Paper Castles (3 page)

Hours later, Savannah heard the boisterous banter of the after school show coming from the kitchen. Laughter and bickering met her on the staircase and she wondered, as she had so many times before, how two children and a dog could make such racket.

Her babies. Hardly babies anymore. Fifteen year-old PJ now towered over his mother and reveled in his view of the world at this new height. Sometimes she’d look at him and that killer grin and wonder where he came from. Forgetting he was hers.

Angela was thirteen, her toes hanging over the precipice of womanhood. She vacillated from woman to child and back again at an alarming rate. Her mood shifted eight times in the span of any given conversation. Although Savannah tried hard to remember the frustrating difficulty of being thirteen, she and her daughter bumped heads on a daily basis.

“Just a storm you gotta ride out, child.” Neenie always said.

Savannah walked into the kitchen in the midst of her offspring talking over one another and the dog spinning in circles. All looking for their share of attention.

PJ looked over at his mother, his left dimple always tugging his grin into a lopsided affair. “Mom, wait until you hear this one.”

“No.” Angela piped up. “I want to tell her.”

“Tell me what?” Savannah asked.

“Mrs. Tooley picked
me
for the lead in the Christmas pageant.”

Savannah crossed the room and gathered her daughter in her arms. “That’s wonderful, Baby Girl.”

Angela groaned at the now-detested endearment.

PJ frowned. “Not wonderful for those of us in the audience.”

Still tucked in her mother’s hug, Angela stuck out her tongue at her brother.

“PJ, hush. Your sister has a lovely voice. Mrs. Tooley was right to pick her.”

PJ rolled his eyes. Savannah ignored him and turned her attention back to Angela. “You won’t be nervous standing up there by yourself?” she asked, smoothing a wayward strand of blonde hair behind Angela’s ear. “You’re ready for a solo?”

Angela’s shoulders rose and fell in casual confidence. “Sure.”

Savannah touched a fingertip to a freckled nose. “I’m so proud of you, Ange.”

“Now come give me a hug, Miss Priss,” Neenie said, and threw her arms open wide.

Angela left Savannah’s embrace and moved into Neenie’s, her blonde head settling on the pillowy breast beneath a flowered apron. This soft juncture of Neenie’s neck and shoulder had been a landing for sorrow and joy for two generations.

“I have to go call Julie. We didn’t have time to talk after school.” Angela grabbed her books and ran out of the kitchen, her brother tagging behind.

“You know I can sing every bit as good as you,” PJ said, and his voice rose in an off-key howl like a dog baying at the moon. Daisy joined in and the cacophony dwindled away upstairs.

“Sometimes I lose track of time when I look at that girl,” Neenie said. “I think I’m seeing little Miss Savannah at the wild colt stage. All long legs and yet to be tamed.”

Savannah sighed. “She’s much stronger than I was.”

S
IX O’CLOCK, AND WITH the opening of the front door, another dance began. The jangle of keys being dropped into the bowl on the hall table was the cue for the butterflies in Savannah’s stomach. Her hand unconsciously smoothed her hair as Price Palmerton walked into the living room. He didn’t just walk into a room; he burst upon the scene. He commandeered it. Every object turned to look at him, including Savannah.

Price’s steely gaze swept over her. “Evening.”

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Long.”

Obviously it was going to be one-word answer night. The short exchange was all she needed to gauge his mood. Opening a mental closet of defense weapons, she picked up her sword and took her position.

Price slid out of his jacket and tossed it over the arm of the newly upholstered sofa. A striped tie soon joined it. As always, a certain martyred relief was in this nightly fan dance. The uniform of the corporate world was one he’d chosen. Chased after and courted. Yet he stripped it off at the end of the day as if breaking out of oppressive chains.

Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he walked over to the bar cart. Not even bunched cuffs and bared arms could soften his unbendable presence. Price didn’t have a casual bone in his body. No gesture was uncalculated. He poured caramel-colored bourbon from a cut crystal decanter as if presenting evidence to a jury.

He took one long pull as if considering, then topped off his glass before striding across the room to his favorite chair. There he collapsed, deliberately, as if resting his case.

Nothing further, Your Honor.

Savannah remembered a time when she would have squeezed in beside him. He’d pull her close, the husky oak of bourbon on his tongue. She’d listen to the worries of his day and soothe them away with feathery kisses to his tired eyes. They’d pass a single drink and a cigarette from one pair of lips to the other. Sharing everything. But not tonight. Not for many nights now.

She got up to pour herself a drink. “Thanks for offering.”

“You don’t need to wait for me to have a drink,” he said. “You manage quite well on your own.”

The sound of ice cubes in her glass rattled through the silence. Vodka was her preferred drink, and she poured freely, adding a bit of tonic water and topping it off with a sprig of mint. She stirred with her finger, licking the cool elixir from her fingertips. Catching Price’s eye, she lifted her glass in a salute as she sat on her end of the sofa.

If a passerby peeked through her window, they might have smiled at the Ozzie and Harriet scene. Husband and wife sharing a cocktail before dinner. A gorgeous couple in perfect clothes, in a perfect room, in a perfect house. Of course the blood would be kept from view. It always was.

She braced herself for the tedious conversation. Ready to dodge Price’s polite words dipped in sarcasm and delivered in his genteel southern accent. It was always one step forward, two steps back. Although he rarely saw the inside of a courtroom anymore, he negotiated the finer points on international corporate contracts, and still had the instincts of a panther. Always the first to lunge and the first one to draw blood.

But tonight, he seemed preoccupied. Savannah loosened the grip on her sword as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Thanks to the kids, dinnertime was an easier skit to perfect and sustain. As long as Savannah and Price kept them engaged with questions, it appeared the entire family was having a pleasant conversation. Husband and wife didn’t have to speak to one another or make eye contact. Their scripted laughter rolled around the table between the rolls and the butter.

At last, Neenie bustled in to clear the dishes, announcing her famous chocolate cake was on the menu. PJ and Angela always took their dessert in front of the TV. They hurried out of the room and a cold draft rushed in to fill the empty chairs.

“None for me, Neenie. I’ve got to run.” Price stood up and tossed his napkin on the table.Savannah folded her napkin in her lap. “Where to now, darling?”

“I have to meet with a client.”

“On a Friday evening? Amazing how many of your clients have emergencies that send you scurrying into the night.”

Ignoring her barb, Price kissed the top of her head. “Don’t wait up.”

“Of course not,” Savannah said, knowing the kiss was only given because Neenie was present.

Savannah blew out a deep breath at the sound of the front door closing behind him.

“Here, child. Maybe this will make you feel better.” Neenie set two saucers of the dark confection on the table and sat beside her mistress.

Savannah’s fingers rested on the fork beside her plate, tracing the delicate pattern of her wedding silverware. She picked it up, cold and heavy in her hand, and stabbed at her dessert as if it were a voodoo doll. Looking at Neenie, she sighed from somewhere deep in her soul where dreams went to die.

“Not everything can be fixed with your chocolate cake.”

S
HE KNEW she’d go back to class and she did. These Friday mornings were what sustained her through the week. Watercolor images in the back of her mind saved her when Price stabbed her with a one-liner.

She was a thirty-nine-year-old woman with a schoolgirl crush, waking on Friday mornings with a smile and a flutter in her chest. Reeling in the heady sensation of being brand-new in another man’s eyes, she worshipped an Adonis from some ancient Greek myth. With tubes of paint, she pulled the legend from the recesses of her mind and splashed him onto her canvas.

Like a reversed Pygmalion and Galatea, Adam stepped out of the painting and breathed new life into her. His smile made her throw her head back and laugh. Every cell in her body thrived on the oxygen in his touch. A bit of his tongue between her lips and her senses unlocked secret codes, relaying new information to her brain.

Savannah deliberately chose the most unobtrusive back corner to set up her easel. From there, she could watch Adam walking around the room, stopping to give a bit of instruction or encouragement to each artist. To the outward eye, his attention seemed equal, but as he circled Savannah, it felt as if he was staking a claim. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, the tiny hairs at her nape standing at attention. She kept her eyes focused straight ahead on her painting, didn’t permit a single outward sign of the somersaults in her chest.

“Beautiful,” he said, fondling both the words and her emotions. His fingertip on her elbow left rows of tiny goosebumps in its wake.

After class, she walked out with the rest of students without looking back. She needed neither assurance nor confirmation. He’d be at the coffee shop.

She drove across campus through the deathly ballet of leaves spinning and swirling on an autumn breeze. A swan song in red and gold. At the coffee shop, she made her way to the little table for two tucked into the back corner.

Adam usually arrived before she’d finished her first cup of coffee. He was late today. Savannah looked around the café, really seeing it for the first time. Faded tables and chairs looked like leftover’s collected from dorm rooms at the end of the school year and gave the cavernous space a decidedly
take-it-or-leave-it
attitude. Her own well-worn table sported the initials of long ago lovers.
Did they make it
, she wondered as she traced her fingers over the deep grooves.

The Mud Lounge certainly wasn’t the sort of place one would expect to find Savannah Palmerton, Socialite. Which was probably why she liked it. Being here was like slipping on a new dress and standing in front of a mirror. Striking poses, preening from all angles. She was trying on a new personality, not yet committed to buying.

Bells on the shop door announced Adam’s arrival. Her eyes devoured his faded blue jeans and a causally buttoned white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Price would look absurd in such an outfit, but for Adam, the clothes seemed a natural extension of his skin. And right now, all she could think about was his skin.

“Hello again, Beautiful.” He grinned as he slid into his chair, his clothes smelling like they’d been hanging on the clothesline in the crisp November morning. He’d obviously walked across campus.

She tossed the paper napkin she’d twisted into a tight roll on the table. “I was just about to leave. I thought you’d changed your mind.” She didn’t like the childish insecurity that crept into to her voice, nor the pout of her bottom lip.

“About you? Never. I got caught in the hall by one of the staff. School stuff.”

“Oh.”

“Now where were we?”

Savannah’s eyebrows went up. “Where were we? We just came from class.”

“I mean where were we last week? I want to pick up right where we left off so we don’t lose any momentum.”

“I see.” Savannah bit her lip.

“Yeah, I think I was right...here.” Adam leaned in and kissed the bit of lip tucked under her teeth.

Her lip unfolded for him, along with the rest of her. She leaned forward, ready to go where he led until the pink-cheeked waitress interrupted.

Adam pulled away quickly. Savannah straightened her napkin and silverware, while he ordered coffee.