A Long Time Gone (46 page)

AUGUST 2013

I struggled up to Tripp's front door, juggling a flowerpot full of sunflowers and a peanut-butter pie. I was trying to figure out how to ring the doorbell with my elbow when the door opened and Tripp stood there with wet hair dripping and wearing only a towel knotted at his trim waist. I tried to avert my eyes, but they seemed to be working independently of my brain.

“Sorry to have caught you at a bad time. I can just leave these here on the steps and call you later. . . .”

He was already taking the pot out of my hands and moving into the foyer, giving me an eyeful of his nicely muscled back.

He set the pot down on a hall table that held a photo of him holding his trumpet and wearing his high school marching band uniform. “Not a bad time at all—I went for a longer run, so I'm just playing the rest of
the morning by ear. But when I heard a car door and saw you from the bathroom window, I figured it had to be a fire or something. Seeing as how I haven't heard from you in a while.”

I blushed. “Nope, sorry. No emergency. And I promise I won't make you any later. I just wanted to bring by some peace offerings.”

He took the pie and raised his eyebrows. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Bootsie's peanut-butter pie. I've been making them by the dozens, trying to get it just right. I'm thinking about selling them to start a little nest egg. Maybe start selling my services as an unofficial landscape architect, too—at least until I can make it official.” I glanced over my shoulder at the wasteland of grass in his front yard. “I'd recommend that you become my first client.”

He didn't ask me why, and I couldn't roll my eyes, because he was looking too good standing there in his towel holding my pie.

“I just wanted you to know—I'm going to California to talk with Mark. He won't answer my phone calls, so I made an appointment for a consultation at his office. I used Claire's name—I hope she doesn't mind.” I gave him a feeble smile. “I figured he could throw me out, but I'm hoping he'll be so surprised he'll at least listen to me. I'm going to ask him if he would trade in my alimony for joint custody of Chloe. And if he doesn't go for that, I'll come back with another offer—I just haven't gotten that far. I'm banking on Chloe making his life miserable for the last month, in addition to his wife being pregnant. Tiffany didn't strike me as the type who'd be happy with what pregnancy does to a woman's body, so I'm thinking that right about now the whole household is coming unglued at the seams. I'm thinking she might be who I target for my next visit.”

He was smiling. “Come on back so I can put this in the fridge and we can talk some more.”

I wanted to suggest he go throw a pair of jeans on first, but he'd already disappeared into the kitchen.

He was closing the refrigerator door when I walked in. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Um, sure. Just one, though. I'm trying to wean myself to just a couple of cups a day.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything as he pulled two mugs from the cabinet.

“It could be a long battle with Mark, and I need to be as mentally and physically fit as I can so he can't bludgeon what little inner strength I've managed to restore. It could take a while, but all I've got is time. Just knowing that I'm trying helps me get out of bed each day.”

Something about being alone with him in his kitchen, with him dressed only in a towel, was making me babble, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. “I had Adelaide's remains cremated. I'm going to wait until Chloe is back to have the service. I think she'd want to be here.”

I choked on the last word, having no real idea of what Chloe thought anymore. I still left messages on her voice mail every day, but for all I knew she never listened to any of them. And she'd never called me. I sometimes even found myself doubting the wisdom of asking for custody, wondering if it was what she wanted. But all I had to think about was Mark telling me the only child he'd ever wanted was Tiffany's, and I felt more committed than ever to bringing Chloe home with me. To work with her in the garden, along with my mother, the three of us coaxing life from the earth, nurturing our wounded souls among the seeds and sprouts.

Tripp was silent as he poured coffee into two mugs. I wondered if he was this way with everyone, or his silent tactic to get people to spill their guts was something he reserved just for me.

“Tommy said if I wanted to go the legal route, I could get a loan and use the farm as collateral. If it were just my life we were talking about, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I can't do that to Tommy. Or Mama. So I've had to do a lot of creative thinking instead.”

He just nodded, his eyes regarding me carefully. “I like what you're doing to your hair,” he said as he made my coffee—one sugar, two cream. Like he'd always known that.

I patted the back of my head. “Mama French-braided it for me this morning. She seems to enjoy it, and I'm grateful each day she still remembers how.”

He placed a mug in my hands. “So you're here to tell me I'm right?”

“Excuse me?”

“The pie. The flowers.” He took a sip of his coffee, an eyebrow shooting up in question.

“It was more to say thank-you. For not giving up on me. For being nice to me even when I didn't deserve it.”

“That's for damn sure,” he said, leaning against the counter and taking another sip. “But you also wanted to tell me I was right, didn't you?”

I held the mug with both hands and went to look out the large bay window into the backyard. “You could put a pool back here, you know. Or just do a beautiful outdoor kitchen. I could help. . . .”

The kiss on the back of my head surprised me. “You're welcome.”

Something warm and viscous slipped through my body, making me shiver. “I don't deserve you,” I said, the first honest words I'd said to him in a long, long time.

I waited for him to say something, but of course he didn't.

“Which is kind of a stupid thing to say, because you're not mine, but I've been thinking, well, hoping, that maybe we could start over—well, not go back to kindergarten, but if you could just give me some time to show you how much you mean to me, and how I can make it up to you . . .”

He reached around me and took the mug from my hand, and I heard it being set on the kitchen table behind us. “You're still finer than frog's hair, Vivi.”

I turned to face him, realizing too late how close he was standing. I didn't move away. “You know, Tripp, I don't think that would be a compliment coming from anybody else. But there's something in the way you say it . . .”

His kiss made me forget what else I wanted to say, along with all of the reasons that for years I'd denied my feelings for this man, and how I could have ever believed that I belonged anywhere else but here.

OCTOBER 2013

I fixed the plastic wrap over the last peanut-butter pie before carefully stacking it in the back of my new SUV with the boxes filled with pies, the chain with the two baby rings tucked securely inside my sweater, close to my heart. On each of my three trips out to California, I'd worn it as a form of security, a reminder of why I was there. The love between a mother and her child was an unbreakable bond. It made each time Mark said no less defeating, empowering me to try again.

I'd begun to see cracks in Mark's refusals, suspecting that I'd been right about Chloe's behavior since her return. I hadn't been able to
speak with Tiffany, because she'd had such bad morning sickness that she'd been hospitalized and was now on bed rest at home. I wanted the baby to be born strong and healthy, but a part of me couldn't help but hope that Chloe was playing her Marilyn Manson CDs as loudly as the speakers in her room allowed.

I hadn't told Chloe about my visits. This battle was between the adults in her life—and I never wanted her to think that the reason I won was because her father let her go.

Tommy appeared on the front porch with a nursery flat filled with tiny sunflower sprouts. He'd rebuilt Bootsie's greenhouse, and I'd thought it appropriate that the first plant I'd grow in it was her favorite. I'd make sure there was a row of them up against the garden fence in the summer, their faces smiling in the sun and reminding me of her.

“Carrie just called—she's at the festival and says there's already a good crowd. She found a red-and-white-checked tablecloth and she'll have it all taped down by the time you get there with the pies.”

“Great—thanks, Tommy. And I think I'm all set here—you go ahead. I know Carrie's been waiting for you to take Bo on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

I winked at him, remembering the Harvest Festivals of our past, when no matter what remedy Bootsie offered, anytime Tommy got swung in a circle, he would get sick. In all those years, I didn't think he'd ever been given the time to digest a single cotton candy or saltwater taffy.

“You got the ring?”

He patted his pocket for Bootsie's engagement ring, which had belonged to Adelaide but had been left at the jewelry store to be resized at the time of her disappearance. I'd found it in the dining room server when I'd been polishing the silver. She must have placed it there the last time she'd polished, then forgotten where she'd left it. It had been like a little wink from both women, and when Tommy had mentioned his intentions of asking Carrie to marry him, I'd known it was a sign. “Yeah. I figured I'd do it before the Tilt-A-Whirl so I don't throw up on her.”

“That's probably a good plan.” I hugged him tightly. “I'm so happy for you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we can make it a double wedding.”

“Or not,” I said, although without much conviction. “And one of
those pies in the fridge is for you—but only one. The other three are for Cora, Mathilda, and Mrs. Shipley. If one of them is missing I'm going to tear off your arm and beat you with the bloody stump.” Bootsie used to say that, usually directed at Tommy and his habit of stealing food and leaving a trail of crumbs.

“I'm scared,” Tommy said, and I could hear the grin in his voice, and it made me smile.

The harvest had been a good one, and it had made us both start thinking about the future. I'd always loved the cycle of the harvest, of how each spring we'd plant the seeds and each summer we'd watch the fields fill with creamy white and pink blossoms that soon became white puffy bolls looking like old ladies clustered on a church pew. And then in the fall the fields were emptied again, preparing for the long sleep of winter. The never-ending cycle was a familiar one in the delta, and it brought me comfort now, helping me believe that after the cold of winter, spring would come for all of us.

I looked up, noticing for the first time the white pickup truck parked at the side of the house. “When did Tripp get here?”

Tommy barely paused long enough to shrug before jumping into his own truck. “Must have been when you were in the kitchen getting the last of the pies.” He waved, then backed out a little faster than necessary.

I knew Tripp had been on call all day, so I hadn't texted him, knowing he'd communicate with me when he had a spare moment. It must have been an unusually busy day, because I hadn't received a single text or phone call. I'd been just about to text him with a reminder that he was supposed to meet me at my pie booth at the festival at seven.

I began heading toward the house to look for him when I realized that Cotton wasn't at his usual spot at my side. In fact, I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen him. I remembered when Tommy's dog had died, how he'd gone out to the swamp when he knew it was time, and we knew where he'd gone only when the buzzards appeared above the cypress trees.

My heart tightened. I could never face Chloe again if I let something happen to her dog. I began jogging slowly toward the back of the house, hoping he might be at the back door, where I kept a water bowl for him.

Sunset was still about an hour away, but the light had begun to fade, the russets and yellows of the trees in the swamp toned down to shades of gray. I stopped at the sound of voices, trying to determine where they were coming from.

“What the hell happened to my lima beans? And is that a greenhouse? How lame.”

“It's not ladylike to swear.” Tripp's voice.

“Yes. Sir. But where are my damned lima bean plants?”

I ran blindly to the garden and stopped at the open gate, wondering if the light was playing tricks on my eyes. The dog yipped, alerting the others to my presence. Tripp smiled broadly, but I barely noticed him, I was so focused on the black-clad girl with the lopsided French braid and black combat boots. I could tell that her mouth was fighting between a scowl and a smile, the smile eventually winning. And suddenly Tripp's words popped into my head.
Sometimes it's those who are hardest to love who need love the most
. I knew I'd have cause over the years to remember that, and the thought didn't scare me at all.