26

After doing my research, helping Patsy to her bed for an afternoon nap, and sending Oreo outside, I went home to let Max out for playtime with his neighborhood friend. Inside the house, I went to my bedroom closet—the one my mother had kept her clothes in once upon a time—reached for a large vintage hatbox—the one decorated with tea roses and teacups—and pulled it toward me and off the shelf. I took it to my bed, slipped the top off, and then dumped the contents all over the comforter.

Hundreds of photographs.

I spent the next two hours shuffling through them all, sorting them until I’d found enough evidence. Subtle hints of a problem I’d denied for years. I then bounded off the bed, went to the framed photo of the glasses marked with lipstick, and ripped it off the wall. I returned to the bedroom and promptly called Anise. I asked first if she was with Dad.

“He’s napping in the bedroom,” she said. “I’m in the living room reading. But I can wake him if you need me to.”

“No,” I said, maybe a little too quickly. “Anise, I’d like to ask you a question. What can you tell me about how Mom died?”

She didn’t answer at first, no doubt trying to determine how much I might know already. Then she said, “I know it was very painful for her. And for your father to watch . . . he loved her very much, you know that, don’t you, Kimberly?”

I knew it. I still didn’t understand why he’d married Anise so soon after Mom’s death, but I knew for certain he had loved her. “And?” I asked. “What else?”

I heard her sigh. I made out the sounds of her sitting up, closing her book, and placing it on the coffee table. Buying time. “You’ve spoken with Andre.”

“Yes. And I want to know the truth.”

“It’s too painful for your father.”

“I’m looking at no less than fifty photographs presumably taken by my father, and one framed taken by my mother, that tell me my mother was an alcoholic. That she didn’t die from liver cancer but that, instead, she died from cirrhosis.”

“The picture of the glasses near the bar.”

“Yes.” I picked it up with my free hand and studied it again. Those were my mother’s lips; I had no doubt about it.

“Your father took that photograph, Kimberly.”

“My father?” I dropped the picture.

“He should be telling you this,” she said. “But I know he won’t. The . . . fights between the two of them about her constant drinking or her binge drinking are things he has shared with me. But he’s never wanted you girls to know the full brunt of it.”

I didn’t know whether I should ask her to thank him for me or to shake him for not tearing away the veil sooner. “And the picture?”

“Those were the glasses from one night . . . a bad night, he told me . . . when she kept pouring drinks into new glasses, saying that as long as she wasn’t drinking from the same glass, it didn’t count.”

My heart hurt. I looked at the picture again. “That’s ludicrous.”

“But it’s true. You should know, Kimberly, that alcoholics need no real reason to drink, but they are masterminds at excusing their behavior.”

I wanted to cry. The knot formed in my throat, threatening to overtake me, but I pushed it down and tried to force my words over and around it. “Why didn’t Dad—”

“Tell you?”

“Stop her.”

“Oh, Boo. You really must understand. Your father enabled her.”

Enabled. There was that word again. “Then he killed her.”

I heard a quick intake of breath. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare speak ill against your father. You obviously know nothing at all about the disease, about the people who are affected by those with it, you would never say such a thing.”

“But if he had told me just how serious—he is a doctor, after all—maybe I—”

“No. Listen to me. This is one thing you could not fix. No one could fix it. Not your father, not you, and certainly not your sisters. Not even Joan’s parents could stop her. Only your mother could have fixed this, and she chose not to.”

This is one thing you could not fix. There it was again. “But maybe I could have . . . maybe she would have listened.”

For a while, Anise said nothing. Then, “Kimberly, I want you to listen to me very carefully, and I’m not kidding when I say this. I don’t want you to discuss this with your father if you are going to say anything to hurt him. He went through enough with Joan. He loved her, do you hear me? He loved her. In his mind, that love was not enough to stop her from drinking. He begged her . . . for his sake . . . for their sake . . . for the sake of you kids . . . but Joan wasn’t able . . . wasn’t willing to even try.” She took a deep breath. “They say you have to hit bottom. Unfortunately, for Joan, the bottom was death.”

“Anise . . .”

“Do you hear me, Kimberly? If you hurt your father any more than he has already been hurt, I won’t forgive you.”

I shook my head. Yes, she would forgive me. It was her Christian nature to forgive. But she wouldn’t forget, and our lives together would be difficult. Forever different. “I won’t say anything to him.”

“Talk to him, yes. Discuss it. But don’t accuse him of any such nonsense as killing Joan.”

“You’re right. Of course.”

“Right now, you are shocked and hurt. I understand that. But think about it, read up on it, and you won’t be.”

“I promise, Anise. I won’t say anything to hurt Dad.”

“He loves you so much, Kimberly.”

“I know. He loves us all.” I thought of Heather. “Anise, what about Heather, then? If he knows the truth about Mom, why not Heather?”

“I honestly don’t know. He just can’t seem to bring himself to think about it. I think he believes if he ignores it, this time it will go away.”

“But it won’t.”

“No. Andre called earlier. He’s coming over later this afternoon to talk to your father.”

“Do you think Dad will listen? Really listen?”

Again, Anise didn’t answer right away. “Just pray that he does, okay? And I promise I’ll call you later and let you know.”

After I hung up with Anise, I called Chase and Cody and spoke to them both. Chase asked me again not to say anything to their father, and I told him, again, that I would not. “It’s okay,” I told Chase. “I’m turning over a new leaf where your dad is concerned. I may not like what he does, but I know now I can’t stop him.” I pressed my lips together. “As long as I know you’re all right.”

“I’m good, Mom.”

“And that you know, son, that his behavior—going to the beach with women for the entire weekend and, I assume, staying in the same hotel room—is not what God ordains for a man and woman. Sex requires commitment, and that commitment is marriage.”

“I know that too, Mom.”

“I just don’t want you to follow his example,” I said. “Not in that way. He’s a hard worker and he has always provided for us, but . . .”

“I know.”

I laughed. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, but it’ll wait. For now, let me talk with Cody.”

Cody was a bundle of news. He told me about working with his grandfather, about his grandmother’s cooking, about meeting a new friend in the neighborhood where they lived. “He just moved here and he’s my age and he’s really nice.”

My heart smiled. “I’m glad, Code. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“Dad said he’s going to take us to the beach next weekend.” He lowered his voice then and said, “I suppose you know he went without us this weekend.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I know,” I said. “But I’m not going to make it into something.”

“Whew,” I heard him say. “That’s good to know.”

I laughed again. “Code, I have to go now. Tell your brother and your grandparents that I love them all and I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“One down, four to go,” he expressed exuberantly.

“That’s my little man,” I said, and then told him again how much I loved him. “Oh, by the way. Tell Chase be on the lookout on Facebook for a new friend request.”

“You?” his voice squealed. I listened as he repeated my statement to his brother between giggles.

Chase moaned. “If she feels she must . . .”

I thought it best we end the conversation there.

I was dressed in a floral, cotton scoop-neck summer dress and white flat sandals and ready to see the Cedar Key cemetery—a place I’d not been to or even thought of in years—and to dine at the Island Room.

Steven gave an appropriate wolf whistle when I opened the door and he’d sized me up a little. I grinned as I curtseyed. “I’d do the same to you,” I told him, “if I knew how to whistle.”

“How can you not know how to whistle?” he asked as I stepped past him and to the front porch. “And may I add how wonderful you smell?”

I rolled my eyes. “I bet you say that to all your dates.”

Before I could take another step, he kissed me with such ardor I thought my knees would buckle.

“Wow,” I said between deep breaths.

“Did I take your breath away?” he asked. I could have absolutely swooned at the lilt in his voice.

“I daresay.”

“Good,” he countered. “Because you’ve certainly taken away mine.”

We stared at each other without blinking. I pressed my lips together to still my emotions. My yearning for Steven as a seventeen-year-old had been one thing; the desire for him now—both of us having been married—was something else. “Steven,” I whispered.

“Me too,” he said, reading my mind. “We’d better leave right now.”

I wanted to check on Patsy one more time before we left and said so. He agreed. With a kiss to both our cheeks, she told us “children” to have a wonderful evening and not to worry one “iota” about her.

A few minutes later, we were driving between palms, live oaks shimmering with moss, and spiny century plants. A few of the palms had died, their fronds hung gray and still. The setting sun winked along the strings of silvery-gray moss and the wind played lightly with them all. Just ahead, the Cedar Key water tower—displaying pride in the Cedar Key Sharks—rose above the foliage and leaned to the right as though it had seen one too many storms. As we rounded the deep bend on Whiddon, Cedar Key School on our right, I leaned toward Steven. My seat belt held me in place and I asked, “Remember when we never wore these things and I sat practically under your armpit?” I pulled at the seat belt.

He smiled at me but jutted his chin to my side of the road. “There’s the old day-in and day-out of my childhood,” he said. “Lots of memories there.”

“I bet.”

We drove on in silence, past a bridge where young boys stood fishing alongside old pelicans, past small fishermen’s houses with shady front porches sitting proud along a canal. Behind them, well-tended boats tied to shanty-style docks rocked in the blue water. Across the narrow road, larger vacation homes, most left vacant for the hot summer months, stood regal and blocked the rays of the setting sun. I pulled my sunglasses down my nose an inch and kept my gaze toward the front driver’s window, watching the colors of the sky as it appeared between them in the nearing sunset. It was like watching an old film, each frame flickering to the next. “We’re near your home,” I said as I pushed the shades back up. “Your mom and dad’s, I mean.”

“We are.”

“Maybe we can go by to see them sometime.”

He stared straight ahead. “They’d like that.”

I pressed the folds of my dress with the palms of my hands. “Have you told them about me yet? About seeing me again?”

“Not yet.” He glanced over at me. “What about you? Have you told your father?”

“Yes, I have.”

He chuckled. “And what, may I inquire, was his reaction to that bit of good news?”

I shrugged. “Just to be careful.”

“And will you? Be careful?”

“Will you?”

This time it was Steven who pulled his sunglasses down the length of his nose, stared at me, and said, “Touché.”

He slowed the Jeep and turned the wheel right. We glided into the cemetery; he parked across from the long walkway leading into and along the water’s edge. Perfect, I thought, for strolling on nights like these.

After Steven got out of the car and had rustled something out of the back floorboard, he opened the passenger’s door for me. I slid out and breathed in deeply; the evening air was thick and humming with mosquitoes. I held out my right hand, palm up.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

I looked to the case dangling from a strap held by his left hand. “What’s that for?” I returned.

He pinked. “You know me too well.” He raised the case, unzipped it, and pulled out a can of insect repellant.

I took three steps forward, stood with my feet a good twenty-four inches apart, and my arms extended. “Hit me with your best shot,” I said.

He did.

“You have ruined the scent of my body lotion,” I said with a pout.

“Yeah, well, that body lotion will draw those mosquitoes faster than the evening breeze brings the smell of clams and fish.”

Done with soaking me in my chemical bath, he turned the can on himself. When he’d finished, I said, “Next?”

He cocked his head. “What does that mean?”

“The camera. Because I know it’s in there.”

He stared at me for a while, then swung the case toward me. I took out the camera and pressed the on button. The lens cap popped off; it dangled from the string holding it to the body.

“Let’s walk down the walkway,” I suggested.

Steven shook his head. “Not tonight. Come on . . .” He guided me through the cement gates of the cemetery.

“And to our left, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, my voice sounding like that of a tour guide, “is a memorial to ‘Miss Bessie’ Gibbs—owner of the Island Hotel, city commissioner, city judge, mayor, and organizer of the Cedar Key Arts Festival.”

Steven stopped. “Now how did you remember that?”

I turned to him. “Some boy I once knew took me on a tour of the cemetery, and that’s what he said.”

Steven’s lips swept over mine. “Did he tell you the whole story?” he asked against them. “About how she brought new life to the hotel and to the town? About how some say her ghost still haunts the place? Hers and about a dozen more?”

“He did.” My words danced between our lips.

“What else did he tell you?”

I blinked, raised my eyes to his as I said, “If I remember correctly, right over there by the broken headstones and the rickety fence, and under the shade of a pine tree, he told me he loved me.”

Steven pulled his sunglasses from his face before pushing mine to the crown of my head. As he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to himself, he whispered, “Then let me say it again. I love you, Kimberly-Boo.”