The Wedding Circle (15 page)

“Just you resist any urges to go back for old time's sake once he leaves,” Mr. Place said, sounding almost fatherly. “That part of your life is over, Peri. You gotta know that for your own good.”

She said nothing but nodded slowly. There was a finality to it all that was gnawing at her, and she was surprised by the emotions that were rising inside. There were strange spurts and pangs in the pit of her stomach. In some order or another she knew that Parker and The Twinkle were her future—one she was more than happy to pursue and enjoy. If that happened to be the case, however, why didn't she feel better about it? Why did she feel such a tremendous sense of loss?

 

Harlan John Lattimore had driven his big white truck to the edge of Lake Cherico a mile or so south of Justin Brachle's developments, the construction site of the new library and his own Marina Bar and Grill. That morning, he had put a closed sign on the front door of the restaurant and given all of his employees the day off without a hint of explanation.

“Don't worry now, and don't look so damned shocked. I'll pay y'all, too,” he had told them when they showed up, and they had happily scooted off with their smiles in place—no questions asked.

Later in the afternoon he had made his phone call to Peri, and he could tell she was shocked by his news because she hadn't once smarted off to him. In fact, she had hardly said a word. That was truly a first—leaving Periwinkle Lattimore speechless. He couldn't help but chuckle at that, however briefly. It was the last sensation of humor he had allowed himself the rest of the day.

Now it was nearly ten o'clock in the evening, and he was parked beneath a couple of pines that stood over him and his vehicle in towering, protective fashion. He rolled down the window to listen to the sounds the lake and the creatures around it were making. The crickets, frogs, and cicadas had still not retired for the season, hanging on to their summer symphony as long as they could. He remained behind the steering wheel, staring at the distant lights north of him where people were doing such things as cooking and eating food, watching television, reading, arguing with each other over things both trivial and substantial, or even having sex in their bedrooms. It came to him that most all of them were reasonably content and not even close to questioning the routine nature of their lives.

Routine. That was what had gone wrong for him. Or rather, the wrong routine was the issue. This obsession with Peri had taken on a life of its own. He considered himself fortunate that it had not ended in even greater disaster already. There had been plenty of opportunities for the worst to happen. Not that Peri's refusal to marry him the second time had been easy for him to swallow. In fact, it was devastating. He was sure she was going to say “yes,” and then there had been that business with the prenup she had sprung on him at the last second, and he thought his head might explode when it was all over and done with. It was the first time in a life of effortless and continuous conquests that he had failed to get his way with a woman.

Then there was the evening a first-time customer had sauntered in for a couple of beers and gone on and on about Peri and that Parker Place, damn him!

“I'm in town all week on business,” the balding salesman with yellow teeth began. He was one of those types who thought bartenders just hung on their every dull, rambling comment. “Thought I'd give you a try. Had a great meal last night at that Twinkle place, and that dessert I had . . . wow! They're pretty friendly, too. The owner and the pastry chef stuck around and chatted with me. Do you know 'em, this being a small town and all?” The man could have no way of knowing how much his banter almost felt like a branding iron being applied to Harlan's backside.

Beyond that, Harlan was having serious trouble with the race angle—there was no way around it. He didn't like it one bit that his ex might be getting too friendly with this black man everybody was raving about. And that confrontation he had staged with Peri in the parking lot had only confirmed his fears. There was no longer room of any kind for him in her life, and it was driving him crazy.

After that, his obsession with Peri, Mr. Place, and The Twinkle itself had escalated exponentially. There were times when it seemed that someone else—maybe some crazed demon whispering schemes in his ear—was orchestrating everything, and he was helpless to do anything about it. He didn't seem to care that these premeditated actions of his might lead to some very serious and unintended consequences. If he got the sudden urge to go downtown and stand across the street staring at The Twinkle, then he went right ahead and did it.

Then there was that sneaky business of paying Barry Bevins's high-school friends, Crispy and Scott, to call in that fake takeout order and then tailgate the young man in The Twinkle's van out on Littlejohn Lane. It had taken some legwork for Harlan to track them down, but he had managed to do it. He was his own private detective, working feverishly yet stealthily around town. And he had paid them well to go all out and throw caution to the wind.

“This'll make it worth your while, boys,” he had said, handing them three crisp hundred-dollar bills each. “Your mission is to scare the hell outta him, ya hear? Stay on his tail 'til you make him pee his pants. And no matter what happens, you never met or heard of me. This is money under the table, so nobody can ever prove a damned thing. Just keep your mouths shut and don't go spendin' it all in one place at one time. Folks'll get suspicious as to where kids your age got it.”

Later, Crispy had called him up and said that they wanted more money to cover the cost of the ticket the sheriff's deputy had issued them for reckless driving, and he had complied, although grudgingly.

“Just remember, this is the end of the money train. So don't either one of you fellas get in touch with me again!” he had told the boy, practically shouting at him.

Then there were all the forays into following Mr. Place's mother out to her house on Big Hill Lane. He had no idea what he was going to do, how far he would go at such times. Would he break in at some point and terrorize her for the hell of it? He had actually considered doing it and had even imagined the poor old woman clutching her chest and having a heart attack as a result. That would put the fear of God into the high and mighty Mr. Parker Place with all of his fancy recipes! How sick and unhinged was even thinking something like that, and what had Ardenia Bedloe ever done to him, except give birth to that annoying, pastry-making son of hers?

There were other times when he would park his truck on Myrtle Street, just behind The Twinkle, and watch Mr. Place pull out of the parking lot after work and head home by himself. That was the only way he could be sure that his rival wasn't sleeping with his Peri on that particular night. The idea of such a coupling made him want to stand atop his restaurant deck railing and scream out over the lake. Who knew? If there was some long-missing corpse mired in the mud at the bottom, maybe he could make enough noise to cause it to float to the surface with its skeletal smile. His mind was filled to overflowing with such creepy, unspeakable horrors, and it was just way past time to put an end to it all. Otherwise, his rapid descent into Hell was imminent.

There was only a half moon reflected in the waters of Lake Cherico on this crisp, early autumn evening. But there was still enough light to remind him of that magical night when Peri had said she would marry him twenty-something years ago. He had her wound around his finger then, their wedding had been “storybook,” as people were fond of saying, and he saw no end in sight to the cheating game he had started playing with her. But that point in time seemed to belong in an alternate universe now, and he was bogged down in this driven, compulsive routine that would allow him no peace, awake or dreaming.

Enough of this torture. It was time to move on, whatever that entailed, however it was accomplished. Was this peaceful spot by the lake going to be the site of his last hurrah? Somewhat tentatively, he opened the glove compartment and retrieved his handgun. The metal was cold to the touch as he handled it gingerly, but somehow it felt pleasant to him. Maybe it would be the last cold thing he would experience before the hellish conditions that probably awaited him for doing what he was about to do. He always kept it loaded in case anyone, anywhere tried to mess with him. It was practically a mantra in the Deep South among a certain class of men—
don't even think about messin' with me and my gun
. But he had never imagined that he would end up using it on himself.

He took off the safety, positioned the barrel underneath his chin, and put his finger on the trigger. Then he shut his eyes and began to count backward silently toward a destination unknown—the ultimate departure.

Ten . . .

Nine . . .

Eight . . .

Seven...

Six . . .

Five . . .

Four . . .

But he stopped just before he got to three and opened his eyes.

No, he suddenly decided. This was just not the right spot for leaving. He had a better idea. Cleaner. Simpler. No pain. No spatter. None of that grisly television forensic stuff that most of America swore by now.

He put the gun away, turned the key in the ignition, and mentally said good-bye to the lake as he backed up the car, heading toward the comfortable home he had built for himself during the plushest of his Marina Bar and Grill days. Those days when he had had Peri by his side, crunching the numbers ever so efficiently for him. It would only take him ten or fifteen minutes to get there, and then, without a great deal of fanfare, it would all be over.

Once he arrived, it flashed into his head with a clarity he had never before experienced just why he had insisted on adding that expensive closed garage to his house plans. Originally, he had only wanted an open carport—nothing fancy—just the extra space to organize and hang up all his yard work and other manly tools. He had seen the “turn on the car in a closed garage and go quietly to sleep” trick depicted hundreds of times in movie after movie over the years. There was really nothing much to it. It seemed to be universally touted as a quick and painless way to end it all. So that was the way it was going to be.

Yes, this is the way it's gonna be,
he was thinking to himself once everything was in place and humming along a few minutes later. Particularly the engine humming along inside the closed garage. What was that other sound he was hearing? Was it coming out of his mouth? Was he actually humming a tune for this grand finale of his? Well, how about that? It was “The Eyes of Texas.” They were upon him once again. He imagined they were the eyes of Jefferson, Texas—his boyhood home—as a matter of fact. On this, his last, livelong day.

 

“Are you—are you an angel?” Harlan Lattimore managed to ask the image now slowly coming into focus. It began to become clear to him that he was staring at a pretty young female face of some sort. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, and she was all in blue scrubs, smiling down at him.

“No, Mr. Lattimore. I'm just your nurse—Myra,” the soft female voice said. “Welcome back. Looks like you're gonna make it.”

He made an effort to stir, but the IV drip in his arm and other telemetry drastically restricted his movement.

“There, now, Mr. Lattimore. You just relax and don't try to move. You've been through a lot.”

“Where—where am I?”

“In triage in the emergency room at Cherico Memorial.”

Harlan looked around to the extent he could and frowned. “You mean I'm not dead?”

The nurse laughed gently. “Not according to our definition of the word. But you did come close. You were saved in the nick of time.”

“How? You mean carbon monoxide doesn't work anymore?”

The nurse pointed to the white curtain providing the triage room with what little privacy it had. “Well, there's someone out in the hallway who's been waiting to see you for a while now. If you feel up to it, we could let him come in and visit with you just briefly. But not too long now. You need to get lots more rest after what you've just been through.”

Harlan frowned deeply. “Okay . . . I guess.”

Nurse Myra pulled back the curtain, and Mr. Parker Place slowly entered, smiling gently.

“What? You?!” Harlan managed, his tone sounding both puzzled and slightly annoyed.

“Hope you're feeling better, Mr. Lattimore,” Mr. Place said. “They tell me you are, anyway.”

“You're the last person on Earth . . . how the hell . . .” But Harlan tailed off, his surprise overwhelming him.

“Just one a' those quirks of fate, I guess,” Mr. Place told him. “Peri told me all about your closing down the restaurant and leaving town, and when I got off work at The Twinkle tonight, I decided to drive out to your place and wish you the best in Texas, tell you no hard feelings and all that kinda stuff, you know. At least I hoped we could tidy things up that way. I didn't know how it would turn out—in fact, I'm pretty sure if I'd told Peri I was gonna do it, she would've told me to stay the hell away. But I decided to give it a try anyway.”

“How lucky for you, Mr. Lattimore!” Nurse Myra said in a patronizing tone peculiar to certain caregivers.

But Harlan was shaking his head, his eyes barely open. “I . . . still don't understand what happened.”

“I just put two and two together, Mr. Lattimore,” Mr. Place continued. “You didn't answer the doorbell when I got to your house, but then I heard your engine running in the carport. Don't ask me how, but it just came into my head what was going on. I dialed 911 on my cell, and the paramedics got to you in time.”

“Just barely, though,” Nurse Myra added. “A minute or two more, and you wouldn't have made it.”