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“QUACK?" HE SAID THE word out loud, his brow furrowed as he watched them pull away. Was that supposed to mean goodbye in some secret code? She did say she was pretending to be a duck.
"Women," he muttered, shaking his head as he thought about his own sisters. They drove him crazy with their secret codes and their secret societies, their members-only secret activities designed that way to intentionally exclude him. It was one of his pet peeves; people making secrets out of things that shouldn't be, creating subterfuge for fun at the expense of everyone else. He preferred facts; straight-talking, clear-headed, sure-footed facts. He couldn't count the times he'd wanted to halt someone's tirade with a raised hand, and pull out his best Sergeant Joe Friday; "Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts."
Victor Jarrett liked things predictable. He liked things in order, and he liked things rational. Emotional outbursts and erratic behavior of any kind made him uneasy, and he found great reward in setting things right. Being a police officer soothed that angst in a way even he couldn't explain. He didn't mind the discomfort of the initial confrontation knowing he would do everything in his power—it was his job!—to bring resolution, to restore peace and order.
The woman he'd pulled over twice in so many weeks was anything but predictable. Or rational. Laughing hysterically one minute, sobbing uncontrollably the next? He thought he'd handled himself pretty well, all things considered, but Ms. Gustafson needed help, and not the kind of help his job description required, or even qualified, him to give.
So why was he standing here worrying about her and the soap opera she was living? Why did he care that, according to her friend, her recent break-up from a man who'd strung her along for years had her feeling vulnerable and a bit off-kilter from her normal self? Off kilter? Unbalanced was more like it. Who pretends they're blind while driving a car?
Yet something about the way she'd looked at him, her eyes traveling up, up, up until they met his, made him want to pat her on the head and promise her everything would be all right. She'd seemed like a lost little girl at that moment, and he had to force himself not to feel sorry for her. He knew better than to fall for that wide-eyed innocence; it never ceased to amaze him the helpless appeal cornered women could project.
He'd seen more than his fair share of it before he was old enough to leave home. His mother had worked her slippery charm on man after man, and then his sisters followed in her footsteps. He knew personally the false promises behind those soft-eyed gazes. He'd hated growing up in a house full of women, especially the manipulative, self-indulgent women in his family, who treated men like they were the latest fashion to be worn a few times, then tossed away.
James Victor Jarrett was named after his father, a man who came and went so quickly that no one, not even his mother, seemed to remember much of anything about him. When Victor was little, she told him his father was a police officer who swept her off her feet, who loved her with wild abandon for one sweet year, then died in the line of fire, his last words to his partner, "Tell James I love him. Tell my boy...I...love him." Every night he'd beg to hear about his father, and every night Loreena would recount the same story about his valiant life and tragic end, often shedding a tear or two in the telling. He'd heard it a hundred thousand times, but it was the story his little boy heart wanted to hear a hundred thousand times more; that his father was a hero who loved him.
In third grade, when he was eight, his teacher asked if anyone wanted to read to the class what they'd written about heroes in their journals. James shared his precious story about his father, Officer James Victor Jarrett, while his classmates sat enthralled and envious that their fathers—accountants and doctors and construction workers—weren't heroes like James' daddy. Mrs. Hopper called home that evening, and his mother came to his room where he lay sprawled on his bed, fingers laced behind his neck, still basking in the glow of his newly-acquired stardom. She kissed him on the top of his head, then his nose, then each cheek.
"You are my boy, Jamie, no one else's. Don't tell anyone else about your father, okay? It's just our story, honey."
That was when he knew it wasn't true. He never asked her to tell it again, and she never offered. He wanted to believe that at least he had his father's name, but he wasn't so sure of that any longer, either. When he turned nine a few months later, he announced from that day on, everyone was to call him by his middle name, Victor.
~ ~ ~
THEY ORDERED THEIR moussakas to go and headed back to Juliette's place. The rest of the evening, Juliette alternated between laughing over her second encounter with Officer Jarrett, and moaning about the fool she'd made of herself.
"You're totally hormonal today, Juju. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were pregnant!" Sharon eyed her. "Are you sure you're not?"
"Of course not," Juliette bemoaned. "That wasn't in the plan yet."
"You and your plans. Why can't you just let things happen instead of having everything so perfectly planned out? Things don't really work that way, you know." Sharon eyed the row of binders on the bottom shelf behind her friend.
"I know. It's not like I planned to act like an idiot tonight. In fact, every time I opened my mouth, I planned to sound intelligent, maybe even witty. But that's certainly not what came out."
"Uh...no. You made a complete ninny of yourself," Sharon teased, then sighed dreamily. "He was so cute, too."
"I know." Juliette cringed, remembering the moment she'd noticed. "See? This is why my sisters are worried. It wouldn't matter if men were blind; I'd still open my mouth and send them running scared."
"Officer Jarrett didn't seem scared."
"Officer Jarrett? Well, I don't ever want to see Officer Jarrett again in my entire life."
"Don't drive blind then," Sharon quipped, glancing down at her watch. "Or speed. He's got your ticket now, pardon the pun." She stood and stretched. "Take me home, Juju. I need my man. I need my bed. I need my man in my bed." She offered Juliette a hand up. "Are you going to be okay?"
Juliette nodded. "I'm glad you're not ashamed to be seen with me. Thanks for putting up with my charming social graces."
"Put up with them?" Sharon squeezed her tightly. "I live for them! You make me laugh more than anyone else I know, including Chris, and he's pretty funny."
Their conversation was easy in the car on the way to the Scovilles' little home a few miles away, and Juliette parked in the driveway behind Chris' car. They were still talking when he came out to meet them, and Juliette greeted him with a hug, and thanked him for loaning her Sharon for the evening.
Then she climbed in her car, backed out onto the street, and waved to her friends who stood together on the front lawn of their beautiful little world.
Home again, she took a quick shower, donned her pajamas, and made a cup of chamomile tea to settle her still buzzing nerves. It wasn't quite ten o'clock, and she knew if she tried to fall asleep this early, even as weary as she was, she'd toss and turn for another hour.
Juliette flipped through the channels on television, but could find nothing she wanted to watch. Finally she switched over to a music station and perused the bookshelves for a good read instead. Her eyes fell on the row of binders, and she bent over to pull out the largest one, labeled Wedding & Honeymoon.
Returning to the couch, she opened it to the first section where she'd collected sample wedding invitations. On impulse, she tore one out of the book and shredded it into a neat pile on the floor at her feet. Then she did the same to another, and another. It was like cleaning out an old wound; although painful, relief came with each empty page.
She turned to the next section; wedding dresses. It was a little more difficult to destroy them, but she did anyway, albeit with a few tears. The last one she stared at for a long time. It was her favorite. Leaving the neck and chest bare in an old-fashioned square neckline, the dress fell from a slightly elevated waistline in yards and yards of shimmery fabric. The skirt wasn't full and poofy, just fluttery like a fairy dress, and feminine in every way.
She ran her fingers over the page as she imagined herself walking down the aisle in the gorgeous dress. Waiting on stage was Sharon, her matron-of-honor, and each of her sisters, all beaming at her. On the bride's side of the church she found John, Renata's husband, and their four boys, in white shirts, black pants, and slicked-back hair. Granny G sat beside them, and next to her, was an empty seat where Grandpa would join her after giving Juliette away.
In front of them sat Papa and Maman, Simone with her head covered in a stylish black hat and birdcage veil, the netting muting the contours of her face. She never wore a veil in real life, but as Juliette's memory of her mother's features faded over the years, the veil made her feel less ashamed of not being able to recall every detail. Her father, who should have been walking her down the aisle, was seated beside the beautiful Simone; Juliette could only imagine Papa and Maman together ever since that terrible day almost fifteen years ago.
~ ~ ~
IT WAS GRADUATION DAY, and she and Sharon could talk of nothing except the trip they were taking to Hawaii together in a week. Their families had combined resources and purchased the girls a four-day vacation, just for the two of them, and they thought they were the luckiest eighteen-year-olds in the world.
As the last of the fireworks flared in the sky, Juliette looked out over the friends and family gathered to celebrate their graduating seniors, anticipation for the future bubbling up inside her. As she scanned the crowds, she spotted Ren and Phoebe, jumping up and down, waving frantically and cheering loudly, while people around them covered their ears and leaned away. She laughed, pointed at them, and blew kisses. She grabbed Sharon's hand and started tugging her in their direction.
"Where's Maman and Papa?" she asked, hugging the two girls simultaneously.
"We were hoping you might have seen them," Renata squeezed her in return. "They were supposed to meet us at the back before the ceremony, but we waited until the pomp and circumstance started and finally just sat down."
"I haven't seen them," Juliette said. "Why didn't you come with them?" Sharon had located her family nearby and was caught up in her own set of congratulations.
Renata rolled her eyes. "Maman was running late as usual, so we came in my car."
Juliette looked over at fourteen-year-old Phoebe who was back up on the bench, looking out across the crowds, her hand up to shield her eyes from the brilliance of the outdoor amphitheater lights overhead. Juliette hopped up next to her and looked in another direction.
"They're not here," Phoebe said in her carefully careless drawl, but the flicker of concern in her voice made Juliette's heart beat a little faster.
"I'm going to the back to look," Renata said, reaching up to squeeze Juliette's hand, a proud grin on her face. "Congratulations, Juliette." She turned to walk away, but Phoebe grabbed a handful of Renata's long hair and pulled her to an abrupt stop.
"Ouch! What are you doing?" Renata smacked Phoebe hard on her exposed thigh below the mini-skirt the younger girl wore.
"Wait," Phoebe barely flinched at the sting of Renata's hand. "Come up here, Rennie. Look." Juliette helped Renata up onto the bench, and they both turned to look where Phoebe was pointing. Pushing against the crowd streaming out of the amphitheater, were their grandparents. In Grandpa's arms, little Georgie squeezed her baby doll tightly.
They weren't supposed to be here. Georgie had a terrible cold and ear infection, and Grandpa and Granny G had offered to stay home with her.
"Something's wrong," Renata murmured, stating the obvious. They watched as their grandparents made their way slowly toward the stage, searching the faces of the people milling around. The girls weren't difficult to find standing above the crowds, but they didn't wave or shout. Juliette reached for both her sisters' hands, and Renata, in turn, grabbed Phoebe's free one. They stood in a tight circle and waited.
Sharon, from three rows over, turned as though she'd heard her name, and her eyes met Juliette's. Then somehow, she was up on the bench beside them, her arms around her friend, just as Grandpa spotted them.
From her perch on the bench, Juliette read the pain in his eyes; she saw the suffering on her grandmother's tear-stained face. And she knew with a certainty that felt like ice in her blood that Papa and Maman would never see any of their daughters graduate.
