The Wedding Tree Page 11

“That’s the outside,” Zoey said. “Our room will be inside.”

  I was impressed with her understanding of perspective. “Maybe we can paint a big window, and it will look like we see the moat and drawbridge through it,” I suggested.

  “Yeah!” Sophie said.

  Zoey’s eyes brightened. “And a tower that’s on the other side of the castle.”

  “Great idea. Do you have some paper so I can write this all down?”

  Sophie brought me a pink piece of construction paper. I jotted down some notes. “What color should it be?”

  “Pink!” they both exclaimed.

  I grinned. “The inside or the outside?”

  “Both,” Sophie said.

  Zoey looked thoughtful. “Yeah, but castles are made of stone, and stone isn’t pink. It’s white or gray or brown.”

  “I don’t want brown.” Sophie made an ick face.

  “What if the outside is white, but a sunset is making it glow pink?” I suggested. “And what if a beautiful vine with pink flowers is growing up the side?”

  “Yeah!” Sophie bounced on the bed.

  Zoey nodded.

  “Okay.” I made another note. “We have a plan. Do you have any pictures that might help me?”

  “I’ve got some castles in my coloring books,” Sophie said.

  “And we’ve got some real books with pictures, too.” The girls dragged out a half dozen or more books from their bookcase, along with a couple of DVD covers. We sprawled together on the floor, a girl on either side of me, and they took turns pointing out what they liked most.

  Their enthusiasm was contagious. Ideas bubbled in my mind, and I rapidly scribbled them on the construction paper.

  “How’s it going?” asked a masculine voice about thirty minutes later.

  I looked up to see Matt standing in the doorway. To my relief, he’d lost his angry face.

  Sophie jumped up. “Daddy, this is going to be so cool! She’s gonna paint a tower and a window and a moat and a drawbridge!”

  “Sounds like a lot. We’d better let Hope tell us how much she can do in the limited time she has.”

  I scrambled to my feet. “Don’t worry. I won’t start anything I can’t finish.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest you would.”

  That was pretty much exactly what he was suggesting, but I decided to let it go. “I’ll sketch out a few ideas, and bring them over tomorrow. Then the girls can tell me what they like and what they want to change, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Hey—want to see my princess dress?” Sophie asked.

  “Sure.”

  She ran across the hall to another bedroom and returned with a yellow Belle ball gown.

  “I have one, too,” Zoey said. “Plus I have a princess gown dress my mom made, but I’m too big to wear it now.”

  “I’d love to see it,” I said.

  Matt cleared his throat. “Peggy has it. She’s getting it professionally preserved.”

  “How nice.” And how sad, I thought. Were memories ever just one or the other?

  “Here’s a picture of our mom.” Sophie pointed to one of the framed photos on the dresser.

  “She’s very beautiful.” I sheepishly glanced up at Matt. “I was admiring photos of her before you got home.”

  “We’re gonna look just like her when we grow up, because she looked just like us when she was our age,” Sophie said authoritatively.

  “Yeah,” Zoey confirmed. “My gramma has a photo of Mommy that was taken when she was my age.”

  “Actually, Hope’s grandmother took that photo,” Matt said.

  I turned to him. “Really? I didn’t know Peggy and Griff had lived in Wedding Tree that long.”

  “They had a home on the other side of town when Christine and Jillian were growing up, then they moved to Houston for Griff’s job. They moved to their current house when he retired a few years ago.”

  “And Jillian?”

  He shifted his stance, as if the question made him uncomfortable. I wondered what the situation was between them. “She got a job at the local middle school when they moved here. She has her own place about a mile away.”

  “I can understand why they’d all want to move here. I spent every summer in Wedding Tree when I was a kid, and it’s a great town.”

  “Did you know the people who used to lived in this house?” Sophie asked.

  “When I was your age, it was an elderly lady.”

  “Did she give you cookies like Mizz McCauley?”

  “No, but Gran and I used to take cookies to her. The house was much different back then. It’s far lighter and brighter and more beautiful now. I always wondered what the upstairs looked like.”

  “I’ll show you the rest of it!” Sophie pointed down the hall. “Daddy’s room is that way, an’ next to it is a sittin’ room.”

  “I, uh, saw those when I came upstairs.” I was keenly aware of Matt watching the proceedings from the hallway. “Let’s not intrude on his private space.”

  “Okay.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me into a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. “This is our bathroom. The first sink is mine.” She opened a door and led me into another pink room. “This is supposed to be my room, but Zoey and I decided to share.”

  “We’ve shared a room ever since Mommy died,” Zoey said. “I didn’t want to be alone, and Daddy said I couldn’t share his bed.”

  Matt ran a hand across his jaw, looking uneasy.

  Sophie pulled me across the hall into a room with a sofa, a desk with a computer, and toys scattered on the thick rug. Zoey followed. “This is our playroom. And next to that is another bathroom, and then there’s Jillian’s room,” Zoey announced.

  Matt cleared his throat again. “It’s actually the guest room.”

  “Yeah, but Jillian’s the only guest.”

  “That’s only happened a couple of times when I had to be away overnight and your grandparents were busy,” Matt said.

  Was he trying to clarify the nature of Jillian’s sleepovers for the girls’ sake, or for mine? What was the real nature of their relationship? I’d picked up a territorial vibe from Jillian earlier. “It’s got to be convenient, having family so close by.”

  He nodded. “That’s why we moved here.” He suddenly looked ill at ease, as if he’d said too much. He thumped on the doorframe. “Well, I’d better go check the burgers.”

  “Do you want to stay for dinner?” Sophie asked.

  “She’s not invited,” Zoey said flatly.

  Matt raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but Zoey continued before he could get a word in edgewise. “You wouldn’t let Jillian stay. You said you wanted a night with just the three of us. So she can’t stay, either.”

  I quickly lifted both of my hands. “Actually, I’ve already eaten. Gran’s on the senior dining plan, which means dinner is served at five o’clock sharp. And speaking of time . . .” I made a show of looking at my watch. I wasn’t wearing one, so I had to pull my phone out of the pocket of my running shorts to look at the time. “I’d better get going so I can get started on the sketches.”

  I said good-bye to the girls and headed down the stairs. Matt followed me into the foyer. I was about to open the door, but Matt reached around and opened it for me. He wasn’t touching me, but I could feel the heat of his body as I turned toward him. Or maybe not; maybe the heat was coming from me. All I knew was that the air between us suddenly felt a whole lot warmer.

  I paused. “Look—I’m really sorry about earlier. I had no business looking at your pictures.”

  He raised his shoulders. “No harm, no foul. I overreacted.”

  Up close, he was more attractive than ever—and I was close enough to see the lighter blue facets around his pupils. He smelled of starch and soap and testosterone. My stomach fluttered. I gave a ne
rvous grin. “Well, from now on, I promise to stay out of your bedroom.”

  The minute the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded. My cheeks flamed.

  The corners of his eyes tensed. For a long, hot moment, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t move. I just looked at him, trapped in a bubble of thought-erasing heat.

  His gaze shifted to my mouth, then back to my eyes. He smiled. “I’ve got about a dozen clever rejoinders swirling around in my head, but I’d better not say any of them.”

  I couldn’t think of a single response to save my life. My face on fire, I muttered a fast “good night” and ducked out the door.

  13

  adelaide

  I must have dozed off in my favorite living room chair—a green wingback with birds embroidered on the fabric—because I awakened to the sound of the kitchen door closing. The hearing loss I’d acquired over the last few decades made it difficult for me to tell what direction noises were coming from, but I recognized it by its sound; the kitchen door made an alto thud, as opposed to the softer soprano clunk of the front one. How many times had I heard those doors close?

  Must be a million. The first time was as a new bride, when Charlie had brought me to see the home he’d found for us, so proud that the buttons had practically burst off his vest. They’d swung open and closed about a thousand times a day when Becky was a child; she was always coming and going, and she closed doors hard—the way she did everything. Eddie always shut doors softly, as if he didn’t want to call any attention to himself. My parents had sashayed in and out of them without knocking, as long as they were alive and mobile.

  And then there was Charlie. At first I never heard the door close, because he would call my name the moment he walked in. In later years, his arrivals and departures were marked by angry slams that resonated in the pit of my stomach.

  Funny thing about doors, you don’t really notice them when you’re the one doing the opening and closing. It’s only when they herald someone else’s comings and goings that you give them any thought. You can cross over major thresholds in your life and not even realize it until years later.

  “Don’t go getting all maudlin, Adelaide,” said my mother, her voice as clear as any closing door.

  I looked at the ceiling, but I didn’t see her. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard the words with my ears or only in my mind.

  “Time’s a-wasting. Hope is home, and you need to get on with it.” Her voice held that imperative tone that used to mean “step lively, child, or I’ll get the switch.” I wasn’t sure if I were being haunted or going crazy, but I knew better than to go against my mother when she got that tone. I reached for my walker and hobbled to the kitchen.

  Sure enough, there was Hope, putting on the teakettle. A sturdy-looking woman sat at the kitchen table, wearing one of those loose-fitting medical outfits—struts? spuds?—I never could remember the name of those clothes. I couldn’t remember the name of the woman, either, although I knew I’d seen her before.

  “Mrs. McCauley!” She jumped to her feet. “Are you ready to go to bed?”

  Why on earth would she ask such a ridiculous question? “No, of course not. I want to talk to my granddaughter. In private, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh.” The woman looked nonplussed. “Well, then . . . What . . . Where should I . . .”

  “You can watch television in the living room, if you like,” Hope suggested. “Gran and I can talk in here.”

  Hope helped me into a chair as the woman left the room. I heard the television blare. Hope closed the door between the two rooms. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Please.” I watched her move to the stove.

  “Chamomile or Sleepytime?”

  It must be evening. I looked out the window and was surprised to see it was dark. Belatedly, I understood why that woman wanted to put me to bed. Time was a muddle in my mind. I glanced at Hope’s feet and saw she was wearing sneakers instead of running around barefoot as she usually did in the house. “You’ve been out,” I said.

  Hope nodded as she filled the kettle at the sink. “I planned to go for a run, but I ended up next door talking to the neighbors about the mural you volunteered me to paint.”

  “Oh. Good.” I remembered nothing about a neighbor or a painting project, but I hated appearing stupid almost as much as I hated not being able to hold a thought in my head. “How did it go?”

  “Fine. I think I’m actually going to enjoy it.”

  I wasn’t sure what neighbor she was talking about. Actually, at the moment I couldn’t remember who any of my neighbors were. “Well, wonderful.”

  She sat down across from me. “When we last talked, you were about to tell me about going up in an airplane with an air force pilot.”

  “Oh yes.” I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, images were flickering on the inside of my eyelids, slowly at first, then faster, as if they were happening all over again. I heard myself telling Hope about it, but the words seemed to be coming from somewhere else, like a news reporter explaining the newsreels they used to show at the movies.

  1943

  It was a Monday night. I remember because I’d taken photos for the society column about a group called the Monday Mavens, so I came home late.

  Marge was already asleep in her twin bed in the room we shared, which was unusual. The hot water bottle on her pillow told me she’d probably had one of her migraine headaches, which meant she’d taken some of Aunt Lucille’s medicine that knocked her out. I quietly put up my hair—I always pinned it in a bun on top of my head at night, which would leave it curly for the next day—and crawled into my narrow bed, under a fraying blue quilt. I was adjusting the pillow under my head when I heard something softly hit the bedroom window.

  At first I thought it was a bug, but it happened again—and yet again. Whatever it was made a definite pinging sound—harder than a bug, and strangely rhythmic. A bird, perhaps? My grandmother had once told me about a cardinal that kept flying into her window, thinking that its own reflection was another bird that he needed to fight off. It was dark, though, and most birds didn’t fly at night—except maybe owls, and an owl would have made a bigger ruckus.

  I headed to the window, pulled aside the cherry-printed curtain, and peered outside.

  There, standing in a pool of light from the lamppost on the corner, was Joe—wearing what looked like a flight suit. My heart drummed hard and fast. I’d thought of him often in the two days since the dance. He hadn’t called, and I’d begun to think that he’d just been blowing smoke about seeing me again.

  I pulled up the window sash. “What on earth are you doing?” I softly called.

  “I came to take you flying. Dress warm and come down.”

  I hesitated. I wasn’t the kind of girl who sneaked out at night to meet men. I knew about those girls—fast girls, loose girls, girls who got in trouble and shamed their families. I could only imagine my mother and father’s reaction to such behavior.

  But to go flying! It was the adventure of a lifetime—beyond the scope of my family’s imagination. It was exactly the sort of adventure I longed for. How could I say no?

  I couldn’t. I wouldn’t!

  “I’ll be right down.” I threw on a sweater, a wool skirt, and my thickest socks and oxfords. I grabbed a cardigan, then pulled the bobby pins out of my hair, leaving them scattered on the dressing table. I ran my fingers through my hair and started to reach for my lipstick.

  No. I wasn’t going on an assignation. I was going flying. I grabbed a scarf and my Kodak 35, then sneaked out the back door.

  “Hello, there.” He kissed my cheek—just a quick peck, nothing sexual, but it was an uncommon thing for a man to do back then. The nearness filled my senses with him—his height as he bent down, the scruff of his five-o’clock shadow, the softness of his lips, the scent of leather and wind and faint shaving
cream. A thrill chased through me.

  “What have you got there?” he asked, looking at my hand.

  “My camera.”

  “Sorry, Addie girl. No photos allowed.”

  “But . . .”

  “No photos. No evidence this ever happened. Can’t put my cohorts in danger.”

  I wasn’t the only one with something to lose if I were caught, I realized. Sneaking a civilian—especially a woman—aboard a B-24 was probably grounds for a court martial. “Okay.”

  He took it from me, then put his hand in the small of my back. “We need to hurry.”

  He hustled me to a panel truck parked on the street near a streetlamp and tapped on the passenger-side window. A man wearing a gray jacket embroidered with the words Benson’s Produce rolled it down. “This is Carl,” Joe said. “He’s my bombardier. And Kevin is driving.”

  The two men nodded at me. The driver tipped his hat. He was wearing a Benson’s Produce jacket, as well.

  Joe handed the camera to Carl. “Stash this and give it back to her at the end of the evening, okay?”

  He nodded. “Sure thing.”

  Joe tugged my arm and led me to the back of the truck, where he opened the double doors. Inside I could dimly make out crates of tomatoes, cartons of fruit, and barrels of potatoes. “I’ve got a space carved out for you.” He made a stirrup with his hands and boosted me into the dark interior.

  My throat tightened with second thoughts as he hoisted himself up behind me. What was I doing, crawling into the back of a dark truck with a man I didn’t really know? What if this was some kind of ominous setup? I hoped he didn’t think . . .

  Joe turned on a flashlight. “You can sit right here.” He indicated an overturned wooden carton hidden between a high stack of crated tomatoes and squash. “I’ll be on the other side.”

  Relieved, I sat down where he indicated.

  “When we get close, you’ll have to get on the floor, and I’ll arrange the crates around and over you to hide you.” He sat on the truck bed behind barrels of potatoes. “This truck delivers to the commissary just about every night, so hopefully they won’t check the back, but we have to be ready just in case.”