Horn Island was a haven of peace on a Sunday afternoon. Red-winged black birds sang in the mango bushes and grackles gave their musical calls. A white heron with yellow feet waded at the water's edge, and a batallion of gulls winged toward a sky so blue it hurt your eyes.
Bill guided the boat and watched Beth Ann's reaction. She was trying very hard to appear bored with it all, but he could tell it was an act.
"Spend time with her, Bill," the therapist had said, "time alone. She resents the relationship between you and Maggie. She feels left out."
It had astonished him to realize that too much love between a husband and a wife could make a child feel excluded. Together he and Maggie had hit upon the idea of involving Beth Ann in his dolphin research.
"The dolphins will be around this island, Beth Ann. Remember the temporary freeze marks on the dorsal fin I told you about?" She nodded. "Look for it. If you spot one, jot down the number."
She didn't ask any questions. That wasn't good.
"Get her to talk to you as much as possible," the doctor had said.
"Remember how we talked about studying dolphins in the wild." Once more she merely nodded. He hoped he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. How did a man go about establishing a different kind of relationship with a fifteen-year-old daughter? "These freeze marls help us study their migration patterns. They travel great distances, you know, navigating by bio-magnetism." He sounded like a dry science book.
"Don't overdo it," her therapist had cautioned. "Make it seem natural."
Still not talking, Beth Ann rubbed suntan oil on her arms and legs. Bill wished he'd brought Maggie. She seemed to be making more progress with their daughter than he was. Maybe he was too old to be a parent. Maybe there was some law he didn't know about that at forty parents passed their children on to younger people with more energy and more knowledge on parenting.
In the distance a dorsal fin cut through the water. The sun glinted off the shiny fin as it glided toward them.
"Look, Beth Ann. A dolphin."
She turned toward the direction he pointed, and as she did, three dolphins breached the water in perfect formation. Behind them, three more spun upward. The sea roiled about the boat as more dolphins appeared, their great gray bodies slicing swiftly through the water.
"It's a herd, Beth Ann." Bill couldn't contain his excitement. Usually on sightings he saw a small pod of ten or twelve, but there must have been a hundred and fifty dolphins racing to greet the boat.
Beth Ann's eyes lit up, then her whole face. "Gosh," she said, leaning over the edge of the boat. "I've never seen so many." The dolphins drew nearer and began to close in gleaming gray circles. "Awesome," she said. Then, "Hey, look. I see two marks ... no, three, three marks, Dad!"
She reached for her binoculars and the small notepad he'd given her. "What if they disappear before I can write down their marks?"
"Don't worry, Beth Ann. We'll come back."
She smiled at him, and he saw everything he had missed—the father-daughter talks, the discussions about grades and boyfriends and college and careers.
He was going to do better. Tomorrow he'd pick up brochures of Hawaii and they'd plan that family vacation he'd been promising Maggie for sixteen years.
Getting away would do them all good. Besides, Hawaii had a large dolphin population.
o0o
Because of the weather, Paul and Jean were taking a late lunch on the patio. It was Chinese food they'd picked up on their way back from church. Paul had changed into jeans and an old sweatshirt, but Jean was still wearing her cream-colored silk suit. She looked elegant and beautiful and unapproachable.
They ate mostly in silence, with Jean making an occasional remark about her gallery, and Paul commenting on the weather. She never mentioned the boat anymore. He supposed she'd given up.
It seemed they'd both given up. They rarely touched, and when they did it felt obligatory. They were polite strangers, living in the same house.
"I'm thinking of expanding the gallery."
She wasn't asking his advice; she was telling him. He nodded.
"Whatever you want to do, Jean. Pass the sweet and sour sauce, please."
She handed it to him. "The trial will be over soon."
"Yes." He tried not to think too far into the future.
"It looks bad for Curt."
He studied her to see how she felt about that. She was serene and confident, merely making conversation. He remembered how she'd looked when he'd seen her at the ballet with Curt, so fragile, so much in need of protection. Then he remembered Susan, glorious in her red dress, sweet and passionate, sexy and innocent.
A sense of loss weighed so heavily on him, he got up and walked to the edge of the patio. The azaleas were beginning to bloom. Jean used to plant new ones every year, adding to their collection until they had a display worthy of Bellengrath Gardens.
"Paul? Is anything wrong?"
"Nothing, Jean. I'm not that hungry. I thought I'd go inside and get a book."
"You don't think I have feelings left for Curt, do you?"
"No." He started toward the French doors.
"Paul! Don't you dare walk out on me." She stood gripping the edge of the table.
"I'm not walking out on you, Jean. I'm going to get a book."
"No, you're not. You're running away from me."
"For God's sake, Jean. I told you I'd never leave you."
"Dammit." Jean, who never said a byword, slammed her hand on the table. "I don't want to be some ball and chain hanging around your neck for the rest of our lives. Talk to me, Paul. Tell me what you want out of this marriage . . . tell me if you want this marriage."
From the depths of their house, they heard their telephone ring.
"Someone's on the phone," he said.
"Forget the phone, Paul."
"It might be important."
He went through the French doors, ashamed at how relieved he felt to leave her standing on the patio. His footsteps echoed in the silent house as he made his way to the phone. Too much house. Too much silence.
He picked up the phone.
"Is Allyson there?"
"I'm sorry, you have the wrong number."
He pressed his hands to his temples. Wrong number. Wrong life. Wrong wife. God, he’d never even told Susan he loved her.
“Paul." Jean had come up behind him and was standing with her hands folded.
"It was just a wrong number, Jean."
"I didn't come to ask who was on the telephone; I came to ask you what you're going to do about us."
"I told you I'd stay, Jean."
"Do you think I want your pity? Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life lying on my side of the bed while you're on the other side thinking about her?"
"Leave Susan out of this, Jean."
"No, you leave her out of it, Paul. Get her out of our marriage, out of our bed."
He walked away, as he had so many times before. But this time he got only as far as the sofa. It was time to face the truth: in protecting Jean he was destroying them both.
He turned to face her. "I can't leave her out of it, Jean."
"At last an honest answer."
"Isn't that what you've been wanting, Jean? Honesty?"
"Yes." She squeezed her hands over her stomach and walked to the sofa.
Don't you dare collapse on me, he wanted to rage at her. Don't you dare chain me to your side with guilt and weakness.
Perched on the edge of the cushions with her knees pressed tightly together, Jean fought for composure.
"I wanted children, Paul. We've never talked about children."
"We can't cement a broken marriage together with children, Jean. It would be wrong."
He remembered how it had been with them once, the laughter, the love they'd taken for granted, the son they'd produced. The memories came gently to him, and he finally understood that that's all they were, memories, and that the time had come to move on. A part of him wanted to race toward Susan and never look back, but another part of him wanted to leave with grace and dignity, to part without recriminations and tears.
He knelt beside Jean and took her hand.
"Paul? You're leaving, aren't you?"
"Yes, Jean, I'm leaving. You're a wonderful, talented, desirable woman, and what we once had was beautiful. But it's gone, Jean. Over. Finished. I thought we could get it back, but I know now that we never could."
He rubbed her hand between his. "Look at me, Jean."
He could see unshed tears shining in her eyes. "I love you for the years we had together and the wonderful son you gave me. I love your talent, your elegance, your innate goodness."
"But you don't love me enough to forget Susan Riley?"
"I can't forget her. She's the best part of me." He squeezed her hands. "I won't abandon you, Jean. I'll see that all your needs are taken care of, and I'll continue to pay for the best professional help possible for you."
She drew a deep, steadying breath. "I've known for a long time it would end this way." She pulled her hand away.
He stood up. "I'm going to help you, Jean."
"I'm going to help myself, Paul ... I have to."
"Jean…”
"Leave . . ." She lifted her chin and stood to face him. "I don't want a long, drawn-out parting. Please . . . just go quickly."
"I'll send for my things." He took her face between his hands and kissed her on the cheek. "Be safe, Jean. Be happy."
"You too."
They reached for each other, needing to hold onto the past long enough to say good-bye. Outside the wind freshened and stirred the Spanish moss on the live oak tree and the tender young grass greening the lawn. A robin called to its mate, and house wrens fluttered about the holly bushes, preparing their nest for the hatching.
Spring had come to the seacoast.
Softly Paul let go the past; softly he released Jean. He turned in the doorway for one last look.
"I hope you find everything you're looking for, Paul."
So did he ... so did he.
o0o
After Paul left, Jean went onto the patio and began to clean up. Still dressed in her silk suit, she dumped the leftovers in the garbage disposal, stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, then scrubbed the countertops.
Next she went upstairs and began to pack Paul's clothes. There was no need to hurry, for she had all the time in the world. When she was satisfied that she'd packed every tie, every toiletry, every shoelace, she stowed the bags and boxes in the upstairs hall.
By the time she'd finished all her chores, she was wrinkled and smudged and tired. She took off her silk suit, for once not bothering to hang it properly, then put on jeans and an old black and gold Vanderbilt sweatshirt left over from her college days.
Outside the sun was sinking and the smell of sea salt hung in the evening air. Jean jogged around the block. Neighbors she'd barely seen over the last year and a half waved and called greetings as she passed by. Children she'd last seen on tricycles had sprouted up like weeds and were playing ball and hopscotch and Ping-Pong in their yards and on their sidewalks and in their garages. Everywhere, life went on.
She turned the corner, winded but determined. Some of the houses she passed had new coats of paint, some had For Sale signs in the yards, some had new residents. Change. It was inevitable.
When she neared the course and came back in sight of her own house, she noticed how huge it was, how formal, how forbidding. It was far too big for one. Tomorrow she'd list it with a realtor. And after that . . . who knew? She might stay in Biloxi and run her art gallery or she might move on. She'd always thought she'd like to live in San Francisco.
Newly cut grass that had drifted onto the sidewalk from the house down the street was caught on her tennis shoes, and she tracked it into the house. She went into the kitchen to get a whisk broom and dustpan to clean up after herself, then changed her mind and left them sitting in the closet.
She then went into her studio and took up her paintbrush. She understood the art of survival; it was time to learn the art of living.
o0o
He checked into the Grand Biloxi, and his first visitor came calling that same day.
When he heard the knocking, his heart sank. Jean was the only one who knew where he was. Had she changed her mind? Come to parade some announced some new illness that would make it impossible for her to live alone?
When he opened the door and saw Susan's sister, he was as alarmed as he was surprised.
"Don't ask how I found you. I don't have time to waste with unimportant details."
"Has something happened to Jeffy?"
"The kid's okay." She pushed her way past him. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Yes."
"That's too damned bad." She lit her cigarette, then tossed her purse on the bed and sat on the edge. "Aren't you going to ask me how my sister is?"
"I'm going to give you exactly one minute to tell me why you came."
"It's Susan."
He strode to the bed and lifted Jo Lisa by her shoulders. "If something has happened to her and you've wasted my time playing games, I'm going to . . ." He took a steadying breath, then released her.
"Do what, Doc? Walk out on me the way you walked out on her?"
"It wasn't that simple."
"She picked you up off your alcoholic butt and dusted you off and cleaned you up, and then when she fell in love with you, you left." She took a deep drag of her cigarette. "Is that about right?"
"That's about right, Jo Lisa." He sank into a chair. "She trusted me, and I feel as if I've betrayed her."
"So did I." Jo Lisa squinted at him through the smoke rings she was blowing, then jumped off the bed, went to the window, and stared out over the gulf. "It all started when we were kids." With her shoulders hunched forward, she told the sordid story of how she'd betrayed her sister.
He felt as if somebody had driven an ice pick into his heart. In his effort to save Jean had he destroyed Susan?
When her story was over, Jo Lisa turned from the window, tears streaming down her face.
"My sister needs you, and if you don't help her, I swear to you that I'm going to hound you till the very sight of me makes you sick." With her hands shaking, she reached for another cigarette. "It probably does, anyhow."
Paul steadied her hands on the lighter, then when the cigarette was between her lips, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her face.
"You look like hell." He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and smiled at her. "But I like the sight of you."
"Shit. You're going to make me cry."
"You already did." He led her to a chair, then knelt beside her and took her hand. "You don't have to play tough with me, Jo Lisa. I was getting dressed to go see Susan when you came calling."
Jo Lisa studied him for a while, then blew a smoke ring over his head.
"Doc, I think you're going to make a helluva brother-in-law."
"Don't ever make the mistake of thinking I'm a Brett Riley."
"I'm many things, but I'm not dumb."
Paul stood. "Stay as long as you need, Jo Lisa. I hope I won't be back tonight."
"Thanks, Paul. You're a good kid."
"So are you."
o0o
His approach to Susan's house was a cautious one rather than a joyous one. Like a prisoner held too long in exile, he wasn't sure of his welcome. Months had passed since he'd come to her house and found the porch light burning. Seasons had come and gone. Holidays. She'd celebrated Thanksgiving without him . . . and Christmas. She'd watched her son's progress from walker to cane to total freedom, then watched him decline once more with a disease that sapped his strength and postponed his surgery.
She'd faced it alone, with strength and courage and a faith that never flagged.
Paul was prepared for a tough battle with Susan, but he was not prepared for the devastation of her flower beds. As he stopped and surveyed the damage he tasted fear. He left the raw, upturned earth and went onto her front porch. The house was quiet. There was no activity inside, no sign of life.
He rang the bell and waited. No one came to the door. He rang the bell once more.
"Mother?" she said through the door.
"It's Paul."
In the long silence that followed, he prayed she wouldn't leave, prayed she wouldn't turn him away.
"Paul?" She cracked open the door. Through the small slit he could see that she was thinner. "What do you want?"
"Susan, may I come in?"
"Why?"
"I'd like to talk to you."
"We have nothing to say."
She started to close the door, but he put his hand through the crack, gambling that she wouldn't crush it.
"Let me in, Susan."
"No. I let you in once, Paul. Remember?"
"I remember."
How could he forget? There was the time he'd stood beside her in the kitchen laughing as she tied a frilly apron around his waist and thrust a stirring spoon into his hand, and the time they'd stood together in her shower, wet and slick, pressed together like bookends, and the time they'd made frog houses for Jeffy out of the wet sand on the beach then tried to outdo themselves croaking like frogs.
"Please go away, Paul."
"No, Susan. I'm not going away."
"Then you can stand on the porch." She turned to leave.
"I'm going to stand here until you let me in." She was weakening. He could see it in her eyes. "The neighbors will start to talk Birds will build nests in my hair."
"I hope they do more than that in your hair." She started to slam the door in his face, but he put his hand out to stop her. "I'm not above using the same tactics I used on the beach that day in the rain."
"You used them? I was the one using tactics."
"It was both of us." He came through the door, and this time she didn't try to stop him.
"Jeffy's asleep."
"I won't wake him."
Her music box was in the same place he remembered, and the big chair where they'd made love. The curtains were the same and the carpet and the mantel with thumbtack holes where she'd hung Christmas stockings. It was home, and he wondered how he could ever have left and whether he would ever be welcome again.
Sitting on the sofa that held so many memories, he watched as she made her
way to a chair on the opposite side of the room. There would be no easy victories, no easy return.
"How's Jeffy?"
"Recovering. Dr. Freelander says he should be ready for conduit valve replacement surgery in a month or two."
"I'm glad."
She crossed her legs, then wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and he wanted to have exclusive rights to lick off that tiny bit of moisture. They waited, watching each other and remembering, remembering . . .
"I'm not very good at speeches, but I want you to know that you've never been far from my mind, not since the night I left your bed and went back to Jean."
"Somehow that fails to comfort me, Paul."
"I'm leaving her, Susan."
"Why?"
"Because I can't live a lie anymore."
"Jo Lisa could give you a few pointers."
He wanted to erase the hurt from her eyes. "She told me what happened. I'm so sorry."
Susan was up out of her chair. "She told you?"
"Yes. She's worried about you."
Stiff-backed, she marched to the door and flung it open. "Leave . . . now."
"I'm not leaving, Susan, and I know you don't want to make a scene and awaken Jeffy."
"You….cad."
"Good. You're showing some spirit now. Get mad at me, Susan. Get mad at Jo Lisa." He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. She battered at his chest. "Fight, sweetheart. Fight for yourself. Just don't hide behind closed doors and try to shut out the world."
She beat his chest with her fists. Gradually the blows slowed, then ceased altogether, and she leaned against him, the fight draining from her body.
"I don't want to need you, Paul. I don't want to love you.
"Let's take this one day at a time, Susan. For now, let me be your friend, someone you can hold on to." He kissed the top of her head.
Down the hallway Jeffy awakened and called out. "Mommy?"
Susan stiffened. "Go before he sees you, Paul. I can't let you be a part of his life again." She stepped apart from him, suddenly fierce. "Nor mine, either."
"I'll make you change your mind."
"Mommy?" The plaintive little voice tore at Paul's heart.
"Leave," Susan said.
"I'll be back."
Paul eased out the door. Then he stood on the porch, soaking up the familiar sights and smells and emotions of coming home.
o0o
After he left, Susan leaned against the door. She didn't have to see him to know that Paul was still on the porch. Every fiber in her body longed for him.
She put her hands over her mouth to keep from calling him back. She was through giving her trust to people who didn't deserve it.
"Mommy. I'm thirsty."
Paul's footsteps echoed on the old wooden porch floor. He was leaving.
Susan put her hand on the doorknob, turned it, held onto it. One word. That's all it would take. Paul, she would say, and he'd come back, come inside and put his arms around her, and she'd feel safe.
He'd left her once. Everybody was always leaving her. She'd have to remember that.
She pressed her hands to her temples, then straightened her shoulders and went down the hall to see about her son.
o0o
Trucks from Estes's Nursery arrived at her house at eight o'clock the next morning. Susan was still in her robe and house shoes.
"What in the world?" she said, standing in the doorway watching three men unload shovels and sacks of peat moss.
The biggest of the three men stood at her porch steps holding a slip of paper. Clark Simmons was stitched on his shirt in blue lettering. "Is this the Riley house?"
"Yes."
"Where do you want us to plant these flowers, ma'am?" Flowers of every color and description filled his truck bed.
'There must be some mistake."
"Are you Susan Riley?"
"Yes."
"Then these are yours. If you'll just show us where to plant them . . ."
"I didn't order them. I'm sorry. You'll have to take them back."
" 'Fraid I can't do that, ma'am. This work order says plant these flowers here, and that's what I'm fixin' to do."
"Let me see that."
He handed her the paper. At the top were her name and address, and at the bottom the name and signature of the purchaser: Paul Tyler.
She wadded the paper into a ball and sank onto the top step.
"Ma'am? You never did tell us where to put these flowers."
There were a few choice places she could name, but she wasn't as comfortable with the language as Jo Lisa. Her hand tightened on the work order. Jo Lisa. Brett. Paul.
"I didn't order any of this, and if you plant so much as one flower in my yard, I'll call the law."
"Dr. Tyler won't like it. He specifically told me to put the red rose bushes by the porch. Said he wanted them where they'd be handy, whatever that means."
Susan knew exactly what that meant: it meant that Paul Tyler was back in her life and he intended to stay.
"You can tell Dr. Tyler that I said hell will freeze over before his red rose bushes get planted by my front door."
"Ma'am . . ." Clark Simmons took off his hat and scratched his head. "Is that your final word?"
"That's my final word."
"Load up, boys."
They put their shovels and peat moss back on the truck, and Susan stood on the porch watching them drive away. She would have loved flowers in her yard again . . . but not flowers from Paul Tyler.
o0o
That evening, she'd already gone to bed when she heard the noises at her front porch. Creeping through the house like a burglar, she went to the front window and peered out. A full moon illuminated her front yard and the face of the man wielding a shovel. Paul Tyler.
Kneeling on the floor, she watched him. His shoulders flexed as he spaded the earth. When the hole was dug, he set the rose bush inside, then knelt on the ground and patted the dirt in place.
He was planting flowers for her, planting them with his own hands. Oh, God, his surgeon's hands.
She raced out the front door, her robe flapping around her legs.
"Don't you dare touch that shovel again."
"I want you to have flowers." He picked it up and started digging another hole.
"I don't want the damned flowers."
"You're going to have flowers, dammit." He rammed the shovel into the ground.
"No." She flew at him like a wildcat and grabbed the shovel. "Stop it. I won't let you do this."
"You can't stand for anybody to help you, can you? You have to be brave and strong and do the hurting all by yourself." With the shovel handle between them, they faced each other, their chests heaving. "If you think I'm going to back down, think again, Susan. I love you and by God I plan to marry you, and I'm not about to let you sit in this house by yourself brooding."
It was the most beautiful proposal she'd ever heard. Tears burned her eyes and streamed down her face and into her mouth and down the side of her throat.
'Turn loose the damned shovel, Susan."
"Your hands, Paul . . ." She sniffed, and wiped her face on the sleeve of her robe. "If you think I'm going to let you sacrifice your hands for a few flowers, you've underestimated me."
“You came out to save my hands?"
Susan nodded. The shovel clattered to the ground as he reached for her.
He pressed his forehead against hers. "I love you so much, I feel as if I'm bursting inside."
"I never stopped loving you, Paul. Even when you were with her."
They clung together, breathing in the nearness of each other.
"Paul, can we forget about the flowers tonight?"
He lifted her in his arms and carried her inside. In her bedroom, he set her on her feet.
"Wait right here." She went into the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth; then she tenderly scrubbed away the dirt. Afterward, she held his hands.
“I don't ever want to be without your hands on me again."
"Susan, as long as I have breath in my body, my hands will be yours, touching you.” He slid her gown from her shoulder, lowered her to the bed and began the slow, sweet journey home.