Chasing Sunsets (20 page)

I returned the smile. “Excuse me,” I said, then turned toward Steven, who had settled in next to me.

“What’s going on, Steven?” I spoke quietly.

He shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. It felt like an ice storm up there. What’s going on with Rosa? Why does she act the way she does toward me?”

His eyes studied my face for long moments; a slow smile crept from the corners of his lips. “You sure look pretty this morning.”

My shoulders sank. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you last night.”

He leaned toward my ear. “Literally.”

“Steven,” I whispered as though admonishing a naughty child.

He chuckled. “It’s okay. I’ve bored better people than you to sleep, you know.”

I gave him my best “I’m sorry” look before saying, “The last thing I heard, you were telling me how Eliza had gotten you to come to church with her . . . to see her in a little dramatic play.”

“Oh, well, then. You missed the best part.” He winked.

“Give me a second chance?”

He nodded. “Tell you what. After church, let’s go to Tony’s Restaurant, get some clam chowder—they have the best, you know—and we’ll get enough for Patsy too. If she’s doing all right, you and I will go out when it gets a tad cooler and I’ll tell you the whole story. Again.”

“Okay,” I said. “But where will you take me this time?”

“The graveyard,” he said. “Remember?”

Oh yes. I remembered.

After church and saying good-bye to Maddie, Steven suggested we walk up to Tony’s Restaurant rather than drive. I thought it a splendid idea; after all, the small corner restaurant wasn’t very far. As we strolled with my right hand clasped in his left, I couldn’t help but reminisce about past summers spent in Cedar Key. It seemed to me that every crack in the sidewalk, every lean of one building and whitewash of another brought enough memories to fill the nearby Gulf.

In the heat my hand had started to sweat, but I squeezed Steven’s anyway. Every few steps we slipped from shadow to sunlight and back to shadow again. The Gulf breeze skipped around us. It danced up my skirt—for which I was grateful—making me glad I hadn’t worn pantyhose. I looked at Steven, memorizing every angle and line in his face as he cast it upward, toward the sky. He was studying the clouds, I knew, wondering about the possibility of rain.

“I didn’t know you went to church,” I said. “Regularly, I mean.”

He stopped looking at the sky, turning his attention to me instead. “If you’d stayed awake last night, you’d know,” he answered. Behind the brown tint of his sunglasses, I saw him wink.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Yes, I go to church. Regularly.”

“I don’t remember you going when we were kids, I guess I’m saying.”

“No, we didn’t. My parents never thought it necessary. I’ve tried to talk to Dad since he got sick, but . . . either he just doesn’t care or he doesn’t want to rock the boat with Mom.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. But Eliza’s working on them too, so between us and Jesus, we’ve got it covered, I think.”

“Okay, so you went to church to see Eliza in a play and . . .”

He smiled. “And I found something there that helped me out of the funk I was in since Brigitte left.” He winced. “I didn’t know how to say this last night, what with what you told me about your mom, but . . . I was drinking a lot back then.”

“You were an alcoholic? I mean, are you? As in, recovery?”

“Yes, I am. And I go to meetings as often as I can. But I don’t want you to picture me lying in a gutter somewhere before I hit my bottom. Being alcoholic is more than the bum on the street begging for money. Mine was more in the sense that I chose to drink at night to ease the pain. The loneliness. I chose not to bring another woman into my life, and I thought I was pretty admirable for that.” His smile was painful. “Instead I brought in a bottle.” He shrugged. “It became a cop-out. Even with Eliza there, not having a woman next to me, to share my life with, was difficult. When I realized that the obsession to drink had taken over, I made a commitment to Eliza, to myself, and most importantly to God that I wouldn’t drink again . . . wouldn’t fall into that cycle of trying to numb my pain . . . ever again.”

I squeezed his hand again. “I’m proud of you. I’m also surprised you never brought another woman into your life.”

He chuckled. “Not to sound egotistical, but believe me, there were plenty of women who lined themselves up. Especially, I’m sorry to say, after I got involved in the church. But . . .”

When his voice trailed and I was certain he wasn’t going to finish, I put on my best smile and concluded, “But none of them were me?”

He laughed again, this time stopping in a patch of sunlight. He pulled me to him, kissed me without hesitation, and said, “Something like that.”

I was burning up; the sun beating against my head and skin made me feel like I was standing in front of a hot oven. But I didn’t care. I could have melted in a puddle of sweat or a pool of love right then and there and it would have been fine with me. “Steven Granger, what sort of spell have you cast on me this time?”

He kissed me again. “And what about the spell you’ve cast on me?” He smiled. “But let me say this: I can’t say you were at the forefront of my mind back then—though I never really forgot you. It’s just that raising Eliza was a full-time job, not to mention my other full-time job. And I didn’t want to bring anyone into
her
life who might jeopardize
our
life in any sort of way.” He smiled.

The knot formed in my throat again. When I couldn’t think of anything to say, I coaxed him into walking again. Then, in a low voice, I said, “Rearing.”

“What?”

“Rearing. You reared Eliza.” I grimaced at my words but figured I might as well finish them. “Sorry, the schoolteacher in me. We
raise
cattle, we
rear
children.”

“Ah. I’ll remember that the next time I’m
rearing
a child or
raising
a cow.” He winked at me again and we both laughed. We walked past a short white picket fence dripping with roses. Their scent was sweet and—in the heat—intoxicating.

I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I just said that. I guess old habits die hard.”

“I hope not.” He stopped me again, this time under the awning of Cedar Key’s Historical Society building, a famous building in its own right. “Remember what we talked about last night? About how you try to control things?”

I nodded. “Yeah.” We were only steps from the end of the sidewalk, across the street from Tony’s and the large oblong sign announcing the award-winning clam chowder that simmered within. I could smell its spices, and my stomach rumbled. “Sorry,” I said as I pressed my hand against my middle. “I’ve hardly eaten since yesterday.”

“Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” He led me onward with a tug of his hand, but I stopped him. “Steven, I just want you to know that I thought a lot—mostly in church, if I’m to be honest—about what we’ve talked about. And even what Andre said and Charlie has said. It seems to me that the majority rules on this one. I’m a control freak.”

“I wouldn’t call you a freak exactly.”

“Thank you for that. But, you know what I mean. And I’m going to work on it. I whispered to God this morning that I’m going to trust him with my sons when they’re at their father’s. I’m going to trust him with Heather when she is in rehab. And I’m going to trust that Andre knows what he’s doing with his own kids while she’s there.”

Steven touched the tip of my nose with his lips. “That’s good to hear. Believe me, Kim, this is something I can attest to from personal experience. If you let go and let God, as the old saying goes, everything really will work out okay.”

“I believe you.” I sighed. “But it’s not going to be easy.”

“Nothing worthwhile ever is, Boo.”

Patsy was at the computer in her living room when we returned. She wore her pajamas with a thin cotton robe and satin ballerina bedroom slippers. Her hair had been brushed and rebraided, and her face looked freshly washed. She told me she was “Facebooking” with her grandson.

She was delighted by the clam chowder. When we were done with lunch, Steven and I cleared everything away while Patsy went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. As I put away the last of the washed dishes, I told Steven I wanted to stay with Patsy for a while but that he could pick me up at my house at around 7:00, if that worked for him.

He grinned at me and said, “Tell you what. Why don’t
you
let
me
tell you when I can pick you up? Then, if it doesn’t work for you, we can negotiate.”

I sighed. “Was I doing it again?”

“Only a little,” he said, bringing his index finger close to his thumb.

I groaned, but he kissed me anyway, told me not to stress over it, and that he would, indeed, pick me up at 7:00. I rested my forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

His fingertips pushed my chin up until I was looking into his eyes. “Kim . . .” he said but didn’t finish his thought.

“What?”

He blinked, shook his head as he lowered his hand, and said, “Nothing.”

I placed my hands on his forearms and whispered, “What?”

He momentarily flushed, grabbed my hands with his, released one, and walked me to the door, holding the other. “I’ll pick you up at 7:00. We’ll go to the graveyard, then head over to the Island Room for something to eat.”

I could only nod. Something was happening between us, something I couldn’t quite verbalize, even if only in my head. He pressed his lips ever so briefly against my own, then walked out of the door.

I returned to Patsy.

I found her in her bedroom, standing before her mirrored vanity, pushing Jergens lotion from a pump bottle into the cupped palm of her hand. The pleasant scent of cherry-almond permeated the room, reminding me of my childhood. Oreo lay curled in the middle of her bed, his front paws tucked under his chest. “You two seem to be doing awfully well,” she commented. She looked at the bottle of hand cream and said, “Want some?”

I pushed the pump once then rubbed the creamy lotion around my hands and between my fingers before bringing them to my nose and inhaling. “My mother always used Jergens. Funny, I haven’t thought of it in years.”

“My dressing table is never without it,” Patsy said. “Wonderful for the face too.”

I spied an antique gold filigree lipstick holder. A Cupid sat on the outside center, head turned to his left as though indifferent, silently strumming a guitar. Four small tubes—each of them noticeably old—stood like ladies of a bygone era in the center. I touched Cupid’s head with my fingertip and said, “This is quite lovely.”

“And quite old.” Patsy reached for one of the tubes, pulled the top away from the base, then twisted until crimson red lipstick appeared. Whoever had used it previously had worn it flat. “These were my mother’s,” she added. She brought the tube to her nose and inhaled as I had done with the hand cream. “It smells like crayon wax to some, I suppose. But to me it smells like a woman who was once very beautiful.”

She leaned the lipstick over for me to smell. She was correct; it smelled like crayon wax. As she returned the tube to its place, I asked, “Didn’t you say your mother sent you to live with another couple when you were thirteen?”

“She did.” She looked toward the door. “Let’s go sit down, shall we? I’m clearly tired.”

We walked into the living room; Patsy wrapped her arm around mine and leaned on me for support. When we were comfortable, she continued with her story. “My mother had packed my suitcase that day while I was at school. I remember thinking on the way home that I had field peas to shell when I got home and my friends—Mitzy and Jane were their names—wanted me to sneak away to Cassel Creek.” Patsy’s face held a faraway expression until she said, “Oh, my. We had so many white acre peas that summer. I remember thinking my fingers would fall off from the picking and the shelling.” Patsy looked down at her hands—gnarled with age—then laid them in her lap. “But when I got home, Mama said for me to get in the car, that we had somewhere to go. So I did as I was told. I always did. Children in those days didn’t argue with their parents like they do nowadays.

“Mama said my little brothers were at a neighbor’s and that we had to go to a place called Slim’s. Slim’s was a service station and a bus stop. I remember Mama bought me a Nehi Peach before . . .” Patsy brought her hands up and back down to her lap again. She looked away from me, toward the sliding glass doors and the marsh beyond. “On the way there she started telling me about my little brother like I hadn’t remembered him, and that he was living with these good people and that those good people were going to let me come and live with them too.” She brought her fingertips to her lips and cut her eyes to me. “I cried, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But Mama said not to. She said she didn’t have time for my tantrums. I knew she wouldn’t whip me. She just couldn’t bear to see me cry like that.” She sighed. “I begged her to go get my little brothers and to go with me. We could leave Ira Liddle, all of us together. But she wouldn’t do it. I can still see her standing outside the bus when it pulled away from the station . . . waving good-bye and blowing kisses.”

I waited in the moment’s silence until Patsy was ready to continue. “When I got to the Buchwalds’ house, Mrs. Buchwald—who I called Mam—took me into the kitchen while Papa took my suitcase into their room.” Patsy laughed lightly, though there was little humor in her tone. “Mam told me something that night I didn’t even know before.”