way I like my coffee, he always leaves the window cracked just a bit at night because I like to hear the frogs and the crickets.”

He nodded, a strange feeling spreading through his chest. Love and war went together, right? Two people committed for life, eventually they rubbed each other raw. No personalities fit perfectly, threading through each other like hands clasping.

”But then some days I look at him and feel like I've married a stranger. He always surprises me. But it's a stranger I really like so I never pay it any mind.” Ruth pursed her lips, the ladle raised in one hand. ”Funny how he knows me so much better than I do him. He's never once told me I surprised him. I guess I'm an open book for my Barry.”

Blanche nodded. ”I miss someone knowing me better than I know myself. It's a comfort to think a person can be known through and through, and not scare off her husband.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and examined his shoes. It would be nice to known fully and still loved, but what if it was one or the other? What if by the time someone got to really know you, they didn't love you anymore? And when could you be sure they really knew you? Two years? Four? It was probably better to pull back while the going was good, than to risk losing a marriage on the gamble of someone still liking the real you, the forty-years-of-marriage you. Yes, definitely better to leave good things alone. Things like friends.h.i.+p.